It’s one of those days when Steve’s entire body just aches. He thinks by now he should’ve learned his lesson, what with agreeing to pose in the buff for Anatomy of Art for not just the normal three, but four classes today. In a row. It’s not that he’s not fit—he is—it’s just that his professors had him posing in the most ridiculous stances today. Steve had to stand on one leg for god knows how long—too fucking long, in any case. He’s tired: exhausted. The only thing that got him through the last two hours of hell was the fact that he was not only getting extra credit for his senior seminar on art education, but he was also getting paid. That, and the fact that his apartment is half a block away from campus, just a short five-minute walk from the arts building. He barely makes it up the stairs to the third floor, just wanting nothing more than a hot shower to ease his sore muscles and relax.
Bucky hears the tell-tale sound of Steve’s keys jingling in the lock and looks up from his organic chemistry book, feeling dazed from staring at the same paragraph for so long. Steve’s arrival is a welcome respite, even if he comes in groaning and shuffling his body histrionically. Bucky just grins at him and shakes his head, closing his book and heading into the kitchen. He starts making them both sandwiches, knowing by now that Steve almost always forgets to eat when he’s modeling—“It’s not modeling, Buck. Prof. Keyes calls it ‘Physical Inspiration.’”—before he crosses back over to where Steve’s face-planted on the couch, taking a bite of his own sandwich, before he says, “Want it?” or something that sounds faintly like it, holding out the other tomato and turkey on rye for Steve.
The latter man twists his head with a loud groan that makes Bucky roll his eyes before he reaches up and snags it, taking a large enough bite that Bucky doesn’t know how he’s not choking on it. “Thanks.”
At some point in Steve’s post-sandwich stupor, he flips over and lets Bucky finally sit back on the couch—still their only real piece of furniture after two and a half years in the apartment—well, if you don’t count the leaking bean-bag and the slightly broken dining room chairs—before he starts telling Bucky all about the crazy poses he had to be in for the different mediums—“Who even needs to know how to draw armpits, I mean really.”—and about how the freshmen in the front row just wouldn’t stop staring at him—and by him, he of course means his dick—which sets Bucky off like no other. He laughs until tears start forming in his eyes and only stops when Steve lifts his foot and kicks him in the stomach.
“Sorry, sorry. S’so funny, though. It was probably the first cock they’ve ever seen.” Steve tries to kick him again, but Bucky just grabs his ankles and wraps himself around them, smiling over at him. “Aww, Stevie! You were someone’s first! You totally defiled their innocence!” And then he’s giggling and Steve can’t even pretend to stay mad when faced with that.
“Shuddup,” he grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest and then groaning at the stretch of strained muscles. He closes his eyes. “‘M tired, Buck. Everything hurts.”
“I know, Stevie.” Bucky lets go of Steve’s legs and gets up before he’s turning and offering a hand to Steve. “How ‘bout a massage?”
It’s Steve’s turn to grin, accepting the invitation without qualm. Steve knows from personal experience just how good Bucky can be with his hands, and won’t look a gift-horse in the mouth.
It’s a rare occurrence that Bucky offers something like this, even with the fact that he’s going into sports medicine and therapeutic work is sort of what he does. But after years of too many friends and family members constantly nagging him to give them a massage, he’d put a ban on them sometime before last summer. But now Bucky was offering and who was Steve to say no?
Steve’s already lying naked on his bed when Bucky walks into Steve’s room with a couple of towels, massage oil, and some biofreeze. Bucky doesn’t blink an eye at the sight spread out in front of him, having seen too-many times over the years Steve Rogers in various stages of undress, but it doesn’t mean he’s not going to take a moment to appreciate the long lines of Steve’s back and the curve of his ass.
“You gonna stand there all night?”
Bucky shakes his head a little and grins, turning the lights on low an appreciating that Steve had the forethought to light some candles. “Why?” He asks, arranging his things on the nightstand and dropping a fluffy towel over Steve’s bare ass before he knees onto the side of the bed, practically purring, “Someone eager to have ol’ Buck’s fingers on him again?”
