Out of My Head

Slowly he starts worming his way more, and more into your life.

First he insists you come stay with him for a few days since you’re so sad about everything. Which of course you happily accept. It only makes sense really since you’re practically living there already after all your failed dates.

Then oh no! The cleaner messed up the spare bed! And he wouldn’t be a good best friend if he let you sleep on the couch. No. He insists you cuddle up with him in his bed. It really only makes sense since you tend to seek him out in the middle of the night anyways.

It’s not long before you forget about the dates, and the bed. Because you’re snuggled up with your best friend, enjoying the rhythmic beating of his heart as you lay on his chest. Soaking up the warmth, that the human furnace that he is, provides.

But then there’s a day, your mutual friend sets you up on a promising date. This one is a double date, with her and her boyfriend. You’re confused as you see Ransom’s jaw tick and his fists clench at his sides.

“What’s wrong Ransom?” You gently stroke the furrow in his brow until the muscles loosen and release.

“Maybe you should stay home tonight, Kitten.” He murmurs to you, pulling you close.

“Did something happen?” You question, more worried now, “Are you okay?”

Ransom pulls you into a hug then, burying his face in your neck so you can’t see the fire burning in his eyes. “I don’t-“ he cuts himself off. “Please just stay…”

His whispered words pull at your heart, of course. “Ransom, I’m worried, please just tell me. Are you okay?”

He sighs into your neck, hugging you impossibly tighter. “It’s…it’s something with Grandfather…”

You can hear the wetness in his voice, the crack at the end making your face contort into misery.

“Oh Ransom.” You pull him over to the couch.

“Please,” he’s begging you now, tears gathered in his eyes making the blue shine so much brighter. “Please just stay with me tonight.”

His hands clasped yours, almost afraid to let you go.

“Of course. I’m not going anywhere.”

He’ll pull you down to the couch then, snuggling you into his chest. He knows he’ll have to tell you the truth at some point. But for now, just this was enough to soothe his soul.

He’ll watch you as you pick at a thread on his sweater, and then he’ll pick his moment. The perfect moment. Where he’ll tilt your chin up so he can look at you, and you him.

He’ll marvel at the confused expression on your face until, he leans down and seals your lips with his own.

Then it’ll be like two puzzle pieces slipping into place. Because of course you’ve always loved Ransom, maybe you just didn’t realize it was like that.

***

"Yeah, I know," you rolled your eyes. "Bucky? Truth or dare?"

"Dare," he decided.

You looked around the room quickly. "Pick up... that!" you instructed as you pointed at the heavy-looking sofa chair in the corner.

"That's all you want me to do? Redecorate?" he rolled his eyes.

"Bet you can't hold it over your head with one hand," you challenged with a smile.

He took a sip of his drink, meaning he was refusing to take the dare, and Sam groaned in disappointment. "He totally could, he's just too lazy to get up!" Sam accused.

"Fine, fine," Bucky relented, setting his drink down. Standing up and approaching it, he turned back to look at you first. "Vibranium arm or--?"

"Surprise me," you shrugged playfully, though you were honestly surprised already that he could apparently do it with either. He did choose the metal one, though, and only struggled to balance the massive thing properly as he lifted it rather than the actual weight.

You and Sam cheered and clapped proudly and he took a little joking bow as he set it down and returned to his seat.

"My turn," he announced, looking over at Sam intently. "Truth or dare?"

"Truth," he replied.

Bucky leaned forward a bit, resting his elbows on his knees and narrowing his eyes as he stared at Sam; you straightened slightly where you were sitting on the couch, worried what he was so serious about asking. "Did you take a fifty out of my wallet that time I left it in your car?"

"Dude, that was like, two years ago!" Sam whined.

"So you did!" Bucky accused with a pointed finger.

"I'm not saying that, I just can't believe you're bringing it up--" Sam began.

"Just admit it, man, I know you did it!" Bucky talked over him.

"You're a hundred, nobody would blame you for forgetting where you spent it," Sam continued.

"Guys, guys!" you interrupted until they both looked at you. "Sam, are you officially answering the question? Yes or no?"

Pausing for a second, he quickly took a shot out of his glass. "You sneaky little shit," Bucky frowned.

"Whatever, truth or dare," Sam turned to you quickly to change the subject.

"Truth," you offered this time, and Sam paused for a second before a devious smile filled his face. You leaned back as if creating some distance would protect you from whatever idea he'd just had.

"Alright," he began, "if you had to pick... which one of us would you, you know..."

You figured you knew what he meant, but you still made a confused face. Bucky coughed nervously into his fist.

To illustrate his point, Sam moved his fist back and forth and made an ee-ee sound to, apparently, imitate a squeaking mattress. "I get it, I get it, Christ," you grimaced, instantly reaching for your glass.

"Come onnnn," Sam whined.

"Nope, too weird," you decided, shaking your head as you tossed back the last of your drink.

The drinks didn't hit you too hard, but you still had to turn in for the night eventually. A knock on your door startled you when you were laying down and procrastinating sleep on your phone; a wave of dizziness surprised you when you stood up too quickly-- apparently you were still a little more tipsy than you realized.

You opened the door to find Bucky on the other side, looking at you with a sort of sparkle in his eye, and you let him in without a word. "You could've said Sam," he said to you suddenly.

"Huh?" you mumbled in confusion.

"You know, when he asked you earlier, in the game," Bucky clarified, "about which one of us--"

"Oh, right," you nodded, not sure why he was randomly bringing this up now.

"You could've said you'd rather hook up with him," he offered again.

You raised an eyebrow.

"To throw him off the trail, I mean," he added, stepping closer to you and resting a hand on your waist. "And give him a little ego boost."

"Don't think he needs much more ego," you smirked, putting a hand on Bucky's shoulder in return, "or a red herring to throw him off the trail. I really don't think he suspects anything."

"Well, then maybe we should give him something to be suspicious of," Bucky offered in a lower voice, leaning in to kiss your neck.

"Buuuck," you whined in playful annoyance, pushing him back slightly. "He's just down the hall..."

"Then try to be quiet," he offered, before he smiled against your skin in a way you could already tell was triggered by a mischievous idea. "How about I dare you to be quiet?"

Your breath caught a bit, equally due to his kisses on your pulse and the titillating idea of being forced to keep quiet while he--

"No seriously, I dare you," he decided before dropping to his knees and starting to pull down your pajama bottoms. "Don't be too loud or he'll hear you..."

“Did you see him with that actress?”

“Which one?” Harris snorts.

“That blonde one… you know…”

“Really narrows it down, dude.”

You’ve seen the magazines too. Seen the headlines while scrolling. You’re not one for celebrity gossip. You find it a bit strange to be so involved in anyone else’s private life.

