Clint Barton sat on the front steps of the Lambda Xi Delta house, a red plastic cup nestled comfortably in his left hand. Next to him, Sam Wilson stood, his arms crossed over his sky blue polo shirt. A lanyard dangled from the pocket of Sam’s khaki pants, its pattern the repeating Greek letters of Kappa Gamma Phi. Clint, representing the other side of the college frat coin, wore a pair of faded black sweatpants and a purple tee with a rip near the bottom hem, plus a set of hearing aides to match.
He had half a mind to turn them off as loud as Bucky and Rogers were getting.
“Bet you five bucks that Bucky kicks his ass,” Clint said and Sam made a noise like the air brakes on an 18-wheeler.
“Make it ten,” Sam said. Money came out of wallets. Clint rolled up the pot and sat it next to him on the concrete.
On the lawn in front of them, Bucky lunged himself at Steve Rogers’ midsection, the two of them rolling through the grass, their massive bodies illuminated by the bright LED porch light. Behind Clint and Sam, two people stumbled out of the house, giggling and drunk.
“Oh fuck, the meatstacks are fighting,” one of them said. “Tina, get your drunk ass out here! They’re going at it again!” The stranger lowered his voice, hissing at his friend. “Oh shit, Bucky’s sweatpants look like they’re about to leave corporeal form.”
“Goddamn, I love a good Presidential Debate.”
“I don’t know why you always show up and start shit,” Bucky ground out, straddling Rogers’ hips, both arms pinning Rogers’ wrists above his head. It was true about the sweatpants. They were barely hanging onto Bucky’s hips.
And they said there wasn’t supposed to be a moon that night.
“Me? Fuck you, Barnes.” Rogers bucked his hips upward, and Bucky rolled right off of him. Steve scrambled to his feet. “You’re such an asshole.”
Bucky got up and spat down at Rogers’ shoes.
“Yeah, well you’re the one who decided to hate me for no reason, you pretentious dickbag,” Bucky said.
“No reason? No reason?” Rogers laughed, his voice echoing down the street. “You know, guys like you are the reason Greeks have such a shitty reputation. Shit like this, the constant partying, the- why the fuck are you smiling, jagoff?”
Bucky burst into laughter.
“Jesus, do you fucking hear yourself? You really think because you guys raised a few thousand bucks to save the whales or whatever that you’re better than us? I can go to your house any other Saturday and get just as trashed as people do here, you self-righteous fucking punk.”
Rogers’ jaw did something complicated, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Then he took two steps forward and socked Bucky across the face. Bucky flew backwards, landing on the ground with a loud grunt, his hand clutching his cheek. His sweatpants, somehow, survived. But barely.
“Holy forking shirtballs, look at that deep V,” a girl slurred.
“Somebody get a compass. I’m following that treasure trail to the end of the line. D marks the spot.”
On the lawn, Rogers stood over Bucky, staring down at him like he was waiting for him to get up and go another round.
Clint sighed and slapped the money into Sam’s hand.
“I’ll win it back next week.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sam patted Clint on the shoulder twice and strolled across the lawn. “C’mon Steve, you made your damn point. Whatever it was.”
Pouting at the loss of ten whole dollars, Clint shoved himself up off the steps and tossed his drink back before going to collect Bucky.
“You ever gonna tell him that we do just as much philanthropy as they do? Like, we literally have to. It’s in our bylaws.”
“Ha! Fuck that polo-wearing smarmy sack of dolphin dicks. He never really cared or he would’ve goddamned asked.”
“You need ice?” Clint asked.
“Nah.” Bucky moved his jaw and worked the muscles in his face, then pulled up his sweats and tugged on the strings. “Just need a beer and-” He smiled at the three people assembled on the porch and lowered his voice. “How drunk are they?”
“Too drunk probably.”
“Oh well. Someone else then. Isn’t Thor here?”
“Making out with Jane whats-her-name in the basement.”
“I hate everyone and everything,” Bucky said, finding his Lambda Xi hat somewhere on the grass. He pushed his shoulder-length hair back with his hand and shoved it on backwards. “Can’t a president get laid in his own house?”
“There, there,” Clint said, patting Bucky on the back. “Hey, I’ll suck your dick for you. I just lost ten bucks to Wilson so I’ll only charge you twenty.”
Bucky laughed and gave Clint a light shove.
“Fuck off.” Bucky tossed a charming smile at the porch crowd when they walked past them into the house. “C’mon, I’ll give you something good from my alcohol stash as an apology for getting my ass kicked by beefed up douchebags who think they’re better than everyone else because they own Dockers.”
