But it seems like you won't even make it there in the first place. Robert wraps his arms around your neck, forcing his ass to follow your thrusts. He can't wait for more, he needs more.

The car shakes, the energy drinks on the floor clank against each other. His car is the only thing you see from him about the way that he lives—dust in the corners of cup holders, stained leather seats, random papers and receipts in the glove box—but even then, he keeps it cleaner than most of his other things.

The teeth of your jeans sting against the skin of his ass, but he doesn't care. He lives for this filth of lube squelching with each of your movements and yearns for the come that will leak out of his ass. The stains will linger with the rest, fit right in.

"Ah," Robert calls your name, head falling back. He calls it again and again, legs falling all the wider, "please."

Dirty fucks in unlit parking lots, visits to your house. You're his boyfriend, not his partner. It's casual. You don't know he's mechaman, don't know he works for SDN, don't know that he lives in a dingy apartment. Hell, you haven't met his dog.

"Beg."

Robert half-groans half-cries, "Please," Its more of a please don't make me beg, but it becomes soon after just what you wanted, "please, please, please!"

You get his prostate; he cries, but also, fine, you've hit it before, but then you do it again, and again, and fuck, Robert's nails scratch down your back.

His filthy, dirty nails. You think he's a mechanic, the way his shirts always have some kind of oil stain on them, even the nice ones. He used to smell dirty, musky, but he's been better about showers since you... at least that's what you think.

There's fog on the windows, heat between your bodies, sweat at Robert's brow, sweat that makes his back stick to the seats and hurts when he peels off them to arch.

"Oh my god!" Robert cries, nails finding their final destination some way down your back. They sting, but it's nothing compared to his tight hole around your cock.

You swear he wants to milk you, and fuck, don't you want it too? You want to fuck him full. Your cock is great at it already—but you want to make it last.

You fuck him like a piston, a monster, Robert yells.

...

You regain your breath, cringe at the pleasure your sensitive cock gets as you slide out of his ass. He's leaking, but it's his car and you can't seem to care. You really only care about him, "I'm right here."

"Yeah, I know you fucking are." Robert opens his eyes, back to tired and sarcastic, but he smiles. "Hey, you."

"Hey, you." You mirror, leaning down to kiss him.

You think you read something once in your teens about men with assholes that leaked just like cunts do, and you wonder if it feels just like this.

It’s not sticky, not like come, but it makes it fucking easy to slide your cock in n’ out of him, Herman, and you love it. You love that it’s so easy to take him whenever you want to, to pull him into the janitor’s closet because he is the janitor, so there’s no fear of anyone comin’ knocking. You love, also, that he lets you.

Herman is so eager to have your cock in his ass that he gushes like a waterfall. It’s not sticky, like come, but it’s still filthy. You like to see it dribble out of his ass, in a ring around your cock, and down his thighs, it’s like he’s squirted.

The only problem is, of course, is the noise.

Herman can’t keep his mouth shut. He’s eager to speak, eager to tell you how good you’re fuckin’ him through stutters and whines, and even more eager to moan. It’s beautiful, really, and only makes you throb harder—but you have coworkers.

“‘S too much,” Herman whines, a wince following his words, but the way he pushes his ass against your pelvis and squeezes around you says otherwise. “p-please, I-“

“Shut up.” It’s harsh, but Herman likes it. You can tell, as another wave of not-come but opaque water rushes around your cock.

Herman's head slumps forward as he arches his back. His lips fall open with a moan, and you take the opportunity to shove your fingers into his mouth.

"Oh my god–!" He gasps, muffled and wet around your index and middle.

"What did I tell you? Shut it."

His mouth is even wetter, but it's sticky and satisfying, with the way he sucks and slobbers like he'd rather it be your cock.

Soon enough, you pick up the pace, fucking his body into the crate you've got him bent over, and Herman can't keep up anymore. He gags around your fingers—but you don't even think to stop, because he keeps sucking. He wants them.

"You fuckin' like that?"

Herman whines, lips smacking as they part, but you shut them once more with a thumb on the underside of his jaw. He nods his head instead, vigorously.

Even with his lips shut, he moans like a bitch in heat. You'd be lying if you said it didn't turn you on... if it didn't make you take him harder.

"Hi." Robert replies, eyes already shut. No better place in the world to go to sleep than on his boyfriend's chest... wandering hands all but make it easier.