You sink into the wall. It’s not unusual for you to wilt beneath these conversations. Most of the techs are guys and most of them have no shame. When there’s certain actresses on set, they’re almost drooling.

“Guy is living the life.” Harris sighs. “Sports cars, hot girls, rich as fuck.”

You fidget and focus on the sound in your earpiece. Can they not just do their work? You don’t need to hear all this.

“If I was him, I’d have one in the morning and one at bedtime.” Cody slithers.

“Oh and what about Trinity?”

“What about her? She’s hot enough but she’s so damn boring.” Cody drones.

Ugh. You feel bad for this woman you’ve never met. To have someone talk about you like that. Barely a human to them but an outlet for relief or boredom.

“I heard that Sharon Carter if single now.” Cody says.

“Kinda old now…”

“Fuck that, dude. She is sexay. I know girls ten years younger who don’t look like her.”

“You think Rogers fucked up or she’s a dead fish?” Harris snickers.

You grimace. That’s so gross. You don’t get men. At least, all the ones you’ve been around are confounding. Rude or disgusting or just completely uninterested.

📽️

“Ugh, I’m done.” Penelope fans herself. “Someone get me some juice juice.”

Her special blend of ginger, apple cider vinegar, honey, and a dash of vodka is her ‘special cure’ for her hangovers. You’re not sure it helps and it looks and smells rancid. For someone so glamorous, she really isn’t. You try not to judge; you wear the same thing every day, black jeans, black shirt, all to just blend into the background.

You approach her as she stands and grins over at her guest. He rubs his thick fingers together as he sniffs. She winks.

“It was so nice to see you again.” She trills. “You must remember, the after party last year?”

“Mm, remind me which one?” He squints.

She giggles. “Oh, you’re silly. I know you know.” Her smile fades and she rubs her temples as her eyes roll back. “Hurry up and get this shit off me!”

You rush forward and reach for her mic. It catches on the fabric of her blouse and you struggle to untangle it, nearly dropping it into her cleavage. She swats your hand.

“Ugh, don’t you know how to do the one thing you do– ACH!” She exclaims suddenly and veers to the side as her hand is seized and her arm bends awkwardly to the side. She leans into Napoleon’s grip. “Ow! What are you doing?”

“Did no one ever teach you manners? The woman is doing her job and you’re not making it any easier.” He lets her go.

“It’s fine, I got the mic.” You show him.

“No, it’s not. She hit you.” He crosses his arms. “Apologise to her.”

Penelope scoffs and her green-blue eyes flick between you and the action star. “Are you serious? I’m not a child, don’t talk to me like that. She’s just a tech–”

“Her and everyone else keep your trash show on the air.” He retorts evenly. “If you’re going to behave like a child, then you should be treated like one.” He huffs. “Where’s your producer? I’m having second thoughts about the broadcast.”

“What?” She nearly screeches. “You can’t. You signed a contract.”

“With terms and conditions.” He counters without a beat.

“She’s just a tech–”

“And she’s better at what she does than you are at your… whatever you do.” He turns to you and drops his arms. “Will you kindly remove my mic? I need to go have a conversation with my agent.”

He bends his knees and leans in slightly so you can reach his mic. You can see his throat constrict as you unhook it from his collar. As you slide the power switch back he gently touches your upper arm.

“Thank you. It’s much appreciated.” He squeezes just a little and lets go, standing straight. You’re barely at a height with the top of his stomach.

He adjusts his tie and smooths his jacket. Penelope tugs on his sleeve. “You can’t be serious? All this because of this… thing.” She whines.

“Do not touch me.” He turns and gently girds her away with his forearm. “Do it again, and I will file a complaint.”

“Sir…” you utter quietly.

It’s nice of him to speak up. Most of the other guests are too focused on getting out of there or pretend they don’t notice her behaviour. Everyone on the crew is terrified of the host. And when he’s gone, she’ll only be worse. It would’ve been easier if he’d said nothing so she’d go back to not knowing you exist.

“A complaint? You grabbed me.” She pouts.

“After you hit an employee.”

“I didn’t–”

“We’re done. Don’t air the interview.” He shakes his head and turns, pausing as his eye catches yours. “Are you alright?”

“I told you, fine.” You mumble and look down at the mics. “I should… go put these away.”

Despite everything Cody and Harris were going on about and all the gossip sites, he’s not as bad as you would think. He’s considerate at least. Then again, you really are just a tech like Penelope says.

You stare at your reflection as you turn in the bathing suit to examine the generous cutouts. It’s a glorified bikini; the top and bottom are attached by a gold ring, forming a sort of criss cross and highlighting the fullness of your sides. You turn to the side. One wrong move and your butt might fall out. And your chest; the deep cut is doing little to comfort you.

“Sweetheart?” Nick calls from outside. “You ready? That water sure does look tempting in this heat.”

“Erm, oh….” you back away from the mirror and swipe up the towel. “Sure. Uh… Ready.”

You wrap yourself up before you open the door. You nearly gasp as you find Nick in nothing more than a pair of swim trunks; cut high up his thighs, hugging them. His torso is tightly lined with muscle and his arms rounded too. You bite your lip as the towel folds around his neck does little to lessen his bareness.

You catch his eyes flick up from your body as you hug the top of the towel. You squirm and sniff.

“It is really hot here, huh?” You chuckle nervously.

“Sure is. I shoulda warned you about the humidity,” he grins. His hair is slightly puffed up from the damp heat. You’re sure you’re a big mess as well.

“It’s all good. Uh… where’s the pool?” You ask. It’s the one thing he kept a surprise during his tour.

“Ah, yep. This way, sweetheart.”

He beckons with one arm, his other hand hovering and moving behind you as he ushers you down the tiled hall. Each square is painted with a different vine or flower. He takes you around to a door with twisted iron bars behind sliding glass. He pulls back the panes then pushes open the heavier doors. The trickle of water plucks in your ears.

The pool is long and rectangular, running nearly the expanse of the courtyard, around which the villa is built. The water is clear and crystalline, rippling prettily in the sunlight. Along one side, there’s a painted table and matching chairs, on the other, cushioned loungers under umbrellas.

“Oh, wowee.” You say without thinking. “This is like… a movie.”

“Not one of mine,” he intones. He spreads his towel over a sun chair.

“Oh, no. I guess.” You sway as you sense him watching you. Is he expecting you to react more? “Thank you. This is so amazing. I never imagined… anything like this.” You slowly near the edge. “When I was a kid, we’d go to the community pool, but when we got older, we’d swim in the river so the parents of the younger kids wouldn’t yell at us. This one time… well, it’s boring.”

“I don’t think so,” he steps up next to you and brushes his knuckles along the bottom of your towel. “Tell me.”

