sometimes i should be asleep and instead i end up thinking about Steve. Steve finally getting to hold Bucky in his arms again, after his self-confinement in cryo is over.
the hug starts out tentative, cautious, nearly awkward - it's been so long since the last time, is it even possible to forget how to do this? how their bodies used to fit together so seamlessly? how touch used to come to them as naturally as breathing, as though they were only ever made of one skin, longing to knit itself back together?
but once Bucky steps into his space, once Steve's arms reach all the way around that warm, solid torso, everything falls back into place. Bucky's chin slots over Steve's shoulder just like it always used to, and his long hair tickles Steve's cheek - oh, that's new. that's good new. -, and the crook of his neck offers itself up to Steve, a haven to seek shelter in, a sliver of golden flesh exposed, and for the first time in the 21st century Steve gets to breathe in the scent of Bucky's skin and it's not smothered in the acrid smell of gunpowder, it's not tainted with blood, it doesn't taste like burnt leather and fire and brimstone in his mouth, it doesn't sting its way up his nostrils with the pang of sterile soap.
it's just Bucky, the clean, familiar scent of him, pure and simple. and there's this thing, you know, this sort of wicked little switch tucked away inside the human brain, that connects the sense of smell to one's innermost memories, plugs straight into the pulsing heart of them and drags them back to the surface faster than a heartbeat, and suddenly Steve isn't in 2017 anymore. he's curled up in a rickety bed that's really two old cots pushed together, nestled in Bucky's arms like a pea in its pod, enveloped in the shape and the warmth and the scent of him, lodged with every limb and every knob and every sharp angle of his slim body into the perfectly snug fit of Bucky's embrace, carved out around Steve's precise size, right where he belongs.
when Steve comes back to the present, he buries his face against Bucky's neck with a broken sob.
he doesn't need to wonder if Bucky's being wrecked by that same shuddering emotion; the way Bucky's only hand is fisted in the back of his shirt, and he's pressing his whole body into Steve's as close as it'll go, breathing shakily against the shell of Steve's ear, it tells Steve everything he needs to know.
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Sometimes I think about Bucky watching Steve with the Howlies, those first weeks of them being out on the field as a team. Steve, who's never in his life been in a position of power before; Steve who's never had control over anything, not his ailments, not the loss of his family, not the brutal bullying and the prejudice he was faced with since he drew his first breath, not a war that threatened to rip Bucky away from him for good; Steve who's never given orders to anybody, except for maybe in their bedroom, when he ws feeling a certain way. And Bucky watches, entirely unsurprised, how naturally Steve steps into the role of leader. How easily it comes to him, being in charge, guiding, helping, taking care of his men, making big decisions in the moment, showing off that big beautiful brain of his, barking out orders when needed and never once letting it get to his head.
Some part of Bucky feels intimately vindicated by this. Would it be too vain to remind everyone that he always knew?
Some other part of him is, he won't deny it, profoundly turned on by this.
Most of all, he finds the whole thing terribly amusing.
"You're enjoying this, aren't ya," he teases Steve once, his tone casual, measured, velvety-smooth. He leans back in his chair with cat-like grace; his legs spread lazily, one hand working in his lap - giving his rifle a careful, conscentious wipe-down. "Captain."
Steve, very conspicuously, will not meet his eyes.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he says, spreading a map over the table between them, like it'll shield him from Bucky's perusal; but the bright pink creeping down from the tips of his ears tells a whole other story, and that one, Bucky can read just as easily as an open book.
nothing, just. Steve taking Bucky in front of a mirror, so that Bucky may watch them.
Bucky standing naked and warm in Steve's arms, unable to tear his gaze away from their reflection, blood thrumming in his veins. it's like being entirely surrounded by Steve, back and front - everywhere Steve's worshipful body touches his, at his back, and the heated gaze watching them both, watching Bucky, from the silvery surface of the mirror placed before them.
there's nothing but Steve. the voice murmuring praise in Bucky's ear. the soft gasping breaths caressing the length of Bucky's neck when the rolling of Steve's hips seats him deep, just so, perfect like this, every last inch of him enveloped in Bucky's warmth and pulsing with need inside him.
the sweat slicking Bucky's back, his own or Steve's, he couldn't say - it's salt from their skin, mingling together and rolling slow and delicate down the curve of Bucky's spine until it spills over into the crease of him, there where they're joined, where Steve slides himself in and then torturously out, and the salty moisture of them wets the thatch of curls crowning his cock and brushes against Bucky's hole, claiming them both. their sweat, one sweat. their scent, one scent. one salt. one body.
the mouth laving kisses up Bucky's neck, over the cut of his jaw - and this is the first time he has seen Steve's glistening red lips capture his earlobe and suckle on the flesh as though it were made of sugar, pliant and sweet and delectable, and Bucky couldn't look away from that mouth if his life depended on it.
the hands running over his body - he can feel them, and he can watch them, watch himself underneath their touch, watch the hard, flushed body arching in the mirror while Steve's big palms clasp his hips, when Steve's fingers knead his flank, when Steve's hand skates down the fluttering planes of Bucky's stomach to find the sweet treat between his legs, to stroke it, coo softly over it, tease it, straining and proud and heavy in the blissfully tight grasp of Steve's fist.
the fire in Steve's eyes, right there, across from him, behind him, locking with Bucky's gaze in the mirror, hungry and satisfied all at once.
