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It's just an innocuous comment, that's how it starts. Bucky elbowing him in the ribs, leaning in. The two of them in a bar, drinking whisky even though it won’t touch the sides, not for Steve at least. He’s not sure about Bucky; seems like it could go either way. Bucky’s got hollows under his eyes but he’s very sharp, very bright, throwing back drink after drink and letting his words slur a little like the whisky is doing something for him. You and Carter, he says, breath hot, you'll be off having little blonde babies after the war, and Steve shrugs, screws up his mouth.
“Don't think I can, actually,” he says, trying to sound casual. Failing, maybe: Bucky leans back again, looks at him seriously.
“Whaddya mean?”
“They did a lot of tests,” Steve says.”Trying to make more of me. More soldiers, I guess. Took my blood, and— other things.”
“Other things,” Bucky repeats, and Steve ducks his head, embarrassed. Blushes hotly. “What, they had you fucking some gal who volunteered to get knocked up for the good of America?”
“No!” he says. “No, god. They just had me jerk off into a cup. I dunno what the scientists did with it after, whether they… Anyway, none of it took. Something about the serum, my DNA now, it replicates too fast. All the embryos died in the petri dish. So, I dunno. No kids in my future, not so far’s I can see.”
“Pal,” Bucky says. Pauses for a moment, sips his whisky. “That's rough.”
“I guess,” Steve shrugs, because it is, it's rough, but: he doesn't like to talk about it. Doesn't like to think about it, maybe, and it's like Bucky picks up on that, because he pauses another minute, takes another sip of his drink, clears his throat.
“So when you said they took a lot,” he says. Raises an eyebrow. “Lemme get this straight, you were just sitting around getting chafing on your dick while the rest of us idiots were over here getting shot at?”
“I wasn't just getting chafing on my dick,” Steve protests, outraged but going along with it, letting Bucky josh him into an embarrassed demise because it's somehow easier than facing up to the truth of whatever those scientists did to him, what kind of unnatural monster they might have turned him into. “I was prancing around in tights punching Hitler, don't forget that bit.”
“Yeah, sure, how could I forget that,” Bucky agrees, deadpan. “The tights, Christ, nobody could forget those.”
“And anyway,” Steve says, and he's not even sure why he says it; it's too much, entirely, pushing things too far, but— “it wasn't such a big deal. I can, uh, go for a while, I guess. Serum's good for something.”
Bucky chokes on his whisky. Coughs into his hand, eyes watering, and raises both eyebrows this time. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know,” Steve says. Squirms a little. He should never have said something, it's not—you don't say that to people, he guesses. “It's not—one and done, you know? I got, uh. Stamina.”
“Stamina,” Bucky repeats, flat. “Uh huh.” And then he's throwing back the rest of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, turning to Steve and squaring his jaw all challenge. “How many times?”
“How—”
“Yeah. How many times. In one go.”
“I—” Steve starts, flushing so hot he feels like he must be a beacon in the bar, shining through the grey-out. Bucky's still looking at him, curious, and something else under it, something Steve can't place. “Four,” he says, compulsively too-honest in the face of Bucky’s gaze, and Bucky's eyes widen.
“Four? At once?”
“Just about. Over about an hour, maybe,” Steve says, trying not to… fuck, he's not even sure what he's trying not to do. Trying not to remember how it'd been, maybe, in that narrow army bed feeling desperate, skin hot and tight, this newly unfamiliar body and all its planes of muscle taut under his palms. He'd gone until he was sobbing under his breath, coming dry, and only then had he been able to sleep, exhausted to the point he could drift off into an uneasy doze. He doesn't—he doesn't need much sleep, it seems, not these days. Not this body. Had woken three hours later hard again, rutting against the mattress, and when he'd come a fifth time it'd been thinking about the way it felt to get punched in the mouth, the sharp hot pain of it, how even that might feel better than this bottomless need that never seems to be done with him.
“Four times,” Bucky repeats. “Christ.”
“Five,” Steve says, “technically. Well, depends how you count it.”
“Jesus,” Bucky murmurs, and he's got his empty glass pressed to his lower lip, swipes his tongue along the rim. Blinks, slow. “Fuck it. This I gotta see. Come on, Rogers, show me.”
“You—show you?”
“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. Bites his lip, winks once, deliberate. “What, all those scientists didn't test you out, make you put on a show?”
“Jesus Christ, Buck,” Steve says, taken aback and embarrassingly hard in about equal measures.
