To the public, Captain America is an ideal, a paragon of virtue. Steve Rogers, on the other hand, is only a man, with a man’s weaknesses. Bucky Barnes knows which one he prefers.
He might charge into battle as Cap’s trusty side-kick, but after they come back, it’s Steve who looks at Bucky with hunger in his eyes. There’s usually also more than a little guilt shadowing that handsome face, only never enough to stop him from claiming Bucky’s mouth in a greedy kiss or almost ripping off whatever Bucky has on. As a rule, the guilt is more pronounced when Bucky has been wearing his ridiculous costume, probably because it screams kid much more than his stealth combat uniform.
Still, when Bucky’s patience finally snapped he’d been in costume. Catching Steve’s surreptitious glances, he’d trapped his friend in his quarters after an Invaders mission, asking exasperatedly: “Honestly, Steve, you ever gonna do something about it, or will you just keep staring at me like you’re Dum Dum and I’m a cigar?”
The question startled a bark of laughter out of Steve, but it was another tense minute, during which guilt, surprise and lust were chasing across his features, before his body slumped, tension fleeing as he capitulated to the inevitable and let Bucky pull him to his bed. They tumbled onto it in a graceless heap, Bucky swearing colorfully when he ended up with most of Steve’s not inconsiderable weight on top of himself, but then Steve’s lips finally slanted over his mouth and all clear thought fled while they began hastily exploring one another’s bodies. They didn’t last long that first time, and Bucky didn’t get to taste every corner of Steve’s delectable body, but luckily it wasn’t the last time. Not by a long shot.
Typically, once he’s decided on a course of action, Steve doesn’t look back, and Bucky has never loved being a teenager more than when trying to keep up with a supersoldier’s serum-enhanced sex drive. Once, feeling Steve’s dick twitch against his sticky skin only minutes after they’ve both come, he can’t help but laugh: “I bet you were damn cozy with your right hand before you had me, because the whole camp would’ve known if you’d been making time with any dames!”
“Bucky!” Steve’s reprimand is marred by the blush staining his cheeks, so Bucky just shrugs, unfazed, and kisses the pout away. When Bucky’s own dick also makes his renewed interest known, he can feel Steve grin smugly in return. Then large hands turn him over onto his stomach, and soon neither one of them is in any shape to pass judgement.
After only the most cursory of prep work, three fingers and some vaseline, Steve pushes into Bucky, but the burn is welcome, and Bucky pushes back, meeting Steve thrust for thrust until he falls apart with a shout, barely noticing Steve following him moments later. Afterwards, Steve pulls his softening cock gently out of Bucky’s body and turns them to the side, cradling Bucky against his broad chest. They’re too fucked out for guilt now, there’s only a tenderness that causes a happy sigh to escape Bucky even before Steve’s words register: “Don’t want to be making time with anyone but you, Buck.”
That’s of course the root of Steve’s problem. Not that Bucky sees it that way, but he knows Steve’s a worrier by nature. Bucky is only thrilled that his best friend, the guy he’s had it bad for since pretty much forever, wants him as much as Bucky does. It’s how James Buchanan Barnes operates - life’s been handing him lemons for so long, he’s learned to not just make lemonade but fucking lemon tarts. Lucky for him, Steve might be the best soldier, the best man, he knows, but he’s no blind rule-follower, so when Bucky licks his lips and rounds on him with intent in his eyes, there’s only that split-second hesitation before Steve manhandles him onto the nearest flat surface. There’s a war on, after all, and even lemons are rationed.
The Invaders know, Bucky’s pretty sure, but they’re not the most conventional bunch of guys to begin with, and they like one another enough not to begrudge any comfort found in war time. It’s a favor Bucky especially appreciates when they’re camped out in Bumfuck, Germany and everyone pretends Steve’s little tent gives more than just the illusion of privacy. It’s all the excuse needed for Bucky to slide to his knees in front of Steve, nosing the already half-hard cock through the fabric of his costume.
Bucky pops open the buttons confining the impressive length and glances up through his lashes, at the sight of Steve’s flushed face, red cheeks making his eyes seem bluer than ever. It’s an obscene mirror of the Captain America colors Steve still wears, sitting on the edge of his cot, strong thighs falling open, and Bucky grins and tongues over the tip of Steve’s erection, delighted when long fingers dig sharply into his scalp. Bucky’s own costume immediately becomes much less comfortable, and he uses the hand not fondling Steve’s balls to free himself from the too-tight shorts.
Sometime he would need to have words with whatever genius designed his stupid side-kick costume. Right now, however, Steve’s erection is growing in his mouth, and he hollows his cheeks and sucks, loving the weight of it, the flavor and texture. He’s done so ever since the first time Steve let him do this, addicted to knowing he’s the one causing the older man to gasp and moan, fighting not to make too much noise, not to slip up and use too much force on Bucky.
Even now all of Steve’s muscles are tense as he’s holding himself still by sheer power of will, and Bucky slides his hand over rippling abs to tease a peaked nipple, twists it until Steve’s fingers curl around his wrist so tightly, Bucky knows there’ll be marks. It makes his dick twitch in his fist, and he barely manages to keep up the rhythmic bobbing of his head. The first drops of Steve’s come coat his tongue, and he tastes it eagerly.
It never lasts long when they’re out in the field, too much adrenaline probably, too much fighting and killing, and Bucky welcomes the tremors of his own climax quickly approaching while he fucks his own hand more and more erratically. Then Steve forcibly pulls him off his cock, and Bucky gasps, delight at being thus manhandled shooting through him. He finds himself on his back, legs pushed apart and the last thing he sees before his eyes slide shut in ecstasy is the wicked grin on Steve’s mouth as he lowers it onto Bucky’s dick.
When two thick fingers trace his lips he opens them willingly, knowing just what Steve wants, and wets them thoroughly. Steve retracts his hand, and then Bucky’s hips are lifted, Steve’s mouth still hot around him, to allow access to Bucky’s ass. The spit-slick fingers trail over his balls and further back, and Bucky has to bite down onto his hand to stop himself from cursing out loud. No matter how often he admonishes Bucky for his filthy mouth, Bucky knows that Steve’s kind of loves it when they’re fucking, but there’s a time and a place, and when Namor and Torch can be heard bantering back and forth less than ten feet away is definitely neither.
Therefore he comes without a word, spilling down Steve’s throat. The moment he’s finished, however, Steve pulls off, and Bucky can’t stop himself from gasping when Steve’s erection slides between his thighs. He rocks against Bucky a few times, blunt cock head pushing against his hole without entering, and then Bucky is treated to the always appreciated sight of his best friend falling apart. Steve is normally so controlled, has to be or risk accidentally hurting people, but he’s beautiful like this, still half-dressed in his Cap costume, sweat glistening on golden skin, his whole body shuddering with its release.
Bucky’s favorite part, however, is the way he not once looks away from Bucky. To the public, Captain America is an ideal, a paragon of virtue. Steve Rogers, on the other hand, is only a man, with a man’s weaknesses - but in moments like this, there is no trace of guilt in his eyes, nor any of the burden he normally carries on his broad shoulders. And Bucky would go to hell and back to keep that look on his face.