Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue

Steve leaves the therapist’s office feeling numb. Nothing new. They told him he wasn’t fit for duty, and maybe it’s true. Maybe he could have argued it, pulled himself together for the interview, but he doesn’t have the energy. Maybe they don’t even need him anymore, and he could sink into the background until he becomes nothing. Maybe he’s no longer government property. 

Then, a week later, Shield calls him in, and he knows he’s not out of the woods. Not by a long shot. Alexander Pierce “convinces” him to sign away a year of his life; considering he has nothing else going for him, he’s apparently the perfect candidate. And being an indentured servant--due to the fact that he owes the government his life for healing his ailments and turning him into a PTSD-riddled powerhouse--meant that he really couldn’t say no anyways. Like he’d have a reason to. All of his reasons are dead, or better off without him. 

So, he gets drugged and flown to a location of which even the president is unaware–his phone, watch and other personal effects seized–is dropped into the middle of nowhere, and begins the three mile hike to the rendezvous point, where he will be filled in by the previous tenant. Nothing to lose, except his life, and though the government has a dollar amount attached to it, he’s not similarly motivated. Hell, maybe this is the perfect place to do it. 

~~~

Barnes stands at attention in a crisp office in a nondescript Slovakian office building while Hydra Corp executive Alexander Pierce gives him mission parameters. After taking in the sparse information, the vague instructions give him pause. He doesn’t like going in unprepared. He was called in directly following a successful mission (adios, HC competitor in New Zealand), and is now being immediately conscripted to the next. He doesn’t feel optimistic about being stuck in one location for a whole year, as there are a few governments who would kill for such an opportunity, but he can’t deny the allure of complete solitude, a license to kill, and a low chance of human casualty in the crossfire. He just doesn’t know why he’s being chosen if human targets aren’t the mark, but rather he was on glorified protection duty. Who (or what) was he protecting? 

Anyways, it’s not in his job description to argue, considering he’s just a breathing weapon to be corralled into whatever situation they demand, his super strength and abilities all due to their efforts. It’s a debt he doesn’t see himself ever repaying. He climbs aboard the helicarrier, gets juiced up for a restful flight, and gives up his watch, phone, and wallet before jumping out the side door. Time for a hike.

September

Steve finds Clint Barton at the rendezvous point, and the guy sure is chatty. He wonders if he’ll be the same after a year in isolation. The wiry man breaks down the supplies Steve will have access to, tips for hunting the local game, and instructions on how to care for the garden. When they make it to the Western Outpost, they sit outside on the deck overlooking “The Gorge,” as Clint calls it, with a cup of potato vodka each, and Clint reveals all he knows. It’s passed down from one tenant to the next. “There’s some heavy oral tradition we gotta rely on out here, so make sure you remember as much as you can from what I say tonight. It’s gonna be important for the next guy, or lady.”

Steve nodded, not bothering to mention his serum-enhanced eidetic memory. Clint talks so much he sucks the words right out of Steve anyways. “Rule of thumb: don’t contact the soldier across the way. Big No-No. Check your propane stores every month, and in your monthly check-ins let them know if you need anything. Don’t go crazy, they don’t take well to grocery lists. I speak from experience.

“Now, the main point of the mission is containment.” Clint waits for Steve to ask something, and when that doesn’t happen, he continues: “There are…uh...things…down there. We have trip wires attached to bombs, as well as sensors to detect any movement. The cliff edge is lined with artillery, but I promise you all that isn’t enough to keep them out. Bottom line, it’s our sole mission to make sure They don’t climb out.”

Steve finally speaks up. “Why?”

Clint shrugs. “No idea. But, based on the level of secrecy and security, I’m leaning towards world-ending shit.” 

Steve’s curiosity gets the better of him. He asks, “What are they?”

“That is the question.” Clint leans against the railing, looks down. “I’ve seen them a few times, barely scraped by with my fuckin’ life. They look sorta human, if humans were soulless puppets with trees for skin. The first guy here nick-named them “The Hollow Men”.” Clint looks at Steve and grins. “If you don’t get nightmares already, you definitely will.” He pauses, tilts his head in thought. “But you look like the type who has nightmares. No offense.”

“Some offense taken.”

Clint snorts. “Alright. Last thing: make sure those calibrators down there–” he points at intervals to the machines spaced throughout the trench, “--stay on. Check them every day. If, for some reason, they all go off, or turn off, or something fuckey happens, you’ll hear sirens or something. If you hear those, and/or see the code word “Sputnik” on your scanner: Run. Like. Hell. That’s all they told me, and thank fuck it hasn’t happened. I like breathing, thankyouverymuch.”

Steve nods, filing away the information to transcribe in a journal later. He walks Clint out to the entrance of the outpost, actually smiling a little as he watches the man skip and hoot as he ascends the hill towards freedom. Then, he turns back to his home for the next year, takes stock of everything, and gets to work.

~~~

Bucky is dragging his mattress up the stairs to the top floor of the outpost when he spots movement across the way. It’s a blond man, tall, broad. Hard to make out minor details without his binocs. The other man is also dragging his mattress to a corner of the room in line with the windows and sliding glass doors leading out to the deck. Bucky grunts, his streak of competitiveness leading him to push the mattress even closer to the window, though partially hidden by the table against it. 

He knows they’re not allowed contact, but he’s not keen on ignoring a potential threat within range. So, he observes quietly, searching for any sign of imminent threat. He falls asleep watching the man putter around, tearing apart the place to put it back together just the way he likes. 

When he wakes up a few hours later, the man has finally burrowed into his mattress, his limbs haphazardly strewn around. Bucky breathes a sigh of relief and closes his eyes again.

~~~

Steve wakes up to the call of an unfamiliar bird, a sweet and somber melody, not unlike that of the mourning dove. He rises slowly, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and scratching his ribs absently before stretching and getting up to check outside. His anonymous foil is already awake, sipping out of a mug and sitting outside, head moving from side to side as if scanning the perimeter. Steve makes himself a cup of coffee before mimicking the position and movements of the other man. Just to see what happens.

The other man’s head stops turning. Steve can’t make out his eyes directly, but he still feels caught under his gaze.

The man stands up, turns around, and walks back inside. Steve slumps in his chair. Before disappearing completely from view, Steve catches the sun glinting off something on the man’s arm. Interesting.

A few days later, Steve confirms through his binocs that the man does not wear a sleeve of metal armor; his arm is the metal armor. Steve itches to draw it. He has so many questions about it. How did it affect his shooting? Did it have sensors to detect heat, touch; what about magnetic properties? As soon as Steve looks through the lenses, however, the man copies his movement, gripping his own binocs with both the metal and human hand. Knowing that Steve can be seen as clearly as he can see the man unnerves him, and he tries to casually head back inside (failing miserably), his face red. He goes for a walk around the edge of the trench. He doesn’t like calling it the Gorge, even in his head. Sounds like ‘bulge’ to him. Or maybe he just has different things on his mind.

The man was easy on the eyes, Steve could also confirm after his brief glimpse. Steve blames his solitary confinement for these thoughts. He tries to ignore the man after this realization, though it’s like trying to ignore a ghost over your shoulder. He just couldn’t shake that stare. Maybe a part of him doesn’t want to.

~~~

Bucky feels like he’s on vacation. He doesn’t have to kill human beings? He is left alone to read to his heart’s content, to study up on the sciences? (A lot of the people who came here before him left behind quite a few textbooks. And some cookbooks, but Bucky is useless in that department. He won’t waste the food or the effort.) He doesn’t need to participate in capitalism? Follow orders? 

The only downside is the constant distraction from across the way. The man and he are technically working together, but Bucky can’t help but make anything and everything into a challenge. So, he does his perimeter checks faster, he surveys the edge of the trench longer, he puts his bed closer to the outdoor post. The other man, however, doesn’t seem to be in competition with him, to even pick up on the fact, which should bother Bucky but ends up making him more endearing. Stupid, unobservant man. 

Bucky does not acknowledge the fact that the man is the most interesting part of his day. He figures that that was bound to happen, since a whole lot of nothing is going on around them. But he doesn’t think about it any further. 

Chapter Text

October

Steve wakes up in a cold sweat. He’s breathing hard, his throat hurts, and he ripped the sheets in his sleep. He bangs his head with the heel of his palms, trying to make the images go away as if his mind were simply an Etch-a-Sketch and not a psychological minefield. He takes a deep breath and walks outside to the deck to cool off his burning skin.

Instinctively, his eyes are drawn to the post directly across from him, and he almost jumps out of his skin. Leaning against the railing casually, the man is staring straight at him. Steve waves half-heartedly, and the man actually nods back. 

Acknowledgement! Steve could burst with joy if he weren’t so emotionally drained. He smiles, though, and nods back before heading back inside to make himself some coffee. He’s definitely not falling back asleep tonight. He pulls out his journal and starts jotting down his nightmare, then switches to aimless sketching. Somehow, a strong jaw forms, dotted with stubble, and a cleft chin. Steve closes the notebook and decides to take a cold shower.

~~~

Bucky’s about to go back to sleep after his periodic perimeter scans, when he sees movement in the opposing outpost. The blond man is in bed, and his movements are jerky. Without thinking, Bucky walks up to the binocs and peers into the room. The man’s head is thrashing back and forth, his face contorted in pain. His every muscle is tense, hands clenched in the sheets as if holding on for dear life. They rip, and the man startles upright, his chest heaving, face red, hair askew. Bucky backs away from the lenses slowly and leans his forearms on the rails. After his own nightmares, he walks out on the deck, and he’s pretty sure the other man does the same. This is the first time he’s caught him for sure. 

The man does indeed walk outside, and his head immediately turns straight to him. Stupid man, check the edge of the trench first. His hand raises shyly and he waves at Bucky, something he’s done in the past which Bucky had avoided like the plague. This time, however, Bucky doesn’t want to make him sad. He tilts his head forward in acknowledgement, and even from this distance Bucky could see the shift in the other man’s body language: he stands up straighter, squares his shoulders, and returns the nod. He then heads inside, presumably to make coffee, and something settles in Bucky. Probably indigestion or something. 

November

After doing recon on the man across the way for the past two months, Bucky has come to some probable conclusions. Overall, the blond tries his best to be a good little rule-follower, completing the perimeter checks thoroughly every single day and dutifully checking off his chore checklist. However, Bucky has also noticed how he sometimes climbs a few meters down the cliff, risking a glance into the smoky pit. The man is clearly flexible and acrobatic, despite weighing upwards of 230 pounds. He’s probably infused with some form of the serum similar to Bucky’s, though clearly a more impulsive version. This one likes to test the limits of his body, of his role here. Clearly, they’re not keeping a tight enough leash on him. Or maybe the lack of oversight is allowing him to explore new limits that government property wouldn’t normally be allowed to explore. 

Bucky is NOT intrigued. Not at all. No way. He’s just anticipating having to save this rando’s ass when he makes another impulsive decision. 

~~~

Ever since that night Steve had his nightmare, communication opened somewhat between the two watchers. Maybe it was just nods and waves, but Steve has been sustained on less before. It quickly becomes the highlight of his day.

During the monthly check-in with base, Steve tries to ask for details about the Gorge, to no avail. He tries to ask about the person across the way, to no avail. In fact, he gets cut off mid-sentence, which pisses him off enough to run the perimeter a second time. 