“Ain't queer if we're not touching each other,” Bucky says. “Shit, you haven't been in the barracks, every guy in the damn Army would be dishonorably discharged if it made you queer, just jerking off in the same room.”
“So you’d…”
“What? Oh. Yeah. Well, it's no fun if only one of us is doing it, right?”
“I, uh,” Steve says. Falters. Bucky's still looking at him, just looking, and it makes Steve hot all the way up his spine, the nape of his neck. “Fuck it, fine. My room?”
“It’s got a lock on the door,” Bucky agrees, and yeah, ain't that the goddamn truth.
When they get back to Steve's room he takes his time to settle, hangs up his shirt and jacket over the back of the chair. He unbuttons his pants, turns around to find Bucky watching him, his own shirt untucked and hanging loose from his shoulders, his fly open.
“Goddamn,” Bucky says, tone appreciative. “You really did get big, huh.” Steve doesn't know how to take that: curls his shoulders in a little, looks down at his own chest, the swell of his pecs visible through his undershirt. Remembers, suddenly, how Peggy had touched him, a quick brush of her fingers to his sweat-slick skin, and wishes for a minute that Bucky'd touch him the same. Ain't queer if we're not touching each other, Bucky had said, but Steve's not so sure, not with how his dick jumps just at the way Bucky chews his lip again, rubs his palm over his open fly where he's beginning to tent his shorts.
“Where, uh,” Steve says. Gestures at the room. “Where do you—”
“Get on the bed,” Bucky tells him. “I'll take the chair.”
“Okay,” Steve says, a little dumb. “I'll just—” and bends over to unlace his boots, shucks off his pants and socks all at once. Then it seems dumb to keep his undershirt on, his shorts, not when they're doing—whatever the fuck it is they're doing—and he tugs them off too, quick short movements like that'll stop him from thinking too hard about it. Stretches out on the bed, and when Bucky looks up from pushing his own pants down around his thighs, he goes a little slack-jawed.
“Jesus,” he says, like it's involuntary. “Jesus Christ, Steve.”
“You wanted me to put on a show,” Steve shrugs. Stops himself from putting a hand over his dick; he's blushing furiously but he'll be damned if he sits there like some shrinking violet while they've both got their dicks out and Steve's about to prove how many times he can goddamn jerk off in one sitting. Bucky blinks. Licks his lips, recovers himself.
“Yeah,” he says, “guess I did,” and then he spits in his own palm, grabs at his dick, and Steve figures that's signal enough for things to get started.
He comes the first time pretty quick: it's almost anticlimactic, just a shiver, stomach muscles clenching, and he's spilling wet and hot over his fingers. He doesn't stop, has figured out he can push himself straight through, and he uses the slick of it, grips tighter and strokes himself. The second time starts building, slower: toes curling, heat in the pit of his stomach, sparks running up his spine.
“Damn,” Bucky says, sounding kind of impressed. “Just like that, huh? God, look how wet you are. I almost wanna get my mouth on you.” Steve looks over, can’t help it, and the way Bucky’s working his fist over the head of his cock, it makes him groan.
“Come on,” he says, trying not to sound breathy. “I’m one up on you already, Buck, you gonna pop or what?”
“Fuckin’ Christ,” Bucky mutters. “I’m getting there. We ain’t all got your stamina, Rogers.”
“Seems like you just ain’t trying,” Steve shrugs, and Bucky actually growls at that, throws his head back, strips his hand over his dick faster. The sight of it makes Steve’s heart thump: Bucky’s sweating, a sheen of it coating his chest, and he’s got his teeth sunk into his lower lip hard enough the skin’s gone bloodless. He’s still thin from those weeks without rations, wiry with muscle; it’s standing out, cording in his forearms, and Steve wants to lick his way along Bucky’s collarbones, taste the sweat beading there, suck Bucky’s lip into his mouth. He’s so—Christ, he’s been trying not to think about this for years, looking away whenever Bucky tugs his shirt off to lay out on the fire escape in the summer heat of the city, and now Bucky’s just had to say show me to have Steve jerking off for him, pretending there’s nothing queer about it, just two guys blowing off a little steam.
“Fuck,” he gasps, desperate, wanting, “fuck, fuck,” and maybe the sound of his voice does something for Bucky or maybe he’s just on the edge already but it makes him growl again, flex his hips up, and he’s coming over his own chest, hot pulses that Steve just wants to drag his fingers through.
