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half the night you’re a dependable chap (then the too white teeth all night)

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Bucky doesn’t mean to be an utter creep.

The fact that he has to take a minute to tell himself that doesn’t paint a very flattering picture of his character, but Bucky’s usually very willing to embrace his mile-wide asshole streak. And he really didn’t mean to creep on Captain America while he pummels the everloving shit out of a punching bag. It just…happened.

He came to the gym to work out his own frustration. There’s an itch under his skin that has been gnawing at him for the better part of a week. Bucky’s familiar with it, and the years have taught him the best ways and the wise ways to get it under control. The two aren’t the same, and Bucky thinks he deserves credit for choosing the wise over the best at least seven times out of ten. That was what he was trying to do when he came to S.H.I.E.L.D at an unholy hour to run or punch shit until his muscles gave out. He chose this particular gym out of many because it was tucked out of the way, unpopular among most because it lacked the high-tech fittings of the newer ones. Bucky prefers those too when he wants to train, but when he wants to let out some steam and lose himself a little, this is where he comes.

It’s just unfortunate that the place is already occupied.

And yeah, the polite thing to do would have been to just leave. Joining the other inhabitant isn’t an option. The good captain is a right mess. Bucky’s intimately familiar with the sort of things that drive a man to this kind of controlled violence in the middle of the night, and they’re not things that welcome company. And once he got past that initial flash of irritation at being thwarted in his release, Bucky did mean to leave. He just made the mistake of first taking a good look at his unlikely kindred spirit.

Bucky knows Steve Rogers. Of course he does. They’re both part of Fury’s Avengers Initiative, and while Bucky got thrown into the Manhattan mess due to a mix of bad timing and a pesky sense of responsibility, Steve Rogers has been slotted for heavily marketed heroism since they chipped the ice off him. They worked well together, interacted minimally, and went their separate ways after the aliens were sent packing. Bucky returned to his usual S.H.I.E.L.D missions with Clint and Natasha, and Steve Rogers vanished on some soul-finding trip or something.

Bucky has never had any illusions that Fury benched his little pet project after the Chitauri were beaten, but world-ending threats are hardly common and maybe Tony Stark and Thor can superhero around in their free time, but the rest of them have actual jobs which involved threats of a lesser scale. Bucky’s happy enough to return to wetwork. There’s a reason they call him the Winter Soldier. Hawkeye and the Black Widow are no different.

But he has to admit that not in his wildest dreams did he expect to see Captain fucking America on Fury’s payroll. And he doesn’t know the man as anything but an excellent commander and history given flesh, but even he can see that wherever Rogers disappeared to for those few months and whatever he did in that time has done nothing to brighten his disposition.  

Natasha works closely with him, and given that Fury’s eager to make the best of the supersoldier under his command, those two spend a lot of time together. Bucky keeps an eye on them because he’d be a fool not to, but he stays the hell away because he knows what’s good for him.

Steve Rogers is a sad fucking man, but he’s a solider down to his bones, and Bucky’s always been weak to that particular combination of tragic eyes and fistfuls of blood.

And now, plastered to the walls and incapable of looking away from Rogers’s heaving chest and cracked knuckles, Bucky can feel that internal pendulum shift from wise to best.

He doesn’t speak a word, doesn’t even dare to breathe loudly until a vicious punch from Rogers sends the poor bag flying across the room, spitting sand everywhere. There’s no startled sound from Rogers. He doesn’t even freeze, just huffs like he’s inconvenienced by his inanimate victim’s inability to withstand the pounding.

Bucky bites his tongue so he doesn’t offer himself as a replacement. He has more tact than that, usually. It’s just that Rogers’s shirt is thin and white and translucent from the sweat drenching it, sticking to his sculpted torso like a second skin. Bucky’s pretty built himself and he’s earned every pound of that muscle, but Rogers looks like he could break Bucky in two without even trying.

Bucky kinda wants him to.

Caught in the clutches of that particular fantasy, he can’t help the way he jumps when Rogers suddenly speaks.

“Barnes. You need something, or you just gonna stand and stare all night?”