When he returns to the deck, Bucky is sitting with a heavy hard-cover book in his lap. He glances up, waves, then returns to reading. Steve grabs his notebook and sits parallel to him, and they burrow into their respective tasks, alone and yet together. 

~~~

Bucky has always had a difficult time falling and staying asleep. Usually, he reads until the letters blur, but he doesn’t like to turn his light on at night here. Feels too risky. Besides, the serum gives him pretty good night vision.

So, in lieu of reading himself into a coma, he watches the man when sleep evades him. The man moves a lot, tossing and turning, casting the blankets aside and then wrapping himself up in them a few minutes later. Curling into a ball one minute and limbs akimbo the next. He is a fascinating sleeper to watch. Bucky could understand that Cullen dude’s creepy tendencies, or, at least that particular creepy tendency. 

When the man startles awake, always sitting up ramrod straight and sucking in heaving breaths, Bucky burrows down and pretends to sleep, aiming not to draw attention to himself. Sometimes the man will walk outside, look in Bucky’s direction, then drag his feet inside and fall back onto the mattress haphazardly. 

On the nights with nothing else to ponder, Bucky watches the sleeping man fidgeting this way and that, and brings his hand down to himself, just to relieve the ache. It’s simply fulfilling a biological urge, and it helps stabilize his moods. That’s all.

He tries to ignore all the smutty filler his brain likes to add, though–he’s loath to admit–he’s unable to orgasm without that train of thought. He doesn’t dwell on that. Not at all. Not during his walks in the day, or while he hunts, or cooks his bland dinner.

He can't afford to feel things.

Chapter Text

December

The weather has gotten colder than should be bearable, and Steve is confounded with the man’s ability to stand in the freezing cold every morning for minutes on end, with only a t-shirt and plaid sleep pants on. One day, Steve goes out shirtless to try and top him. The man returns the next morning, shirtless, in boxer briefs, and they play chicken with each other, seeing who could last outside the longest. So far, they’re still modestly tied at the boxer briefs stage, though Steve is usually the first to throw in the towel since his nipples always tighten to an uncomfortable point. He hates how the man laughs when his back is turned as he heads inside, and throws up a middle finger without looking back before changing into comfier clothes. He tries not to like how the man laughs. 

Sometimes, their daily perimeter walks sync up. It's nice. And they eat dinner at the same time, too. Steve knows he's more of a routine guy, so his compatriot probably knows his every move at this point, for what else is there to do when you're a highly trained operative on baby-sitting duty? Steve knows, he tried to do his own recon on the man, but he was damn elusive. Steve himself has no qualms about hiding his routine, moreso happy to share his day with someone at all, to know someone has his six. 

For Christmas, Steve wraps lights around a small pine tree behind and to the right of his outpost, so the man across can see it too. He walks outside to the man already sitting at his chair, and pours himself a drink, holding it up to cheers. The man grunts and heads inside, leaving his bowl of food on the table. Steve blushes, thinking he scared him off. Hadn't they gotten over this?

Impulsively, Steve whips out his gun and shoots the bowl dead center, causing porcelain and soup to ricochet around the deck. Steve laughs instinctively, then quickly covers his mouth, feeling like he just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar by the omnipotent trench god. 

The man stalks out murderously with a bottle and cup in hand, and Steve gulps. So, he may have misread the situation. The man pulls out his own gun and shoots the glass Steve set on his table. He gets cut up a bit, but nothing that wouldn’t heal in a day, hell, an hour. He just laughs more, lifts the remnants of his glass in a mock cheer, and then throws the piece over the ledge. Thank fuck for Steve’s super sight, or he would have completely missed the smile threatening to spill over from the corner of his lips, a blur of a cheek slightly lifting. What a beautiful glimpse. How would the man’s whole face look, filled with mirth?

Steve takes a swig straight from the bottle, and though it doesn’t do anything for him inebriation-wise, it does warm him from the inside out. He sees the other man copy him, and they race to see who can finish the bottle first. Steve scowls at the man who does an exaggerated bow once he wins a half a second before Steve. Show-off. 

Steve holds up a hand, runs inside, then runs back out with his whiteboard and dry erase marker. 

“HI, I’M STEVE.”

The man gets up, looks through his binocs, walks inside, and brings out a large notepad and pen.

“HI STEVE. BUCKY.”

“MERRY XMAS IF YOU CELEBRATE.”

“YOU TOO. BTW UR A SORE LOSER.”

Steve glares, and he can see the other man–Bucky–shaking with laughter. Steve draws a middle finger. Bucky laughs harder, and Steve can actually hear it a little bit. His ears strain for more. 

Steve scribbles something else down, then holds it up.

“HOW RU DOING WITH THE SOLITUDE?”

“NOT SOLITUDE. UR HERE.”

“HAR HAR.”

“I LOVE IT. NO BOSSY BOSSES. U?”

“MEH. I’M USED TO IT.”

“OH SO UR A LONER. UR FRAT ENERGY IS MISLEADING.”

Steve snorts. He’s heard something like that before. 

“SORRY TO DISAPPOINT.”

“DIDN’T SAY I WAS DISAPPOINTED.”

Gulp. Don’t read into it, Steve, don’t read into it.

~~~

After that night, the notes back and forth increase in frequency. It feels like passing notes in class, only the teacher’s in another country. The closer they get, however, the farther away Steve feels. Bucky tries to be okay with it. After all, it was already so much more than he could expect to get away with. More than he would allow in face-to-face interactions before…this, whatever this was. 

On New Year’s Eve, Bucky’s competitiveness gets the best of him. He challenges Steve to a shoot-off with a short "GET UR GUN BITCH", and they volley back and forth, setting up trick shots and trying to dupe the other into misreading the wind or fucking up the angle. They cheer and hoot and holler at each successful shot, and eventually stop keeping count. Bucky is too elated to be bothered, his competitive side taking a night off for the holiday. 

 ~~~

Steve is giddy. He and Bucky are so well-matched in ability that Steve really has to work to compete with the other man. Hell, Bucky could have serum just like him; Steve does not want to be let down by hope, however, so he shoves that thought down.

It momentarily sobers him up, the reminder that he is alone in this world, that he can’t rely on anyone to protect him, that he is responsible for himself as well as others.

And that’s when he hears shifting below. As soon as he points the light affixed to his gun down to the edge of the trench, Bucky also retrieves his sniper, aiming it at Steve’s side. For a minute, the only thing Steve hears is the wind whistling through the rocks, and his own breathing.

Then.

There. Movement. Gnashing, groaning, clattering as twisted forms emerge from the murky depths. He shoots down one, two, notices they don’t die with a shot to the face, so he focuses on blasting off their hands. The more bullets rain down, the more creatures crawl up.

Bucky starts knocking them off as well, crossing out the ones that have gotten close enough for Steve to no longer be able to see them under his deck. Steve is so grateful for that man in the Eastern Outpost. 

At one point, time blurring together, once fifteen or so have been taken out by either triggered bombs or Steve and Bucky’s bullets, the swell seems to trickle down. Steve watches Bucky lean against his window, clutching his rifle to his chest and taking deep breaths. 

Through his rifle lens, he scans the east trench walls. A screech pierces through the night, and Steve sees the contorted body of a Hollow Man gripping at the cement of Bucky’s post, its claws digging in to gain purchase. It climbs over right as Steve shoots it in the shoulder, but it doesn’t go down. Bucky shoots the hands off, but at that point the creature has already gained enough momentum hobbling to him with disturbing speed and inhuman contortions. Bucky shoots off one leg, then the next, and kicks it over the edge, where it screeches and takes out two others attempting to climb up. (He coughs at the taste of death on his tongue, but Steve can't see.)

Steve takes down two or three while Bucky catches his breath, then shoots at a trip bomb to scatter the remaining bodies back into the abyss. They stay vigilant for another ten minutes, breathing as quietly as they could in order to aurally pick up on any movement they couldn’t see.

Once they figure the coast is clear, the two take heaving inhales in sync, purposefully slow and exaggerated so they could match each other, then exhale just as dramatically, adding some limb-shaking and jumping in place. They simultaneously plop into their folding chairs, and Steve’s breaks. The unexpected fall causes the two to freeze up, afraid that it would set off another wave of Hollows, but after a minute they make eye contact through the binoculars, begin to laugh as quietly as they could, which became almost painful to the point of literal tears and rolling on the ground, emotions high from the trace of adrenaline after the night they had. After a few minutes, and some deep heaving breaths of cold air, puffs of clouds reflecting the moonlight, they wave to each other, then head to bed. 

Steve pushes his bed a bit farther away from the window, and Bucky, after looking through his binocs at the detected movement, follows suit. Good idea, Steve. 

Chapter Text

January

After their encounter with the Hollow Men, both Steve and Bucky get into the habit of waking up a few times a night to check, new fear unlocked. In fact, they find themselves waking up at similar times, every three hours or so, performing their sweeps, waving, then heading back inside to try and get some semblance of rest.

They keep up their daily communication, spending about an hour each day after lunch to talk about everything and nothing; Steve doesn’t know Bucky’s home town, but he knows his favorite foods; Bucky doesn’t know how or why Steve joined the military, but he knows what he likes to draw; They even played pictionary once, but Steve found it unfair since all of Bucky’s drawings somehow managed to only look like a duck or a dick, meanwhile Bucky could easily figure out Steve’s drawings, even when he did it with his right (non-dominant) hand. 

They do competitions every few days or so after they end up working out at the same time one day, to Bucky's endless delight (did he finally intentionally make his presence known because he knows Steve's workouts in and out and hoped this would happen as a result? Doesn't matter). They would match each other for push-ups, pull-ups, planks, even racing each other up and down the edge of the gorge. Steve is usually faster, unless he gets tripped up by the foliage; Buck learns over time which areas Steve struggles with the most and uses those times to pick up his pace, which usually leads to Steve cussing loud enough to hear over the trench.

One cold night, they’re drinking together (well, “together”) when Steve pulls out his whiteboard. Bucky instinctively reaches for his own pad.

“GUESS WHAT I GOT TODAY.”

“NO. JUST TELL ME.”

“BORING. FINE.” 

Steve walks inside, then carries a large dead thing over his shoulders, lifting it up in a show of victory. Bucky tries not to find his masculine preening enticing, fails miserably. 

“OH DEER.” Accompanied by something that mostly just looks like a duck. 

“HAR HAR.”

“WHAT A LOVELY LAUGH YOU HAVE.”

“ALL THE BETTER TO FLATTER YOU WITH, MY DEER.”

“CARE TO SHARE WITH THE CLASS? I’M STARVING.”

“MAYBE LEARN HOW TO COOK AND THAT WON’T BE A PROBLEM.”

“NAH. GIVES YOU AN EXCUSE TO TREAT ME.”

Steve blushes, something Bucky's eyes strain to memorize the moment he sees through the binoculars, then walks back into his post.  

Bucky wonders if he said something wrong. Too flirtatious? He wishes for the umpteenth time that he could see Steve’s face more clearly the whole time they 'talk,' rather than having to separate his focus between a stupid white board and his--no, not his, a--stupid man. He decides to stay outside and read up on quantum physics to distract his bickering inner thoughts, only to be interrupted a few minutes later by loud clattering and movement in the Western Outpost. Before he can just barely comprehend what the hell Steve’s doing, an arrow tied to rope buries itself in the cement just below Bucky’s railing. He puts the bow down and holds up his stupid white board. 

“UNTIE THE KNOT, LOOP IT AROUND THE TOP RUNG, THEN RE-TIE. PULLEY TIME.”

Bucky works quickly, intrigued (and elated) by Steve’s efforts to connect the two sides. Once the ropes are secure with a rolling hitch knot, Steve attaches a metal box to what looks to be a reinforced carabiner hook, clips the carabiner hook to a loop knotted into the rope, and begins tugging the rope so that the item moves across. Bucky starts helping, trying not to look too eager (and failing), and within two minutes the box has reached him.

He carefully disconnects it from the carabiner, then clips the carabiner to his rail so it doesn’t slide away. In the box is a slab of raw deer meat, seasoned with salt, pepper, and some sort of leafy garnish. Underneath it is a paper with instructions on how to cook it, along with instructions on how to put out a stove-top fire. 

“HAR. HAR. THANK YOU. PUNK.”

"YOU'RE WELCOME. JERK."

Bucky loads the metal box with some cloves of garlic, along with his untouched pocket cookbook, and hooks it up to the rope system. 

“I COULD GET USED TO THIS,” Steve writes after opening Bucky’s…well…gifts. What else could they be? 

“DON’T.”

But Bucky’s smiling. He feels the same.

Every other day or so, they exchange various items, including but not limited to: seeds, game, salt, and at one point their rifle lenses, just for fun. Steve gives him the small paperback books he’s already read and annotated, and Bucky’s fingers trace over the words he wrote. What abominable chicken scratch it is; why is it so endearing?

One of the books mentions the Hollow Men–the book itself a collection of beautiful poems–and Bucky reads over that one the most, hoping it will glean some new intel on the purgatory bubbling below them–to no avail. He likes the poem Steve ear-marked too–The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. He mulls over it before bed every night, even keeping the light on long enough for him to read through it once (or twice, or three times).

…

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

               So how should I presume?

…

February

Steve has a plan for today. He’s actually been dwelling on this for a few days at this point, his thoughts occupied on his walks, as he waters his plants, cooks his food. He is a terrible liar, so he tries to play aloof whenever Bucky questions his mood changes. Only Steve's tells could be obvious from half a mile away. 

It’s February 14, and Steve is pretty sure Russia knows about Valentine’s Day. He wakes up early to walk the perimeter, right as the sun reaches over the horizon, picking up wildflowers along the way. They’re bright white and deep purple, warm yellow and cold blue. He wraps them in twine and gently places them in the metal box sitting on his deck. 

Next, he starts in on the meal. He brings in his trapped rabbit, skins it, washes it, seasons it, and pops it in his cranky oven. He spends twenty minutes mashing potatoes, making sure there is enough to satiate Bucky’s frankly inhuman appetite. Finally, he cuts together a salad with cherry tomatoes, romaine lettuce, cucumbers, shredded carrots, NO cilantro as Bucky detests it with a fiery passion, black olives, parsley, and a basic vinaigrette dressing containing oil, vinegar, salt and pepper. 

Once the mashed potatoes are fluffed, and the rabbit is cooked through (he takes a few cuts for himself) he places all the food in a sealed container before bringing it outside to the metal box. He knows Bucky is curious, but he wants to maintain as much an air of mystery as possible. When he looks over to the other end of the rope, he sees Bucky already tugging on it to bring the goods over. Someone’s impatient.

