one man loved the pilgrim soul in you
Bucky likes the window open, especially in late October when the leaves are falling and the air is crisp and he can bury under his comforter with apple cider and a good book. He also likes when Steve fucks him through his mattress, the cool wind peaking his nipples, wrists gripped tight against his pillows above his head, the warm touch of Steve's front to his back every time he leans down to kiss the back of Bucky's neck contrasting the cold around him. It makes it more real to be completely absorbed in Steve's warmth, to be covered by bronze skin, still dark from the disappearing summer.
"Fuck," Steve breathes in his ear, his hot breath sending goosebumps down Bucky's neck and chest. "Always so good for me, Buck. Always know just how I like you."
Bucky's arms shake where he's trying to gain some support and lift himself up, but Steve tightens his grip on his wrist and he falls back into the sheets. "Horny and needy?" he replies as Steve digs a meaty claw into Bucky's hips and thrust hard.
"Fuck," Bucky gasps, spreading his thighs even wider. Impossibly wide, he could probably do a split by now, he thought. Steve lets go of his wrists and runs a hand through Bucky's thick hair, pulling it gently until his head is turned far enough for Steve to shove his tongue down his throat.
"That's right, sweetheart," Steve whispers when he pulls back, and pulls back he does. He drops Bucky's head, and Bucky falls to the mattress with a needy moan as Steve's body is no longer pressed flush with his. Steve runs a hand down his back but it's not enough and he reaches back, grabs one of those hands and brings it to his lips, sucking two digits into his mouth.
"Fuck," Steve swears again, and Bucky loves to hear him swear. He thrust back, and Steve echoes his praise.
"Gonna clean that mouth out before you put it on me, Rogers," Bucky asks, propping himself up on his elbows and looking back over his shoulder at the big blond glaring down at him disapprovingly. As if he weren't swearing up a storm and dick buried eight inches up Bucky's ass. Bucky rolls his hips as best he can in this position and watches as Steve's glare drops and his head falls back, mouth parting to let out a breathy moan.
"Buck, sweetheart." Steve's grip on his hip loosens and become delicate as he strokes his thumb up and down the sharp bone. He pulls his hand back from Bucky's lips and bends in half to press a sweet kiss to Bucky's shoulders, first the right, then the always aching left, lingering a moment to bury his nose in the arch of Bucky's neck, breathing in the only air he'll ever need.
"So good for me, Buck. You're so good to me." Bucky's arms shook, thighs quake. It's always this, he thinks. It always comes down to this. Me. Him. The praise. It's all for him, to please him, to be his, always. He falls apart under Steve's kisses, his praise, his worship.
Steve was raised a Catholic, and Bucky's the word of God, his study, his guidance. He thrust hard but doesn't pull out, instead staying deep within Bucky. I want to stay inside you, he seems to say with each press of his lips against salty skin. I want to stay here until our bodies figure out what our souls realized years ago. We are each other. You are me. I am you. I want to stay inside you until we are one, until I cannot break apart from you, until the earth and moon collide, the sun explodes, the world collapses under the weight of our love. You are everything. Everything.
Bucky doesn't know when he starts crying, but his arms are wet when he lifts his head. A breeze comes in the window and presses against his face, each tear, and then Steve is there, pulling his head back and pressing a kiss until all the salt is gone and all that's left is Steve.
Steve. Steve. Steve. This. This. This.
"Buck," Steve whispers quietly. "Buck." And then his grips tightens on Bucky's arms, his hips give little jolted thrust, and Bucky's full of Steve.
"Everything," Steve says. "You are everything."
The apple cider is hot when Steve gets up to lay the wet washcloth over the laundry basket. Bucky might be a slob, but Steve sure as hell wasn't throwing a wet towel onto dirty laundry. He fills two mugs with cider, one an NYU mug bought at their freshman orientation three years ago, the other a purple mug with a purple otter on it from their eighth grade class trip to the zoo. He sets them on the bookshelf beside the bed that also acts as a bedside table, then crawl back under the sheets, letting in the cold air he'd been so careful to keep from Bucky when cleaning him.