Clint smiled. Bucky always had the good vodka—the strong Russian shit that meant Clint would be doing shirtless karaoke in the basement in the next half hour. He clapped Bucky on the shoulder and followed him to the kitchen.
“Thanks, Bucky. And here Rogers says Lambda Xis aren’t generous.”
It was fish day in the dining hall and they never got the beer batter cooked all the way through, which meant Bucky spent his dinner picking at a giant plate of fries, his engineering textbook propped open next to it.
It was a nice enough way to study as far as studying went. Or it had been before some group of dipshits came herding into the dining hall, one of them speaking too-loud to the others.
“I just hate it when jackasses take up entire tables in here to sit by themselves and study. Just eat your dinner and go to the library instead of taking up valuable real estate.”
Bucky knew that voice as intimately as he knew Nirvana’s entire discography or Planck’s Constant or the exact size and shape of his own dick. He glared at his dinner.
“Don’t you ever shut the fuck up, Rogers?” he asked, looking up to find Rogers standing there with a couple of his brothers. He had on honest-to-God khaki cargo pants, with a baby pink Lacoste polo and a black Kappa Gamma Phi snapback. He seemed to be pushing the polo shirt to its limits, the sleeves riding up over his massive biceps. The fabric across his chest warped where it struggled to fit the wide berth of his pecs. Honestly, if it ripped off of him and ran for the hills, Bucky wouldn’t blame it one bit. He wished he had that option.
“Don’t you ever think of anyone besides yourself, you supercilious cumstain?” Rogers asked, and given that Bucky’s cheek was still sore from their match over the weekend, he had half a mind to get up and toss him onto the table.
“Oh, supercilious, that’s a big word for you, Rogers. Finally using that word-of-the-day calendar Wilson bought you?”
“Oh no, no, no. Do not,” Wilson said from behind Rogers, folding his arms over his own too-tight lavender polo. “You two dumbasses leave me out of whatever this is. Ring, ring. Oh shit, hold on, I gotta take this.” Wilson held his thumb and pinky finger up like a telephone. “Mom? Oh no, is she okay? Shit, alright, I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?” Eyes flitting between both Bucky and Rogers, Wilson used his left hand to push his thumb and pinky back into his fist. “Sorry, morons, I gotta go.”
When he walked away, Rogers rolled his eyes.
“You and me, outside,” he said, pointing at Bucky. Bucky laughed.
“I’m eating, you giant, walking JCPenny. Besides, don’t you need like 5000 calories a day to maintain whatever all that is?” Bucky waved vaguely at Steve’s overly muscular body.
“You’re one to talk. Did you buy that shirt in the kid’s section?”
“Ex-girlfriend left it at my place. I like the band.” Bucky shrugged.
“L7? You have shit taste in music.”
“Oh yeah. Tell me Rogers, have you ever, once, actually listened to or even heard of L7?” Bucky asked, doing his best to focus on his textbook again. He read the same sentence three times and sighed before slamming it shut. “You know what, maybe I will go to the library after all. I’d hate for anyone else to think I was a supercilious asshole and all. You’ll put my tray up, right? Since you’re such a generous dude.”
Bucky tucked his book up under his arm and waltzed out, grabbing an orange on the way.
Steve sprawled sideways across his bed, his bare feet up on the wall, open enough to create a large V of space between his legs. He tossed a tennis ball between them, bouncing it off the plaster and catching it repeatedly.
He needed to study for his art history mid-term, but he couldn’t focus. Barnes had a way of always throwing him off balance. Putting the tennis ball down next to him, he picked up his phone. No messages on Facebook messenger, nothing but a few favorites in his Twitter notifs. His Instagram was dry too, but there was a nice picture of some influencer gym rat he followed for nothing but gratuitous thirst reasons, so he double-tapped that then dropped the phone.
A few more rounds with the tennis ball, and he picked up his phone again, this time hitting the Spotify icon. He scrolled through his playlists, frowning at all of them. His thumb hovered over the search button before he finally gave in, typing in L7.
It wasn’t at all what Steve had been expecting. Two songs in, he decided he hated it on principle. Feeling temporarily vindicated, he switched over to his gym playlist and resumed tossing the ball at the wall until he worked up to actually studying cubism.
But the problem was that he didn’t really hate it, which meant that several times over the rest of the week, he ended up alone in his room. He listened to the songs in the dark with his headphones on, as though if anyone saw or heard him, they might know the source of his newfound musical taste and judge him for it.
On Friday, the Kappas threw a party, their house transforming from a mildly raucous place full of guys into an extremely raucous house full of bodies, drinking and playing beer pong and making out on any surface flat enough to support two or three people.