~~~

Bucky is bothered. All day Steve has been elusive. He didn’t join Bucky on their daily perimeter walk, didn’t follow the schedule he has dutifully kept to the past 5 or so months, and he's been holed up in his post for most of the day. By the time he comes out to his deck around sunset, Bucky is both happy to see his figure and peeved that he has no idea what’s going on. So, when Steve starts pushing the metal box across the line, Bucky tugs it along in a rush. 

By the time he sets it on his outdoor table, he looks up to Steve to see him holding up his whiteboard. He walks over to his binocs and snorts. 

“SLOW DOWN JERK!!!” 

Too late for that, sport. 

Bucky opens the box and is met with a sight that makes him blush. In a clear container there is a plate of food, thrown askew by Bucky’s movements, along with a bouquet of flowers he recognizes from his daily walks. Now he understands why Steve didn’t join him today. He’s still salty about it, though. 

Bucky picks the flowers up gently, goes inside to find a tall glass, fills it with water, and places the flowers on his counter inside. When he comes back out, Steve is already sitting down with his own (much neater) plate of food, so Bucky takes his own out and matches Steve’s position. They eat slowly, Bucky more so because he hasn’t tasted food this good since the last time he went through a drive-thru. This is already so much better. He has to take breaths to remember to eat slower, as he wanted to savor this for as long as possible.

~~~

Steve enjoys watching Bucky eat his food, as the man is ravenous and clearly pleased with his cooking. It makes that protective part of himself preen with pride at being useful to someone he cares about. When they’re both finished, Bucky’s hands resting on his stomach in satisfaction, they smile at each other. Bucky gets up and brings out something wrapped in cloth, placing it in the metal box before delivering it to Steve’s outpost. 

When Steve opens it, he laughs. It’s a bottle of distilled vodka, attached with the note, “This, the Russians do better.”  

“SO I FEED U AND U LIQUOR ME UP?”

“IT’S A GOOD DEAL RIGHT?!”

“SHUT UP AND DRINK.”

“I WILL DRINK, BUT WE BOTH KNOW I WONT SHUT UP.”

“ONE CAN DREAM.”

“THE DREAM CROSSED THE TWILIGHT BETWEEN BIRTH AND DYING.”

“OH SO YOU -CAN- READ? GO FIGURE.”

“EAT ME.”

“CAN’T. I’M FULL.”

Chapter Text

March

Not much out of the ordinary occurs during their seventh month at Hotel Gorge. On March 10, Bucky tells Steve that it’s his birthday.

“NOW I CAN STEAL UR IDENTITY.”

“U CAN TRY. I’M NOT THE ONE THAT LOOKS LIKE AN ARYAN WET DREAM.”

“I TAKE OFFENSE TO THAT.”

“WOMP WOMP.”

“AND TO THINK I WAS GOING TO GIVE U A BDAY GIFT.”

“I TAKE IT BACK. GIMME.”

“MAGIC WORD?”

“GIMMEEEEEEEEEE.”

Steve chuckles, then disappears in his kitchen for an hour and a half. Bucky tries not to pace a hole into the ground. He's gotten used to the blond being in his line of sight, so he feels nervous without him. That's an annoying realization, and Bucky has no one to be upset with about it except himself. 

Eventually, after a few YEARS, Steve re-emerges with a small container, places it in the metal box, and ships it over. Bucky tries not to look too excited when opening it, but a smile breaks through anyways as he stares at a beautiful unfrosted cupcake, since Steve remembered that Bucky hates frosting. He puts the candle Steve placed in the box on the center of the cupcake, lights it, and gives a thumbs-up to Steve.

Just before he blows it out, he hears yelling from across the way, and manages to identify the American birthday song being butchered by the blond. For the first time, Bucky can hear the voice attached to the object of his wandering thoughts, rather than having to extrapolate the deep melodic pitch from laughs and curses. He holds on to that awful tune in his head for longer than he’s obviously comfortable admitting.

Bucky smiles gratefully at the dork before blowing out his candle in an exaggerated manner, so Steve could see even without the binocs. The rope starts shaking, which is Steve’s cue to pass back the metal box. Bucky does so as he stuffs a good portion of the cupcake into his mouth. Delicious. 

A few minutes later, the metal container sags as it travels across the rope. Clearly something heavy was inside. He opens it, delighted by two deliveries in one day, and pulls out a plaid blanket. At the bottom is the note: “because your bed looks like Siberia.” Bucky gives him an over-the-top bow of thanks before rushing inside to hide behind the stairs so Steve doesn’t have a line of sight on him. That's what he gets for hiding for almost two hours. Once Bucky feels tucked away, he slowly brings the blanket up to his face. It’s fuzzy, and tickles the stubble on his cheek. 

What causes him to lean against a concrete wall is…the scent. It’s not recently cleaned with the ash soap they make on location, meaning Steve just took it from his bed. It smells a bit like sweat, earthy. Human.

It smells good. Really good. If Bucky closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that Steve’s standing in the corridor with him, and he’s the one pressed to Bucky’s face. Bucky buries his head in the fabric for a few more pathetic seconds before trudging upstairs and laying it gently across his mattress, atop his single pillow. He can’t wait to go to bed tonight. 

On March 23, a few more Hollow Men attempt to break out of their yawning prison, but Steve and Bucky work together effortlessly, and the threat falls away quicker than it can rise. Once the gun smoke in the air clears and the sounds of the nocturnal forest emerge from the unnatural silence, the two soldiers sit cross legged and drink some celebratory homemade vodka to sweat out the fear, replacing it with the warmth of each other's company, a reminder that they're not on their own out here. 

April

Steve is having a bad night. He wanted to rest early, so he went to bed at 8pm, "LIKE AN OLD PERSON?" Bucky had commented. Then, he woke up twenty minutes later from a nightmare in which the people he had killed overseas climbed out of the gorge and dragged him down with them, rattling, “This is where you belong, rotting with us down here. You will neither live nor die, forever.” Or something just as cryptic and self-flaggelating along those lines.

So, he’s already up when Bucky gets up at 3 to do his perimeter check from the outdoor post, wrapped in a blanket and trying not to shake. Bucky grabs his notepad. 

“BAD DREAM? CAN I DO ANYTHING?”

Steve sighs, wraps the blanket closer to his body, and heads inside to fetch his own board.

“NOT UNLESS YOU CAN FIT IN THAT METAL BOX.”

He sees Bucky pace back and forth, and wishes that he didn’t make the other man feel as helpless as he usually feels. 

“HOLD THAT THOUGHT,” Bucky holds up, then disappears into his post. Steve instantly feels more alone the moment Bucky walks out of frame, and feels pathetic for feeling alone. He decides to hold that thought while curled up in a ball on his mattress. Spends the whole day doing nothing. Not the perimeter checks, not the animal feeding or trap collecting, not the plant watering. He needs one day to feel nonexistent. 

~~~

Bucky can relate to Steve’s loneliness, though he never thought he’d be able to. He has always been better on his own, feels safer. Or, he used to. Now he can’t imagine protecting this place without Steve watching his six. For the first time in a while, at least the first time he can remember, he wants to strengthen this connection, no matter how unsafe–physically and emotionally–that may be. Steve doesn't emerge from his post the whole day. It's lonelier than Bucky can ever remember feeling.

So Bucky decides that he needs something more sturdy than a metal box. Throughout the day, he gets the supplies together, spends considerable time gathering a few miles of reinforced rope, laying them out carefully so they don’t overlap, and connecting the end to a mini rocket launcher (bless this place specifically for the arms collection. Seriously. How often can you find the means AND opportunity to use a bazooka for the purpose of strengthening relationships?).

Once he’s secured the connection on the east side, he looks over to the clearing on the west and sees Steve in the fading sunlight laughing and jumping around like a lunatic, still wrapped in a stupid(ly adorable) blanket. That alone makes this whole ordeal worth the effort. He looks gorgeous in the evening light, like the rays were drawn to him, like his presence warmed the world around him. 

He fires the rocket launcher into a tree, then pulls on the rope to test the connection. He watches Steve disappear into the forest towards the general direction of the rocket,  only to walk back out with a fire extinguisher and a thumbs-up. No better time than the present. 

Now, Bucky is a heavy guy. He takes a running leap, trying to get as much momentum as possible, but about halfway through, he stalls, drooping in his harness. He manages to tug himself across the rest of the way, and by the time his feet touch solid ground again, he’s sweating, panting, and generally regretting what he did in life to make it to this place in the middle of nowhere. 

Then, he spots Steve, waiting on jumping feet at the bottom of the stairs of his post, the layout of which is identical symmetrically to Bucky’s. The buzz of pain fades to the background, and without thinking he strides quickly to stand in front of Steve. All regrets have soured in their reasoning, only light remains. 

They look at each other, grinning.

“You smell awful.”

“Yeah, well let’s see you try it next time.”