“You knew I was here?” Bucky blurts, and he’s still citing his lust-addled brain as an excuse, but that doesn’t fully abate the sharp sting of letting a near-stranger throw him off like this. Bucky fucking knows better.

Rogers finally turns around, lips thinned and brows furrowed. There’s a wealth of admonishment in that expression alone. Bucky swallows, the click of his throat echoing too loudly in his own head. But he’s curious too. Rogers shouldn’t have heard him. Bucky’s one of S.H.I.E.L.D ’s best assassins. His professional pride is on the line here.

For a long moment, Rogers just considers him. Bucky imagines he must make a weird sight, pressed flat against the wall and staring like a deer-in-headlights. He’s a goddamn embarrassment is what he is.

Rogers softens so suddenly that Bucky feels like someone punched him in the chest with soft blue eyes and the slight upward curve of lush pink lips.

“The serum enhanced all my senses, Barnes. I heard you in the hallway.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks, mouth moving automatically while his brain comes back online. “You seemed somewhat preoccupied.”

And just like that, the frown is back in place and that hint of a smile is gone. Bucky mourns the loss, but damn, he can breathe easier. He pushes off the wall, putting an extra sway to his hips as he struts to Rogers.

“Even so,” is all Rogers says, and his voice isn’t blank and cold the way Natasha’s gets when she wants you to know you pissed her off, but it is quiet and curt. Bucky doesn’t know Rogers well enough to read anything into it.

Silence falls, heavy and awkward. Rogers maintains eye contact, and Bucky gamely returns the same, prompted both by stupid stubbornness and fascination at the color of Rogers’s eyes. They’re an unreal blue, brighter than any damned sky or ocean. Nothing like Bucky’s own pretty but dull grey-blue.

After a minute or so, Rogers huffs again, amusement creeping into his expression. His smile is a little more obvious this time, and it’s unfair what that expression does to his face. Bucky swallows again, tongue-tied, and watches helplessly when Rogers turns away with a little nod and a sweep of his arm that’s probably meant to indicate that Bucky can have the gym.

Bucky stands there like an idiot until Rogers reaches for his duffel bag. Then, he panics.

“You ever think Stark’s right?”

Rogers straightens without grabbing his bag and turns to Bucky with a quizzical tilt of his eyebrow.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, Barnes. Tony says a lot of things. He thinks he’s right about all of it. I don’t.”

It doesn’t escape Bucky’s notice that Rogers’s tone lacks the disdain that dripped from him back when he and Stark tore into each other on the helicarrier. Bucky doesn’t know much about their relationship, but he does know that Rogers stayed in Stark Tower – or Avengers Tower as some, Stark included, have taken to calling it – for a couple of weeks. He doesn’t sound fond, exactly, but it’s obvious that Rogers’s little jab at Stark is more joking than mean-spirited. It’s like the man got cozy with everyone except Bucky after Manhattan.

He doesn’t like that. He won’t lie to himself and say that’s the only reason why he says what he does, but it’s part of it. The other part is no less selfish. It’s sure as fuck isn’t any less cruel.

Did everything special about you come out of a bottle, Cap?” Bucky asks, softly, a faux-innocent smile sweet on his lips.

Rogers goes very, very still. Bucky’s hair stands on end.

Unlike Stark, he does have a self-preservation instinct. He just doesn’t care much for listening to it.

“I don’t think it’s true,” Bucky adds casually, voice cool and betraying nothing of how his heart races inside. “I saw you in action after all. But why don’t you prove it to me? Let’s go a few rounds.”

Steve – and Bucky figures he can call the man Steve in the privacy of his own head now that he’s set on his path – blinks at Bucky, and by all means, the gesture should denote confusion and a measure of vulnerability, but Bucky just feels vaguely hunted and also like he’s been measured and found wanting.

It makes his blood burn.

“Well?” he asks, smirking. The suggestive cocking of his hips might just pass as confidence because the once-over Steve gives him is all assessment and no attraction.

“And what makes you think I have to prove shit to you, Barnes?”