Steve floated through it all with various cans and plastic cups in his hands. He played a few rounds of quarters in the dining room, danced with a few people down in the basement where Stark’s speakers pumped out oddly great dance remixes of 80s hair metal, then lounged on a sofa in the living room while he flirted idly with some brunette who looked like she could take him in a fight.
The music was different up there, the speakers churning out some modern hits playlist that ranged from Kendrick Lamar to Halsey to Bastille.
When a Taylor Swift song started up, someone groaned audibly. It was Lang, half his body bent over one of the arms of the sofas, his head hanging down toward the floor. He had a solo cup full of beer in his hand, a neon green plastic crazy straw in it so he could drink at whatever angle he was in at the time.
“Please no, I’ve heard this 20 times today,” Lang whined before slurping at his beer.
“Steve, put on that playlist you played last time,” said a girl who Steve honestly was sure he’d never met, but here he was.
“Yeah man!” Lang said.
The playlist in question was one Steve changed and updated all the time. It was all his current favorites in a mix so that he could play them over and over again until the very sound of them made him want to vomit. Buzzed on cheap beer, he put it on without much thought.
Three songs in, the speakers started to churn out “Shove” by L7. Oh shit. Steve found himself scrambling off the couch, ready to sprint over and pull the cord out of the wall or light the whole thing on fire if he had to.
He made it halfway across the room before he heard laughter. Steve froze like a deer in headlights and turned to face Barnes, whosesizable biceps flexed where he leaned into the room, his hands on either side of the door frame to hold him upright. He had on baggy gray sweats, a too-tight charcoal Lambda Xi tee shirt, and a backwards cap—probably Lambda too. Fucking predictable.
“Well, Rogers, isn’t that an interesting song choice.”
“Fuck you, I’m allowed to like a band. You don’t own L7.”
“Uh-huh.” Barnes laughed again, not even the usual mocking laugh he used during their arguments, just a genuine, actual laugh, sweet like honey and- Steve shook his head and adjusted his own backwardsKappa hat.
“Are you two gonna, you know, fight?” Lang asked.
Steve looked over at Lang, sitting upright now and looking between them intently like Christmas might come early.
“Barnes, outside,” Steve said, and someone ooh’d in excitement. Right, if they took it outside, everyone was going to follow them. “Change of plans,” Steve said when they hit the front hallway, a group of would-be spectators following them like a cruise ship Conga line. He grabbed Barnes by the back of his shirt and shoved him toward the stairs instead.
There was a very strict party rule that no one was allowed upstairs unless a Kappa was with them. A few people let out noises of disappointment when they realized they weren’t going to get to watch a classic Barnes-Rogers match, but nevertheless, they didn’t follow.
“Get the fuck off me, Rogers,” Barnes said, shaking him loose a few stairs up, but he jogged up the rest and let Steve lead him down the hall to the largest bedroom. Steve shut the door behind them, and the noise from the party downstairs faded into muffled chatter and the occasional thump of a bass.
Like someone’s awkward parent about to give The Talk, Steve stood there with his back to his bedroom door, the realization that he had no actual fucking plan for bringing Barnes up here hitting him like a punch in the dick. He opened and shut his mouth a few times. In front of him, Barnes spun on the heel of a black Adidas tennis shoe and started looking around, slowly taking in the walls before moving toward Steve’s bookshelf.
Steve was suddenly self-conscious. And why was he self-conscious exactly? What did it matter to him if fucking Barnes didn’t like his taste in books?
Barnes pulled a book from the shelf. How It Began: A Time Traveler’s Guide to the Universe by Chris Impey. He held it up and opened the cover to read the jacket.
“You can borrow it if you want,” Steve blurted. And yeah okay, brain. But also, one question: what the fuck?
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll keep it forever and never give it back, me being so selfish and all?” Barnes asked, but there wasn’t any bite in it. He was still reading the book jacket.
“It’s just that I remember Lambda was always fundraising before you became president. It’s like all that stopped when you took over.”
“Rogers, in your entire life, have you ever bothered to ask anyone about themselves, or do you plan to go through the whole damn thing on assumptions alone?” Barnes met his eyes then, popping the cover shut. “Last year, we donated over $15,000. We have to do at least ten or we’d lose our charter, but we always do more. You don’t know that though because you never asked. It was easier for you to be a huge muscular jackass than open your mouth.”
“Oh yeah? Well, what about you? You’ve never made an assumption about me, huh?” Steve asked, moving closer to where Barnes stood.