“Oh we will, and then I’ll be able to show you how it’s done.”

Bucky wants to hug him. He wants to wrap him up in his arms and stain him with his stinky sweat so that Steve can’t get rid of him even if Bucky could no longer be physically there to annoy him anymore. He wants to tie them together until it's impossible to tell where one of them ends and the other begins. He wants to create an infinity with this stupid man. 

In the end, Steve makes the decision for him, lunging forward and wrapping his arms around his shoulders so Bucky could wrap his own around that diabolically tiny waist. It's even narrower up close. He buries his head in the crook of Steve’s shoulder and takes an indulgently deep breath, trying not to note how it makes Steve shiver from head to toe.

Then, abruptly, he pulls away and averts his eyes, embarrassed at his show of vulnerability. “Is your shower there?” He points to the outhouse a few meters away from the entrance to the post.

When he finally braves a glance, Steve has a small smile, as if he knows something that Bucky doesn’t, and it unnerves him. “Yeah, go right ahead. I’ll leave some clothes out for you.” 

Bucky nods, starts walking towards it, then turns around and doubles back, almost running into Steve in his haste. “Wait, I forgot. Here.” He shoves some crushed flowers into Steve’s hands, avoiding eye contact but making sure that the flowers are as straightened out as possible. Then, he very casually jogs back to the shower stall.

As he showers, he ponders. Bucky really hopes Steve isn’t straight. Or, if he is, that he would make an exception in this hidden upside-down corner of the world.

~~~

Steve is enamored with Bucky, his bashful and snarky Russian compatriot. He had noticed around 2pm that something was Happening at the Eastern Outpost. Bucky was running around like crazy, didn't even notice Steve admiring his haphazard movements. Then, the rocket launcher comes out and Steve's heart starts racing, but not out of fear. There was no more fear when it came to the man across the way. Was there ever any to begin with? When they meet face to face, a thrill zings through Steve’s blood, he feels like he's vibrating at the same wavelength as the earth and stars. Bucky immediately draws him in. He's manly, even his musk smells enticing. Not ‘good’ per se, but Steve would bury his nose in that armpit without hesitation. In the end, Steve reluctantly agrees it would be better for them to be on even footing, seeing as Steve already cleaned up for him. 

Steve takes a deep breath and loosens the grip he has on the blanket, warmed by the fading sunlight from the inside out. He thoughtfully organizes the flowers in his hands for a better grip, smiling at his retreating form. It's a shock to the system to finally be able to see him clearly in all his angles, the curves of his muscles, the errant waves of his hair. Details he's yearned to know so he can memorialize them on paper, so he can take the image from his brain and bring it out into the world to admire when the nights get lonely. Steve watches him retreat to the shower stall, shamelessly ogling that ass in combat fatigues.

Once he's looked his fill (who is he kidding, he could live forever and never tire of studying the man), he quietly gathers the outfit he chose for Bucky, grabbing his dirty clothes and throwing them in the wash, then placing the new outfit…

“Steve! You fucker!” Steve snickers behind his hand from his coveted viewpoint in the tree, watching Bucky hobble outside to the clothes hanging on a branch about five meters away from the showers. He has to use both hands to cover his manhood, and even then Steve’s keen eyes can tell that Bucky’s packin’. Phew. Steve wanted to make sure, if things went as he hoped, that he wasn’t going to be disappointed, or if he was, he wanted a heads up so his partner wouldn’t be offended by Steve’s knee-jerk size queen reaction. That's happened to Steve in the past, and has made for some awkward partially disrobed interactions…

Bucky’s eyes zero in on his hiding place up in the tree, locating him easily despite how quiet Steve kept. Interesting. “I’m changing over here, keep your eyes to yourself ya peepin’ tom.”

Steve jumps down and leaves Bucky to finish in private–after taking a few luxurious moments to enjoy the way his muscles flex and contort. It's only once Bucky blushes down to his neck that Steve decides to give him a break.

He had laid out some decently-fitted slacks and a white button-down shirt for his guest. The shirt is the largest Steve could find in storage, and still Bucky tests the fabric with every breath, as he carefully toes the stairs to the top floor of Steve’s post. Steve hopes it will rip mid-meal. Afraid his heated thoughts will seep into his expression, Steve breaks his gaze away from the Greek god rapidly ascending into his living quarters, and places the gifted bouquet of flowers in the middle of the table setting.

~~~

When Bucky reaches the entrance to the main room, he finds Steve setting the table, bending over innocently (delectably…) to pour some awful American potato vodka. There’s a full chicken, roasted and smelling of garlic and rosemary, along with some broccoli and mashed potatoes, topped with a dollop of butter. Catching Bucky’s line of sight, Steve speaks up. “I was churning for fucking hours the other day, you better enjoy it.” As if Steve weren't going to send over the butter as a gift anyways.

Bucky snorts. “Or what? You gonna throw me overboard?”

“Hm." He taps his chin in mock-consideration. "Good idea.” 

Ignoring Steve’s snark, Bucky closes his eyes and inhales greedily, plopping down inelegantly at the small table. Steve smiles bashfully, entirely too pleased in satisfying this man in any way possible.

Bucky watches with a glint in his eye as Steve distributes the food for both of them, trying to surreptitiously take deeper breaths as Steve leans close to him in an attempt to catch any whiff of the catnip that makes up Steve Rogers’ pheromones. The scent from his gifted blanket has long faded by this point, and who knows how many chances he’ll get to appreciate the real thing? 

They eat in relative silence, eyes always drawn back to each others’ faces, soaking in the minute details that they’ve had to squint over for months at this point. 

Steve speaks up first. “What? Do I have something on my face?” He dabs at the corners of his mouth absently.

“No, it’s your eyes.”

“Oh.” Steve squirms under the heady and unwavering gaze Bucky directs at him. At least from a mile away Steve could hide from them, or not feel so pierced open.

“There are flecks of green in them, almost yellow.” Steve gulps. Bucky smiles a small smile. “Gorgeous.” Steve chokes on a piece of chicken, and Bucky chuckles.

He swallows and clears his throat, trying to ignore his rising embarrassment. “I could say the same of yours. They’re so bright. Feels like they’re dissecting my soul.”

Bucky leans forward, the chair squeaking ominously. “Is that a good thing?”

Steve smirks, blushing. “I’m not sure yet.” 

Bucky just takes another bite of food, not breaking eye contact, and Steve tries not to focus on the way that jaw works, the muscles contracting and highlighting the angles of his cheeks. How long has it been? Clearly too long, if chewing is enough to get Steve to wax poetic. 

They each have another serving or two, then Steve asks Bucky to move the table and chairs to a corner of the room while Steve sets up the record player. First on the list of songs Steve has curated for the night is “What a Little Moonlight Can Do” by Billie Holliday, brought by Calvin Everett in 1956. 

Bucky leans against the kitchen counter with his beefy arms crossed, watching Steve turn on the twinkling lights strung about the place (left there from their Christmas party) and set up the two candles that really don’t have any aroma, but cast a warm light about the room.

“I haven’t heard this before, I like it.”

Steve doesn’t turn to face Bucky, too keyed-up to conquer his nerves. He replies, “Same. I’ve been going through all the books and music people have left here over the years. Seems like a lot of lonely romantics took care of this place before me.”

Bucky nods. “I have some books, some cassettes. Nothing that would make your soul sing, but it helps to pass the time. I liked that Eliot guy you shipped over.” He taps his foot to the music and looks outside, to where the moon has lit up the world around them, a silver blanket caressing the plants, even reflecting off the smoke billowing up from the gorge.

“The moon here seems more alive,” Steve remarked as his eyes followed Bucky’s. “It almost feels like daytime, in another universe.”

“Gives me the creeps.”

“Yeah. But it’s special.”

“That it is.” Bucky is no longer looking outside. 

Steve blushes and hurries to the record player to switch to a new song as the first one fades away. This time, “I Can Dream, Can’t I” by Tommy Dorsey. He stays standing near the player, his back to Bucky. Nervous. Swaying back and forth, only barely shifting his weight on his feet, side to side. The move of his hips, no matter how imperceptible, calls out to something in Bucky, makes his stomach clench and his heart rate rise.

He walks up, stands close enough behind Steve to where he can feel the heat emanating from his body, but doesn’t touch. He wants Steve to make that decision, to initiate contact on his terms. He can hear how fast Steve’ heart is going, a hummingbird flapping its wings, and yet he still doubts whether all this electricity he feels is one-sided.

Steve stops swaying as Bucky closes the distance another inch, his breath catching in his throat. A minute passes, and Bucky becomes more disillusioned as each second passes by, aching from the proximity. He takes a step back, intending to respect Steve’s space and gain back some brain function for himself, when he feels two hands clutch in his shirt, right at the waist, along with a small, “wait.” Bucky obviously stops moving immediately. 

Steve does not turn around, but instead puts on one more record. “I’m In the Mood for Love” by Julie London. 

At the behest of this woman’s soft crooning, Bucky can’t wait any longer, placing his mismatched hands on Steve’s shoulders and slowly turning him around. Steve moves easily, but keeps his gaze down when face to face with him. Bucky doesn’t want that. He wants to hold onto those eyes until he can’t any longer, until they have to be separated by time and space once again. 

He uses his right hand, his index finger, to gently tilt Steve’s head up, until their eyes connect. Steve swallows thickly, cheeks reddening a delicious color, and Bucky wants to lick that smooth skin. He of course holds back, doesn’t want to seem like an animal no matter how much his instincts hound him to lay claim to this man, to declare ownership so no one else could have this, could have him. It scares Bucky, how much he likes, wants, yearns for this one man. How painful it is to imagine someone else in his place. No matter how much he doesn’t deserve this, he can’t imagine willingly letting Steve go. How did he get here?