Steve, panting hotly against Bucky's cheek, "Do you see?" his voice like gravel, like honey, like a blade scraping Bucky's nerve endings raw until it can sink right into the core of him and wedge itself there, mercilessly tender, "Do you see that? Do you see us?" and Steve shows him, shows him exactly what they look like, skin to skin. shows him how perfectly their bodies fit together; how easily they move as one, in a way that cannot be taught, can only be learned, can only be felt.
it feels obscene, to stand there and watch himself part his lips and moan, to watch the ripple of his own hips as he fucks back onto Steve's cock and to feel it, too, fat with pleasure, making room for itself within Bucky's clenching walls, kissing at the sweet spot hidden inside him.
it is debauchery, to watch Steve's mouth descend upon his shoulder, and find the ugliest portion of Bucky's scarred body; to see the red of Steve's tongue trace it with slick strokes, and feel the soft wet graze of it on his skin, reverent, loving, raw - and wonder, if only for a moment, how those ridged marks ever seemed ugly at all.
it nearly drives him out of his own skin. it's a circle: Steve everywhere around him, inside him, trickling down his skin, watching Bucky watch them; and Bucky caught in the heart of it all, burning, breathless, transfixed.
"Don't look away," Steve begs him, his voice ruined, broken, waves crashing against the shore. "Keep your eyes on me, keep looking at me, just like that... Yeah... yeah..."
so Bucky does. Bucky can do nothing but reach back and sink his fingers in Steve's hair and grasp him close, needy and laid bare as he is,
and how can he feel at once so small, so held, so perfectly contained within Steve's arms, and yet larger than life, broad and powerful, a god amongst men, with one man's life clutched safely in his own hands? he doesn't know. he can't begin to unravel the tangle of it all. but when he comes, hard and hoarse and desperate, he does so while looking in Steve's eyes, with Steve's husked praise pouring hotly on his skin; and that is enough.
apparently the first (commercially successful) instant camera was launched in late 1948, and I'm just thinking about the boys getting their hands on one of those. maybe it's after the war - they survived, they made it back home - and Bucky's birthday is approaching, and Steve saves up enough to buy the camera for him.
seeing the pure awe on Bucky's face when he snaps the first picture, watching the self-developing film work its magic as the image slowly appears right before his eyes, is worth every cent and more.
it's more than magic, though: it's a way to capture little snapshots of their life together, in a way they never really could before. not having to worry about anyone else developing and seeing the photographs, they could take pictures they might have hesitated to take before. private pictures, committing everyday morsels of intimacy on film. vintage selfies, if you will - lopsided shots of Steve and Bucky hugging, laughing, sharing a kiss. closeups of two young men curled up in bed, their hair a mess, their chests bare save for two sets of dogtags, their bodies squeezed close together to try and fit in the frame. moments of tenderness, lived once and preserved forever, slotted neatly in an album they keep away from prying eyes, like the chapters of a love story that's only their to tell over and over, every time they leaf through those precious memories.
the one thing Steve never anticipated, though, was becoming the main target of Bucky's new obsession with photography. he didn't notice it at first, but the camera's often aimed right at him; and the proof sits right there, in the bulk of sepia-colored pictures that are all Steve, Steve, Steve.
Steve in his undershirt, softly mussed in the morning light, butter-yellow hair falling over his eyes. Steve's side profile, hand bringing a piece of bread to his lips, mouth open to pop it in. Steve cross-legged on the carpet at the foot of the couch, a white cat in his lap, Steve's head tipped back against the couch seat, laughing until he was breathless. the slope of Steve's bare shoulder, his freckles, the relaxed line of his jaw, backlit by the sunlight. Steve's palm thrust out towards the camera, a blurry sliver of his face behind it, his face scrunched up in annoyance. the length of Steve's naked body, soft in his slumber atop rumpled sheets.
it's like a love letter; the words sublimated into dozens of images, each one of them speaking of warmth, of comfort, of desire. of home.
