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A Bullet in the Barrel of Your Best Guy’s Gun

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Coverartist: reena_jenkins

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“What are you acting so squirrelly about?” Bucky called through the bathroom door. There was a soft thunk, and Steve pictured Bucky dropping back against it, folding his arms across his chest, that “what the hell are you up to?” face Steve recalled all too well from their youth.

“Who’s acting squirrelly? Just in the bathroom, is all. Can’t a fella get some privacy?”

You were acting strange this morning, couldn’t wait for me to take off with Barton, and now you’re late getting home, which you never are without texting me approximately five hundred times, right up to the point where you’re in the lobby. Cough it up. What do you got in there?” Admittedly, Steve had been in here for a long time, but preparations were necessary for what he had in mind.

“Hold your damn horses,” was all Steve could give him, putting the finishing touches on. He looked absurd after all these years, but not half as absurd as he’d looked in that awful uniform they’d given him when he’d woken up, and he refused to allow embarrassment to swamp the arousal firing inside him.

“Rather hold something else.” Oh, if only Bucky had any idea what he was saying.

“Just...go...sit. Somewhere. Pour yourself a drink or something.” Steve could practically hear the eyeroll through the wall.

He waited till the sound of Bucky’s grousing diminished and he had everything just so before poking his head out to see Bucky sitting on the loveseat in front of the window, arms spread wide over the back, a glass of some kind of whiskey balanced on his knee. Slipping the cowl on—man, he was just nervous enough to be reminded of the first time he’d done this, right before getting shoved on stage with the USO girls—Steve grabbed the shield to step out of the bathroom, fully expecting Bucky to bust out laughing.

Only he didn’t—he simply stared at Steve standing before him in the re-created stage costume, mouth and eyes wide in stunned confusion, and for a second Steve faltered. Bucky couldn’t have forgotten it, surely—but then a slow smile tugged his lips up and he dropped his head, looking at Steve from under his lashes.

“The star-spangled man with a plan.”

“A big plan. Swear to god, I’ve been waiting weeks to carry it out.” He was relieved to see Bucky break into a full-on grin; he picked up the glass and knocked the rest of his drink back, staring at Steve in a way that should have had flames curling off his skin. When Steve had first heard the phrase “hot like burning,” it had been exactly this look in Bucky’s eyes that he’d recalled. It had undone Steve back in 1945 and it was undoing him in 2015 and he couldn’t be more elated.

There was a lot of heady promise in Bucky’s eyes, the ideal response: here Steve had worried he’d feel stupid if Bucky didn’t respond, and instead he was simply uncomfortable because he was already stiff inside the tights. A brow arced upward. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so provocative as all that rustling going on behind a closed door.”

Well, that was certainly the sauciest thing he might have said. Bucky stood, pushed his sleeves up, and curled his fingers, beckoning—Steve would crawl on all fours to him and he was fairly certain Bucky knew that. Steve set the shield against the wall and went to him, getting exactly what he’d hoped for when he first had the idea of remaking the costume: Bucky’s eyes glittered darkly with mischief, holding nothing back. There was a definite physicality about him as he looked Steve up and down, pressed into Steve’s space, and skimmed his hands over the front of the costume, testing its sleeves and the cowl and the belt, studiously avoiding the front of the tights.

“Where did you get it?” Bucky breathed, sped-up heartbeat evident in his throat’s jumping pulse. “They fix it up and give it back? Thought it was ruined.” His color was high as he touched the fabric, almost reverently.

“It was. I found someone who could replicate it in period detail, thanks to Nat.”

Steve’s own pulse was a live wire: electricity hummed through his veins, jumped from nerve ending to nerve ending with crackles and snaps, leaving him light-headed.

“Jesus god. It looks exactly the same. It feels the same. How the hell?”

“I wanted someone who understood clothing of that era, the way things were made back then. And Dmitri definitely knew that—look at the hand stitching on these seams, it’s perfect. He also put a lot of it together on an old machine for authenticity, has some magical source for fabrics. The only color references he had weren’t particularly good photos, but I’d swear the dyes are the same, too. Always thought the red was especially hard to get right, but Dmitri did.”