“Mmm. Maybe.” Steve bites his lip a little at the statement, cheeks going just a tinge red as he looks away, settling the side of his face against the mattress.
Bucky wants to say something, wants to let Steve know how much he wants it, too. How much he thinks about exploring every inch of Steve’s body like he only gets to in his dreams, but he remains silent.
It’s been a while since the two of them flirted this line—this strange dance they do when the mood is just weird enough to let them. Bucky remembers only a handful of times over their friendship when they toed the line—but, lately, it’s become less of a game and more of a push; Bucky wants to push, wants to see what will happen if they both just stop thinking and let it happen.
Bucky clears his throat and spreads some oil over his hands, warming it, before he presses his fingertips to Steve’s skin. He makes slow work of it, kneading Steve’s muscles into pliancy, reducing the hard planes of his back and shoulders to something soft and warm. Steve lets out these hurt little breaths every once in a while when Bucky finds a knot to work out, and Bucky constantly has to remind him to breathe and relax until he finally does. Bucky works through the rotation in his head, works his way clinically down Steve’s body, grabbing more oil when he needs to, moving around the bed to find the best vantage point—he tries not to notice the way Steve’s thighs are so solid beneath his fingers, or the way his calves twitch when he touches them, or the downright majestic moan Steve lets out when Bucky digs his thumb hard into the arch of Steve’s foot—then has Steve roll over. Bucky snags the towel covering Steve and lifts it up a little, at least trying for modesty when Steve flips, but the towel really does nothing to disguise how much Steve likes this—and yeah, Bucky knows all about how it’s just an involuntary reflex more often than not, but there’s still a little thrill that runs through him when he starts to massage Steve’s front, moving, again, from his neck and shoulders down to the tips of his toes.
Bucky doesn’t know how long he’s been massaging Steve by the time he has him roll back over so Bucky can finish up, but Steve’s skin is warm and pink and glistening in the flickering candlelight and Bucky kind of wants to stay there forever. He massages Steve’s back once more, knowing this is where Steve holds most of his stress. At some point, he crawls between Steve’s legs, needing a different point of leverage for the last stubborn knot at the base of Steve’s spine. Bucky’s fingers are starting to feel tired, but he works a little more at the muscle, wanting to make Steve feel good, needing to give Steve some small semblance of peace.
It isn’t until Steve shifts against the mattress that Bucky realizes just how close he is to Steve’s ass. He’s leaning over Steve, enough distance that he’s not actually touching him anywhere other than with his hands, but not far enough that he can’t feel the heat radiating from Steve’s body. And Steve’s ass is right there below him, on display, Bucky apparently having forgotten to grab the towel before Steve rolled back over. And, fuck, that ass.
Again, it’s not the first time Bucky’s seen it—no, he thinks the first time was in middle school when someone had dared Steve to moon a girl, and back then, there had been nothing so sexy about his awkward, boney ass, even if Bucky remembers every detail from that day with a smile—but there’s something so different about Steve laid out underneath Bucky, the sweet scent of lavender in his nose, and the low haze of the light, that makes all of Bucky’s inhibitions go out the third story window.
He moves his hands down slowly, massaging from Steve’s tailbone to his ass like it’s no big thing. Steve makes a small sound at the contact and shifts again, lifting his head a little to look back over his shoulder at Bucky, eyes slightly unfocused, mouth pink and a little swollen, like he’s been biting his lip to stifle his sounds.
And Bucky doesn’t know why he’s picking this moment, right now, to push at this line, but he does it anyway—slowly dragging both thumbs down along the part of his ass, and then spreading his fingers wide over the pert cheeks before kneading at the flesh.