“I mean, I assumed you were a pretentious asshole, but that’s not really incorrect,” Barnes said, setting the book down, horizontally instead of back in line with the others. Steve crowded him up against the bookshelf. “Other than that, you just look like the kind of guy who probably doesn’t know what it means to have to take out a student loan.”
“Is that what you think?” Steve asked.
Bucky reached up and popped the collar of his navy blue polo shirt, fingers accidentally brushing the skin of Steve’s neck. Steve shivered, a little family of goosebumps crawling down his arms.
“Lacoste. Sperry. Ralph Lauren,” Bucky said. “What are people supposed to think about you, Rogers?”
“Secondhand, every scrap of clothing I own that wasn’t a gift. You think I’d really contribute to the bullshit that is charging $100 for a shirt? Like it’s not still made in some factory somewhere by someone barely making a living wage, if that? You think I’d give money to Ralph Lauren? Fuck Ralph Lauren. I dress how I dress, Barnes, because this is how I like to dress and because it makes people take me more seriously, but don’t for a minute think that, that-”
At some point in the past few seconds, Steve had crowded Barnes against the bookshelf so much that their bodies were flush together. Against Steve’s chest, Barnes’s own chest rose and fell, the pressure of his body against Steve’s increasing and decreasing with every breath. Those breaths were getting heavier. Steve’s brow furrowed, then relaxed. In his gut, something started to flutter wildly—an entire aviary worth of wings beating within him.
Downstairs, there was a loud slam, and a round of cheers. Upstairs, Steve watched Bucky’s pupils dilate like the shutter on an old camera. One of Barnes’s hands found the back of his neck, fingers dancing across Steve’s nape, and when Barnes tugged, Steve didn’t resist. Their mouths crashed together in a messy kiss, lips moving in savage tandem, teeth nipping and biting and scraping so good that Steve shuddered with it.
“Barnes,” Steve gasped, lips moving against Barnes’ shadow of a beard.
“Bucky,” Barnes said, doing something to the spot behind Steve’s ear that made the whole world blur. “Call me Bucky or I’m not putting your dick in my mouth.”
“Steve,” Steve said, half-moaning his own name when Bucky gripped him through his cargos.
“No, we just went over this, pal. I’m Bucky,” Bucky teased, scraping his teeth across Steve’s Adam’s apple. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Steve.”
Steve didn’t so much walk them backwards toward the bed as he fell slowly in the bed’s general direction, pulling Bucky along with him. When he hit the mattress with the backs of his knees, he let gravity have them both, falling onto the bed sideways instead of longways and knocking his head on the drywall with a loud thump.
“Fuck,” Steve said, but he was already laughing. Bucky gazed down at him, supporting himself on his heavily toned arms. His entire face twitched, his gray-blue eyes sparkling.
“You okay?” Bucky asked, knocking Steve’s hat off his head with one hand and gently sliding his fingers into Steve’s short blond hair. Steve kept giggling, even as a light chill ran up his spine at just how soft Bucky’s touch could be. God, how many times had they gotten into fistfights now? Sam was right. They were both a couple of idiots. Steve loved a good scrap, but fucking was always better than fighting.
“Fine,” Steve said, scooting on the bed to lay on it properly. Bucky followed, straddling him and wiggling on Steve’s lap just enough to tease him. Steve smiled. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice how fucking hot you are this whole time.”
“You’re one to talk,” Bucky said, leaning over and scooting his hand up Steve’s polo to reveal his thick torso, his abs faint lines beneath his skin. He flexed them. He wanted Bucky to know they were there. Christ, he wanted his body to impress him.
“Something wrong?” Bucky asked.
“Yeah, asshole, you’re all the way up there and my mouth’s all the way down here.”
Bucky laughed and shifted, covering Steve up like the world’s sexiest frat boy blanket. Steve met his mouth again, groping for the brim of Bucky’s hat and pulling it off. He tossed it on the bed next to his and fisted a handful of brown hair.
God, the way Bucky groaned into his mouth at that. This was heaven. Steve was dead and it didn’t matter, because the afterlife meant that he got to taste the hint of beer on Bucky’s tongue over and over again for the rest of time.
“So you know that thing I said earlier about putting your dick in my mouth?” Bucky asked. It took Steve a second to answer, too distracted by the feeling of Bucky laving at his neck just under where his beard ended.
“I’m gonna do that now.”
Steve inhaled a shaky breath, watched Bucky’s mouth trail down the open V of his polo shirt then kiss over the fabric to where he’d rucked it up.
“I can’t take you seriously in this shirt, Steve. You gotta take it off.” Bucky was already shoving at it, trying to force it off Steve’s body. With a smirk, Steve lifted up and let him yank it off his arms, the sleeves getting stuck over his biceps before Bucky gave it a good solid tug. The momentum sent the shirt flying across the room, where it knocked Steve’s pen cup off his desk. Pencils and markers scattered across the floor.