“Dmitri, huh? Should I be jealous?” Bucky’s mouth was open, his lower lip shiny and juicy-red, and Steve wanted to suck it right into his own mouth, savor it like candy.

“Only if you truly believe I’m stepping out on you with a sixty-nine-year-old man from Bialystok.”

“Hey, I can understand the allure of a younger man.” Bucky dropped his head, eyes fixed on the front of Steve’s trunks. “And don’t get all judgey.” His tongue darted out to lick his lips, curled against his front teeth, and it sent a delicious shiver up Steve’s spine.

“That poor costume didn’t stand a chance after we got done with it. All I can say is, if they’d had DNA sequencing back then, they wouldn’t have had to try so hard to replicate Dr. Erskine’s formula, they could have just used that costume. It must have horrified Peggy when she dug it out of my footlocker. My first thought when I saw the state of it in the museum’s archive was ‘oh god, I should have washed that before I froze.’”

“There’s an image I ain’t getting out of my mind for a while.” Bucky skirted fingers up under the bottom of the shorts, nails pressing the snaps right over Steve’s cock. “So you get a—what was it? Dance belt? To wear under this thing this time? Never did get to see that.” His index finger moved to the crease of thigh and groin, tickling, further and further down to just behind Steve’s balls, and Steve gasped.

“Fuck no. Too many layers. No one to worry about scandalizing here with my” —he thrust his hips forward, making contact with Bucky’s hardening dick and he lit up like a match— “considerable assets.”

“’cept Nat, apparently.”

“If you can’t go to Nat for help fulfilling your kinky fantasies, who can you?” Their eyes met and they shared a thought: definitely not Stark. With a little tsk, Bucky withdrew his hand from the shorts, causing Steve to groan in disappointment.

“Hey, JARVIS,” Bucky said, “can you bring up one of my sexy playlists?”

The room filled with the soothing bass of Barry White singing “I’ll Do for You Anything You Want Me To,” and Bucky waggled his eyebrows. When they’d delved into recent music history, it was the soul and R&B artists they liked the most, completely unironically. Sure, loving certain songs from certain decades had got them teased more than a few times—the ’70s were perfectly wonderful to Steve and Bucky and they didn’t understand the scorn—but Steve enjoyed the mixes Bucky put together, especially his sexy ones, where familiar-to-them works from Billie Holiday or Lena Horne melted into modern-day artists like Marvin Gaye and Al Green. The perfect soundtrack for their love life.

“Even the belt’s the same,” Bucky noted as he slid it out of the buckle, nipping the skin at the base of Steve’s throat with his sharp teeth. When it was off he gave the belt a little snap, hitting the curve of Steve’s left ass cheek, and his eyes widened. Oh yeah, Bucky really was frisky.

“Really, he did the most amazing job.” He kind of wanted Bucky to smack him again.

“Remind me to send Dmitri a thank-you gift.” Bucky hesitated, maybe trying to pull the thread of a thought tighter. “I don’t got a tie. Might have to use this belt to...hold you still.” Instead of tossing it behind him the way he’d done in ’43, he laid it carefully on the bed, and Steve thought, damn, I hope so. Bucky circled him to drop behind, palms flat to Steve’s hips, sliding them down, down, carefully avoiding contact with his dick, and then he rocked his own hips up against Steve’s ass, pressing the metal hand to Steve’s erection, unyielding.

“Yeah, that’s...that’s the ticket.”

“Oh, is it? Couldn’t tell from the drool escaping your mouth there.” The back zipper was sliding down now—it had to be with Bucky’s teeth, because his hands were still framing Steve’s crotch. When it was halfway down, he asked, “All the same zippers and snaps, too?” He’d loved taunting Steve back then by unzipping or unsnapping everything as excruciatingly slowly as possible, making Steve beg. “That other uniform had a lotta fancy zippers too, didn’t it?”

Steve reached behind his head, pulling Bucky’s mouth forward for a kiss, and he leaned against Bucky, reveling in the sensation of his hands exploring the costume. There was something about the mismatched hands—one rigid, one pliant—that did a number on Steve’s brain.