Wow, swearing. Natasha did tell him that this man swears like a sailor when he’s well and truly worked up. It’s not that Bucky didn’t believe her, but he’s got to admit that it didn’t quite sink in until now. It doesn’t fit the golden image of the Captain that the country – the world – has embraced, but who even knows that Steve Rogers is like? Most people who knew are six feet under.

No wonder the guy’s obliterating gym equipment at fuck-o-clock.

“You don’t,” Bucky says, shrugging in that way he knows is both casual and infuriating. “But what have you gotta lose?”

It works. He can see the moment it works. Steve doesn’t say anything, just jerks his head to the mat at the center of the room and strides over. Bucky follows in his wake, eyeing his pert ass. God bless America.

There’s a tense moment where they size each other across the mat. Bucky, for all his ulterior motives, isn’t about to throw the fight. If Steve’s going to take him down, he’s damn well got to work for it. Steve, for his part, looks sharp and severe. Bucky takes a moment to feel jealous that this is probably the man Natasha gets to work with all the damn time and then he lunges.

He’s going to lose. One minute in, and he’s sure of that. Steve’s good, and maybe because Bucky challenged him like an asshole, he’s not being very nice about kicking his ass. Oh, sure, he’s holding back because Bucky has seen him punch through walls and the full brunt of his strength would turn Bucky’s bones to sawdust, but the speed and power of his hits has Bucky on the defensive.

He still holds his own for a while, mostly on the defensive but getting in a few good hits. A fist to the gut takes him down. He manages a wild blow with his left arm that glances off Steve and lands on his side, wheezing and instinctually curling around his stomach. He expects Steve to be on him any moment, but he just stands there watching Bucky with an unreadable look in his eyes.

Bucky rises to his knees. He considers, for a moment, getting up and continuing the fight. That’s mostly his pride talking, but that thing’s used to being beaten back down by the sharp slap of reality. You don’t become a regular sparring partner of the Black Widow without learning to do that fast.

So he stays on his knees and looks up at Steve, biting his split lips and licking up the blood.

Steve blinks, and for the first time since they began, looks a little uncertain.

“You sure showed me,” Bucky tells him, breathless for more than one reason. The view’s nice from down here, and Steve hasn’t moved from where he took Bucky down. He’s so close, the heat of him curling enticingly around Bucky, and it’s so, so easy to tip just forward.

He kind of…buries his face in Steve’s crotch. His sweatpants don’t hide much.

Steve jolts, making a sound that’s suspiciously like a yelp, but Bucky hooks fingers through his waistband before he can move away.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Bucky nuzzles in a little, cheeks heating to match the warmth of Steve’s skin. He’s not going commando, unfortunately, but it’s still very obvious that his dick is happier with Bucky than the man is.

“Figure I should continue to verify the serum’s effects,” Bucky says, grinning up at Steve. He wonders if there’s blood on his teeth. “You know me, Cap. I like to be thorough.”

Steve’s expression says that he does not, indeed, know Bucky at all and is close to counting his blessings for that. But he’s not as unaffected as he’s trying to seem either. Maybe his harsh breathing is from their spar, but the wet part of his lips sure isn’t. And see, Bucky knows it’s best if he’s careful here, if he treats Steve all delicately and seduce him with honeyed words. He doesn’t even know what Steve’s option on men fucking is, other than that his cock is pretty interested. Could just be physical. Bucky’s no stranger to how a good fight can affect you. Natasha likes to laugh at him about it.

He doesn’t think so though. His gaydar’s kinda screaming.

“Barnes,” Steve snaps, and he means it to be a deterrent, Bucky can tell, but the name comes out as husky as it’s commanding, and Bucky just moans softly into Steve’s pants, mouth opening over the growing bulge there.


It’s funny. Steve’s the only Avenger who calls him that. Clint and Natasha are close enough to use his preferred name. Stark never uses anything close to a proper name if he can help it. Thor uses his call sign or something fancy and grandiose like ‘Warrior of Winter.’ He hasn’t even had a conversation with Banner so that’s a moot point.

But Steve – Steve doesn’t call him James or Bucky or even Agent Barnes. In a fight, he’s always ‘Soldier.’ Otherwise, he’s Barnes.

