and then I didn't

So maybe one day they’re just going at it – and Bucky’s got Steve on his back, giving it to him slow and deep, just the way he knows will inexorably melt all rational thought right out of Steve’s brain and turn him into putty, sweet, pliant, gorgeous putty, his creamy skin blood-warm and all of him pink, pink pink pink all over, pink from his racing bloodstream, pink high on his cheeks and down his neck, pink to the dip between his bite-tender tits, pink marks scattered across the pale slate of his flesh by Bucky’s starving, worshipping mouth,

and Bucky can tell, he can tell that Steve’s trying to keep quiet, trying to hold all of these sensations inside and nearly driving himself mad with it. It’s right there in the way he’s biting down on his bottom lip, it’s there in the soft little sobs Bucky’s extracted from his beautiful mouth, drop by precious drop, with his slowest, most merciless, maddening thrusts. He can see it in Steve’s fingers desperately clutching at the sheets, raking through Steve’s own hair, grasping blindly at his pillow, at the headboard, at Bucky’s shoulders, anything within reach – seeking something to hold onto, something to keep him anchored, to keep him tethered to this earth so he won’t float away in his bliss.

And the reason Bucky knows that so intimately, is because he himself has been biting back every little sound climbing up his throat. Because that’s what they’re both used to. That’s how it always had to be for them.

But not anymore.

Not here, not now.

It strikes him like a bolt of lightning down his spine. They no longer need to hold back. So why should they? They’re not fucking in the dark in their old walkup apartment in 1939 Brooklyn, surrounded by paper-thin walls and too many nosy neighbors. They don’t have to be mindful of the bedsprings, so that the rhythmic creaking won’t give them away. They’re not huddled together in a tent somewhere in the French countryside with five brothers in arms laying six feet away, pretending not to hear their muffled groans. They wouldn’t risk their freedom or their lives if somebody overheard them.

This is their home, their place, their time, and they can be as loud as they want. And if anybody’s got something to say about it? They can come and deal with two whole supersoldiers, if they dare.

He nuzzles at Steve’s jawline, trailing wet kisses down Steve’s throat, sweet, coaxing. “Let me hear you, sweetheart,” hips rolling, long and slow, like waves cresting the ocean, relentless, “Show me how good I make you feel.” His hand, slipping hot between their bodies, curling around Steve’s cock, pumping, gentle, gentle, unrushed. “Let me hear those beautiful sounds you make just for me, honey. Just for me... yeah... that’s it...”

And how glorious it is, when Steve finally gives in. When he parts his lips, eyes closed against the pleasure rising like the tide inside him, and he cries out Bucky’s name for the whole bedroom to shimmer with it.

How priceless it is, to watch him go slack-jawed in his ecstasy, and gasp out helpless moans of “Ah, ah, ah,” with each and every thrust of Bucky’s hips hitting his sweet spot, because he’s got no more words in him anymore, just breath, just pure, undiluted pleasure.

How sweet it is, to hear the mattress groan to the rhythm of their bodies rocking together, the sound of it unmistakable and almost obscene.

How freeing it is, to have Steve fuck him just a few days later, and beg him, loud and shameless and rough-voiced, to take Bucky harder, faster, please, please, please, and watch Steve’s face morph into near-manic delight when he snaps his hips so hard that the headboard starts slamming right into the wall, over and over and over, until they’ve punched a fucking hole in the plaster.