“You mean that awful one they gave me when I came out of the ice? Jesus, I hated that thing,” Steve said acidly, “it made no sense—random zippers on my thighs, inside the top half. Who thought that would be useful? Like you’re going to shove a spare grenade inside your pants leg or something, a knife. The reason cargo pockets are on the outside of the pants is because you can’t run or hold things inside the legs of your goddamn trousers.” He shook his head in disgust. “And that cowl was horrible, the helmet was way too tight and covered my ears, and the front of the top half was really easy to rip open. You coulda just pulled the whole thing off me in a fight, one of them almost did. Don’t even get me started on the ‘utility’ belt.”

“Didn’t mean to bring up your haunting battle scars,” Bucky said, a still-predatory smile on his mouth. Poor Bucky—he had no idea what a sore spot he’d poked.

“It was awful, I’m just saying. First thing I made them do was design me a new uniform when I joined SHIELD. Hadn’t even signed the paperwork. I know they meant well and they based it off the stage costume, but dear god.”

“You always said you hated this thing, though, and yet here you are.”

“I hated it until I found out what it did to you. And what you did to me when I wore it.”

“So that’s what this is about. Wanted to see if I remembered enough to be your little Pavlov’s dog if you wore the outfit.” He slipped his hands into the back of the trunks and gently tugged them down. “Well, pal, I am here to tell you: woof woof.” His fingers squeezed Steve’s rump really hard, and Steve bit back a moan. “Believe me, it’s a red cape in front of a bull. Nothin’s changed that.” He took one of Steve’s gauntleted hands in his and brought it to his mouth, inhaled the new leather scent, mouthed at the palm. Holy hell.

“A few things have changed.” Steve dipped his head, licking along Bucky’s plush lips, pushing his mouth open with rough, wet kisses that left them both wobbly and breathless.

“A few.” Somber all of a sudden, Bucky stared at him with a face that seemed to say I’m busted, but don’t throw me away just yet and it made Steve’s heart crack in two. He took the gauntlets off, sifted through Bucky’s hair, ran his thumb gently along Bucky’s brow, back and forth. “The only way through it is through it,” Bucky’d said once when he got like this and Steve wanted only to be here for him, give him whatever he needed, even if it meant putting the brakes on his evening plans. Then Bucky shrugged, gave Steve a tender kiss, slipped back into teasing mode by throwing a despairing glance at the pirate boots. “We gotta get those off you to get the—what do they call ’em now, booty shorts off, remember.”

“Trunks,” Steve insisted, but Bucky had never been willing to call them that, particularly since it riled Steve up so much.

“Sure. Whatever you say.” Drawing a deep breath, Bucky kissed him and put his hands on Steve’s chest, muscling him back step by step till his legs hit the edge of the bed. After he pushed Steve to the mattress, Bucky pressed his face to Steve’s groin while he slowly slipped the boots off, one by one, mouthing him through the fabric. Steve was already damp there and Bucky only made it wetter; he squirmed with delight. “Least we’re not in a war zone anymore, we can wash this thing when we’re done with it.” He wasn’t certain if that was Bucky hoping they’d get more use out of the costume or a simple observation.

The uniform wasn’t the only thing in the way—Bucky pulled his sweatshirt off to toss it behind him, staring at Steve with those glimmering baby blues—and unbuttoned his jeans, though he didn’t take them off, simply slipped them down his hips till Steve could see his erection outlined through his underwear, and he palmed his cock as Steve forgot to breathe. He would not last long at this rate. Returning to his earlier focus, Bucky pulled Steve’s shorts off, biting along the inside of his legs as he went, exactly the way Steve liked it: hard enough to leave a mark for a few minutes yet not break the skin. Once the shorts were off, Bucky rubbed his metal hand over Steve’s cock and that was it, he shot off inside the tights—the first orgasm of the evening. Though who was counting, really.