Bucky’s never cared one way or the other before but now, he’s shuddering down to his toes at the rasp of his surname on that fucking pretty mouth.

“Yes, sir?” he says, half a gasp, and he almost doesn’t mean to say that, but only almost.

He chances another look at Steve’s face, isn’t surprised by how conflicted he looks. There’s pink of his cheeks, and it makes his eyes seem bluer, and Bucky wants to strip this man with his teeth and see how far down the flush goes. He settles for pressing his tongue to Steve’s clothed dick, sucking lightly. It’s awkward and the sensation alone doesn’t do jackshit for either of them, but Bucky knows the kind of sight he makes on his knees with his mouth red and open over a man’s cock.

“Please,” he whines, widens his eyes, and watches with triumph tucked behind his ribs as Captain America crumples.

There’s a pretty man on his knees acting like he’ll die if he doesn’t suck his cock, and Steve Rogers is a hero, not a saint.

It’s not even that far off the truth. Bucky feels desperate, aching in places he can’t touch, and each lungful of air assaults him with the scent of sweat and need and makes his gut tighten. It’s a relief when fingers sink into his hair and yank his head back because yeah, Bucky can do this, he can go where’s pulled, do as he’s told. It’s what he’s good for.

“You want this,” Steve says, and it’s half-question, half-wonder, and damn if that doesn’t go straight to Bucky’s head. Both of them. He nods, a little frantic, and groans when the movement stings his scalp.  

There’s another hand on his face, two fingers touching his lips, and Bucky doesn’t hesitate to open his mouth and suck them in. He means to tease, to give Steve a taste of what he can have if he’ll just let himself go, but Bucky doesn’t expect the fingers to slide right into his mouth, rough and proprietary, and hook.

Bucky makes a noise at the back of his throat, high and startled, but Steve just pries his mouth open. The pads of his fingers press down hard on Bucky’s tongue, and it’s such a little thing but so fucking filthy.

He wouldn’t have thought the good Captain had it in him, but Bucky doesn’t know this man at all, does he? There’s a glimpse, a flash in his head of all the things Steve can do to him, all the ways he can hurt Bucky, and his hips roll into the air, grinding against nothing. Bucky mumbles another apology, incoherent around the fingers in his mouth, but it gets the message across if the darkening of Steve’s eyes are any indication.

He slides his fingers out of Bucky’s mouth and down his chin, curls that big hand over his throat. He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t even hold too hard, but Bucky almost creams himself then and there.

Fuck,” he breathes, dazed, looking up at Steve with unconcealed awe.

“That what you want?” Steve asks, and his voice is calm again, unaffected like he’s not holding Bucky suspended between the tight grip on his hair and the whisper-sweet touch on his throat.

It takes Bucky a long moment to realize Steve’s actually waiting for an answer.

“Let me suck your dick. Please, Cap, sir, let me–”

Steve shakes him. Lightly and just once, but he still does it, using Bucky’s hair like a wound-up leash. He moans, can’t help it, and doesn’t feel a lick of shame.


Bucky hushes.

Steve lets go of him, and Bucky wants to whine but doesn’t, keeps the sound trapped in his throat. He’s not complaining a second later when Steve pushes down his sweatpants, and after a hesitating a moment and looking hard at Bucky, lets his underwear join the pile at his ankle.

Bucky stares. He can’t help it. Steve’s a mountain of a man and handsome as all hell, the kind Bucky would spread his legs for in a heartbeat and then never see again, but goddamn, this might make him come back for seconds. It’s a little ridiculous, how a dick that huge can be pretty, but if anyone could pull it off, it’d be Steve Rogers.

He almost begs again and gets as far as parting his mouth before he remembers. He pleads with his eyes instead, makes them wide and pitiful and turns them on Steve with a little whimper. Steve looks back with a complicated expression, half like he can’t believe this is happening and half like he wants to devour Bucky.

Bucky inches forward a little, the tip of Steve’s dick almost brushing his face, and whines, utterly shameless. Steve nods, a little jerky, and that’s all the permission he needs.

