Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/870795.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Marvel_616
  Relationship:
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes/Steve_Rogers
  Character:
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes, Steve_Rogers
  Collections:
      Steve/Bucky_Fills
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-05 Words: 2540
****** thicker than blood ******
by beardsley
Summary
     Five times they were not like brothers at all, in the past and in the
     now. Face to face or back to back, behind enemy lines or behind the
     privacy of closed doors, armed to the teeth or stripped bare. It
     doesn't goddamn matter.
Notes
     Written for this_prompt on the Steve/Bucky prompt fest, and inspired
     by the frankly ridiculous mini-shitstorm that went down on Tumblr
     over the perceived ickiness of shipping characters who are "like
     siblings". Or tainting the sanctity of male no homo bonding?
     Something.
     This is 616, which means quite a bit of underage sex.
The tent is freezing and feels like it's about to shake apart under anything
stronger than a breeze, and Bucky doesn't care. He doesn't care about his back
screaming in protest when Steve pushes him into the ground, just like he
doesn't care that his thighs are clamped tight enough around Steve's waist he'd
bruise if he was any regular guy.
Bucky is a regular kid and he knows he's gonna have bruises from Steve's
fingers on his hips. He doesn't care about that, either.
'Can't move,' Steve manages between one shallow breath and the next, his face
pressed into the crook of Bucky's neck. 'God, Bucky, please — I need —'
'Fine, fucking fine.' Bucky forces his legs to spread wider, instead crossing
his ankles over Steve's lower back. It's all the invitation Steve needs and
then Bucky has to fight back a whimper as Steve's hips jerk forward and oh,
Jesus wept, it hurts but it's the kind of hurt Bucky lives for. His fingers
scramble over Steve's shoulders and back and Steve throws up one hand to keep
himself from just falling on top of Bucky.
Bucky can feel every push in his toes, seeing stars when he shuts his eyes.
They never have time for finesse or grace, for anything slower than a race to
get to the edge like it's a hundred metre dash.
The best they can do is hard and fast. Bucky rips moan after moan from Steve's
throat when his muscles clench around his dick and Steve gives as good as he
gets. He used to care about going too rough and he probably still does, but it
doesn't stop him from knocking the air out of Bucky's lungs with every perfect
thrust of his perfect fucking hips.
Bucky comes like a damn freight train as soon as Steve reaches between them to
get his hand on Bucky's dick, and he has to bite down on Steve's shoulder to
muffle the desperate wail trying to make it out of his mouth. It doesn't take
long before Steve follows, going still except for the way the muscles in his
arms bunch up, shaking.
'Oh, brother,' Bucky says when they get themselves under control. Steve is
plastered against his side and they're both sticky with sweat, and Bucky
doesn't care. There's come drying on his stomach and he knows he'll be walking
funny for a little while and he does not fucking care.
Steve lets out a soft snort, his breath warm against Bucky's shoulder. 'That
wasn't very brotherly.'
'Long as you don't stop, I got no problem with that.'
It's the faintest touch of Steve's fingertips skimming over Bucky's thigh as he
gets up, but it might as well be Steve screaming at the top of his lungs. Both
would mean the same thing.
'C'mon,' Steve says, reaching for his ruined but salvageable uniform. 'Namor's
gonna be cranky if we're late to the meet.'
~
'You gotta — oh, Jesus motherfucking Christ — please —'
He's shaking, thighs and arms and shoulders, choking on every bitten-back moan.
There are dark spots dancing at the edges of his vision and it's been like this
from the moment Steve caught both his hands and tied them loosely with his
belt. Bucky could get out no problem and they both know it, but the fun is in
him staying bound despite that. Fun, yeah. He's practically sobbing with how
much he needs Steve to do something.
He thought between Steve's supersoldier metabolism and his own bright youthful
stamina they might just keep going until they drop, but he never factored in
Steve deliberately being a mean little shit. And Steve, kneeling between
Bucky's thighs with sweat glistening on his bare skin and his hair damp at the
temples and falling into his eyes, grins like the cat that ate the mouse and
the cream and the canary and the whole damn fishbowl.
His fingers are wrapped around Bucky's dick, slick with sweat and precome, and
he gives a gentle squeeze — so fucking gentle, just to drive Bucky out of his
mind — and breathes out a laugh when Bucky lets out a straight-up whine.