“Well, ha. You know, we didn’t know there were leaches and my friend, Lucianna, she got them all up the back of her leg and she panicked bad.” You giggle. “We all did and were checking each other and we were all too afraid to take them off her but I got a little stick and did my best.” You shrug. “See? Boring.”

“Cute. Quaint.” He says as he pinches your towel. “Gonna get in with me?”

“Hm, well… maybe in a bit. Can I sit and watch for a bit?” You ask.

He hums. “Sure.” He draws away. “Go for it.”

That tone underlines his words again. Disappointment? Agitation? You’re not sure. He could just be tired. It’s been a long day.

You sidle away and sit on the end of one of the loungers. He stays at the edge of the pool. He dips his toes then tips his whole body, arching to dive into the water. He pushes beneath the surface, slither through, and pops up near the middle. He shakes out his hair and runs his hands over the sopping strands.

“Refreshing.” He says. “Sure you don’t wanna hop in?”

“In a bit.” You assure him, wiggling your foot nervously.

You look down at the towel and back at him. His shoulders, his chest, his jawline. How did you end up here with someone like him?

“What’s the matter? Does the bathing suit not fit?” He wades to the edge.

Your lashes flick and you squirm. “No, it does.”

“Well… you gonna show me?” He prompts as he crosses his arms over the tiled trim of the pool.

You hide your discomfort. “It’s just a swimsuit.” You push your shoulders up.

His eyes narrow. “You don’t want me to see?”

“No.” You lie. “It’s just…” You exhale and shake off your nerves. “You know what, it is hot.”

You try to hide your insecurity as you slowly peel the towel apart. You let it fall back behind you and stand. Your chest and tummy jiggle so you feel every little ripple. You don’t hate your body, not at all, but you never really showed it off too much.

You go to the edge and cautiously sit, dipping your feet and calves into the water. Nick lingers nearby, pushing himself back as he spreads his arms out and watches you. You stare at the intertwining lines of light in the water and push off, sinking in to hide your discomfort and the way the swimsuit catches under your tits.

“I like it. It’s a nice colour on you.” He says as he tilts his head.

“Thanks. That’s… nice. I like the colour too.”

He smirks. “What about me? I think the pattern was a bit of a bold choice.”

You glance down quickly through the water. The oranges on vines across the dark blue fabric isn’t tacky, more sophisticated.

“Cute,” you say. “I like oranges.”

“I think they’re mandarins?” He shrugs. “So, we’ll have a swim and I’ll finally follow through on my promise and take you out to dinner.”

“Oh, you don’t have to–”

“Well, the private chef can’t come until tomorrow.” He wades toward you. “And you have to try real Italian pasta while you’re here. Just once.”

“That’s so sweet of you,” you smile and chafe as his gaze sinks once more. Is he looking at you? What is he thinking? How much is that pasta going to cost?

He’s quiet for a minute then leans back and floats on his back. “I like being with you, sweetheart. You don’t ask for nothing. You just are.”

“Mm, oh. I…I like hanging out, too.” You say.

A gritty noise rolls up his throat and he closes his eyes. He arches his body and dips under the water. He cuts through like a shark as he flips onto his stomach and you back away as he swims toward you. He loops his arms around your legs and brings them up around your waist. As he comes above the surface he picks you up.

You exclaim in surprise as your tits bounce and hit his head. How embarrassing! His face is as good as buried in your stomach too. You lean back and put your hands on his shoulders as you try to see him. He looks up at you with a big smile.

“Nick! What are you doing?!” You squeal.

“Having some fun, sweetheart.” He turns you and carries you across the pool. “I don’t get to do that so often.” 

He tips you over and brings you under with him as you cry out, your surprise drowned by the plunge. He spins you around and brings you back up, soaked and dripping. You feel a breeze across your chest that makes your nipples hard. You look down at your exposed tits and quickly cover them up.

“Let me go!” You demand. He does just that and you fall away from him. You shake your head and hug your chest. “I’m so sorry! I think… I don’t think this fits after all.” You turn and push your feet through the water.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve seen a lot more than that.”

You’d expected a lot of things when you agreed your husband’s oldest friend should come spend the holidays with you, but not this: you naked and splayed open, your back against Bucky’s chest, and Steve knelt between your legs, focus absolute as they took you apart.

Bucky’s lips moved against your neck, not quite kissing, hand sliding to cup one aching breast. “You want to feel for the ridge, the soft roof inside. Feel it?”

Steve nodded, learning by the tremors that rippled through you.

And you? You could only moan as his fingers sought a place only Bucky had touched before tonight.

Steve’s breath ghosted along your thigh, cool in comparison to the heat pooling where his fingertips pressed. “Like this?” he asked, looking up, seeking confirmation from Bucky.

Bucky squeezed you, barely-there pressure, his thumb circling your nipple. “Yeah, there—you’ll feel it through the front wall. Little bump.”

Steve slid his fingers deeper, slow and careful, and you arched back against Bucky’s chest. The pressure inside shifted, molten but sudden, and you gasped at the feel of it when he found it—that ridge, the soft roof, as Bucky had described it. Steve’s big hand trembled just a little as he kept it inside you, gentle but greedy, desperate to get it right. The man was as worshipping as he was determined, brow furrowed, lashes dark against his cheek as he mapped each element of your reactions.

And Bucky watched, grinning against your ear, voice thick. “That’s it, Steve. Watch her face, see how her mouth falls open? Touch her there, a tiny bit harder, that’s it, yeah.”

He kept the pressure steady, calloused thumb skating circles over your clit while his fingers pressed up, learning you, working with the careful tenacity he applied to every complex operation.

Bucky’s own hand drifted lower, his touch rough at your hip, a grounding force. You couldn’t move if you’d wanted to, pinned between them, the air thick with sweat and something like ozone.

You bucked, pulse thumping in your throat, teeth gritty against a whimper. Steve’s eyes flicked up again, shining, hungry, and your swore you might come just on the taste of his focus. With every press against that spot, your vision stuttered out, blinking in firework-bright bursts.

Bucky’s voice pressed into the shell of your ear, low and lazy, but with that hint of command that still managed to thrill you, even after all these years. “She’s real sensitive right there, Steve. Just steady. Keep the rhythm—yeah, just like that.”

“Fuck, Buck—she’s gonna—” Steve’s fingers jittered, the tip of his thumb ghosting over your wet clit.

“Let her,” Bucky hummed, open-mouthed over her shoulder. His other hand covered her thigh, holding her so wide the ache felt like a dare. “Make her feel it.”

Steve’s hand was huge, careful, coaxing, until it wasn’t, until the motion grew greedy, needy. You’d never been shy with Bucky, but with the attention of two lovers you felt nearly too open and exposed, nerves sparking along every limb. Bucky’s thumb toyed with your nipple, drawing it taut, while Steve’s fingers pursued your impending orgasm relentlessly.

