Touch-starved. Needy. Eager. Responsive.
Bucky Barnes hasn't felt this way since the 40s. He didn't know it was possible- he thought the Hydra experiments did away with this part of him once and for all. His wires were crossed, and desire was a dist...
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"You're lucky your hips are still so fuckin' narrow," Bucky murmured.
His words were muffled against Steve's iron-hot skin, but Steve shivered anyway. Goosebumps bloomed when Bucky teased his tongue just below Steve's ear, and it took Steve a moment too long to speak— his syrupy sweet thoughts, trickling too slowly through the gravel of his voice.
He cleared his throat, but the roughness remained. "...Why's that?"
The rumbling vibrations in Steve's throat shook Bucky from the tip of his tongue to his toes, resonating in his soles and his soul. He grinned against the column of Steve's neck; with the way Steve's skin was radiating heat, he might as well have been huddled over a campfire. Or rather, under a campfire.
"M'not as flexible as I used to be," Bucky said, with an insolent lilt that broke the tension and made Steve snicker. The sound quickly melted into a hum when Bucky hitched one knee up higher over Steve's hips, urging Steve to rut against him. It was the truth, though; there was an unfamiliar ache in Bucky's inner thighs, spread how they were to wrap around Steve's waist.
It was the day after Christmas, and Bucky and Steve were alone for the first time in months. For the first time since something had changed, since whatever dormant part of Bucky had been reactivated by your touch. At first, Bucky didn't understand why you had insisted on running out to get packing supplies on your own— it would be easy to find boxes somewhere in the compound, he told you. You didn't need to go out, really. But as you slipped on your shoes, you looked up at him with that scheming glint in your eyes, and a familiar static began to tingle in his brain.
"You and Steve will have about... an hour, I think," you had said. Too lightly. Too casually. "Plenty of time to catch up." You stepped out the door with a pointed look back into the apartment, toward the closed bathroom door where Steve was showering. "Don't have too much fun without me." And with a knowing smile, you were gone.
Waiting for Steve to finish showering took Herculean effort, considering Bucky's cock had chubbed up as soon as he realized what you were suggesting. You were gone for all of four minutes before Bucky met Steve in the bedroom doorway, his hair still damp and sweatpants slung low on his hips, and dragged him back to the bed.
"What are y—" Steve started, but his words failed when Bucky's lips met his. Steve glanced toward the door when Bucky pulled him down onto the bed— searching for you, no doubt.
"It's okay," Bucky urged between kisses. "She wants us to."
It was easy for Bucky to get lost in the old, forgotten sensation of Steve's five o'clock shadow catching against his own stubble when Steve kissed him with such gentleness. It was easy to forget the decades and distance that separated them when Steve's steady, comforting weight pressed him down against the mattress. It was easy for Bucky to pretend, for just a moment, that he was still whole, that his left hand was still flesh and blood when Steve never flinched away from his chilled touch.
