Like Shadows On A Wall
Title: Like Shadows On A Wall
Author: fate_incomplete
Rating: R
Warnings: Sex, angst, mostly PWP, mentions of PTSD, Bucky has issues
Spoilers: One very mild mention (one sentence) of the first scene of Age of Ultron unrelated to the movie plot, which if you haven't seen the movie you probably won't even pick up
Characters: Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers
Word Count: 2,990
Summary: Most days Bucky is fine. Some days he can’t sleep though, and feels like a ghost, fractured, with only pieces of himself left. Some days, anger is the only thing that keeps him going. Anger, Steve, and maybe something he never dared hope to have for himself. Can the boy who went to war, so long ago, ever really find a way home?
A/N: In my mind this is set some point after the first scene of AoU, though really it could be any time, with no spoilers for the Movie. Also, angsty porn...so much fun to write.
......................
The shadows shift and warp, painting half formed and forgotten images on the wall. Eyes aching and burning with exhaustion, but as sleep just won’t come, Bucky watches them. Watches the play of darkness dance across the greying paint. It’s almost like, if he only tried hard enough, those shadows could give shape to images that won’t quite form right in his mind. Memories that some days flow like liquid through his fingers. Impressions and echoes, his own past as much of a ghost to him, as Bucky had been to the world for so long.
The Winter Soldier, left on ice when not needed, until that ice crept into every cell of his body so that he felt it even when he was thawed.
Most days he remembers. Remembers too much. So many kills. Kill, report, freeze. Repeat. Decades that had passed in a blur, yet crawled with vivid clarity at the same time. Even when Bucky didn’t want to remember, his body always would. Fingers sure on the trigger, breathe out, feel the metal warm to his touch, squeeze. Walk away without a backward glance, nothing but brutal, efficient grace.
Bucky didn’t remember when he had given in. When the endless pain finally stripped everything else away, and the boy from Brooklyn had cracked and crumbled.
The shadows keep their endless dance on the wall, the ambient light of the city fuelling their steps. Bucky remembers as he watches, that the nights were darker, back then, before the war. His then sleep blissful till the morning light, with no flickering silhouettes to keep him awake. Only the worry of not enough work, food, medicines for Steve, a looming war. A war neither of them would come back from, not really. Even when fate dealt them both a warped and twisted kinda luck. Fate was a bitch Bucky would happily put a bullet between the eyes of, he thinks.
Bucky’s breath catches, like hands are clawing at his throat. He feels rage brewing, deep down inside, in the dark places that are all Bucky, beneath what is left of the soldier. Rage he can’t bury deep enough, all edged in fear. Some days he remembers, when all he wants is to forget. Fragments creep in, building a picture that when it’s whole, he thinks will destroy him. That boy from Brooklyn, the ghost inside him, if he comes back…but that boy died a long time ago, maybe the first time he set foot on the battlefield, the first time he lifted a rifle, the first kill. There’s no coming back, not from the horrors he has endured, only the monster remains.
Only the monster…maybe that’s all there ever was.
He remembers a mother, not his own, who had looked at him with tears in her eyes. A cold winter night, and the hacking cough from the room next door. He remembers the look in Steve’s mother’s eyes the night she thought Steve would never live to see another summer. She had looked at Bucky, like if she tried hard enough she would find hope, that pain and horror weren’t an inevitability. Bucky had smiled at her, and spent the night curled on the floor by Steve’s bed, listening to every breath, praying she was right, that this was the sort of world that wouldn’t let someone like Steve die.
Steve hadn’t died. Neither had Bucky. He wasn’t sure what that said about the world. Except maybe it didn’t give a damn who lived, and who died.
The sheets twist between Bucky’s fingers, metal and flesh alike. Muscles tense, his jaw aching as he remembers another mother, one who had looked at him with only fear as the Winter Soldier walked past her, her son lying in a pool of cooling blood behind him. He remembers an old man who had begged, countless others who had never had the chance to. He remembers cold nights with nothing to eat, the burn of the desert sun at midday. The smell of the docks at sunrise, the crackle of a fire at night in France. Another memory, and another flit across Bucky’s thoughts. Random and unconnected, jumping from Brooklyn, to the burn of thawing from cyro, to the Howling Commandos. The shadows on the wall seem to mock him, as each flicker places another piece of a puzzle best left in pieces.
