Chapter Text
Steve climbs the stairs toward their apartment, every step a small act of will. His legs ache, arms heavy from eight hours of walking the aisles and hauling crates at the corner grocery. His back throbs. His lungs feel tight, dust and July heat settling deep in his chest.
It’s hot as hell. His shirt is plastered to his spine with sweat, and a faint wheeze reminds him that he forgot to use his inhaler before the last shift. Half the week still stretches ahead of him, endless. And all he wants is to strip off his clothes and collapse onto his bed.
When he finally reaches the door, he digs his keys from his pocket, fumbling with numb fingers before fitting one into the lock. He pauses. It’s six p.m., which means Bucky’s shift at the docks should be over by now.
Bucky usually finishes earlier than Steve, but only because he starts earlier in return. Either that, or he’s walked off again after the foreman was being an ass. Usually, by this time, Bucky is sprawled on the couch, dinner handled, already asleep with a book slipping from his grasp or abandoned beside him.
Steve turns the knob slowly. The door creaks like it always does, and he winces, easing it open before slipping inside and shutting it carefully behind him.
The couch is empty.
Instead, he hears running water. Steam curls faintly from the hallway, and the bathroom door hangs open a few inches. Bucky’s showering, then.
Steve lingers by the door a few seconds too long. He should call out. Say something normal, let Bucky know he’s home. But exhaustion sits heavy in his throat. The words won’t come. His body moves on autopilot anyway, keys and bag still clutched in one damp fist as he drifts toward the bathroom.
Warm air slips out, carrying the familiar smell of pine soap; the cheap bar they’ve been passing back and forth since winter. Steve knows he should pull the door shut. Or turn around. Walk to their shared room and pretend this moment never happened.
But he doesn’t.
The water cuts off with a metallic squeak. Through the gap Steve watches Bucky step out of the tub, one foot, then the other. He turns sideways to reach for the towel on the sink and Steve’s breath hitches hard in his chest.
Holy hell.
Broad shoulders gleam under the light. Muscles shift and flex beneath slick skin as Bucky shakes wet hair out of his eyes. A single droplet traces the long channel of his spine,all the way down to the dip above the perfect, rounded swell of his ass. Steve’s gaze follows it helplessly, heat blooming low in his gut.
He’s seen Bucky shirtless a hundred times, no pants too, scorching Brooklyn summers when Bucky would strut around their tiny apartment in nothing but threadbare briefs, or the old high-school locker room. Casual. Easy. But this is nothing like that.
Bucky stands naked and completely oblivious, steam rising around him like smoke. The towel comes next: slow drag over his chest, catching on the flat disks of his nipples, then lower, scrubbing across his stomach. Steve’s pulse hammers in his ears when the towel slides through the dark, dripping thatch of hair at Bucky’s groin. The cock hanging there is heavy, flushed dark from the heat of the water, swaying slightly with each movement. Thick even soft.
Heat floods Steve’s face in a vicious rush, his neck, chest, then lower, pooling hot and insistent between his legs. His cock twitches traitorously against the seam of his trousers, thick and half-hard in seconds, and the shame hits like a slap right after.
What the hell is this?
He’s felt flickers like this before. Quiet thoughts in the dark about Bucky’s laugh, or the casual brush of fingers when they pass a cigarette. Wondering, maybe, if it’s more than the friendship that’s always been there. But this? This is… sexual. Hungry. His body knows exactly what it wants even if his brain is still scrambling to catch up.
Steve jerks back a step, desperate to put distance between himself and the door, between himself and the sight of Bucky still glistening, towel forgotten for one more agonizing second. His heel catches nothing, he doesn’t look, and his back slams into the narrow hall dresser with a dull thud.
Bucky’s head snaps up. Eyes wide for half a good second, startled, before his face turns blank, deadpan.. “Jesus, Steve, you scared the shit outta me.”
He moves fast, snatching the towel from where it’s draped over his shoulder and wrapping it low around his hips. The motion pulls the towel tight across his pelvis, outlining the heavy line of his cock where it presses soft against his thigh.
“Knock next time, will ya?”
Steve blinks hard. “I, um—” His voice cracks. He swallows and tries again, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to strangled. “Sorry. I was just… passing by.”
Bucky glances down, then nods toward Steve’s feet, one brow arching. “But you’re still wearin’ your shoes.”
“Oh.” Steve follows the look, then jerks his eyes up again. “That’s—yeah. Forgot to take them off. My head’s still dizzy from the heat.”
Bucky snorts. “Well, I don’t blame ya. Feels like the devil’s armpit in here.” He steps fully out of the bathroom, and points his thumb toward the open bathroom door. “Water’s still warm if you wanna rinse off. You know how bad you smell after work.”
“Me?” Steve forces a laugh. “You’re the one who always reeks of fish and sweat.”
Bucky slips past him in hall,close enough that their shoulders brush. His hand comes up, ruffling Steve’s hair rough. “That’s ‘cause I make more money than you. So watch it, jerk.”
He’s already moving away before Steve can scrape together a comeback, bare feet padding across the floorboards toward their shared bedroom. The towel rides low, slipping another dangerous fraction as Bucky disappears around the doorway.