"I get it now," Bucky says to him once, holding up a new photo as the color slowly blooms across it, and the shape of Steve's smile appears there in the middle, center focus. "Why you're always carrying those pencils on ya."
his hands, always itching to draw, always eager to sketch every angle of Bucky's body he can steal and capture on paper.
it dawns on Steve, then: all his life, he's always been the artist; he never once imagined he could be the muse.
it makes sense, he thinks, with the two of them being the way that they are. mutually obsessed. the north in each other's compass. the bread and the butter. of course they'd end up with a hundred stolen portraits of each other.
he sees Bucky's camera being lifted once more, sunlight glinting off of the lens, and his mouth quirks up in a grin.
"Get that thing out of my face."
"Make me."
their chairs scrape back away from the table in perfect sync. it's funny, how something so silly can make Steve's heart grow three sizes bigger and stuff it full.
"C'mere!"
"Say 'cheese', Stevie!"
note to self: Steve needs a new sketchpad. oh, and he should buy a new roll of film, too.
rils your smutty one liner prompt list you reblogged, consider this: steve DOES say this without making the connection. bucky starts snickering from underneath him and steve's like aw buck come on....
LAV OMG SJDHKJSADKL!!!!!!!!!! YOU ABSOLUTE GENIUS, THIS IS PERFECT SKAJSKK 💕💖💕💕💖
Imagine they've been at it for a while.
Steve's got Bucky exactly where he wants him, how he wants him: like sweet, pliant putty in his hands. Letting Steve fold him in half on their big soft mattress, gasping when Steve catches his legs by the back of his knees and pushes them up to Bucky's chest, spreading him up for Steve's cock and Steve's gaze to have him, devour him, feast on him like Bucky's the only food he'll ever need to consume.
Bucky can't bite back a soft little moan when he looks up at Steve leaning over him, a sheen of sweat glistening across his golden skin, dampening the whorls of Steve's chest hair and the burnt gold hair at Steve's temples. He watches the subtle flitting of Steve's abs, flexing with every purposeful thrust of his hips, and feels his whole body light up from the inside, fingers clutching helplessly at the rumpled sheets under him.
He all but sees it when Steve decides that oh, he's gonna draw this out, he's gonna make it last as long as he possibly can, milk every last drop of pleasure out of this that Bucky's willing to take.
Steve's pace slows to a torturous rhythm, his gaze locked with Bucky's with intent, watching him hungrily while he sinks inside, one maddening inch at a time, sliding in deep, deep enough to let Bucky feel him, feel the hard, blood-hot, throbbing shape of him opening Bucky right up like it's just what it was made for, thick and heavy and glorious just like the rest of Steve is.
And then pulling back out at his leisure, slow, slow, slow, and slick and all sorts of perfect while Bucky's body clenches around him, tries to hold onto him like it never wants to let him go.
The drag of it is so delicious, it has Steve gasping and wetting his swollen, slack lips with a flicker of his pink tongue, and there's a hunger in his eyes, a need, a fever that makes Bucky wonder if Steve can taste him every time he licks his lips, if he can still feel the weight of Bucky's cock on his tongue even now, while he's up there between Bucky's spread legs, tall and aglow and magnificent like the first sun that ever kissed the earth.
If his mouth is watering, if it wants back on Bucky's skin -- if Steve's starved enough for him that he'll sink his teeth in the meat of Bucky's shoulder the second he gets the chance and lap at the fresh pink bruise with his tongue after, sloppy and needy and filthy like a french kiss, tasting his own mark on Bucky’s smooth skin.
Steve's hands grip his hips, his blue eyes fixed on Bucky's face, roving over every inch of him they can reach, the wet tip of his cock kissing the pucker of Bucky's entrance like he's asking for permission before he slips back in easy and sweet and relentless--
And that's when Steve suggests, in a low rumble, that maybe. Maybe he should keep this up until Bucky's forgotten every word that's not Steve's name. Maybe he should just keep at it for hours, fuck Bucky slow, so slow, sink into the butter-soft give of Bucky's flesh over and over, and over, giving him just enough to keep Bucky aroused out of his mind, his skin on fire, his lungs melting with each hot breath, but never quite enough to push Bucky over the edge. Not until Bucky's so desperate to have it that he's begging for it.
"Whaddya think, sweetheart?" Steve husks, his voice warm, rich; dark and irresistible, like every decadent pleasure life has to offer. "D'you want that? Think you can take that?"
The hot skin of his hips presses flush against Bucky's ass when he bottoms out, the searing length of him deep and snug inside Bucky like it belongs there and nowhere else, and Bucky feels molten, feels like the moment before fireworks burst up in the sky, those charged two seconds of complete quiet before fire and colour bloom into the night, the anticipation building up and crawling like a shiver up his spine.
