Work Text:
“Where’s your boy-toy?” Sam asks, barely five minutes into his visit.
“Sam,” Steve groans, exasperated and maybe a little scandalized. His rational mind is aware that Sam doesn’t know anything. He just said that because he and Bucky have a vaguely antagonistic friendship with its own set of complicated rules, one of which seems to be that they will never, in any situation other than explicitly life-threatening, call each other their actual names or anything else that can be construed as nice or affectionate.
It confuses Steve as often as it amuses him, but on this occasion, embarrassed shock overtakes both.
Sam slants him a narrow-eyed look that’s a little too knowing for comfort.
“I see I’m not wrong.”
Steve turns on his heels and gracefully nopes out of that conversation. Sam’s laughter trails him into the kitchen, but the man himself doesn’t follow. Steve wills the flush on his cheeks to go down as he makes coffee and heats up some of the food Bucky made last night. Steve’s still an abysmal cook, and heavenly Wakandan cuisine hasn’t succeeded in changing that. He loves the flavors though, loves trying new stuff virtually every day, and while he's content to trek out to the markets or even the capital city for his culinary adventures, Bucky prefers cook his own food. Most days, they compromise. Bucky cooks, Steve buys food and brings it home, and they share.
It's all terribly domestic. Steve loves it.
Sam’s sprawled out on the couch when Steve returns to the main room. This isn’t the hut Bucky used to live in, back before the Snap. It’s a bigger place, meant for two. It’s still on the outskirts though. Bucky wanted his goats, and these days, Steve has found that all he wants is to give Bucky what he wants.
Sam makes grabby hands for the food, and Steve gives it to him, critically eyeing how tired Sam looks. There are bags under his eyes, and his cheeks look gaunt. He doesn’t seem to have lost weight, but the soft layer of fat that overlaid his muscles seems to have vanished. Steve’s pretty sure that’s not a good sign, but he’s mostly familiar with his and Bucky’s serum-conditioned physiques. He doesn’t quite know how to go about asking Sam if he’s eating enough and sleeping enough, if the shield is sucking him dry the way it did Steve.
Sam pauses, halfway through inhaling his food, and frowns at Steve.
“Why are you hovering?”
“Are you okay?” Steve blurts out.
Sam blinks. Instead of answering, he sips at his coffee, looking down at his cup with a faint furrow between his brows.
“Most of the time,” is what he says in the end. He shoots Steve that adorable gap-toothed smile of his, and Steve melts a little despite the sudden surge of guilt.
Well, it’s maybe not that sudden. It’s just that it’s easier to tell himself it was the right decision to hand over the shield when he doesn’t have to see the toll it’s taking on Sam.
“Aw, hell no.” Sam puts aside the food to lean forward, pinning Steve with a piercing glare. “Steve, do I look like I regret accepting the shield?”
“You look tired,” Steve says honestly.
“Man, I had to put up with you growing out a depression beard and wearing darker colors for the better part of two years. You can handle me looking a little worn around the edges after running around fixing Thanos’s mess.”
Steve grimaces and drops down beside Sam who knocks their shoulders together none too gently. He’s the one who huffs and rubs his shoulder afterwards, muttering uncharitably about supersoldier muscles.
“How are things going?”
“Getting better every day. No one will say humanity’s not resilient.”
Truer words.
Steve did stick around for the first two years of rehabilitation efforts, Bucky right there beside him. But he did retire eventually, just like he promised Bucky when Steve held him for the first time after Bruce reversed the Snap, fingernails aching from the memory of ash under them.
Sam seemed happy, if overwhelmed, to accept the newly-minted shield and the heavy title that came with it. Steve takes a good, long look at him and tries to gauge if that’s still true. But he’s not subtle, never has been, and Sam doesn’t miss what he’s trying to do. It gets him an exasperated look and a whack on his chest.
“Steve, chill the fuck out. I didn’t think being Captain fucking America was going to be a walk in the park, and does it look like I’m complaining?”
“No. But it’s easy to lose yourself in Cap. You gotta take care of yourself too, Sam.”
“How’s that hypocrisy taste, Steve?”
Steve grins, unrepentant.
“It’s easier to take care of my people than myself. But you’re a better man than me, Sam.”
“Ain’t you smooth? Fucko teach you that?”
“He’s been trying and failing since the 40s,” Steve says drily. “I’m just worried about you.”
Sam’s eyes soften. He leans into Steve, a line of warmth against his side that’s more comforting than words can capture. He’s lost so much. Natasha is still a raw, throbbing wound. He dreams of Tony’s tired eyes, hollow in death. Sam and Wanda are all he has left of his family.
