Chapter Text
Christmas 2013
“It’s the most wonderful time…of the year”
The band is playing the upbeat holiday song when Steve saunters into the ballroom on the 69th floor of Avengers Tower. He’s heard this song a lot during the holidays this year and last, but it’s after his time, after he took the Valkyrie into the ice. Shooting the cuffs on his sugar white shirt over a navy blue tux, he steels himself for socializing.
If he’s honest, Christmas is not the most wonderful time of the year for Steve. Never was. He remembers too many Christmases at home with his ma during the Depression, the wind rattling the tenement windows as he shivered under a blanket with bronchitis while Sarah did the best she could with three potatoes and a tree of brussels sprouts.
“Captain America! So nice to see you.” Some sleek, golden-aged CEO and his second or third trophy wife approach, eyes acquisitive atop designer outfits that cost more than Steve made in his pre-war lifetime. Steve sighs internally and pastes on a smile as he shakes their hands and sets himself to listen to their narrowly pretentious chatter.
After five minutes Steve is seriously considering coming out as a bisexual socialist, if for no other reason than to stop the power couple in their right-wing, faux-patriot bloviating. They assume that he thinks like they do because he’s got “America” in his title, which couldn’t be further than the truth.
Steve is saved by Tony sauntering up and laying his hand on Steve’s bicep. He looks great in an all-black tux but already a bit disheveled, like he’s had one or four scotches as party prep.
“Bill, Ashley, nice to see you,” Tony drawls, looking at the couple, “but you’re monopolizing one of our most popular guests, can’t have that.” He links arms with Steve and makes a flicking motion with his other hand. “Go on now. Shoo. Bar’s over there.”
As Tony pulls him away from an infuriated conservative faction, Steve sees Pepper, resplendent in dark green sequins, step in and diplomatically guide the spluttering couple away toward a bank of refreshments.
“Ugh, Cap, I’m sorry you got waylaid by those two, dreariest people I’ve ever met. Bill knew my dad back in the day, gotta invite him to this shindig, blah blah blah.”
The band is now playing “The Christmas Song” and Tony keeps up his own line of chatter as he steers Steve across the floor to a different bar. It’s no more interesting than Bill and Ashley’s, being about some robotics breakthrough Tony made last night at 4 AM, but at least it’s not borderline fascist.
As Tony and Steve approach the other bar, Steve sees Clint out of the corner of his eye coming toward them. He’s not in disguise, being here as Hawkeye the Avenger for the benefit of Tony’s charity gala, but he still manages to blend into the throng, glances bouncing off his dirty blond hair and charcoal tux as if he were wearing retro reflectors. Sliding in next to Steve while Tony jabbers on, he surreptitiously passes Steve a small plate piled high with hors d’oeuvres.
“Thanks. Love ya, babe,” Steve mutters before taking the plate and shoving crab puffs into his mouth while grunting at appropriate pauses in Tony’s monologue.
“Know ya do,” Clint murmurs back, reaching down to give Steve’s ass a quick squeeze in his tux pants before melting back into the crowd. Tony doesn’t even notice Clint is there.
Steve smiles to himself. He’d wager his entire pension that Tony doesn’t know about his relationship with Clint and Natasha, and he’d wager Tony’s entire fortune that Iron Man has even less clue about their extensive side business.
After the Battle of New York, when it couldn’t be hidden anymore that Captain America had been rescued from the icy waters of the North Atlantic after almost 70 years in hibernation, Steve had had a serious choice to make. Nick Fury had wanted him to move to DC and work exclusively for SHIELD, arguing that since Steve had worked for SSR, the predecessor of SHIELD, he should continue to do so.
Some thought provoking conversations with the other Avengers (minus Thor) and a trip to DC for a heart-to-heart with his darling Peggy in a nursing home had led Steve to say yes to Fury’s offer… but on his terms. He’d refused to move to DC, opting instead to accept Tony’s offer to live in Avengers Tower. And he’d stipulated that work directly in the field only with SHIELD’s Strike Team Alpha and only with Clint and Natasha as permanent team members.
