Chapter Text
55°40'33.38" N, 12°33'55.91" E
Copenhagen.
Steve Rogers sneaked through the balcony of the luxurious penthouse he had been investigating for days. The crescent moon was barely visible through the clouds, but the night sky was full of neon lights emerging from the red district, twelve floors down. However, he couldn’t be less interested in the world outside this building, and tried to remain silent as he advanced through the darkness, until his steps guided him to the main piece of the suite. There were two empty glasses, a Glock 9mm and a bottle of whisky on the table. This was not a good signal.
Suddenly, a strangled moan came to his ears from across a dark corridor. Maybe his mind was just playing games to him, but for a second he could swear the voice was his. Steve sharpened the ear and then the whimper repeated, but this time it was companied with a wet and short sound, and they repeated once more.
And over again. Rhythmically. Every time, harder and faster.
Steve’s blood froze inside his veins when he realized he was right.
Using his whole determination, the man advanced the last steps and looked through the crack of the half-closed door of the bedchamber. The couple spread on the huge bed didn’t even notice him.
Brock Rumlow, was there, naked and on his knees, displaying obscenely his scarred body, as he pounded himself inside the warm body of the man he used to call “Winter”. Just like Steve had imagined years ago, Rumlow fucked the younger man brutally, pushing and groaning without interest in anyone else but him. One of Brock’s hands pulled harshly a fistful of Bucky’s beautiful hair, as the other grasped the flesh of his hip, keeping him bent down, over a pile of pillows.
“You like this, baby? You’re my sweet boy… Ohh…Only mine! Aren’t you?” he said among bites and licks on the other’s neck.
The man on Brock’s grip was rocking precariously his weight on his elbows and knees, and his shaking voice answered as the thrusts became even sharper and faster, punctuating the phrase between pushes. For a moment, Steve could have sworn the glassy grey eyes of the man looked directly at him… That he was talking to him and not to Rumlow.
“Yes…Yes … I’ve only loved you…”
“No one else, honey?” the former commander of STRIKE asked insidiously, as his yellow eyes looked directly in Steve’s direction.
“No one, Brock... Only you… I’ll love you… till the end… of the line”
40°41'34'' N, 73°59'25'' W
New York.
Steve woke up, screaming. Another nightmare… but just like every night from the last twelve months, what horrified him the most was not the mental scenes of abuse and lust he used to witness constantly in his dreams, or the helplessness he experienced every time. Not even the light tremor that appeared on Bucky’s lips during the orgasm, when Steve believed that the gesture had only belonged to him. No. What really crashed him was his own turgid erection.
A year ago, Steve Rogers received the darkest news he could ever imagine. Bucky Barnes, the love of his life had been abducted, tortured and brainwashed by the organization they promised to combat seventy years ago, but amidst the pain and guilt, Steve had found something more. Brock Rumlow, the liar who pretended to be his friend was the main responsible of this hideous sensation inside Steve’s chest.
The word “tense” would have been a euphemism to describe his current mental and physical state. Lately, his search had been particularly arid, and even Sam and Natasha seemed disappointed with their results. Steve used to have nightmares almost on a daily basis, and sometimes the guilt and the hopelessness seemed unbearable. Steve leaned his head again on his pillow and breathed deep and slow, trying to steady his mind. Where could he be?
He rested his hand over his chest, and slowly, almost absentmindedly, it ran through the firm skin of his abdomen, until it slid into his boxers. Steve closed his eyes, trying to remain as quiet as he could. Slowly, as his fingers caressed the head of his member, he used his left hand to squeeze gently his balls. His imagination flew to his last time with Bucky, during the war… There he was, young and brilliant, riding him. The most handsome man of Brooklyn was pressing his lips against Steve’s, touching him, whispering sweet nothings about how lovely was his Stevie. “I adore you, sweetheart” Steve could almost hear it against his earlobe…
“Ohh… Buck!… Please… Please stay… hmm!…” the words escaped from Steve’s lips before he could notice, as his hands moved faster, enjoying for the first time in months this pleasure. After the plane crash, Steve had not searched for companion in a world where everybody looked at him like a piece of meat, but his memories were so vivid and reliable even before war. God! He had always loved Bucky’s deep, his silky skin and soft voice, not to mention his sweet mouth, and oh those eyes!
His eyes… His eyes full of desperation and fear right in front of him, when out of nothing, the image of his beloved falling to his death appeared in Steve’s mind.
“Shit”.
His hands stopped and he just froze for a moment. The guilt and the sadness took over his heart again. How could he be so selfish? He was trying to get some rest in his own apartment during a brief pause of his search mission. He got good friends, food and a warm bed, while Bucky was still lost and lonely. Steve remained still for some minutes more, just watching the ceiling and questioning himself if he could get some sleep after this.
What would Bucky do? When they were younger and Buck couldn’t rest, Steve used to climb to his bed and kiss him softly. Sometimes, when they had gotten an especially hard day, he jerked Bucky off to sleep. However, tonight he was still painfully hard and decided it could be still a good idea provide himself some relief. “Just don’t think about anything, and you will be ok” his mind tried to rationalize.
Steve’s hands returned to their job, caressing, pressing and jerking rhythmically his shaft. He closed his eyes helplessly.
But without his intervention, an image irrupted into Steve’s imagination. It was the man he loved, and at the same time it was not his beloved Bucky. Not really. He looked more like the assassin machine that fell on Sam’s car on that bridge. He remembered the way his body had reacted that day during their first encounter. Maybe it had been the adrenaline, or just the sheer impressive nature of that man, but from the first time he saw him, Steve had known the man was more than an opponent. Much more than his greatest challenge. He knew he wanted the man.
Now, in his mind, the man’s impressive eyes looked haunted but decided, and his mouth was a thin line pressed in a hard and almost painful gesture. His strong thighs set around Steve’s own hips, constricting them, mimicking the exact posture they had last time they fought on the floor of the triskelion.
God. Steve still could feel the warm press of that man’s body, seated on his own as they wrestled, full of fury and agony. And then, his mind couldn’t avoid it.
The perfect picture of that man appeared in front of his closed eyes, still wearing parts of that black leather suit, as he rode him. The creature he was penetrating till his mere hilt was there, fast and desperate with his entangled hair and his hands still stained with Steve’s blood, smearing it all over them. Steve dreamed about running his hands all over that body, he would take a firm grip of the man’s waist, and yet, he couldn’t control his rampant sway. The man’s lower lip trembled lightly when the most brutal orgasm reached him, and then he poured a sigh, light and ripped like a spiderweb on Steve’s ear. That was all that Steve needed to arch painfully his back on the mattress, as his right hand twisted one last time, spurting a hot squirt of semen all over his front and his blanket. God. He was sure that the neighbors had heard his scream.
Steve couldn’t even remember when he fell asleep until, many hours later, a soft sound woke him up. It was his emergency cellphone, vibrating on his bedside table
“Steve”
“Yes? Sam?”
“Is everything ok, Cap? You sound a bit… different”
“Yes. Sure” Luckily, the videocalling was not enabled this time. He had made quite a mess.
“I think we have something”
“What do you mean?” So many fake clues and a whole year praying for the soldier to make a mistake. Only one. Steve couldn’t afford be ingénue again.
“We found him”