He hugs Sam around the shoulder and holds tight. Sam lays a hand on his thigh and squeezes, firm and knowing. He knows loss as intimately as Steve; it’s their most faithful lover.
“You don’t gotta worry,” Sam says softly. “Unlike you, I know when I need a break. This is one. I’m here, aren’t I? A whole damn week of not dealing with Ross’s bullshit. Heaven.”
“You’re here for work,” Steve points out. “Technically, at least.”
“T’Challa doesn’t really need me there the whole time. I could have holo-ed in. Think he just took pity on me and gave me an excuse to take a break.” Sam gives Steve a sharp look. “I wonder why.”
“T’Challa’s nice like that,” Steve says innocently. Anyway, it’s the truth.
Sam hums suspiciously but says nothing, focusing on finishing his food instead. When he’s done, Steve takes the plates away. Sam’s horizontal on the couch when he returns and rather than take the chair to the side, Steve sits on the floor beside the couch, facing Sam.
“You know, you didn’t say where your favorite asshole fucked off to.”
“Sam,” Steve sighs. He thinks he’s got a particular sigh now, to aim at Bucky and Sam when they’re being little shits about each other. “He’s out with the goats. He likes to take afternoon naps in the grass. The kids usually accost him after.” Steve takes a look at the time. “It’s nearing sunset though. He’ll be back soon.”
“The feared Winter Soldier, goat herder and jungle gym for Wakandan kids,” Sam says, grinning crookedly. “Hydra would shit kittens if they knew.”
“Good,” Steve growls.
“It is,” Sam says, and he’s still smiling but his tone’s serious. “Gotta say, I’m curious to see it, this whole White Wolf gig.”
“Buck thinks it’s ridiculous, but he’ll take it over Winter Soldier any day.” Steve shakes his head, and then he hears it. He’s well-aware that he perks up like a puppy, maybe a golden retriever like the ones the internet likes to compare him to. “Hey, Sam, you’re about to get your wish.”
Sure enough, the door opens and in comes Bucky.
He’s a familiar sight to Steve but no less a miracle for it. Sometimes, he thinks he’ll never cease to find this a marvel, Bucky with his long hair and loose clothes and that bright glow in his eyes.
Today, he’s dressed in his favorite shuka and not wearing his arm. His hair was loose and wet from the shower when he left. Bucky liked to let it dry naturally into soft waves. But it’s braided now, a handful of strands framing his face while the rest is gathered back in a loose, clumsy plait. The kids’ work then; Bucky, when he doesn’t just let his hair be, is meticulous in what he does with it. Steve knows a few styles too, but he mostly prefers to comb Bucky’s hair, running his fingers and a brush through Bucky’s hair over and over and over, the repetitive motions oddly comforting.
There’s a flower tucked behind Bucky’s left ear, a bright purple bloom that Steve doesn’t know the name of. All he cares about is how sweet Bucky looks, how soft and inviting everything about him is.
It's Sam who jolts Steve out of his adoring reverie.
“Yo, fucker,” he greets. There’s something off about his voice though, and when Steve reluctantly drags his eyes off Bucky to look at Sam, he finds him staring at Bucky with a strangely blank expression.
“Hey, shithead,” Bucky says. The smile he gives Sam is genuine, but there’s a narrowing of his eyes that suggests he didn’t miss what Steve picked up. “You’re early.”
“No, you’re late.”
Bucky rolls his eyes and doesn’t bother answering. He does stride across the room to give Steve a quick peck on the cheek. Steve turns his face before Bucky can pull back and kisses him firmly on the mouth.
Bucky looks pleased and a little shy when he pulls back.
“Gotta go meet Shuri,” Bucky says, addressing Sam.
“Ditching me for a princess, huh?” Sam shakes his head. “Should’ve known.”
“Fuck you,” Bucky returns warmly. “Like you’d do any different. Anyway, Shuri will kill me if I miss out on our dinners, and she scares me more than you do.”
Steve has to agree. A disappointed Shuri is terrifying, simply because seeing her like that makes you want to melt into the earth and die in some deep, dark crevice. It must be even more effective on Bucky because Becca had him wrapped around her finger the same way and some things just don’t change.
Bucky vanishes into the bedroom and reappears not long after, dressed in jeans and a button-down and with his left arm attached. He prefers Western clothes when he’s working or heading out to the capital, but when he’s resting, he opts for loose Wakandan clothes. Steve likes to lounge around in sweats and tees, but he certainly does appreciate Bucky’s fashion choices.
He frequently tries to express his appreciation, as physically as possible.
He gets another kiss before Bucky leaves again. Sam gets a punch on the shoulder with a metal arm and a somewhat nice goodbye.
