calm is the morn without a sound
Bucky hates Tennyson. He hates that he hasn't had a weekend to actually just relax since his Freshman year, and he hates that he still has seventy-three pages of In Memoriam to read before he can move on to studying for his accounting exam on Monday. College owns his ass, and he can't even deny it.
"I just don't understand," he says to Steve for the fortieth time this morning, "how a ninety page poem about his dead best friend is going to help me in the long run." Steve sighs, the white t-shirt stretching across his large chest in a way that tears Bucky's attention away from the book and to his best friend's tits. Seventy-three more fuckin' pages and he could get his mouth around—
"That's what the accounting major is for, Buck," Steve replies with a smirk, glancing away from the sketchbook in his lap to send a wink towards Bucky. The brunet buries his head in his book and let out a moan.
"Don't be a hypocrite, Mr. Art Major. And if you weren't so distracting over there with your see through shirt and my sweats." Bucky glances up with a pinched expression on his face as if he is in physical pain just looking at the blond, then slams his head down on the overpriced paperback. There's a shuffling sound like paper and then a weight on the bed that jolts Bucky's body to one side. A kiss is pressed to the back of his neck and two arms are placed on either side of him.
"You like me in your sweats, Buck?" Steve asks, voice low and lips pressed right up to his ear and Jesus. Bucky's body shakes and then Steve's burying his face against Bucky's neck and sucking marks into his skin. Bucky's fingers curl in the bedspread as Steve grinds down into him.
"Distraction," Bucky breathes out. He feels the hint of a smile press behind his ear and then Steve's body drops between him and the wall. Bucky can breathe again and buries his head. He can't look at Steve if he's planning on getting any work done this weekend. He peeks over his elbow and hides his face again immediately when Steve smiles impishly at him.
"I hate you," he states. Steve, the fuckin' dog, just leans over and nudges Bucky's head with his nose.
"No, you don't," he says and plucks the book from under Bucky's head. "Jesus, you underlined a lot of shit in here. And in pink." Bucky lifts his head and snatches the book back.
"It's a long poem," he tells Steve. "Not a bad one though." Besides, he's an English major. Underlining is totally important. Especially when he does it in pink.
"Read it to me," Steve says.
"It'll bore you to death, and I need you alive for the marathon sex I'm having by the time I finish this GODDAMN poem!" Bucky isnt' exactly yelling by the end of that. He's just using his extra loud frustration voice that he gets when he still has seventy-three fuckin' pages left.
"I didn't agree to this," Steve tells him. Bucky glares and the blond merely props his chin on his fist in response. Bucky may sigh a little bit at that.
"Well, get ready, 'cause I'm gonna ride you to finals week once I finish this."
"Buck, it might be finals week by the time you finish this." Bucky flips him off.
"Read it to me," Steve insists again, but this time Bucky sighs and glares down at the words before him. Steve settles in next to him, warm and present and constant. Bucky lets the frustration roll off his shoulders, as he reads, because he doesn't mind being an English major so much if he could have this moment, his Steve, like this always.
"I sing to him that rests below,
and, since the grasses around me wave,
I take the grasses of the grave,
and make them pipes whereon to blow.
The traveler hears me now and then,
And sometimes harshly will he speak:
'This fellow would make weakness weak,
And melt the waxen hearts of men'."