Steve stands frozen for a moment, pulse hammering in his ears, in his throat, in the aching length trapped against his thigh. He can’t breathe right.
He bolts immediately.
The bathroom door slams behind him harder than he means, loud enough that Bucky probably hears it down the hall. Steve drops his bag to the floor with a thud, kick off his shoes one after the other. His back hits the wall, cool against the feverish heat crawling under his skin. He slides down an inch, knees weak, chest heaving.
The room is still thick with steam. Mirror fogged. Wet tiles gleaming under the light. A few dark strands of Bucky’s hair cling to the inside curve of the tub. Typical Bucky. He never cleans up after himself. Steve would usually grumble about it, but right now he couldn’t care less. His hands are shaking when they drop to his belt. The buckle clinks, then slides free. The buttons of his fly pop open. He hooks thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and shoves them down, taking the briefs with them.
Steve’s cock springs free, already thick, flushed dark at the head, curving up toward his stomach. Steve stares down at himself, breath hitching. How the hell is he supposed to get rid of this?
He thinks about wrapping his fingers around his cock. Just a few fast strokes and he’d be done, but the thought sours instantly.
All of it is Bucky. If Steve jerks off to him now, right here, in the room Bucky just left, he’ll feel like shit for days and won’t be able to meet his eyes without remembering exactly what he pictured while he came. The guilt would sit heavy between them, and Steve can’t afford that. And the walls are paper-thin. Always have been. One muffled moan too loud and Bucky would know.
Steve can already imagine it: the bathroom door cracking open, Bucky leaning in the frame, towel discarded somewhere, catching him mid-act. Steve’s cock twitches hard at the image, jumping against his stomach.
Shit. Even the fantasy of getting caught makes it worse.
No. He can’t do this. Steve yanks the hem of his shirt up and over his head. He steps out of the pooled pants and briefs, kicking them aside, naked now and aching. The air hits him cool against hot skin, but it does nothing to dull the throb between his legs.
A cold shower. That’s the only option left. He twists the faucet hard to the left, full cold. Water blasts out in a spray. Steve steps under it before he can second-guess himself. The shock steals his breath; goosebumps race across his body. His nipples tighten to painful points. His cock jerks once, protesting the sudden freeze, then slowly starts to soften under the spray.
It’s working. Thank God it’s working.
—
The heat slowly starts to ease as summer comes to an end. Work is still brutal. Steve still hauls crates until his spine feels like it might snap, still paces the store floor smiling through gritted teeth at customers who’d rather argue than pay, or placating stubborn customers who haggle over a nickel.
Steve’s scoliosis has crept worse over the years with a worse ache after every shift, a dull throb that wakes him at night. He wonders how crooked he’s gotten by now. Physical therapy would help. Swimming, too. But doctors and trainers cost money he doesn’t have, and the rent already takes half his check. So he limps through the days and tells himself it’s fine.
Bucky’s shifts are much worse. He’s up before the sky even thinks about light, out the door by four a.m. most days, while Steve is still half-asleep. Twelve, sometimes fourteen hours at the docks, unloading ships that smell of salt and diesel and fish guts. Steve doesn’t know how he does it. Doesn’t know why he does it.
Bucky doesn’t have to live here. His parents’s house is still standing in the old neighborhood. Becca and the younger girls still run the halls. There’s room. There’s always been room. They offered Steve a bed more than once. Steve always refused, politely. He couldn’t be another mouth to feed, another body under their roof when they already had four kids to raise. He needed his own place. Even if it meant a shoebox apartment with peeling wallpaper.
And Bucky just… showed up.
“Can’t leave my best pal drownin’ in rent alone,” he had said that first day. “Split the cost and it’s next to nothin. Plus, good practice for the real world, right? You said you wanted to get used to it.”
Steve had nodded, too tired to argue that day, because the truth was obvious. He didn’t want Bucky to go. Not then. Not ever.
There’s only one thing Steve looks forward to anymore. Drawing.
Every evening the routine is the same: home first, shower off the sweat and dust, change into something new, then slip into the bedroom. He kneels by the bed, reaches under the mattress, and pulls out his sketchbook. The pages are already half-filled with things that used to be safe. Like Brooklyn buildings. Random objects. Strangers.
Not anymore. Ever since that afternoon in the bathroom,since he stood frozen in the doorway and saw Bucky naked, the only thing he draws is Bucky.
It started innocent enough. Bucky’s back turned, head bowed under the shower spray. Steve’s pencil moved careful but shaky. He shaded the play of light across skin until the page looked almost alive.
Then he got bolder.
Thighs next, corded muscle, the kind that flex when Bucky climbs stairs two at a time. Steve drew them spread, imagined the way they’d tense if Bucky shifted his weight. Then his ass, round, shadowed where it met the backs of his thighs. He spent an hour on the dimples above it, the faint freckles. And then, God, his cock.
Soft at first, heavy between spread legs. Then harder in later sketches, thick, veined, curving up toward a flat stomach. Steve drew it leaking, the foreskin pulled back. He gave Bucky expressions he’s never worn in real life with parted lips, eyes half-lidded, like he’s waiting. Poses he’s never struck. On his knees. On his back. One hand braced on the wall while the other strokes himself slow.