Steve sighs when the door closes behind Bucky.
“You’re whipped,” Sam helpfully says from beside him, but it has no bite.
“Can you blame me?” Steve asks.
When Sam doesn’t retort with the expected snarky comeback, Steve turns to him and again finds the same, strange expression he was wearing before.
“Sam? You alright?”
Sam doesn’t respond for a few seconds. He furrows his brows, open and closes his mouth a few times. When he does speak, his voice is very soft, almost hesitant.
“He looks so different.”
Just like that, Steve gets it.
“Yeah,” he laughs, but it a rough sound, like it got dragged screaming up his throat. “I reacted the same way, at first.”
He can’t quite imagine that feeling of disconnect now. But he thinks of Bucky as Sam saw him last – clad in armor and armed, literally and otherwise – and compares it to the Bucky of now, who’s as likely to leave his left arm in the closet than put it on and whose hands are calloused from farming, not fighting.
He looks so soft these days. Soft and infinitely precious.
“Looks about a decade younger,” Sam says. “I forget how young the two of you are, sometimes. Without the ice.”
“Not that young anymore. I’m not,” Steve replies, thinking of those five years that passed in a miserable haze. “I guess I’m older than him now.”
Usually, Sam would react with a sarcastic old man comment. Now, he just huffs a humorless laugh and says, “Yeah, I guess you are.”
Silence falls after that. It’s not uncomfortable, just thoughtful.
Sam’s the one who breaks it.
“It suits him.”
Steve closes his eyes and smiles.
“Yeah. It really does.”
-
“Sam thinks you’re real pretty.”
Bucky drops his book in shock. Steve snorts at the sight, and Bucky looks adorably disgruntled when he plucks the offending novel off his face and sets it aside. With every day that passes, he reminds Steve more and more of that recalcitrant closet-cuddler of a cat that he used to feed when he lived with his mum, ignoring her warnings about minding his allergies.
“Sam thinks I’m pretty,” Bucky says, incredulity coloring every syllable. “Sam. Our Sam. Captain America Sam.”
“We only know the one, Buck. But yes, out Sam, the only currently passed out on our couch.”
Steve did offer his side of the bed. Sam just gave him a horrified look and lay more firmly down on the couch. Steve doesn’t feel too bad about it since Sam could have easily made use of his guest accommodations at the palace. He chose their couch and besides, it’s comfortable.
He’s not going to tell Sam about all the times Steve and Bucky fucked on it though.
Bucky shakes his head. Steve takes a good, long look at him, bare except for a pair of briefs that are better off being called panties.
“You are real pretty,” he says, voice dipping suggestively.
Bucky’s reaction is immediate; he shivers lightly and peers up at Steve with darkened eyes.
“Am I?” he asks, and it should come off as coy, but Bucky just sounds breathlessly sincere.
“Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Steve promises, shucking his clothes hastily and climbing into bed. Bucky spreads his legs to accommodate him, and Steve settles between them, running his hands up Bucky’s warm, muscled thighs. He squeezes once, and the sound Bucky makes is a moan half-realized. “He called you my boy-toy too.”
Bucky blushes a faint, radiant pink.
“Yeah?” Steve asks, grinning. “You like that? Like how obvious it is?”
“What’s obvious?” Bucky asks. His throat bobs when he swallows, and this time, he really is just being coy.
But Steve indulges him anyway.
“That you’re mine. That anyone can take one look at you and see how sweet you get for me.”
Bucky makes another, half-eaten sound, but his body’s so much louder. The white of his briefs darken, the telltale bulge in them further pronounced by a wet spot. Steve doesn’t take his eyes off Bucky’s when he lowers his head to press his mouth there.
Bucky’s cock is warm through a thin layer of fabric. Steve opens his mouth and presses his tongue flat to it. Bucky groans like he’s dying but doesn’t move. He knows better, knows to be good.
And god, he’s so good.
Steve lets those words spill from his lips, hushed and reverent. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut like Steve’s killing him.
“Look at me, baby.”
Bucky does, groaning again at whatever he sees on Steve’s face. Hunger, he imagines. Love, so much that he’s full to bursting with it.
“Steve,” Bucky gasps, a soft plea.
Steve rubs his face against Bucky’s groin, grinning fiercely at Bucky’s startled shout. He pulls back and rips off the little scrap of clothing because he doesn’t have the patience to pull it down or move from between Bucky’s legs, because Bucky likes him violent and impatient, likes how Steve can’t help wanting to eat him whole.
He sucks Bucky’s cock like he’s dying for it. Bucky winds his fingers into his hair, but he doesn’t try to push him down or pull him up, just clings for dear life as he takes what Steve gives him.