And the orgasm came with no warning, just an unbearable pressure and then a bright, skittering release, your vision white-out as you shrieked and clamped around Steve’s hand. He nearly lost his balance but Bucky steadied him—steadied you—bracing your shaking limbs as you rode the aftershocks. Even after the pleasure crested, Steve’s fingers didn’t stop. He worked you through every shudder, sucking a breath through his teeth, awed. His voice was a fervent whisper, “Jesus. You—fuck, you look good like this.”

“She always does,” Bucky replied, mouth slick on your jaw, catching the sweat there. “You wanna see her come again?”

Steve’s hand stilled, then slowly slid free, leaving you embarrassingly empty and sticky. He watched you with dazed awe, pink flush climbing from his collar to cheekbones, as if he couldn’t believe the thing he’d just made happen, for you.

“Yeah, I do. Will you let me?” he asked, eyes meeting yours again.

You nodded, voice gone to wool and cotton, incapable of anything but a whispered, “Please.” The word left your lips desperate, high-pitched, a note of wildness that made Bucky’s hand tighten against your thigh, a subtle anchor to keep you from dissolving completely.

Steve’s smile broke open on his face, that cocky little tilt that always got him his way. He ducked down and pressed his mouth to your thigh, some kind of benediction, before giving Bucky a look, a question you weren’t included in: permission, or maybe the next step in instructions. Bucky’s hand still gripped your thigh, and the pressure from his fingertips went from comfort to proprietary.

“Take your time,” Bucky told him, slow as syrup. “She’s got plenty more in her if you work it up right.”

You whimpered, and Steve’s hand found your knee, thumb brushing circles that didn’t seem to know whether they were meant to calm or tease. He spread you even wider, fingers delving again, but now the touch was softer, coaxing in a new way. He watched your face the whole time, never letting you look away, and the sheer heat of his attention made it impossible to catch your breath, impossible to be anywhere but here, between them, for them.

You let your head loll back on Bucky’s chest, and he inhaled you like a secret. Steve’s mouth ghosted over the inside of your knee, the lightest of touches, as his hand slid slick with you, coaxing you open again. There was awe in his expression, like he couldn’t believe the things your body was capable of. That he couldn’t believe you let him see it.

Bucky’s voice was right in your ear, velvet and wicked. “You love this, don’t you? How he touches you, how he looks at you?” His teeth grazed just below your pulse, almost biting, his metal hand now flat and heavy on your soft stomach.

Steve’s mouth found your clit then, hot and wet, and you bit your lip, trying not to break apart too quickly, but Bucky’s other hand snapped up to your chin, forcing your jaw open. He slid two thick fingers into your mouth, muffling your gasps as Steve reached for that place inside you again, a blunt presence that made your hips twitch uncontrollably, mouth kissing and lapping at your clit.

“Be our good girl,” Bucky murmured, voice a velvet drag along your nerves. “Let me hear you, sweetheart.” He pressed your lips open wider, thumb tight on your cheek. Everything about him said claim, but you felt less like territory and more like treasure—something precious they’d both agreed to share.

You moaned and sucked on Bucky’s fingers, desperate for something to hold onto. Steve’s tongue drew slow, wide circles, alternating with little flicks that made you see stars, and every time his fingers curled inside you, you wanted to shake apart. Bucky’s hand pressed at the base of your throat, a leash without pressure, just a reminder of where you belonged.

Steve’s tongue moved with a rough, hungry precision that made your lashes flutter, the strangeness of his mouth—different than Bucky’s, somehow broader and needier—forcing you up against the edge of your own appetite. He groaned into you, animal, and the vibration made your toes curl as your hips bucked, seeking more, seeking everything.

The sound of you—wet and needy—filled the room, obscene, and Steve was impossibly focused. You could feel the shift as Steve’s mouth grew unabashed, each lap and suckle more confident. He lapped greedily, not just at your clit but at the desperate, shuddering noises you made, feeding on them, letting them escalate him past any feigned self-control.

Bucky murmured filth in your ear. “Such a pretty thing, all open for Steve. He’s a fast learner, isn’t he?” His fingers slipped from your mouth, gliding down to squeeze your breast with proprietary delight. “Sensitive here, too, Steve. She likes it just a little mean when you bite.”

Steve’s lips left your cunt, replaced by the blunt, perfect drag of his teeth—just a graze, but amplified by the velvet heat radiating between your thighs. The wild sound you made told him everything he needed. He grinned, eyes bright, and gave you another drag with his tongue and the barest scrape of teeth. Your legs shook, clamped for a second around his broad shoulders as he tormented you, licking through the slick he’d made.

“She’s right there,” Bucky insists, “but don’t let up.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, chest heaving, as Bucky’s words poured through you, making it impossible not to want to give him everything, even the parts you thought you’d never let anyone else but him see. He tugged his hand from your mouth, and you gasped, “I’m close, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Bucky coaxed, hand splayed again over your breast, pinching and then soothing. “Let him taste it. Let him taste everything.” He nuzzled the space behind your ear, catching the lobe between his teeth, a punctuation to his demand.

Steve’s hand, meanwhile, never stopped mapping you. His thick fingers curling again against that spot inside, a squirming, irresistible pressure, while his mouth closed around your clit and sucked, hard, and the world melted into a soundless scream in your throat. You bucked up, hands grasping at Bucky’s biceps, and came again, hard enough you thought you might black out.

This time Steve didn’t bother with awe, only a growl of triumph and gratitude as he licked you through every convulsion, not stopping until your thighs trembled against his head and Bucky had to murmur, “Enough, big guy, you’ll melt her.”

You didn’t remember the transition—somewhere in the haze of pleasure, Steve had shifted you onto his lap, his cock thick and leaking, pressed impossibly hard against your hip. Bucky sat facing you both on the foot of the bed, blue eyes greedy and soft at the same time, mouth slack with want. Steve held you to his chest, the thrum of his pulse wild and loud beneath your palm.

“Fuck, honey, you alright?” Bucky asked, thumb brushing along your jaw. You only nodded, eyes glassy, limbs a little insubstantial.

“She gets real soft after she comes,” Bucky explained. His metal hand stroked your cheek, thumb scraping your parted lip. “Steve, you ever eat a girl out til she can’t think straight, and then fuck her so good she gets slick again just from the memory?”

Steve’s gaze flicked down to your face, as if he needed to check in, as if the rules of this odd, shared gravity could change at your whim. But you only leaned harder into his chest, the memory of Bucky’s words blooming low in your gut. “Not like this,” Steve said quietly, the confession tumbling out like an apology. “Never had someone so slick and eager and pliant. She’s so fucking sweet.”