Bucky deserves it, is the thing. He deserves it because he blew Steve all
through a radio dispatch from London and kept going even after Steve gave him
the sign for stop (left thumb brushing twice over the ring finger; they've been
using that one from the first time they screwed somewhere nearly public and had
to cover each other's mouths to keep quiet).
Steve presses his smile against the inside of Bucky's thigh. 'Am I gonna have
to gag you, too?'
The thought makes Bucky moan helplessly. God, he could go with that. He's
always loud when he can be and the idea of being forced into silence is — he
moans again, back arching.
'Not yet,' Steve says. His voice is heavy and rough and Bucky dearly hopes he's
hard enough it's painful, damn it. 'Don't come, not yet.'
'That — that an order?'
'I can make it one.'
Bucky breathes through his nose and plants his feet flat on the ground and
thinks about rations and munitions manifests instead of Steve's wide pupils and
flushed cheeks and — his own hands tied over his head when all he wants is to
fist them in Steve's hair —
'Please,' he gets out through gritted teeth. 'Please, fuckfuck, anything, god,
please just — fucking — Steve —'
He knows the begging does something to Steve. He has no idea what or why, if
it's just when Bucky does it or not, but Steve groans and his hands are searing
as he slides them up Bucky's thighs and by the time he wraps his lips around
the head of Bucky's dick Bucky is ready to start screaming. His wrists are
straining against the belt and it's criminal that Steve's pretty mouth should
feel this good.
But they have time, for the first time in what seems like forever, and if this
is what Bucky deserves then he's all right with that.
~
Bucky always wondered what it would be like to have an older brother instead of
a younger sister and he thinks he has a good idea now. They're closer than
brothers could be and Steve is like the sibling Bucky never had, give or take
the killing, the war and everything going to hell all around them all the
goddamn time.
That and the fucking, too.
All Bucky needs is a glimpse of Steve changing in his tent and he's good to go.
It'd probably be creepy to park himself outside Steve's tent to jack off, so he
memorises as many details as he can — Steve pulling the top of his dirt- and
blood-stained uniform over his head, sweat beading at the small of his back,
the clear line of his biceps as he lifts his arms, the colour in his cheeks and
the hair trailing down from his navel, the stark edge of his hip and the
perfect curve of his ass.
It's enough to get Bucky hot under his collar when they're freezing their balls
off behind enemy lines and it's enough to keep him warm at nights on leave.
It's enough, but it's better when he's not alone.
There are nights he's bunked up with Toro and they both can't sleep so they
jerk off instead, and Toro always makes the best noises when it's dark and
Bucky spills all the filthy secrets that would get him booted from the army
('He loves it, y'know, he abso-fucking-lutely loves it and when you ride him
long enough — and we can go hours, literal goddamn hours — and he does this
thing with his hips and I swear to god you can feel every single fucking inch
of him in you and it is fucking glorious —'). He knows Toro is never sure how
much of it is truth and how much is wishful thinking and Bucky lying through
his teeth to get them both off.
He's brothers with Toro too, and with the rest of the Invaders. It's probably
screwed up somehow, but Bucky wouldn't know normal if it hit him in the face
with a two-by-four. But there's brothers, and then there's him and Steve.
Him and Steve and all the sweat, the blood and bruises and dirt under their
fingernails. The missions they run alone, bounced between one unit and the
next. When they're alone, it's easy.
It always is. Behind enemy lines or on leave, in occupied Eastern Europe or in
London. They fuck to the roar of Luftwaffe bombers and air raid sirens and it's
easy.
~
It stops being easy, but enough ice and murder will do that to a guy.
The first time Steve holds his wrists above his head and his voice gets an edge
of authority, Bucky panics. He reacts without thinking, throwing Steve off and
going straight for the jugular — and in his head he's a million miles and years
away, thrashing as three men hold his head under freezing water and one of his
handlers' voice detailing the things that will be done to him as punishment for
questioning orders.
He comes to with Steve on top of him again, twisting his arm behind his back.
They're both naked and Bucky has never felt this helpless. He's shaking, he
realises, and it's not from arousal. He presses his face into the sweat-damp
sheets. 'I'm sorry,' he mutters, voice hoarse. God, he hopes he didn't scream
too. 'I'm — fuck, Steve, I'm so sorry.'
Steve lets him go. His touch is so fucking gentle Bucky thinks it might break
him like so much glass.
'Don't be,' Steve says. 'It's all right. I shouldn't have pushed you. I'm —'
'Don't apologise.'