“Happy?” Bucky asks, breathing hard, and that ain’t the word for it but it’s enough to push Steve into coming a second round, harder this time. It feels like it’s drawn all the way up from way down deep in him; he has to close his eyes a minute, catch his breath.
“You ain’t done,” Bucky says after another minute or two, and Steve exhales, shakes his head. Not sure if that’s a question or an order from Bucky, but it’s all the same anyway; no, he ain’t done, not yet. Wants more, needs more, and he takes his hand off his dick, slicks his fingers up in the mess of come he’s left on his belly, pushes himself up on his elbows and crooks his knee up. Rubs his middle finger in slow circles over the tight pucker of his hole. It should be humiliating, doing this in front of Bucky, and it is, it is, it makes him burn with embarrassment, but there’s something hot and shocking about it, the transgression of letting Bucky watch him do all this.
“Oh,” Bucky says, voice hot and dark, “you need something in you, huh?”
“Don't need it,” Steve says, hearing how his voice hitches as he presses two fingers inside. “Feels good, though. Especially if I've already, you know, gone a couple times.”
“Hmm,” Bucky murmurs, and when Steve looks over at him he sees that Bucky's got his eyes on Steve's fingers, watching how he's working them in and out of his hole; it makes him flush, realizing how filthy he must look. Spread wide, fucking himself open, wanton and on display, and that makes him hotter.
“Feels so good,” he gasps, closing his eyes and rocking into it, “you got no idea—”
“You think I’ve never gotten it like that?” Bucky asks, “shit, Steve, you think I don’t know how to take it?” and that’s so shocking Steve blinks open again, feels his eyes go wide with surprise.
“No,” he says, taken aback, and Bucky shrugs.
“Feels good, right? Shit, I bet I can get my fingers deeper in you than you can, the angle’s never right when you do it yourself.”
“You—”
“Come on,” Bucky says, “lemme do it for you, Steve,” and that’s enough to make Steve’s half-hard dick fill right out again.
“Okay,” he manages, “sure,” and then Bucky is getting up from the chair, kicking off his boots and uniform trousers, sitting down on the bed where he’s close enough he could touch, could put his fingers right into Steve.
“You got any slick?”
“Vaseline,” Steve says, voice cracking again as he pushes his fingers deeper. “In the cabinet.”
Bucky leans over, reaches for it, and then he’s unscrewing the little tin, getting his fingers sticky-slick. “Here,” he says, “lemme,” and takes Steve by the wrist, pulls his hand away. Doesn’t start out slow, just gets two fingers in Steve’s ass, sinks them right up to the knuckle, and Steve goes hot all over, prickly with it like the edge of a sunburn.
He doesn’t know how long Bucky has him like that; he works and works at Steve with two fingers and then gets a third one in, scissors them open in a tight burning stretch that makes Steve swallow back a shout, and then he’s taking Steve’s dick into his other hand, rubbing his thumb over the tender spot just below the head, and it’s like it gets Steve right up onto a knife-edge. It’s beginning to hurt—third round, it always stings a little—and the pain is just making it better, making Steve’s vision swim at the edges.
“Yeah,” Bucky says, “that’s it, huh?” and skates his fingertips over Steve’s prostate, squeezes his dick. Steve makes a strangled noise, a moan caught in the back of his throat, and Bucky nods. “That’s it,” he says, almost to himself, eyes dark with concentration, and then he’s pushing again at that same spot, over and over, so much stimulation Steve feels his whole body shake. “Come on, Steve, I’m gonna fuck it out of you if I gotta,” Bucky says, and Steve whimpers. He’s so close, he’s so fucking close, and then Bucky does something with his hand on Steve’s dick and that’s it, Steve’s gone, he’s absolutely fucking gone, letting Bucky take him to pieces.
Bucky doesn’t stop—he doesn’t fucking stop—and Steve only barely registers that he’s whining, quiet, almost under his breath.
"I can't," he gasps, "not again, Buck, I—" and Bucky just twists his fingers, curls them to hit the spot that makes Steve's vision flare white.
"Sure you can," he says, low, coaxing. “Sure you can, sweetheart, come on, do it for me.”
“I can't,” Steve says again, but it's no use; Bucky's rubbing at that spot, relentless, thumb tracing Steve's stretched-out rim, and it hurts, it's so good, Steve can feel it building again in the base of his spine.
