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On nights when it’s too cold to sleep alone they share a bed, have done since they were kids. That night they’re full-up with cheap gin also. Gin before bed makes it even warmer. It’s so cold.
Steve won’t stop shivering, despite the shared blankets and the drink and Bucky stretched loose-limbed beside him. Normally Bucky’s big body is as good as any furnace, but the mercury has dipped too low. There’s frost on the inside of the windowpane and their breath when they breathe out is a white mist.
“Steve, c’mere.” Bucky reaches to haul Steve against him. He curls his body around Steve’s sideways, wraps them up in the blankets and burrows down. “You’re gonna rattle your teeth right outta your head.”
It’s warmer with Bucky wrapped around him, nearly tolerable. Enough for Steve to whisper thanks and squeeze his eyes shut. He dreams that he and Bucky are alone on an icy plain and Bucky is talking about the steaming hot chocolate they’ll get at Tom’s Restaurant, the kind with real chocolate at the bottom of the cup.
When Steve wakes up fat white flakes of snow are falling against the window and the weak sun hasn’t done much to heat the room. He’s still tucked in against Bucky, the soundest method of self-preservation. Bucky’s face is mashed to the back of Steve’s neck, and he has both arms around Steve, his knees fit to the bend of Steve’s knees.
Bucky is hard; it’s morning, and many men awake to the condition (Steve has also). Bucky’s cock is big and pressed against Steve’s ass, insistent. It’s hardly the first time they’ve been in this state, and once Bucky wakes up he’ll roll over and throw back the covers and say it’s time for the diner, he could eat two whole stacks of pancakes.
Only sometimes, they --
“Mornin’,” Bucky says sleepily, his mouth open on Steve’s neck. Instead of pulling away, he pulls Steve more securely to his body. “Get any rest?”
“A little. You helped.”
“Good.” Bucky rocks his hips, telegraphing his intentions. “You mind?”
“You know I don’t.” Steve helps Bucky tug down the waistband of his pajamas under the covers. Behind him Bucky is doing the same. Steve squeezes his legs together, muscles clenched in anticipation. There’s a pause and then Bucky is pushing his cock between Steve’s thighs. Precome helps to slick the way. Bucky likes the friction and never wants to wait long enough to get some lotion.
“That’s nice,” Bucky murmurs, following the first push with smoothly regular thrusts. “That’s real nice. Warms me right up.”
“Me, too,” Steve says. Bucky’s arms come back around him and his left hand has got a solid grip around Steve’s cock, and Steve flushes all over.
“It’s good like this,” says Bucky, his lips in Steve’s hair, “it’s not a bad idea to do this. Weather’s so bad that you’ve hardly been outside for days. No exercise.” He works himself against Steve, the enthusiastic momentum of his body inspiring them both and starting to induce a sweat.
Steve bears down, focused on Bucky’s considerable length sliding rhythmically against his skin; all of him is focused on it. Bucky’s hand grips his cock just right but Steve’s own pleasure is almost secondary. Steve can come anytime he likes. The experience of having Bucky unbridled behind him is far more rare. They’ve been trying to break the habit.
“See, there’s a nice color on you already,” says Bucky, nosing at the flushed skin of Steve’s shoulder. Steve is now a brilliant pink.
“I forgot all about the temperature,” says Steve.
“Then what’re you thinkin’ about?”
It’s a perfectly reasonable question. Steve supposes people think about all kinds of things during sexual acts. He knows his brain flashes past invariable topics. So he’s honest. “Greek warriors.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Bucky urges him on with his hips. He thrusts against Steve, impatient for the story, and Steve wriggles back on him and grins. He waits for it, though.
Bucky thrusts again. “Well, let’s hear.”
“There was a city-state in Greece called Sparta,” says Steve, scanning through his memory of a stack of dusty books he read in a lonely aisle of the library. He doesn’t remember all the facts, but the principle left a strong impression.
“Their whole deal was war. Everyone, including girls, were trained to be accomplished warriors from birth.” He can feel Bucky relaxing into the telling, gentling his speed to postpone the inevitable as Steve speaks. Bucky moves lazily, until Steve says, “They were real serious about it, and if you weren’t fit to be in their society, you’d be cast out. Babies they thought were weak, they’d leave exposed on a mountainside--”
“Whoa, whoa,” says Bucky, halting, “what kinda story is this?”
“Ancient history,” Steve corrects, restarting their motion. “Or mythology, at least. The Spartans were mostly concerned with defense and their whole structure was based on preparation for offense. It’s not a poor model for survival.”
“Yeah, but--”
“Why I was thinking about them,” says Steve hurriedly, moving them along, his body sealed against Bucky’s, “is that they had this interesting system with their army. It was considered normal for a soldier to -- to sleep with his fellow soldier, and in fact it was expected.”
“I can’t imagine a thing like that,” Bucky returns, but his hand is fisted around Steve’s cock, and his tone is mischievous.