Which has turned out to be the best decision he’s made since he was pulled out of the ice. Clint and Natasha are the best strike teammates he could have. The three of them gel perfectly together on missions, complementing each other’s skills and working styles in every way.
Steve provides the brawn and tactics, Nat is aces at intel gathering and surgical execution, and they both rely on Clint to guard their six while (mostly) keeping him from major injury. Their teamwork is so seamless that even Fury can’t fault their success rate.
As the three of them started racking up successful SHIELD missions in 2012 after the Battle of New York, they got closer as friends. Once Nat and Clint realized how much they could trust Steve and how well he worked with them, they brought him into their unofficial “consulting” business.
So when they’re not working SHIELD ops or doing Avengers-related work, Nat sets them up with private jobs that involve security, espionage, or both. As much as Steve is a public figure, recognized as Captain America just about wherever he goes, he’s unexpectedly really great at tradecraft, especially disguise and humint. It gives him a taste of the anonymity he no longer enjoys as Captain America; he’s gotten intel from dozens of people who still have no clue they’ve given valuable info to a celebrity superhero.
These side gigs are usually enjoyable and always highly lucrative, and Steve looks forward to them when they come around. Although lately, he acknowledges to himself, they seem to be more focused on fulfilling the highly suspect desires of terrible rich men than on dealing with injustice or bringing down shady government ministers.
“So then, when I got DUM-E to fix the parameters, the mechanics got smoother and I could adjust the AI to anticipate any offensive action…”
“Hmm,” Steve says out loud, like he has any idea what Tony is talking about. Natasha looms up in his peripheral vision, looking gorgeous and sexy as hell in a skintight black velvet sheath topped off with a dazzling ruby collar. This is a holiday gala and charity auction to benefit sick children, but Nat looks anything but child-friendly right now.
She’s flanked by two ancient Texas billionaires and is charming the socks off both of them. Where Clint is brilliant at blending in and going entirely unnoticed, Nat is an expert at drawing everyone’s attention and holding it. As she approaches the bar on the other side from Tony, she leans forward toward the bartender. But instead of making a drink order, she addresses Steve.
“Eat more of those appetizers, шеф ,” she mutters in Russian. “Need to keep your strength up.”
Steve chuckles and lifts the glass of scotch Tony passes to him towards her as she sails away across the floor. His ass must really look good in these tux pants.
Over the past two years, Steve and Nat and Clint have turned from mere teammates and business partners into best friends. And then, in the most surprising turn of all, the three friends have evolved into friends with benefits.
It happened six months ago when they were relaxing in a safehouse outside Mombasa after a private job. The op hadn’t gone wrong, per se, but ended stressfully and they’d needed a bit of time to decompress and, in both Steve’s and Clint’s cases, heal from some minor injuries.
They’d all showered and eaten, and Steve and Clint were lounging on the couch, thinking about turning on an Africa League football match. Nat had gotten a book and was going to join them when she’d looked at Steve’s face.
“Jesus, Steve, your jaw is bleeding again,” she’d muttered, grabbing a tissue and leaning over to wipe him up. They’d stopped, staring at each other, their faces a foot apart. Nat was wearing an old black t-shirt with a pulled-out neck and in his peripheral vision, Steve could see the down her shirt, the swells of her breasts clearly visible, the creamy skin offset by a hint of black lace bra.
The two of them had stared at each other for a good thirty seconds, and Steve could feel Clint inching closer on his right side. Then Steve had made an on-the-spot decision and leaned toward her while also gliding his hand onto Clint’s sweatpants-clad thigh. The tension had broken immediately with an exhale, as Nat had closed the gap and sealed her cherry-red lips onto Steve’s at the same time Clint had buried his teeth into Steve’s clavicle.
For the next three hours, the three of them had touched, licked, sucked, and fucked each other in various permutations, the cut on Steve’s jaw healing up for good somewhere in the middle of the first round. They’d had to shower again afterward, but no one was complaining. And it had made Steve a huge fan of shower blowjobs. Hey, Clint’s very, very talented with his mouth, OK? And he looks unusually good wet.