Every time the pencil scratches across the page, heat coils low in Steve’s belly. His cock throb, pressing insistently against the fly of his trousers until he has to shift and has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning. He tells himself to stop. Tells himself this is wrong, that Bucky would hate him if he ever found out. That he’s turning his best friend, his only real family, into something dirty and private.
But he doesn’t stop. He can’t.
So Steve hides his sketchbook deeper under the mattress each night. Tells himself every day he’ll stopp. Next time he’ll draw buildings again, or the fire escape, or anything that isn’t Bucky’s body rendered in obsessive, aching detail.
Now, as he takes the stairs, Steve’s looking forward to it again. His legs burn from the day, but he takes the apartment steps two at a time anyway, heart already hammering harder than his lungs can keep up. Nothing in his head but the sketchbook, the pencil, the clean pages waiting under the mattress.
No shower today. He probably smells, but water costs money they don’t have. Rent’s due in a week. They’re already scraping. He’ll live with it.
Keys jangle in his shaking hand. The lock sticks like always, so he twists harder, shoves the door open with his shoulder. Jacket yanked off, boots kicked into the corner, hands scrubbed quick under cold tap water until the worst of the grime is gone. Then he’s moving again, straight to the bedroom door. He pushes the door open, and—
Bucky’s there.
He’s tanding beside his own bed, back to the door, head slightly bowed like he’s reading something in his hands. Steve freezes in the doorway. He didn’t expect this. Bucky’s shift started later than usual today. It should run another two hours at least. So what is he doing here?
“Hey, Buck,” Steve says. “Didn’t expect you slacking in here. Shouldn’t you be at the docks right now?”
No answer. Bucky doesn’t even turn.
“…Buck?”
There’s still nothing for another moment.
Then, slowly, Bucky turns around. And Steve’s heart drops straight through the floor.
Bucky’s face is blank, serious. Dead serious. In his hands he holds the sketchbook, Steve’s sketchbook, open to a page Steve doesn’t even need to see to know what’s there. Steve’s gaze flicks to his own bed, to the mattress he thought was safe, then back to Bucky’s face
Oh, God.
He found it.
Steve swallows. “Buck,” he rasps, voice cracking on the single syllable. “What… what is that in your hand?”
“I should be the one askin’ you that,” Bucky says, voice firm. “What the hell is this, Steve?”
Steve’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again. Nothing comes out. His chest is caving in, shame burning so hot it’s almost painful. He can feel the flush crawling up his neck, his ears, turning his face red. His hands twitch at his sides like they want to snatch the book back, but his feet are rooted.
“I—” Steve’s voice cracks. “Don’t look at those. Give it back. Please.”
“Give it back? Don’t look at those?” Bucky echoes the words back at him like he’s tasting how ridiculous they sound. He takes a step forward. “You hid these under your bed. You drew me like this—like some kinda pervert—and now you’re tellin’ me I’m supposed to just… stop lookin’? You kiddin’ me?”
Steve flinches. The word pervert lands like a slap. His stomach twists so hard he thinks he might be sick. He reaches out instinctively, hand shaking, palm open toward the sketchbook still clutched in Bucky’s grip.
“I didn’t mean—It’s just anatomy, Buck! It’s for practice! I swear! I can’t afford classes, and you—you’re—” Steve stops. He tries again, desperate. “You’re built perfect for it. That’s all.”
Bucky stays silent for a long beat, eyes narrowed, staring at Steve like he’s trying to peel back every layer of panic and guilt showing on his face.
Steve’s heart slams against his ribs. He throws his hands up, shaky and defensive. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to see those. I’ll—I’ll stop. I’ll burn them. Just… don’t be mad. Please, Buck, don’t—
Bucky’s gaze doesn’t waver. Then a slow grin starts tugging at the corner of his lips, small at first, then wider. His nose crinkles the way it does when he’s honestly amused, eyes crinkling at the edges. He laughs, leaving Steve confused and burning.
“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky says, still chuckling. “I ain’t mad.”
Steve blinks. “You’re—you’re not?”
Bucky shakes his head, grin lingering. “Nah. I mean, it’s a little weird seein’ all this… but you really went all out, didn’t ya? Got the little dimple on my chin. The scar on my shoulder from that time we climbed the fence at the shipyard. Even got the freckles on my ass.” He glances up, one brow arched. “How the hell’d you know about those? You been peekin’ more than just that one time?”
“I haven’t!” Steve blurts, voice pitching higher than he means it to.
“Relax. You’re freakin’ out.”
“Of course I’m freaking out!” Steve’s hands are shaking so bad the sketchbook trembles when Bucky presses it against his chest. He grabs it on instinct, lclutching it too himself like a shield. “I don’t want you to hate me. To be disgusted by me.”
“Hate you?” Bucky takes another step forward. They’re so close now Steve has to glance up at him. Bucky’s fingers brush Steve’s knuckles before he lets go of the sketchbook. “Why would I hate you? This is the best damn thing anyone’s ever done for my ego.”
“What?”
“Yeah. I’m flattered.” Bucky says. “You’re lucky I’m the one who caught you with this. Anyone else finds out their best pal’s been drawin’ them naked? You’d have been beaten bloody by now. Or worse. But not me” he tilts his head. “This is… kinda hot, actually.”
