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It starts off as a joke, just a gag between friends. Steve is sitting on the couch with a book, and Bucky is trying to convince him to come out, come down to the bar to meet a few "friends." Steve knows these are the kind of friends Bucky hasn't actually met yet but is sure to attract as soon as he swaggers into the room. The female kind, who only ever have eyes for Buck and sometimes even ask him if he's the kid brother.
"C'mon, Stevie." Bucky spreads his arms. "What do I gotta do, beg?" Steve snorts, but Bucky drops to his knees, arms still flung wide in a parody of supplication. "Please, oh please come down from your tower, Princess Goldilocks. Do it for your old pal Bucky."
Steve rolls his eyes, but he puts the book aside. Bucky is back on his feet in seconds, grabbing Steve's hand and pulling him up and to the coat rack, like he'll change his mind if he waits a minute.
It's all in good fun, except that Bucky keeps doing it. When Steve hesitates about buying a new coat for the winter, when he refuses to accept nearly half of Bucky's share of the chipped beef during an especially rough few weeks, when he doesn't want Bucky to turn the radio up so loud and wake the neighbors - Bucky begs. Always on his knees, hands upturned or clasped under his chin. It gets less funny every time, until Steve is shifting uncomfortably on the couch, trying to use the newspaper or a sketchpad to hide his erection. He doesn't know why it makes him feel this way, hates that it does. Trust a freak like him to make a joke into something perverted.
But he can't figure out how to ask Bucky to stop, not without making it obvious that something is wrong, so he deals with it. Folds his knees up to his chest while Bucky looks up at him, eyes bright, lips wetted by his tongue, pleading with him for this or that or the other thing.
He thinks that he'll get away with it, and maybe he could have if Bucky hadn't changed his tune. Up until now, he'd always do it by the couch or in the kitchen, somewhere nominally public, in sun or at least lamplight.
This time, they're in bed, sharing like they always do when it starts to get cold. The radiator that works is in Steve's room, and two bodies are warmer than one. Steve keeps a glass of water by the side of the bed; Bucky never brings one to bed with him, even though he always gets thirsty in the middle of the night.
"Please?" He says. Somehow, the hint of a whine to his voice, that makes it all so funny in the light, sounds different in the dark. "Just a sip, Steve, just one, I really need it. M'so thirsty, c'mon. Let me have a little."
Steve's shoulders hunch up to somewhere around his ears as he curls around his slowly hardening dick. He's always had a hard time getting it up for girlie magazines or even dames in the flesh, but Bucky...he can always do it for Bucky. "Shut up, Bucky, go to sleep."
"God, Steve, don't be like that. What do you want me to do?" His voice get lower and closer; Steve can feel his breath on his ear. "I'd do anything. Just tell me."
Steve jerks away from him, tugging the covers after him and up to his neck. It's hard to focus in the dark, but he can see Bucky's eyes, dull in the darkness, his ruffled hair. He's smirking, and Steve feels cold inside. "It's not funny anymore. Knock it off."
He hears Bucky take a deep breath. "I'm not kiddin' around. I would...I want you to tell me what you want me to do."
"Are you making fun of me?" Steve's voice cracks, and it's humiliating, god, he can feel the burn of it all the way through his chest.
"No.. Fuck, Steve, never. I just...I noticed, okay?" For a moment, the only sound is the two of them breathing, before Bucky speaks again. "I noticed that you liked it. And I wanted you to like it."
"Oh god." Steve is clutching the blanket so tight that his knuckles are starting to get sore. "Bucky, I never--"
"I know. I know, but I would." Bucky scoots closer. With his eyes adjusted, Steve can see that his eyes aren't dull at all. They're shining. "If you'd let me."
Steve swallows hard around the lump in his throat, big as a baseball it feels like. He half thinks that if he opens his mouth he'll throw up, but when he parts his lips, words come out instead of vomit. "Beg me."
The shiver goes through both of them, Steve can feel it, and then Bucky is shifting, lying low on his belly so he's just peering up at Steve in the darkness. "Please? Stevie, please, I want to. Want it so bad, don't know that I can live without touching you. You gotta let me touch you, let me see proper for once. I don't want a sad little peek when you get out of the shower, I want to spread you out and take a good long look at you. And then I want to touch everything that I can see."
Steve is so hard that he's feeling a little light-headed, too much blood diverted from his brain. He rolls onto his side toward Bucky.
"That's right," Bucky says. "Come closer, you gotta get close to me, that's all I ever want. Just want to touch you, want to taste you, anything you'll give me, Stevie, you know I'm gonna take it. Please just give me something."
"You can--" Steve has to swallow again, though it's arousal that has his mouth dry now. "You can touch me. Under my shorts."
Bucky wastes no time obeying. He's even closer suddenly, his nose brushing against Steve's, breathing hot against each other's lips as he slides his hand into Steve's shorts. Steve knows that he's small, nothing to brag about in the locker room, but Bucky keeps begging him the whole time he's rubbing, jerking him tenderly.
"Let me feel you come, please, please, please, don't leave me like this, you can't. You don't know what you do to me, drive me up the walls, just gotta feel you do it."
It doesn't take much effort for Steve to come, with a little wheezy moan. It never does. But this time he thinks he sees stars on the dark ceiling, blinking helplessly. Those were never there before.
And the best part, it turns out, is watching Bucky beg for his turn.
"No," Steve says. He says it over and over, relishing it each time. He says yes to so many things, so many people, does whatever he can to make life a little better for his neighbor. But Bucky has a hand squeezed tight around the base of his cock, Bucky is crying, and Steve says, "No."
"You bastard," Bucky breathes. His hips jerk helplessly against his hand, but he's holding too tightly to let himself come. "You utter fucking bastard, please. I can't hold on much longer, Steve, I'm gonna explode. You have to let me come, I'm gonna die if I don't."
"Don't know if I want to, just yet." Steve can't get hard more than once in a night, but he feels pleasantly hot all over, listening to Bucky pleas and denying him.
He lets Bucky curse and whimper, scratch his own thighs to try to stay under control. He waits until he thinks Bucky might actually go insane if he doesn't come before he says, "Yes."
Bucky sounds a little bit like he's dying, coming over his hand and belly, his thighs. He flops onto his back and pants up at the ceiling. Even in the dim moonlight, Steve can see the sheen of sweat on his skin. Everything feels heightened and tense. What happens next? What could possibly come after this?
"Never knew you were had it in you, Rogers," Bucky grunts, finally. He sits up and stretches. For a moment, Steve's heart feels like it isn't beating, then Bucky gives him a sidelong look and a grin. "You gotta let that out more often."
"Only on special occasions," Steve replies automatically, heart returning to a steady beat, if one that feels a bit more...spritely. "Your birthday. Maybe Thanksgiving."
"Spoilsport." Bucky huffs. He looks so beautiful, and he tosses his head to get sweaty hair off his forehead. "Hey, pass me your water? I'm fucking dying of thirst."