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“Why the fuck were- How the hell do I- God dammit!”
Bucky tries his best to muffle his laughter when Steve drops the piece of chicken for the seventh time, but it’s damn near impossible too when Steve’s nose scrunches like that and his mouth twists just so and… he’s just so damn adorable.
He decides to concede after two more failed attempts, pushing out of his chair and going to the lady manning the register for a fork. She gives it to him after he nods his head towards Steve who, despite it failing the first two times, is trying to skewer the poor mangled piece of chicken while muttering increasingly loud expletives at it.
She smiles and wishes him good luck as he walks back and holds it out to Steve, in offering.
Steve, of course, declines. “I don’t need your help, Barnes.”
“I wasn’t saying you did, but the thing is, you kinda look like you do,” Bucky replies, curtly raising an eyebrow as he takes a bite out of his egg roll.
A minute later, when Steve mumbles, “fuck you,” around a mouthful of chicken, Bucky actively has to prevent himself from smiling. Because of course Steve didn’t need his help; he just appreciates it.
*
“Nng.”
Steve blinks his eyes, trying to at least make them tired because he can’t fucking get to sleep and this is like the third time this week, dammit. He can feel the warm weight of Bucky pressed up against his back, the half-hard on he’s sporting pressed between his legs in the same place it has been since they went to bed and Steve wasn’t in the mood.
Carefully, he pries himself from Bucky’s arms and pushes out of bed, grabbing his robe from where it’s flung over the nightstand. He trudges out of their bedroom, through the living room, and pushes into their study, all but sprinting to his table.
His workspace is cluttered, as always, but with this impending insomnia a pile grows larger and larger with drawings of whatever he can think to draw in the corner of the table. Admittedly, a lot of the drawings are detailed pictures of Bucky’s eyes, the slope of his nose, his dick lying soft on his leg or hard and wet at the tip. His hands on Steve’s too small thighs, his smile in the sun; Steve is glad he’s married to him otherwise he’d seem pretty damn clingy. Nonetheless, when he pulls out an empty white sheet, the only thing he can think to draw is, of course, a part of Bucky.
So he starts with his lips wrapped around a mouthful of a fork dripping with something red. He uses his pastels, his charcoals, shades the curve of Bucky’s smile when it’s too occupied to do more than lazily curl. He shoves his sleeves up his arms, uncaring of the myriad of colors that cover him from elbow down.
The sun is just breaking the horizon when he’s satisfied, and boy is he satisfied. The drawing is perfect, right down to the faint freckles dotting Bucky’s cheeks as far down as to his jawline, the light bristle of stubble framing his jaw and dotting his upper lip.
He sits there staring at it for so long he doesn’t hear Bucky’s footsteps until a pair of warm arms are wrapping around his waist and the point of a chin rests on the top of his head.
“You draw me?” Bucky asks, sounding and feeling sleep warm.
“Yeah.”
“’s good,” Bucky notes. He sounds impressed, but not surprised.
“Thanks,” Steve replies. He sets down the picture and turns in Bucky’s arms. “You’re good,” he mutters, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s neck and pulling him in for a kiss, uncaring of his morning breath or that he probably hasn’t shaved for a week. Bucky kisses him back then pulls away, eyes darting towards their kitchen.
Steve nods. “Breakfast first,” he says, entwining their fingers. “Then sex.”
“Then sex,” Bucky confirms.
*
“Oh my God, Stevie!”
Steve sprints down the aisle, jumping onto the back of the cart because sometimes Bucky falls down in grocery stores or ends up unintentionally hitting on someone’s husband because of course Steve had to marry the biggest fucking weirdo on Earth.
Rounding the corner, he can honestly say he’s surprised by what he finds.
Bucky’s pressed up against the refrigerator like a kid, hands splayed wide on either side of his head as he looks at what appears to be miniature ice cream cartons. He walks up to him, cautiously peering around his shoulder to find that he is indeed looking at the miniature ice cream cartons.
He gives it a moment’s consideration, but gives up without hesitation. “Okay, what the fuck?”
Bucky rounds on him, eyes wide and lips curled in an over excited smile. “Steve,” he says, voice tight with thinly concealed enthusiasm. “Steve, I found ice cream that looks like you!” He turns and plucks one out and lo and behold, it’s Fourth of July themed. And smaller than the other ice cream cartons around it.