“You’ve got to imagine this was another time, and -- ah, God, Buck, like that -- and in Sparta it wasn’t strange for a man to be with a man same as a woman. In the army it was practically encouraged. They thought that if you were paired up, you’d fight even better together. Most go to war thinking about their wives and families back home, but what if your family was right next to you?” asks Steve.
“Damn,” Bucky breathes out. “Now that’s a sneaky tactic. But I bet it worked.”
“They were the most fearsome fighters in the ancient world,” Steve affirms, so heated now that he feels feverish. As he recounts Bucky’s cock goes back and forth and Bucky’s hand goes up and down on Steve’s cock, keeping the same rhythm. “They took over lots of places and fended off lots of attacks. They were known for having the best mercenaries.”
“So what happened?” Bucky’s clever fingers twist on Steve’s cock. He cleaves the space between Steve’s thighs.
“What do you mean?” It’s difficult to breathe.
“I mean the Spartans. What happened to them? Once they were done with the wars. Did they settle down? Make some vases?”
Steve wants to smile, but his mouth flattens, thinking about it. “I don’t think they were ever done,” he says. “War is all they knew. They kept fighting.”
“Gotta say,” says Bucky, “I don’t like these Spartans nearly as much as that Minotaur fella you told me about.”
Now Steve laughs, a burst of it from his chest as the pleasure builds low in his belly. “Anyway I was thinking about Greek warriors because this is how they liked to fuck. I found a book in the library that said so.”
Bucky shifts the angle of his hips for emphasis, his grip on Steve’s cock tightening. “Like this?”
“Yes.”
“Hrmm,” Bucky hums. “I suppose we weren’t reinventin’ the wheel when we discovered it.”
“No,” Steve agrees, riding back and resting his head on Bucky’s shoulder, “but it felt pretty damned revolutionary at the time.”
Bucky snorts. “We acted like we won the lottery.”
At sixteen, the realization that they could bring each other off good as any girl went through them like a lightning bolt. Those were the days when they’d do this for hours and anytime they could, with a chair propped up to bar the door. Now they’re older and the times are more rare. They know that it’s something they’re not supposed to be doing. They’re supposed to grow up about it, grow out of it. This isn’t Sparta.
“I guess we did.”
“Would’ve helped to have that library book of yours. Took a while to figure out what we were doin’.”
Steve closes his eyes on a flurry of vivid and awkward and sweaty and treasured scenes from his teenage years, the tangled mess of limbs he and Bucky made and their nervous laughter and their lust-dark eyes. They’re better at it now. They’re good at this. They fit together and know how to move, know just what the other likes. It’s easier with Steve than with a girl, Bucky reports, now that he’s tried both.
“But we figured it out,” says Steve. He keeps his eyes closed. It’s been a while since they’ve done other things. More than a month since Bucky crawled into bed tipsy and put his mouth on Steve’s cock. More than two months since the last time Bucky let Steve open him up with his fingers, pulled Steve over him and had Steve fuck him without having to talk about it.
That was the last time for a while because Bucky had come undone, shaking and pleading, and he looked so shook-up afterwards that he went out and he didn’t come home for days. Even though it was fall and getting chilly, Bucky dragged his cot five feet away from Steve’s and slept with his back to him after he came back.
But it’s the height of winter now and Bucky’s concern has mellowed with the chill. There’s no hesitation as he thrusts against Steve, making a channel of his thighs; and he knows just how to fist Steve’s cock with the perfect amount of pressure. They’re close to the edge of it, and Bucky speeds them up.
Bucky takes extra care with Steve so that Steve comes first, spurts hot across his belly, not bothering to quiet his groan or hide the force of his reaction. His head lolls on Bucky’s shoulder and he opens his eyes so he can enjoy the sight of Bucky’s attention wholly, intently on him, Bucky looking smug to be able to bring him off like that.
When Steve struggles to get his strained breath back, Bucky’s hand smooths his shoulderblade; and that’s nearly as good.
Then Bucky swings his leg over Steve and his body follows, so that he’s straddling Steve. Steve gets with the program and turns over, lies facedown on the mattress. It colder out of the cocoon of blankets but still plenty warm with Bucky on top of him.
Bucky slides his cock along the crack of Steve’s ass, then starts to ease back between his thighs; but he stops halfway as though distracted. His fingers reach out and brush Steve’s entrance, then just his thumb circles around it.
Steve presses his hips to the bed so that he’s angled up for the offering, if Bucky wants to. It’s been a lot longer since they’ve done this. More than half a year. Bucky says he likes it well enough, but that it’s wrong to go at it like Steve is his girl or his wife.
This is the thing they do that seems to disconcert Bucky most, even more than getting screwed himself. The active role that Bucky is taking, the acknowledgement that this is what he wants--
“You still like to do this?” Bucky’s voice is low, like an invisible someone might be listening.
“Sure,” says Steve, who likes nothing more, though he tries to sound non-committal. “If you want to.”
