bubcky

you hear the water still running, but you finally understand how wade feels, this can’t wait. you open the bathroom door and throw the toilet lid down, unsure if wade even heard you enter over the sound of his own voice belting hall and oates’ greatest hits.

you sit down and let out an overdramatic sigh. your boyfriend’s voice quiets down halfway through “out of touch”

“honey bear? you’re home! these stab wounds will heal in about two minutes then you can join me. i know how you feel about seeing intestines, and i don’t want to make you gag…well scratch that i do sometimes—“

“i fucking hate men.”

you hear the sound of the shower curtain opening slightly, and wade’s head peaks out, looking at you with wide eyes, “woah language, babydoll! you know degradation turns me on.” his head tilts to the side, noticing the distress written on your face “but i have a feeling this isn’t about me…”

you spare him a narrowed glance, then watch as his head disappears. the curtain closes and you hear the water hit skin again as he resumes his shower. he’s giving you time to speak. remarkable.

“you remember that guy i told you about? the one that gave me major creep vibes? and was just an all around dick?”

you get a hum in response, and you can’t see it, but you know wade is physically biting his tongue so he doesn’t say anything. it’s endearing in a way.

you rub your face with your hands, the memory of what you’re about to say lights the fire of anger again, “well. guess who got that promotion i was being eyed for? i’ll give you a hint, it’s not someone with a vagina! and on top of that, i saw him try to look under my skirt as i was leaving! that fuck.”

you almost regretted telling him that last part, knowing where this was going. but your mind was clouded by frustration, and the water was already turned off. the rings screech against the metal shower rod as wade throws the curtain open, reaching over your head for a towel. “okay sweet thing. where does this cock suck and fuck live?”

your eyes catch a glimpse of red turning pink as it swirled into the tub drain. you shake your head, suddenly realizing the severity of what your mercenary boyfriend was implying. “no no babe please it’s not that serious! and you just got home. not to mention if people found out, you’d get in so much trouble all because of something silly that happened to me and—“

a long finger is placed over your lips. you’re eye level with wade’s v line, partially covered by the towel now wrapped around his waist. you trail your eyes upward, locking them with the one who interrupted your rambling.

“shhh. nonsense kitten. now. you’re going to tell me this guy’s address, and i’m going to go out for…” wade uses his free arm to look at a make believe watch, “hmm, about an hour. while i’m gone, you’re going to change out of this sexy pantsuit. then have a glass of wine, and touch yourself while you think of me fondly. i’ll grab dinner on the way home. yes?”

when you nod with wide eyes in agreement, he removes his finger, bending down to meet your face, “atta girl.” he praises as his lips graze your own, kiss light as a feather. he clears his throat then, patting your cheek a few times as he stands up to walk out of the bathroom. whistling as if murder was all in a day’s work (you suppose for him it is)

you sit there stunned, wondering if you just got your coworker murdered….and why you were so turned on.

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But you technically weren’t a random girl—okay, to you Spider-man could have been anyone—but to Peter, the guy under the mask, you were friends. Not that you knew that, he had to remind himself when he’d saved you all those nights ago, felt the harsh pang of your heartbeat thrumming hard in your chest against him as he swung you away from a gaggle of muggers who had cornered you down some vacant alleyway.

He had told you not to walk home alone—Peter, not Spider-Man—offered to walk with you despite being on the opposite end of town. But you denied, claiming it was out of the way, Peter could only bite his lip to keep from saying, “Not that out of the way.”

It wasn’t very honorable of Pete to admit that he was relieved that you didn’t know his secret identity as Spiderman, not because he didn’t trust you, but because your demeanor to meeting the masked vigilante for what you thought was the first time was very different then the friend Peter knew.

It went to Pete’s head a little bit, the way you shuffled under his gaze, those who knew who Spider-Man was always said there was a certain confidence Peter took on while wearing the mask, that didn’t dim despite the anxious nerves settled in the pit of his stomach standing before you. But you hardly noticed. Eyes peeling over the sculpted muscle the suit outlined in the dim street lights, teeth pressing indents to your lips as you thanked him, a lowly sultry tone Peter had never heard come from you as you pressed a bold kiss to the material against the corner of his mouth. He spent a better part of patrol adjusting the increasingly snug material of his suit over his crotch and thinking of non-sexual things to calm himself—overly cautious over having a hard on in front of the absolutely wrong company.

He was going to swing away when he heard the familiar jangle of keys, how he usually did when he saw that you had gotten home safe and sound, the distant view of your figure watching him swing away making Pete acutely aware of how non-discreet he had been. But he was stunned to see your slanted smile at the sight of the sat figure on your fire escape. The windowsill screeched when you peeled it open, an expectant gaze settled on the mask, “Slow night?”

“Just….making my nightly rounds. Thought I’d check in,” he cleared his throat. “But you look good—safe, I mean you look safe. No creeps following you home, from what I can see, so, I’ll just…”

“You don’t want to come inside?” you drawl, leaning over to plant your hands on the windowsill, cleavage shadowed in the evening light. “I mean, you might as well look around. Since you’re here.”

