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“Hey, I have an idea.”
Bucky’s voice cut through the haze of Steve’s arousal, and he tensed. He knew that tone, those words. After all the times they’d been together, Steve knew just where this was going.
He pulled back from where he’d been working at Bucky’s neck. “What?” Tried to look happy about it.
Must not have been altogether successful, because Bucky’s brow creased for a split second before he recovered and pressed on. “What if you--,” and he swirled his hand in the air, index finger pointing down, and Steve had a feeling he suddenly understood, “--turn around that way, head down there, and you put your mouth on me, and then I can put my mouth on you at the same time?” He shifted over Steve, baited the lure with a slow undulation, his hard cock sliding up against Steve’s and spreading more slickness across their bellies.
They were in Steve’s giant bed in the tower, and there was no excuse like there was once: “not enough space” or “the neighbors will hear” or “we got work in the mornin’, Buck,” so Steve just forced a smile and said, “Sure, whatever you want,” and made to move, to displace Bucky so he could do what was asked.
Got stopped by a hand on his upper arm, and Steve was getting sloppier, or Bucky was getting more perceptive. Maybe it was both. “If you don’t wanna--”
That wasn’t it. But … how the hell was Steve going to explain? That he knew where Bucky’s ideas came from? Knew it way back when, when they were just barely grown, when Bucky would come home from dallying with some gal and would suddenly have an idea with Steve. Like he’d found a ten-dollar bill on the pavement and was beaming with goodwill over it, wanting to share his fortune.
“Didn’t say that.” Steve never said that. He wanted to do what Bucky asked--he did. That first time, when he’d been seeing Sally, Bucky’d come home with a delighted look on his face, that ten-dollar look, and promised Steve something fantastic. Mercifully waited until after he’d washed to coax Steve onto his side on the mattress, rub Vaseline thick between his thighs as Steve shuddered, and then--
And, oh, God, Steve had wanted it, hadn’t known how much until they were in the middle of doing it and Steve’s dick was jutting out from his body, full and throbbing and dripping onto the sheet beneath. Even as he knew where this idea had come from. Could easily imagine Buck panting into Sally’s blond hair, like he was breathing into Steve’s. Thrusting against her from behind, like he was moving against Steve. Whispering dirty things as his fingers slipped down her front, into her folds, and rubbed at her, firm and sweet.
His words to Steve were rougher, probably, more like “fuck, I need to … God, Jesus, Steve, so fuckin' good, please, please, please,” but his fingers were just as sweet and knowing on his dick. Making Steve arch his head back into Bucky’s chest and sigh his name as he came, like there was no one else.
Sally would have done just the same. Her legs would have trembled and jerked just like Steve’s.
Back then, and during the war, when Bucky got on hands and knees and wanted Steve behind him, wanted Steve to sit on him, wanted to hover over Steve and tease his balls into Steve’s mouth--all if it--Steve had never said no.
Just smiled and took his place and moved it along with “Whatever you want, Buck.”
Every single time imagined the girl who put the idea in his head.
That was before, when they’d had an understanding. When Bucky had an understanding, and Steve said sure. But Steve thought … thought those days were over, that Bucky was his now. Or at least not anyone else’s.
Obviously he’d been wrong. He beat down his brain’s frantic survey of everyone they knew--everyone Bucky might have had contact with, anyone who might have caught his eye--and he tried to squirm away from underneath Bucky and that restraining arm, to give Bucky what he wanted.
“Hey, no,” and Bucky still knew how to use his weight to hold Steve in place. “I got a bad feeling you don’t actually want this, and, let me tell you, Stevie, there is nothing that hoses me down faster than the thought of doin’ you when you don’t want it. So, what’s wrong?”
He cut off Steve’s “nothing!” with a little hiss and chuck on the chin. Emphasized: “What’s … wrong.”
Steve shrugged, finally, and tried to look away before answering, but Bucky pulled him back with a hand on his cheek.
Fine. Steve went for casual, aiming for a tone as light as his words: “Just wondering who gave you the idea, is all." He could have cringed at how bad it sounded, and Bucky had never been dumb, no.
He said, “You know, Stevie, we live in glorious times. There’s this thing called the Internet.” That smile was something else, warm and affectionate. He touched Steve’s face again, a thumb over his cheekbone. “You know, I thought we had an understanding then.” He hesitated. “It was a bad understanding, but … “
“Yeah, I know.” Touched Buck’s arm. “We did.”
“You know,” and Bucky dropped his head a little. “It’s just us now. If that’s what you want. Both ways.”
Steve barely sucked back his own ten-dollar smile and just nodded, serious. That was all Steve had ever wanted, as it turned out.
And Bucky’s face screwed up a little.. “So, I hate to ask this, but … does this mean I can only do you missionary-style now, like an old married--”
“Shut up.” He was quiet for a minute. Bucky was still laying on top of him, and Steve didn’t doubt this was going to rev right back up, and probably still go Bucky’s way (and did he really think Steve didn’t know what a Sixty-Nine was?).
But there was one more thing. “Internet, huh?”
He could hear Bucky’s smile, slow and spreading. “Yeah.”
“Huh.” Steve went to push Bucky off him--to move into place and see how this felt. But first: “I might need to visit that part of it. You know. Some time.” He aimed a look back from where he’d settled next to Bucky’s legs. “Sounds like I might find some good ideas.”
“Uh-huh,” Bucky answered, rolling his eyes, and slid a little down the bed.