Without hesitation, he leaves the cart in the middle of the aisle and walks out of the store, ignoring Bucky’s voice calling his name and telling him how damn cool it is that Ben and Jerry’s found him inspiring.
He is so not getting any tonight.
*
“Never let me go-oh-oh-oh, no-no-no-no-no-FUCK!”
Bucky blinks against the shampoo, glaring at the showerhead even as the acrid bubbles burn his eyes out of their sockets. Distantly, he thinks he hears the sound of Steve’s all too pleased laughter, but he knows it’s just paranoia. Steve’s been jumping on any opportunity to prove himself just as big, if not bigger, than Bucky.
And to his credit, he is slightly bigger in one area. But does half an inch really even count?
God, of course it fucking does, but that extra half of an inch feels freaking awesome and Steve knows it, the cocky asshole. Still, Bucky’s been resorting to frequent showers to get rid of pent up sexual tension, and right now is no exception.
He turns and rinses the suds from his hair, sighing at the slick slide of bubbles down his spine and legs. When he’s sure it’s clear enough to actually turn around without risking temporary blindness, he reaches down and takes himself in hand, sighing at the immediate relief his own touch brings.
It’s always like this, he supposes, when he showers. But it feels like this dry spell has lasted months. Well, technically it lasted a solid three and a half days but still.
He curls his other hand beneath his balls, massaging into the tender flesh as the hot water pounds onto his back, kneads at the tense muscle. His strokes are slow and sure, thumb pad rough as he swipes it over the tip. He drags his hand faster and faster, speeding his pace when the tightness in his belly curls wildly and comes so close to snapping and Jesus, this is-
“Hey, Bucky? Dinner’s in five.”
God dammit.
Bucky pulls his hands away and cranks the faucet towards cool, shivering when the frigid water coaxes a layer of goosebumps over his entire body and slumps his impressive, if he does say so himself, erection.
He runs the bar of soap over his body quickly before shutting off the water and stepping onto the bathmat just outside of the shower.
“Okay,” he calls, just loud enough so Steve’ll hear in the living room. “I’ll be out in a few.”
This time, he knows he hears an amused laugh.
*
“Grande Chai Tea Latte, 3 Pump, Skim Milk, Lite Water, No Foam, Extra Hot,” Bucky mutters. “And make it smell like roses.”
The cashier, thank god she already knows them, gives him her signature glare before taking their money and wishing them a good day through clenched teeth. Bucky smiles and wishes her the same, completely oblivious.
Steve follows close behind as Bucky walks to the end of the bar, getting in the pick-up line. “You know,” he murmurs, reaching for Bucky’s hand and knotting their fingers together. “One day they’re going to put poison in your dumbass drink. And lite water? Are you serious, Buck?”
“You bet your sweet asthmatic ass I do,” Bucky replies, smirking. When an older businessman gives Steve’s ass an unwelcome glance, he glares before smacking Bucky’s arm. In response, Bucky just reaches over and squeezes it.
Steve bats him away. “Fuck you,” he says. “I hope they poison you.”
He ignores Bucky for the rest of the time they’re there, but when the order for Bucky’s shitty coffee and Steve’s macchiato is called, the barista calls for, “the dumbass who thinks there’s ‘lite water’ and his adorable boyfriend.”
Steve smirks the whole walk back to their apartment, not even trying to hide his snort when Bucky gives him his trademark puppy eyes.
“She’s right, you know,” he says. “Lite water isn’t actually a thing.”
*
God dammit, he should have another seven stars at least- “Fuck this shit!”
Bucky pokes his head into the room, toothbrush sticking out of the corner of his mouth and beard half trimmed. “What’s up?” he asks around the foam in his mouth.
“This fucking game,” Steve replies, and going by the way Bucky sighs, he’s given him all that he needs. Steve closes out of the app just as Bucky perches on the edge of the couch, completely naked and uncaring of it going by how he sprawls his legs wide open.
“Delete it.”
“I don’t want to.
“Stevie-”
Steve rolls his eyes. “I’m a celebrity, Bucky, I have a million fans and a couple hundred thousand dollars,” he murmurs. “I’m good at it.”
“It’s just a game, Steve.”