Bucky sits up, swinging his feet to the floor, running his hands through his hair. All he wants is to sleep for a few hours. Just sleep, and wake to a new day and feel the chaos of his mind settle. Tracking Hydra had given him direction, something to aim himself at, but beyond that yawns a chasm. What happens to the weapon when there are no targets?
He should be better than this, Bucky thinks. Better than fragments and raw edges. Knows most days he is, which only makes nights like this worse. Frustration boils over. Bucky is on his feet, metal fist smashing through the wall and shadows before he even realises what he’s doing. Steve comes running, to find Bucky covered in dust from the ruined wall, chest heaving, expression broken and desolate.
“I’ll fix it,” Bucky says quietly, to Steve, to the ruined wall, to the ghost of who he was, not outwardly acknowledging Steve’s presence in any other way.
Steve doesn’t say anything. Really, what words are there that could fix this. Fix him. Bucky knows he is broken in ways that can’t be seen. He had been a play thing of others, he wonders if they scooped out his soul when they put the Winter Soldier in. If he is the ruined hollowed out shell of the boy Steve had known. A dark parody of put together pieces that were left over.
Bucky flinches as he feels Steve’s hand rest on his shoulder. He can’t make himself look at Steve.
“They took out everything that was me,” Bucky whispers. He feels Steve’s fingers tighten. “I don’t know what’s left behind.”
“Buck…”
He can hear Steve shift behind him, can imagine that lost look in his eyes. Remembers how lost Steve’s mum had looked all those years ago. How she had searched Bucky’s face like she would find answers there in her desperation. Bucky can’t make himself look at Steve now, and see that same expression. Bucky has no answers. No matter if sometimes Steve looks at him like Bucky is the only answer that matters.
He’s really not. Never was. Steve always deserved more than Bucky could ever give him.
“Maybe they tried,” Steve says quietly, almost like he’s talking to himself. “But after seventy years…you knew me. I didn’t know what I’d find, when I went looking for you. You’re not who you were, doesn’t mean you aren’t the same stubborn jerk.”
Bucky’s fingers flex by his side. No one knows Steve found the Winter Soldier months ago. Steve thought it best it stay that way, at least for a whole yet. Bucky thinks Steve is the same reckless fool he always was, prone to taking on battles that’ll only end with him bleeding, or worse.
“Pretty sure I wasn’t the stubborn one,” Bucky replies, trying to will his fingers to unclench.
It’s like Bucky’s outburst with the wall has unstoppered his anger. He can feel his hands shaking, wanting to keep smashing, rip down that wall and its unrelenting shadows till there is nothing left but dust. A pointless, directionless rage in need of release. He had been tramping it down too long, focusing all his turmoil into the hunt for the rest of Hyrda. But now that task is done, the Avenger’s had finished it. He is without masters, without a mission. The soldier is free to go home, though his home is seventies years gone.
All he has of who he once was is now standing behind him, with a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.
Bucky moves too fast for Steve to stop him, grabbing Steve’s arm and slamming him into the wall. Motes of dust drifting around them from the impact. He can feel Steve tense in readiness, but otherwise the Captain offers no resistance. Just like he hasn’t since that moment he dropped his shield. It pisses Bucky off, making something ache inside of him, making him want to keep slamming Steve into the wall till he sees sense and defends himself.
Leaning into Steve, using his body to press Steve hard against the wall till he can feel yet more plaster give way beneath their weight, Bucky growls. “Stop doing that.”
Steve puts his hands out to the side, placating, like he thinks Bucky means touching him. In a way he does. He means stop helping, stop putting himself between Bucky and the world, stop looking for something worth saving. Stop letting himself bleed in hope. He means stop everything. He means never stop at all.
Steve drops his hands, and Bucky can see how tired he is. That bone dead exhaustion that has nothing to do with sleep. He can feel his anger slipping away and he’s not ready for that. Bucky knows some days, his anger is the only thing that keeps him going. He decides to borrow some of Steve’s recklessness instead, wraps it in his own fading anger and leans closer. He moves his thigh to push between Steve’s legs. Looks into to Steve’s eyes defiantly and dares Steve to stop him, though he has no idea what he would do is Steve did.
Bucky can see the moment Steve realises his intent, a fleeting moment of surprise before Steve tilts his chin upwards, almost like he is daring Bucky back, never one to back down from a fight. Bucky shifts his grip, tightening his hold on Steve before closing the last gap between them, lips clashing together forcefully. Bucky can feel Steve’s sharp intake of breath, before losing himself in the warmth as Steve opens up to him, the slick slide of tongues together. The kiss is almost violent in its desperateness, all raw need and want. Bucky feels like he could drown in it.