“Whoops.” Bucky snorted.
“You’re gonna pay for that, Bucky,” Steve said. “Your shirt too. Now.”
And oh what a view, Bucky raising up on his knees above him to peel his overly tight shirt off his thick-as-concrete frame. Steve didn’t try to disguise one bit of his thirst. He was fucking parched. He was goddamned dehydrated.
“You pulchritudinous bastard,” Steve said.
A deep laugh burst from Bucky’s lips.
“Sorry, I-” Steve shook his head.
“You know I made that joke in the dining hall because we have the same fucking calendar? We gotta have the same one. That was last Wednesday’s, right? Last week sometime anyway. I’m bad about changing the- Steve, fuck!”
Steve shut Bucky up by reaching for the crotch of his loose sweats and giving his dick a solid squeeze.
“It was Tuesday.”
“Yeah,” Bucky panted. “Well, you’re pretty pulchri-please don’t stop-nous yourself.”
“I think you missed a syllable or two there, bud.”
“Uh-huh.” Bucky’s head fell back, his feathery hair drooping behind it. And Steve, well, Steve gasped. The way the light hit him, the beautiful line of his neck, his Adam’s apple protruding from it. That fucking jawline. Those fluttering eyelashes.
“I wanna draw you,” Steve said.
“Kinda busy right now, Steve.”
“Not right now, dipshit,” Steve said. “You’re just… you really are gorgeous, Buck.”
“Steve,” Bucky said, nearly whining. “Steve, stop.”
Steve stopped the second his brain processed the words, dropping his hands onto the mattress. He forced his face not to frown.
“Something wrong?” he asked, as evenly as he could.
“No, God no,” Bucky said. “I’m just gonna come in my sweatpants if you don’t, and that’s not exactly what I had in mind.”
Bucky closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. When he snapped his eyes back on Steve’s though, he gave him a devilish smirk. Resuming his slow creep down Steve’s body, he nuzzled against Steve’s dick before settling between his legs, his hands greedily popping the button on his cargos, then drawing down the zipper.
Truth be told, if Bucky had known Steve Rogers had a dick this pretty, he probably would’ve tried to seduce him the first time they ever met. As far as dicks went—and Bucky would admit they weren’t the most aesthetically-pleasing thing Mother Nature ever slapped together—it was a really good dick. Long but not monstrous, thick but not terrifying, and silky soft in his hand.
After he pulled it free of Steve’s underwear and stupid pants, he gave it a couple solid jerks before lowering his mouth to it. The salt of Steve’s pre-come heralded his first taste, his tongue licking across the head. Drawing a tiny little gasp from Steve’s lips, Bucky sucked just the tip into his mouth. More salt and bitter. He moaned appreciatively and took it deeper.
Steve tangled his fingers in Bucky’s hair, drawing a dull ache out of the nerves in Bucky’s scalp. It felt good. It felt better than good. And the thing was, Bucky loved sucking dick. He loved it so so much.
He loved taking the cock as deep as it would go, loved the way his whole body jerked in protest, loved gagging, loved drooling, loved having to gasp for air and—fuck, fuck—he loved the way his eyes welled up when he took it deep over and over. Hell, he even loved that dull ache in his throat after.
Beyond all that though, what he loved most was the power it gave him, that feeling of knowing what it meant to make another person tremble and shake and pull his hair before they fell apart in his mouth.
The first time Steve’s cock hit the back of Bucky’s throat, Steve gasped out a sound so beautiful that it made Bucky’s brain buzz like an electrical transformer. Which meant Bucky had no logical course of action but to do it again, pushing his mouth up and down Steve’s length until drool dripped onto the mattress beneath them. He came up for air only when his body screamed for it, wringing pleasure out of Steve like it was the sole reason he’d been put upon the Earth.
“Bucky. Bucky, I’m-”
For the pièce de résistance, Bucky slowly pressed a finger against Steve’s hole, rubbing and making every nerve ending dance. Beneath him, Steve let out a few shuddering gasps, his fist tightening in Bucky’s hair so much that his vision nearly whited. A guttural moan signaled Steve’s orgasm, his cock filling Bucky’s mouth. Bucky swallowed until the need to breathe won out again, pulling off while the rest of Steve’s orgasm spilled onto the skin of his belly.
“Fuck, oh fuck, that was-”
But Bucky wasn’t a wasteful guy. Eyes locked on Steve’s, he leaned down and licked every drop of come he’d missed off the hair-smattered skin of Steve’s abdomen. Steve stared down at him, mouth gaping open. He buried his fingers in Bucky’s hair again, softer this time, stroking one side of his head in near-reverence.
