His lips are hot and wet and eager on your neck, stubble brushing against your bare skin, hints of teeth and tongue nipping at you. You run fingers through his hair absentmindedly. You are determined not to squirm.
He's enough taller than you that even when you have him below you, your knees on either side of his hips, leaning against the couch and wriggling under you, he's still got a few inches of height over you. Normally, that'd bug you. Right now, though, with enormous flat palms running hungry over your back - sides - ass - and that needy wheeze he keeps moaning into your neck, you can't find it in you to care. Everything is hot and you're regretting how much clothing Bucky's going to have to work through to get to your bare skin anywhere else, and suddenly teeth sink into your skin at it's like a burst of lighting pulsing through your blood. Your lips tremble around a moan and you squirm in his arms.
God damn it.
Pushed on by the whimper you hear in return, and by the hands now firmly rubbing at your ass, you jerk suspenders off your shoulders, scramble at the buttons on your collar. Almost obediently, as more skin is exposed, the lips-tongue-stubble kisses follow into uncharted waters. Your head lolls back, your eyes flutter shut. Everything is spinning around you - hands roam down your legs, along the insides of your thighs. "God, fuuuck," you can feel your mouth saying, "Where th' fuck'd you learn that?"
He doesn't say anything, just moans against your skin and tries to buck up against you. Unfortunately, the difference in height means you've been scooting back to allow him more room to bend down against your chest, and there's nothing to buck up against. You see the opportunity - you take it.
With a little less regard for Bucky's personal safety than you usually observe, you grab him by the shoulders and shove him back against the couch, cinch forward, grind down on him hard. He cries out, somewhere between confusion and arousal, and you take your turn at burying your teeth in the skin of his neck, jerk your hips against his again. Moans blossom up out of him, fingers scrabble at your back, gripping the newly loosened fabric of your shirt. "Steve, Steeeve, please," he groans, almost deliriously. You work your lips up to his ear.
"I wanna fuck your mouth," you growl, nip at his earlobe, and he moans again, hot and desperate, grinds up against you. "Get on your knees and worship me."
"Yes," he whispers absently, "yes, please, fuck - let me - let me down." You kiss him soundly, more tongue and air than lips, reluctantly pull off of him to sit against the couch yourself.
Without the heat from his body, the cold autumn air of the District presses in through cracks in windows, and the naked skin of your chest prickles. But it's nothing compared to the wave of heat that blooms in your chest and pools in your groin as you watch Bucky kneel between your spread thighs, hair fucked by your hands and lips by your skin. You catch yourself whimpering impatiently as he fiddles with the buttons on your pants and swallow the noise back down.
You can't swallow down the noise you make when his tongue runs up the length of your dick, though, and with the way Bucky reacts, you don't even want to. "Oh, fuck," you cry out, desperately, "God, God, God…"
You cover your mouth with a hand as you glance down at him, hands behind his back, lips taught around your cock, tongue flicking against you. Breathe deep - grab him by the hair. "Worship me," you whisper, "God, I need…I need…" the last word escapes you as he ducks down further and everything blurs.
The blood is pumping hot and fast in your ears, burning out any thoughts of any moment other than this. You don't know if you're crying his name, or if he's looking at you, if you're gripping his hair too tight or if you're…fuck, you're so close. You're so close, so close, so…
You pull him off of you by the hair, ignore the twitching of your own dick to get a look at him. Still fully dressed - lips swollen and wet with saliva and precum, tongue flicking out over them almost expectantly. You run a thumb over his lower lip, and he licks at it absentmindedly. "I want you to fuck me," you say.
"You what?"
"I didn't realize I stuttered," you snap, "I know you want to. Right now."
Bucky is flustered, but he's not stupid with the heat, like you are. "We can't, I don't have lube," he gasps.
"Whatever, I don't care," you snap.
"You absolutely will care when I go in, you are not ready to go dry," he snaps back. "I think I might have some in my wallet, but that's not gonna be enough to do it properly - I could finger you with that, maybe…"
"Oh, look who's suddenly an expert on anal."
"You're the idiot who just asked to fuck dry, you really don't get to talk."
"Like you eve-ohhhguhfuuck," you trail off as he wraps his lips around the head of your dick and pops off, "would you quit that, jackass, I was saying something."
"Look, just let me finish what I started," he says, his voice going low and husky again, "and we can talk about fucking properly after that."
