Title: Get Your Gladrags On
Author: kototyph
Pairing/Characters: Steve/Bucky
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2442
Warnings/Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Ficlet, 1940s, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Blow Jobs, Alcohol
Summary: For docmanda and prompt #20: Halloween gone wrong. (just kidding Halloween goes really well for everyone, especially Steve)

Steve hears Bucky before he sees him, that light and laughing tone he uses on dames when he's sweet-talking them into something scandalous. A chorus of giggles follows whatever suggestion he's made, and Steve smiles a little, bent over his make-do sketchpad.

He'll go back in soon, he thinks. The ballroom is just too crowded right now, hot like an oven and packed full of minor-key music and people in costumes. The roar they make is loud even out here on the terrace, where he's found a spot tucked behind an enormous stone planter, away from the crush. The view sure is fine; beyond the gardens, the woods crowd up close to the parklike lawn, and beyond them the bay lies sparkling under a low moon.

The view is good, but the lighting is shit. He's relying on the lamps that frame the open doors behind him, but they're pretty dim to start with and people keep walking in and out of the light, just as he's about to lay in a particularly delicate line. Frowning, he draws his knee up further and balances his ketch across it. Better. Still not great.

A hand lands heavy on his shoulder and he almost jumps out of his skin, spinning around to find a ruby-red devil leering at him with Bucky's biggest grin. "Found you," the devil says.

"Wasn't hiding," Steve retorts, reaching up to tug at one of the horns curving up from the mask. "Jeez, where'd you find this thing? Your mom would faint."

"Went looking for you, made a friend," Bucky says with a shrug. He's got a glass of something that smells like varnish in his hand, and while Steve watches he knocks back the rest of it and sets the tiny glass on the step below. "We traded. Stevie, I didn't sneak us out here so you could mope around in the bushes the half the— are you drawing on a dinner napkin?"

"No." Steve shoves it hastily in his jacket's inside pocket.

Bucky's downturned mouth clearly says Jesus, Steve. I can't take you anywhere. What actually comes out is, "C'mon, Leonardo, let's dance."

"I danced," Steve protests, but he lets Bucky tug him up.

"You danced once," Bucky says, giving his suit a critical stare and brushing the dirt from the seat of his pants. "For five minutes, Steve. You're not even trying."

Steve's trying. It's loud enough he feels like he might go deaf in his good ear too, and his head is still swimming from that ballglass of rum punch Bucky'd handed him hours ago, but he's trying. It's just… a lot of people. A lot of rich people, with huge ballooning dresses and peacock fans and the glint of diamonds everywhere. He feels underdressed even in his best drapes, and it's only reinforced by the three guests and counting who've mistaken him for the help.

Bucky's wearing the same damn thing, patched and altered even more than Steve's because Bucky actually had a growth spurt, but no one's gonna pass him an empty champagne flute. He stands strong and straight-backed, handsome even now when he's sweating like a pig from whirling some lucky girl around the dance floor. He knows it, too. Steve had watched him dance with a dozen women, a dozen more lined up to go, before he'd stepped out to find some peace and quiet.

"I got a real sweetheart for you," Bucky's saying as he steers Steve back to the doors, trying to nudge him through when Steve balks. It's a still a blurred kaleidoscope of strange in there, the smell of greasepaint and perfume a fug in the air. "Name's Penelope, she's the daughter of one of these robber baron types—"

"Bucky, I think I'm going to stay out here," Steve says, gently prying Bucky's hand from his arm. "The heat was getting to me, and I still feel a little fuzzy."

Bucky's half-pout deepens into a worried frown. "You're not feeling good?"

Steve sighs. "Little dizzy, but I'm—"

"We should get you some water, and ice," Bucky says, eyes darting around the ballroom. "Take a chair over the corner there, I'll—"

"Bucky," Steve says with a hand up, "stop. I'm just going take a walk, maybe through that hedgemaze they have out there."

Bucky's face does a funny thing, like a pruney maiden aunt overhearing a dockhand joke. It's funny because Bucky's been a dockhand, when the harbor bosses were hiring. "The maze? But it's… uh, it's getting chilly," he says. "You shouldn't be outside without your hat and coat. Let me go—"

"Bye, Buck," Steve says, already trotting down the stairs.

"Steve, c'mon!"