He’s right, of course, but Steve’s pissed that he is. This game; Steve never enjoyed that dumbass reality show or even the porno. Why that family is famous, he has no idea. What he does know is that if they’re life is anything like this game then they’re doing something right.
“The Kardashians are an important media figure, Bucky,” he replies. “You could say I’m studying social history before it becomes history.”
At that, Bucky sighs, but he makes no move to refute or deny Steve. Instead, he just pushes to his feet and says, “It gets you wound up, doll.” He takes a few steps before turning around and smiling, those stupid little crinkles forming around his eyes. “I love you, but sometimes you’re dense.”
“Fuck you,” Steve replies, but he knows he’s blushing. God dammit.
*
“Uh…”
Natasha shifts her gaze between the two of them, sighing when she finds them both in equal states of shock. Steve’s staring down at the baby like she’s sprouted a second head, and Bucky’s looking in two parts shocked and terrified. It’s like they’ve never seen a kid, really.
She takes her from Steve’s arms and tucks her back into the crook of her elbow. “Honestly, have you two ever seen a kid before? Aren’t you going to adopt?” she asks, not because she expects it out of them or anything, but because she’s genuinely curious. Steve and Bucky have always been the type that would end up together forever; a lot of people have bets on when they’re going to sprout a Barnes-Rogers baby.
When she gets another, “uh,” in reply from the both of them, she rolls her eyes.
“Look, Kate is easy to watch, and you know how Clint is.” She waits until they nod to continue. “If he can be a dad, you two can.” As much as it pains her to say it, she honestly thinks Bucky would be an amazing dad. Steve would be a little overbearing, but he’d love the kid with all ninety-five pounds of badass he’s got.
“We, um,” Bucky starts.
“We’re barely into our twenties, Natasha!”
She laughs. “Bucky’s twenty-nine, Steve, and you’re almost twenty-seven.” She nods down to Kate before continuing. “Most people have kids before they’re thirty, but you could always consider adoption.”
And she knows that they will; that if anything, they already have been. She knows when Bucky’s searching for answers he’ll always bounce around an issue: hey, Nat, what kind of stroller do you use for Katie? Nat, does Clint get snappy with you when the baby starts crying? Do you breastfeed, and is it harmful if you don’t?
She finally had to tell him that she’s not an encyclopedia of baby knowledge just because she has a damn kid, but she reassured his worries with thorough explanations.
Steve looks leagues from being ready, but that’s definitely adoration in his eyes. She watches as he tentatively holds out a finger to Kate, his face cracking in two with a wide smile when she wraps her stubby finger around the tip.
“Oh my God, Bucky look!”
She’s totally winning the pool; they’ll probably start looking for surrogates and adoption agencies as soon as she leaves.
*
“Hey Stevie, how come you don’t ever do this? You’ve got great legs.”
Steve just scowls at him before shoveling another handful of chips into his mouth, eyes wide as he stares at the amazing dresses and the absolutely confident way the contestants stride down the catwalk, hips sashaying from left to right with rehearsed precision.
Bucky reaches over and tucks his arm around Steve’s shoulders. “You have nicer legs than all of them,” he says, kissing Steve’s cheek. “Except maybe Carmen, sorry Steve.”
He just gets a halfhearted shushing in reply before Steve’s all but crawling into the empty gap between his legs.
“How come we haven’t watched this before?” he asks, sounding completely bemused.
“You always assumed it was about cars,” Bucky replies.
And, well, Bucky had been right. Ru Paul’s Drag Race is indeed, not about cars. He should’ve known Steve would be interested; he liked to dress in drag if he was given the opportunity, and liked to make Bucky dress up in suits and fishnets whenever he could get his nimble hands on him.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Steve got his hands on him, because damn they’re all so beautiful. Bucky, despite popular belief, likes to look good. Nat likes to tell him he looks good for a Kurt Cobain fan boy, and Steve tells him that he always looks good but he could stand to shave once in a while.
Hell, maybe he will. Because he knows he has nice legs, maybe not as nice as Carmen Carrera’s but still nice.
“Steve, do your art skills extend to makeup?” he asks, settling his arms around Steve’s chest.
He gets a hum in reply before Steve’s squirming in his hold and turning to him with big eyes. “You want me to-”
Bucky presses a kiss to the side of his mouth. “Of course I do, Stevie, if you want to.”
Steve just nods and grins. “I’d love to.”