Work Text:
-S-G-R-
There wasn't a real reason why he woke up. Something just felt... off.
Not that his whole life didn't permanently feel off now that Bucky was gone. The last time Steve saw his stupid mug was at the Stark Expo; seeing him off while he went and pressed his luck again at yet another enlistment office only to get another 4F.
Steve had went home feeling more dejected than he had in a while. Bucky had been out with two gorgeous dames on his last night before shipping out and Steve couldn’t follow after him. He didn’t come back to their apartment and take his mind off of his sour mood.
Bucky would never be back; he would never help distract him from his failing body and self loathing. He would never walk through their front door with a crooked smile on his face and a wild story on his lips.
Taking a shuddering breath, Steve nudged his face fully into his pillow feeling an errant tear creep down his nose. It's been a little over a year since he received the telegram that formally informed him that Sargent James Buchanan Barns had died in action. Even now, Steve couldn't help but feel like he should have been there, done something more to ensure that he was in the war with Bucky. That if he had found his way in, he would have been able to save him. A full body shudder raked through him that had little to do with how cold his room was or how poorly his blanket kept him warm.
Clinching his jaw, Steve shoved himself off of his bed, gracelessly carried himself out of his bedroom, and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. He had promised himself to stop acting so pathetic. He was stronger than this and turning into a sobbing mess had only ever lead to an asthma attack. He couldn’t deal with that on top of everything else.
-J-B-B-
It came in flashes. It burned and pulsed. It fought against his conditioning and went against what his handlers ordered.
He had a mission to complete. He needed to focus, make his kill, and report back to base.
But these flashes made him hesitate. Made his feet wander down unfamiliar streets and back allies only to stop near a decrepit building not fit for rats to live, much less people. Made his thoughts fill with images of corn silk hair, eyes that flashed like twin blue flames, and skin that was as creamy as milk.
It was wrong. He was an asset; a weapon. He follows orders and completes missions. He did not hesitate. He did not need to know what those golden tresses smelt of (Summer grass and charcoal). He did not desire to stoke the flame in those blue eyes ("What’cha doodlin’ now, Punk?”). He did not crave to know what that smooth skin tasted of (Sweat and musk with a hint of soap).
Jerking to a stop, he came to himself with sharp clarity. Darting his eyes around, he quickly surveyed his surroundings and became even more frustrated with himself. He was in one of the apartments of the building he seemed to gravitate toward. This was becoming asinine; he couldn't even recall how he came to be here. Fury shot down his spine as his eyes flitted around a familiar room that he had never been in. Without a trace of emotion on his face, he went to slip off of the premises when he heard noises coming from an adjacent room.
Silently slipping into the shadows behind him, he observed a young man shuffle into the room. His eyes were bleary with lack of sleep and he was hunched in on himself as if an unbearable weight were resting upon his wiry shoulders. His hair sat in odd angles, a testament to an uneasy sleep, and small trimmers ran over him as his body feebly tried to warm itself. He had a fleeting thought that it would take next to nothing to kill him.
As he turned toward the kitchen area, the slight of a man stepped into a beam of moon light that colored him whole. All the flashes and visions that pulsed and burned in the back of his mind slammed into him at once to piece together the picture before him and without his notice, he lurched towards this stranger he knew like a string drawing taut and pulling him forward against his will. He grabbed him by the shoulder, jerked him around so that he could look at him face to face, and shoved him up against the nearest wall.
A startled wail was ripped out of chapped, pink lips. He expected him to go limp. To cower and beg for mercy. He was not prepared for this slip of a man to yell at him in outrage or for him to try and struggle out of his grasp, weakly throwing punches that did little more than tickle. What he yelled didn't matter to him. All he was aware of was soft, corn silk hair falling into eyes filled with twin blue flames and milky smooth skin that was slowly flushing from anger and over stimulation. As he stood there staring, his new obsession quickly wore himself out and stilled beneath him. Determined eyes flashed up to meet his own while his nose scrunched up in a snarl. His mouth parted undoubtedly to continue his tirade when it suddenly went slack. Flicking his own eyes back up to meet the other's, he watched as his pupils dilated in shock. He felt his body go ridged. His ears had to strain to pick up a single whispered word.
-S-G-R-
"... Bucky...?"