"Steve," he breathes out, gasping with his mouth wide open when Steve's cock brushes up against that spot inside him with exquisite purpose.
"'Cause I can do that, baby, I can give that to you," Steve rumbles on, a bead of sweat pooling invitingly in the hollow of his throat. "Give it to you just the way you like it, fuck you so slow, so fucking deep, Buck, wet you up till you’re dripping with it, make you come till you can't see straight anymore, till I gotchu all sweet and messy and melting right into these sheets."
And Bucky wants it, wants it so bad he's writhing under Steve's hot hands, chanting, "Steve, yes, yes--"
"All you gotta do is say the word, baby. We've got all the time in the world, and I'm only just getting started," Steve says, moving sinuously above him, inside him, everywhere Bucky's senses can reach, the greedy curl of his smirk something Bucky will see in his dreams. "Trust me, sweetheart-- I can do this all day."
Bucky hears it through the well-fucked haze in his brain, the slow molasses of pleasure dripping hotly down his spine, and when his glossy eyes snap up to meet Steve's -- well, he thinks that's when Steve hears it, too.
Bucky's chin starts quivering. His chest shakes with barely restrained giggles, until he knows he can't hold back anymore.
Steve's eyes grow comically wide. His hips halt immediately, the tips of his ears quickly catching fire, they flush so red. "Wait, no, that's not what I--"
But Bucky can't help it, he's bursting with it, erupting into laughter, cackling so deep that his belly his shaking, sending little zings of pleasure to his system when it jostles Steve inside of him.
"You actually said that," he wheezes, tears springing to his eyes even as he squeezes them shut tight, head thrown back against the pillow 'cause he can't fucking breathe, "I can't believe you actually said that, oh my god--"
"Buck, c'mon," Steve groans above him, one shovel-sized hand covering his eyes, looking about three seconds away from combusting from sheer embarrrassment. Bucky’s not letting him forget about this one for a long, long time to come, and they both know it.
(they still fuck afterwards btw. the fucking is just delayed by like 10-15 minutes, after which Bucky's pretty sore from all the laughing - but not opposed to getting sore from other things as well. Steve-shaped things. Steve's dick-shaped things.)
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Under the warm Wakandan sun, they are men and they are children at play.
Steve sticks both hands in the laundry basket and grabs the freshly washed sheets in big generous handfuls, and the cool touch of the fabric runs in a happy thrill up his arms.
It smells good, its fragrance sweet and rich like vanilla, a fresh twist of lemon zest wafting in like an aftertaste. Everything seems to smell good, here. And the sun, the sun ripens everything, fruit and man alike, softens Steve skin and bone, coloring him all pink and gold. It's funny when he thinks about it. He used to be as white as the full face of the moon; these days, his body wears the colors of a sunset.
He's never seen so much pink on his own cheeks before, looking in a mirror. He's never watched the pale stretch of his forearms warm into sweet taffy, nor the hair dusting his body glint like delicate flecks of gold.
He'd forgotten the way summer could brew freckles on the bridge of his nose, on the hilltops and rolling slopes of his shoulders, scattered like a spray of paint - some of them the size of lentils, others as tiny as a dot.
Bucky likes to nurture them as though they were his own little garden, lavishing sweet-lipped kisses on them when Steve lies back in their bed, sleep-mussed and soft and languorous, his limbs heavy in the wake of their shared bliss. And there is such bliss to be found, here in the heart of this gold-dripping life.
Steve hands one end of the sheets to Bucky, and together they stretch and lift them high, Higher, Steve insists, laughter simmering just under his ribs - and how else could he tell Bucky, explain it even to himself, that this is the oldest he's ever been, that this is the most weight he's ever carried, but today he feels light as a feather and younger than his years?
Today, he's a child. His eyes wrinkle at the corners, and his thick beard rubbed the tender inside of Bucky's thigh a precious red this morning, but he's just a kid, delighted by such wonders as damp cotton between his fingers, and the laundry smells good, and Bucky's looking at him like Steve's barking mad and Bucky has never loved him more than he does right at this moment.
There are three rows of fresh laundry dancing gracefully in the breeze. Steve helped set up the clotheslines with his own hands, and now here they stand, collecting the mundane tales of two men's day-to-day life between them, little anecdotes told in t-shirts and boxers and a wealth of towels no two people should be capable of using up in just one day.
This is home, Steve thinks: this warm, tight-woven thing expanding like a star inside his chest. And when the laundry basket is empty and the work is done, he thinks he should do what any man in love gets to do when he comes home: kiss his husband hello.
He captures Bucky's waist in his hands and pulls him close, right there, between two neat rows of drying laundry.