Of all the death he has seen, it seems like a sinfully good way to go.
Bucky pulls back abruptly, even as every part of him aches to stay. This feels like something he should never have. Like something good. He remembers, a lifetime ago when he never even dare want this. Not because it was a sin, but because it was Steve. Steve who deserved so much better. That’s even more true now, then it ever was then.
When Bucky looks up he sees an edge of anger in Steve’s eyes, like he knows exactly what Bucky is thinking.
“Don’t make that choice for me,” Steve says. He looks like he is going to say more, before he pushes up against Bucky suddenly, twisting his body to switch their positions so that he’s the one pushing Bucky up against the wall.
“It was bullshit a lifetime ago in Brooklyn. And it’s bullshit now,” Steve continues.
Bucky wants to argue, but can’t find the right words, not ones that will convince Steve he is wrong. Steve’s gaze on him is searching, desperate, looking for those answers again that Bucky doesn’t have, no matter how much he finds himself wanting to give them. Steve’s eyes drift down to Bucky’s mouth briefly, linger just long enough to make Bucky wonder. All those years ago, Steve had never pushed their friendship, never seemed to look for something more, so Bucky had let any desires he felt die before they formed. The world had already put so much on Steve’s shoulders without that too. But the world is a very different place now.
And so are they.
“Bucky…” Steve whispers, the sound strained, like Steve is holding back. Like everything good in him is a cracking dam wall against a flood of emotion. Like he is afraid he wants too much from Bucky.
Bucky doesn’t think he has anything left to give, but whatever there still is of him, it has always been Steve’s. Bucky moves again, more hesitantly, more deliberately, like this time it is a choice he is making. Like this time he is trying to pull Steve closer rather than push him away. The kiss is still just as desperate, but it’s all a slow drag of lips and tongue instead of violence. It somehow hits Bucky all the harder. As Steve’s sigh sounds like blissful surrender, Bucky pushes his hips forward, hands moving to pull Steve closer still.
Steve pushes back against Bucky, hands seeking skin, making Bucky groan with the surety of his touch. Whatever passiveness Steve had been forcing on himself is all gone as he presses fingers into Bucky’s skin, uses his body to push back and meets Bucky with the same amount of force as their movement become more frantic. It settles something inside Bucky. He lets go, gives in. Let’s the monster out as he lets Steve in.
Bucky moves, lets his muscles honed for battle push Steve away, only to grab him and again slam Steve against the wall. Mouth seeking out skin, lips, tongue, any and all of it. He looks up to see Steve smile, like he is getting everything he ever wanted. Bucky smirks back, the tilt of his lips promising to meet everything Steve can throw at him.
He lets want and need drive him, grins every time Steve pushes back against him, every time Steve takes control, only for Bucky to wrestle it back. Fingers find skin, press desperate marks into flesh that fade just a quickly. Bucky rips Steve’s shirt over his head, leaning down to run his tongue over the expanse of skin exposed to him as he holds Steve against the wall, using the strength of his metal arm to keep Steve just where he wants him. Bucky unbuttons Steve pants with his other hand, smirking at Steve again as he drops to his knees and takes Steve’s cock in his mouth without preamble. Steve thrusts and Bucky takes it, takes everything he can, before pinning Steve’s hips to the wall and forcing a slower pace than Steve wants, just to hear his desperate moans.
Steve is achingly hard in Bucky’s mouth when he decides enough is enough. He pulls Bucky to his feet, mouth seeking as he kisses Bucky like it is the only thing keeping him on his feet. He pushes Bucky towards the bed and they both fall, a tangle of limbs as Steve strips Bucky.
Bucky has no idea if he wants to fuck Steve, or have Steve fuck him more. Steve makes the decision for him as he pins Bucky to the bed, runs his tongue along Bucky’s collar bone, sucks at his nipple, runs open mouthed kisses across his abs. He looks up at Bucky and it is nearly enough to undo Bucky as he watches Steve take his cock into his mouth, never breaking eye contact. Steve finally looks away as he takes all of Bucky in, one hand reaching up to take Bucky’s fingers in his own as the other reaches down to push Bucky’s knee up.