Raging thoughts ranging from, “Of all the dumb luck in the world...”, to, “How DARE this BASTARD brake into MY apartment...”, to, “The HELL I’m going to be killed like...” vanished as soon as Steve got a good look at the eyes of his would be attacker. Eyes that, while cold and lifeless, were pale grey. Eyes that he had drawn a thousand times. Eyes that use to sear into him, only now they seem to just haunt him.
This was a dream. It was the only explanation. He’s had so many bizarre and improbable dreams about Bucky over the past year that he’s not surprised he’s having another one tonight.
But then metal fingers find the pulse point in his neck to track his racing heart. The shock of how cold they are made him gasp and snapped Steve out of his stupor; grounding him enough to feel the pulsing in his hands that were sure to be bruised by morning. A much warmer hand then cupped his chin and tilted Steve’s head as he bent forward to gently nuzzle his hair.
“This isn’t a dream, is it, Buck?”, Steve murmured.
The only response Steve got was Bucky shifting back so he could track his flesh and blood hand as it slid down his throat, moving the collar of his sleeping shirt over to keep them touching skin to skin. Steve used the new space between them to look at all the changes that had happened to Bucky over the time they had been apart. His hair was longer, reaching down to his shoulders and framing his face. He seemed thinner than he had ever been, even in their roughest years without food, but with more muscle than he could gain just by working down at the docks. But what caught Steve’s attention the most was what he was wearing. More specifically, the muzzle hiding the rest of Bucky’s face from him.
“Bucky, what’s going on? I thought you were dead. What is all this?” Questions tumbled out of Steve’s mouth with little thought as he lifted his hands towards Bucky’s face. Fast as lightning, his hands were caught up together in one metal hand and pressed to the wall above his head. “Your hand- What happened to your hand? Is that some kind of armor? Damnit, Bucky, answer me!”
-J-B-B-
It was so hard to think. There where so many things to process. Vivid images were flashing in his mind (Sticky hot days laying naked across a threadbare couch. Frigid cold nights curled up in a rickety old bed). Remembered sounds so clear they left his ears ringing (Gales of laughter that lit up his body like fireworks. Gut wrenching sobs that he would have given up his own happiness to end). Sensations ghosting over his body that made his flesh prickle in goosebumps (Chapped lips gliding down his throat leaving hot puffs of air in its wake. Nails scraping welts down his back in a pleasure pain that confuses him). And centered in every memory he gained was the man standing in front of him. How could this torrent of information ripping through him come from such a small and insignificant man? All from just tracing his hand down a slender neck that he could snap with no effort.
He was brought out of his thoughts when he sensed hands rising to his face and quickly snatched them up and away so they wouldn’t touch him.
“Your hand- What happened to your hand? Is that some kind of armor? Damnit, Bucky, answer me!”
He furrowed his eyebrows in irritation. He wanted to explore all that was in front of him. Discover if more touches would bring back more memories. But these questions made his head ache more than the flashes of jumbled memories. What the hell was a “Bucky”? He needed quiet so he could think and being shouted at would wake up neighbors and bring unwanted attention.
Growling low in his throat, he snapped his mask off his face and thrust it over the face of the other man. His eyes became impossibly wider over the mask. “Hold”, he husked out while releasing the wrists he was holding in his metal hand. The slight man’s eyes scrunched in confusion, even while following his demand.
Speaking after not using his voice for so long hurt, but he needed him to cooperate, so he grated out, “Don’t let go”
Indignant eyes flashed with anger and a muffled protest tried to push past the mask, but a harsh, “Shh!”, stopped any further noise.
With the quiet settling around them, it was much easier for him to sort through his own mind while exploring the tiny expanse of skin in front of him. He kept his metal hand to himself for the moment and used his flesh and blood hand to card through corn silk hair, making it stick up even further. He brought his fingers back down and traced over the facial features not covered by his mask, then down over long fingers and up a slender forearm. He needed to feel more, so he used his left hand to lift the thin sleeping shirt up enough to expose the slim expanse of his stomach. He watched as it moved irregularly, trying to take in steady breaths. He used his fingers to gently trace swirls up and around his navel and noticed how it quivered with every swipe he made closer to the waistband of his undershorts.
He peeked up back up when he heard a noise almost muted by his mask come from the man. It made other similar noises echo in his mind (Low, guttural moans. Harsh panting. High pitch whines. Quiet whimpers). It made him feel... He felt... stretched thin and too large for his skin. The man’s ceamy skin turned pink over high cheekbones. His breath intake became quicker and more ragged. His pupils dilated, no longer from shock, but for some other reason.