“That’s my boy,” Bucky murmured, bringing him through it; when he eventually subsided, Steve wrapped his legs around Bucky and hauled him up atop him. One of their happiest discoveries in this modern life was their mutual, kind of insane, refractory period, so Steve needn’t hold back anymore, Bucky could go as long as Steve could: he had plans, after all, plans that involved getting Bucky off as often Steve once had when he was the only one with a serum-enhanced body. He flipped them over so Bucky was lying on the bed as Steve straddled him, pinning his arms above his head—Bucky wriggled beneath, face bright with anticipation.

“I am, you know: yours. Always have been, always will be.” Bucky swallowed hard.

With gentle pressure Steve scraped his nails down Bucky’s chest, over the peak of his nipples to his sides and then his flesh arm. All the while Bucky shivered and sighed, eyes closed: he loved being scratched as much as Steve enjoyed being bitten, and Steve would sometimes swirl his nails around on Bucky’s skin for long minutes at a time, watching the goosebumps rise, savoring his shivers and moans, how he would arch into it and purr like a cat. Steve pulled his cowl off for a better view; Bucky almost stopped him but then licked his lips, nodded to go ahead. At his cue Steve shifted down the bed, pulling Bucky’s jeans off with one hand, scratching along his skin with the other, under the briefs’ waistband on his external obliques and his thighs, around to the small of his back. As soon as he breathed over Bucky’s cock he was coming, hips arcing up as if his cock sought Steve’s mouth, fingers clutching the back of his neck. “Jesus fuck...that was unexpected,” Bucky said in between panting breaths. “Feel like a damn teenager.”

“The purple pair. My favorite,” Steve commented as he rubbed his thumb over the wet spot on the boxer briefs, snapped the waistband, and when Bucky was finally relaxing Steve peeled them off, staring down at his gorgeous fella, so satisfied and ruined already. The music was now playing Etta James’s “I’d Rather Go Blind”; Steve stopped to listen and sink into one of his favorite songs, swaying with her voice.

“So, you gonna tell me what brought this on? I ain’t complainin’, god knows, but this” —he flicked the star on Steve’s chest— “seems like more than just an exercise in seeing whether you could replicate it or not.”

Steve spread himself over Bucky, kissing his mouth, his neck. “I got no complaints about our sex life. Think we’ve embraced modern mores and customs pretty fucking well.” Bucky reached up under the top, circling Steve’s right nipple with his metal fingers as he spoke, the thrill of it curling through his groin like a lick of flame, down to his toes. “But sometimes it seems as if you’re holding back. Like you’re afraid if you tease me or push the limits...that means you’re still dangerous. I kept remembering the spark in your eyes the first time I wore this, how it made you feel better at a time when things were pretty rough.” Bucky pinched his nipple, tugging, and Steve let out a little groan, thrusting his cock against Bucky’s helplessly, chasing more pleasure. “I don’t care if I look like an idiot, just seeing that wicked grin on your face again is worth it.”

His face was sober, now, thoughtful as he listened to Steve, but he didn’t say anything, only slid his arms around Steve’s waist and hooked a leg behind his ass, pressing Steve tighter against him. That was a pretty satisfactory response.

“I’m torn between taking the rest of this costume off with my teeth and making you leave it on while I debauch you some more.”

“The tights are coming off. I want—” but Steve could feel his face turning red, even in this anything-goes age he still had trouble saying certain words out loud. No trouble doing those things, he never had, especially not with Bucky, but saying the words was...

“Mm-hmm.” Bucky wasn’t budging—he was going to make Steve say it.

“Your mouth, your fingers. There,” and he wiggled his ass for emphasis. At Bucky’s long-suffering sigh, Steve rolled his eyes. “On my ass. Inside my ass, okay?”

Oh, that brought out the megawatt smile. “Your wish is my command.” Steve damn well hoped so.

Somehow that emboldened Steve to say more: “The other week, when you had your metal fingers in me, I wanted more of them. I wanted your whole hand.” Bucky’s eyes went round and the tip of his tongue snaked out, touched his upper lip.