“Do you- What do you want? Anything you want, Buck, just-” Steve panted a few more breaths fingers still petting at him. “Just name it, okay.”
Slowly, Bucky got up off the bed, slipping his sweatpants down until they flooded around his feet on the floor.
“I knew it,” Steve said. “I knew you weren’t wearing underwear under those.”
“Why would I?” Bucky shrugged, his eyes darting around the room until they landed on Steve’s desk. Beds were great and all, but nothing beat being bent over a desk. Bucky padded across the floor, kicking pens and pencils out of his way.
“You good with fingers for now?” Steve asked, and Bucky could hear him rummaging around in his night stand. “Or I could eat you out? Fingers or mouth?”
Steve snorted and sat down in his desk chair, the perfect height for him to lean forward and bury his face in Bucky’s ass, which is exactly what he did. He lunged face-first into the crease there, tongue wet and warm and soft. Bucky sighed at the sensation, eyes fluttering.
Beyond that soft caress, Steve’s short beard scraped at his skin with every little tilt of his head. It didn’t take long for a steady burn to settle in, the contrast between that rough bite and the silky slick swipes of Steve’s tongue enough to have Bucky leaking on the desktop, his body grinding down just barely against the unforgiving wood.
“Yeah, okay,” Steve said, words rumbling against his hole. The loss of his mouth made Bucky whimper, but the pop of a lube bottle set everything inside of him on edge.
Something wet pushed at his entrance. Bucky pushed back, helping it along until Steve’s whole finger was buried inside of him. Steve didn’t waste any time finding Bucky’s sweet spot. He worked it over with firm, slow circles, until Bucky could feel the first inklings of pressure building up inside him. When Steve’s finger came out, Bucky cursed.
“Fuck you, Steve.”
“Jeez, mouth like that, Buck, someone oughtta punish you for it.”
“Steve,” Bucky whined, throwing his head back over his shoulder. But Steve wasn’t looking at him. Steve was looking at something on his desk. Bucky’s head whipped the other direction to follow his gaze. There propped on the edge against the wall sat a long wooden paddle, the Kappa Gamma Phi letters burned into its surface.
“Steve, no,” Bucky said, even while he shivered with anticipation. “I’m pretty sure I’ll actually combust the second that touches me.”
Steve reached forward and grabbed it, twirling it expertly in his hand.
“Paddles are sacred,” Bucky said. “Anyone found out, there’d probably be a- Oh God.”
Steve pressed the cool, polished surface against Bucky’s skin, slowly dragging it across the expanse of his ass.
“If you really don’t want me to, I won’t,” Steve said, leaning down to kiss one of Bucky’s shoulders. He said his next words low, rasping them out close to Bucky’s ear. “But what’s the fun in having sacred things if no one ever defiles them?”
“Mhm. You want me to?” Steve asked.
“Yes or no question, Buck.”
Bucky reached out to grip the edges of the desk. “Yes.”
The first crack of the paddle was light, almost teasing. Bucky jolted anyway, forcing himself to breathe in and out evenly.
“You’ve got a really nice ass,” Steve said, massaging two fingers against his hole. Bucky tried to push back onto them, to continue where Steve left off not moments ago, but Steve pulled his hand away as quickly as he put it there.
The second crack hit in the same spot as the first. It actually stung, the tiniest sparks of pain lighting up across his skin. Bucky shuddered.
“How many do you think you deserve?” Steve asked, lightly stroking the skin he’d just struck. Forehead resting on a doodled-on syllabus, Bucky could feel that flesh starting to grow warm. “Let’s see,” Steve continued. “Lambda’s the 11th letter in the Greek alphabet. How about 11, Bucky? Too bad you pledged with them instead of us, huh, or we could stop at ten.”
“Fuck off,” Bucky said.
“Count ‘em. What number are we on?”
“Lose count and I’m starting over.”
“Yeah, whatever asshole,” Bucky mumbled, and the next crack of the paddle seemed so very loud. An illusion—Steve hit him about as hard as the last time—this time on the other cheek.
“That’s good, Bucky. So good,” Steve said, and Bucky drew his bottom lip between his teeth. The next three hits came in quick succession, alternating sides and making Bucky cry out quietly, his hips bucking forward in search of anything he could grind against. There was nothing but the too-hard surface of Steve’s desk. He squeezed the edges harder.
“Fff-” Steve started, drawing out the sound.
“Four,” Bucky finished, sniffling. “Five and six.”