They start at his hair, scratching the itch left behind by the pressure of the headset on his head; then another hand peruses the buttons of his shirt and sneaks under, light, gentle, chaste. It's a warm touch over his heart, delivered by a smooth hand. You might as well be lulling a puppy to sleep, with the way he melts under your touch.

"Hard day?"

"Yes." Robert pauses to sigh with pleasure, "Feels like I take care of a gang of children everyday."

"So you've said."

Robert snorts, "So I've–". He cuts himself off with a groan, involuntarily, as you flick at his nipple.

"Sorry, is that okay?"

He clears his throat as heat rushes to his cock, trying to regain a semblance of control. "Yeah, that's okay, babe."

"Good." You murmur against his hair. Your fingers continue where they are, caressing Robert's sparsely hairy chest, then flicking his nipple randomly. It drags sparse whimpers from his throat, but they grow all the more frequent as your other hand runs down his side and settles on his thigh. You pull it aside and the other follows like a mirror.

Robert spreads his legs for you, but you don't do anything about it just yet. You just caress the inside of his thigh, drawing and closer and closer to the imprint of his growing cock in his pants.

"I..."

"You want to tell me about your day?" You ask, and Robert hums a yes. "Okay."

Your hand doesn't wander any higher and your fingers leave his nipples as you let him speak. You're sure that's not what he meant to do, but you take the opportunity to unbutton the rest of his shirt as he speaks.

"–and I know he means well, they all do, to some extent. Even Chad. He's–"

You draw circles over his sternum then drag that hand over his abdomen, tracing the faint lines of his abs. Then you hook your thumb around his waist, appreciating its slenderness.

"–everytime Herman fucks up on a mission, I have to remind myself he's just a rookie. I'm sure I'd handle that just fine if the other fuckers didn't mention it all the time–"

You grow bored eventually—well, not bored. Restless, because you have this shirtless man, your boyfriend, splayed over you.

So you bring your hand back up again, discrete about it, and flick his nipple. It breaks his trance, obviously, but you continue. You press the pad of your index finger against it and rub.

"Sorry." You mutter, but you don't stop, and Robert doesn't want you to.

"Keep–" He lets out something between a wince and a whimper. "keep going."

When your hand at his crotch grows closer, Robert holds his breath in anticipation. You can hear it. You give him what he wants, a quick swipe over the silhouette of his cock, and the breath he was holding blows out.

"Sounds like a hard day." You say, keeping a heavy palm over the base of his cock to rub your thumb over the rest of it. Teasing or just foreplay? "Tiring too, I can imagine it: sitting at that desk for god knows how long, stuck in one place."

Robert can certainly hear you, but he tunes it out in favor of the pressure on his dick. "Please."

"Good boy," Robert whines at that, and you continue, "I was just waiting for that."

As much as Robert claims that he doesn't like the pet name, you felt him throb clear as day. Regardless, you don't make him wait any longer. You undo his pants, which he lifts his hips for so obediently, then pull down his underwear; and there's his cock, just waiting for you.

You twist his nipple instead, making him yelp a "fuck!". He shudders, evident in his voice, as you keep rubbing it straight after, forcing jittery shocks up his spine.

You don't let up, pushing your thumb against slit of his cockhead. He's leaking already—and there you have it: Mechaman reduced to tatters in seconds.

He’s a groaner more than a moaner, most times, but right now he doesn’t care about what sounds come out of his mouth. Your hands on him, jerkin’ him off, are more dirty than tender. They have purpose, and Robert wants more. He bucks into your hand, seeking pleasure, and when he realizes you don’t stop him, he loses it.

Look at him: half-naked in his work clothes, pants pooled at his ankles like he couldn’t wait, because he couldn’t. His muscles jump under your touch, jittery, when you run your hands over the soft inside of his thigh, forcing his legs further apart. His feet dig into couch cushions for better leverage to fuck into your fist. Soon enough, you don’t have to do anything except let him fuck into it… and thumb at his tip.

Robert leaks all the more when you do it, and you gather it in your hand, slather it all over his length. He shudders the closer he gets, hips just as stuttery.

He actually looks great like this, a mess. Not the kind that he usually is, a slob with no trash can but a heavy black bag instead, that kind; but the kind that’s usually tidy with the things he says, who can control his instincts. He’s a mess, because he’s surrendering to them now, chasing that white-hot pleasure.

Your hand returns to his nipple, flicking and flicking relentlessly, then the base of his neck, where Robert’s breath hitches and he finally quiets down for a second.