He’d had a couple fingers of his flesh hand inside Steve, pulling wave after wave of orgasm out of him, when Steve, wrung out and blissed out and all his filters shorted out, had asked Bucky to try the left hand. Bucky’d already proven how smooth the metal was when he locked it—“don’t do me much good if water or all sorts of crap gets inside there”—and it drove Steve wild when he jerked Steve’s cock with it, so rigid and slick and otherworldly smooth in a way skin wasn’t. But Steve also didn’t want Bucky to think he was fetishizing the hand—it wasn’t an object for his sexual gratification, it was a part of Bucky’s body, a part of him now. Bucky had his own mixed-up feelings about it, once saying that it was a hell of a lot better than the alternative, yet also admitting that it had taken him a long time to reach a place of acceptance, once he knew he had been whole.

“I took the liberty of...uh...getting.” Steve stopped, stuck for words that didn’t sound clinical or disgusting. Bucky favored him with a look that said aren’t you darling, though that didn’t make it any easier to say.

“All nice and clean?” His superior grin was infuriating. But he hopped off the bed, pointing a finger at Steve: “Stay there, don’t you move.” He came back from the bathroom with towels and—a can of Crisco?

Where did Steve even start? Bucky jumped in while he was still formulating a thought. “You’re so cute when you’re stupid.” Quickly, Bucky tossed the towels on the bed and set the can nearby, then hauled the tights down and off before Steve had time to react. Both of them were already hard and Steve looked at Bucky’s cock, tried to reach for it, but Bucky shook his head, adding a “no can do.” He pulled Steve’s legs up over his shoulders, rubbing, stroking. That metal arm was so strong, it lifted Steve like he was a handful of feathers; Bucky slid a pillow under Steve, tossed the towels down.

He’d been planning something, too: Steve was delirious at the thought of what Bucky wanted to do to him. Bringing the costume home was some kind of wonderful coincidence, icing on the cake. “You think you’re the only one who wants to explore this sorta stuff? Modern mores and customs, remember? The Internet. All the things we never even imagined back then.”

Now Steve wondered if perhaps this did feel to Bucky like he was some awful prosthetic-arm fetishist, when Bucky cleared his throat. “So yeah, I can do that,” he said, his voice bottomed out and hoarse. “I was kinda hoping you might want something like that.” He jerked his head to the side. “Did a little research after that time, Internet was very helpful. Everyone seems to have their favorite stuff, but some fellas were saying Crisco worked really good, and it felt like...like it was right. For us.” They’d used it plenty of times when they were young—it was familiar, nostalgic even—and it made Steve burst into laughter that things had come full circle. Who the hell could have predicted that. “We also got the...you know,” and he gestured toward the nightstand, blushing. “The vet stuff, and the regular ones we use.”

Jesus god, talking about this made James Buchanan Barnes blush. “I just didn’t want you to think—to feel like I was focusing on your arm. It’s not an object, I know that. It’s a part of you now, it’s a part of what you are. It’s yours.”

He was still pink across his cheeks and god, it was fantastic, the blush brought out the faint freckling on his pale skin. “No, I know that. Stevie. Of course I know that.” His hands slipped under Steve’s ass to lift higher, slipping another pillow underneath. “Was just thinkin’ about the names of some of the—you know, products.” Bucky shook his head, like he still couldn’t believe the things people got up to these days. Well, neither could Steve sometimes. “Boy Butter, Elbow Grease. Up Yours. Couldn’t believe what I was seein’.”

“Yeah, I got a crash course in modern lubrications from Tony, even though I didn’t want one. He thinks he’s so clever, but he didn’t know that K-Y had been around back in our day. Always trying to get a rise outta me, so he started tossing out names like Back Door. No sense of shame.”

With a sarcastic brow lift, Bucky glanced pointedly at Steve’s raging hard-on before waving at the nightstand drawer. “Neither do we, apparently.”

“Well, then, I suppose we should get to it, make use of all this research you slaved over.” Bucky caressed Steve’s thighs, calves, to the ankles. He kissed the inside of Steve’s knees, his fingers brushing Steve’s perineum—he quivered, a keening noise escaping his throat.