Bucky throws his head back against the bed as Steve’s spit slicked fingers tease, before slowly opening him up, pay back for Bucky’s earlier slow pace. It’s languid, indulgent, more than Bucky needs, everything he wants, as Steve takes his time, like he’s trying to undo Bucky. Bucky growls as he finally reaches down to grab Steve, pulling him up to kiss him demandingly.
“Quit screwing around,” Bucky manages between kisses.
“I thought that was the point?”
Bucky kisses Steve to shut him up, and cover that maddeningly smug twist of Steve’s lips. He lifts his knees, and meets Steve’s thrust when he finally enters Bucky. He won’t let Steve back off, revels in the feel of the brutal pace, arches as Steve hits that spot just right each time. He knows it isn’t going to last long, not now. He doesn’t fight it, he’s tired of fighting. Spent the better part of a century drenched in blood and misery, maybe just this once he can take something for himself, something good, something that is filled with nothing but pleasure, hope and maybe even love. If he can remember what love feels like.
He thinks it probably feels something like this.
Bucky arches, can’t help but cry out as he comes. Feels Steve holding onto him, and it only makes it better, so good it almost hurts. Bucky feels like everything bad could be drained out of him if they can just keep hold of each other long enough. He feels Steve go over the edge as he is coming down. Holds on tight till it’s over and Steve collapses on top of him.
Bucky could laugh, but he’s not sure if he would stop. He’s not even sure why, though he’s happy enough to blame it on the euphoric release of endorphins.
He wonders if Steve will regret this come morning. Steve looks up at him, giving him a lazy kiss that’s almost too tender for Bucky to handle. Probably not, Bucky thinks, Steve rarely regrets anything. He’s lays down next to Bucky, arranging himself so that his head is resting on Bucky’s shoulder, arm thrown casually across Bucky’s chest. It feels like that’s exactly where he belongs, and the thought scares Bucky.
It’s been so long since Bucky had something to loose.
The warmth of Steve next to him seeps into Bucky, pushing aside the phantom chill of cyro for the moment. Mess be damned, Bucky has no intention of moving. He closes his eyes as sleep edges closer, and for once feels like he knows exactly who he is.
Hell, Bucky thinks before he falls asleep, maybe even monsters can find their way home.
......................
.
Author: fate_incomplete
Rating: R
Warnings: Sex, angst, mostly PWP, mentions of PTSD, Bucky has issues
Spoilers: One very mild mention (one sentence) of the first scene of Age of Ultron unrelated to the movie plot, which if you haven't seen the movie you probably won't even pick up
Characters: Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers
Word Count: 2,990
Summary: Most days Bucky is fine. Some days he can’t sleep though, and feels like a ghost, fractured, with only pieces of himself left. Some days, anger is the only thing that keeps him going. Anger, Steve, and maybe something he never dared hope to have for himself. Can the boy who went to war, so long ago, ever really find a way home?
A/N: In my mind this is set some point after the first scene of AoU, though really it could be any time, with no spoilers for the Movie. Also, angsty porn...so much fun to write.
......................
The shadows shift and warp, painting half formed and forgotten images on the wall. Eyes aching and burning with exhaustion, but as sleep just won’t come, Bucky watches them. Watches the play of darkness dance across the greying paint. It’s almost like, if he only tried hard enough, those shadows could give shape to images that won’t quite form right in his mind. Memories that some days flow like liquid through his fingers. Impressions and echoes, his own past as much of a ghost to him, as Bucky had been to the world for so long.
The Winter Soldier, left on ice when not needed, until that ice crept into every cell of his body so that he felt it even when he was thawed.
Most days he remembers. Remembers too much. So many kills. Kill, report, freeze. Repeat. Decades that had passed in a blur, yet crawled with vivid clarity at the same time. Even when Bucky didn’t want to remember, his body always would. Fingers sure on the trigger, breathe out, feel the metal warm to his touch, squeeze. Walk away without a backward glance, nothing but brutal, efficient grace.
Bucky didn’t remember when he had given in. When the endless pain finally stripped everything else away, and the boy from Brooklyn had cracked and crumbled.
The shadows keep their endless dance on the wall, the ambient light of the city fuelling their steps. Bucky remembers as he watches, that the nights were darker, back then, before the war. His then sleep blissful till the morning light, with no flickering silhouettes to keep him awake. Only the worry of not enough work, food, medicines for Steve, a looming war. A war neither of them would come back from, not really. Even when fate dealt them both a warped and twisted kinda luck. Fate was a bitch Bucky would happily put a bullet between the eyes of, he thinks.