“She likes making a mess, especially when she knows someone’s gonna clean it up nice for her.”

It was obscene and beautiful in the same breath, the way your body pulsed and ached for these two men. You knew Bucky intimately, but Steve was still a new entity, it should be unbelievable what you were letting him do to you, and yet you were willing because Bucky said you could be.

“You wear her out, and she lets you do anything you want.” Steve pressed his lips to your temple, the gesture as tender as a prayer, but you could feel the tension in his body—like he was holding himself back as much as he was holding you up.

“Do you want him to fuck you?” It was as blunt as a knife’s edge; Bucky never did like to leave things to implication.

You meant to say yes, steeled and confident, but the only sound you could make was a whimper. Bucky grinned. “Use your words, honey. Steve’s been waiting a long time.”

Steve’s hands tightened on your hips. “Since your wedding,” he confessed, and you gasped.

Bucky nodded, proud, calm, even though this revelation was ricocheting through your mind. Steve had been overseas for years until just recently, and of course he hadn’t missed his best friend’s wedding—had been the best man—but it had also been the first time you’d met him.

You remembered the speech, the toast. Steve smiling at you across a room of strangers, nothing but friendship and pride in his voice, but now you wondered how long he’d been drinking you in, how long he’d been simmering in this kind of want.

You also remembered—vivid as if it bloomed on the backs of your eyelids—the way Steve’s eyes had lingered at the reception, how his hand seemed to swallow yours when he shook it, holding on a beat too long. You’d caught him watching you and Bucky slow dancing, his smile softer than it ought to have been, heavy with yearning. At the time you’d wondered if maybe he was just that kind of romantic, or maybe a little lonely after so much time away.

But now that memory rewrote itself, charged and electric, searing through you as Steve took your chin in his hand and kissed you—soft at first, learning the taste of you. His mouth tasted like you, and you shivered, deep in your bones, at being desired by these two men.

Bucky reached for you, steady hands bracketing your thighs, and you sank back against Steve’s chest. Your husband ducked lower, pressing a line of kisses from your hip bone to the soft, over-sensitive spot at the seam of your thigh.

You shivered as Bucky trailed his tongue through the wetness Steve had left behind, mouth hungry and reverent. He licked slowly, then nosed at your clit, already swollen and sore from Steve’s attention, and the jolt of sensation made you gasp into Steve’s mouth. He devoured your sounds greedily, tongue parting your lips as if he needed to taste how undone you were.

Bucky’s tongue was firmer than Steve’s, more insistent, and when he flattened it against you and sucked, you felt every vibration in your teeth. You whimpered into Steve’s kiss, and he swallowed the noise, hands squeezing your hips as you rolled against the heat of Bucky’s mouth, your body burning, melting, until there was nothing left but sensation.

You weren’t sure Bucky’s mouth could ever be called gentle, but right now it was a new kind of slow, each lap deliberate, stroking the sharp edge of oversensitivity and coaxing pleasure out of it until your eyes watered. Steve’s hand wound into your hair, guiding your head back against his shoulder, and you let him, lost in the heat radiating from both their bodies.

“She’s shaking,” Steve whispered, awe thick in his voice.

“She knows what she likes,” Bucky replied, voice muffled between your legs. His metal hand dug into your thigh, cool and greedy, while the other traced lazy patterns over your ribs, drawing your skin tight with anticipation for what would come next.

Bucky pulled his mouth away with a slick, obscene sound, smirking up at you. “You ready for cock?” he asked, and this wasn’t an idle question. Bucky wanted you to say it, wanted you to beg for it. Steve’s cock pressed up under you, thick and hot, and you could feel how desperate he was for it. You were too.

“Yes,” you said, or maybe just moaned it, letting your knees fall as wide as Steve and Bucky wanted them. “Yes, please.”

“Fuck, she’s polite,” Steve mumbled, hands already guiding you up, shifting you onto your knees, palms bracing the mattress as Bucky moved to the side of you, one hand fisting his own stiff cock, the other smoothing down your back and skimming over your ass. You could feel Steve’s cock, hot and insistent, nudging between your thighs.

“She likes a full feeling,” Bucky told Steve, the statement an offer and a warning both, and you blinked up at him, swallowing. “When you fuck her, you gotta go deep.”

Steve’s hands caught your hips, palms broad enough to span almost from waist to thigh. There was a reverence in his movements, but also the first hints of impatience—the way his fingers flexed, the way his cock jumped when it brushed against you, smearing precum along the seam of your body. He lined himself up and held, not yet pushing in, and the wait felt like another kind of pleasure, anticipation sharp as a blade.

Your chest seized—with anticipation or hesitation, you weren’t sure—as you realized Bucky was going to let Steve fuck you bare.

“He’s a big one, sweetheart,” Bucky warned, and you could hear the grin on his face. He planted a hand at the small of your back, keeping your spine bowed. “Nice and slow. She likes to feel every inch.”

You pressed your face into the pillow, bracing for a stretch that came slow and monumental—Steve’s cock parting you, nudging inside until you couldn’t breathe for the fullness, the hot-dull burn that quickly blurred into something sweeter.

“There you go, sweetheart,” Bucky murmured. “Let him all the way in.”

You were so wet he didn’t even need to force it; the broad head split you open easily. You heard Bucky’s purr, almost proud, as if he had made you this way, greedy for the kind of ache only they could give. Bucky loved to torment you with this kind of fuck when he slid inside you, so his direction for Steve to as well was to be expected.

Steve held, fully sheathing himself, body trembling with restraint. “You okay?” The sound of your name was different in his voice, kinder, stripped of any artifice.

You nodded, eagerly pressing your hips back, and the slide hit something deep, a place that made your toes flex and your mouth fall open. Steve’s hands stroked your hips, grounding you, his breath rough as he held as still as he could manage. Bucky’s voice was syrup-sweet at your ear, “Go on, Steve. She wants it.”

The first thrust was a slow, rolling motion that stole your breath. Steve drew out nearly all the way, then slid back in, the burn giving way to a greedy, clutching pleasure. You held perfectly still, squeezing your eyes shut, learning the new shape of yourself with Steve inside you. You keened, knuckles whitening in the bedsheets. Bucky stayed close, palm at the nape of your neck, his own cock hard and leaking, pressed to your shoulder as he watched Steve fuck you.

“She takes cock so well, doesn’t she?” Bucky crooned, his tone barely above a purr. “Bet you never seen anyone so hungry before.” His metal hand traced your spine, ratcheting the tension higher as he pet you and praised you, the words a molten thread tangled through every harder, deeper thrust. Steve’s hips pistoned slow, but with such force you swore you could feel it in your throat, each time catching a spot Bucky had mapped just for him.