Speaking of blowjobs, Clint and Nat have promised to drag Steve into a supply closet at this gala tonight and tag team him if he manages to talk to ten rich donors. It’s a very enticing proposition, and it certainly incents Steve to do more schmoozing at this stupid party than he otherwise would.
Steve finishes his scotch. It doesn’t do anything to him, but he does enjoy the taste. Tony is still blabbing on and Steve supposes he should wrap it up with his Avengers colleague and meet the challenge his friends have set for him. Their reward should be really fun, but Steve sighs.
Forcing himself out of his reverie, Steve claps Tony on the shoulder. Tony only startles a little bit and turns to look at Steve.
“Good talk, pal,” Steve says over the band, which is now playing “It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas.” Pepper must definitely have picked the band and the music; Tony would make them play AC/DC. “But now I gotta go schmooze with these rich people so they’ll give more money to your charity.”
“Oh. Right.” Tony’s face looks glum. “Guess I better do that, too.” Miraculously, at that moment Tony’s fiancée herself shows up at the bar, her green dress sparkling in the light. Pepper’s strawberry blonde hair is twisted into a perfect chignon to show off huge diamond and emerald drop earrings. She’s the consummate holiday party hostess.
“Tony, darling,” she says sweetly, linking her arm through his. “Jamie Dimon is asking after you, as is Senator Stern. How about we…” Fixing Tony in a grip that has him sold on Dimon and Stern, Pepper quickly moves on. “I was just talking to the Gateses, Steve, and Melinda really wants a photo with you for Rory.”
Steve nods, his smile a little painful. “Got it, Pepper,” he says, and obediently heads off in the other direction from Tony and Pepper to where he saw a tall, sandy head a few minutes ago.
The next forty-five minutes are more than a little painful. After dutifully posing for a picture with one billionaire, several more want to get in on the action, and Steve’s cheeks ache with all the fake smiling he’s doing.
The photo-seeking billionaires are replaced by Alexander Pierce. Pierce, the head of the World Security Council who is technically Steve’s boss, shakes Steve’s hand and gives him a quiet critique of his last SHIELD mission, but ends it with a declaration that he’s glad the Alpha Strike team took action, because “sometimes all the diplomacy and the handshaking and the rhetoric just doesn’t cut it when you’re trying to build a better world.”
Steve nods cautiously as he listens. “Thank you, sir,” he says at the end of the speech, even though he’s not sure why Pierce is talking about work matters with him at a holiday party. He doesn’t dislike Pierce… exactly …but he can be a pompous old shit and sometimes Steve has a weird feeling about him. But Fury seems fine with Pierce, so Steve puts his gut instinct aside.
Pierce is quickly followed by Senator Stern, who acts overly buddy-buddy with Steve given that they’ve never met before and then subjects him to a ten-minute lecture about the sad decline of “traditional American values” in this country and how Steve must be upset about that too, given that he’s from the Olden Days and dresses like a walking Stars and Stripes to fight aliens and supervillains.
As much as he’s tempted to tell Stern how much time he spent in “the olden days” in queer clubs in Brooklyn and about his current sexual relationship with his best friends, Steve holds his peace and grunts a “huh” every now and then. Only two more conversations with these assholes and he gets his reward from Clint and Natasha.
“Awww, Gordon, traumatizing a new victim with your homophobic misogynist right-wing bullshit again ?”
The drawl comes from somewhere off to Steve’s left. When the speaker comes into view, Steve feels an unpleasantly pleasant jolt to his gut.
It’s James Barnes. Steve’s never met him in person, but researched him for a mission earlier this year and his eidetic memory flashes through his details.
“Although this is Captain America, so perhaps he shares your views on the joys of patriotism and upholding old-fashioned values.” Barnes’ face is impish as he grins and looks at Steve, challenge dancing in his eyes.