Bucky takes hold of his chin in return, his eyes a glimmer of blue, amused. Happy. He's just a boy, too, no older than he was the day they first kissed - and just as breathtakingly beautiful as he was then.
"I know what you’re lookin' for, you big schmuck," Bucky teases, his smiling lips only a few inches away from Steve's and not trying to get any closer. Cruelty, such cruelty in this world.
"Yeah?" Steve prompts, his jaw still locked in Bucky's grasp. He wiggles his eyebrows for added effect. "So gimme it."
"Way to sweet-talk a guy."
"I know that's how you like it, baby."
"Mm-hm, no, see that? That shit just doesn't cut it no more. You gotta try harder for me, Rogers."
And you should know, oh you should see it, but Bucky, Bucky smells good, too, and he's been kissed golden, too, touched by this same gentle sun and softened to the core by it.
"Sweetheart."
"Hm."
"Love of my life."
"Mmm."
He's warm, all of him, all of him so warm under Steve's hands - his dark hair, his flushed cheeks, his chest, the small of his back.
Steve tries to lean in, nuzzle in close, but Bucky evades him, giving him his cheek instead of his prized mouth.
"C'mon, gimme a kiss. Give it here. Plant a big ol' one on me, put your sugar lips to mine, honey, ain't I beggin' ya sweet enough?"
And when Bucky breaks into a grin, the light of him swallows up the sun.
Steve can't resist: he cinches his arms low under Bucky's rear and hoists him up, effectively trapping him exactly where he wants him.
"You're a nag, you know that?" Bucky informs him fondly, but he's leaning down, down and down and closer and closer, his fingers soft as they card through Steve's hair.
How old are they? One hundred? Thirty? Sixteen? Steve can hardly tell the difference when they're breathing each other's breath.
"Your nag," Steve says, mumbles, as their lips brush together, and the sheets swell and fall in the summer breeze.
post-catws Steve/Bucky + 42. a spare room from this post.
warnings for: fluff, dads-to-be Steve and Bucky, kid fic (does it count if the actual kid isn't there yet), mild sexual content, bottom Bucky, top Steve. about 1.9k words of nonsense tbh, feel free to ignore it, i just had to put it somewhere or it would have driven me nuts.
It takes them two whole months to decide on a theme for the nursery.
They bargain their way in and out of flowery wallpaper and butterfly-shaped stencils – “Too stale,” Natasha pronounces with finality during a brief but much needed consultation. They move on to a rainbow palette after that – very simple, very tasteful, but Bucky’s lip curls in pouty distaste at the notion. “That’s too boring,” he says, and Steve, whose fingers are itching to create something grand, something special for their little girl, is quick to agree.
For weeks they go through the motions: the dinosaur stage, the mermaid frenzy, the kittens galore, never settling on anything for too long.
They finally reach a compromise one warm summer night, their bodies sprawled languorously on the mattress, the sheets kicked all the way to the foot of the bed to ward off the heat. Steve lays out his plan against the night’s gentle shadows, outlining it in soft-spoken brushstrokes for Bucky to picture it.
He knows he did something right when Bucky snuggles in close and tucks himself under his arm, heat be damned, claiming Steve’s chest as his personal pillow.
“Let’s go buy the paint tomorrow,” Bucky rumbles in lieu of ‘goodnight’, the light scrape of his stubble as good as a kiss against Steve’s bare skin.
Steve grins up at the ceiling. His heart is a little field mouse fed on too many scraps; a soft fat creature with a bellyful stretched taut and shiny around so much love, and on it dozes, sated and warm and overfull behind his ribs; beating slow, slow; slow and honey-sweet.
“’Course, sweetheart,” he mumbles back, his lips brushing against Bucky’s brow. It’s the only thing to say.
He gets down to business two days later.
It’s not so grand a project, after all, but it feels just right: the nursery takes shape with thick bands of buttery yellow and soft sky-blue, and fat little honeybees that Steve paints in by hand, one by one, detail by precious detail, their fuzzy high collars and their translucent wings, with more patience than he’s shown for anything since the last sock he darned back in ’44.
One wall he leaves in plain yellow, like a blank canvas waiting to be filled.
“When the baby is old enough,” he says, wiping his paint-stained hands on a rag while Bucky hangs the new curtains over the nursery’s window, fluffy white spotted with tiny strawberries, soft and ruffled like cotton candy, “I’ll paint whatever she likes best right here.”
Bucky turns to him, the corners of his eyes crinkling just so. There’s a smile there, the softest thing Steve’s seen since the sun rose on mankind. It’s one he rarely catches a glimpse of; the special kind, the smile that barely touches Bucky’s lips and is all in his eyes, and day in, day out, Steve looks for it as a sure sign of happiness, because this smile? This look? It doesn’t lie.
