It’s his dominant hand, so the first time they fuck, Bucky doesn’t think before he pulls down Steve’s shorts and wraps his metal fingers around Steve’s perfect, blood-hot cock. Only, Steve jerks, a painful grimace crossing his features for the shortest second. It goes straight to Bucky’s heart and out the back, hurts more than any bullet wound, but he doesn’t let it ruin the moment, just shifts his weight and presses his right hand to Steve’s stomach, feeling the warm, human twitch of his muscle.
Steve makes small, pained noises in the back of his throat when he spills, shaking into Bucky’s human hand. His entire face and neck is splotchy with blushing and he can’t stop calling Bucky’s name.
It’s good, it’s great, it’s everything he’d ever imagined lying alone in his bunker or faced away from Steve in their mangy, rat-infested apartment in Brooklyn, guiltily fucking his fist under the covers and thinking sinful thoughts, dirty thoughts about his best friend. Kissing Steve, touching him, is the most himself Bucky has felt since he woke up with a metal arm and the taste of blood on his tongue.
He’d be more’n stupid to screw that up.
Later, alone, Bucky experiments with his metal arm, touching himself - chest, stomach, hips. The prosthetic feels smooth, responsive, a little cooler than body temperature - whatever alloy they used to make it is designed to capture and release heat efficiently. Fisting his own cock makes Bucky hiss, hips twitching in sharp pleasure. As the Soldier he’d slept, ate and trained under 24/7 surveillance - so little time for self- abuse. Bucky laughs, a little bitterly, and jerks himself roughly, thinking of Steve’s pink mouth.
He’s more careful after that. Gets a haircut, shaves (Steve, who is pretty much free of body hair due to the serum, is absolutely no help with the electric razor). He takes to wearing long sleeves and gloves, when he can. He touches Steve only with his right hand.
Steve introduces him to Thai food, romantic comedy movies, and baseball in the 21st century. Slow-dances with him to old records (“You haven’t gotten any better at this, huh”, “Only because I’m used to leading!”). Takes his cock on a rainy Monday morning, blush spilling pink over his entire chest as he straddles Bucky’s hips, prettier’n any pin-up girl.
Bucky feels like his chest has been broken open when he comes, grinding his cock deep, desperate to spill into Steve’s heat.
He’s almost out of his mind, but he still remembers to take his right hand to Steve’s cock, those final, trembling strokes before Steve goes rigid and bright-eyed.
They spoon, Bucky’s right hand pressed over Steve’s heart, feeling the slow, deep beats against his cheek, where rests against Steve’s back.
"I wish I could’ve taken care of you like this, before," Bucky says quietly. Before the train, before the brainwashing, the arm. When he was whole.
"You did," Steve says, "You did take care of me."
“Like this,” Bucky says significantly, pressing his hips against Steve’s ass. He’s not hard yet, but he’s getting there.
Steve muffles laughter against the crook of his elbow. “Does my imagination count?”
They’re walking around Potomac Park one afternoon, talking about the Dodgers (Steve just broke the news to him last week, when he'd been asking to see a baseball game. Bucky still hadn't gotten over the betrayal), when Bucky’s hand shoots out and he catches a frisbee which would’ve clipped Steve’s shoulder.
A girl runs up, paisley leggings and a scuffed baseball cap. Her eyes widen as Bucky crouches down to hand her the frisbee, telling her to be more careful.
Steve is staring at him as he straightens.
"I know you’re the rah rah boy, but I don’t eat babies, you know," Bucky smiles.
"You’re still a southpaw," Steve’s brows crease. "So why don’t you ever …"
He doesn’t finish the sentence but Bucky can guess what he’s getting at by the way he hunches his shoulders, glancing around like they’re on enemy territory.
"Ever what?" Bucky asks, feeling sadistic as he walks forward.
“Use it,” Steve says, bumping Bucky’s shoulder. “On me.”
"I did," Bucky walks a little faster, "You didn’t seem to think much of it."
"You …" Steve’s brow creases in thought, suddenly, he gives a bark of surprised laughter. "Bucky, it was cold!”
"And metal, and made for punching through cars." Bucky looks down at his fist, curling and uncurling in leather gloves. "Not touching people."
Steve’s mouth settles into a stubborn, straight line and he stops, suddenly, in the middle of the path. He grabs Bucky’s hand, and Bucky’s too surprised to yank it back, just watches as Steve strips off his glove and presses a kiss to the middle of his palm.
Sparked through his deadened nerve endings, Bucky feels the warmth.
"Come here," Steve says, and tugs him into some bushes.
"I think you have bad intentions towards me," Bucky smirks weakly, going easy as Steve presses him against a tree. "I’m not that kinda guy, Rogers."
Steve just lifts a challenging eyebrow and slides the middle and ring finger of Bucky’s metal hand into his wet, pink mouth. His blue-eyed stare is enough to make Bucky shake, clawing grooves into the tree bark as his heart pounds in his chest.
There’s a soft, wet “pop” as Steve releases Bucky’s fingers, and Bucky lets the entire hand fall, limp, at his side.
"I love you," Steve says, and Bucky feels like he’s been ravaged. "All of you."
"Yeah," Bucky says, voice hoarse. He grabs Steve around the waist and pulls him closer.
They stumble out of the bushes, making a biker swerve in surprise. Steve is grinning like the cat that got the cream, love bites healing in real time. Bucky’s sad to see them go.
Of course Steve grabs his hand as they continue their walk, looks at Bucky with his eyes squinted in earnestness. “I like it, Buck. Really.”
Bucky grins as he swings their hands. “Oh don’t tell me you’re one of those.”
"One of what?"
"One of those guys that get off on robots." Bucky cocks an eyebrow. "Should I be watching you and that Stark fella?"
Steve laughs, blushes, and punches him in the shoulder