#curtbucky

Bucky eyed himself in the mirror, unable to help it. He always liked looking good, even as a kid when boys were supposed to be messy and careless. Maybe it made him vain, too focused on how people saw him. A voice suspiciously like his mother’s lingered in the back of his mind.

“No one likes a boy who is a self centered peacock, John.” Her words were true enough, and he’d figured it was easier to pretend that none of it mattered to him. Carelessness is easy to feign, especially when no one ever looks too closely. Bucky straightened his tie, dabbled a bit of cologne behind his ears, then walked out into the fading sunlight.

He was aware of the command he had, as a major and as air exec. The brass needed him to keep up morale, keep the boys flying until they all inevitably cracked up or were dead. Strutting around Thorpe Abbotts with his hands in his pockets, like there wasn’t a war on, was part of the strategy. If Major Egan was at ease, then the crews could breathe a little easier. Most bought it, that he lived one day at a time and never cared for the future. That he wasn’t the type to dwell on it.

There was only one man who never could be convinced. Curt Biddick. His eyes would meet Bucky’s, as if he was always watching, waiting for something. From across the briefing room, during interrogation when he’d somehow always find Bucky amongst the chaos. Tonight, as they all squished together in the corner of a pub, Bucky could feel those eyes on him even when he slowly maneuvered out of his chair to get another drink. Curt’s attention made his face burn and his insides turn to ice, like he was guilty of something he wasn’t aware of.

In the church of his youth, there had been a statue of the Virgin Mary. Bucky always felt like no matter where he sat in the pews, she had been looking at him, judging him for whatever he’d done. She knew there was something rotten at his core, and no amount of repentance would fix him. John Clarence Egan was an indulgent sinner, born selfish. It was probably some kind of sin to compare Curt to the mother of Jesus Christ, but he was going to hell anyway.

The barkeep broke him from his reminiscing by setting a dark pint of stout in front of him, the head light and sticking to his mustache when he takes a grateful sip. His nerves settled a bit, no longer under threat of splitting at their fraying seams.

Until Bucky felt someone join him, and was suddenly staring into the grey tinged blue of Curt’s eyes. The feeling rushed back, any buzz he had going from the three drinks in his system turning cold as they stared at each other. Curt’s head was cocked to the side, his gaze lingering on Bucky’s lips for a moment.

“You runnin’ from me, Bucky?” His voice was soft, but his eyes held an intensity that seemed to stare straight through him. The question made Bucky scoff and avert his eyes, turning his attention to the wooden beam above their heads.

“Now why would I do that?”

“You tell me.” Curt’s mouth twitches, a hint of a smirk appearing on the right side of his face. Bucky narrowed his eyes, leaning back against the bar to put distance between them.

“I wanted another drink.” It’s a simple enough explanation, has nothing to do with the man in front of him. Nothing at all.

“Hm. Sure, Major.” Curt closes the gap between them, the smoke covered lights filtering through his eyelashes. Bucky leans down, getting in his face.

“You’ve got some kind of ego-“ He’s about to continue, until Curt shushes him. He feels his face flush, heat and frustration pooling in his stomach. Curt gestures to their surroundings, their men sitting just a foot away.

“You wanna give everybody a show?” Curt’s hand is on Bucky’s arm, steady and warm. He’s staring again, pinning Bucky with a heavy gaze.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at.”

He laughs, grinning up at Bucky like he knows something nobody else does. Curt leans forward, taking the stout from Bucky’s hand and drinking the rest of it. Never once breaking eye contact.

“Let’s get outta here, their beer is shit.” His hand is still on Bucky’s arm as he makes his way to the door, Bucky following him and glancing back to see Gale raising an eyebrow at the both of them.

It’s cold on the walk back to Thorpe Abbotts, but Bucky wouldn’t know it. He’s on fire, thoughts swirling in his mind about what was going to happen, what they might do. Curt is quiet, except for when he orders Bucky to walk faster or quit dragging his feet. It sends a jolt through him every time, quickly soothed by the smile on Curt’s face when he does as he’s told.

They’re in Curt’s hut, before he knows it. It’s thankfully empty as practically everyone on base has scattered around East Anglia for a much needed night away.