Steve’s rhythm was a miracle of endurance, slow and deep, every thrust measured, watched, almost academic in its hunger. His hands never stopped moving, stroking your waist, your belly, your ribs, learning every inch of you as if he needed to memorize the route. His hips stuttered occasionally, evidence of his own struggle not to lose himself too quickly to the wet heat you offered him.

And he whispered your name between every other breath, like a vow, like he was kneeling in church.

Bucky’s hands grew rougher on you, easing your thighs farther apart, planting dirty encouragements in your head that made you slicker, filthier than before. “You should see her face, Steve. She’s so beautiful right now.”

Bucky coaxed your head up and to the side so Steve could see the exact, filthy pleasure contorting your features. And you felt it, the slide of your own tears, half-joy and half-overwhelm, as Steve picked up the pace, his thrusts deeper, harder.

Bucky wiped a tear from your jaw with his thumb, then sucked it into his mouth. “So beautiful when you’re ruined like this.”

Steve’s fingers dug into your flesh, and you could feel how close he was to letting go of decorum, of caution, of the last rags of self-control. You wanted it. You moaned for it. Your head swam with the ache of being so fucking full, of being seen and used and loved all at once.

“Not gonna last,” Steve groaned, the confession breaking at the seam. “Feels—fuck, Bucky, how do you keep your head—”

“I don’t, punk. That’s why I always make her come first.” Bucky’s laugh was sharp and breathless, the sound of a man profoundly in love with his own wife. He trailed a hand down your front, fingers gliding over the slick mess Steve had made of you. “And always make it up to her after, too. She loves that part too.”

Bucky’s hand found your clit, thumb and forefinger pinching, rolling it just this side of cruel, and you yelped, the sudden spike of pain-pleasure a match to the fullness Steve was feeding you, and your whole body shuddered. Bucky laughed—warm and wicked—and reached down, fingers sliding through the mess of slick and sweat and precum at the seam where Steve’s body split yours, then smeared it over his own cock.

He pumped himself once, twice, eyes locked on where Steve’s body met yours, and you watched, unabashedly.

Bucky leaned forward, mouth hot at your jaw. “You want me to fuck your mouth while Steve fucks you?”

The question, blunt and bright, sliced through your haze. You nodded, desperate, and Bucky grinned, wolfish. He pressed his thumb to your lips, smearing the taste of yourself across them, and then shifted around in front of you, kneeling up so his cock bobbed level with your mouth. It was already slick, the head flushed dark, and you opened for him automatically, tongue out, dutiful and greedy all at once.

“That’s my girl,” Bucky breathed, sliding in slow, letting you feel the heft of him as Steve’s cock ground into your cunt from behind. You could barely spare the coordination to suck and moan at the same time, the boundary between pleasure and humiliation dissolved.

Your throat worked, helpless, as Bucky fucked your mouth in shallow, reverent thrusts, and your jaw burned with the effort of taking him as deep as he wanted. He pulled back every time you gagged, not to spare you, but to watch the string of spit connect your lips to the tip of his cock. You blinked up at your husband, tears streaming freely now, and saw how it undid him—made him thrust a little deeper, fuck your mouth a little harder, hands cradling your jaw, both anchoring and guiding you.

“Pretty thing,” he muttered, almost gentle, “look at you. That’s it. Just like that. God, Steve, you’re going to love fucking her throat.”

“Buck, you can’t just—” Steve had to groan before he could finish his thought. “You can’t just say shit like that and expect me to last.”

You moaned, mouth full of Bucky and body full of Steve, your whole self strung taut between their appetites. The rhythm between Steve’s hips behind you and Bucky’s in front of you a terrifying, perfect sync.

Bucky smirked, thumb wiping spit from your chin, then dragged it down to your throat, pressing lightly so you felt the stretch of yourself inside. “Bet you want him in your mouth right after he fills you up, don’t you?” Bucky’s voice was honey-thick, tugging need like a thread from your cunt all the way up to your brain.

You nodded, desperate, and that was all it took—Steve’s grip on your hips locked down, his pulse a wild thrum against your skin, and he buried himself in you with one last, shuddering thrust. You could feel it, the way he pulsed and spilled hot inside, and the sound he made—it was raw, almost animal. He held inside, grinding so deep you felt it all the way up your spine, filling you so perfectly a whimper broke loose from your lips even with Bucky’s cock still in your mouth.

Bucky eased out of your mouth, palm still warm against your jaw, thumb stroking where his cock had just been. He grinned at you, all sweet-and-mean, then leaned in to press a kiss over your spit-slick lips. “That’s it,” he whispered, reverent, like he was kissing holy ground. “That’s my good girl.” The words landed low in your belly, twisting up with the mess Steve had left in you.

But his cock was still inside you, too, and he collapsed forward, chest to your back, his arms caging you in. You expected him to pull out, to give you a moment to recover, but instead he rocked his hips, slow and greedy, as if he couldn’t bear to lose the feeling of you squeezing around him.

And then, without warning, his hand slid under your belly, fingers finding your clit, already swollen and overstimulated. He drew tight, precise circles with the pads of first two fingers, not letting up, even when you whined and squirmed beneath him. Bucky’s hands held you steady, anchoring you so Steve could play your body like an instrument.

The friction was so good, so dirty, that your cunt clamped around him involuntarily, milked every last drop as Steve’s fingers worked you up again, your body already betraying just how ready it was to be used a second, third, hundredth time.

“Fuck, she’s insatiable, isn’t she?” Steve said, voice almost fond, the sound of it a pressure at the base of your skull.

“She’s always been that way,” Bucky answered, a frayed thread of pride winding through his voice. “After the serum, I never met a partner who could keep up with me until her. Like you were made for a super soldier, sweetheart.”

You laughed, or tried to, but it came out a shaky, desperate gasp as Steve’s fingers wrung another whimper from you. Your knuckles dug into the sheets, the only tether as your overstimulated clit set off sparks behind your eyes. “Bucky,” you croaked, barely audible, “I can’t—”

“You can, honey. You’ll show Steve just how much you can take.” His gaze was intent, and for a moment you remembered every night the two of you had built trust on, every whispered dare and secret need he’d coaxed from you, every time he’d made you shatter and put you back together.

You barely had time to brace—Steve’s closed closed hard and firm around your clit, pinching, sending a lightning bolt through you, and as your body seized, his mouth found the meat of your shoulder and bit down. Not a warning, not a tease—a real goddamn bite. It ricocheted up your spine and detonated any coherence you had left. Your vision went blinding white, then red, and you screamed, nails gouging at the mattress, his hardening cock still buried so deep inside you it felt like you were cleaved in half.