“There ya go, bud,” Steve said, pressing his own body against Bucky’s. In the crease of his ass, Bucky could feel Steve’s cock, mostly hard again. Steve moved it between his cheeks, sighing quietly with pleasure.
“Fuck me,” Bucky asked. “Eleven. There, we’re all done. Just put it in me. Fucking use me, Steve. I-”
Steve drew back and took a deep, audible breath.
“Only five more to go, Bucky. You can do this.”
Bucky cried out on the next hit, his whole body twitching like a fish thrown into a power line.
“Seven. Fuck, Steve, just do them all at once.” There had to be a whole lake of pre-come on Steve’s desk by now. Skin smarting and fever-warm, Bucky knew his ass had to be a pale shade of red-pink.
“What’s eight?” Steve asked. “Theta?”
“Steve, if you start spanking me to the Greek alphabet, I’m going to jerk off on your textbooks and leave.”
“I was just thinking regular numbers are so boring, Bucky.”
“I will not.”
“Fine, fine. Suit yourself.” Steve brought the paddle down again, a little rougher this time, or maybe it just felt like it as sensitive as Bucky was. He sobbed, Steve responding to it with a quiet moan of appreciation.
“Eight,” Bucky said.
“You’d tell me to stop, right? If…”
“Yes, you absolute nutsack,” Bucky grit out. A gentle press of lips to his upper spine, and Steve hit him again, two times. Thwap-thwap.
“Nine, ten,” Bucky said, not sure how on God’s cursed Earth he managed to form words as fast as he was panting through his teeth.
“So how many more is that to-”
“Jesus fuck, I hate you so much,” Bucky said. “You better do it now, you neglectful jackass. Rogers, I swear to Christ I will end you if you don’t spank me and put your dick in me in the next five seconds. No goddamned jury would convict me, Steve. Not guilty, every last one of them would say. A totally understandable crime of passion that any one of us c-"
The next hit made Bucky twitch so hard the desk scraped across the floor. Bucky huffed out a surprised breath, his body zinging with the gorgeous impact of it. That was all of them. That was all of them and Steve was hard again.
“Steve, please,” Bucky said.
“No, that’s not what you’re supposed to say at all, is it?” Steve asked.
“Eleven, you unparalleled dickwad.” Bucky let go of the desk and scrubbed sweat and a few tears from his face, reaching up to wipe them on Steve’s fraternity pennant. Steve laughed softly.
“This what you want so bad, Buck?” he asked, dick back between Bucky’s cheeks, slowly rubbing up and down the length of his crease. Every time he ghosted over Bucky’s hole without pushing inside, Bucky wanted to throw something of his out the window.
“Did you miss the part about how no. jury. would. convict. me?”
“You know, I’m furious that we haven’t been doing this the whole time,” Steve said, seemingly lining up to push inside. Bucky bit his lip, too afraid to speak, as though he could somehow jinx the moment and Steve wouldn’t fuck him after all.
When Steve’s head finally breached him, Bucky let out a long exhale, the air coming out in trembling bursts. It was too long—centuries, eons, one whole fucking eternity—before Steve’s body landed flush with his, his entire pretty cock nestled inside of him.
“Whatever you need now, Bucky,” Steve said. “You’ve more than earned it.’
“Fuck me, Steve.”
“You got it, bud.” Steve rocked his hips out and back in, slow at first. Too fucking slow.
“Harder, you hot preppy bitch.”
But Steve picked up speed, hips snapping expertly until Bucky had no choice but to huff and moan against his desk, any chance he had at forming coherent sentences being flung further and further into the void with every deep thrust. The pressure started building all over again, bubbling up somewhere deep inside of him.
“Jerk me off,” Bucky said. “Please.”
“Sure, anything.” Steve stopped thrusting just long enough to lean over and hook and arm up under Bucky’s middle, pulling him upright so that his back was flush with Steve’s chest. “Can you get your leg up on the chair?” he asked, scooting it with his foot so that it sat beside them. Bucky stuck his foot up on the seat and Steve tucked his in beside it.
With his left arm, he held Bucky against him, thrusting slowly up into him from behind. His right hand snaked around Bucky too, fingers and thumb curling around Bucky’s throat.
“You’re the hottest guy I’ve ever had like this,” Steve said, moving his hand up to grip Bucky’s chin. With a rough jerk, he moved Bucky’s head so that he faced the full-length mirror leaning against one of the walls. In the surface of the glass, Steve met his eyes. Bucky watched Steve lean forward to run his tongue up the side of his neck.