Steve closes his mouth. The silence isn't awkward, but neither is it
comfortable. Just the memory, the thought of being held down like that, is
enough that Bucky starts to feel like he's gonna choke on nausea. He leans in
to press a dry kiss to the corner of Steve's mouth and gets off the bed.
Christ. They can screw in a real bed now, and Bucky is too broken to appreciate
it.
He jerks his chin in the direction of the bathroom. 'I need —'
'I know,' says Steve. His expression is all sympathy and understanding. Of
course it is; sympathy and understanding, that's who Steve Rogers is. He'd
never hurt Bucky, never want to, but knowing that intellectually doesn't help
the knot in the pit of Bucky's stomach.
In the bathroom he splashes his face with cold water. He runs his wet hands
through his hair.
The bed is empty when he walks out, but he finds Steve smoking on the fire
escape. He's put on a pair of threadbare sweatpants and the sweat has already
cooled on his skin. Bucky sits next to him. Steve's arm goes around his waist;
it could be automatic, but Bucky knows better.
Steve doesn't offer him a fresh cigarette, just gives Bucky his own. Bucky
takes it from his fingers and inhales, and breathes out smoke and knows they'll
be okay — but fuck, he wishes he could be better for Steve now. Which, hey,
story of his life.
'You have to tell me,' Steve says. 'What you're comfortable with. What you're
not comfortable with. We're taking it at your pace, but you gotta talk to me,
Buck.'
Bucky leans against his side. He's never felt safer than like this with Steve
big and warm next to him, and he's okay with that same weight pressing down on
him — but it takes so little for fear to start kicking in, for that thrum of
anxiety that takes away any interest he might have in sex. The shit that was
done to him was all so clinically not sexual that he can't reconcile the two
now.
'I know, yeah,' he mutters. He takes another drag and passes the cigarette back
to Steve. There's no way for him to put the hot tangled mess in his head into
words, so he settles for the thing he knows Steve will get: 'Brothers?'
And Steve does, he gets it. He presses his lips to Bucky's temple and Bucky can
feel him smile. 'You're damn right.'
~
Steve, though. Steve takes well to giving up control.
He turns to putty under Bucky's hands and the hottest thing isn't the way he
looks spread open with his hands tied to the headboard, breathing quick and
shallow and flushed a deep scarlet under the blindfold and all the way down his
torso. It's not the small noises he makes when Bucky's mouth on him must be
excruciating and too slow, too leisurely to let him come. It's not the way he
bites his lips to keep himself from talking — even though he wants to — because
Bucky told him to stay quiet. It's not even the shuddering gasps Steve lets out
when Bucky presses the tips of his fingers behind his balls just to feel him
dig his heels into the small of Bucky's back.
It's that he could get free any second but doesn't, because he trusts Bucky —
with Bucky's fucked up head, fucked up instincts, fucked up everything. He
trusts Bucky without reservation or worry for his own safety even though they
both know Bucky could, if he put his mind to it, hurt him. He trusts Bucky; he
has faith. Bucky could get drunk on nothing but this: Steve giving it up and
letting Bucky take charge.
He lets Bucky do anything he wants and fucking loves it. No, more than that. He
needs it. He needs to let go the same way Bucky needs to stay in control.
As soon as they're both finished and Bucky unties his hands, Steve pushes up
the blindfold and wraps his arms around Bucky's neck. It's not him who holds on
for dear life, Bucky realises in the same moment he realises that he's shaking.
'It's all right,' Steve murmurs into his hair. 'You're all right.'
It's true; it has to be. By saying the words Steve makes it reality, and since
he doesn't lie — it has to be true. The logic is probably ass-backwards, Bucky
knows. He doesn't care. Steve was, is and always will be the best thing that
ever happened to him.
Bucky used to wonder what it would be like to have a brother and now he knows,
but he already knew in the 40s. He fought alongside brothers in arms and
watched them die; when he wasn't himself, just a machine used against
everything he has ever loved, he killed people who he would have called
brothers without even knowing them. War and familial ties have always been
tangled in his head, blood spilt and blood that might as well be shared.
Steve has always been so much more than that. It doesn't matter what they want
to call this thing between them that's lasted for the better part of a century
— even if for Bucky it feels like moments, and will never feel like enough.
Face to face or back to back, behind enemy lines or behind the privacy of
closed doors, armed to the teeth or stripped bare. It doesn't goddamn matter.
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