Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/226667.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Captain_America, Invaders
  Relationship:
      Bucky_Barnes/Toro_Raymond, Bucky_Barnes/Nick_Fury
  Additional Tags:
      Golden_Age, WWII, 16+
  Stats:
      Published: 2007-09-27 Completed: 2011-07-21 Words: 483
****** Some kind of otherness ******
by gloss
Summary
     Gratuitous fucked-up shippiness. Golden Age & Captain America v.5.
Notes
     Title from Auden.
"You'd have to be crazy to like him," Toro concludes. His brow wrinkles up as
he squints into the distance and purses his lips. "Crazy."
"Yeah, I guess," Bucky says and flops down onto his back. London's summer is
blazing white and hot and g-d boring. They've run through their entire comic
collection, gone to the pictures, snuck into three different pubs, and he's
still itching for some action. He tugs his undershirt out of his pants and
yanks it over his head before rolling over. Bare-chested's good enough for
Toro, so it's good enough for him.
"He's...mean," Toro adds and the last thing Bucky thinks he can bear is Toro
lying down next to him, pressed close; Toro's skin is always hot, and now it's
feverish, but something shifts inside Bucky's skin. Daggers, almost, fiery,
that make him turn onto his side and roll on top of the kid. Toro blinks up at
him, smiling shyly. "He's mean, and loud, and dirty. Don't you think he's
dirty?"
Bucky closes his eyes, sees the grime on Fury's face during their last mission,
sweat streaking silver through his stubble, down his hairy chest. "Can't argue
with that. Dirty."
"Mm-hmm." Toro's smile curves, still shy, becoming a little teasing. His lips
are red as a girl's, as fire, as the butt of Fury's stinking cigar. But they
taste nothing like any of those - not sticky-sweet, or asbestos-harsh, or
tobacco-savory - just light and flickering and right.
Toro's fingertips skate down Bucky's back, drawing fire through the sweat. Once
his shorts are pulled down, he springs hot and thick into Bucky's hand, and
everything's coming together, antsy-action and fever-spiking desire. Toro
croons, hands on Bucky's shoulders, as he comes and never guesses that Bucky's
thinking of a hairy chest wide as two of Toro's.
*
"Just like that," Fury growls, half a century and long ice-choked dreams later,
no trace of sweetness in the way he curls Bucky's hair in his fingers and
pulls, pumps his hips until Bucky half-chokes, half-wheezes. "Good. Boy --"
Fury twists and rears, dick popping from Bucky's lips and slipping from his
grasp, and shoots across Bucky's cheek. The deserted warehouse is dark, cold
with November chill, the only warm thing the sound of Fury's voice and slap of
his dick on Bucky's face. His grip softens and he pulls Bucky to his feet by
the metal arm, licking him clean with a tobacco-slicked tongue and cupping his
groin.
Fury's smirk is old as anything, more familiar than Bucky's own body, as he
unzips Bucky's fly and reaches in. His touch is hard with calluses and nails;
Bucky's exposed thighs prickle in the cold. He wraps the metal arm around
Fury's neck for balance and fucks the loose fist, biting the inside of his
cheek, thinking of a boy on fire with a song on his lips.
He's always been out of time.
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