Bucky spills into his mouth with a high-pitched cry that turns into a broken whimper when Steve keeps sucking him through it, swallowing every drop and coaxing more out of Bucky’s shuddering cock. It’s when Bucky’s voice takes on a pained, desperate edge that Steve finally pulls back.
He licks his lips, mouth flooded with the taste of Bucky.
But the best part is what remains; Bucky’s a vision, lying flushed and panting on the sheets. He stares up at Steve with half-open eyes whose beautiful blue is only a hint around the edges. Steve could drown in those eyes, in their dark glow and sated dullness.
“Sweetheart,” Steve croons, running his hands up and down Bucky’s legs, soothing.
Bucky blinks at him and smiles, the expression broken open and unspeakably sweet.
“Thank you, Stevie,” Bucky says, adoration drenching the words. His hands, lying limp on his stomach where they fell from Steve’s hair, twitch like they want to reach out but can’t find the energy to.
“You’re welcome, baby.” Steve leans over to kiss him, tonguing Bucky’s mouth open to share the taste of him. “I got to take care of you, don’t I?”
Bucky makes the sweetest little noise and surges up into a messy kiss. Steve pushes him back down but doesn’t break the kiss, giving Bucky all he needs.
“Gonna eat you out,” he rasps against Bucky’s lips, swallowing his answering moan. “Love how you get with my tongue in you, sweetheart. The way you just melt, all loose and sweet for me. You want that? Yeah? Of course you do.”
Bucky whines and hides his face in Steve’s neck. Steve fists a hand in his hair and pull his head back, and Bucky groans like he’s being torn to pieces.
Steve kisses him hard on the mouth, then draws away. Bucky’s body is pliable in the best of ways, and Steve never appreciates it more than when he has him like this, folded in half as he hugs his legs to his chest and lets Steve dive into the most intimate parts of him.
Steve presses his thumb against Bucky’s pink, furled hole, loving how it twitches at the touch.
“You cleaned up for me, Buck?” he asks.
It’s unnecessary to ask when he knows the answer but he likes asking, likes hearing Bucky say it.
“Yes,” Bucky says, and god, he looks so shy, cheeks bright red and eyes lowered. Steve wants to tuck him away somewhere safe and also break him wide open.
“That’s my boy,” Steve says, the praise warm and syrupy, and Bucky makes a gutted noise.
Steve takes his time getting to Bucky’s hole. He kisses down his thighs, sucks marks where they meet his ass, slides hands under the cheeks to hoist him a little higher, and then just sits there for a few seconds, drinking in the view. There are red marks blooming on Bucky’s skin that will be gone in the morning. But they would have existed, if only for a few hours. Bucky’s body, in that time, would have clung to the marks left by Steve’s teeth.
“Please,” Bucky begs, and Steve never could stand not to give him what he wants.
Bucky shouts when Steve licks into him, but it’s only at first, the frenzy of it. He writhes and gasps and makes Steve hold him still and open, but he settles down soon, shuddering into a boneless mess with each swipe of Steve’s tongue over his hole and the soft, teasing suction. It’s when Bucky’s responses turn from shouts to sighs and shudders to silence and soft tremors that Steve slides his tongue inside for a good, heady taste.
“Steve,” Bucky moans, almost worshipful.
Steve returns it in kind, worshipping Bucky with lips and tongue and the slightest graze of teeth.
When he gropes upwards, face still buried in Bucky’s ass, and finds his cock hard again, he hums with his mouth open over Bucky’s hole. His blood burns at the jolt that goes through Bucky’s body.
Steve pulls back, and Bucky lets his legs fall. He just lies there, flushed all over and breathing heavily. He looks fucked-out already, like Steve could just slide in and take him and all he’d do is lie there and let him have his way.
“Fingers?” Steve offers gently. “Or my cock?”
“Your cock,” Bucky answer immediately, though it’s barely more than a whisper.
“It’ll hurt,” Steve warns, but he’s laughing a little too, high on the taste and feel and sight of Bucky.
“Need it,” Bucky gasps, reaching for Steve and grasping weakly at his hand. “Please, Stevie.”
“’Course, sweetheart. You know I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you everything.”
He coaxes Bucky into moving, and it’s so easy when he follows every touch blindly, letting Steve move him to his will. He’s beautiful like this too, head pillowed on his arm and ass raised in the air, his skin glistening with sweat.
He begs for Steve to be in him, and Steve gives it to him, gives him his cock and his heart and his whole life.
And it does hurt, has to. The serum left no part of Steve untouched, and he wasn’t small to begin with, but Bucky’s always opened up for him like a goddamn dream. He’s always liked it to hurt too, begging for more and deeper and harder, and Steve’s always given it to him, in awe at the way Bucky burned up for him.