Bucky’s breath catches, like hands are clawing at his throat. He feels rage brewing, deep down inside, in the dark places that are all Bucky, beneath what is left of the soldier. Rage he can’t bury deep enough, all edged in fear. Some days he remembers, when all he wants is to forget. Fragments creep in, building a picture that when it’s whole, he thinks will destroy him. That boy from Brooklyn, the ghost inside him, if he comes back…but that boy died a long time ago, maybe the first time he set foot on the battlefield, the first time he lifted a rifle, the first kill. There’s no coming back, not from the horrors he has endured, only the monster remains.
Only the monster…maybe that’s all there ever was.
He remembers a mother, not his own, who had looked at him with tears in her eyes. A cold winter night, and the hacking cough from the room next door. He remembers the look in Steve’s mother’s eyes the night she thought Steve would never live to see another summer. She had looked at Bucky, like if she tried hard enough she would find hope, that pain and horror weren’t an inevitability. Bucky had smiled at her, and spent the night curled on the floor by Steve’s bed, listening to every breath, praying she was right, that this was the sort of world that wouldn’t let someone like Steve die.
Steve hadn’t died. Neither had Bucky. He wasn’t sure what that said about the world. Except maybe it didn’t give a damn who lived, and who died.
The sheets twist between Bucky’s fingers, metal and flesh alike. Muscles tense, his jaw aching as he remembers another mother, one who had looked at him with only fear as the Winter Soldier walked past her, her son lying in a pool of cooling blood behind him. He remembers an old man who had begged, countless others who had never had the chance to. He remembers cold nights with nothing to eat, the burn of the desert sun at midday. The smell of the docks at sunrise, the crackle of a fire at night in France. Another memory, and another flit across Bucky’s thoughts. Random and unconnected, jumping from Brooklyn, to the burn of thawing from cyro, to the Howling Commandos. The shadows on the wall seem to mock him, as each flicker places another piece of a puzzle best left in pieces.
Bucky sits up, swinging his feet to the floor, running his hands through his hair. All he wants is to sleep for a few hours. Just sleep, and wake to a new day and feel the chaos of his mind settle. Tracking Hydra had given him direction, something to aim himself at, but beyond that yawns a chasm. What happens to the weapon when there are no targets?
He should be better than this, Bucky thinks. Better than fragments and raw edges. Knows most days he is, which only makes nights like this worse. Frustration boils over. Bucky is on his feet, metal fist smashing through the wall and shadows before he even realises what he’s doing. Steve comes running, to find Bucky covered in dust from the ruined wall, chest heaving, expression broken and desolate.
“I’ll fix it,” Bucky says quietly, to Steve, to the ruined wall, to the ghost of who he was, not outwardly acknowledging Steve’s presence in any other way.
Steve doesn’t say anything. Really, what words are there that could fix this. Fix him. Bucky knows he is broken in ways that can’t be seen. He had been a play thing of others, he wonders if they scooped out his soul when they put the Winter Soldier in. If he is the ruined hollowed out shell of the boy Steve had known. A dark parody of put together pieces that were left over.
Bucky flinches as he feels Steve’s hand rest on his shoulder. He can’t make himself look at Steve.
“They took out everything that was me,” Bucky whispers. He feels Steve’s fingers tighten. “I don’t know what’s left behind.”
“Buck…”
He can hear Steve shift behind him, can imagine that lost look in his eyes. Remembers how lost Steve’s mum had looked all those years ago. How she had searched Bucky’s face like she would find answers there in her desperation. Bucky can’t make himself look at Steve now, and see that same expression. Bucky has no answers. No matter if sometimes Steve looks at him like Bucky is the only answer that matters.
He’s really not. Never was. Steve always deserved more than Bucky could ever give him.
“Maybe they tried,” Steve says quietly, almost like he’s talking to himself. “But after seventy years…you knew me. I didn’t know what I’d find, when I went looking for you. You’re not who you were, doesn’t mean you aren’t the same stubborn jerk.”
Bucky’s fingers flex by his side. No one knows Steve found the Winter Soldier months ago. Steve thought it best it stay that way, at least for a whole yet. Bucky thinks Steve is the same reckless fool he always was, prone to taking on battles that’ll only end with him bleeding, or worse.