Steve’s still looking over his shoulder at him, and it feels like the time is infinite—Steve looking at Bucky and Bucky looking back—questioning, assessing, curious, scared—and then Bucky’s moving his hands again, the oil smoothing the way for his fingers to glide over Steve’s skin. But it’s not enough, this, right now, and Bucky needs to keep pushing at Steve, needs to see him break, so he uses his thumbs to pull Steve’s cheeks apart, to pull them tight until he knows without looking that Steve’s rim is on display, and then he swipes an oil-slicked thumb over it, hoping for any kind of reaction from the other man.
He doesn’t expect it when Steve comes alive like a livewire below him, his entire body twitching, a hoarse whimper leaving his throat as he finally breaks eye contact, momentarily shoving his face back down into the mattress. No one moves for a long moment, and then Bucky’s doing it again, this time with intent, this time watching his digit work, watching the way the oil shines just a little on Bucky’s thumb and the trail it leaves over Steve’s hole—
Bucky’s eyes snap back to Steve. He takes in Steve’s uncertain expression in the crease of his forehead, but also sees the way his mouth moves soundlessly open and closed, like he has a million things to say all at once—but then all he says is, “Bucky?”
And that one word somehow manages to fit in an infinite amount of questions that Bucky doesn’t know if he knows the answers to: But there is one thing for sure he does know. “I wanna make you feel good, Stevie. Will you let me? Can I touch you?”
Bucky moves a little closer to Steve’s back, settles himself a little more solidly on the bed, and bites his lip—holding an anticipatory breath at what will happen, hoping Steve will utter the words he desperately wants to hear, but knowing that if Steve says no, he’ll all but jump from the bed—only wanting this if Steve wants it, too.
“Fuck, yes.” Steve makes a sound in his throat and then he’s spreading those thick thighs just a little wider, just enough—
And, fuck him, but Bucky feels like he’s just been punched in the gut, so overwhelmed by the sight before him—by the man under him—that it takes him so much longer than it should for Bucky to touch Steve, so immured in Steve that Bucky’s entire world narrows down to the way his ass looks spread by Bucky’s fingers, the way Steve’s balls are resting heavy on the mattress, the way the dimples at the small of his back glint from the oil.
But then all at once, Bucky’s leaning down to the center of Steve’s body, licking a stripe from his balls to his tailbone, needing to taste him. He spreads Steve’s cheeks wider, looking at the way his rim is so tight, just like the rest of Steve’s body had been before Bucky got his hands on him—and he wants to use his tongue and fingers to do the same here, to make his body soft and pliant and wet.
The first real touch of Bucky’s tongue has Steve fisting at the sheets. Bucky works around his rim, gently, softly, with little kitten licks and small circles that he knows are just ghosts of what’s to come. His fingers flex against Steve’s suddenly tense backside, massaging at the flesh as his tongue gets to work. Steve’s salty sweat and scent surround Bucky and he loses himself in it, let’s his tongue explore the taste of him, loving the way the muscles start to give, start to work loose, start to soften and accept him in like he belongs there between Steve’s thighs. He finally presses the tip of his tongue inside and moans at the feel of the muscles of Steve’s ass giving for him, at the ways Steve tastes and the way his body shudders from Bucky’s touch. Bucky presses his mouth further against Steve’s ass, pushes his tongue further inside, and then starts to work his lips and tongue in tandem. He alternates between fucking Steve with his tongue, licking long stripes over his hole, mouthing at anything he can get his lips on—nibbling at the sensitive insides of Steve’s thighs, sucking on his balls, working his tongue over Steve’s perineum until the other man’s rolling his hips into the bed and letting out these throaty fucking sounds that go straight to Bucky’s dick—before he spreads Steve’s cheeks again, pulling back just enough to look at how wet and red and puffy his hole is getting from Bucky’s mouth. He takes a thumb and presses it to the rim, losing his breath at the way Steve’s body just sucks the tip inside, like he’s greedy for it, like he needs any part of Bucky he can get to fill him up.