That hasn’t changed, ice and dust be damned. He’ll always be awed everything Bucky gives him, everything he lets Steve take.
He bottoms out with a hushed whisper, Bucky’s name sweet on his tongue, his body a tight clutch around his cock. He can hear Bucky, his every breath a ragged gasp as he struggles to adjust to the intrusion. Steve doesn’t quite let him catch his breath before sliding an arm under his chest and hauling him upwards.
Bucky yelps as he’s shifted, the abrupt change in position shifting him on Steve’s cock. He squirms, startled, but Steve gathers him close, pressing his chest to Bucky’s back.
“Ssh,” he soothes, running a hand up Bucky’s chest and curling it loosely around his throat. “Easy, Buck.”
“Steve,” Bucky chokes out. He’s clenched so tight around Steve’s cock, the strain in his voice echoed in the thrumming tension in his body.
“Relax,” Steve says firmly, half a command. He nudges Bucky’s chin up with the hand around his neck. “Look.”
“What–”
That’s as far as Bucky gets before he sees.
The full-length mirror doesn’t quite fit into the earthly tones and cozy comfort of the room. But Steve put it there – and Bucky didn’t argue beyond a few token protests – for a reason.
Bucky looks debauched, seated on Steve’s cock and flushed all over. It’s fucking obscene, how good he looks. He’s the most beautiful thing Steve has ever seen.
“Steve,” Bucky whispers. Steve watches his mouth move in the mirror and feels his own gut tighten.
“Look,” Steve breathes, nuzzling into Bucky’s temple and watching himself do it. “See how pretty you are?”
Bucky whines.
Steve starts to fuck him, slow, dirty grinds that keep him right there, back pressed flush to Steve’s chest as he writhes ineffectually on Steve’s cock and in his arms. Bucky’s eyes are fixed on the mirror, and Steve watches him watch himself writhe and keen as he’s fucked sweet and easy.
“You were made for this,” Steve tells him, whispering each word like a treasured secret.
Bucky tightens almost painfully around him. His face is twisted into agonized pleasure, and he meets Steve’s eyes in the mirror, staring wide-eyed.
“You are,” Steve promises, driving his hips forward in emphasis. Bucky shudders violently. “Forget the fighting, forget everything. Should keep you just like this. In my bed, all soft and sweet for me. You’d like that, baby?”
Bucky only reacts with a keening cry.
“Bucky.” Steve tightens his grip around Bucky’s throat, not choking, just making him feel it. “Answer me.”
“Yes, yes, you know, Steve, yes.”
“I know, I know,” Steve murmurs, fucking Bucky in earnest now, gathering all the leverage he can in this position to give it to him good. “You’re my good boy, of course I know, baby, but I want to hear it, that so bad?”
Bucky shakes his head, but his eyes are wide and wild, and he’d agree now if Steve said the ocean’s blood-red.
Steve can’t help fucking him harder, both of them toppling to the bed as he loses any semblance of control. He slams into Bucky, egged on by his loud, shocked cries and full-bodied shudders, every sound and movement unraveling the tattered shreds of Steve’s composure. He sinks his teeth into Bucky’s nape and fucks his cock deep like he can carve himself like a tattoo deep inside Bucky’s skin.
It’s Bucky’s climax that sets him off, his uncontrolled shriek and clenching body throwing Steve right over the edge.
He spills inside Bucky, fucking him through both their orgasms, every thrust harsh and brutal. He fucks him until he can’t, until they’re both hissing from sensitivity, and then he pulls out, endlessly careful as he slides free of Bucky’s intoxicating heat.
Steve collapses beside Bucky and helps him turn over to his back. Bucky half crawls on top of Steve, who happily clutches him close, breathing in the faintly flowery scent of his hair and licking at the sweat slicking his throat.
Bucky makes a content little noise and curls up on Steve, every bit a spoiled cat.
“Love you, Buck,” Steve says, the words now a ritual but breathtakingly sincere each time they leave his lips.
Maybe he’s trying to compensate for all the nights he couldn’t say it – nights when they were sleeping in ice and nights when they were continents apart. He doesn’t think he ever will finish paying this particular price but then, he doesn’t really want to.
“Love you too,” Bucky mumbles, half-asleep already.
Steve holds him closer and remembers, on the cusp of sleep himself, to feel a little sorry for poor Sam on the couch.
-
“So,” Bucky says brightly over breakfast, “how’d you sleep, birdbrain?”
Sam glares balefully at them over an oversized mug of coffee.
“I hate you both.”