“What do you want first, fingers or mouth?”

Mouth, god.

“Mmm, that’s my boy,” and Steve didn’t care if he kept saying that, he could say it a thousand times a night, Steve would never tire of it. Barry White was back again, crooning that he couldn’t “get enough of your love” and Steve knew that feeling so, so well: Bucky was here, alive and in the 21st century with him, and Steve was still his boy, still his everything.

He shifted down the bed and licked a hot wet stripe up Steve’s cock, then dipped lower to his ass, tongue teasing around the edge of Steve’s hole before bringing his whole mouth to bear—his hot, wet mouth, his tongue and his teeth and his lips, and it was glorious. Bucky fucked him with his tongue in exactly the way that drove Steve craziest, he was helpless to do anything besides writhe against his sly, wicked mouth and whisper Bucky’s name, clench fingers in his hair, or pull feebly at his own dick till he came, all over the red and white stripes of the uniform top. Why did he still have that goddamn thing on? Very gently, once the trembling stopped, Bucky pulled Steve’s legs from over his shoulders.

“There you go, dirtying up the stars and stripes some more,” Bucky said, insolently wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and licking his lips, looking best pleased with himself as he knelt between Steve’s spread legs. “You look so good filthy.” He reached over and unsnapped the plastic lid on the Crisco, staring at Steve the whole time, and the smell of it rushed at Steve, hurling him back to their little place in Brooklyn and their hot, steamy bedroom and oh god it was wonderful.

“Can I pleeease take this off now?” Bucky traced his mouth along Steve’s leg, up and down, gazing at him from under those sooty lashes. “At least just the top part. I’ll leave the undershirt on.” Bucky’d always liked the long-sleeved white undershirt back then, the way it hugged Steve’s new muscles.

“Christ, you’re fussy.” Yet he unzipped it the rest of the way, slid it off over Steve’s head, settling Steve back down just the way he wanted him.

“Wait—I want to get you off again first,” Steve said, stroking Bucky’s half-hard cock.

Bucky closed his eyes, let Steve work him till he was fully hard again. “No need,” he said eventually, opening those beautiful blue eyes and smiling down at Steve, stroking Steve’s belly to his cock, his touch feathering over his balls, tantalizing and promising. “I’m good right here.”

All right, Steve thought, if that was true, he was good to go, relaxed and ready and relishing the anticipation he felt. Bucky knew just how to wind Steve up: he was slow and deliberate with each step, his eyes almost never leaving Steve’s as he slicked metal fingers, teased around Steve’s hole, allowing the Crisco to warm and soften against his heat before carefully inserting first two fingers, then three, then four. In a dim part of Steve’s mind he could hear Al Green singing “Here I am, baby, come and take me, take me by the hand” and he tried not to laugh.

Jesus, it was so good: that burn as he was stretched open, watching Bucky watch him as though he was the greatest show on earth. Metal fingers curled against Steve’s prostate, sent a spike of pleasure all the way to his fingertips and toes and his whole body warmed; Steve closed his eyes, drowning in pleasure, pulled down by waves which engulfed him over and over as Bucky toyed with him. Eventually his fingers slipped free and Steve almost whined.

“God, look at you, you’re wrecked and we ain’t even made it to the main event.” After a few minutes, Steve managed to open his eyes: a slight sheen of sweat glowed on Bucky’s face—Steve wanted to lick it off. Somewhere back there he’d come again, though there wasn’t much left in him and he swiped idly at his belly. He’d completely lost track of time and the playlist seemed to have skipped ahead by quite a few songs to Sarah Vaughan. “You love this, don’t you? Getting fucked, any way you can. You always loved it—and I loved to give it to you, didn’t I?” The costume was magic: back then Bucky had always been the talker between the two of them, would keep up a steady stream of patter during sex, telling little stories or commenting on the proceedings, and Steve had always reveled in that. But this new Bucky had a reserve, a cool stillness deep within himself, so carefully contained by necessity; now the outfit had let a bit of the old Bucky peek through and the cold, hard stone that had sat in the pit of Steve’s chest for so long shattered into joy.