“Pretty sure I wasn’t the stubborn one,” Bucky replies, trying to will his fingers to unclench.
It’s like Bucky’s outburst with the wall has unstoppered his anger. He can feel his hands shaking, wanting to keep smashing, rip down that wall and its unrelenting shadows till there is nothing left but dust. A pointless, directionless rage in need of release. He had been tramping it down too long, focusing all his turmoil into the hunt for the rest of Hyrda. But now that task is done, the Avenger’s had finished it. He is without masters, without a mission. The soldier is free to go home, though his home is seventies years gone.
All he has of who he once was is now standing behind him, with a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.
Bucky moves too fast for Steve to stop him, grabbing Steve’s arm and slamming him into the wall. Motes of dust drifting around them from the impact. He can feel Steve tense in readiness, but otherwise the Captain offers no resistance. Just like he hasn’t since that moment he dropped his shield. It pisses Bucky off, making something ache inside of him, making him want to keep slamming Steve into the wall till he sees sense and defends himself.
Leaning into Steve, using his body to press Steve hard against the wall till he can feel yet more plaster give way beneath their weight, Bucky growls. “Stop doing that.”
Steve puts his hands out to the side, placating, like he thinks Bucky means touching him. In a way he does. He means stop helping, stop putting himself between Bucky and the world, stop looking for something worth saving. Stop letting himself bleed in hope. He means stop everything. He means never stop at all.
Steve drops his hands, and Bucky can see how tired he is. That bone dead exhaustion that has nothing to do with sleep. He can feel his anger slipping away and he’s not ready for that. Bucky knows some days, his anger is the only thing that keeps him going. He decides to borrow some of Steve’s recklessness instead, wraps it in his own fading anger and leans closer. He moves his thigh to push between Steve’s legs. Looks into to Steve’s eyes defiantly and dares Steve to stop him, though he has no idea what he would do is Steve did.
Bucky can see the moment Steve realises his intent, a fleeting moment of surprise before Steve tilts his chin upwards, almost like he is daring Bucky back, never one to back down from a fight. Bucky shifts his grip, tightening his hold on Steve before closing the last gap between them, lips clashing together forcefully. Bucky can feel Steve’s sharp intake of breath, before losing himself in the warmth as Steve opens up to him, the slick slide of tongues together. The kiss is almost violent in its desperateness, all raw need and want. Bucky feels like he could drown in it.
Of all the death he has seen, it seems like a sinfully good way to go.
Bucky pulls back abruptly, even as every part of him aches to stay. This feels like something he should never have. Like something good. He remembers, a lifetime ago when he never even dare want this. Not because it was a sin, but because it was Steve. Steve who deserved so much better. That’s even more true now, then it ever was then.
When Bucky looks up he sees an edge of anger in Steve’s eyes, like he knows exactly what Bucky is thinking.
“Don’t make that choice for me,” Steve says. He looks like he is going to say more, before he pushes up against Bucky suddenly, twisting his body to switch their positions so that he’s the one pushing Bucky up against the wall.
“It was bullshit a lifetime ago in Brooklyn. And it’s bullshit now,” Steve continues.
Bucky wants to argue, but can’t find the right words, not ones that will convince Steve he is wrong. Steve’s gaze on him is searching, desperate, looking for those answers again that Bucky doesn’t have, no matter how much he finds himself wanting to give them. Steve’s eyes drift down to Bucky’s mouth briefly, linger just long enough to make Bucky wonder. All those years ago, Steve had never pushed their friendship, never seemed to look for something more, so Bucky had let any desires he felt die before they formed. The world had already put so much on Steve’s shoulders without that too. But the world is a very different place now.
And so are they.
“Bucky…” Steve whispers, the sound strained, like Steve is holding back. Like everything good in him is a cracking dam wall against a flood of emotion. Like he is afraid he wants too much from Bucky.
Bucky doesn’t think he has anything left to give, but whatever there still is of him, it has always been Steve’s. Bucky moves again, more hesitantly, more deliberately, like this time it is a choice he is making. Like this time he is trying to pull Steve closer rather than push him away. The kiss is still just as desperate, but it’s all a slow drag of lips and tongue instead of violence. It somehow hits Bucky all the harder. As Steve’s sigh sounds like blissful surrender, Bucky pushes his hips forward, hands moving to pull Steve closer still.