You sigh and glare at the wall, but you nod your head in assent, and he dives back onto you. You're too fucking close for this - too close to care. Everything is in sensations - your chest heaving, cold wind shrieking outside, goosebumps under sweat, and Bucky, a thing of fire and ice, a boy of space and of light, envelops you. You're gasping desperately, begging, your dignity secure in the privacy of these moments. You're so close, and he, you…
You love him.
With a startled cry, shaking, you come into his mouth, and he pulls off, lets it dribble out over his lips. Normally, you'd give him crap for being an unhygienic motherfucker, but his fingers are working the rest of you out, and you can't stop shaking, and you love him.
Below you, Bucky is whispering something reassuring into your stomach, fingers giving you post-spasms, and you run your fingers through his hair absentmindedly. One of your feet strays in between his legs, and he groans, startled, as you rub against him. "Here," you murmur, finding yourself surprisingly gentle, your hands running over his face, "here, let me…"
You slide down off the couch onto your knees on the floor, slide your hands down along his neck, press a kiss into his lips. He hums softly, wraps his arms loosely around your waist. You drop a hand to his side, run fingers over his ribs, just feel him breathe under you, just know that he's real and that right now, he's yours. Your lips drift across his cheek, his jaw, settle against his neck. He sighs as you loosen his shirt, run your wind-chilled hands over the bare skin of his chest. Below your fingers, his skin is clammy with sweat, and his breath is almost even.
"Steve?" He whispers, a question you don't have the mind to define, let alone answer. Confused hands roam your back, along your shoulder blades, and you move your hand further down - run a thumb along the inside of his thigh, press fingers up against his groin. His head tips back and his voice is all shuddering need, scared and shaking desire.
He's already close, and even running blind, you know what to do. With your tongue wrapped awkwardly around the crescent of his ear, you drop deft fingers to undo the ridiculously complicated series of buttons and zippers that Bucky insists are fashionable right now. Haltingly, his arms disentangle from you and drop down to help. "Steve?" He whispers again.
"Shh," you reply quietly, partially because you can't think of anything to say, partially because the moment you fall back into words, you know you'll go back to snapping and defensive sarcasm. For once, you don't want that. You just want - you want to give him this. You wrap your fingers around his dick and he trembles against you, lets out a shuddering groan.
As you start to pump your fist around him, you expect - expletives, maybe, deities. You expect him to swear, or to pray, or to beg. He does none of those things. "Steve," he whispers instead, "Steve, Steve, Steve…"
He says your name like it's the only word in his vocabulary, cries it out desperately when you circle a thumb over the head of his dick, gasps it into your ear like the pulsing of his heart. His hands grip at your upper arms, your shoulders, slide under your collar and down your back. As gently as you can bear, you push him down to lie on his back, kneel over him - one arm by his head to support yourself, the other between his legs, making him yours. His knees twitch against your hips.
His demeanor changes suddenly - his hands draw long scratches up your back and fasten themselves into fists on either side of your collar, his hips buck his dick up into your hands, and he tosses his head to the side and wails. "Steve, God, please," he cries, heels scrabbling beside you, "don't stop, don't stop, don't fucking stop," and he comes hot and fast in your hands, yanks you down by the collar, kisses you like no one has ever wanted you like this - your hand keeps moving, slower. He moans in relief against your tongue, releases half of your collar to grip you by your hair.
All good things must end. Your back isn't strong enough to support your position for very long, and after a few seconds you give in and drop your weight on him. When the post-spasms are over, he lays still, gasping for breath, wraps careful arms around you. For your part, you just settle your face against his neck - the stubble doesn't bother you as much as it usually does - and breathe him in. You love him.
You consider sharing this information, then think better of it. Everything's already weird right now.
Instead, you sniff disdainfully. "You smell like coal dust," you say, and he laughs underneath you.
"Nah, that's just this house," he replies, maybe trying to be reassuring, "and - well, and the District in general."
"This whole District smells like shit," you snap, and he laughs, louder this time. It occurs to you that maybe right now, both of you have something you'd like to forget ever happened. "If there was one thing that wasn't completely terrible about the Capitol, it was the smell. This place reeks."
"Piss off," he says, "I need a shower. And dinner. And new clothes. Pretty much in that order."
"Does that mean you're cooking naked? Good God. I would pay you to not do that."
"Steve, I will smack you. Get up."