FandomFluffAndFuck

Stretched out, boneless except for the fact that he is all bones—only bones. His bones are barely disguised beneath his practically translucent, pale, freckled skin. Either way, regardless of his protruding bones, Steve has stretched his lithe, angular body across their thin, creaky mattress. An almost hollowed-out angel, so close to floating flying away, he's sprawled languidly among their threadbare, scratchy sheets and their barely cobbled-together scraps of fabric that approach the idea of a quilt.

Nested there, Steve has one hand on himself. One of his sharp wrists is cocked at a limp angle so that one of his bony artist's hands can curl itself tightly around his stiff, red cock. And slowly, so slowly it must hurt, he's dragging his fist up and down the vaguely curved length of his dick. Really, he's barely moving his hand.

Lying there, breathing, panting, eyes rolling back, then snapping forward again, trying to hold eye contact, but... eventually, always rolling back all over again like he just can't stop himself from being drawn into the pleasures of the flesh he's indulging in. Blue eyes rolling back, lashes fluttering. Crooked spine arching. Golden hair in utter, attractive disarray. Jaw dropping. Dick twitching.

It's hypnotic.

He's so pale everywhere except between his legs. Bucky has always been able to see the gorgeous, vulnerable hue of his veins beneath his paper-pale complexion and always knows the moment after he's gotten into a fight through the unfolding pedals of bruises scribbled across his skin. Those shifting, watercolor-tint colors are suddenly incomparable to the flushed, eager pink-red of his dick, though.

Fuck.

Depending on the day, and how his ticker is doing in his chest, it can take a lot to get him hard. It took him a lot today, no doubt. Hours. It's probably why he's nearly frozen in place, moving so slowly. He's been working himself up for hours. Melting ice into water, stroke by stroke. Breath by breath.

“Hhaaahhh-!” His chapped, bitten-pink lips part, gasping out one of his lewd, trying-to-be-as-quiet-as-possible-but-Christ-that-feels-good noises.

Each sharp, uneven heave of his troubled lungs breathes clouds of fog into the air hanging heavy and cold above his head as if he's taking a puff from one of his prescribed asthma cigarettes. Their apartment's paper-thin, dollhouse walls let every degree of Brooklyn winter chill in. So, it's no shock when that chill finally catches him, crawling inside his slim, sharp body, fueled by sheer determination.

And—watching him shudder, goosebumps breaking out across his bare skin—before he can wonder if he should break such a salacious spell of silence and seductive, almost motionless sprawl, Bucky is moving. He's stripping his shirt off, barely pausing to undo enough buttons to pull it over his head, let alone recalling to push off the straps of his suspenders in time.

After a tangled moment, Bucky lunges forward from his stillness at the end of their bed into Steve's monopolizing of the space to delicately sit him up and swamp Steve with his clothes. He dresses him as if he's a life-size China doll—undoubtedly the only reason he gets away with it, though, is because Steve's that submerged in his own world of pleasure.

Pleased enough to have him more covered, less cold, Bucky connects their lips for an unspeakably intense, gutting kiss before wordlessly shoving him back down, palm to his shoulder—hitting. And too readily, eagerly, taking in through heavily-lidded eyes, just how his body hits and bounces against their creaky, springy mattress before collapsing against it completely. Flat. Bucky crawls back down the bed, peeled down to his undershirt, and sits back where he was. Cross-legged, cock throbbing in his trousers like a cracked tooth still sitting in a jaw, Bucky allows the show to begin all over again.

Panting into the charged silence, it takes a stunned, stupified moment for Steve to move. But, oh, when he does…

Of course, his angular hand is pulled gravitationally back to his dick.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

The fabric of Bucky's shirt is loose around Steve's slender throat, displaying his decolletage mouthwateringly. It's enough to make up for hiding his hard, pale pink nipples and the carved, attractive, delicate shapes of his ribs. Enrobed in Bucky's shirt, Steve's collarbones are as shapely—as sharp as the dead-of-winter icicles hanging from their rust-encrusted fire escape outside, just through their paper walls. It's Bucky's turn to shiver, then, biting his lip, devouring his after-work treat. How lucky he is to come home to this; to shake off all the snow and frost and exhaustion of the day's back-breaking labor to find his lover disheveled in their bed, trying to keep himself warm, keeping himself waiting for Bucky, eyes glazed, mouth agape, cock achingly engorged. A palette of winter desire, virtuoso in the strokes of thick paint—snow-white skin, sunrise-pink blush, and frozen-river blue eyes. Now, his companion, in his clothes, too. The texture, the color, the allure of a shared shirt.

He knows the exact sensation of that shirt.

It was just on his body.

It's still hot with his body heat.

And now it's seeping into Steve's cooler, more streamlined body. Bucky knows intimately that the fabric of his shirt, on Steve, is scratchy after being sun-dried for years and salt-saturated after just as many years working on the docks, next to the untamed ocean. It's rough, old, and it falls all the way to his upper thighs, pushed up only enough so he can access his teased, denied cock. The fabric is bunched around his hips, and the flushed, swollen head of his dick leaks heavy, aching pearls of desire directly onto it. It's a perfectly good shirt, and Bucky shouldn't let it be stained. It's not like they have the money to replace it. But… God, help him, he does not give a shit.

Let him ruin the fuckin' shirt.