There’s a pause.
“Knowin’ you’ve been sittin’ here every night,” Bucky goes on, “thinkin’ about me like this. Drawin’ every inch. Gettin’ all worked up over it… cute.”
Steve’s face burns hotter, impossibly hotter. He ducks his head, tries to hide behind his own hair, but Bucky’s hand is already there, tipping his chin back up so they’re eye to eye again.
“I’m not disgusted,” Bucky says. “I’m… interested.”
Steve blinks up at him. “Interested?”
“How would you like to see the real thing, hm?” Bucky murmurs. “I’ll model for ya. Bare. We’ll make it like one of those fancy life drawin’ classes you’ve been dreamin’ about since forever. No charge, of course. Private session. Just you and me.”
Steve’s brain short-circuits. “… are you serious?”
Bucky tilts his head, one brow arching in a lazy, challenging way. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know… maybe you’re drunk.“
Bucky snorts. “I’m a hundred percent sober, Steve.”
Steve’s throat works. “You’d really… just strip down? Right here? Let me look? Draw you like—like some kinda life model?”
“Yeah. Right here. Right now.”
Steve doesn’t know what to say. He can’t think properly, thoughts scattering every time Bucky shifts even an inch closer. Steve’s heart is a frantic drum in his ears, so loud he’s sure Bucky can hear it too. Is this real? Is Bucky actually offering to strip down and let Steve look his fill? To pose however Steve wants, legs spread, back arched, hand on himself if that’s what the sketch calls for?
He wants to say yes. God, he wants to say yes so badly his fingers are already itching for a pencil. But… this isn’t just a quick favor. This will change things between them. For real. Forever.
“So,” Bucky prompts after a moment of silence. “You in or not?”
—
Bucky’s clothes come off quickly.
The shirt first, tugged up and over his head in one pull. Then the pants, belt unbuckled with a soft clink, unbuttoned buttons, shoved past his hips and kicked aside. Briefs last. Bucky hooks thumbs under the waistband, shoves them down, steps out. They land somewhere near the dresser with the rest.
He stands naked in the middle of the room, completely unselfconscious. Exactly as Steve remembers from that afternoon in the bathroom, but closer now. Broad shoulders rolling once. Lean muscle shifting under skin. Dark pink nipples tight from the cooler air. His cock hangs between his thighs, swaying slightly when he shifts his weight.
Steve sits frozen on the edge of his own bed, sketchbook open across his lap, blank page staring up at him, pencil gripped so tight in his right hand his knuckles ache. His left hand is braced on the mattress to keep him from tipping forward. He tries not to look Bucky in the eye, keeps his gaze darting to shoulders, collarbone, hip, but Bucky won’t let him hide.
Bucky’s eyes stay locked on Steve’s face, half-lidded and hungry. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curves just enough to show he knows exactly what he’s doing to him.
“How do you want me?” Bucky asks.
Steve’s lips part, but no sound comes out. Every sketch he’s ever done flashes behind his eyes, every filthy pose he’s dared to put on paper. He wants everything. Wants Bucky on his knees. On his back. Bent over the dresser. Hand wrapped around himself. Mouth open. Eyes on Steve the whole time.
But saying any of it out loud feels… wrong. Like Bucky might suddenly remember they’re supposed to be just friends and pull away laughing it off as a joke. Steve’s overthinking again. The way he always does when something matters this much.
“Steve,” Bucky says softly,almost gentle. “You’re thinkin’ too hard. This ain’t a test. There’s no wrong answer.”
Steve forces himself to meet Bucky’s eyes. “I don’t wanna push.”
“You’ve already drawn me in every position you could think of. I’ve seen the pages. I liked the pages. So tell me what you want first. Start easy if you gotta.”
“Okay,” Steve mumbles. He takes a deep, shaky breath. Anxiety twists tight in his chest, mixed together with excitement that makes his fingertips tingle. “Then, uh, the bed. On your back. Head on the pillow. Arm behind your head like… like you’re stretching.”
Bucky’s grin spreads. “Yes, sir.”
He climbs onto the bed, mattress dipping under his weight with a soft creak, and settles exactly as asked. He stretches out long and lazy. One arm hooks behind his head, bicep bulging, forearm disappearing. The other knee draws up opening the line of his inner thigh. His cock rests soft against the crease of his hip. The pose is casual, but the way he’s looking at Steve makes it anything but innocent.
Bucky’s free hand drifts down, fingers curling loosely around the base of his cock. He doesn’t stroke. Doesn’t tug. Just holds it like it’s something precious he’s offering up for inspection.
Steve forces his eyes away from Bucky, down to the blank page. The sketchbook feels heavier in his lap than it ever has. He picks up the pencil, fingers still unsteady, and presses the tip to the paper, hesitating long enough to feel the faint grit under the point.
Where to start? How?
After a moment, he begins with a light, loose outline of Bucky’s overall shape. The lines are faint. He erases half of them almost immediately, softening edges, correcting the angle of Bucky’s bent knee until it feels right.