“You’re so swollen up,” Bucky tells him. “All tight and swollen up inside, I can feel it, how much you need it,” and Steve chokes on his breath. Feels himself surrender to it, to the feeling and sensation, and now he’s right out on the edge of how much he can take. He’s only got like this before when he’s forced himself, pushed through all desperation, and it’s so much more intense now with Bucky watching him, with Bucky’s hands on him.
“Buck,” he says, gasping; put your mouth on me, he wants to say. Doesn’t. Just closes his eyes, pictures it—Bucky’s lips swollen from how he’s been chewing them, his mouth stretched around Steve’s dick, tongue dipping into the slit—and feels his ass throb. Bucky’d swallow around him, in Steve’s head; would take him down and let Steve spill right down his throat, and just the thought of it is enough, unexpected, that Steve comes again, barely, dick twitching but only a weak trickle of come. Bucky’s gonna fuck him dry, Steve thinks, he’s gonna—and it makes him twitch again, shudder all over; he can’t even form a sentence in his own head. Squeezes his eyes shut tight until lights flicker and burst behind his eyelids, and then opens them again, blinks up at Bucky haloed in the harsh gas light.
“Four,” Bucky says, satisfied, and he's not done; Steve can tell, the tilt of his head, the set of his jaw. He twists his fingers and Steve has to stifle a shout; he feels shivery, raw, hurting a little. Hurting a lot, maybe; his whole body feels tender. Tight under his skin: he wants Bucky's hands on him, his chest. Wants Bucky to thumb over his nipples, rub and pinch them until Steve's gasping and sore, swollen, desperate.
“Touch me,” he says, too gone to care about whether it's queer or it ain't—Bucky’s got his fingers in Steve’s ass, that’s gone past just idle fooling around—and Bucky smirks.
“Touch yourself,” he says back, smart, enough of an order in the sharpness of his voice that Steve does it. One hand on his dick, the other palming up over his chest, finding a nipple and pinching. It's not as good as he wants; he wants Bucky's mouth on it, wants Bucky to worry it with his teeth until Steve's trying not to scream. He digs his nail in instead, twists hard, and it hurts; fuck it hurts. It makes him clench around Bucky's fingers, dick pulsing again. Christ, he wouldn't be surprised if he was chafing right now, the amount of friction between his palm and his dick; he has no idea how he’s still hard, how Bucky’s got him going like this.
“That's it,” Bucky says, twisting his fingers again. “Just one more for me, baby.”
“Put your dick in me,” Steve says, close to begging for it, and Bucky's gaze snaps up from Steve's dick to meet his eyes.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Steve says; it comes out breathy. “Yeah, Buck. Get your dick in me, make me come on it.”
“Christ,” Bucky says. “Okay.” He pulls his fingers out, taps Steve's flank, and Steve obediently rolls over, pushes himself back on his knees. Rests his face against his forearms, braced against the bed, and feels Bucky press his palm flat against the base of his spine. “You need more slick?” Bucky asks, and Steve shakes his head.
“Nah,” he says, voice rough.”No, just—put it in me, God. Give it to me good.”
Bucky makes a strangled noise. Grabs at Steve's hip, digs his fingers in. And then he’s getting his dick in Steve just like Steve wanted, no lead-in, just a long slide until Bucky’s balls-deep in him, and it’s, Christ, it’s so fucking good Steve can’t breathe, he’s got Bucky goddamned fucking Barnes fucking him into the mattress and all Steve can do is push his ass back into it, let Bucky fuck into him like he’s been wanting to do it all damn night.
“Christ,” Bucky says, after a minute or an hour; time’s stretching around them. Steve’s not sure he’ll ever be able to catch his breath. “Christ, Steve, your ass.”
“Come in me,” Steve says. “Fill me up with it.”
“Already came once,” Bucky says. “You know I ain't like you.”
“Liar,” Steve gets out, because he knows; he knows Hydra did something to Bucky even if he ain't sure what. Bucky laughs, short and quick, maybe a little bitter.
“Yeah,” he agrees, “you got me,” and shoves back into Steve harder so that all of Steve's breath punches out of him. “You got me,” he says again, and he’s really fucking Steve now, fast hard thrusts that feel bruising in their intensity. God, Steve wants it. Wants Bucky to bruise him up, inside and out. Wants him to mark him, to sink his teeth in. He has no goddamn idea how he fucking lived with Bucky this long and didn’t just get on his goddamn knees at every opportunity, except that this is—every guy in the damn Army, Buck had said, and maybe that’s just it, Bucky looking for a fuck and not caring too much who it’s with.