“Fuck, Stevie,” Bucky’s voice sounds ruined, “you’re fucking beautiful. S’good. S’good for me.” And then he goes back to working his tongue in and out of Steve’s body, pressing as far into the tight heat as he can while he brings one hand down to stroke against the skin leading down from Steve’s hole, to cup his balls. Steve’s making so many delicious noises now, like he just can’t help himself, like being quiet would kill him—and Bucky faintly wonders if he can make Steve loud enough that they’d get their first noise complaint, because fuck, the mouth on this kid—and Bucky swears he’s harder than he’s ever been in his life.
His hand moves up, caressing Steve’s skin, until he’s able to press a fingertip in alongside his tongue. Steve’s hips shift back and Bucky moves his tongue away, watching for a moment as Steve fucks himself back onto Bucky’s digit, even as he’s making these terrible whimpering sounds. “Shh,” Bucky whispers, his other hand snaking up and down along Steve’s spine. “Know what you want, baby. You’re so good for me.” He licks his lips—they tingle, are a little numb, but he savors the feel and the flavor of Steve still on his tongue—“Lube?”
Steve groans out his frustration and uncurls a fist from the bunched-up sheet to point to the bedside drawer of his nightstand. Bucky keeps just the tip of his finger inside of Steve while he leans over, pulling open the first drawer, the luminescence of the room just enough for him to see the plastic bottle of lube. He grabs it, popping the cap of the lube and squirting some directly onto Steve’s hole just to see the way his body tenses, but then Bucky’s sliding in another finger, working the lube inside so he can stretch Steve in earnest—bending and flexing his fingers, spreading them, twisting, feeling for the place he knows will make Steve beg. He finds it on and upstroke, Steve’s body going taut, ass clenching around Bucky’s digits.
Bucky leans down and nips at Steve’s ass, watching as the bite pinks up a little. “D’ya like that, Stevie?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s pressing over Steve’s prostate again, feather-light, just enough to really tease the other man. This time he pulls his fingers out completely, trying his damn best to ignore the sounds Steve’s making at the loss. “C’mon, baby, lift your hips for me.” Bucky urges, his hands on Steve’s thighs as he guides him up, until Steve’s back is arches and his ass is in the air, legs able to spread wider like this. And Bucky gets his first real look at Steve’s cock—hard and so red and swollen that Bucky winces a little in sympathy, even as his own cock throbs in his now too-tight sweat pants. Steve’s cock leaks so much at the tip that Bucky bends down and takes the head into his mouth, sucking as hard as he can for a moment before he swipes his tongue over the slit and lets it drop—satisfied like a cat with cream when Steve lets out something akin to a sob.
He doesn’t expect it when Steve gets up on one shaky elbow to look back at him. “B-Buck. Please.”
And he looks so ruined like this—face flushed, eyes dark, sweat beading down his forehead, lips so swollen and red that it looks like he’s the one that’s been eating someone out for the better part of an hour.
And maybe Bucky’s just as ruined as Steve, because it takes too long for the words to come out, for him to form any thought at all. “Yeah. I got you.”
So this time, when Bucky adds more lube and presses three fingers into Steve’s ass, there’s no more teasing. He’s relentless with the way he strokes over Steve’s prostate, pressing hard and steady, Steve’s hips slamming back onto Bucky’s fingers, taking as much of him in as he can. It steals Bucky’s breath from his lungs to see Steve like this—so far from inhibitions, letting Bucky be the one to make him feel like this, to give him this. He’s so fucking beautiful like this, spread open just for Bucky, his greedy ass taking his fingers so good. Bucky bets he’d take his cock even better, knows that Steve’s body would just open up for him—already so stretched and wet and ready for him. And, fuck, Steve is just so perfect. So good. He’s everything.
Bucky doesn’t know when he’d started saying all of that aloud, but he suddenly realizes it when Steve just keeps whimpering things like, “Yes, fuck,” and “just for you,” and “want it so bad, Buck, want it all—want you,” until he finally just trails off into a mess of stuttering moans and whimpers, hips losing their cadence against Bucky’s fingers.