Then he starts for real. Head first. The familiar curve of Bucky’s brow. Eyes, half-lidded, steady, locked on Steve. Steve has to glance up every few seconds to check the reference. Every time their gazes meet, heat crawls up his neck. Bucky doesn’t blink. He watches, patient and hungry. The mouth is next, lips parted just enough to show a sliver of teeth. Nose. Jaw. Messy hair.
Steve’s hands are still shaky, but drawing pulls him in the way it always does. The world narrows to the scratch of the pencil. It’s his oldest coping mechanism.
He moves faster once he finds the flow. Shoulders. Arms. Bicep curved under the weight of his own head. Chest. The faint dusting of hair that trails down the center. Stomach, tight ridges that flex every time Bucky exhales. Thighs. Legs stretched long, toes curling slightly against the sheet.
Time slips. Steve has even framed in the bed itself. Headboard, rumpled sheets, the dip where Bucky’s body presses down. The sketch is coming together. But when he reaches the center of the page, Bucky’s hand curled loosely around the base of his cock, Steve hesitates. The pencil hovers. He can’t quite make the first mark.
Bucky twitches again, small and restless. He’s been good, mostly still, but the waiting is starting to show in the faint tension of his shoulders, the way his fingers flex and relax around himself.
“Modelin’s harder than it looks,” Bucky says suddenly, voice rough with disuse. He shifts his hips just enough to make the mattress creak. “Thought it was gonna be relaxin’. You done yet?”
“Uh, no. Not yet,” Steve mumbles. “Almost. Just… the last part.”
There’s a slow grin tugging at Bucky’s lips. “You mean my dick?”
Steve’s throat works hard on a swallow. Heat surges back into his face. “How did you—”
Bucky chuckles. “Cause I know you. And you’ve been starin’ at it for the last ten minutes.”
“That’s…”
Steve’s voice trails off into nothing. His mouth falls open as Bucky’s hand moves.
Bucky starts slow. Fingers wrapped firm around the base, he slides his palm up the shaft. Bucky exhales through his nose, a low sound, then drags his hand back down. Then he reverses direction. The foreskin eases back, uncovering the head, a dark pink, almost completely.
Steve can’t look away.
Bucky’s eyes stay locked on his the whole time. He strokes again. And again. Each pull a little firmer, a little faster. The foreskin peels back fully now with every downstroke, exposing the sensitive ridge, the slit. Bucky’s cock hardens visibly under his own grip, veins standing out, length curving harder toward his stomach, the head swelling darker with every pass.
Steve’s breath comes shallow and quick. Steve’s own cock throbs painfully against the seam of his trousers. He shifts on the mattress, small and helpless, and Bucky notices. Of course he does.
“Maybe this’ll help,” Bucky says, voice low and filthy. His hand keeps moving, twisting just a little at the head on every upstroke, thumb swiping over the slit to spread fresh pre-cum. “What do ya think?”
Steve’s tongue feels thick, useless. All he can do is watch how Bucky’s stomach flexes with each stroke,and the slow roll of his hips that pushes his cock deeper into his fist.
His hand lets go of the sketchbook and drops it onto his lap. The other hand moves almost on instinct, pressing flat against the aching bulge in his trousers. He rubs once, trying to match the rhythm of Bucky’s fist sliding up and down his own cock. The friction sends a sharp jolt through him. He bites his lip to stifle the whimper that wants to escape.
“Hey.” Bucky’s voice cuts through the haze, firm, no room for argument. His hand doesn’t stop moving. “Stop that. You gotta focus.”
Steve’s palm freezes mid-rub. “But—”
“No buts, Steve. Finish what you started first. Draw it. Get it right. And then, after that… you’ll get a reward. Somethin’ for your hard work.”
Steve’s breath hitches. The ache between his legs is unbearable, cock throbbing against his fly, but Bucky’s words land like a command he can’t disobey. He exhales shakily, picks up the sketchbook with trembling fingers, and presses the tip to the paper again.
He continues by drawing Bucky’s balls next. The pencil moves in short, careful scribbles, trying to capture the loose hang of them. He erases once or twice, smudging the lines softer with his thumb until they feel right. Then he moves up to the base of the cock.
But he keeps stopping.
The pencil hovers. His eyes drift. Secretly, shamelessly, he admits the view in front of him.
Bucky isn’t looking at Steve anymore. His gaze is fixed downward, locked on his own hand as he keeps stroking himself. His other arm finally slips from behind his head. His palm land flat on his own chest, fingers splaying wide, then slides lower. He cups one pec, kneads it once like he’s testing the give of muscle, then circles the dark pink nipple with the pad of his thumb. Slow. Teasing. Then he pinches it, tugs, rolls it between thumb and index finger.
A low, quiet grunt slips out of Bucky, involuntary. His brows furrow deep, pleasure carving sharp lines into his face. His yes half-shut, cheeks flushed, mouth parted on shallow breaths. His head drops back against the pillow with a soft thud, throat exposed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. The cock in his grip leaks more freely, pre-cum shining.
The page is abandoned. Steve can’t look away from Bucky’s face. Masturbating dry shouldn’t feel this good.
