my whole life
Prompt: Oral fixation or fetishization (lips, tongue, or whole mouth; french-kissing; licking; oral displays using food or beer bottles; smoking cigarettes, cigars, or pipes; biting or chewing one’s lip(s)). Prompt from this generator.
“I wish you wouldn’t smoke in the house.”
Steve looked up, raised his his eyebrows. “Isn’t that my line?”
“Used to be,” Bucky said, shaking his head, stepping inside out of the sun. “Still can’t get over the fact that you smoke.”
Steve was sitting at their tiny kitchen table, the top covered with the detritus of his morning: an abandoned coffee cup, last week’s newspapers from Paris; his tobacco tin and a fold of cigarette papers. He had the last of one in his fingers, burning embers, and he hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt yet. With his bed-rumpled hair and flushed mouth, he looked, Bucky thought, like the 10 AM version of sex on a stick.
“I’d be lying if I said I haven’t want to do it my whole life,” Steve said.
Bucky turned to the sink, twisted open the tap. “Really?” he said above the fall of the water. “That why you always gave me so much shit about it? You were jealous?”
Steve snorted. “Come on, those things you smoked were foul. Made you smell worse than a chimney; made you smell like you’d been chewing ash.”
“Pffft. Half a year of you puffing and now you’re a tobacco connoisseur?” He grabbed the soap and scrubbed his hands together and watched the dirt peel away, the black soil that clung to his wrists, that sat between his fingers, ceding ground to rough soap and the spray.
“Hardly a connoisseur,” Steve said in his ear, suddenly solid at his back. “But I know what I like.”
“That so? Well, good for you, Stevie.”
Steve palmed his hips, thumbs busy in the stretch of skin between Bucky’s damp t-shirt and his beat-up dungarees. “I thought so.” He rubbed his mouth against the back of Bucky’s neck and nosed up into his hair; it was getting too long now, Bucky thought, had thought out in the heat of the garden. But Steve liked it this way, liked to string his hands in it, like the smell of it, he said, even at times like this when it was wet with sweat and the early summer sun.
It’d surprised Bucky, how much he liked poking around in the dirt, coaxing seeds into releasing the life they held and then tending to the new, fragile plants. Hell of a long way from a window box in Brooklyn, but then, what part of their lives wasn’t a world away from the one they’d grown up in? He was different now, and Steve surely was; hard not to endure all they had, seen all the death and cruelty they had, without coming out on the other side changed. That he spent all his free time talking sweet to snap peas and zucchini seemed the mildest of them all, those changes, the sweetest. They were in the business of life now, he and Steve, of living; freed out from under Uncle Sam by hook and by crook and ready to make their own way. A way that had led them to the countryside, to a little house with four rooms and touchy plumbing, to a genuine feather bed and two cats and long, long ardent nights spent making up for lost time.
“Beautiful day outside,” Bucky said, gruff.
“Is it?” Steve slid an arm around Bucky’s waist.
“Fucking gorgeous. The pear tree’s starting to bloom.”
Steve squeezed, pulled Bucky back against his body, all that solid, all that weight. “That sounds nice. I bet it’s real pretty.”
Bucky’s breath hitched. “Yeah, it’s–ah, oh, pink and white and everything.” He let go of the soap and reached up to silence the water. “Something you should sketch, maybe. I bet you could capture it right.”
“Maybe I’ll take my pencils out later.”
“Yeah?” Bucky reached up and clutched wet at Steve’s hair, pulled his head down towards Bucky’s neck. “We could eat lunch in the shade, maybe.”
Steve’s mouth opened, obliging, and sucked a kiss into Bucky’s hot throat. “Mmmm. I’d like that.”
“You would, huh?”
A chuckle. “You know what I’d like better, though? In this particular moment?”
He felt Steve smile. “You know why I used to give you shit about smoking inside?”
“Because. Watching you hold one of those damn things between your lips, watching you suck on the tip, used to make me so hot.”
Buck’s dick gave a fierce jerk. “Oh, god.”
Steve bit at his neck. “I’d walk in,” he murmured, “and smell your smoke and not be able to breathe and then I’d see you, your mouth, that thing that had so easy what I was dying for, your tongue on me, Buck, the way you’d purse your lips when you took a drag in”–he groaned in Bucky’s ear, rolled his hips against Bucky’s ass–“fuck, it made me so hard it was all I could do not to go to my knees and beg you to put your mouth on my cock instead.”
“Why didn’t you?” Bucky bobbled and grabbed at the edge of the sink, tried to keep himself on his feet. “God, Stevie, you don’t know what I’d given to have you ask for that. Jesus, you know how long and hard I beat myself up for wanting you?”
“How long?” Steve asked, his voice a soft, shaking growl.
Bucky turned his head, his body, and found Steve’s face, grabbed greedily at all that bare skin, that broad, beloved body. “Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck, beautiful. My whole life.”