He almost chokes, getting his mouth on the thing, and Steve’s hand suddenly winding into his hair doesn’t help his finesse either. But practice counts for something and experience takes over before Bucky can make a fool out of himself after the show he put on. Steve’s a struggle to fit into this mouth, and Bucky’s got no illusions that he can take it all without working up to it all sweet and slow, but it doesn’t stop him from trying. The stretch makes the cut on his lip sting and bleed, and Bucky shivers at the thought of his blood marking up Steve’s cock. He drives forward again, wild and hungry, and almost chokes when Steve hits the back of his throat.

He’s yanked back with little ceremony, Steve’s grip unforgiving in his hair. The look on his face is little better, but Bucky’s gratified by his red cheeks and lust-dark eyes.

“Slower,” Steve instructs, no room for argument, and Bucky doesn’t think about it, just obeys, mouth sliding hungrily back over Steve but not going past the head. Precum drips on his tongue, sharp and tangy, and Bucky laps it up like a starving man.

Fuck, he’s missed this.

His hands fly up from where they were fisted on his lap. He digs his fingers into Steve’s ass, moaning when hard muscles flex under his palm. There’s an answering sound from above, and Steve’s hips jerk forward, his cock pushing deeper into Bucky’s mouth.

It’s unintentional, Steve makes that clear with a gasp and an apology, but Bucky’s hungry for it. His own dick is drooling in his pants, but he ignores it, savoring the denial. He squeezes Steve’s ass instead, hoping he’ll do it again, but he doesn’t. His hand clenches and unclenches in Bucky’s hair, but he’s too restrained still.

That’s just not fair, but damn if it isn’t hot. Bucky wants to drive Steve wild, but he’s in control while Bucky’s a mess at his feet, and it’s the sweetest goddamn dream.

But well, if Steve’s not gonna fuck his mouth, Bucky will have to do it for him.

Slower gets kicked to the curb as he lurches forward, swallowing Steve down with a groan. He chokes, throat convulsing violently, and he can’t breathe with how badly wants Steve there, keeping Bucky wide open while he struggles to swallow around his cock. He pulls back to mouth at the head, sucking at the tip and flicking the slit with his tongue, but he can’t help diving in again, desperate for it.

Steve lets it happen this time, fingers tight in Bucky’s hair like he’s holding on for dear life.

It’s easy to lose himself to the silky heat in his mouth and the tangy taste on his tongue. Spit and precum dribble down his chin, and his jaw aches something fierce, and Bucky relishes every filthy moment of it.

Steve’s grip on his hair tightens, pulling cruelly, and Bucky whines again, trying to cram more into his mouth, only to be ruthlessly pulled away from Steve’s cock.

“Steve?” he calls plaintively and blinks up, tears blurring his sight and wetting his lashes. He can feel them on his cheeks, cool tracks along heated skin. He must be an unflattering mess, but Steve looks down at him like he’s Ganymede given flesh.

Steve closes his eyes, lids screwing shut, and when he answers, he sounds like he’s the one who’s been trying so hard to choke himself on dick.

“I’ll come in your mouth if you keep going.”

Bucky makes a noise that would embarrass him in any other circumstance. He strains forward and Steve lets him. Bucky rubs his lips against the tip of Steve’s cock and tries to find his voice.

“Please,” he says finally, barely recognizing himself. “Yes, fuck, please, I want that, sir, I – yes.”

He swallows Steve down almost violently, sucking hard, and that’s all it takes. There’s a shout from above, the most noise Steve has made, and then he’s coming in Bucky’s mouth, flooding his tongue and sliding down his throat in a rush of bitter heat. Bucky swallows every drop until Steve’s soft and warm in his mouth. He slides back then, slow enough to torment, and shivers when it finally slips from his mouth.

It leaves him with come on his lips and his cock hard enough to pound nails. He wants to touch himself, but Steve still has his hand in his hair, and Bucky’s frozen to the spot staring up at him.