James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, 36. Billionaire tech mogul. Friend of Tony’s. Former elite sniper in the Army Rangers. Mysteriously disappeared at the top of his game during a mission ten years ago and returned two years later with long hair and only one arm, refusing to say where he’d been or who, if anyone, had kidnapped him.
Taught himself programming and launched his cybersecurity startup, Volkom, a year later. Volkom makes the world’s best cybersecurity software and Barnes hired good people who could market it well from the beginning. All the big tech firms had wanted to buy it up, but Barnes had refused and grew it into a billion-dollar company before taking it public.
Barnes had made a killing on the IPO, and grew the company quickly and ruthlessly, buying up competitors or putting them out of business. Last year he suddenly stepped down as Volkom CEO, maintaining his role as Chair and passing day-to-day company management to his second-in-command, Darcy Lewis.
Barnes acts like an old-school tech billionaire — brash, extravagant, loves fancy living, owns twelve mansions and his own private island in the Caribbean — but he’s unapologetically bi and goes on high-profile dates with both men and women. He also speaks out bluntly and often about his favorite causes, saving the planet and fighting fascism worldwide, and has become a kind of younger George Soros for right-wing conspiracy theorists.
Soon after he’d launched Volkom, Barnes had met Tony, who’d created his intelligent prosthetic arm using some of the tech he’d created for the Iron Man suit. That arm gleams silver tonight in the festive light of the Tower ballroom, all the more so because instead of a tux, Barnes is wearing a see-through burgundy shirt with the sleeves rolled up, paired with skin-tight black velvet pants and black leather ankle boots. He’s topped off the look with an artfully messy french braid over his flesh shoulder, sparkly gloss over his full, almost pouty lips, and is that eyeliner?
It’s eyeliner.
Barnes’ physique is impressive, almost as impressive as Steve’s. His legs fill out those ridiculous pants perfectly and his chiseled shoulders, biceps, and pecs are clearly visible through his shirt. Also through his shirt, Steve can see not only Barnes’ metal arm but also a large tattoo of a white wolf under his left nipple, which is pierced with a silver barbell.
Fuck, he wants to take that piercing in his teeth.
All this flashes through Steve’s mind in the two seconds that it takes him to come up with a reply to Barnes’ challenge.
“My patriotism involves loyalty to the ideals this country aspires to,” Steve says smoothly, cutting off Stern who is clearly opening his mouth to answer for him. “Equality, liberty, and justice. For all .” He looks pointedly at Stern as he utters the last two words.
“And as for ‘old-fashioned values,’” Steve goes on dryly, returning his gaze to Barnes. “I grew up in Red Hook in the 30s.”
An educated person would immediately understand that this is code for I knew a lot of queer socialists and could be one myself , and Barnes’ eyes light up with a new interest. But Stern is not an educated person.
“Ah yes, the 30s…” he starts, but this time it’s Barnes who cuts him off.
“Not now, Gordon, the grownups are talking,” he says, never taking his eyes off Steve. “Fuck off and bother some other superhero.”
Senator Stern turns bright red and sputters a little, but Barnes’ voice is dismissive and he takes himself off, muttering to himself. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve sees Nat intercept him and guide him toward the bar, applying some balm to his wounded ego. He looks pointedly at Barnes.
“That was hardly necessary,” he says, trying not to sound too self-righteous.
“No, but it was enjoyable,” replies Barnes, smirking, and god he’s an asshole but god Steve really wants to suck on that sinful lower lip. Preferably while he’s got Barnes in a chokehold.
“Some of us don’t have the… latitude …for that kind of indulgence,” Steve retorts. He’s fully aware that he sounds like a sanctimonious prig, but Barnes has put his hackles up and he’s trying both to save face and to keep his dick from chubbing up in his pants.
“Perhaps you should take it,” says Barnes softly, his voice just audible over the band. “You don’t have to be a shill for CEOs and billionaires and shitty politicians, you know.”
He takes a step closer, and now his alluring scent — vetiver, sandalwood, a hint of citrus over clean sweat — floats into Steve’s nostrils. He feels a little dizzy, but resolutely carries on.