It’s the same look Bucky gave him the day they got married, when Steve offered him his trembling hand for Bucky to slip his ring on. When they hand-fed each other the first bite of their wedding cake, and Steve leaned in to kiss the buttercream off of Bucky’s upper lip, giddy with love. When Steve dipped him halfway into their first dance as husband and husband, and nearly sent them both tumbling on the floor, and Bucky was shaking with laughter as he held tight onto Steve’s shoulders.
It's fondness, and awe, and a sprinkle of forever.
It’s the look of a man very much in love, and Steve feels it as keenly now as he felt it then, this sweet mystery of How, How did I get him to choose me, the everlasting thrill of He chose me, Me.
Bucky steps into his space, and Steve’s arms wind around his waist entirely of their own volition, all pleasantly sore muscles and dried spots of paint crusting the golden fuzz of his forearms. Steve doesn’t fight it; after all, the first law of physics states that when a Bucky Barnes enters the orbit of a Steve Rogers, the Bucky Barnes will inevitably be sucked in. Even, on occasion, sucked off. On several occasions, in fact. On every occasion. On as many occasions as possible, in as many positions as gravity allows. And who is Steve to stand against the laws of physics anyway?
“What if she ends up being really into those little yellow fellas – you know, those weird thingamajigs with the big googly eyes and the denim overalls, the Mini me’s or whatever,” Bucky teases, one fingernail scraping absently at a smear of blue on Steve’s frayed neckline. “Are you willing to paint those on our walls? In our home? With the sweat of your brow and the flex of your biceps?”
“I’ll paint a hundred of the things if that’s what she wants,” Steve replies without hesitation. His hands skate southwards, tucking themselves safely in the back pockets of Bucky’s blue jeans, where they may or may not greet Bucky’s ass with a friendly squeeze.
“Anything to make her happy,” he adds, relishing the way Bucky pushes back into his palms just so, settling into his touch like it’s home.
“Anything?” Bucky echoes him; his mouth only two inches away from turning soft breath into a kiss.
“Anything,” Steve swears, and those two inches become just one, and the one becomes a quarter, and then there are no inches left between their lips at all.
It’s like gravity; the gentle tug, the endless pull towards this.
Their tongues touch, their breaths mingle. Hands, Steve’s t-shirt pulled up over his head, his mouth, hungry, his teeth grazing over Bucky’s pulse, Bucky, Bucky.
They’re on the floor, Steve doesn’t know how,
(gravity, it’s gravity, the all-consuming laws of the universe,)
and the way their bodies fall into each other has less to do with physics and more to do with art: with how red and yellow make orange together, and purple is born when blue and red love each other very much.
The old newspapers they laid down to protect the hardwood floor rustle beneath them, sticking to the sweat rolling down the curve of Bucky’s spine, digging into Steve’s knees, tearing with pliant whispers of sound under Bucky’s clawing fingers.
Above them, curtains of white cotton billow over the cracked-open window; and in between, between this paper-thin ground and this cotton-light sky, their bodies move, sensuous and sure, like the brush moves against the canvas.
This is what they are together: art. The molten-gold crucible that lives in the crossroads between raw feeling and noble craft. An impulse. A heartbeat. The curling wisp of a thought. A fire that moves and burns with the grace of a sacred flame, streaming in the artist’s veins until it finds its release.
“Steve... Steve...”
This is, this is what they are, here, now, together. These are Steve’s hands on Bucky’s skin, this is his flesh sinking inside Bucky’s flesh, the perfect roll of his hips, thrusting, slick, golden. They are paint on the brush; the wet glide of the bristles, the way they spread, and stroke, and sigh against the canvas, leaving bursts of color in their wake.
This is how new shades are made. And Steve watches avidly as they come to life before him, under him: the hot flush of pink blossoming high on Bucky’s cheeks; the rich burgundy of his kiss-stung lips; the dark gray of his eyes, glinting like silver in the fading sunlight.
When it’s over, Bucky’s hair is a sprawl of dark brown against page 3 of the New York Times. He has a fresh smudge of blue paint on his hip, and the shape of Steve’s thumb pressed in the same color on the back of his knee, and Steve has a yellow handprint standing stark and perfect over the swell of his left buttcheek.
Their chests are still heaving when Bucky’s hands come up to stroke Steve’s upper arms, the repetitive motion meant to soothe and praise at once.
“Tell you what,” Bucky pants giddily beneath him, his mouth lax with lazy smile, his brow damp and glistening with cooling sweat. He’s the most beautiful thing Steve has ever seen. “I hope our daughter loves the Mini me’s to distraction.”
Steve freezes for a split moment. It’s like the breath’s been punched out of him.