“Fuck,” Bucky groans, “Steve, Christ, you feel so good,” and he’s set a punishing rhythm, something that has them both panting for breath. They’re loud about it, the wet slap of skin on skin; if someone paused in the corridor outside they’d know someone was getting fucked, really taking it, and that makes Steve tighten around Bucky so that he groans again, grabs at Steve’s dick. “Come on,” he says, “come on my dick, Steve, I know you can do it, I want to feel it.”
“Don’t know if I—”
“Liar,” Bucky says back. Smacks Steve’s ass, hard. “That’s an order, Rogers,” and god, god, this can’t just be Bucky looking for a fuck with anyone who’ll get on their knees for him, the shit he’s saying, he must have thought about it too, imagined fucking Steve all spread out beneath him.
“I can’t,” Steve says, just to make Bucky smack him again; sometimes I think you like getting punched, Bucky had told him, a lifetime ago, and it’s not that he likes it exactly but he just gets desperate for it, the pain and heat all blurring together until he can’t tell one from the other, until all he wants is someone else’s hands on him in violence or sex or both.
“You’re gonna,” Bucky tells him. Gets his hand in Steve’s hair, makes a fist and yanks his head back; Steve can’t help but make a noise, loud and needy, and Bucky pulls harder. “Yeah, you’re gonna,” and Steve does, tightens up around Bucky’s dick until it hurts, until all of him hurts, and he thinks he’s crying a little but he’s not sure; he doesn’t know; all he is is breath and muscle and sweat, reduced down to nothing but his body, and Bucky is coming in him, filling him up; it’s so good Steve doesn’t know how he’ll ever go without it now that he knows.
Bucky lets him come down from it this time, slow and trembling until he’s back in his own head. When Steve blinks up at him he’s sitting back, leaning against the wall, elbow resting on one knee and his other leg stretched out long. He’s not quite touching Steve; Steve tries not to notice. Fails.
“I think I could—” he says, suggesting, and Bucky raises an eyebrow.
“You came five goddamn times in an hour.”
“Yeah,” Steve agrees, “but I could take it, I think,” and lets his thigh fall open, sees how Bucky’s attention narrows in on him. Steve’s not sure, actually; he came five times in an hour and he feels tender, fucked out, shivery and hurting good all over, but then Bucky reaches down, slides his fingers into Steve’s hole, and it’s like that’s all Steve wants, to have Bucky in him and in him, Christ. He doesn’t know how he’ll live without it again.
“God, look at you. You're so loose, sweetheart, fucked all open and sloppy like this, you got no idea—”
The noises Bucky’s fingers are making, Christ, it’s wet, obscene. Steve can feel come dripping out of him with every thrust of Bucky’s fingers; he’s never been so humiliated or so painfully hard, aching, oversensitized and still wanting and wanting it, and Bucky slides his little finger in alongside the other three, rubs his thumb over the tender skin just behind Steve’s balls.
“Think I could get my fist in you?” Bucky asks, casual like he's just curious, and Steve's whole body shudders.
“No,” he says. “Yes. Put it in me.”
“God,” Bucky says, shocked-sounding as if he wasn’t expecting the answer. Exhales hard. “Yeah?”
“Do it,” Steve says, grinds down onto Bucky’s hand so all four of his fingers shove deeper, come-slick, filthy. He wants it so bad he can hardly think. Bucky lets out this breathy noise and then he’s tucking his thumb in against his palm, pushing in, trailing his fingertips over Steve’s prostate, and Steve has no goddamn clue how but his dick spills out a fresh trail of pre-come at the sensation. “More,” he says, or tries to say; his tongue is thick in his mouth and he can’t even form the word, just opens his mouth and gasps and arches into the touch. Bucky pushes and pushes, gentler than before but still unrelenting, and then his knuckles are against the rim of Steve’s ass, stretching and stretching him open, and just as Steve’s about to say wait or stop or I can’t he relaxes into it, feels something give, and then Jesus goddamned Christ and Mary Bucky’s whole hand is in him, solid, filling him up like he’s never been full before. Every nerve ending in his body is on fire; he must look shocky, on the edge of crying or passing out or just straight-up dying right here, because Bucky exhales, holds his hand very still, strokes the palm of his other hand down the outside of Steve’s thigh.
“Breathe,” he tells Steve, his voice low and shockingly intimate, “that’s it, sweetheart, breathe into it,” and Steve lets out his breath, sucks in another one.