Peering back down, he noticed another change. The front of the man’s undershorts was starting to tent. Saliva flooded his mouth. He needed to see. Slipping two fingers in the waistband, he tugged down revealing coarse hair a few shades darker than the hair on the man’s head. Another firmer tug made the loose undershorts slide down enough to see the base of a cock slowly filling and growing. On instinct, he grasped it to pull it out of its confines and began stroking. The action seemed to first punch a gasp out of the man then slam his head into the wall behind him. His grip on the mask became bone white and his eyes were closed tight in what looked like pain. Letting the shirt drop from where he had lifted it, he cupped the back of his head, while continuing to glide his fingers up and down the shaft of his cock and making it fully erect.
He felt... like he was in a dream; like he was seeing himself from outside of his body. His right hand moved without his permission to grope his own throbbing cock through his pants. It was so- It hurt. He popped his button off, jerked the zipper down, and plunged his hand into his undershorts to get his dick out to try and relieve this unbearable pressure. Twin moans of pleasure rang out and with a start, he realized one was from him.
Becoming feral and wild, he spit in his hand, wrapped it around both of their dicks, and began pumping. He didn’t know how he knew to do this. No... he knew. It was muscle memory with the actions making past experiences run through his mind. It was too much. This pleasure so intense it was painful.
He pressed forward so he could rub his forehead against the crown of the blond’s head and lock their eyes together. They were both panting now. Carefully moving his metal hand from between his head and the wall, he lifted a bony leg up to wrap it around his waist, needing to be as close to him as possible. He could feel the other man tremble now, just like he could feel the shaking in his own legs.
“I, I’m-“, a rasping stutter that he had not intended to say. The other man responded by jerkily nodding his head up and down in agreement, barely able to hold the mask in place.
Tears sprang to his eyes. He’s never felt this way before; he remembers having done this hundreds of times. His gut clinches, he gives a pitchy whine barely held back in his throat, and he comes in white, sticky stripes.
“S-Steve”
Steve slings off the muzzle and desperately clings to Bucky’s face, meshing their mouths together to share a frenzied kiss. He then hikes his other leg around Bucky’s waist to better grind up into Bucky’s hand now well lubricated with his release and groans deep in his chest, his feeble body arching off the wall and coming in harsh jerks.
-S-G-R-
Steve slumped back against the wall and had to concentrate on his breathing or he would trigger an asthma attach. Talk about a lousy way to end a life altering orgasm, he bitterly thought. His measured breathing only lasted a few seconds before Bucky gathered him up to his chest and started crying into his shoulder. Speaking in short, gasping breaths, he said, “Steve- Stevie. Oh god. What have I- I can’t, Stevie. Don’t let them take me back!”, and slid down to the floor on his knees.
Grasping the enormity of the situation, Steve clung to Bucky’s back and whispered, “It’s gonna be ok, Buck. You’re here now. I got you and I ain’t never gonna give you up again”
Taking a shuddered breath, Bucky husked out, “You don’t understand, Steve. They’re gonna come after me. There gonna take me back. They’ll take me away from you, or worse, they’ll kill you to get to me!”
“Then you just gotta make me understand. We’ll get cleaned up and curl up in our bed and you tell me every damn thing that’s happened to you from the day you left. And if we gotta run away, if we gotta go on the lam and live in a whole ‘nother county under different names so you can’t be found, well... It’s not like we have any ties holding us here in Brooklyn. I’ll take care of you, Buck. You hear me? You don’t gotta be afraid no more. I’ll figure it out”
“I missed you so goddamned much”, Bucky confesses as he clutched to Steve tighter. “I felt this ache, this hole in my chest and I didn’t know what it was or what it meant, but I just knew I was missing something.” Then Bucky clinched his jaw and growled out, “They made me fucking forget you!”
“Hey, look at me”, Steve said, pulling away only far enough to look Bucky in the eyes while combing his fingers through his hair. “We got each other back now, Bucky. And I’ll make sure every damn day of the rest of my life, if I have to, making sure you don’t ever forget me again”
With tears streaming down his face, Bucky leaned forward and placed several loving kisses on Steve’s lips, murmuring, “I love you, Stevie”
“I love you, too”