Bucky knows Steve’s close in the way his breath keeps catching, in the way his thighs are shaking, can feel it in how his ass tightens around Bucky’s fingers. Steve’s cock swings, titillating, between his legs. It’s only a split second decision that has Bucky reaching out with his spare hand to guide Steve’s cock back as he brings his mouth down and takes Steve between his lips. He takes as much of it in as he can from this angle, moving his head, just a little, just enough, so that his cock sinks in deeper, bitter and slippery soft on Bucky’s tongue.
He moves his fingers in time with the bobbing of his head—three, four times—and then moves his fingers from the base of Steve’s cock, up, to press firmly against his perineum, giving Steve as much stimulation as Bucky can, wanting—no, needing—this to be good for Steve, needing to show him with his lips and tongue and hands how much he cares.
Steve all but jerks off of the bed—back arching so hard that Bucky’s worried he might snap something, every muscle in his body constricting with his orgasm—letting out the most perfect, guttural sob that seems to last forever--Steve’s release hot and salty on Bucky’s tongue when he finally lets go. Bucky swallows it all, swallows him down, keeps pressing his fingers inside until Steve’s whimpering and shaking, small tremors and aftershocks wracking his body.
Bucky feels so hot all over, his clothes too constricting, his skin aflame. He lets Steve’s cock slip from his lips and pulls his fingers out, desperately using his other hand to shove his sweats and boxers down his thighs, wrapping the fingers that had been in Steve’s ass around his aching cock, stripping it fast and hard until he’s a little dizzy with it.
Steve’s still breathing hard, trying to recover, but he must hear the frantic sound of skin on slick skin, because he moves himself enough that he can look back at Bucky, so that Bucky can lose himself in those amazing baby blues. Bucky grips himself harder, thumbs at the spot on his head just beneath the slit, presses against it until he swears stars explode behind his eyes. He’s so close he can almost taste it—still licking the last of Steve’s come from his lips as Steve’s eyes track the movement.
He’s on fire: sinking into his own secret part of hell as Steve watches.
And then Steve says, “Come for me,” and Bucky does.
He lets out something that sounds like a sob of his own, body aching with the need to come, fingers gripping tighter, hand moving faster. Bucky’s vision whites out, his lungs gasping for air as he pulses over his own fist, onto the perfect canvas of Steve’s ass.
Bucky’s chest heaves as he gasps for breath, not able to take his eyes off of Steve’s skin where his come covers. Steve looks like such a perfect mess like this, lube and come glistening in the low light, eyes heavy-lidded as they stare up at him. Steve extends an arm out, an open invitation for Bucky. Bucky makes a small sound in his throat, collapsing next to Steve on the bed, not bothering to pull his pants up from around his thighs or to remove his sweat-soaked t-shirt, and crawls into Steve’s waiting arms.
They lie like that for a long moment—until Bucky catches his breath, until Bucky finds the strength to look over at Steve, their faces mere inches from each other’s. Steve’s still looking at him, a soft, easy smile on his lips. Bucky wonders if it could be this easy—if this small push was really all it takes for them—and, for a moment—he thinks, from the way Steve looked sated and relaxed for the first time in longer than Bucky can remember—maybe Steve was waiting for Bucky to make the first move all along.
Bucky closes his eyes for a moment when Steve lifts his hand and starts running his fingers through Bucky’s hair. He nuzzles into the touch and takes the opportunity to move just a little closer, to wrap one arm around Steve’s back until Bucky’s face is buried in Steve’s neck. He presses a kiss there; a soft, gentle thing. Steve grabs at Bucky’s hair, just enough that it has Bucky pulling back, worried that, out of everything, this is the thing that will be too much.
But Steve’s just looking at him with an expression that Bucky can’t read. “Kiss me,” he whispers into the space between them.
Bucky’s mouth goes dry. He swallows hard, “You know where my mouth’s been, right?”
The corner of Steve’s mouth quirks up, as if he’s saying Like I could ever forget, “Yeah.” A pause, “Kiss me anyway.”
So Bucky does.