“Sit down.” Curt gestures to a bed that is tucked in the corner, casually loosening his tie. Bucky sits, the springs groaning underneath him. Curt neatly folds his tie, putting it with the rest of his clothes. He unlaces his shoes, setting them at the front of the bed. He doesn’t say a word to Bucky, going through his routine as if the other man isn’t there. Bucky squirms, and the springs poke into his backside.

It gets Curt’s attention, and he chuckles softly then stands directly over Bucky. One hand rests on Bucky’s knee, the other on top of his head.

“Gettin’ needy, huh?” He coos, then his hand grips Bucky’s curls and tugs on them. His grip is firm, but gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt.

“I want to know what we’re doing.” Bucky bristles at being called needy, even as it lights a low fire in his abdomen and he groans softly as Curt tugs on his hair again. He knows it’s true, but that’s not information he shares willingly. A grin teases at the corner of Curt’s mouth, but there’s something resolute in his eyes.

“You’re a smart fella, Bucky. I think it’s pretty clear.” Bucky feels his ears flush as he stares up at Curt, who had forcefully tilted his head up when he latched onto Bucky’s curls. It hurt now, just enough for him to feel something. His skin crawls and he’s warm all over, itching for something more. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, until he felt Curt’s hand slowly untangle itself from his hair.

Curt had stepped back to where he had stood before, and was no longer smiling. There was a tension in his shoulders.

“What are you-“

“I wanna watch you.” It wasn’t a suggestion, even though Curt’s voice was almost a whisper.

Bucky blinked slowly, tilting his head to the side.

“Watch me do what?”

“Touch yourself.” Curt was met with silence, late night rain pattering against the roof of the hut. Bucky’s face was red and splotchy, the color trailing down his neck as well.

Curt didn’t dare breathe, until he saw Bucky reach for his belt. There was a faint click, and he threw the belt to the ground in his haste. Nothing about it was graceful yet Curt felt his mouth go dry anyway.

Because it was Bucky, ready to go just because Curt told him to. He unbuttoned his trousers, letting them pool around his thighs. There was a damp spot on the front of Bucky’s skivvies. Curt’s never had much of an ego, but the idea of Bucky getting hard just from Curt telling him what to do would certainly do the trick.

“Jesus, John. You’re perfect.”

The praise goes straight to Bucky’s head and elsewhere, delirious in the intensity of the feeling. Curt removed his own belt, his cock making itself known against his trousers. Bucky leans back a little, gingerly taking himself in his hand. It felt right and terribly wrong, to do this for Curt. It made his stomach churn, guilt piercing through the haze that had settled over his mind.

God was always watching, Bucky at least hoped that the big man turned a blind eye to this.

“You’re crazy, Biddick.” He says, wriggling out of his skivvies so they sit lower on his hips. Bucky’s comment earns a laugh from the smaller man, who is already touching himself just as the sight of Bucky laid out on the bed.

Laid out on his bed.

“You’re enjoyin’ it too, sweetheart.” He gestures to Bucky, who had been half hard the second Curt had shushed him in that pub. It looked painful now, twitching whenever Bucky shifted and his tip brushed against the gentle swell of his stomach.

Curt imagined what it would be like to sink his teeth into the soft fold at Bucky’s side, to leave a mark or a bruise.

So Bucky always knew who he belonged to when he looked in the mirror.

There was time for that later, and Curt could be patient. His eyes never leave Bucky, filing away this sight in his mind forever.

Bucky’s movements were slow and gentle, and he whined softly at every twitch.

Curt narrows his eyes, stroking himself as well. He wanted Bucky to enjoy this, and stopped his own pleasure. He gets on his knees, looking up at Bucky but not touching him. Not yet.

“John. Look at me, if you’re not havin’ fun-“

Bucky laughs through a gasp, his pupils blown wide as he looks at Curt. His curls are wild, the pomade he put on before they went to pub fading away from sweat and rain.

“Tryin’ to make myself last for you, Curt.”

It was an embarrassing admission, to tell Curt that he was doing everything in his power to not come then and there.

Curt takes his hand, burying his face in Bucky’s neck as he sits down on the bed next to him.