So, instead of jumping the man, he slides his flesh hand from that beautiful chin to cup one of those blushing cheeks, to cradle that strong jaw. His metal hand rests on the back of his neck, fingers skimming just under the collar; lovingly encasing Steve in his embrace. 

~~~

Steve can't stop himself from melting at the barest physical affection, being treated almost like he’s fragile despite being built like a brick shit house. His eyes flutter shut as thumbs caress his cheek, the line of skin below his hair line at the nape of his neck. The difference in temperatures was barely noticeable, as everywhere he touched left a line of fire in its wake. When warm lips meet his, just as gentle a caress, just as sweet and hesitant, Steve lets out a little whine.

Embarrassed, he tries to move away, but those hands stay firm. “Please, don’t hide from me,” Bucky mutters sweetly.

Steve opens his eyes again, seeing Bucky almost pained. “I could never, even if I wanted to,” he whispers. He hates how ripped open he feels, like Bucky is staring inside his soul, at all the gnarled and rotted bits, and yet he doesn't turn away out of disgust.

He grips Bucky’s wrists, trying to ground himself within the embrace, then hesitantly brings his face closer to those sinful lips, closer, closer, until they’re sharing breath. “What are you doing to me?”

As Bucky speaks, his lips brush Steve’s. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Their eyes both flutter closed, and their lips meet, barely there at first, as if both were afraid something might shatter. Then, it's not close enough. Heat settles in their chests, low in their stomachs. Steve runs his hands up Bucky’s arms, gripping his shoulders tightly as if trying to wring out the excess energy coursing through his veins, and, when unable to do so, clenches those fists in the back of Bucky’s shirt, effectively ripping it.

“Sorry, sorry, super serum–” and then Steve gasps, looking panicked. He tries to take a step back but Bucky holds him firm, and that lazy show of strength sends a shiver down his spine. He curls in on himself, trying not to catastrophize in his head, and failing. “That’s kind of a big government secret, please don’t–”

Bucky just laughs, running his hand through Steve’s hair reassuringly. It seems to help calm him a little. “Oh thank fuck, now I don’t have to worry about breaking you.”

Steve gapes, his spine straightening and his body leaning into the other man. “You…you have…”

Bucky rests his forehead against Steve’s, then grips at the collar on the back of his shirt and rips it from top to bottom, causing Steve to gasp wetly. “Government secret, baby.”

Steve swallows down a moan, but the sound still sends shivers down Bucky’s spine. Bucky grabs at Steve’s waist and walks them both towards the mattress on the ground. “Smart move, putting the mattress out here.” He plops down inelegantly, hands loosely held in the other's. Bucky starts to gently tug, to bring Steve down on top of him. Steve obliges easily. 

“It just made more sense tactically,” Steve speaks softly, tries to sound nonchalant as Bucky pulls at Steve’s thighs to rest on either side of his lap, their chests pressed together. His feelings are betrayed by the breathiness of his tone.

“Lets me see you touching yourself when you think I’m asleep.”

Steve can't hold back a soft moan at the confession and grinds down deliciously, biting down on his cherry red bottom lip. “Maybe I was hoping you weren’t asleep.” 

Bucky captures his lips ferociously and his hands sloooowly travel up his thighs, fingertips meeting at the cleft of his ass and slowly increasing pressure until he’s gripping Steve’s cheeks tightly, letting the underwear bunch as he spreads him. Steve groans at the feel, rubbing his cock against Bucky’s rock-hard stomach in an attempt to simmer the heat concentrating itself in his pelvis. It helps, for maybe a few seconds. 

Steve gets impatient and tears the buttons off of Bucky’s borrowed shirt, leaving the rest of it to hang around his shoulders. Almost at the same time, Bucky rips the remnants of Steve’s shirt off his arms. They’re both breathing heavily, drunk on touch. Steve leans back a little as Bucky runs his hands up those washboard abs, meeting at his chest to cup them around his pebbled nipples. 

“You got great tits, Steve. Could probably fuck ‘em, if we had time.” Bucky shoots forward and laves at one nipple, pinching the other. He bites down as Steve writhes on his lap, causing the man on top to whine through gritted teeth. 

“They’re...unh...they're s-sensitive, Buck. All for you.” 

“Oh, I know. I could see how much pain you get in from standing outside all bare, even for a few minutes. Could tell they just needed someone to love on them, make 'em feel better. See, I’ve been waitin’ months for the chance to touch you, Stevie... Oh, fuck,” he swears under his breath as Steve rolls down, their cocks sliding together through layers of fabric. The confession, the nickname, causes Steve’s blush to deepen. Bucky starts tugging at the waistband. “C'mon, take this shit off, lemme see alla you.”

Steve, the little rule-follower he is, quickly rolls over and shucks off his pants and briefs in one go, only able to register embarrassment at being naked for a moment before Bucky is rolling on top of him, shoving his own pants down and kicking them off impatiently. Steve snorts at the other man’s feverish pace, but he isn’t one to talk. 

As soon as their skin is touching in all the intimate places, Bucky’s face hovers over Steve’s, staring through his eyes into his soul. He feels laid bare, not just physically. His heart is threatening to pound out of his chest cavity. Bucky brushes a lock of hair off his forehead, his touch gentle as a breeze. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, breath fanning his face.

“Says you, a man who looks like he’s carved from marble by the hands of a god,” Steve responds quickly to avoid acknowledging the compliment. He hesitantly runs his hands up the other man’s flanks, looping his arms around his back and bringing him even closer. Bucky groans, delighted at the contact. Steve is so shy, and yet so touch-starved he can’t hold himself back from running his hands up and down, unable to stop feeling the miles of bare, silky skin layered atop sinewy muscle, tracing the scars he finds along the way reverently, as if thanking them for stitching this man back together whole. 

They kiss slowly, deeply, passionately. It's as if they can physically feel the time ticking down and are doing their damn best to slow everything to a stop, to memorize every atom buzzing around in the moment. The present is electrified, and they are drunk on each other. Bucky nudges Steve’s spit-slicked lips open, and they lick into each other like they’ve tasted the eternal youth of El Dorado. The masculine grunts and moans rile them both up, hips moving in sync at a hypnotic rhythm, until they’re rutting against each other almost painfully. Bucky brings his hand down without breaking apart their lips, taking both of them in hand and smearing their leaking tips in order to gather up pre-cum, to make the slide easier. 

When Steve starts thrusting up, he whines into Bucky’s mouth and clenches his eyes shut, forcing his hips to still, mouth opened enticingly. “Stop, stop. I want you i-in me. Please." He adds, quieter, "Wanna feel you.” Despite the lewdness of it, Bucky warms at the request. It’s hot, sure, but also tender. He struggles to lean back and swallow his own air, unable to stop himself from leaning down every few seconds to press his lips into Steve’s, again and again and again. He can't help but marvel at the ethereal being below him, feeling all the more damned for being allowed to touch something so holy.

“Do you have any…” Bucky glances around the bed, though he figures the government did not account for lubricant in its secretive endeavors. 

Steve smiles, then reaches under his pillow and pulls out a vial of olive oil. “How Greek of us.”

“They wish they were as amorous as us, Stevie Baby.”

“Stevie Baby? Really?”

Bucky sits up, Steve’s legs casually looped around him, and pops open the cork before dribbling it on the fingers of his right hand. He smirks as Steve grumbles about the newfound space between their two bodies, pinches a nipple to get a petulant yelp out of the man. “Your name is Steve, and as it stands right now, you’re my baby and I get to love on you all I want, so yes really.” He leans forward and kisses his nose for good measure, and Steve slaps his left shoulder half-heartedly. 

“I asked for oil, not sap, Buck. Hurry it–ohfuck. Fuck.” Bucky smirks down at Steve, rubbing his thumb at his hole before applying pressure. He tugs at the rim, getting Steve comfortable with the sensation, and eats up all of Steve’s reactions. His breathy moans that he tries and fails to swallow, the blush that reaches down to those perky nipples, the way his hands tighten and then make a concerted effort to loosen on Bucky’s shoulders. “That’s it, Stevie. Take it like a good boy.” Steve writhes from just those words, the name causing him to try and bury his face into the mattress, but Bucky grabs his chin with his metal hand and turns it so their eyes are locked. “Nuh-uh. Stay with me. You like praise, honey?”

He nods, his eyes glassy and glossy. “Uh-huh. You…you can call me other things too…so long as you’re not cold about it.” 

Bucky grins wolfishly down at the blond. He's enticed by this confession. Needs to know more, to know everything about what Steve likes. Maybe then he'll be worthy enough to be kept around. 

“Yeah? Like what? What do you want me to call ya, baby?” He switches his thumb with his index finger, running it lightly up his crack, past that little hole, all the way up to his taint, incrementally increasing pressure right behind his balls. He wants Steve all soft and embarrassed for him, putty in his hands, and the man looks almost gone already.

He gulps, clearly uncomfortable but also just as aroused. Buck’s hold on his chin drifts to the side of his neck and jaw, that thumb caressing his cheek while also holding his head to keep eye contact. He mutters so low and unintelligible that Bucky has to reach down and pinch a nipple. “Let me hear you, Stevie. What. Do you want me. To call you.” He tugs the nipple up so Steve has to arch his back with a barely-there whine, then lets go abruptly, while all the while patiently increasing the pressure at his hole. 

“Unh,” he groans as Bucky’s index finger sinks in the second knuckle, slowly circling his rim to loosen him up. His eyes are heavily-lidded, trying valiantly to maintain that burning eye contact. He can't stop the embarrassed flush seeping into his skin, and doesn't bother to hide away from the burning shame anymore. Bucky likes it, and Steve wants to keep that glimmer of mirth, of lust, in his eyes, his pride be damned. He takes a deep breath, steels his nerves to be vulnerable, no matter how scary it feels.  “Please, Buck. Call-call me a slut, or a whore. Your whore. Yours.”

Bucky swallows, trying not to choke on his breath. He watches the internal battle reflected in Steve's face, notes the way his eyes set determinedly, how his blush deepens. He finally steels himself to move closer to Bucky's touch as a result of whatever was decided in that dumb blond head. Knowing how complicated his internal monologue must have been, Bucky rewards Steve with a deep kiss, nipping at that gorgeous bottom lip, and runs a hand through his hair in a pleased gesture. “Good boy." Another slow, pleasurable kiss, just to seal the deal. Bucky then grins against those lips. Steve knows he's in for it.

"And what can I call this?” He asks, suddenly shoving his middle finger in with the index. Steve’s back arches, pressing against Bucky’s body as he moans. 

“What–what do you want to call it, Sir? It’s yours.” And, as of right now, it is. Steve is done with his forced solitude. He wants to be possessed. 

“You’re a fuckin’ minx, baby. Holy fuck.” Bucky pumps his two fingers in and out, scissoring them and pressing against the rim, while his thumb rubs against his taint. He presses an open mouthed kiss to his neck, just under his ear, and it causes Steve to shiver indulgently. “This is my pussy, ain’t that right baby? This cunt belongs to me.”

“Yes, yessir, it’s yours.”

“What’s mine?”

“It’s…it’s your pussy.”

“That’s right. Or…?”

Steve bangs his head on the pillow behind him, overwhelmed by the stimulation and the words setting him on fire from the inside out. “Your cunt, sir.”

Seeing Steve so affected by his words made Bucky feel like the hottest man alive. Seeing him just obey, when he could just as easily be a sassy little shit, makes Bucky feel special. Steve's ruining him for anyone else, and that's just fine with Bucky.

“I love it when you call me sir, baby. It’s almost like you know your place. Only, we both know you’re too stubborn for that.”

“No, please sir, I’ll be good. Please.” He thrusts down onto Bucky’s fingers, impatient, so Bucky waits until his hips lift again, then groups his three middle fingers together for Steve to impale himself on them. “Bucky! Oh fuck, please, I’m good, please! Please! gimme your cock, Buck--SIR. I n-need it!”

Bucky tsk’s. “But my little slut, my little princess–” he runs his metal fingers through blond hair before gripping at the crown to make Steve’s neck elongate so prettily, “--you don’t need anything unless I say so.” He leans down, right next to Steve’s ear. Licks around the shell of his ear feather-light. He lowers his tone, so Steve can feel the vibrations of his tenor voice in his bones. “Sir knows best, ain’t that right sweet thing.” 

Steve, despite the grip in his hair, nods frantically, shivering through his whole body at Bucky’s words. “Y-yes sir, sorry sir.”

“Oh, it’s alright, s’not your fault. You’re just a dumb little cock-slut, aintcha. And I get you all to myself. You ain’t sharin’ this cunt with anyone else, are ya?”

Steve whines, bothered by even the insinuation. He's too touch-drunk to even argue the impossibility of the notion. “Nobody. Don’t want nobody but you, sir. ‘S your–your cunt. Please. Gimme what I need.”

Bucky pulls his hands away, leaving Steve panting and whining at the loss of contact. He shushes him lovingly, slicking up his cock before holding it steady with his right hand, keeping his body upright by leaning on his left elbow, right next to Steve’s head. Steve tilts his head to kiss the metal plates of his wrist reverently. An implicit, “I trust you.” It makes Bucky’s heart throb, not to mention his dick.

Steve wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck, pressing their foreheads together as Bucky presses the head of his cock at Steve’s entrance. “You’re big,” Steve mutters through a strained laugh, the head popping in and both of them choking wetly on their breaths.

“Yeah? That a bad thing, baby?”

Steve, eyes screwed shut, shakes his head vehemently. “I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.” 

Bucky presses his smile into Steve’s cheek, taking his time sinking into that addictive heat. “So you're--oh fuck, yeah, that's tight--you're a size queen, huh? My insatiable little whore?”

“Yours, your whore Buck. Fuck, sir.” Finally, his hips are flush with Steve’s ass,  and he rolls them experimentally. “Oh shit thank you sir, you fill me up so perfectly. Thankyouthankyouthankyou! Guh.”

Bucky presses kisses all around Steve’s face, slow and sensual. He has to concentrate not to rut into abandon in this ass, Steve’s hole is so tight, and it’s rhythmically clenching down as he adjusts to Bucky’s girth. Once the crease in Steve’s brows smooths out, and he begins to jerk his hips down in an attempt to get Bucky where he wants him, Bucky leans up and away and grabs ahold of that fucking waist.

“Hold on to somethin', Stevie Baby.” And he fucks Steve so hard the mattress inches across the floor haphazardly. The blond moans loudly, hands fisting in the sheets, back arching and legs tightening around Bucky. Steve's hole contracts uncontrollably against the repetitive intrusions, and the pleasure zings up against his spine like champagne bubbles rising to the surface. He feels full, and light, and right. Steve wants it hard, and he wants to feel owned completely, inside and out. He hasn't gotten laid in honest-to-goodness at least sixty years, and every sensation feels new again. 

Impulsively, Steve grabs Bucky’s metal hand and presses it to the base of his throat. Bucky’s thrusts slow down, and he catches Steve’s gaze, wordlessly checking in.

How could Steve trust him with this so soon?

How could Bucky think there was any trust left to gain after all they've been through?

When Steve nods, and presses that hand tighter into his neck, Bucky grunts and continues his battering thrusts, carefully increasing pressure in his left hand and watching in awe as Steve's body lights up from the contact, no matter how restrictive. In fact, the more his breathing is constricted, the harder he bears down on Bucky's dick, coaxing him to do his worst.  

Steve’s cries become fainter, gurgling out unintelligible words, face turning even redder. And he ruts his hips down onto Bucky’s dick even more violently than before, hole deliberately bearing down and legs spreading wantonly. It's making Bucky go crazy, feel feral. “You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous, baby. Holy shit. Look at you working yourself over my cock, how have you survived without a dick in you all these months? You act like you need it to live.”

Even with his airway blocked, he wheezes out, “I do. Need this fat cock in my–my pussy as long as you can g-give it, sir. Harder. Please, leave your mark on me." He adds, his voice now a reedy whisper: "Please.”

And Bucky has no choice but to oblige. He buries his head in Steve’s neck, his metal hand unlatching itself from Steve’s neck and running down to his right pec. He bites down at the juncture between neck and shoulder as he rolls those sensitive nipples between his metal index finger and thumb, switching sides intermittently. Steve yells out and presses his front up into Bucky, writhing like he’s being electrocuted. Bucky has to still his hips for a moment so he doesn’t cum, but then Steve gives him the most glorious sight: he goes limp, falling against the mattress, and his cock begins to spurt, untouched except for the few instances it happened to rub up against Bucky’s abs. As Bucky watches Steve lose himself to pleasure, he rolls his hips deep and hard, aiming directly for that spot inside that makes Steve whine so prettily.

Once Steve comes down, his body racked with shivers and his voice letting out keening moans, Bucky starts to pull out, expecting Steve to be as sensitive as him after orgasming. But Steve, without moving his upper body, wraps Bucky’s hips with his legs and slots him more firmly inside his warm hole. “Where do you think you’re going, sir? You haven’t given me what I needed yet.”

Bucky groans through clenched teeth, unable to stop his hips from pumping forward instinctively due to his words and the way he clenches down on his length, root to tip. “Damn baby, aren’t you sensitive?” He brings his hand down and traces Steve’s cock from the spot where his balls meet his shaft, up up up lightly tracing a vein, and then stopping at his slit, digging in with his nail just a tad. Steve, good little rule-follower he is, doesn’t move away, even though tears spring from his eyes. 

“Of course, sir. But it’s too good. You feel too good. Please use me, use this cunt. Make it hurt.” 

“You don’t gotta tell me twice, Stevie baby. You’re such a good cum-slut.” He picks up thrusting, rolling his hips deep and aiming directly for Steve’s prostate. If he wants it to hurt, Bucky won't deny him a thing. The fact that the pain makes him tighten around Bucky is just an added bonus. “Say it.”

Steve writhes, brows furrowed and hot breaths panting. “I’m–I’m a good cum-slut.”

“You’re MY good cum-slut.” Punching in and out. In. and Out. Slow. Deliberate. He can see his dick through Steve's stomach. Oh, fuck yes. He'll have spank bank material for years after this. Decades. 

“Yeah, sir. Yours.” He sighs happily at the remark, and Bucky tries not to fall in love. 

He leans down and licks into Steve’s mouth with abandon. His thrusts turn erratic as he chases his own pleasure. Then one, two, three thrusts and he’s grinding deep, groaning heavily into Steve’s mouth, coming in his ass like a fire hose. 

The other man swallows up all of these reactions, praises whatever gifted him an eidetic memory, and his cock spurts again, this time pressed against Bucky’s abs so they can both feel the hot jet of fluid landing between them. He can feel Bucky’s cum warming up his insides, reaching between them to press down on his lower abdomen. Steve can feel Bucky’s dick poking upwards, rearranging his insides, and at that sensation another spurt of cum erupts out of him as he moans into the night air. 

He floats for a little bit, and comes back down once he can focus on the points of pressure littering his shoulders, chest, neck, and face. “Mmm, you back online Stevie?” Bucky mumbles into his hair, as his fingers gently trace up and down the center of Steve’s chest. 

Steve nods, sighing deeply, and rolls into Bucky’s embrace. “Haven’t felt this good in forever.”

Bucky grunts, wrapping Steve up into his arms and cradling his head with the flesh hand. “Same here.”

Steve presses a lush kiss to the side of his neck, then burrows down and listens to Bucky’s steady heartbeat, drifting into a mercifully dream-less sleep. 

Bucky stays up for an hour or so, mulling over everything that happened to make sure he doesn’t forget it, finding comfort and safety in Steve’s sleepy entangled limbs. The feel of skin against skin is intoxicating, and Bucky falls asleep tracing silky cream skin. 

Chapter Text

Steve wakes up at some point in the middle of the night, disoriented as if the wispy webs of sleep were dragging him back at the corners of his vision. He feels a warm presence at his back, and realizes that the night before wasn’t just another heart-wrenching nightmare disguised as a dream. Bucky really fired a rocket launcher and dragged himself over here. He really kissed him, and kissed him good. He really held him until they fell asleep, sticky and sated. 

Steve tries not to move as fast as he wants to, turning slowly in the embrace he woke up in, so he could study the features of this person he knows so deeply and yet not enough. 

When his eyes land on that face, however, piercing blue eyes are already on him. They’re filled with a sleepy satisfaction.