Instead of answering, Bucky eases a slick finger inside him to the knuckle. Steve bites his tongue to keep from making noise too soon, but then he thinks about how Bucky’s fingers must be wet with spit, that Bucky has sucked on his own fingers for Steve--
The finger retreats. Quickly, as though he needs to do it before he thinks too much about it, Bucky moves back and bends over, and his tongue replaces his finger.
Steve does make noise then, expelled on a startled breath. Bucky’s tongue edges into him, past the tight ring of muscle, and then it’s wet and urgent. Hesitant at first, so slow, once he’s in he seems assured, and he wields his tongue like a finger, like a cock.
Steve can’t keep from quivering underneath him, face flat to the mattress, hiding his shocked and awed expression. It’s the oddest thing he’s ever felt and so exquisite he wants to cry out. After a while Bucky eases back to lick at the puckered skin, and he seizes double handfuls of Steve’s cheeks and pulls him open for better access.
“Buck--” It’s desperate. He sounds so desperate.
Bucky’s voice sends vibrations through his skin. “Just be quiet for a little.” Left unsaid is for once, and Steve shuts his mouth.
He breathes through it, feeling his pulse racing through his veins, his traitorous body wanting to give out. He doesn’t know if he can make it. Passing out seems like an option. He needs to stop hyperventilating. He starts counting out the breaths while Bucky licks him and fucks him with his tongue. One, two, three, four, nine, twelve…
It’s the most intimate attention Steve has ever received. He’s quite certain that it will not be repeated, so he shuts his eyes and tries to let himself feel it more than think about it.
Finally Bucky draws back, and before he lets his teeth nip Steve’s upper thigh, he says, “It’s real fun windin’ you up like that.”
Nothing. He can’t say anything. His throat works but sounds don’t.
The bed creaks underneath and cold air seeps in when Bucky hops off, paces across the room with his nightshirt still on and his pants off and Steve watching. He retrieves the vaseline they stashed in the back of the lowest dresser drawer. He walks back already unscrewing the cap and dipping his fingers in.
“I’m real close,” says Bucky. “I won’t have to do this long, promise.”
Like it’s an imposition. “It’s okay,” says Steve. “It feels better if you don’t hurry.”
Bucky’s fingers slip easily into him after the preparation of his mouth. He’s apparently decided that talking about it like fellas might make it less like Steve’s his dame. He stretches Steve on three fingers but slows down the motion. “Yeah? I like it faster.”
Steve tries to make his voice sound like he’s smirking instead of shaking. “I know you do.”
“Been a while since we did that, too.” Bucky isn’t stupid. Bucky is far from stupid. Bucky knows their score. Bucky withdraws his hand and then his cock is thrusting into Steve, big and hard and so, so ready. The angle with Steve lying flat is difficult to master but Bucky thrusts, relentless, and it’s the deepest he can go, the deepest Steve has ever taken him. It’s been a long time and Bucky is a lot but Steve has never wanted anything more, nothing more than this, until Bucky drops down and covers him up, covers all of him, and Steve has never been so warm.
“Missed this,” Bucky says, right in Steve’s ear. “Know I wasn’t supposed to, but I missed this every night.”
Steve could be demure, could stay quiet, but that’s not what they are. “Mornings, also.”
“Drove me wild to hear you jerkin’ off,” Bucky agrees, working his hips so that he comes out of Steve, then right back in the same way, and again and again. “I think you make those noises on purpose.”
“The world may never know,” mutters Steve, and Bucky laughs against his neck and tries to screw him through the mattress.
“Maybe it’s okay, after all,” Bucky is reasoning. “That’s what I’ve been thinkin’, anyway. More I go out, the more things I see, and it doesn’t seem so queer to me.”
Steve would laugh too but he’s too occupied in gasping as every push from Bucky hits him just right. Bucky’s the only one who has ever done this to him but Bucky has figured out how do it in a way that makes Steve beg and moan. He settles into the perfect rhythm and curls his hand into Steve’s hair. He runs the other hand down the side of Steve’s body, appreciative.
“There’s no one I like more than you, is what I’m sayin’,” says Bucky. “I’d be a fool to keep pretendin’.”
Steve’s heart is fit to burst for too many reasons. But he makes himself say, like he’s a jerk, “Does this mean I’m your girl?”
“You’re mine,” says Bucky, and with a final drive claims Steve from the inside out. He pulses deep within him, holds there, lips and teeth pressed to to the nape of Steve’s neck. “Way I see it, none of the rest of it matters.” The suction from his mouth sucks a claim into Steve’s skin that will show in mottled reds and blues.
“You mean it?”
“Cross my heart.” Behind him Bucky’s hand makes the motion. “I’ll always take care of you, Steve.”
“Never doubted that.” Steve goes up a little on his elbows. “C’mon, get off, you’re heavy. And I can hear your stomach from here. Bet you could eat a stack of pancakes.”
“Two,” sighs Bucky happily, just like Steve knew he would, so they go to breakfast.