Chapter Text
Bucky Barnes has never been a bad kid. All things considered, he is quite the decent fellow. He attends mass every Sunday and recites his Hail Mary’s. He works harder than most guys this side of Brooklyn to be able to afford to care for his best friend. He saves said best friend’s ass when he gets himself in trouble with all the wrong people. Bucky Barnes has always been a good kid.
But good kids don’t jerk themselves off to thoughts of their best friend when they’re sharing a bed with them.
It isn’t the first time that Bucky’s mind has wandered, that he’s found himself slipping his hand in his pajama bottoms, that he’s wrapped his hand around himself and made himself come, all the while eyeing a sleeping Steve Rogers in the bed next to him. It isn’t the first time he’s had bite the back of his hand and stifle groans while arching up and spilling over his hand. But he reasons with himself: they can only afford one bed, and he’s only human. He has to do it sometime, and he’s rarely ever without Steve by his side. This is his only option, really, and he’ll repent come Sunday. What else is there to do?
It started the same as it always does: Bucky watched Steve, fast asleep, with a faint smile drawn over his mouth. Steve is real pretty, especially when he sleeps, and Bucky can’t help but stare. He can’t help but notice just how long Steve’s eyelashes are, how they brush against his pale cheeks. He can’t help but imagine kissing there – just there – beneath his lashes. He smiles and he can’t help but pepper soft kisses along Steve’s cheekbones in his head, over his temples, across his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, stopping just above his lips. Bucky always tries to stop there, but he can’t. In his mind he presses his lips down against Steve’s and God it’s always perfect. He can almost feel Steve’s lips part, and it sends a jolt straight to his groin.
Bucky huffs and tries to roll over, tries to sleep, for once, but his eyes are glued to Steve’s sleeping form.
Because in his mind Steve is eagerly returning the kiss, his arms coming up to hold onto Bucky and thread through his hair and pull him closer closer closer. And of course Bucky complies, shifting to hover over Steve and press their bodies together and flick his tongue across Steve’s lower lip. Steve’s lips part like they always do to welcome him into his mouth, and Bucky lets out a low, needy groan.
Steve stirs, and Bucky is drawn from the fantasy, heart pounding. He shifts uncomfortably, his pajama bottoms beginning to tent beneath the blanket. He is painfully aware of his growing arousal as he stares intently at Steve, but the other man doesn’t awaken. He never does.
So Bucky is above Steve again, kissing him as he’s wanted to – needed to – for years and ages and lifetimes. And Steve is kissing him back just as fervently, like he’s needed it, too; and that’s all Bucky’s ever wanted.
But the fantasy quickly shifts, as it often does, while Bucky’s stuck staring at Steve’s mouth. His lips are parted, and Bucky can’t help but think of just how lovely those lips are. They really are very pretty, he thinks. Pink and plump and even cracked a bit – so fucking perfect (like all of Steve, he thinks).
How would they look wrapped around my cock?
Bucky bites his lower lip to suppress a groan as images flood his mind. Little, scrawny Steve has somehow managed to flip them, and he wastes no time in sliding down Bucky’s body to hover over his cock. He licks his lips and grins up at him, and Bucky is positively aching for him. He reaches down to cup the back of Steve’s head, gently guiding him towards himself, whimpering, “Please, Stevie. Oh please, baby, I need you. I need t’ be inside your mouth. Oh, fuck, please.”
And Steve is licking over the head of his cock, slowly, like the little cock-tease he’s always been. And Bucky is gasping and rocking his hips up for more please, baby, more.
Bucky wets his lips, sliding his hand down to finally – finally – slip his hand into his pajamas. He’s hard as a rock and throbbing, straining against even the loose fabric of his boxers. He takes his time, though. He knows too well that it won’t take long thinking of Steve blowing him, so he barely brushes two fingers up the length of his cock. His breath catches in his throat, eyelids fluttering, but he tries to remain focused on Steve beside him.
But the Steve in his head is doing filthy, ungodly things with his tongue as he takes Bucky into the back of his throat. He’s hollowing his cheeks and tracing patterns over his cock and moaning like a whore, and it’s all Bucky can do to not come right then and there down his throat. Steve is sucking then bobbing his head over him then sucking and expertly taking him right back into his throat.
Bucky very slowly wraps his hand around himself, bringing his other up to clasp his mouth as he tries to remain quiet. He feels like he’s on fire, like he could burst into flames at any moment. So he moves his hand, and it’s the most wonderful thing he thinks he’s ever felt. His eyes roll back into his head – Steve’s mouth moving over his cock burning behind his eyelids – and he holds back a lewd moan.
God, if only Stevie knew what he was thinking. If only he knew what he was doing…
Eyes blink open and Bucky is once again drinking up Steve’s beautiful face, his beautiful lips that were absolutely made to be all over his body. He imagines what it would be like, what Steve’s lips would feel like kissing every inch of his skin. He imagines what his hands would feel like ghosting over his thighs and up his sides, clutching at his hips, scraping down his chest, his back.
Bucky’s hand is moving over himself quickly, his wrist giving little twists near the head of his cock. Each twist almost elicits a sharp groan, but he manages to keep himself quiet, if only thanks to the hand firmly covering his mouth. His hips give jerky little movements. He wants to fuck his hand. He wants to fuck his hand and pretend he’s got Steve on top of him, that he’s inside of him. He wants to fuck his hand the way he always dreams of fucking Steve. He wants to imagine he’s coming inside of his best friend, filling him up and making him cry out.
His breathing is ragged and something is tightening low in his abdomen, and Bucky can’t tear his eyes away from Steve – sleeping, innocent Steve – and he almost feels guilty but he’s so damn close, Stevie, you’re gonna make me come you’re so perfect so perfect for me.
And Steve is looking down at him, Bucky’s cock inside of him, hips swaying rocking just right yes there. His pupils are blown wide and his hair is sticking to his forehead and he’s clambering at Bucky’s chest as he fucks himself into oblivion, and Bucky is pushing himself up into him, and they’re moving perfectly so perfectly together like they were made to do this.
And Bucky’s arching off the bed and spilling over his hand and all over his boxers and trying not to cry out for Steve – sleeping, innocent Steve completely unaware beside him – because, God, he wants him more than he’s ever wanted anything in his whole entire life, and right now everything is Steve and nothing could possibly ever be more perfect than that.
But as Bucky’s breathing returns to normal and he starts to come back to himself, he’s just in their dark bedroom. He’s hot and sweaty and sticky, and he’s made a mess of himself. Steve stirs again beside him, quietly coughing in his sleep.
Steve is asleep. Like always.
Bucky wipes his hand off on the inside of his boxers and rolls away from Steve, curling up on his side.
Bucky Barnes has never been a bad kid. But good kids don’t jerk themselves off next to their sleeping friend.