The orgasm hit different—shocking, jagged, beyond pleasure and into a place that was just sensation, raw and total. You were crying, you realized, drool and tears tracking down your chin, but you couldn’t stop, couldn’t get enough, not even when the world blurred and your whole midsection pulsed around Steve’s cock, milking him for everything he had.

Bucky held your gaze the whole time, watching you unravel, watching every second of you coming apart for his best friend.

“Never gets old,” Bucky said, voice ragged with want, “seeing you come apart.” He stroked your hair, gentling you even as Steve’s cock kept you pinned and shuddering.

Steve pulled out, finally, leaving a slick trail down your thigh, and you expected collapse—rest, maybe, or at least a breath of air.

You got part of what you wanted as you were manhandled with a gentle efficiency—Steve lowering you to the mattress and Bucky rolling you over onto your back. The two men bracketed themselves around you. Bucky’s thumb smoothed tears from your cheeks, his lips hovering at your brow. Steve’s palm swept your hair from your face, tucking the wild strands behind your ears, and he smiled at you, dazed and open and deeply, deeply gone himself.

“You okay?” he asked, voice so hoarse you wanted to laugh, if only you didn’t feel so utterly wrung dry.

Bucky’s hands mapped your body, stroking down your arms, your waist, as if to collect every piece of you that had scattered. “She’s perfect. She’s got a thing for being ruined,” Bucky said, rubbing his thumb hard across your jaw, “but it’s more than just the mess. It’s being wanted, isn’t it, sweetheart?”

You trembled, the answer right there but too big for your mouth. All you could manage was a soft, but firm, “It’s both.”

It was. The ache between your legs, the aftershocks twitching in your thighs, crescendoed in the knowledge that you belonged—here, between them—because you were wanted. Not just by Bucky, whose love for you was a still wildfire after the first few years of the life you were building together, but by Steve, the last person you ever expected to want anything at all.

They held you in the perfect kind of silence for a while. Bucky stroked your sternum with two fingers, tracing the rapid pounding of your heart, while Steve drew lazy patterns on your ribs, the gentle touch making your bones melt.

Steve was the one who broke the silence, voice still thick and slow. “I’m sure Bucky’s told you how everything feels amplified for us, after the serum?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice, but Steve caught your chin and made certain you were listening, blue eyes intent on the fall and rise of your chest. He thumbed the corner of your mouth, gentle in a way that didn’t match the bite mark blooming on your shoulder. “It’s true. Everything’s hotter, sharper. Smells, tastes, touch.” His hand wandered down your neck, tracing the chain of your pulse. “It’s like all the dials turned up past what they’re supposed to do.”

Bucky grinned, mouth curving against your temple, proud and a little feral. “It’s why we’re so good at this,” he said, and the “we” wasn’t just the two of them, but you too, looped into their satisfaction by being the one they found satiation with.

You remembered, dimly, what Bucky had once told you—something about how pain and pleasure were just colors in a spectrum for men like them, how sometimes the best you could do was grab hold of the brightest one and hang on until it faded.

You barely noticed when Bucky’s hand slid lower, two fingers sliding along the seam of you, dipping just inside. You’d thought you were emptied out, rung dry, but the dull ache at your entrance proved otherwise—the evidence of Steve inside you, the slow ooze of it, making your lashes flutter in a way that felt almost innocent.

“You want to keep going, honey?” He asked because this—the consent, the agency—was one of the roots of his pleasure. You nodded again, too spent for speech. “Yeah, you do,” he murmured, pressing his own cock flush against your thigh, hot iron against soft flesh. “And you want Steve to watch, don’t you?”

The way Bucky framed it, you didn’t just want to perform, to be seen—you wanted to be worshipped, to be watched while your body proved itself again and again. There was no performance anxiety; there was only the heat of two impossible men zeroed in on every twitch of your muscles. You felt your own slick between your thighs, the slow, filthy trickle of Steve’s cum pooling out of you, the ache where you’d been so thoroughly stretched.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky chuckled. “Words.”

You tried to say, “Yes, please,” but it came out as a sigh, and Bucky’s grin only widened.

Steve cradled your head like a priceless artifact, thumb pressing a sleepy circle against your jaw while his gaze moved between your eyes and the place where Bucky’s fingers cupped your cunt. You felt your hips roll up, wanton, trying to keep contact with Bucky’s hand even as he toyed with your entrance but never quite let you have the friction you needed.

“You want to show Steve how we fuck when it’s just you and me in the dark, how well you take me.” A statement, not a question.

“Mmmhmm,” you groaned, and Bucky pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then knelt up, hands guiding your unresisting legs apart. He knelt back on his haunches and pulled your hips close. You heard Steve’s breath stutter at the sight, and it filled you with a greedy, wild pride. Bucky teased the seam of you with the head of his cock, up and down, up and down, making you whine.

At the last moment, Bucky relented and pushed inside, filling you with a swift, brutal thrust that bottomed out in one motion. There was no slow stretch, no easing in—just the violent, relentless press of his cock, and you arched off the mattress with a helpless, desperate moan. Your body was made to take him, every inch of you was slick and trembling, so the pain blurred seamlessly into pleasure and back again until you weren’t sure which you preferred.

He moved slow at first, kneeling above you like a god, letting you feel the thickness of him as he rocked in and out, but it wasn’t long before he found the rhythm he liked—a rough, demanding piston that left you scrambling for breath, for touch, for anything to keep you from coming apart entirely. You felt every ridge and vein, every rutting pound as he chased his own need, each thrust fusing the two of you back together.

All you could do—wanted to do—was take it. The raw, pounding pleasure, the relentless stretch, the feeling of Bucky’s cock rutting into you deeply. You heard yourself sob—and it was not a neat or pretty thing, but a wrecked, raw sound that only made Bucky groan above you. He caught your thighs in his hands, spreading you wider, and you felt the obscene heat of the stretch, the way your cunt seized around him with each battering drive. The slick noise of it—your body, his cock, the fucking mess Steve had left in you—filled the room, a rhythm and a punctuation to Bucky’s breathing as he drove deeper, harder, faster.

Steve’s hand found yours in the sheets. He laced his thick fingers between yours and squeezed, grounding you, letting you feel the reverent awe rolling off him in slow, steady waves. But there was an unmet hunger still lingering there under the surface. You could feel it in the tense of his body next to yours, and when you turned your face, eyes seeking his, he met your gaze without hesitation.

Steve bent to kiss you, and there was no veiling tenderness or shy request for permission. His tongue pushed into your mouth, greedy and wild, tasting the ghost of Bucky on your lips, tasting the salt of your tears. You kissed back with everything you had, drawing another moan from your throat as Bucky pistoned into you, the force rocking your whole body up into Steve’s chest.