“Our daughter,” he repeats, softly, taking care not to bruise the word with his tongue and teeth, it feels so fragile in his mouth.
It’s the first time he’s said it. It’s the first time either of them has said it out loud, and something about it makes his pounding heart skip a beat.
It’s such a small word. Two syllables and nothing more, only one simple roll of the tongue; and yet it holds a whole universe inside it. A world still untouched, undiscovered, just barely peeking on their horizon.
It’s land ahoy after countless years at sea, and Steve is just beginning to realize how much he longs to feel that solid ground beneath his feet.
“Yeah, Stevie,” Bucky breathes softly. His hand cups Steve’s jaw. “Our daughter.”
His voice is pure warmth, enveloping Steve from head to toe; quiet, and tender, a soothing vibration against Steve’s chest.
He wonders if this is the voice Bucky will use with her, months from now, when she’s cradled in his arms at last. If this is the sound their daughter will hear when Bucky’s calling her his sweetheart, his princess, his best girl; when he’s rocking her to sleep for the third time in one night, and it’s so late and he’s so tired he’ll have forgotten all the words to her favorite lullaby, so he’ll make them up on the spot, all sweet nonsense and hushed pleas for her to close her pretty eyes now, please, darlin’, please. And she won’t understand what he’s saying, not really – but she will recognize the sound of him; the sound that means that she’s safe, that she’s home. That she’s loved.
Steve is almost sure: it’s in Bucky’s sweet rumbling timbre that their daughter will hear her first I love you, and he’s fine with that. He just wants to be there to watch it happen – the very first of a million moments awaiting them, as sure as the sunrise that’ll come tomorrow – and commit every detail to memory.
Their daughter. Now that the word is out there, he can’t stop thinking about it.
His throat feels tight.
“I can’t wait to meet her,” he confesses hoarsely.
The pad of Bucky’s thumb strokes him, smoothing out the bristles of his beard.
“Me neither, honey.”
There’s a wet shine to Bucky’s eyes, Steve notices, leaning down to capture that soft mouth in a kiss. He won’t call Bucky out on it. Steve Rogers is a great many things, but he’s never been a hypocrite.
Your tags about Steve being jealous about all the girls Bucky ever interacted with were so funny and true. He'd always be so polite to them, the perfect gentleman his ma raised him to be, but deep down he'd hate them all a little bit. And he knows he shouldn't, they're not doing anything wrong. Really what he hates is the fact that they can be with Bucky, go out with him, and Steve can't. So whenever Bucky smiles at a girl, laughs at something she says, gives her a nickname and tries to buy her a stuffed bear, he can't help but fume a little.
I've imagined this scene post catws where Steve and Bucky are sharing stories from before the war with the other Avengers and Steve mentions some girls they met once when they were out. He's describing them as Bucky gives him this funny look. When Steve comments on this, Bucky mentions that he finds it funny that the name of every girl he ever so much as smiled at is right there on Steve's lips. Especially when Bucky remembers barely anything about the girls, he only remembers Steve.
Jealous and clueless Steve is just so funny.
NONNIE YESSS, YOU GET IT!!! Holy shit yeah, I second everything you said!
Jealous and clueless Steve is the ultimate combo imho. He's so caught up in these unspoken feelings bubbling inside, that he misses what's right in front of him.
There Bucky goes with the nicknames again, Steve grumbles internally. He met Dolores five minutes ago and she's already Dot to him.
Steve's still wishing her a lifetime of lipstick on her front teeth several hours later, when Bucky tugs him in with the vee if his arm around Steve's neck and says, easy and warm, "Let's go home, Stevie." The nickname's such a staple in his everyday life, Steve barely even notices it anymore.
Bucky's always taking girls on dates, dancing with them, romancing them - each night a different dame it seems, all of them walking in soft clouds of perfume and rustling skirts made to be twirled on the dance floor.
Steve hates it. He allows himself the luxury of some wallowing, contemplating just how much he hates it while he's standing there next to Bucky. On a date that Bucky cajoled him into. With two girls whose names Bucky will have forgotten tomorrow. While Bucky's all too busy gazing at him over Lizzy's head of neatly coiffed blonde hair.
When Bucky pushes the old couch to the side, later that night, and teases and goads Steve into a round of lindy while the radio's still crackling a nice song for them, Steve snorts and rolls his yes - Really, Buck? - but he takes Bucky's outstretched hand. It doesn't mean what he wishes it could mean, but he can still enjoy it, right? Even if Bucky will never look at him that way.