“You need this?”

“Yes, I do.” Robert nods his head vigorously, opening to look up at you. He’s glassy-eyed in the best way possible, like a puppy, but that’s about where that ends. His mouth is open, more like a slut than a man catching flies.

“Then go and get it.” Fetch.

You let him work for it, and he does. The more he fucks into your fist, the more he pushes it away, and it forces him to reach higher with each consequent thrust. He does so, anyway, because he needs it. If he doesn’t come right now he might just die.

But that’s not a concern, even as the thought occurs to him that you might just rip your hand away. You wouldn’t, wouldn’t you? You don’t even know how close he is—won’t know, not until he finishes.

Robert’s back arches as he comes, feet slipping where they were planted on the couch. His cock spurts hot streaks of come all over your fist, over the cushions, but he doesn’t think about it until his body falls back down onto yours.

You help him through it, of course, finally putting your hand to work again with its own motions. At first it feels good, like a guiding hand, like extra pleasure piled on like a tip… but then when you’ve milked him through and you continue, Robert winces.

His hand snaps towards your wrist, holding it tight, but not… not stopping. He trusts you, just, “Sir,” He never calls you that—even if you ask him to—but the way his words are slurred, you can tell he’s in that headspace. “please. What are you doin–?”

“You’ve got more in you. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” You say, and Robert holds his tongue. You rub your palm over his tip, only his tip, while his fingers remain around your wrist like an accomplice.

He swallows down any protests, “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.”

He wanted to come, but this is more than that. Overstimulation overpowers, but pleasure begins to grow under it and it makes Robert whimper uncontrollably. He feels something else building up in his stomach, something new, like you’re asking for more than what he has to give.

He squirts with a yelp, thin, watery liquid that’s nothing like come. You take your hand away and watch as Robert’s tip shoots spurts of it, so much it looks like it won’t end until it does. Something about the sight of it makes a guilty pleasure rise up in Robert’s chest, knowing that you’ve taken him fully… also knowing that he can squirt, and clearly you find it fascinating.

The hand at his neck pushes his chin up so that he’ll look at you, and he does: little furrowed brows unknit themselves at the sight of you. “Didn’t know I could do that.”

“Well? Did you like it?” That smug grin on your face makes him want to say no.

But he doesn’t. “Yeah... thank you.”

It must also be why you let him wrap his arms around your midriff as you cook for him, for the both of you, as if you're still his.

"You smell good." You hum, stirring a pot of something.

Frankly, he smells like you. He smells like your shampoo and like your conditioner and like your soap. It almost tricks your brain into thinking he's still yours.

"Don't say things like that." Buck grumbles, like he usually does. "That's weird."

You didn't say that when we dated, is what you would say, but you don't want to turn things sour.

You know that in his little head he's pretending that everything's fine and that you're still together; and that saying something, reminding him you're not or even anything about the past, will urge him to run away, like he usually does.

So you remain here, laughing and smiling, "Sure."

Mac and cheese. Not Kraft Dinner, for once, however good the processed and preserved cheese and thin noodles might taste.

No, James deserved something better.

"What did you do today?"

"That's classified."

Between the metal arm and occasional blood smell Bucky gives off (nevermind the fact he was America's number 1 threat a couple years ago), "Yeah, I know. Was worth a try, anyway."

Bucky picks at his dinner. "You've got better small talk."

You roll your eyes, "If not what you did, how did you feel?"

"Hmm." Bucky hums, his eyebrows raised. He's a little surprised at the question, despite it being 'how are you' but like in the past tense. "Lonely, but you knew that."

"Did I?" He stares up at you when you say that, expression full deadpan. "Alright. Yeah, I did."

He huffs a small laugh through his nose and you relish in the fact you at least brought that out from him.

You insist on him sleeping in your bed tonight (with you) but even after all that begging, you're surprised to find him there, body half under the blanket, when you slip out of the shower.

He looks yours.

He's wearing your pajamas he borrowed, he's on your bed, under your covers, cleaned in your shower, filled with your food. He's reading a book, even, which isn't yours, but it is domestic.

"Hey." You whisper almost breathlessly, before you're crawling into bed and into his arms. He always liked being big spoon.

"Hey, you." Bucky puts the book down without a fight. He scoots down to laying, bringing you down with him.