He watches Steve come down from his high, panting and flushed. It takes a few seconds for bright blue eyes to focus on Bucky’s face, but the moment they do, Steve’s yanking him up. He’s not very kind about it, and Bucky’s body aches in all the places where Steve’s fist touched him.

He stumbles, gracelessly collapsing on Steve. A solid wall of chest meets him, followed by Steve’s arm across his back, keeping Bucky in place. Before he can talk, Steve’s reaching down and tugging at Bucky’s pants, tugging his waistband and briefs down to bare his cock. He wraps his hand around it, huge and hot, and Bucky’s knees buckle.

Steve holds him up effortlessly and jerks him off, rough and sweet. There are calluses on his hand, starkly different from Bucky’s own, and they rub maddeningly along his cock, letting him spiral higher and higher with no hope of a gentle landing.

He hides his face in Steve’s neck so he won’t try to kiss him and pants wetly against him with each firm stroke. He doesn’t last long, worked up and worked well, and all it takes is the hard press of a thumb under the head to make him lose it.

He swears and sinks his teeth into Steve’s skin, whining through a mouthful of flesh as Steve strokes him through each shiver and spasm.

After it’s over and his heart has stopped trying to squirm out of his dick, Bucky slumps against Steve, not quite sure that his legs will hold him if he tries to step away. Steve holds him, his arms firm and strong around Bucky. It’s a little heady, and Bucky blurts the first thing he can think of just so it won’t go to his head.

“Not gonna lie, I thought Captain America would freak out a bit more at being hit on by a guy.”

Steve sighs, and the sound’s heavy enough to make guilt flare up in Bucky. Sometimes, he just ends up deepthroating his fucking foot.

“The twenty-first century did not invent queer people, Barnes.” There’s a huff, more amused than exasperated this time. “And maybe the subtleties of modern language are lost on me, but I think hitting on people is a little more tactful than whatever the hell you just pulled.”

Bucky has to laugh at that, half because it’s true and half because call the press, Captain America is a little shit.

Bucky kinda likes him, and isn’t that terrifying? He’s still riding his high, doped up on sex and submission. They didn’t do much, didn’t even touch the edges of what Bucky can really take, but the fact that he’s so damn gone anyway says a lot about how long it’s been. He hasn’t done this in so long, holding himself back painfully and purposefully, and for the life of him, he can’t remember why.

Then Steve gentles his hold on Bucky and raises a hand to cup the back of his neck, nice and tender, and Bucky suddenly does remember.

He lurches away from Steve, forcing his knees not to buckle and his chest not to leave. The composure is paper-thin and one touch from Steve would unravel it all, but he just lets Bucky go with wide eyes, both hands hovering in the air between them. He doesn’t do anything other than watch as Bucky pulls up his pants and adjusts his shirt. He’s not going to look any less well-fucked, but the gestures ground him a little.

“Well,” Bucky starts without meeting Steve’s eyes, clearing his throat awkwardly. “That was fun. Thanks, Cap.”

Bucky almost expects a curt welcome but only silence answers him. Fair enough. He turns on his heels and walks away, swaying only a little. He’s still drunk on sex, but he’s sobering up, endorphins receding.

At the door, he chances a backward glance.

Steve’s just standing there, pants at his ankles, staring at Bucky leave with bewildered eyes. He looks so young that way, golden and gorgeous.

Bucky pretends not to see the hurt on his face.

By the time he’s in the elevator, he already regrets the last hour. His body’s thrumming, sated, but his mind is churning. This is why he stopped doing this; Bucky hates how he loses his head when he gets like this. Fucking some stranger in a bar and never seeing them again is one thing. Fucking his coworker and occasional commanding officer is a disaster waiting to happen.

He slumps against the elevator railing, nails carving half-moons into his palms. He can still feel Steve’s skin under his fingers, can taste the musk of his cock. It’s an effort to get his breathing back under control, to keep going instead of rushing back down to Steve and beg for more.

Bucky’s got his shit together for months now. One slip won’t be too bad.

He’ll apologize to Steve – maybe tomorrow, maybe when he sees him again. He’s a nice enough guy, he’ll understand. It’s not like it will happen again. It can’t. Bucky won’t let it.