Bucky whimpers, body pliant and damp with sweat, legs still plopped open in a V. Steve tucks the comforter in around him and slides an arm under Bucky's head, pressing a kiss to the sweaty temple.
"So perfect," he says gently. Bucky's head lolls to the side, eyes glazed over, but a smile still spreads slowly across his lips.
"Steve," he says, voice rough, tired.
"You're so good, Buck," Steve promises, burying down next to his lover. "You didn't even need me to touch you, did you, baby? You didn't even need me to move, just came on my words alone." Bucky whimpers again and nods his head into Steve's. He's always so loopy after love, and Steve feels so full just looking at this boy that he wants to split apart so the universe can feel it too.
He wraps his other arm around Bucky's waist and pulls the boy closer to him. He'll wait out the sex coma as Bucky likes to call it, wait until his sweetheart is back and then he'll get him water and food. For now, he'll stroke his back, his side, kiss his neck, his ear and wait it out.
"Steve," Bucky says later, much later.
"Hey," Steve whispers. The air outside is colder now that the sun is setting, but neither are ready to part just yet to close the window. "I'm here, buddy." Bucky grins toothily at him and wiggles deeper into the pile of blankets.
"What time is it?" he asks finally, sleepily. His throat is dry. He could use some water, but moving is too much and he just wants to stay warm next to Steve.
"Almost seven," Steve answers, just as softly. He loves Steve. He's always loved Steve, but it still feels like a surprise every time it hits him.
"Want me to make dinner?" Bucky asks, because Steve is so good and Steve lays beside him for two hours to make sure he's alright.
"No need, buddy," Steve tells him, and they're so close their noses brush. Bucky is in love. He's in love and nothing's ever felt like this before. "We still got enough of Ma's potato soup and some leftover pizza to get us through the night." Bucky brings his hand to Steve's cheek and presses down with his thumb. His bows his head until Steve's lips press against him.
In love in love in love.
It's like a heartbeat, like loving Steve is a reminder of what his body needs to survive. Like loving him is as vital a part of his existence as his own heart, steady and strong, always in the background. Loving Steve has never been in the background, will never be in the background. How can something that hurts so bad be ignored? How can Bucky ever disregard something that feels so good? Loving Steve is everything, every feeling, frustrating and livid and exultant and devastating at the same time. It is as constant as the blood in his veins, as the air in his lungs, as the throb in his shoulder. There is no Bucky without Steve.
"Want me to warm up some food?" Steve asks, running a hand up Bucky's side. Bucky stretches out, toes pressing into the wall at the bottom of his bed, back arching against the mattress.
"Just stay here," Bucky tells him. "Just stay here."
The apple cider is gone and the food is still settling in their stomachs. The window is still open, though the air is much too cold for it to be, but neither boy felt the need to close it, felt the cold in the room. Steve is leaning against the headboard texting Nat and Sam and occasionally tossing a handful of candy corn into his mouth from the bowl beside him. Bucky is doing more English reading, Wordsworth this time, and he doesn't need anything in the world right now.
"Hey," Bucky says softly. Steve makes a noncommittal sound behind him, and he pulls the book in his lap closer to his face as he reads.
"When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars."
Steve is silent behind him, and Bucky turns his head when he finishes reading, waiting for him to say something. Steve's eyes are glossy and he glances away, blinking several times before looping his head in the arch of Bucky's neck.
"Who's this one?" he asks, his voice a whisper on the breeze coming in through their window. Bucky's wearing a Henley and Steve's flannel but he still wants to shiver under Steve's warm breath.
"Yeats," he tells him.
"Yeats knew what was up," Steve replies and presses a smile to Bucky's neck. Steve's arms are warm around his waist and the comforter is still covering their legs. He can smell apples in the air and the Irish Spring scent leftover from Steve's shower. He can feel Steve against his back and the book in his lap. The papers and exams coming up are pushed out of his mind for now. He is safe. He is good. He knows in his heart that everything will be okay, and he is happy.