… jesus fucking christ. is this really happening right now? whatever the case, it isn’t something that steve wants to put an end to anytime soon—or ever, if he could have it his way. his hands are still tightly wound within bucky’s curls, tilting his head at just the perfect angle to kiss him; and soon enough bucky is swallowing down each gasp / sigh of pleasure that comes out of steve’s mouth. there is too much & not enough of him at the same time—and steve hasn’t gotten an opportunity to kiss him like this in what feels like forever; hasn’t had bucky so close that every touch sets his skin to burning; hasn’t felt intoxicated by his very presence ( your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine ).
but all good things must come to an end—in this case, it’s defined by the second the kiss breaks when their lungs finally begin to burn for air, depriving steve of the contact he so desperately needed. much as he was reluctant to admit it in the beginning ( not that it matters anymore, as it was just blurted out in his drunken stupor, the liquor not helping at all with his lack of filter ), he missed it. this; them; together, pressed as close together as two people could be. there’s a tiny, reasonable, rational part of him that—bless it for trying, by the way—that must be screaming at the top of its lungs by now; telling him that this is the wrong decision, that he should put an end to this & tell his ex-boyfriend to leave, that he’ll wake up in the morning with only regret ( that, and the most massive hangover known to man )… but advice that is usually heeded with caution is now tossed away to the wind, discarded to the side, just like the shirt that he quickly & gracelessly finishes taking off completely—after bucky got about eighty percent of the job done—and who cares if it actually landed on the couch, the way he’d intended it to, or if it’d ended up draped over the lampshade beside it? truth be told, the list of things he cares about at the current moment is very, very small, so long as bucky kept doing that thing with his mouth.
‘fuck——’ it’s involuntary, the way these indecent noises slip past his lips, with no attempt to muffle the sound ( he doesn’t care, remember? ); they serve as a testament to just how talented / wicked bucky is, to be able to draw those sounds out of him. the hot kisses trail southward—and, yeah, he’s officially decided that he really, really likes where this is going—, reducing him to hitched inhales & breathless gasps, an iron grasp in tangled brunette curls; & instinctively he raises his hips, desperate for more contact. under normal circumstances, such vulgarities would have been met with a deep blush at the lack of propriety, but right now he feels shameless, challenge fucking accepted. ‘what, you givin’ me orders now?’ crooked grin dances upon his features as steve peers down at him through his lashes; though he wastes absolutely no time doing as he’s told.
he’s no stranger, by any stretch of the imagination, to impulsive decisions [SPONTANEOUS, as he likes to call it] --- decisions that very rarely do not leave consequences to be dealt with next morning, or next afternoon, or whenever it is he’ll next bother to acknowledge them; assuming he does. bad decisions make for the best stories, and there’s at least solace to be found in that; for one who’s ever led his life in such chaotic manner, it’s truly become routine.
and Steve knows this better than most, at this point.
except maybe the poor manager who’s ever in charge to clean up the mess.
which, no doubt, justifies Bucky’s lack of hesitation as he so vividly begins WORSHIPING his ex-lover’s flawlessly sculpted body; by far, this isn’t the most compromising / dangerous “spontaneous” situation he’s been in. they’re home, they’re safe, they’re on their own [Apollo is a smart boy and will know better than to interrupt, or so he believes], and whatever happens here will be no one else’s business... and this is good enough for him. all else can and will wait for the day after, and even then it’s not like he, master escapist, cannot find alternative ways to deal with any remnants of regret. why should one ever regret feeling good, anyway? why should one refuse to indulge whenever they have chance for it? you only live once, that’s also a suitable motto.
all this aside, what matters right now, the only thing that matters right now, is Steve’s beautiful frame squirming under him --- something he will never let go to waste, thank you very much. ‘ so you wanna be the one giving orders, ? ‘cause i’m okay with that, Captain Rogers. ‘ of course, that devilish smirk of his is firm in place for a couple seconds longer... only coming undone as he, once more, moves to put his lips to better use; they’re your saving grace, Barnes. swiftly, own shirt is discarded for the sake of moving about more freely, and his hands make do with Steve’s belt surprisingly fast for someone so clearly away from sobriety; practice does make perfect. then the jeans’ zipper and then said jeans are being tugged down along the line of strong thighs, to be abandoned somewhere by the knees... and, if there’s one thing that strokes his ego, it’s the look of surprise [and the lovely little noises of delight] he always pries out of Steve whenever going for less orthodox approaches. therefore, what he does ---first and foremost--- is to nestle himself comfortably on his knees, in between these thighs he just commanded open. then, without wasting time, he grasps at the waistband of Steve’s underwear using none other than his teeth, to drag the fabric sufficiently out of the way --- and in turn allow him to wrap eager lips around the anticipated prize, with a deep hum of approval. and he stays like this for a moment longer, not yet moving further, as if savoring this conquest.