“Says the billionaire CEO,” Steve ripostes, his voice a little sharper than he meant it. But honestly, how dare this rich asshole lecture him on the class struggle. “You’ve never been so poor you had to stuff newspapers in your shoes, or make a dinner out of one turnip. You’ve never lived in a tenement. I’m trying to do something for the regular people of this country…”
“…by dressing up like a performing monkey and pretending to like these people?” Barnes sweeps his incredulous gaze around the room before returning it to Steve’s face. His eyes are a beautiful light blue-grey and they look perfect ringed with black, Christ on a bike. Steve tells his stomach to quit doing flips.
“Hey, at least then they’ll donate more money tonight for sick kids,” Steve shoots back, but now he’s on the defensive. Goddamnit. This asshole.
“Yeah, they help a few sick kids, they look nice for Christmas, but what about actually paying their taxes, making this country work, huh?” Barnes presses his advantage, and wow that lip gloss is sparkly.
“…says the guy who bought his very own offshore tax haven in the Caribbean,” Steve says, making sure to add immeasurable scorn to his voice. Barnes purses his lips, a little color appearing on his cheekbones.
“It’s not a tax haven, it’s just a haven,” he mutters, and now Steve’s got the advantage.
“Whatever, I’m sure you’ve got your own tax dodges, just like all of the rest of ‘em,” Steve presses. “You probably pay less in taxes than the maids who scrub the floors of your bathrooms, doing hard work on their knees…”
Barnes’ eyes blaze, and now his cheeks are fully pink.
“Maybe, but that’s not my fault. And I’m trying to fix it,” he protests. ”And besides, I’d get on my knees for you,” he mumbles. But Steve hears him and immediately his pants situation comes roaring back.
“What was that?” Steve says, staring harder into Barnes’ face. Barnes raises his eyebrows.
“You heard me,” he says, confidence back in his voice. He leans in a little closer. “I’ll get on my knees for you right now, just name the place.”
There’s a roaring in Steve’s ears, and it’s not because the band is playing “Little Saint Nick.” He pauses for just a moment, and then makes his decision.
“Come on,” he rumbles, and reaches out to shepherd Barnes out of the ballroom. The party is in full swing, the crowd filling the huge space, so no one really notices when they exit. Except Natasha, of course. Steve sees her raise one perfect eyebrow as they stride past, but at this point his dick is straining in his tux pants and he’s past caring.
And he knows his friends won’t care; in fact, they’ll cheer him on. It’s been a very enjoyable six months with Nat and Clint, and he loves them to death…as friends. He knows there’s more between the two of them, and feels honored that they’ve chosen to include them in their amorous activities. But there hasn’t been any serious love in his life since he came out of the ice. Since Peggy.
And sometimes he gets lonely and wishes that someone would come along and offer that to him again. But between being Captain America and his side job as Mr. Superspy, he supposes finding someone who could deal with…all that…is fairly unlikely. He keeps up a profile on Hinge and has gone on some dates — in disguise, of course — but none of that has gone anywhere.
But this thing with Barnes isn’t about love, it’s about getting some. And oneupsmanship. Steve covertly pushes his soon-to-be-conquest past the restrooms where people are milling about, and around a couple of corners and down a hall to where there’s no one. There’s a supply closet there which happens to be unlocked. Steve knows this, because Clint picked it open before the party as part of their evening threesome plans.
Right now, though, this closet is going to be used for an impromptu twosome. Opening the closet, Steve hustles Barnes inside and locks the door behind him. The light in the small room is reddish-orange and makes Barnes’ translucent shirt even more see-through, the barbell in his left nipple gleaming as the little bud shows hard against the fabric.
As much as Steve still wants to grab that in his teeth, he’s impatient to get Barnes on his knees. The order is on the tip of his tongue, but Barnes anticipates it and slides gracefully downward until his head is level with Steve’s crotch. He looks up at Steve, his expression mockingly subservient in the warm light.
“At your command. Sir,” he says, his beautiful lips curving upward.