Gee, but doesn't Bucky just love to put pretty girls and fun summer activities together, Steve muses silently. It's all he can think about, the next time Bucky suggests they take the train to Coney Island, c'mon, they've saved up enough for it, they can have some fun for once, and Steve can give the Cyclone another chance, maybe on an empty stomach this time, yeah?, Bucky will hold his hand if Steve's really that scared, he teases with a playful nudge.
Steve's mind keeps going back to those three whole bucks wasted on a stuffed bear Bucky never even won, last time, and the girls he's always chatting up, and the one young lady manning the kiosk that he sweet-talked for a free soda -- until they get in their seats on the actual roller-coaster, and he's gripping the railing in front of him with so much force he thinks his palm will be glued to the bar for the rest of his life; after that, Steve stops thinking altogether.
It's odd, though, how Bucky's hand ends up pressed right up against his own, their pinky fingers overlapping. It's all Steve can think about for a long, long minute... before he's retching with his head thrust in the nearest trashcan.
There were so many things that just flew right over his head, back then. And as it turns out? While Steve was busy envying those innocent girls for all the things they got to do with Bucky, Bucky had been trying to do those exact same things with him, for him, all along.
Bucky tells him as much that day, when Steve's ranting on and on about all the ladies Bucky supposedly dated or wooed or flirted with, rattling off names and looks and details you wouldn't expect anybody to recall after a week, let alone after decades.
But Steve, he remembers them all. Steve who, with his eidetic memory, could tell you the exact shade of lipstick Katy was wearing, and describe to you in great detail the floral pattern on Rose Ann's blue dress, and the obviously fake but admittedly pretty birthmark Daisy liked to draw just under the corner of her left eye.
Does Bucky really remember none of them? He asks. Not a one?
Bucky smiles this slow, lopsided smile, that one adorably crooked tooth peeking through like a treat designed precisely to trigger Steve's fondness. God, but Steve is so fucking fond of this guy. A whole century's worth of progress in the medical field hasn't produced a single cure for this disease. Tragic, really.
"Guess I wasn't paying enough attention," Bucky says, a sweet hint of a drawl in his words, a recent telltale sign that he feels good, that he feels comfortable. Today's a good day. "But I could tell you what color trunks you were wearing the last time we went to Rockaway Beach," Bucky says - just throws it out there, sneaks it in all easylike, smooth like a spread of cream cheese on a halved bagel. "I could tell you what flavor ice cream you got, 'cause it was dripping all over your hand - vanilla, of course it was fucking vanilla, couldn't have picked chocolate and spared me the torture for once - and then you licked it clean off your knuckles and I couldn't get that picture out of my mind for months."
Today's an exceptionally good day, Steve decides, if the all talking's any clue. Christ, his neck feels like it's on fire.
"You really had no idea?" Bucky asks him, sweet, slightly exasperated, fond - how dare he be fond of Steve, fond (!) of all things, now that's just preposterous -- doesn't he know that there's no coming back from such a plague as fondness? It's a dangerous life-long predicament. It never gets better. If anything, it tends to get worse! Steve should know.
Steve swallows thickly - when did his throat get so dry anyway?
"Never had a single clue, pal."
Bucky grins at him. It's a look Steve's seen before; lethally charming and definitely flirtatious, annoyingly self-satisfied. He used to catch Bucky grin like that all the time, when Bucky would lean over their drinks and whisper inside jokes in Steve's good ear while they waited for dates that never showed in the end--
Motherfucker.
Steve's going to passive-aggressively lick thick creamy vanilla ice cream off his fingers at him for the rest of their lives, if it's the last thing he does.
"Stevie," Bucky hums at him, melodic, like he's tasting the name on his tongue and it's good, it's his favorite, it's the thing that makes you go mmmh with your eyes closed and your lip caught between your teeth. He steps into Steve's space, captures Steve's narrow waist between his warm, warm hands, and Steve's heart sings at the touch. He could cease being Steve Rogers right now and only be the thing held in Bucky's hands for the rest of forever, and he'd never once find reason to complain about his fate.
"Let me take you dancing, sweetheart. For real, this time." The intent in Bucky's eyes warms Steve from head to toe.
"Fine," Steve agrees, and how are his hands running up Bucky's chest now, and is this Bucky's own breath tickling his lips? "But don't you try to get fresh with me when you walk me home after." It's this. It's the softest touch- Bucky's upper lip, the tip of his nose brushing against Steve's cheek, the soft rasp of his five o'clock shadow under Steve's mouth, it's. Before the kiss. Kiss. They should kiss, yes. Kiss me.
Steve's breath shivers. He's pretty sure Bucky's trembling, too. "I don't put out on the first date," Steve mumbles, lips to lips.
Bucky nods his head. Lips to lips. The gentle graze of them together, soft flesh, held breath, parted lips against parted lips. It tickles, honey-sweet.