But maybe it’s not the pleasure alone. Maybe it’s the audience. Steve’s watching. Steve’s seeing him. Bucky knows. Bucky likes it. He’s showing off. Performing. Getting off on being watched the same way Steve’s been getting off on watching him for weeks.
Steve forces his eyes back on the paper, forces himself to move again even though every nerve in his body is screaming to look up instead.
He tries to focus on the rest of Bucky’s cock, the long, flushed shaft he’s already half-captured in loose, trembling lines. The veins, thick ones that stand out along the underside. He sketches them carefully, but the more he draws, the harder it is to pretend this is just anatomy study. Every time he glances up for reference, Bucky is louder.
The quiet grunts have melted into little breathy moans that catch in Bucky’s throat every time his fist twists at the head. Both legs are flat on the mattress now, knees falling open wider, toes curling hard into the sheet as he abuses his chest and nipple.
“Fuck, Steve,” Bucky breathes, voice wrecked and sweet. “You’re lookin’ at me like that and I—” He cuts off on a low whine when he tugs his nipple harder. His cock jumps in his grip, leaking another thick bead that slides down to join the mess.
Steve’s hand moves faster now. He sketches the head of Bucky’s cock in quick, overlapping strokes. The swollen flare. The ridge where foreskin bunches when pulled back. The tiny parted slit glistening wet. Bucky’s moans climb higher. His hips snap up in short, needy thrusts now, fucking into his fist with no restraint left.
One last line, one last scratch of charcoal across the page, and—
“I’m—I’m done!” Steve blurts.
Bucky comes at the same moment.
Thick ropes of cum erupt over his fist, splashing hot across the ridges of his stomach, up his chest, one violent spurt catching the hollow of his throat. His hand doesn’t falter. It keeps moving through the release in slow drags, coaxing every last shudder, every twitch and throb until the final weak dribble spills over his knuckles and drips onto the rumpled sheet beneath him.
He collapses back against the pillow, chest heaving, skin flushed a deep, feverish pink from collarbone to hairline, cock softening in his loose, sticky grip. For a long moment he simply breathes, ragged, uneven pulls of air that make his whole body rise and fall. Eyes closed. Mouth parted on soft, wrecked exhales.
Steve can only watch. The pencil slips from his numb fingers, clatters against the floor,and rolls under the bed. He doesn’t glance after it. The sketchbook slides forgotten off his lap onto the mattress, pages splayed open to the finished drawing.
All he cares about now is Bucky.
Bucky’s eyes flutter open, still glassy from the aftershocks. A lazy, satisfied smile tugs at the corner of his mouth when his eyes finally finds Steve’s. “Oh, God,” he rasps, voice cracked and thick with lingering pleasure. “That was...”
“Buck…” Steve whines, desperate.
Bucky’s gaze softens instantly. He rises from the bed. “C’mere, Steve.”
Steve bolts forward before the words finish settling, legs wobbly. He rushes toward the bed, heart slamming against his ribs, and drops onto the edge of the mattress. The frame creaks under the sudden shift, protesting the way Steve’s whole body is trembling.
One of Bucky’s hand slides up the back of Steve’s neck, fingers threading into short hair at the nape. Steve flinches at first, a small twitch, nerves sparking like live wires. Bucky pauses long enough to let Steve feel the warmth of his palm, then leans in, lips pressing against Steve’s.
Steve meets him halfway, but it’s clumsy, uncertain. He wants this so badly it hurts, has wanted it for longer than he’ll ever admit, but he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, where to put them, how to angle his head. He’s fought bigger men in alleyways, taken punches that split his lip and kept swinging. He’s never once lost his head in a scrap.
But this is Bucky. This is different.
So he lets Bucky lead. He opens his mouth, properly this time, closes his eyes, and surrenders.
Lips clash. Soft at first, testing, then harder. Bucky’s head sways left, then right, then left again, finding the perfect angle, deepening the kiss with every pass. Steve tries to keep up, lips parting wider, tongue tentative when Bucky’s slips inside. It’s wet and hot and overwhelming. Steve makes a small, helpless sound into Bucky’s mouth, hips twitching forward when Bucky’s free palm slides down and cups the aching bulge in his trousers.
Bucky’s tongue strokes deeper, slow sweeps that make Steve’s head spin. He learns the shape of it, the rhythm, the way Bucky likes to tease the roof of his mouth before pulling back just to dive in again. Steve’s hands finally move, awkward, landing on Bucky’s bare shoulders, fingers digging into hot skin. He clings there while Bucky kisses him senseless.
Before Steve realizes it, Bucky pulls his tongue out of Steve’s mouth with a slow drag, leaving Steve’s lips wet and tingling. Steve opens his eyes, dazed, and finds Bucky staring back at him, his tongue still extended just enough to be obscene. Bucky leans in again, not for another kiss, but to lick a stripe up Steve’s chin, then his lower lip, tasting the spit and heat they’ve already shared.
Then he drops lower. His mouth lands on Steve’s neck, open, sucking, teeth grazing just shy of bruising. Steve’s head tips back on a shaky exhale. Bucky’s grip on Steve’s cock tightens, thumb circling the head through the fabric while his palm rubs long, slow strokes along the length. Steve’s hips jerk into it, helpless little rolls that drag a low, approving hum from Bucky’s throat against his skin.