Bucky follows him, of course, squawking like a broody hen all the way through the English and French gardens to the mouth of the maze. Steve has to admit it looks a little more intimidating up close, taller than Bucky and impossible to see through. But when Bucky, sensing his hesitation, says, "See? Why hell would you go in there?" Steve throws him a challenging look over his shoulder.

"Race you to the middle."

"Wait, Steve—"

Steve can be quick when he wants to be, though he'll probably pay for it later. He loses Bucky pretty easy in the dark, blind turns of the maze, and jeez, it really didn't look this big from the outside.

And he is definitely not the first one to think the maze might be worth exploring after sunset.

The first couple he stumbles on he scares rather badly, and he ducks out of sight again while the girl is still yanking up her dress and the man is blustering angrily. The second couple he manages to sneak by, they're so absorbed in kissing each other senseless. The third couple leaves his ears burning, because he's pretty sure that fellow in the tux was actually a dame and whatever she was doing under her partner's skirts, it was making the woman moan so loud Steve couldn't hear his own footsteps in the gravel.

It's a little brighter in the center than in the maze proper, oil lamps left to burn out on their own on gracefully-arched poles. He's a little hesitant when he starts for the small gazebo; who knows what these people might do, given a flat surface curtained by lattice screens and ivy?

When he climbs up the steps, though, the structure seems empty, and Steve has a moment to be relieved before arms wrap around him from behind and lift him off his feet.

"Gotcha," Bucky says triumphantly, swinging him around for good measure. "You little punk, I tried to tell you this was a bad idea. I nearly got punched in the nose by one of those lovebirds, and it wasn't the guy, neither."

"You could have just said," Steve protests, kicking at his shins. "Repeat after me: 'Steven, there's probably people making time all over that place. Let's you me find a nice bench in the courtyard instead.'"

"Stevie," Bucky says, setting him down and turning him with hands on his shoulders. The devil's mask sits awry on his face, baring one eye and a dry smile. "A little common sense, please. It's nice and dark and far away from the main house. People've been drinking."

"It's October. It's cold," Steve points out, though he's not really feeling it thanks to the residual blush turning his whole face, probably his whole body red.

Bucky throws his arms out. "Now you admit it, when we're already stuck out here."

"In a labyrinth without a ball of string," Steve says. He straightens Bucky's mask, so the horns point forward. "You make a pretty good-looking minotaur."

Bucky tosses his head like a bull and makes Steve laugh, then cuss him out when he grabs him again. They grapple, knocking into the gazebo's walls and benches a couple times before a well-placed foot sends Bucky sprawling across the floor.

"Oof!" he says when Steve sits on his stomach. "Ow. Jeez, you're bony, Perseus."

"Theseus," Steve corrects, a little distracted by Bucky's knees drawing up behind him, his hands settling on the spurs of Steve's hips.

Bucky smirks up at him. "Well, you got me pinned. Whatcha gonna do about it, Theseus?"

"Think he stabs the minotaur in the throat at the end," Steve says, tapping Bucky's adam's apple.

Bucky licks his lips, eyes bright. "Sounds dirty."

"Bucky," Steve groans, but Bucky's playful smirk is turning dark as he urges Steve closer, hand sliding down to the backs of Steve's thighs.

"Hey," he murmurs. "C'mere. Can't let these snobs have all the fun."

"Thought we weren't doing this anymore," Steve says, but he's still crawling up Bucky's body, planting his knees on either side of his head.

"I wanna," Bucky says, licking his lips again. "Don't you?"

"What kinda question is that?" Steve asks, pulling his shirt up and fighting with the stays while Bucky mouths lazily at whatever he can reach; mostly fingers and the cloth-covered swell of Steve's balls.

"Buck, just— you're distracting me," Steve gasps as Bucky laughs against him, hands cupping Steve's ass and pulling him down. Steve spreads his legs a little wider and feels Bucky's lips close over his dick through the fabric, feels the wet warmth and the blunted edge of teeth. "Shit."

"Language," Bucky says, then rubs his face over Steve with a noise so greedy he'd be saying Hail Marys from now 'til Judgement Day if Father McNamara ever heard him. "Hurry up."

