Parties at the Barnes residence were an unfortunate fact of life for Steve Rogers. He didn’t like going. He could have spent his Saturday night in a lot of other places and, well, in a lot of other people if he was being frank about it. Still, the fact of the matter was that Steve had been brought up with a strict code of etiquette, which meant that his mother’s business partners were not people he could spurn.
Besides, it wasn’t all bad. Winnie Barnes had great taste in scotch, a bottle of 18-year Macallan open on the bar cart in the lounge. Steve poured himself a glass, neat, and popped one of the perfectly square ice cubes from the bucket into his mouth, smirking and quirking one eyebrow at a girl across the lounge in a fun black dress with sheer sleeves—a Kelsey Randall design if Steve was pegging it right.
“Christ, Rogers, you really will make eyes at anything that moves,” came a bored voice floating up from one of the lounge’s dual sofas. Steve bit down on his ice with a loud crunch and plopped down into the spot directly across from said voice.
“Aw, you’re not jealous, are you, Jamie boy?” Steve asked, eyeing James Barnes where he sat in brown plaid slacks and an off-white sweater—Gucci and Tom Ford respectively.
“You look like someone stuffed 200 pounds of Wagyu into a teal velvet sack,” James said.
“You look like James Dean if James Dean was a giant pestiferous bitch.” Steve smiled at him over the top of his glass and took a sip.
“So which 70s porn star did you murder for those pants?” James asked, and Steve stroked his hand back and forth over the velvet on his thigh. At the feel of the fabric sliding against his fingertips, he smirked harder and licked his lips. He’d seen himself in the mirror before he left the house—the luxuriously soft teal Ferragamo slacks with a black Hugo button-down tucked into the waist—every scrap of fabric on his body hugging a muscle from his biceps to his thighs. He had his honey-blond hair slicked back, his beard trimmed neatly, and had topped all of this with a truly gorgeous pair of black Vintage Foundry Graham boots. Steve knew he looked good. Beyond good. He looked intensely goddamned fuckable, and James Barnes wasn’t going to make him doubt that.
“You really want to talk about 70s fashion when you’re in brown plaid?” Steve asked, raking his eyes up and down James’s body. Really, he wasn’t that much smaller than Steve. The pattern on his plaid pants warped with the shape of his thighs, and the right arm of his sweater seemed to be one flex away from shredding like questionable financial documents. James wore his dark hair long and pulled back into a small bun at the nape of his neck. The result of all of this was that on the delicate designer sofa, he looked almost outlandishly huge. And if there was one thing and one thing only Steve could appreciate about James Barnes, it was that.
“You’re just jealous you couldn’t pull them off,” James said.
Steve let his next sip of scotch linger on his tongue before it slid warmly down his throat.
“I gotta admit if that body was attached to anybody but you, Jamie Boy, it might not be the worst way to spend a party.”
James laughed a fake, quiet laugh. “Get fucked.”
Steve laughed back. “Eat shit.”
Then Rebecca Barnes appeared in the doorway in a pink party dress that was undoubtedly Versace.
“There you are, Bucky. Mom and Dad are asking for us.” James refilled his own scotch on the way out.
Entertainment gone, Steve slipped off the couch and wandered room to room, pretending to care about John Redfearn’s golf swing, genuinely caring about the Judith Leiber couture bag Cynthia Warren had clasped in her right hand, and feeling something like mild disgust at a conversation about the proper age to have children led by Phillip and Hannah Applegate—two people who, under no circumstances, should ever be allowed to procreate.
Finally, Steve wandered his way to the study. It was quiet and unoccupied for the time being. He closed the door behind him and settled back in the desk chair in the moonlit darkness to sip his scotch, throwing his feet up on the mahogany. God, it really was such good scotch. And after he finished it, maybe he’d go find the girl in the Kelsey Randall again, slip away somewhere quiet, see if she’d let him put his hand or his face (or both) between her thighs.
Outside of the study, he heard voices arguing, too muffled for him to tell just what they were fighting about. Then the door opened and shut with a click, the light flicking on to reveal James Barnes with his hand balled into a fist down by his side and his jaw clenched. Steve heard the quiet whir of mechanics that were the most expensive bionic prosthesis money could buy.
“Jesus, Jamie Boy, what crawled up your ass and took a shit?” Steve asked, mostly for the pleasure of watching James jump. He turned on Steve with a cold glare.
“What the everlasting fuck are you doing in here?”
“Drinking scotch.” Steve toasted him. “You want a sip?”
Huffing through his nose, James crossed the room quickly, knocking Steve’s feet off the desk with his prosthetic arm while he reached for a drawer, the whole action bringing his head dangerously (and okay, a little excitingly) close to Steve’s crotch. A jerk and a squeak of wood on wood, and he pulled out a bottle of amber liquid, hopping up on the desk.
With a series of clicks, James pushed the thumb of his prosthetic into a different position and used it to unscrew the cap.
“Fuck,” James said, downing several shots’ worth before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Well, I was gonna go find the girl from the study, but I guess I could pretend you’re someone else if you want me to bend you over daddy’s desk. Just try not to talk, huh?” Steve reached for James’s knee, intent on running his hand up the very large bulge of muscle that was James’s right thigh. But James caught him by the wrist, his flesh fingers gripping tight.
“I hate you so much.” James took another swig. “Besides, what makes you think it wouldn’t be you bending over the desk?”
“I’m not picky.”
“We’re not fucking in here, Rogers.”
“Fair enough. Take me upstairs then.”
James glared at him, that too-sharp jaw of his stiff with tension. Smiling smugly, Steve glanced at his own wrist. James had never actually let go, and he followed the line of Steve’s eyes before huffing through his nose. But he held on.
“You are insufferably hot, Rogers, you know that?”