“Yeah,” he says, “Buck—” and Bucky nods. Begins, carefully, to move his hand, and Steve’s breath catches again in his throat as everything hits him all at once, nothing but raw sensation like he’s never felt before.
He comes dry and it doesn't stop, doesn't ebb away, just washes over him in wave after wave and leaves him panting. Steve arches his whole body, taut like an arrow string, and that makes Bucky's fist slide inside him so his knuckles catch and rub, hard and hurting. Another surge of pleasure hits Steve, so much it's unbearable. He shoves his forearm over his mouth, sinks his teeth into the flesh of his wrist and bites down, and Bucky pushes at him again, flexes; it punches a noise out of Steve, something small and wounded in the back of his throat.
“Yeah,” Bucky says, soft. Stills his hand inside Steve; Steve can feel Bucky's pulse thumping in his wrist, pressed right up against the stretched edge of his rim. “Yeah, that's it. That's what you needed.”
“Buck,” Steve says, and it comes out a sob. Bucky unclenches his fist, pulls his hand back, gentle. The knuckle of his thumb scrapes over Steve's hole, and Steve jerks, lets out another quiet sob.
“Shhh,” Bucky says. “Shhh, I got you,” and then he's pulling his hand free, leaning down between Steve's thighs, pushing his legs wider apart. “I got you,” he says again, and gets in close, presses a sweetly gentle kiss to Steve's hole. Licks at him like he's French kissing a girl, and Steve feels his hole flutter and tighten: Jesus Christ, Bucky's mouth on him, right there where he's fucked out, loose and oversensitive, and Bucky's tongue slides right into him, enough that Steve trembles.
“I can't,” he says, voice rough, and this time Bucky pulls away, brushes a kiss to the inside of Steve's thigh.
“Yeah,” he agrees, “I shoulda done that earlier. Next time I'm gonna put my tongue in you until you can't move, you hear me? Hold you down, eat you out until you're so gone on it you can hardly breathe. And then I'm gonna fuck you.”
“Ain't queer if you're not touching,” Steve says, hearing his words slur. “I dunno, Buck, that sounds pretty queer.”
“A little queer,” Bucky agrees, looking awkward for a minute, and then he's biting his lip, touching Steve's thigh. “Don't tell me you don't want it.”
“I want it,” Steve says.”I want it.” Reaches for Bucky, his limbs heavy. “Don't go.”
“Can't sleep here,” Bucky says, but he lets Steve pull him down anyway, settles on the pillow. His face is very close; Steve blinks at him, touches his fingers to Bucky's lower lip.
“Stay,” he says. “Please.”
“Can't,” Bucky says again. Kisses Steve's fingertips, absent like he's not thinking about it before he does it, and it's that gesture which undoes Steve entirely; he reaches out to cup his hand around the nape of Bucky's neck, shifts in closer until he can feel Bucky's breath on his own mouth and then closes the final bit of distance, kisses Bucky easy like they've done it before. Bucky makes a soft little noise, holds himself very still, and Steve just kisses and kisses him until Bucky yields, leans into it, melds his body against him.
“Oh,” Bucky says, when Steve pulls away. “That—”
“Stay,” Steve says, and Bucky closes his eyes. Opens them again.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, quiet like he’s tired. “Yeah, Steve, okay.”
There’s something on Bucky’s mind, Steve can tell; he won’t quite look at Steve as they clean up, cursory swipes of their washcloths as if that’ll get off all the dried sweat, the layers of come drying on Steve’s chest and thighs. Steve feels wrung-out, exhausted all the way down to his bones. He might even sleep tonight, he thinks.
“I lied,” Bucky says, quiet, right as Steve’s beginning to feel the tiredness overtake him, and Steve goes still. Waits for more, night-blind and still looking for Bucky’s face in the darkness. “This wasn’t just—it’s not—it ain’t like that.”
“Yeah,” Steve says, feeling something lift. “I know, Buck.”
“You—”
“Shut up,” Steve says. Feels generous even as he says it; it ain’t like he didn’t have doubts, after all. Maybe that’s just it, Bucky looking for a fuck. Not caring who it’s with. It ain’t. He should have known, Christ. They should have— “You’re an idiot, Barnes, I swear to Christ.”
“Jerk,” Bucky mutters, but he starts the kiss this time, forehead pressed against Steve’s even after they break apart. Steve falls asleep like that, entwined with Bucky, his breath hot against Steve’s mouth, and he sleeps the whole night through, deep and dreamless and aching, bone-deep, satisfied, full up.