With a sigh, Steve pulled his lower lip between his teeth, and Bucky shuddered at the sight. “Buck, this is so good, you gotta try it.”

“Maybe next time, sweetheart. Right now we got something else to try.” He rubbed little circles around Steve’s belly, up under the shirt to his nipples. Adding more lube to his metal hand and Steve’s ass, Bucky brought his thumb in under the fingers, let it warm some more, and slid the blunt-tipped fingers of his metal hand inside, as tenderly and carefully as he could.

Although he was relaxed and eager, Steve still felt the muscles clamp hard as Bucky’s hand nudged further in; he stopped and stroked Steve’s belly, asking, “You okay? Want me to stop?”

Steve shook his head. It felt weird, but not— “It’s like...it’s a little like a bruise, maybe, but not in a bad way.” For much of his life, pain had been a constant low-level hum underneath the music of pleasure, and even before the serum those two things had been woven together. He didn’t seek out pain, necessarily, but he could embrace it when it was there, when it was wrapped up with pleasure, with the things Bucky did to him. “It’s different, a good kind of different. Full and tight.” He took Bucky’s right hand, pressed the palm to his lips. “You won’t hurt me. You know how to make me feel so good.” It was all good, every bit of it, even the strange sensations that were making him feel so full, so stretched.

As Bucky kept sweeping his right hand over Steve’s belly, he slowly pushed those smooth fingers in—then his entire metal hand was inside Steve, all the way inside, and it wasn’t like anything else he’d ever experienced: he was too full, Bucky’s hand was so smooth and slick and huge, he couldn’t move or breathe for a moment. “There’s no—play in the hand, it’s so hard and smooth—god, it’s amazing. Strange and just—amazing.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky sounded incredibly amused, but Steve couldn’t keep his eyes open to see if there was a smirk—he was riding on more of that full-body thrill that surrounded him, engulfed him; he didn’t want Bucky to touch his cock, that would be too much. At his ear, Bucky whispered “I’m gonna close my fingers now” before he stuck his tongue in Steve’s ear, bit the lobe; Steve couldn’t keep himself from letting out a wail at the blast of sensations that hit all at once all over, a shower of sparks in his head.

“What—what does it feel like for you?” Steve gasped. He was sailing, almost like being drunk again, but before he got too high he wanted to know what Bucky was getting, too.

“Incredible. Warm and...I don’t know how to describe it.” Tony had made numerous updates to Bucky’s arm, tied in sensors to some of his nerves so that Bucky could feel more than simply pressure: certain levels of heat and cold, a few different textures, moisture. “Soft, I guess—it’s not like touching membranes with my real hand, but it’s close. I could feel your muscles contract, more than just pressure, it’s tight and so warm. Incredible, how tight and soft and warm.” Though his vision was foggy and his brain lust-addled, Steve was almost in tears at what he saw: Bucky’s eyes wide with wonder, his face tender and illuminated as he gazed down at Steve, mouth open. “Jesus, you look like a painting. You’re like the fucking Ecstasy of St. Theresa.” His flesh hand stroked Steve’s thigh as he moved his metal hand slowly back and forth.

Swept away by this symphony of sensations, Steve forgot where he was, how long he'd been under. After a while he realized Bucky was murmuring about taking his hand out. "Already?"

There was a sharp huff—Bucky laughing. "Steve, I’ve had my hand in your ass for, like, twenty minutes, I swear."

And Steve found he couldn’t even complain, only roll his head around, high as a fucking kite. Slowly, slowly, he came back to himself as Bucky kissed his mouth and his cheeks, stroked his hair.

“Hey, handsome, there you are.” Bucky smiled and grabbed a towel to wipe his hand off. “We got a lot of cleanup to do.” But Steve didn’t mind, this part felt familiar.

He reached out blindly to take hold of Bucky’s dick. “Later. Need to do something about this,” he slurred, and Bucky laughed low in his throat before muttering, “You are lit. It’s like we’ve been bar crawling and you’re still ninety pounds soaking wet.”