Steve took that as his cue to get up out of the chair and step between two plaid-covered thighs.
“Yes, I do,” he said, grinning at James who put his entire head into rolling his eyes.
“I can’t believe I’m about to have sex with you. Do you have any idea how much I’m gonna hate myself in the morning for having sex with you?”
Steve pulled his wrist free finally, sliding his hands greedily up the sides of James’s legs and giving his ass a squeeze.
“Come on. I was your first. You’ve gotta be a little curious about how much better I’ve gotten since the pool house in 10th grade.”
“Jesus, Rogers, way to kill the mood bringing that up.”
“Mood looks fine from where I’m standing,” Steve said, flicking his eyes down to James’s crotch.
“You know, maybe that’s your problem. You talk too goddamn much because no one’s ever put anything in there to shut you up.”
“Gonna test that theory?” Steve gave James a closed-lipped smile that grew even broader when James reached for the button on his slacks, pausing just long enough to adjust the thumb on the prosthesis again, his right hand coming up to shove Steve back into the desk chair.
Atop the desk, James pulled himself out of his pants, the open V of the fly framing the hardened flesh where it rested in a bed of dark curls. James was hairy everywhere. Steve knew that much from George and Winnie’s famous summer pool parties. Then again, Steve didn’t exactly wax the dark blond forest that grew across his own chest and belly.
“Seems a pity to hide that body when it’s the only good thing about you,” Steve said.
“You do know the root word of the term, ‘quickie,’ right?” James asked. But he pulled his sweater up over his head and tossed it aside. And maybe Steve had seen it all before—James’s large muscular chest, his barrel-like stomach kissed faintly by the outline of the abs underneath, his pert pink nipples. But seeing and being allowed to stare and drool were two very different things.
Steve did just that, drinking in his fill before leaning forward and taking James into his mouth.
“Fuck,” James hissed, grunting when Steve got him good and deep into his throat, the musky smell of him filling Steve’s nose. And let it never be said that Steve Rogers didn’t get some kind of very distinct pleasure from being between someone’s legs, even if that person was a bastard.
If some kind of National Award for Excellence in Oral Achievement existed, Steven Grant Rogers would have an entire shelf full of them. He never approached the task with anything less than extreme fervor, and the dick currently occupying his mouth was no exception. He let the head slide against the roof of his mouth, took it deep into his throat, hummed when he could, and fluttered his tongue against the sensitive frenulum.
Above him, James fell apart slowly. His massive thighs bracketed Steve’s face on either side, squeezing his head like a vice made of ham steaks. Fingers tangled themselves into Steve’s honeyed hair while the other pushed, encouraging him to bob faster, to suck deeper.
And Steve allowed it, letting James guide him and fuck between Steve’s hungry lips until James was a panting, groaning mess.
“Fuck, Stevie, I’m gonna-”
Oh yes he was. One last wet slide of Steve’s mouth down his length, and James bit into the flesh of his palm, groaning low and coming in spurts across Steve’s tongue. Steve barely finished swallowing before he launched himself up to kiss James obscenely, groping for James’s hand and pressing it against his own erection through the velvet.
“Come on, Buck. I always did like your hands on me,” Steve said, and James pulled back to look at him, a faint sheen of sweat visible on his forehead.
Keeping his eyes locked on Steve’s the entire time, James worked open the button on the velvet slacks, the tiny clicks of him adjusting his prosthetic the only sound other than their rough breathing. Still without looking away, he reached into the open fly, slipping nimble fingers through the slit in Steve’s boxer briefs. The first warm touch of his hand on Steve’s erection made Steve’s knees feel a little weak, and he placed his hands on either side of James’s thighs to keep himself steady.
Air kissing his most sensitive skin. The sight of James running his own palm across his tongue.
The first real up-down stroke felt like heaven. There wasn’t a whole lot of finesse or tenderness to it. They weren’t making love; they weren’t even making like. But what the rapid feeling of flesh against flesh lacked in care and artistry, it made up for in enthusiasm. James jerked Steve’s cock like Steve’s orgasm was a need that emanated from deep within his bones.
He squeezed and pulled, rubbing and rubbing, only stopping to occasionally spit into his hand or offer it up for Steve to do the same.
“God, that’s good,” Steve moaned. “Almost, Buck.”
“Not on me,” James said, pushing Steve back half a step, but never relenting for a moment. He pumped and pumped until Steve’s body pressed right up against the line between tangible existence and the ether. Or right up against the line between tangible existence and life as a human spaghetti noodle.
With a low growl and a wobble in his legs, Steve came, making a mess of the desk and the floor underneath.
“Fuck,” Steve exhaled, allowing himself one moment to pant with his forehead on James’s shoulder. He could smell his cologne and that underlying scent that took him right back to 10th grade, and he let himself indulge in it for all of a second. Then he stood up, put his clothes back in order, and took a big pull from the bottle sitting next to James’s leg.
“Well,” Steve said, smiling and letting out an amused little sigh, “thanks for that, Jamie Boy.”
Steve clapped James twice on the shoulder, then picked up his empty scotch glass and headed for the door. “Sorry about the mess, but you’ve got it, yeah?”
James gaped at him where he sat, his pants still undone. Toasting him with his empty glass, Steve reached for the door handle. Maybe he’d go get another glass of scotch, schmooze a bit, then try it with the Kelsey Randall girl when he’d recovered enough for a round two.
Or maybe he’d find James again and fuck his pretty face. The night was young and so was he.
Pausing before he rejoined the rest of the party, Steve looked back one more time. When he found James glaring at him, he smiled and threw him a wink.
“See ya around.”
“Get fucked, Rogers,” James said, aggressively pulling up the zip on his pants.
Steve threw him a lazy salute with his middle finger, then answered in a sing-song voice. “Eat shit.”