Steve pushes back against Bucky, hands seeking skin, making Bucky groan with the surety of his touch. Whatever passiveness Steve had been forcing on himself is all gone as he presses fingers into Bucky’s skin, uses his body to push back and meets Bucky with the same amount of force as their movement become more frantic. It settles something inside Bucky. He lets go, gives in. Let’s the monster out as he lets Steve in.
Bucky moves, lets his muscles honed for battle push Steve away, only to grab him and again slam Steve against the wall. Mouth seeking out skin, lips, tongue, any and all of it. He looks up to see Steve smile, like he is getting everything he ever wanted. Bucky smirks back, the tilt of his lips promising to meet everything Steve can throw at him.
He lets want and need drive him, grins every time Steve pushes back against him, every time Steve takes control, only for Bucky to wrestle it back. Fingers find skin, press desperate marks into flesh that fade just a quickly. Bucky rips Steve’s shirt over his head, leaning down to run his tongue over the expanse of skin exposed to him as he holds Steve against the wall, using the strength of his metal arm to keep Steve just where he wants him. Bucky unbuttons Steve pants with his other hand, smirking at Steve again as he drops to his knees and takes Steve’s cock in his mouth without preamble. Steve thrusts and Bucky takes it, takes everything he can, before pinning Steve’s hips to the wall and forcing a slower pace than Steve wants, just to hear his desperate moans.
Steve is achingly hard in Bucky’s mouth when he decides enough is enough. He pulls Bucky to his feet, mouth seeking as he kisses Bucky like it is the only thing keeping him on his feet. He pushes Bucky towards the bed and they both fall, a tangle of limbs as Steve strips Bucky.
Bucky has no idea if he wants to fuck Steve, or have Steve fuck him more. Steve makes the decision for him as he pins Bucky to the bed, runs his tongue along Bucky’s collar bone, sucks at his nipple, runs open mouthed kisses across his abs. He looks up at Bucky and it is nearly enough to undo Bucky as he watches Steve take his cock into his mouth, never breaking eye contact. Steve finally looks away as he takes all of Bucky in, one hand reaching up to take Bucky’s fingers in his own as the other reaches down to push Bucky’s knee up.
Bucky throws his head back against the bed as Steve’s spit slicked fingers tease, before slowly opening him up, pay back for Bucky’s earlier slow pace. It’s languid, indulgent, more than Bucky needs, everything he wants, as Steve takes his time, like he’s trying to undo Bucky. Bucky growls as he finally reaches down to grab Steve, pulling him up to kiss him demandingly.
“Quit screwing around,” Bucky manages between kisses.
“I thought that was the point?”
Bucky kisses Steve to shut him up, and cover that maddeningly smug twist of Steve’s lips. He lifts his knees, and meets Steve’s thrust when he finally enters Bucky. He won’t let Steve back off, revels in the feel of the brutal pace, arches as Steve hits that spot just right each time. He knows it isn’t going to last long, not now. He doesn’t fight it, he’s tired of fighting. Spent the better part of a century drenched in blood and misery, maybe just this once he can take something for himself, something good, something that is filled with nothing but pleasure, hope and maybe even love. If he can remember what love feels like.
He thinks it probably feels something like this.
Bucky arches, can’t help but cry out as he comes. Feels Steve holding onto him, and it only makes it better, so good it almost hurts. Bucky feels like everything bad could be drained out of him if they can just keep hold of each other long enough. He feels Steve go over the edge as he is coming down. Holds on tight till it’s over and Steve collapses on top of him.
Bucky could laugh, but he’s not sure if he would stop. He’s not even sure why, though he’s happy enough to blame it on the euphoric release of endorphins.
He wonders if Steve will regret this come morning. Steve looks up at him, giving him a lazy kiss that’s almost too tender for Bucky to handle. Probably not, Bucky thinks, Steve rarely regrets anything. He’s lays down next to Bucky, arranging himself so that his head is resting on Bucky’s shoulder, arm thrown casually across Bucky’s chest. It feels like that’s exactly where he belongs, and the thought scares Bucky.
It’s been so long since Bucky had something to loose.
The warmth of Steve next to him seeps into Bucky, pushing aside the phantom chill of cyro for the moment. Mess be damned, Bucky has no intention of moving. He closes his eyes as sleep edges closer, and for once feels like he knows exactly who he is.
Hell, Bucky thinks before he falls asleep, maybe even monsters can find their way home.
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