Steve says nothing but quickly undoes his belt and pants and drops his trousers and underwear, his fully hard cock springing away from his lower abs as he does so.
When Barnes catches sight of it, his expression goes from derisive to impressed in an instant. He leans forward and takes Steve by the root, catches Steve’s crown between his lips, swirls his tongue once or twice, and sucks halfway down Steve’s length before starting to bob his head.
And ohhhhhh does Barnes ever have a mouth for sucking cock. Everything he does is perfect, and perfect for Steve. In just a couple of minutes he’s already at the top of Steve’s blowjob list, which is impressive considering Steven G. Rogers has been a connoisseur of dick sucking ever since 1934, when Bobby McIntyre got on his knees for him in the alley behind Lerner’s.
The breathtaking, shivery sensations of rough tongue and smooth, slick lips continue, but all too soon Steve decides that this isn’t all he wants to get out of an assignation with James Barnes. As good as he is at giving head, Steve needs to teach this arrogant asshole a lesson.
“Hands down,” Steve growls, and as Barnes complies he holds him tightly by the sides of the head. As Barnes realizes Steve is going to fuck his face, a muffled groan issues from his throat, making a pleasant vibrating sensation against the crown of Steve’s dick.
Steve pushes as far in as he can and then even farther because Barnes is suppressing his gag reflex and Steve can feel his lips touch his neatly trimmed pubes and Jesus Christ that feels amazing.
Pulling out, Steve begins to thrust in earnest. He’s thick enough that once-glossy lips are stretched wide around him and drool is pooling in the corners of Barnes’ mouth and leaking down over his perfect jaw. As Steve brushes his thumb over Barnes’ temple, he notices a single, cunning freckle right there near his hairline. Somehow it makes the other man even more beautiful.
But admiring Barnes’ beauty isn’t why they’re here.
“That’s right, take it, take it all,” Steve croons, mindlessly dropping words over the sounds of spit and skin as he grips Barnes’ ears tighter and fucks harder. Barnes tries to moan, but it’s choked off by Steve’s cock wedged deep in his throat.
Tears are rolling over his cheeks and taking his perfect eyeliner with them. He cries so pretty, Steve can hardly stand it. Feeling a tingling at the root of his dick, he digs his fingers into the back of Barnes’ skull.
“Look at me, Barnes,” he says in his best Alpha Strike team commander’s voice. Barnes immediately complies, huge grey eyes staring up at Steve, and fuck if that doesn’t go straight to Steve’s dick.
It’s only a few more strokes and then Steve is coming in hard pulses down Barnes’ throat. Grey eyes remain locked on his and he watches the thick ripple of Barnes’ throat as he swallows, but it’s an impressive load and the surfeit dribbles down his chin. The smudged mouth stretched wide, the charcoal-colored tears combined with jizz and warm drool make Barnes’ face a complete disaster.
It’s glorious.
Steve revels in the aftershocks and the sight of this asshole-billionaire degraded in front of him, and then pulls out of Barnes’ mouth all at once. Before Barnes can do or say anything, Steve hauls him to his feet and pushes him up against the supply room wall, seals his mouth over the other man’s, hungry for a taste of all those delicious fluids.
Barnes is a gentle touch, and Steve is anything but. He licks right away into the other man’s mouth, the sweetness of lip gloss and saltiness of tears and semen satisfying on Steve’s tongue. He can feel Barnes’ erection hard against his thigh, and without skipping a beat he reaches down to undo those soft, tight velvet pants and grabs Barnes’ length in an iron grip.
Gasping into Steve’s mouth, Barnes starts wriggling his hips to get a little friction. Steve lets him for a minute, but then starts his own rhythmic jerking. There’s no gentleness at all, it’s brutal and ruthless and Barnes is loving it, if the tiny noises he’s making against Steve’s tongue are any indication.
Steve thumbs over Barnes’ slit, which is leaking precome at a gratifying rate. “Come for me now, bitch,” he whispers between Barnes’ lips, and that’s all it takes, apparently, because seconds later the billionaire is moaning and shooting ropes of come all over his own five-thousand-dollar silk shirt.