You're leaning your body over his, half on the bed, half on him. Your head lays on his chest, hearing his heartbeat. He's superhuman you think, from all the hints he's given, and yet his heart beats just like yours, soothingly. His hand is in your hair, calloused as it is, it feels great when he runs his fingers through your strands and touches your scalp. You won't get to feel the other hand. It's too cold, he used to say, but at least he's considerate.

He switches off the light.

What is it that makes superheroes attracted to you?

In the morning, someone rings your doorbell while you were making breakfast.

It's Sam—you know, the Falcon? He's got his usual bright smile that never fails to incite a matching one on yours, that morning run sheen over his forehead, and...groceries?

"Hey, sweetheart." He greets, as if he's not knocking on your door unwarned, with groceries you're sure aren't his because he lives far from here.

You don't know why you let Sam show up at your door like this, or why you invite him inside, or why you let him eat your food or shower with your water or sleep on your couch; except today it seems he's paying you back for the food bit.

"Hey yourself–" You greet quickly, before turning to the matter at hand, "what are you doing here?"

"I was in town." Sam puts a foot into your apartment, and you let him. You let him step inside and leave the groceries on the counter and prop his feet up on the table—not that he does that last thing. "Thought I'd pay you a visit. You still like Kit Kats?"

When you check the groceries, lo and behold, there's the Kit Kats that you like. It seems he remembers a lot more than that, like your favorite cheese, favorite chips, favorite brand of instant coffee, and more.

"Yep, I do." You let out a small laugh. "Thank you. Hey, let me repay you."

"Oh, nuh-uh." Sam raises his arms, rounds the breakfast bar and leans against it so he can put some distance between you and your wallet. "I'm not taking any of your money, y'understand? You can pay me back with those pancakes you've got piled up."

When he actually really looks at them, he realizes that's not a serving for one. His eyebrows furrow before his face lights up again, "Shit, you got a boo around or something? I didn't mean to intrude."

"No!" You're quick to interject, "No, just a friend. No worries, I'll make you some pancakes."

"Thanks." Sam seems to deflate–physically and emotionally–with relief. "Where is he–or she, sorry, they?"

"Sleeping in."

"Alright." He accepts easily. He must've lost the knowledge that you don't have a guest bed.

"How've you been?" You ask, turning your back to him to prepare more breakfast.

You don't have to see him anyway to imagine all of the emotions and expressions on his face. "Peachy. You know, saving the world. Getting called out or stopped on the street for an autograph or a picture. The usual."

"Make sure the world knows you don't live here." You chuckle, "Lord knows the amount of fan mail I got when you were around frequently."

Sam laughs too. "Imagine me now."

Mm, there goes your streak of luck. Just as Bucky struts in, in all his bed hair, sleepy head, pretty face glory, Sam's face turns sour. Bucky, too, sobers up.

"Is that who you're calling your friend?" Sam raises a brow, leaning back in his chair.

"Sam? What are you doing here?" Bucky crosses his arms.

You immediately turn off the heat on the stove, knowing that this is going to be a long ride.

See...you never really told them you dated the other? It never really came up, or rather, you shouldn't take to your partner about your exes.

James came first, so of course there was no telling that you'd date Sam later on. He broke up with you because of his whole Winter Soldier you're-in-danger-if-you-stay-with-me thing, which, though heartbreaking, was understandable coming from a superhero dating a civie.

Sam came after, but he had whisked you so entirely into his world and his charm that you'd forgotten the soft relationship you had with Bucky. He broke up with you because he had to be around the world doing this and that; he was always busy, and he didn't want you to deal with that.

Also, the beef between the Winter Soldier and the Falcon isn't exactly well-known.

Jealous, that's what they are. It's clear in their eyes, in the way they bore holes into the others' faces.

"I should...say something," before the two of you blow lasers through my ceiling, with how hard you stare at each other, "you guys are my exes."

"Exes." Sam mirrors. "Plural."

"You dated this guy?" Bucky asks, like the mere thought of it is repulsive.

"Who you calling "this guy"? We have history, Buck. You talk about history with names, Sergeant Barnes." Sam stands tall and proud in front of Bucky, very nearly chest to chest, demanding respect.

"Sergeant? So should I call you what you will be, in history?" Bucky doesn't back down. "The man who gave up his shield?"

"Don't bring that up, man. This is not about that. This is about you dating my–" Sam cuts himself off. What are you, now?

"Your what?" Bucky hisses back. "Because he sure as hell isn't your boyfriend."