~~~

“Hey, stranger,” Bucky mutters, his voice scratchy from sleep. His metal hand reaches up to absentmindedly smooth out tufts of blond hair, then continues to pet long after the strands smooth out. He likes how it makes Steve melt, shoulders relaxing into the worn mattress, just from a bit of casual physical touch. Something Steve tries not to act starved of, but Bucky shares the feeling, so he recognizes it easily. 

Steve places a hand on his flank, lightly brushes up and down, tracing little swirls in the skin that cause Bucky to shiver. “Hi.”

They don’t talk anymore. They don’t need to. They just kiss and caress and melt into each other until their lips go numb, and sleep calls them back. 

~~~

Steve wakes up for real as the sun is rising, and he stretches languidly, slowly contorting in a decent attempt not to disturb the arms around him. Only, once his arms stretch above his head, Bucky pounces. He wraps around Steve’s middle and crushes him to his chest, rolling them so Steve lands on the other side with a huff of surprised laughter. “Oof! Let go, c’mon you lug. I wanna look at you before I can’t anymore.”

At that sobering comment, Bucky obliges, though his hands do make a few grabby detours. “Fine,” he grumbles. Steve cradles that strong, scruffy jaw, and kisses him slow and good; tilts his head to deepen the kiss. Their legs intertwine almost subconsciously.

When Steve finally sits up, he looks down at Bucky with a small smile. “Want some breakfast?” Bucky nods fervently, causing his long hair to bounce around. Steve can’t resist reaching out to push errant strands out of his eyes, so he can get his fill. How often will he be able to see how his face looks when the first light hits it? 

He rests his hand on one cheek, running his thumb across the soft skin under his eye. 

~~~

Bucky grabs his wrist to hold him there, then turns his face so he can kiss the palm of his hand. Steve shivers. He reluctantly pulls away, which wrenches a groan out of Bucky, who then petulantly turns onto his stomach and buries his face in Steve’s pillow. He may or may not punch the bed for good measure. 

Steve’s laugh ringing through the space makes it all worth it. Fuck, if he still had his phone he’d make sure to grab a sound bite for his ringtone.

~~~ 

Steve heads to the bathroom, wipes away the evidence from the night before, throws on flannel sleep pants, then comes back out to see Bucky standing outside in his boxers, scratching his balls and scanning the perimeter. The lines of his back are defined, his torso thick and mouth-watering. His ass could inspire poetry, those legs chiseled all the way down to his angular toes. 

Steve lets his stare linger for another few seconds, then lets him be, runs down the steps to the coop and garden, and picks out the ingredients for eggs–over-easy for him and scrambled for Bucky–as well as a small pile of turkey bacon he prepared two days prior. 

When Steve comes back up the stairs, Buck is looking through his shelves. Steve curiously watches him running his fingers across the book spines, then flip through the records. When he hears Steve ascend the stairs, he glances up to smile at him, then picks up a record at random, filling the outpost with big band music in no time. 

Steve cooks in peace, swaying to the music when he has the time to back away from the task at hand. Bucky watches him cook for a few minutes, taking note of Steve’s attention to detail, to his improvisational skills working with what he has. 

He then decides he hasn’t taken advantage of sharing the same space as him in at least ten minutes, which should be a crime. His hands itch to caress smooth skin, to bring a blush to the surface of it. He comes around and wraps his arms around Steve’s middle, tightening him to his chest for a second before loosening his grip, and they sway together. His head is tucked over Steve’s right shoulder, watching absently as Steve fixes their breakfast.

Once he flips the eggs and bacon, and everything seems cooked through, he rummages around the kitchen to plate the food, collect the silverware, and pour two cups of coffee, all while having a 6’1” shadow glued to his back. Bucky was happy to move wherever Steve went, loosening the arms around his waist only when necessary, but never letting go completely.

Steve goes to set the plates on the table, but Bucky redirects them to the mattress instead. Steve is dubious of this plan, but reasons with himself that he’ll have to clean the sheets anyway.

They sit cross-legged facing each other, plates balanced on opposing knees. Bucky of course drools over the food and flatters Steve to the point of furious blushing, promising to do dirty, dirty things to him later as a reward for always making perfectly edible food for him. He laughs around a bite of egg. Bucky, after two or three bites, sets his plate down on the floor next to the mattress, and the blond thinks nothing of it as he digs in, having built up quite an appetite himself from the night before. 

Bucky mentioned a few weeks prior that he thought Steve was ‘a tad’ unobservant, and Steve had immediately taken offense, marching away from their written dialogue as if putting his phone on Do Not Disturb. (Of course Bucky used the pulley the following day and sent an origami crane with a sad face drawn on it, “SORRY” written along the side, and Steve couldn’t help but smile; all was forgiven and the crane became a kitchen decoration, or rather, the kitchen decoration.) 

Now, he thinks he owes Bucky an apology.  

When Steve goes to take a bite of the bacon, the brunet swoops in, snatching it with his teeth and a mischievous grin. He rolls his eyes, reaching for Bucky’s plate to pinch some scrambled egg into his mouth as retaliation.  

“How dare you?” Bucky says in mock-outrage, grabs Steve’s plate to (gently) put it on the ground next to his, and pushes Steve onto his back. 

“I’m sorry, who was the–”

Bucky interrupts him before he could sass back. “I forgive you, now open up.”

He grabs a piece of bacon–from Steve’s plate, mind you–puts it in between his teeth, and leans forward until he’s a few inches away from Steve’s face. Making him work for his food. That he made. 

Steve huffs, cheeks flaming so hot it exposes his inner pleasure for the whole world to see. (And as far as Steve was concerned, his whole world was sitting just above him, staring into his soul and grinning all the while.) 

He leans up slowly–because if he has to suffer then so does Bucky–and takes the barest nibble. 