Bucky’s free hand moves up to Steve’s belt. Fingers hook under the leather,tugging once and working the buckle open. The belt slides free, clinking softly as it hits the floor. Next come the buttons of Steve’s fly.
Steve takes over from there. He lifts his hips, ass leaving the mattress, and shoves his trousers down to his ankles in a hurried tangle. The cool air hits his thighs, makes him shiver, but the relief of less fabric is immediate. He reaches to push his briefs down next, cock straining, dripping, desperate for freedom, but Bucky’s hands clamp over his wrists, stopping him.
“Stay like this,” Bucky murmurs
Steve freezes. He nods even though he can feel the wet spot spreading wider, can feel his cock leaking steadily against the cotton, aching with every heartbeat.
Bucky releases his wrists, slides off the bed and drops to his knees right in front of Steve between his spread thighs, hands braced on Steve’s knees to push them wider. Bucky looks up at him, mouth parted, then leans forward. His lips open and cup the bulge through the fabric. The outline of Bucky’s tongue presses flat against the soaked spot, tracing the shape of Steve’s cock from base to tip in one slow drag.
Steve can feel every flick of tongue, every pull of lips, every scrape of teeth so gentle it’s driving him insane. Pre-cum pulses out in fresh spurts, darkening the fabric further, and Bucky laps at it like he’s starving. Greedy circles around the head, then long stripes down the shaft until the cotton clings transparently to every ridge and vein.
“I’m gonna suck your cock now, Steve,” Bucky murmurs right against the soaked bulge. “Gonna suck it real hard. Gonna take you deep, make it messy. I’ll do it like a gal did it for me once. First date, went to hell fast. She was desperate for it, practically begged. I let her. Ate her out after. It was immodest. Filthy. Felt good, though. There was no second date.”
Steve’s cock twitches hard at the image of Bucky’s head buried between thighs, tongue working. But the jealousy hits immediate, twisting low in his gut even as it makes him leak more.
“…Can you not talk about that right now?”
Bucky pulls back to meet his eyes. “Sorry.” He sounds almost genuine, but the crooked tug of his lips says he knows exactly what he did. “You know I like to tease.”
“Jerk.”
Bucky’s fingers hook into the waistband of Steve’s briefs tugging impatient, then slide them down. Steve’s cock springs up, flushed dark and leaking steadily, the head already slick and swollen from hours of untouched aching. A thick bead of pre-cum wells at the slit and slides slow down the shaft.
Bucky flinches back and freezes.
He… stares. Silent. Wide-eyed. Lips parted. His gaze traces every inch: the length, the way it curves slightly upward, veins standing out under flushed skin, the way it twitches under the weight of his attention.
Steve feels more exposed than he’s ever felt in his life. Heat crawls up his neck. His hands twitch like he wants to cover himself, but he doesn’t. He just sits there, briefs shoved down, cock bobbing in the open air, waiting for Bucky to say or do something.
“Oh, wow,” Bucky finally breathes. “You’re pretty big for a guy your size.”
“Is that… a bad thing?” Steve asks quietly, voice small.
Bucky licks his lips, then forces his eyes up from Steve’s cock to meet his gaze. “Let’s just say this is more of a me problem right about now. Didn’t expect… all that.”
Steve’s breath hitches. “You don’t have to—”
“Shut up,” Bucky cuts in gently.
Steve lets out a shaky laugh. “But you’re staring. It’s okay if you don’t wanna. I probably smell like hell too. Didn’t shower.”
“You’re yappin’ again” Bucky says, deadpan. “Just sit back and relax. I’m gonna take care of ya.”
Bucky doesn’t wait for another protest. His hand wraps around Steve’s cock, his palm sliding slow from root to tip in one long stroke. Then another. The third is tighter, thumb dragging over the slick head, spreading pre-cum. A broken sound slips out of Steve before he can swallow it.
Then he leans in. His mouth opens and wraps around the head, hot andwet. He sucks once, twice. Gentle pulls that make Steve’s thighs tremble before letting it pop free. A thin string of spit connects Bucky’s lower lip to the flushed tip for half a second before it snaps.
Next, he sinks down. He takes half of Steve’s cock, lips stretching wide, cheeks hollowing as his tongue drags flat along the underside. Steve’s whole body locks up. His hips want to snap forward, want to bury himself deeper, but he forces them still. One hand fists the sheet beneath him so hard the fabric bunches. The other reaches for the back of Bucky’s head, fingers threading into his hair.
The rhythm Bucky settles into is perfect. He bobs his head up and down, never pulling completely off, just retreating to the head of Steve’s cock before sinking back down again. Lips meet his own fingers wrapped tight around the base; throat flutters once, twice, relaxing around the thick intrusion.
Steve can’t stay still anymore. His hands fly to the hem of his shirt and yanks it up over his head, fabric catching briefly on his chin before he tosses it aside. His upper body is bare now. He feels exposed, but the way Bucky’s eyes flick up to drink him in makes the vulnerability feel like worship instead of shame.
Spit slicks down the shaft in shiny trails, drips onto Steve’s ball. Steve’s moans turn into embarrassing little whimpers he can’t bite back, can’t control.