Sam regains his courage, "Well he sure as hell ain't yours, either."

Bucky turns his head towards you, slowly. In a snap, Sam does the same. You can't possibly discern the thoughts of the two men before you, except that they're angry. You're just not sure if they're angry at you too.

"This is where we're supposed to call you a lying, cheating bastard." Sam says.

Despite being angry at each other right now, and generally inamicable at all times, Sam and Bucky have synergy. Right now, they're realizing that you're the common factor in this equation.

You're not a liar, not a cheater, and not a bastard. Just an omitter, a bad communicator.

A man worthy of insulting, by all means.

Or a man worthy of worship, someway, somehow.

Sam's tongue licks hot into your mouth, against your tongue, on your lips. He kisses with a fervor, like today is the last day of his life. He's a man of passion, and he makes sure to show that he is passionate for you.

Bucky's tongue, by contrast, is licking up the side of your length, shoved deep into his throat. He takes it slow, despite the filth of it; the filth of how easy it is to slide right down his throat. His lack of gag reflex means he can take you any time, any day, and his love for you makes it hard not to.

Sam's holding your jaw, forcing your head to turn for him. Standing behind you and the couch, he almost seems to be taking your sight away from the other man on his knees at your feet.

Because if there's something Sam is, it isn't the other man.

James knows, unlike Sam, that you don't need the sight of him to feel the pleasure he brings. How does he know this?

Well, the only way Sam can have his way with you is with your mouth open, and Bucky can hear what keeps it open.

On your part, well, there's only so much yearning a man can take. Cuddling with your ex is one thing, receiving gifts from your ex is another. Both give you the hots for them—a cozy, warm feeling, initially, but it feels like your blood is boiling now, in a good way.

Sam's kisses give you an outlet for your passion and lust. It allows you to kiss back, show some fervor of your own, do something with the adrenaline that burns through your veins from Bucky's...

"Shit, Buck."

He feels so good around you. His throat is tight and wet and hot and so goddamn like the first time that it reminds you that you taught him, trained him; and God, that means his throat is practically made for you.

He doesn't bob his head. It doesn't feel like that. It feels like a glide, something elegant, even. You can't appreciate that at the front of your mind, but your subconscious is glad that, though you're being stimulated top and bottom, Buck's going easy.

He's going easy on you. God...

If this is easy—no, you know how it is when he goes down hard. It's good too, but you can't complain about the pleasure and how you can thrust (lightly) right into his mouth and he won't complain.

And Sam's having none of it.

That's why he takes charge, this time. He takes your cock. Nevermind the fact Bucky's saliva is all over it, it's his now, and he's not going to let Bucky have any of it.

...nevermind the fact Bucky's saliva is in him now. No, nevermind that.

Sam doesn't make up for a lack of anything. He's a plus, a surplus, rolling his hips nice and rough and down into you. He doesn't let it be consistent. He shocks you, bouncing sometimes, lifting up and lets his weight do the work for him.

He's good at it, and it's a fact he knows.

And it's all about focus, isn't it?

James knows it. He knows it so well. So what better way to steal the show than to sit on your face?

It's killing two birds with one stone—steal his man's attention, get pleasure out of it.

Bucky rocks his hips too. Except it's gentle, his way, and Sam's pace gets more and more angry. He's rougher with it, faster with it, less controlled. You feel it thoroughly, his efforts around your dick, and you moan out your approval of it; but it gets swallowed straight into Bucky's hole.

He tastes so sweet, damn near sweeter than he used to be. It's missing him, you think. Something about build up. He probably hasn't had anyone since you.

At least, not in this way. No, you're probably the only man he's ever had. You can only moan about that little fact in your head.

Sam grits his teeth, doubles his efforts till his body positively shakes, but no name will come from your lips. Not with Bucky keeping your tongue preoccupied.

That damn bastard.

He can't even see your face right now. He can only see Bucky's backside, his broad shoulders, the evidence of his strong, heaving chest.

...he can only see his thick thighs, covered in hairs, and his hole's probably hairy too. He can't take a peak of it, but he doesn't even need to peak to see his cheeks. Round, full...

There's more to this, isn't there?

It's kind of...it's arousing to look at. Sam won't admit it in voice, but he'll admit it in his head.

James is a good looking man, and he sounds just as good. He's sat on that face before, used that tongue before, he knows how good you give. The soft moans James lets out are tame in comparison.