“Oh hey.” That was all the indignation Steve could muster.

“You could hold your liquor, though, ’specially for a little fella. You could always hold your own, more’n anyone ever gave you credit for. I remember that...” and there was such a surprised cast to his voice, his eyes bright with the memory. Every day new things returned to Bucky as the damage to his brain repaired itself; they weren’t all good memories, but he’d said once that no matter how nightmarish they might be, any fragment of his past was still a good one.

The velvety skin of Bucky’s cock was warm in Steve’s hand; he could stroke it for hours but that wouldn’t be fair to Bucky. “I’m still so open, need to come back to earth. Why don’t you fuck me? I want to feel you come inside me.” His ass still felt a little numb; there was no way he could stand, either. Only—he tried to shimmy the sweat-damp undershirt off but he was still so bonelessly weak. Bucky shook his head, pursing his lips, lifting Steve up to help him peel the shirt off, then tossed it behind him. He spotted the belt still laying at the foot of the bed and thought briefly about having Bucky tie his arms above his head, but he was far too wobbly for more play, coasting.

“You gotta be careful when you say things like that,” Bucky said, raspy. “A fella could come from that kinda talk.”

“Quit dawdling. Stick it in, get this show on the road.” Steve didn’t even have it in him to be embarrassed at how giddy he sounded, but he was perfectly willing to wiggle his ass and squeeze Bucky’s dick in a show of desperation.

“Oh, you’re a tempting morsel.” He dropped his head, sucked Steve’s nipple, and Steve reached up to cup the back of his neck. “Let’s put you on your belly, okay? Give your legs a rest.” It was such a Bucky thing to do: it made Steve’s heart feel too big, too swollen with love.

And Bucky knew Steve liked it this way: the heavy press of his body above him, shoulders to thighs, hair falling around Steve’s face and neck as Bucky dropped kisses along his fiery skin, Steve’s legs spread wide and Bucky’s cock filling his ass. The way Bucky’s thrusting pushed Steve’s cock, hard again, against the bed and the soft scrape of the towel. “This is okay, right? You must be so oversensitive by now.” Steve grunted approval.

There was that patter again—Bucky telling him how good he felt, how perfect he was, how all he wanted to do was make Steve feel this good, too, forever and ever—and Steve reached up, pulled the still pretty slippery metal hand down, interlacing their fingers. The tempo of Bucky’s hips sped up, breath shallowed out, and Steve’s name on Bucky’s lips became more frantic: he could feel Bucky spill hot inside him, pulse after pulse, until he stopped moving and pressed his forehead to Steve’s shoulder.

“That’s it, I’m callin’ it,” Bucky said quietly, lips to Steve’s skin. “Time of death oh eight hundred or thereabouts.” It could have been tomorrow for all Steve knew; Johnny Mathis was crooning "Misty." Bucky’s right hand stroked up and down Steve’s arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and Steve could hardly keep his eyes open anymore. Somewhere in there he’d come again, though it felt as though he had nothing to show for it, no wet spot that he could tell. But when Bucky slipped out of him Steve could feel his spunk trickle down over his balls and his thigh. “You destroy me. That ain’t changed in eighty years. Never gonna change.”

He made a half-hearted attempt to roll onto his side; Bucky was right, they should clean all this sloppy goop off but he just wanted to stay here forever, lost in this warm, dreamlike cocoon. Bucky swept him into his arms instead, hooking a leg over Steve’s thigh. “How much you pay for that replica?”

“None of your beeswax, bub. Besides, it could have cost a million bucks and I’d consider it money well spent.” He cracked an eye open to look at Bucky, whose eyes still glittered in the low light—exactly what Steve had hoped might happen by getting that costume made. They’d had some amazing times with it back in the day; Steve looked forward to all the new memories yet to come.

“Worth every goddamn penny. We are keeping that outfit. Maybe we should have him make a couple extra, just in case.”

As Steve allowed himself to drift off to sleep, a totally new plan took shape in his mind: he could have Dmitri make a replica of Bucky’s famous blue jacket and those trousers. Yes—yes, he could definitely do that.