Steve might pop a button or three getting his pants open, but he can't bring himself to really care as Bucky takes him in with a moan, nose buried in the open vee of Steve's fly. The angle's bad for it, Bucky straining forward with hands still molded to Steve's ass, trying to get closer. Steve tugs the mask away and gets his hands in Bucky's hair, stiff with Brilcreme and damp with sweat. He pulls his head back and leans in until he can sink in that last searing inch. The whine Bucky makes might be grateful but it mostly just sounds hungry.

"Yeah, like that," Steve pants, rolling his hips just to watch the lewd stretch of Bucky's lips around him, the bulge move in his cheeks. Bucky's eyes flutter open as his tongue curls around Steve, stroking along the vein up the underside in a way that almost tickles but makes Steve shiver, breath shuddering out of him on the exhale. Bucky watches with a heavy-lidded gaze while he works his mouth up until the head rests on the plush give of his reddened lips.

"C'mon, Stevie," he growls, and his tongue flicks out over the leaking tip, a slab of sensation that makes Steve's body jerk. "Fuck my mouth."

"When you ask so nice," Steve gasps, but then Bucky sucks him in again and coherency, common decency is out the window. Steve screws in deeper and Bucky moans for it, seems to like it when Steve slides deep enough to feel the flutter of his throat trying to close around him. At that, Steve's mouth falls open and he lets go of Bucky, plants his hands on the rough wood of the gazebo floor and lets him have what he wants.

Bucky makes it filthy, the slick pop and wet slide of Steve's dick accompanied by throaty hums of encouragement, his hands gripping and squeezing while Steve starts up a rhythm he's not going to be able to keep for long. Bucky's shifting underneath him, making the most ungodly sounds and angling his head so Steve rubs across his palate, then his tongue, all the way back until there's no way he can still be breathing. "Bucky, I— ah Christ, I'm—"

Bucky squirms, one of his hands disappearing from Steve's body. "Y'okay?" Steve rasps as he tries to draw back. His lungs are starting to feel the strain.

Bucking makes protesting noise and throws an arm around Steve's hips, sucks him harder. Steve can feel his other arm moving still, and he braces himself up and looks over his shoulder, he sees Bucky humping gracelessly into his own hand, legs spread open like he's getting fucked there, too.

"Holy Christ," Steve chokes out, and comes just like that, hunched over Bucky's face with his fingers curling into fists and his thighs shaking. He stops seeing anything for a good few seconds and just rides it out, pulse after pulse dragged out of him, filling up Bucky's mouth so that some gets pushed out the corners before he can swallow it all. Somewhere in the middle of that, Bucky gives a muffled, laughing groan and locks up against him, arm vise-tight against his lower back.

There's a moment when they're both still, Steve looking down at Bucky's wet eyes and swollen lips as he lets Steve's dick slip free. "Jesus," Steve says reverently, thumbing away a tear-trail. "I mean it, Bucky, are you okay?"

"Jus' fine," Bucky says, all gravel, grin boozy and self-satisfied. He nuzzles Steve's softening length, presses a kiss to the base where it's still barely free of his underwear. "Fine n' dandy."

"Yeah?" Steve says, combing Bucky's hair back from his forehead. "You want to think about letting me up?"

Bucky gives him a disgruntled look, but lets his arm fall, and Steve swings his leg over.

As soon as he moves, though, Bucky is sitting up and leaning into him again, seeking out his mouth for another kiss. This one is long and drowsy; Steve has himself half tucked in and almost forgets what he's doing, trading the wet catch of lips and tongue back and forth between them.

Eventually, Bucky pulls back enough to husk, "It really is getting cold out here. We should head in."

"Mm." Steve keeps his eyes closed another second, then ducks his head and finishes straightening out his clothes. "We should head out. It's All Saints tomorrow."

Bucky smirks. "You going to walk me back to my daddy's door, Rogers? Take me to mass in the morning?" he says teasingly.

Steve just looks at him. "Yeah, I am. And you better be ready on time."

The smirk becomes a smile, small and rueful. "Saint Stevie," he sighs as Steve gets to his feet. "When are you ever gonna learn?"

Steve holds out a hand. "I'll probably be dead before then," he says plainly.

Bucky takes it. "I'll probably die before you."

"So never," Steve says, and tucks Bucky's fingers into the crook of his elbow. "Ready to escort, Mr. Barnes."

Bucky snorts and nudges him with his shoulder, but he doesn't take them back.