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It starts with the pants.
Clothing is clothing; aside from taking keen interest in and careful note of Steve and Sam's aversion to a little extra breathing room in their sports gear, Bucky's used to thinking about it all pretty dispassionately.
So he doesn't quite expect it, when it comes.
One minute, he's sipping his coffee, blinking blearily into wakefulness. The next, he's squinting over the rim of the cup, heart suddenly jackhammering hard in his chest.
Standing in the sunlight of their shared kitchen, framed by a burst of blinding gold, is Steve. Wearing a standard button down shirt tucked into—
Tucked into—
Tight pants. Extremely tight pants.
And it's not like Steve's jeans ever fit the given definition of baggy, but usually there's not quite so much...outlining. Hugging, even. These pants are tailored and dark and hit Steve in all the right places.
Like his ass. And his narrow hips. And his muscular thighs and rounded calves and...and his ass.
Bucky swallows. Then Bucky coughs and splutters, because coffee is hot and so is Steve and nothing is fair.
"Hey," Steve says, turning in concern. He comes closer. Like crotch-at-eye-level closer. "You okay?"
Bucky thinks Steve's zipper might be laughing at him. It's glinting weird in the sun.
"Yeah," he croaks. "Yeah, I'm fine." And so are you, he thinks silently, morosely. You're so, so fine.
Steve's hand squeezes Bucky's shoulder. "If you're sure," he says, and Bucky almost full-body shudders at the sensory overload of Steve's heat and his smell, the heavy affection in his voice, the sleep-messy perfection of his hair and oh, right—
The pants.
Steve furrows his brow. "There's a little, uh," he gestures at his lip, "you know."
Drool. There's drool. Bucky tries in vain to snap out of it, but only succeeds in just kind of knocking his mouth with his hand.
"Ow," he says.
Steve visibly bites back a smile. "Get it together," he advises, not unkindly. "They're just pants."
And then he's gone, stealing Bucky's newspaper and whistling a jaunty tune, literally sauntering out of the kitchen.
When Bucky's jaw deigns to pick itself up from the floor, it clenches.
"That's how you wanna do it, huh?" he asks under his breath. "Fine. Two can play at that game, Stevie." Bucky stands, knocking his chair to the floor and putting his hands on his hips. "I," he announces, "Am going to fight pants with goddamned pants."
Sam, who's just entered the kitchen, holds his orange juice in front of his chest and gives Bucky a dubious look.
"...'kay," he says.
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Turns out, Bucky finds something way better than pants.
When he offhandedly mentions his suspicion that Steve is trying to drive Bucky into a lustful frenzy, with the rough equivalent of sprayed-on latex paint, Natasha makes a thoughtful face.
Then, she makes a plan.
"Take him dancing," Natasha orders. "I know he dances like a twelve year old at a church social—"
Bucky raises an eyebrow.
"You know, all 'leave room for Jesus,'" Natasha elaborates, holding her arms out like Frankenstein.
Bucky's eyebrow hikes even higher. Natasha sighs.
"Never mind," she says crossly. She gets a little testy when people don't understand her jokes.
"I take him dancing, and..." Bucky prompts, because nothing lifts Natasha's spirits more than devious, underhanded planning.
Predictably, she brightens. "And you wear this." She whips out her phone, pushes a few buttons, then shoves the screen under Bucky's nose.
He stares at the picture for a full minute before saying flatly, "No."
Natasha narrows her eyes. "James," she says, because from the very start she insisted she'd die before calling a grown man 'Bucky.' "All Steve had to do was wear a pair of skinny jeans. You're stupid for him. You wanna make this a fair fight? You have to wear something really good."
Bucky frowns. "I am not stupid for him," he says defensively. "They were just—and he was touching me—and he smelled so—and then he smiled—"
Natasha rolls her eyes so hard the whites show completely. "We're going shopping," she says. "And then you're texting him and saying Sam and I want to go dancing, and are dragging you along, and can he please please please save your sorry ass, you'll buy him that drink that tastes like the Fourth of July."
Bucky looks at Natasha with dawning fear and respect. "That's scary accurate," he says.
Natasha gives a toothy grin. "I know," she says primly, and tugs Bucky up. "I'd take credit for being eerily prescient, but you guys are really that transparent."
And then they're off, to the mall, and other adventures.
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When Steve sees him, his cheeks and his ears go instantly and urgently bright red.
Which is gratifying, because when Bucky sees him, the slow simmering attraction he's always felt for Steve turns into something terribly immediate, roaring through Bucky's body, under his skin, making his cheeks flush and his eyes glitter.
Steve is wearing those pants again, the kind that look like he's been poured into them lovingly, dark fabric stroking up his legs and hugging the curve of his ass, making him look taller somehow, and...richer? Yeah, richer, because he's also wearing this shirt, color of the summer sky, silky and expensive, open at the neck and sleeves rolled up to his elbows so passerby can catch a glimpse of collarbone and the working column of his throat, appreciate the muscles cording through his forearms, the raw strength of his body and its unerring grace.
Bucky's mouth is dry; Steve's eyes look so blue.
He walks over, shoving politely past the other dancers, shoulders wide and lashes long, head ducked in that way that means he feels out of his depth, but he'll think his way to victory anyhow.
When he reaches Bucky, he stands there a moment, looks at Bucky from toe to top of his head, a lingering appraisal that leaves something scorching in its wake.
Bucky can't breathe, either from the heat that Steve's generating, or from all the goddamned leather.