Swallowing all the moans, Steve keeps jerking Barnes a little longer than is strictly necessary just to see him cry a little more from overstimulation. When he stops and steps back, he tucks himself back into his pants and surveys the damage in the warm light.
Barnes is a ruin, his chic clothing stained and wrinkled, his perfect over-the-shoulder french braid coming undone, his eyeliner streaked down his cheeks, his lips bruised and smudged with come and gloss. And yet there’s a complacent, superior twinkle in his eye as he looks Steve over and licks his lips.
“Was that to your satisfaction… sir ,” Barnes says, his voice a gravelly wreck but still gaily mocking.
A little lick of anger and… something else …burns up through Steve’s ribcage. Barnes may look like an angel and give the best head of anyone he’s ever met, but he’s still an asshole. A cocky billionaire asshole. Steve makes an effort to keep his temper.
“It was, Barnes. A perfectly adequate job.” Steve adds a note of bored dismissal to his voice, but Barnes’ smile just gets bigger.
“Bucky,” he says lightly. “You’ve had your cock down my throat, I think you deserve to call me by my nickname.”
“Oh, do I now,” Steve hisses, his anger flaring up just as he was getting it under control. “How kind of you. Bucky.” This last word is said with immeasurable vitriol, and he leans in toward Bucky’s face.
It’s a tactical error, because now Steve can smell Bucky’s bewitching scent underneath the come and the lipgloss. He involuntarily inhales, distracted for a moment.
Bucky laughs, jubilant, under his breath. “Any time, Steve” he says condescendingly, cupping Steve’s jaw in one perfectly manicured hand and laying a feathery kiss on his cheek. “You know where to find me. Just ask Tony.”
And with a wink he turns on his heel and nimbly skips out of the room, leaving Steve alone and rapidly getting hard again in a fucking supply closet. Steve is suddenly so furious at the gall of this man that he has to clench his fists and take several deep breaths to keep from punching the walls.
He flings open the closet door. Naturally Barnes — Bucky — is nowhere to be seen. In a snit, Steve starts striding down the hall, almost bumping into Clint, who’s clearly been searching for him.
“Steve? You OK?” Clint looks doubtfully at Steve’s flushed face and dark eyes. Steve turns his gaze on his colleague and suddenly leans in to run his fingers through Barton’s sandy hair and claim his mouth in a searing kiss.
When Steve steps back a minute later, he views the dazed expression on Clint’s face with grim satisfaction and growls, “My floor. Now. Text Nat.” Grabbing Clint’s hand, he starts pulling him toward the elevator.
Barton doesn’t even have to text, because Natasha is waiting for them in the foyer and the elevator doors open as the two men approach.
“So, Barnes, huh, шеф ,” comments Nat softly as they ride down from the ballroom to Steve’s suite in the Tower.
“Not talking about Barnes, that’s been handled.” Steve’s voice is harsh and final. The doors open into his apartment and as he lets his colleagues get a step or two ahead of him, he hauls off and lands a huge slap on Clint’s ass through his thin tux pants.
“Clint, strip and kneel next to my bed. Nat, get the big strap-on,” Steve orders. Nat’s smirk gets a fraction wider and Clint wriggles a little with happiness, his face lighting up like it’s his birthday and Christmas all at once.
“Yes, Commander,” Clint says with an eager if sloppy salute and lopes eagerly off to the bedroom. Nat looks at Steve appraisingly for a moment as if she wants to say something, but in the end decides against it.
“Of course,” she says smoothly and follows Clint down the hall.
Steve stands there for a moment, three-quarters hard and lost in thought as he absentmindedly undoes his bow tie and shirt buttons. An image of a gorgeous face with grey eyes, its mouth wrapped around his cock, flashes into his mind.
Bucky Barnes, that total dickwad. He’s done with that arrogant fucker.
He dismisses the image impatiently and strides toward the bedroom.