Bucky’s thrusts didn’t slacken—they were still relentless, still merciless—but as you and Steve kissed, the tempo oscillated into something deeper, a series of slower,seismic detonations. Each time Bucky bottomed out inside you, he held there, grinding, spine arched, as if the sight of you kissing Steve was as much a pleasure to him as the feel of your cunt squeezing him.

Steve groaned into your mouth, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw, and Bucky’s grip on your thighs tightened, like he needed to stake a claim even as he offered you up. With every new roll of Bucky’s hips, a different noise tore its way out of your throat—some for the pain, some for the pleasure, some for the blissful humiliation of being made a spectacle for their eyes.

“Fuck her mouth, Steve,” Bucky said, a low, hungry rumble.

Steve didn’t hesitate, and it was only for a fraction of a second before he was shifting up, the broad line of his thigh braced alongside your head. His cock was still half-hard, glazed with your slick and his own release. The sight of it, flushed angry-red and wet, made your cunt clench around Bucky. Steve cupped your chin, thumb curling along the hinge of your jaw, and you sucked him into your mouth, the taste salty and obscene.

You groaned around him, lips stretching, tongue flattening under the thick, salty weight. He barely thrust, just eased forward, but the size of him still made your throat protest. Bucky continued his slow, tortruous pace below, watching intently as Steve’s cock parted your lips, and the sight of it—his best friend fucking your mouth while he still pounded into your cunt—nearly undid him, you could feel it in the grip of his hands on your hips.

“Deeper,” Bucky ordered, and Steve obeyed. He slid in, careful but insistent, filling your mouth until you gagged, until your eyes watered anew. Steve slid in, your throat stretched, and the assault of it made you gasp around him, desperate for air, for mercy, for more. Steve petted your jaw, his other hand cupping the back of your head, and for all the brutality of the act there was infinite patience in how he held you there, letting you adjust, letting you learn the unique shape of his need. Somewhere above, Bucky laughed—a single breath of filthy awe, a marvel at the spectacle of you taking both their cocks at once like this.

The taste of Steve’s cum was thick in your mouth, the smell of sex and sweat and ozone burning in your nostrils. You wanted them both to know how much you liked this, how much you needed every inch of what they gave. So you hollowed your cheeks and sucked, rolling your tongue with just enough pressure to see the effect in Steve’s eyes—head thrown back, spine bowed glorious, hand clenching your jaw with a desperation that made you burn with pride.

Bucky’s cock pounded up into you from below, and Steve’s pushed into your mouth from above, and you—pinned, stretched, used—were nothing but bliss. The sensation was a hinge, your body swinging wild between the two of them. You felt the echo of your own heartbeat in your cunt, in your mouth, in every thrum of the mattress and grind of their hips.

Steve’s thrusts grew bolder, and at each push he eased a little deeper, patience thinning as your mouth softened to his shape. His voice, when it came, was raw and rough, “Fuck, fuck, you feel so good—” your name murmured as its own curse when it fell from his lips in this moment.

He spilled his seed down your throat, but not all of it. He pulled out and shot the rest over your breasts, warm rope after rope of it across your heaving chest as Bucky pistoned in even harder, the thudding slap of his hips the only sound in the world.

Bucky slammed harder, harder, until you felt the actual bruise of him inside you, some deep purple echo of the violence. He reached for your clit, pinched, and your body shuddered into another orgasm, spasms wracking you so hard you thought you’d bite your tongue. You moaned so sweet and so ruined as he flew over the edge.

Bucky’s cock throbbed inside you, a shuddering full-body tremor, and then he was coming, hips jammed flush as he spilled molten and messy into the deepest part of you. His moan was raw, unguarded, and he didn’t let up, kept grinding through every spurt, making sure you took every last drop. The pressure of it set off a chain reaction—your body seized, aftershocks tearing up your thighs and into your belly, squeezing around him in greedy, involuntary pulses.

Bucky’s head dropped back, his jaw flexing as he held your hips pinned. You watched him, glassy-eyed and adoring, as every muscle in his chest locked. “Christ,” he panted, eyes flickering to Steve, “This is unreal.” He pulled halfway out—slow, slow—then pushed in again, a wet, obscene sound marking every inch. “She’s still squeezing me, even after you ruined her.” Bucky’s grin was all teeth, all pride and filth. “Can feel your mess inside her, Steve. So fucking wet she’s dripping down my balls.”

You moaned in the hinge between them, wrung out and wild, as Bucky fucked you through the last quakes and Steve’s hand fanned gently against your throat, thumb pressing the pulse there like he wanted to count your heartbeats—maybe hold them for ransom.

Bucky let out a ragged exhalation and pulled out, the head of his cock dragging on hypersensitive nerves, leaving you gaping and gasping and dripping. Bucky didn’t bother to hide his satisfaction. Instead, he watched the spill with a sick, loving sort of pride, then reached down, scooped his own cum with his fingers and smeared it over your breasts, painting you in it, mixing it with his best friend’s seed until your whole chest was slick with it. He held you there for a moment, painted and panting and caught in the liminal pleasure, before tilting your face up and licking a stripe from your collarbone to your jaw, tongue lazy and flat. Bucky’s mouth found yours, and you tasted the salt of Steve and yourself on his lips. You kissed him like you were dying, and Bucky kissed you back harder, swallowing you whole.

Steve’s voice burrowed into your ear with shocking gravity, arms closing around your limp torso as if to protect you from the world outside this narrow, unrepeatable moment. “You are so fucking beautiful ruined like this,” he said, voice half-reverent.

Bucky’s thumb pressed under your chin, tilting your face: “You want more, don’t you?” You did. That was the devastating truth of it. Even as your body ached and stung from orgasm, you wanted all the ways they touched you, every version of this night.

“Are you sure, Buck?” Steve asked, incredulous.

Bucky’s laugh was a bright, sharp crack in the haze, so full of delight it rang in your bones. “Oh, sweetheart. Steve has no idea what you’re capable of after a few more rounds.”

He bent over you, hands braced by your head, and pressed a kiss to the center of your brow—a benediction at odds with the lazy trail of his hand down your body, cupping your breast, then skimming the mess he and Steve had left there. He rubbed their slick together with an idle curiosity, like a child finger-painting, until Steve’s hand joined his, pinching a nipple between two careful fingers and rolling it until you arched up, spent muscles clenching with electric aftershock.

“We could let her rest,” Bucky said, tongue laving your earlobe as he spoke, “but why waste a perfectly good afterglow when you haven’t even fucked my wife in the shower yet?”

WE ALL KNOW I'M RARELY CAPABLE OF CUTTING SOMETHING DOWN

SO

I HOPE YOU'RE ALL HAPPY/RUINED RIGHT ALONGSIDE ME.

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