~~~

Their lips don’t touch, and Bucky resents that fact. But, he’s a sniper. He can be patient. Right?

Steve takes another bite. And another. Chewing slower than molasses, and enjoying the increasing impatience tightening the other man’s features. Then, before he’s about to take the bite that would ensure contact, he grabs at Bucky’s hips, flipping them too quickly for Bucky to counter, and presses his lips down so he can spread Bucky’s teeth apart, stealing the entire piece of bacon for himself. He sits back up, triumphant, while the man below him groans loudly, banging his head on the mattress in frustration. 

~~~
“It’s probably smarter to eat at the table so we can both, you know, eat,” Steve remarks with a smirk, getting up quick enough to stay out of Bucky’s grabby reach. “Bring the plates, would you?”

Bucky grumbles but does as he’s asked. He does, however, take off his boxers before he sits down, spreading his legs and planting his feet. He looks at Steve with a glare that reads, This is what you get, then tucks into his plate, acting all aloof as if his dick weren’t out and making Steve’s mouth water. Even soft, it’s thick and long and gorgeous, and Steve hates him for figuring out his weaknesses so quickly. 

Steve eats as fast as he can, trying to keep his eyes above the table, and when that doesn’t work he keeps his stare glued to his boring, chipped, not at all well-endowed plate. 

~~~

Bucky barely manages to keep a straight face the entire time he’s watching Steve lose his mind. His plan worked out even better than he thought. After he finishes eating, he walks up to the sink in the kitchen and washes his hands, acting as if he walks around naked all the time. He passes by Steve, gets within a foot of him, and, when Steve starts to lean towards him, redirects his path to head back into the mattress smelling of them.

Then, he looks at Steve as he stretches languidly on the bed, noting Steve’s eyes tracing his form–not like an artist, but like a voyeur who’s both terrified and electrified at the idea of being caught sneaking a peak.  He smirks to himself, lets the other man look his fill as he brings his flesh hand to his chest, runs it down his stomach, and grips himself, taking his time all the while to soak in the expressions of the other man. Steve, without thinking, drops to his knees, then his hands, and begins to crawl towards Bucky. He looks like he could salivate at the sight in front of him, taking up his bed and his focus.

~~~

Steve is surprised to find himself in between Bucky’s spread legs, having last been conscious and in his body at the kitchen table. Somehow he migrated to the bed, but he isn’t complaining. Well, not about that.

“Buck, please,” he begs, trying to reach out a hand and instead getting it knocked away along with a scolding “tsk, tsk, tsk.” He blushes in delicious shame. 

Bucky pulls at his cock from root to tip, tightening just before it slips out of his hands, and closing his eyes every so often from the warm, unhurried pleasure. He gets harder in his hand, throbbing, at the sight of Steve, bent over and almost drooling for his dick. If Bucky didn’t have an ego related to his sexual prowess before, he’d certainly have developed it now. 

“Now, Stevie Baby–” Steve groans and Bucky lets go of his dick to slap him, not hard of course, but enough to send the message: don’t talk back. Steve’s eyes go dark, and he arches his back, sinking to his elbows on the mattress. “Oh, you like being punished, my little brat?” Bucky smirks, now looking down at Steve. The blond nods slightly, having sunk a bit deeper into a Good Feeling he can’t quite describe, but wants to live in. 

Bucky reaches his metal hand out to card through Steve’s hair, petting him like a well-behaved pup. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” Bucky briefly tightens his grip in Steve’s hair, revelling at the hiss and lidded eyes that accompany it, “Before you get your treat you have to do something for me. You want to work for it, don’t’chu?”

Steve sags in Bucky’s grip obediently, willing to do anything it takes to get that dick in at least one of his holes. “Yessir, please,” he responds, more breath than voice. Bucky doesn’t say anything, just leans back to tug at Steve’s sweatpants, incrementally increasing upward pressure until he’s letting go a bit, then tugging back up, causing it to rub against his most intimate parts almost painfully. Steve moans like a whore, and whines when the grip is quickly removed. His pelvis drops to the mattress, and he takes a deep breath, eyes closed and forehead pressed to Bucky’s knee, to stop himself from humping the bed.  

“How’s about you take those things off, sweet thing? We’ll start there.” Steve nods, pressing his cheek to the bed so he can use both hands to push his pants down. He makes sure to arch his back, and works his hands slowly, giving Bucky a show. He’s clenching his eyes shut, too overwhelmed by the intimate show, and they haven’t even touched each other properly yet. Bucky hums contentedly, happy to stroke himself and watch that ass wiggle this way and that, private skin shyly revealing itself inch by torturous inch. 

When Steve is down to nothing, kicking the pants somewhere in the direction of the kitchen, he lifts his head a bit to look up at Bucky imploringly. Bucky grins down at him, like he knows exactly how Steve’s feeling and he’s in no rush to make it better. 

“Okay, now I want you to turn that ass towards me, bring it close, and spread your pretty legs on either side of mine. Lemme see where it hurts, Stevie Baby.”

Steve moves around shakily, the embarrassment not enough to stop him from obeying every word. He slowly steps backwards, then feels Bucky’s legs moving under him, at which point he spreads his legs farther apart until his knees are being held open by Bucky’s thighs. He’s resting his head on his forearms, taking big panting breaths, and trying not to writhe at the invasive position. He fails.
When Bucky spits directly onto his hole, he bangs his forehead into the mattress and huffs out a breath of hot air. 

“Aw, lookit that, your tight little cunt is putting on a show for me,” Bucky croons, barely touching the furled skin and marvelling at the way it tries to suck him in. “That’s sweet of you, baby.” His gaze is almost a physical thing that Steve can feel, all of the brunet’s focus on a part of him that he’s no longer allowed to hide, not here, not from him. 

Steve groans into the bed, turns his head to the side to beg, “Please sir. Please touch me.”

Bucky hums, as if taking his time to think about it. Dragging out this torture for his own amusement. “How?”

“However you–you want. Just, fuck, please. I need your hands, your dick, anything so long as it’s you, Buck. Need it.” He’s shivering, but he’s not cold. His voice is no stronger than before, his tone soft and his pitch higher than normal. If he had the wherewithal to hear himself, he’d be even more embarrassed, but it’s tricky enough as it is to focus on keeping his dizzy head above water in their hideaway from the rest of the world. 

Finally, after what feels like another year of Bucky just looking and lightly poking at his most intimate parts, equal parts appraising and examining, something heavy and wet runs from his taint up to his tailbone, causing him to shudder in pleasure. His shoulders drop to the bed, all the strength to hold himself up gone in an instant. Bucky doesn’t give him a moment to adjust, he just begins laving his tongue at Steve’s hole, poking in and around, getting him all wet and sloppy. Steve moans into the bed, and earns a slap on his right cheek for it. The sting hurts, and it hurts so good.

~~~

“Unh-uh, Stevie. I wanna hear what I’m doin’ to you, and I want you to remember it’s me making you–and that pretty little cunt–feel this way. Got it?” He slaps him on the other cheek for good measure.

Steve wriggles his ass, causing it to reverberate deliciously, and mutters, “Yessir, I’m sorry. Only you.” He adds, quietly, “Promise.”

Bucky kisses one globe, squishing both in his hands luxuriously, before spreading him open and going down on him once again. 

A few minutes later and Steve’s melted in his face-down-ass-up position, to the point where Bucky has to grip his hips to keep him level enough, fucking his tongue as deep as it can go and flexing it against velvet walls. Steve keens when Bucky lightly brushes his teeth along the rim, clenching his fists in the sheets but obediently keeping his face turned so Bucky can see his flushed face and the drool at the corner of his mouth, hear the desperate whimpers he can’t keep behind his teeth. 

“Wish I had a camera, so I could show you how slutty you get when someone gives it to you good.” 

Steve nods fervently, eyes screwed shut in an attempt to keep him on Earth. When Bucky’s tongue digs into his hole again, it’s accompanied by a cold (metal) finger, and Steve arches his back, keening at the sudden delicious intrusion. Bucky brings his head up to watch one, then two slip into that tight heat. Slaps his ass to feel him clench around him, the sensors in his hand sensitive enough to pick up on the pressure changes. Steve groans at the slap, wiggling around to get the fingers deeper and also to luxuriate in the sting. 

“You like being spanked, baby?” Bucky asks, already figuring the answer but wanting, no, needing, to hear it anyway.

Steve inhales shakily, nods shyly. Bucky removes his fingers abruptly, causing the ass in front of him to put on a show, his hole attempting to close around nothing, looking somehow miserable for the loss even without Steve’s whine cutting through the air to clue him in. “I want to hear you tell me, Steve.”

Steve’s hands clench the bed tightly, enough to hear seams stretch. His body is a live wire, and Bucky’s plucking him like a fiddle. He’s too easy. He’s drunk on touch.

“Please, Buck. Please make me feel it.” He takes a deep breath, lifting his head a bit, arching that back, so his hooded eyes can meet the brunet’s over his shoulder. “Wanna feel you when you’re no longer here to…to take care of this p-pussy. Please, make it hurt.”

Buck has to grab the base of his dick at the sudden influx of heat simmering in his pelvis; Steve’s eyes were a siren call. He wanted to ruin him so thoroughly neither of them would ever be the same again (as if he could go back to his life before meeting Steve in the first place).  “You say such sweet things, baby. How could I deny you?” And sure, they’re talking about sex right now, but Bucky can’t think of any scenario he’d want to deny Steve anything the man deserves. He wants to ruin him, and he wants to swear eternal loyalty to him. He’d fight the universe for one chance to hold him.

Taking a deep breath to corral his errant train of thought, Bucky smacks one cheek, right at the line where it meets his thigh, pushes two drool-soaked flesh fingers into that winking hole, and brings his hand down hard to the other cheek. Steve’s grunts fuel him, along with the way his body shivers when his fingers twist just right. He spits on his hole, gathers it up with his ring finger by caressing his rim almost lovingly, then starts pushing all three fingers in. Never once letting up on the onslaught of his metal hand laying down on those cheeks, the sound of metal slapping skin almost louder than Steve’s own noises. Sometimes he alters between the two, other times he’ll hit a certain spot over and over and over again until he can almost see a handprint rising from the skin. Steve’s moaning loudly now, breathing short and heavy as if he’d sprinted the distance of the gorge thrice over. He’s giving Bucky a symphony.