Steve’s grip loosened, but Bucky couldn’t look away, enthralled by the sight of them joined together, enraptured by the slow migration of Steve’s hand down Bucky’s own hairy torso, lower and lower until-
Bucky lost the scene, his head falling back onto one of Steve’s shoulders, eyes fluttering. Steve jerked him like he’d been training for it his whole life—like some kind of athlete who competed in the Olympic Hand Job event. His large hand moved base to tip like Bucky’s body was just an extension of his own, one he knew so well that making it feel good was second nature.
“Steve,” Bucky rasped, sounding completely fucked out. “Gonna.”
“Yeah, you are. Go on.”
One of Bucky’s hands found the sweaty arm around his middle, digging into it and pulling until Steve stopped resisting and went along. Eyes darting back to the mirror, Bucky forced Steve’s left hand around his neck again.
“Oh yeah?” Steve asked, but he squeezed, his thumb and forefingers digging just-so into Bucky’s arteries. Pressure on two fronts now—the orgasm threatening to rip through him and the blood pooling in his face. “C’mon Bucky. I wanna watch you come.”
Bucky dug his nails into Steve’s muscular forearm, squeezing tighter and tighter until he felt the whole universe tip on its axis.
“Fuck, fuck, oh fuck.” Bucky came, oh yes he did, so hard that Steve had to let go of his throat and hold him to keep them both from falling to the floor. He came and he kept coming, panting and groaning while Steve jerked him through every last possible millisecond.
“Jesus,” Bucky said, when Steve finally let go of his cock, his come-covered hand moving to hold Bucky even tighter while he shook against him. “Jesus, Steve.”
“You wanna lay down a minute?”
Steve slipped out of him and helped Bucky stumble his jelly legs over to his bed where he fell down onto it, sprawling out. Steve stayed standing.
“I’ll be right with you,” Steve said, wrapping his hand around his own cock and jerking off quickly and efficiently.
“Do you want me to-”
“Shh.” Steve came a second time with a tiny groan, wiping himself clean with his discarded polo before climbing up next to Bucky on the bed. “Hey, thanks for that, Buck.” He kissed Bucky tenderly, reaching up to finger at Bucky’s sweaty hair, his nails lightly scratching at Bucky’s scalp.
“Yeah, you too, pal,” Bucky said. “We’re doing it again, right? Like a lot times?”
“Sure seems like a better way to settle things than brawling outside our houses. Plus, you’re kinda growing on me.”
“Yeah, next time we’ll do it at the Lambda house. We’ve got our own paddle, you know.”
“Alright, but only if you use the Greek alphabet to count.”
“Yeah, still not a fucking chance, Stevie.”
Steve laughed and kissed Bucky’s sweaty temple before settling down beside him to recover. He closed his eyes and drifted in the afterglow to the sound of Bucky’s breathing and the low din of of the party downstairs. If they never made it back down there, well, Steve was good with that.
There would be other parties, but there was only one first time with Bucky Barnes.
The backyard of the Kappa Gamma Phi house was a lot quieter than inside. Sam ended up out there during most of their parties, the constant noise eventually outweighing the fun and driving him out the backdoor. That night in particular, the view was extraordinary. Sam settled into a seat around the crackling fire pit and smiled at the brown-haired white guy across from him.
Riley Tvrdik. Sigma Sigma Tau. Aviation Studies major. Soccer player. Great dancer.
Sam took a sip of his beer and crossed his legs out in front of him. He’d been nursing a crush for a good long time, working up to an actual move. Something about the night felt charged and promising. Maybe he’d finally do it.
“Sam,” Riley said, with a crooked smile, and yeah, yeah, that’s what life was really about.
“Riley, I’m glad you came.”
Next to Sam, Clint Barton plopped down into a metal folding chair, reaching up to turn his hearing aides back on. He raised his plastic cup in Sam’s direction.
“Wilson. You seen Bucky?” Barton asked. “I was supposed to meet up with him, but I can’t find him anywhere in there. Where’s Rogers?”
Sam shook his head.
“Word is they started arguing and were gonna take it out front before Steve shoved him upstairs instead. That was,” Sam checked his watch, “an hour or so ago.” Another sip of beer. Sam focused back on Riley, both of them having a wordless conversation over the soft red glow of the fire.
“No shit. They’ve been fighting for an hour?” Barton asked, falling quiet while he chewed that over. “Hope we still have presidents in the morning.” He took a large swig from his solo cup, belched quietly, then fished out his wallet. “Twenty that Bucky took him this round.”
“Barton, buddy,” Sam said, standing and patting him on the shoulder, “if you really think they’re up there fighting, then I’ve got a time machine in the basement I’ll sell you. Only twenty dollars.”