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[ It's the way he throws his hips up that does it. Steve writhes, rolls up, and there's absolutely no mistaking the way his thighs rub against the long line of Bucky's erection. It wrenches the air from his lungs and it leaves him feeling fireworks, sparks bursting behind his eyes, raw and self-indulgent friction. He shudders there, an almost full-body affair that starts where his shoulderblades support his weight above Steve and travels all the way down to his tensing thighs.

It's damn near unmistakable, the whole thing. There's no denying what it was Steve pressed up against, and no denying Bucky's reaction is anything other than enjoying it.

For a long beat after that, there's just silence and stillness as Bucky breathes through parted lips and stares down at Steve at a loss. There's not much the guy can do from this position, not much he can do to fight back from here, and it's whiskey that dictates what he does next.

He's hard, he's throbbing in his slacks, he's in the perfect position to take advantage, and for a hazy minute, he does. He dips his hips down with deliberateness and drags them up Steve's, a low and languid fucking slide. Uses Steve's body to garner some friction for himself, and the smallest breathy exhale of satisfaction follows it. ]