Everything is messy. Wet and slick sounds fill the room every time Bucky swallows around his cock.
Steve’s mouth just hangs open now as he stares down. Bucky’s looking right back up at him, eyes big and glassy, pupils blown so wide there’s almost no blue left. Tears cling to the corners from the stretch, the effort.
He keeps his eyes on Steve the whole time as he takes him deeper. Bucky’s hand slowly loosens around the base,fingers sliding away inch by inch the further he swallows Steve’s length. The wet heat of his throat closes around more and more, fluttering, relaxing,until Steve’s cock is buried so deep Bucky’s lips brush coarse hair at the root. He pulls back until only the head rests heavy on his tongue. Steve feels the hot puff of Bucky’s breath ghosting over him. Bucky licks his own lips, tasting the mess they’ve already made, then plunges down again.
Steve feels his sanity snap, so his grip on Bucky’s head tightens, enough that his fingers dig into dark strands, but not hard or forcing. Bucky could pull away anytime if he wanted to. Steve’s not strong enough to make him do anything he doesn’t choose. But the need is overwhelming and his hips move on their own in helpless jerks at first, then deeper, fucking into Bucky’s mouth with unsteady rhythm.
Bucky clutches at Steve’s shaky thighs. A gag rips from his throat as Steve’s cock hits the back of it. His eyes water, tears clinging to dark lashes, but he don’t pull away. He takes it. Takes him.
The sounds are filthy: wet gurgles, choked moans muffled around Steve’s cock. Bucky’s cheeks hollow on every upstroke, tongue swirling messy circles around the head before he sinks back down. Again and again. His hands slide higher, thumbs digging into the crease of Steve’s hips while Steve’s hips snap forward in short thrusts.
“Buck, fuck—” Steve’s voice is ruined, barely a rasp. “I’m—gonna—”
Bucky just takes Steve fully, one last swallow, throat fluttering tight around the base as he holds there, nose pressed to Steve’s pubic bone.
And Steve breaks.
He comes with a choked, shattered cry, spilling hot and thick cum down Bucky’s throat in long, pulsing waves. Bucky swallows greedily, throat working, milking every drop, eyes half-lidded, until Steve’s oversensitive, trembling, pushing weakly at Bucky’s shoulders with shaking hands.
Bucky finally pulls off, lips swollen and glistening, a thick string of cum and spit connecting him to the head for one filthy moment before he licks it away. He gasps for air, chest heaving.
“Oh, hell,” Bucky rasps, voice wrecked and hoarse. “I totally underestimated blowjobs. Eating pussy’s easier.” He grimaces, tongue dragging over his teeth like he’s trying to scrape something away. “Doesn’t even taste good.”
Steve watches his own cock soften slowly against his thigh, still twitching with aftershocks.
“You saying I taste bad?” Steve asks.
“Your cum tastes bad,” Bucky corrects quickly. “Drinkin’ more water wouldn’t hurt ya. All that coffee makes it… bitter.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “Bet yours doesn’t taste any better.”
“Oh, yeah?” Bucky’s grins. He pushes up onto his knees and scoops a stripe of cum off his stomach with two fingers. It clings in a viscous string between his fingertips as he brings it right up to Steve’s face, close enough that Steve can smell the sharp, musky scent of it. “Taste for yourself.”
“No, thanks.” Steve’s hand shoots up fast, shoving Bucky’s wrist away before those fingers can get any closer. “I bet there’s already crust on that.”
Bucky laughs and climbs onto the bed. He settles beside Steve, so close their bare thighs press together, sticky skin on sticky skin. He cups Steve’s face with both hands, fingers still tacky with drying cum, and pulls him into a deep kiss.
Steve kisses him back immediately, hungry for it, lips parting on instinct. Bucky’s lips taste salty and musky, the taste of Steve lingering on his lips. It should feel strange, maybe even wrong, but it doesn’t. Steve chases it deeper, tilting his head to fit their mouths together better, one hand sliding up to rest against the side of Bucky’s neck.
Bucky breaks the kiss and leans back to look at Steve properly. His eyes trace Steve’s face like he’s seeing it for the first time. Something soft flickers across Bucky’s expression, something that makes Steve’s chest ache in the best way.
They both slump sideways onto the bed at the same moment. The old frame creaks loudly under their combined weight, springs protesting. Bucky lands on his side facing Steve, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting loose across Steve’s waist. Steve mirrors him without thinking, facing Bucky, knees brushing, breath still coming a little too fast.
Bucky keeps smiling at him, bright and wide. Steve can’t help but return it; the expression tugs at his lips like it’s contagious, like his face doesn’t know how to do anything else right now. But even if Bucky wasn’t smiling Steve would still be grinning like an idiot.
He’s happy. So damn happy.
“Are we… gonna do this again some time?” Steve asks, almost shy.
“As many times as you want, Steve,” Bucky answers. “I’ll always model for ya.”
“Good, good…”
“…You’re talkin’ about the sex, ain’t ya?”
Steve’s face burns. He ducks his head, pressing his forehead harder against Bucky’s collarbone like that’ll hide it.
“Yeah,” he admits, voice small and muffled against skin.
Bucky snorts. “Pervert.”