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Roy only has the vaguest memories of drunkenly hitting on Captain America the other night, but he’s pretty sure the phrase “red, white, and bruised all over” came up. If you’re gonna hit on Captain America, might as well go for broke, right?
Of all the stupid lines his drunk self has come up with, though, he's fucking astounded that this was the one that worked.
He rolls his hips, thrusting helplessly against Steve’s thigh, trying to get some friction. He’s all but helpless, with the way Steve has him over his lap, and the way he’s tied Roy’s wrists together.
Steve tucks his fingertips under the loose waistband of his jeans, between skin and denim, teasing at his crack, and Roy arches in response, trying to get those fingers where he wants them.
“I knew I forgot something,” Steve says, with an exaggerated sigh. He slips a hand under Roy’s hips to unbutton his jeans, and then he tugs them down until the waistband is just under the crease of his ass. Roy hisses in a sharp breath. “There, that’s better.”
Roy squirms, shifting restlessly at the feel of rough denim and cool air on sensitive skin.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Steve says, in his best Man With A Plan voice, all ringing confidence and positivity. “I’m going to spank you raw while you rub off on my leg. Then I’m going to bounce you on my lap until I’ve pumped you so full of my come you’ll have it running down your thighs for a week. Understood?”
Roy moans out loud, bucking against his thigh.
“Use your words,” Steve prompts.
Roy can hear the shit-eating grin in his voice. Wow.
“Just do it already,” he grumbles.
“Let’s try that again,” Steve says, giving him a sharp smack on the meat of his ass, and he jerks helplessly. “What do you say, Harper?”
“Yessir,” Roy gasps.
“See? That wasn’t so hard.” When Steve drags the pad of his thumb down his crack, Roy tries to spread his legs, arching his back and wriggling in spite of the way his jeans are trapping his thighs. “Go on, now. Be a good boy and hump my leg.”
Roy lets out an embarrassingly choked-off whine, then a breathless laugh. “Jesus, when you commit, you really fuckin’ commit, huh?”
Another slap, harder this time — immediately followed by a second, hard enough that he can feel the heat blossoming under the skin. Steve squeezes that cheek roughly, kneading the hot flesh.
“I gave you an order,” he says sternly. “Put some effort into it.”
“Hngh,” Roy says, rutting down against Captain fucking America’s sweet-ass thighs of liberty and justice. The leaking head of his cock drags painfully across his jeans, and Roy hisses, letting out a whiny little, “ Hurts .”
“Did –” Smack. “I —” Smack. “Ask —” Smack. “For excuses?” Smack, smack, smack .
The last one is so hard that Roy maybe whites out a little bit. He shudders, rolling his hips, and groans, “Fuck.”
“Language,” Steve says smugly.
“Fu— ugh , fuck,” Roy repeats.
“Do I need to help you?” Another squeeze, and he uses his grip on Roy’s ass to shove him, grind him down even harder.
Roy yelps, but then he moans in spite of himself, rough and loud, hips jerking. “Sorry. Sorry, fuck, I — I’ll do it!”
“Is that really the best you can do, son?”
When he has his full mental faculties back, he’s going to be so fucking embarrassed by his own reaction to that son , but right now, he’s too busy coming all over Captain goddamn America’s leg to care about literally anything else.
“God,” he chokes out, shuddering with one last little spasm. “None of the history books ever said that Captain America is a star-spangled shithead.”
Roy gets a tiny huff of laughter for that one, and then another punishingly hard hit on the ass, which seems fair.