Because that's what Bucky's wearing. Leather. Lots of it. Leather pants, with zippers at the ankle. Leather boots. Leather jacket, collar turned up, hanging unzipped over a t-shirt with a v-neck so deep that his chest would feel a little cold if his entire body didn't feel nearly consumed with flame right now.
He'd put his foot down at eyeliner, but he has to admit, even without it, there's something...compelling about the look Natasha's created on him. Dark, reckless, wild. The sartorial equivalent to a dare.
And as much as Bucky's liking Steve's look, Steve's liking Bucky's. It's obvious in the way he leans into Bucky's space like a flower thirsting for rain, his eyelashes going low, eyes almost dazed.
Bucky finds himself leaning in, too, drawn by the fresh and utter simplicity of Steve's blinding hotness, how he seems like the only light source in a room full of blurring, writhing bodies and thumping bass.
His hand brushes Steve's, and a shock skitters through him at the touch, makes him draw a sharp breath.
Steve's eyes darken, a brow raising, his mouth firming. His fingers catch Bucky's, turns the casual touch more committed, twining their hands together until every nerve ending is alight, waves of awareness running up Bucky's arm and on through to his head, making him slightly dizzy with the force of his want.
"Bucky," Steve says, voice low and rough.
Bucky tightens his grip on Steve's hand, tugs him close till they're sharing space, till he can see the sweat beading on Steve's upper lip and the hollows of his chest. He smells like spring, and shampoo, and that mint gum he only chews when he's nervous.
"Stevie," Bucky says, because sometimes it's still hard to believe they're not the kids they once were, shiteating and prank war waging and one-upping, and fiercely protective through it all.
Steve's mouth softens at that; he goes so sweet and loose, all his muscles unstrung. Like he's easy for Bucky. Like he's stupid for him.
Well, he's in good company. Because Natasha was right. Bucky's stupid for Steve, too. Pants or no pants.
Though no pants...would be...preferable.
"Dance with me," Bucky suggests.
Steve grins.
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The music is loud enough that it echoes through Bucky, crashes against his insides, makes every cell of him throb. The bass is a steady and sinuous rhythm and Steve—
Steve does not dance like he's a twelve year old at a church social.
Steve dances like he's practiced, his hands deft and sure, one resting firmly on the small of Bucky's back and the other cupping Bucky's head, fingers curled into his hair. He's got a look in his eyes like he knows Bucky's hungry for him, and he likes it. Wants it to happen. He gets a half-smile on his face, and then the hand at Bucky's back moves down to Bucky's ass, bringing him closer with a tug that goes straight to Bucky's dick. Slowly, slowly, Steve rolls his hips. Bucky barely leashes a groan at the way their dicks line up, leather against denim, and the solid, undeniable weight of their arousal.
When Steve leans in to whisper in Bucky's ear, he asks: "Where'd you get the leather?" There's a smirk in his voice, but a breathlessness as well, a brittle, needy quality.
Bucky turns, ever so slightly. His hands are at Steve's waist, and they clench in the fabric of his shirt when Bucky realizes that Steve's mouth is very near to his.
"Same place you got those pants, probably," he says, tone accusatory.
"Natasha?" Steve asks. At Bucky's nod, he laughs, throws his head back, teeth flashing white and genuine mirth making the crinkles at his eyes come out in stark relief.
Bucky's knees almost give out under the force of how much he wants to kiss him.
"I thought they were just pants," Steve says. "I thought, no way will they get the reaction Natasha promised. And then I saw your face."
"My face? My face? What about how red you got when you saw me in my—in this—in all the—"
"The leather, Buck." Steve's voice goes low again, smoky and insinuating. "When I saw the leather."
"Get it together," Bucky advises, though his pulse is galloping at the anticipatory look on Steve's face. "It's just leather."
Steve skims his hand up Bucky's body, over the planes of his back and the width of his shoulders, under the thick fall of Bucky's hair. He leans in, forehead to forehead, both hands secure at Bucky's nape, thumbs rubbing firmly, deliciously, at the tender muscles there.
"Bucky," he says, "It's not the leather." His lashes are so long they tangle together, and his lips are red, wet. He's so handsome and familiar and here that it hurts a little, right in Bucky's chest. "It's not the leather," he says again, on a breath, on a sigh. "It's you."
And then he kisses Bucky, his mouth slanting hot, restless, the taste of it sweet like iced tea and mint and the Chapstick he always uses. He kisses Bucky, chasing Bucky's mouth, bringing Bucky's hips flush with his own, and there's a low sound, a keening, a moan, working its way through his chest. Bucky can hear it, can feel it vibrating under Steve's skin, and he digs his fingers into Steve's hips to anchor himself, to egg Steve on.
"Fuck," he gasps when they finally wrench apart, breathing heavy, his lips kiss-swollen, his entire body lit like a fuse.
"It's not the pants," he says, when Steve dives in for another kiss, around the drugging, slow cling and press of his mouth. "It's not the pants, either. It's you, too."
Steve's eyes are bright when he reaches down to tug at Bucky's belt loops, a teasing little pull. "I figured," he says solemnly, and if he wasn't so kiss-mussed, Bucky would probably sock him in the shoulder for the smug undertone threaded through his voice.
"Can we go home now?" Bucky asks, because leather is cool and all, but it's getting uncomfortable and Steve's jeans have already been on way too long.
Steve knocks his head gently against Bucky's. "Yeah," he says. 'Yeah, let's go home."
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It starts with the pants coming on.
It ends with the pants coming off.