The brunet yanks all of his fingers out for the last time–though Steve doesn’t know that–marveling at how Steve’s hole can’t quite close all the way, and lands three staccato smacks right on that throbbing center. Steve’s back arches, and he comes untouched, like a fuckin’ dream, because of course. 

~~~

Steve can’t control his moans, or his rutting hips, but obediently lets himself be held up as his body tries to hump the mattress. His cock shoots off with violent pulses, dick jumping at irregular intervals, objecting to the fact that it’s gaining no pressure to relieve the ache. He’s panting, his hair’s mussed from rolling his forehead into the bed to keep from floating away. And he’s not ready for this to be over.

Steve pushes himself up slowly, ass still twitching and heat sinking into his sit bones, and he takes his time to turn around on shaky knees. Once he’s face to face with Bucky, whose eyes track his form hungrily, he wraps his arms loosely around his neck and presses lush kisses to his neck, up to the corner of his jaw, a quiet worship of thanks to his benevolent god. His fingers brush at the nape of his neck, at the soft locks of hair there. Bucky shivers, his hands come down on his ass to squeeze the raised flesh, and Steve can’t help but wiggle in his grip, inhaling sharply through his teeth. 

He readjusts his knees so that he’s raised over Bucky’s pelvis, then leans down to grab the base of Bucky’s cock. As their heads tilt, and their tongues meet, Steve slowly lowers his body until Bucky’s cock sits right at his entrance. Steve, gaining back enough of his faculties to remember he could tease right back, refuses to move another inch. He wants to make Bucky feel as crazy as Steve does, for Bucky to seek out the meeting of their flesh as the only balm to this heady loss of control. Steve doesn’t want to feel like the only one affected by their bodies’ magnetism. He wants to feel desired, just as much as he is filled with desire. 

~~~

Bucky feels under a trance, and he knows objectively that the control is in his hands, but for Steve to so willingly hand himself over on a silver platter has his nerves fried. Steve, by giving up control, has wound Bucky irreversibly around his long artist’s fingers. 

He feels that hole attempting to work him over, and he’s not even inside yet. Bucky groans into the kisses, moreso open mouths sharing breaths at this point, tongues searching out the taste of each other. Impatience outweighing his usually steel stubbornness, the closeness and heat and the frankly delectable smell of sex driving him mad, Bucky grabs Steve’s ass, spreads his cheeks, and shoves him down almost cruelly. Steve’s breath stutters, and Bucky takes advantage of that slack mouth to lick inside as if he could taste the spike of pleasure for himself. He takes Steve’s tongue in his mouth, just like Steve’s ass takes his dick, and begins working him over like a human fleshlight. Their bodies slap together in a way Bucky knows is setting off the flames where he spanked Steve’s ass red. Steve clenches down every time Bucky is fully sheathed inside, milking him for all he’s worth and more.

Bucky runs his hands, flesh and metal, up Steve’s back, digging his fingers in as he drags them back down. He slips one of his hands down Steve’s cleft, letting his flesh finger stroke the velvety flesh where Steve and Bucky are joined. Steve lets out a whimper, whispers into Bucky’s ear, “Put it in me, Buck. Gimme all of you.” And Bucky has no choice but to oblige, briefly bringing his index finger to Steve’s mouth.

“Get it wet for me, baby. We both know this pussy is greedy.” He gives another harsh slap to his left ass cheek with his metal hand, which causes Steve to momentarily choke on the flesh finger. It only makes his eyes roll in the back of his head, moan around the intrusion in his lustful mouth and clench on the intrusion in his spoiled hole. Buck is caressing his tongue, then running his index finger along his teeth, shoving it as far down his throat as he can reach— almost proprietarily possessing his mouth by examining it so thoroughly. Once he’s deemed it wet enough, he runs the back of his hand, his knuckles, down Steve’s spine, which earns him another delicious, clench-inducing shiver. Runs his spit-slick finger around his rim before slowing his pistoning hips, pulling out almost until the head pops out, and then shoving not one, but two fingers in with his dick. Steve arches against him, chest to chest and head bowed back, as he moans throatily.

Bucky has to think about something boring before this ends too soon. He clenches Steve’s right cheek with his left hand, alternates shoving his fingers and his dick in. He then uses his fingers to deftly hook Steve by his hole, so his back stays arched while Bucky batters his prostate. Steve’s head rolls from side to side as he’s bent backwards on Bucky’s dick. The noises vibrating between their chests from Steve’s whines and moans (accompanied by Bucky’s own desperate noises) make Bucky shiver and inadvertently shove himself deeper into that sacred heat. 

Finally, Bucky’s decided he’s had enough of controlling the pace like this, and pulls his fingers and cock out unceremoniously. He turns them so Steve is on his back against the mattress, brings those strong legs up to his chest, and wraps both arms to keep Steve’s legs over one shoulder, pressed together. He stills for a moment, admiring how lost Steve’s eyes are in the sensation, then, when Steve slowly blinks himself back to reality, looking at Bucky curiously, almost sadly, Bucky chooses that moment to slam home, grunting like a feral animal.

~~~

In this position, Steve feels him acutely. He can’t even move his legs to bring Bucky closer, or push him away (though the latter is highly unlikely at the moment; if they were any farther apart Steve would probably cry, in his current state). All he can do is lie back, grab at Bucky’s hips ineffectually, and take it—succumb to the jack-hammer pace Bucky has chosen for them.

“O-oh f-f-fuck, right, right there, Sir. S-so fuckin’ deep…” He feels like a whore, all dirty and perverted, just lying back and taking it . It’s intoxicating. 

Bucky grins, planting his knees more comfortably on the bed so he can ruin Steve’s perfect little cunt–tells him as much.
“You like that, котёнок? Like my cock ripping into that sweet pussy of yours?” At Steve’s fervent nodding, Bucky laughs, and the mocking tone of it makes Steve blush even deeper, makes him wriggle even more in the stone grip Bucky has around his legs. 

Finally, Bucky lets go, choosing instead to push those thighs apart so Steve is spread delectably under him.

Bucky presses his thighs up and back, plants his knees once more, and his thrusts turn downright brutal. Slower, maybe, but also so much deeper, punctuating every few upstrokes by a slap to Steve’s inner thighs, inches from where he really wants to be touched. Steve tries to close them, but Bucky just slaps the smooth skin again in warning and keeps them pulled wantonly apart. 

Each time Bucky slams all the way up into Steve, the head of his perfect cock nails his prostate. Steve’s own dick leaks nonstop, jumps whenever his prostate is even glanced, let alone directly fucked into. Neither of them pay attention to it. If Steve had a state of mind, he’d be grateful, because he wants to stay in this moment as long as possible.

Their eyes stay glued to each other, eye contact only separated by luxurious scanning appraisals of each other’s bodies in the throes of passion. That’s what Bucky feels in the air. Passion. Unbridled need. Desire boiled down to its essential parts.

Bucky is covered in a sheen of sweat that makes his skin glisten, makes his face more dastardly handsome as thick and thin strands of dark hair stick to his forehead and cheeks, curling at the nape of his neck. His jaw is set firmly, his teeth glinting in the morning light. Steve himself is red all the way down to his tight nipples. He feels caught in the sniper’s magnetic gaze, the man looking like he could devour Steve, is devouring him, his body, his mind, his fucking soul. Bucky removes one of his clenched hands at Steve’s thigh to tweak his nipples, first the left and then the right. Steve’s grunts only urge Bucky’s thrusts on. 

When Bucky’s pace seems to falter, he pushes forward so their chests are pressed together, the mingled sweat allowing their bodies to move against each other smoothly, erotically. Steve’s nipples, and now even his sensitive cock, are being constantly stimulated. The position makes Steve feel like he’s never been closer to anyone in his life. He feels possessed, owned. Bucky’s mouth leaves open, wet kisses against his neck as he ruts into him, his grunts vibrating in Steve’s ribs, echoing in his ears. Steve wraps himself around Bucky, arms and legs hooked around him and holding on for dear life, as he feels pressure increase at his core. He’s whimpering, moaning, clutching at Bucky, the noises getting higher the closer he’s brought to the edge.

Bucky brings his head up a bit so he can look at Steve’s face as he falls apart. “Y-yeah, baby. Let me see you lose it on my cock, fuck. Clench this cunt down on me, show me you want me. Show me you’re mine.” Bucky whispers filth between them, turning Steve into spun sugar, ready to melt.

Steve obeys without hesitation, wanting to give Bucky even a fraction of what he’s making Steve feel, he’s so grateful. When he clenches down, Bucky thrusts through the friction like it’s nothing, making Steve feel hollowed out. 

He comes with a shout, hole convulsing around its velvet-sheathed battering ram. 

Bucky, cursing under his breath, sinks his teeth at the junction of Steve’s neck and shoulder, holding on as his hips lose all rhythm and hump into Steve with abandon. Finally, he shudders bodily, the shivers only increasing at Steve’s fingers tracing up and down his back, and he pumps one, two, three times, cumming with a shaky groan. His hands grip up and down Steve’s flanks, drunk on contact and needing to round out the sensations with Steve’s smooth skin against his. Needing to worship this body any way he can think of.

~~~

Steve lies back blissfully, limbs jello and head clear. He can’t remember the last time someone made him feel this good, if ever. His eyes are closed, allowing him to revel in Bucky’s hands tracking all over his body, gripping skin possessively, smoothing them down his sides. When he feels those gorgeous lips brush against his, lightly, as if asking permission, he sinks further, kissing back languidly, increasing the pressure until he could feel his partner sink deeper into him. Steve feels as he did when he was a child, floating on his back in the lake by his aunt’s house, an hour and a world outside of Brooklyn. The sun warmed his face, buoyancy bringing upon a sensation Steve was sure felt like flying. And, with his ears–at the time one good and one bad–just under the water, smoothly muffling the sounds of the forest, the world had faded into sensations. He couldn't tell the difference between himself and the water encasing him, joining the background hum of life.

His body today, supposedly stronger due to a government-issued serum, is sore, is worn down, and every atom of Steve Rogers is, for the first time since childhood it feels, in a resting state of utter peace.  

He goes willingly as his body is turned to the side, only slightly grumbling at the loss of Bucky’s perfect cock slipping out of him gently. Bucky then wraps him up in his arms, rests his blond head on that burly, hairy chest, and intertwines their legs easily. 

~~~

As Bucky’s petting Steve’s hair, running his metal hand up and down the expanse of his back, he sighs contentedly. He could live out his days here, in this fucked up forest, holding this man as close as humanly possible to his chest. A part of his mind, a very quiet part at this point, objects to the idea of abandoning his solitary lifestyle to someone he barely knows, but then that part would also have to admit that Bucky has never been known so well before Steve came along, could very well never experience it again. Steve seems like a rare opportunity, a gift that Bucky would (rightly) be damned to hell for refusing. 

Bucky thinks about what his mother told him, it's one of the few memories he still has of her. She--Winifred, his mind supplies slowly-- was a religious woman, but she took the purpose of religion to be for showing a reverence towards the divine nature of life. She believed that God was an immutable presence, something that surrounds everyone through all space and time. She didn’t subscribe to the whole ‘fire and brimstone’ vision of hell, too Western for her tastes, but her version, in Bucky’s opinion, seemed a far crueler fate. She had said, when Bucky must have been no more than twelve years old in rural Romania, “Hell is the absence of goodness, of God. Hell is seeing God love his creation, perhaps more clearly than you ever could while alive, and seeing yourself excluded from all of it. It could be cold, it could be hot, it could be crowded or desolate, but none of that would matter. The worst part of hell, James, is that it’s empty, in a way we will hopefully never be able to understand.”

Bucky has been monitoring the mouth of hell for months, but here, in Steve’s arms, he feels the edge of something far more terrifying.

Loss.