“Yeah…that’s a good idea,” he slinks off the fire escape, head dipping down in front of yours, palm pressed to the glass, above your head, “You know, just to make sure. It is my job afterall.”

Peter was jealous of himself. Acutely aware of how ridiculous that sounded, he was so beyond envious of Spiderman in this exact moment. Jaw slack, the whites of his mask narrowed at the sight of your dress peeling up over your spread thighs, the thin veil of your panties doing little to restrict the jolts of pleasure that shot through your body with each drag of your cunt against the solid outline of Peter’s thick cock restrained in the suit. Pete could feel the parting of your slick pussy pressed against him, dragging along the length of him, a patch of your wetness seeping through your panties onto the suit. “Oh my god—shit—spidey,” you panted harshly, hands planted firmly on the broad muscle of his shoulders, using the leverage to grind your aching clit against the webbed ridges of the suit, “You really can’t fuck me in this?” you rasped, fingers curling into the taut fabric, Spider-man’s mask regretfully shaking side the side, gloved fingers dimpling the fat of your hips as he bucks his hips up, making you squeal.

What surprised you the most was how similar they were. Not in superficial ways, of course. Bob couldn’t live his life to the rhythm of alarms if said life depended on it. John’s day was scheduled and regimented from 5:30AM onward. Trying to convince Bob to step foot in the gym was like trying to persuade a picky toddler they loved broccoli, actually, they just didn’t know it yet. John couldn’t be kicked out of the gym early by anything less than a world-ending threat or Bucky’s protein shake farts. Bob’s diet looked like something conceived by a deranged clown, and John’s was virtually the same day in and day out, with precisely one cheat day, during which he maybe—maybe—indulged in chocolate protein pudding, of all fucking things.

But in broad strokes, they were more alike than either would care to admit. Consistency, understanding, validation. If either of them needed time alone, time away, someone was around to pick up the slack. You weren’t left wondering or alone, or worse, left feeling rejected. But you noticed those hard days for everyone coming less and less, like this new thing you were building was lending a stability you had all been missing. And immediately after any bedroom activities, particularly when it got wild, you were the priority, cuddling up to one or both of them to be shepherded out of the intense headspace that sometimes came with being the focal point in a triangle. In the daylight, though, you made sure they were both appreciated.

John was straightforward. He wanted to feel needed, like your protector. He was often out the door before you and Bob woke up, but you made sure to text him on the side as soon as you crawled out of bed to make coffee.

you were such a stud last night <3

i feel so safe in your arms

can’t believe you’re mine

John would heart every message and never bring them up in person, but you knew. You knew he needed the affirmation.

Bob required a defter approach. He wanted to be both protector and protected. When John wasn’t around, he liked to laze in your arms, face tight to your chest, melting into you while you combed your fingers through his hair.

“You’re safe with me,” you would promise. “Anything you need, you can have it.”

The apartment was John’s idea. He had reasonable concerns about optics, about how it would look if the three of you were disappearing into a single bedroom together in the Watchtower on the nights when group activities called to you. For the moment, This was a secret. You had no idea how long that would last, but having a shared private space might buy you a bit more time before an extremely awkward conversation was had with the rest of the team.

John was macho about it when Bob wanted to chip in for rent, but even a shoebox in Midtown was eye-wateringly expensive. He was even less enthusiastic when you insisted on paying the utility and Internet bills.

“We’re all going to have to get real comfy with sharing,” you told John, firm, Venmoing him the money against his will.

But the apartment made things easier. Smoothed out the bumps you were beginning to worry would jolt this unwieldy, overburdened circus right off the road and into a flaming ditch. And you watched as both men gravitated toward what they would—Bob liked finding random shit at flea markets to decorate, warming up the space with rugs and curtains, all thrifted, all mismatched. John replaced the showerhead with something more pressurized than a drowning man coughing up water and fixed the wonky toilet without anyone needing to call a plumber. Showering with company was a sensory nightmare for Bob, but John loved to hop in with you, shampooing your hair and kissing you slowly while he dipped you through the water.

John was an unexpectedly proficient cook, but you were no slouch, and if it was just you and him there, dinner got made in companionable silence, your most recent playlist fixation soft through your phone speaker, a bottle of wine shared between you. If Bob was present, he sat at the tiny breakfast table scrolling or reading, sometimes hitting you with things like, “Did you know the clouds are never the same color as the sky?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you would see John’s mouth wobble, and you would stare and stare, willing him to say something nice. “No, Bob,” he would mutter, with Herculean effort. “I didn’t know that.”

The two of you kept things running. Bob’s role was different. If you were there together, packed onto the single secondhand sofa, watching whatever all three of you could agree upon (Antiques Roadshow, Ken Burns documentaries, and increasingly, to John’s everlasting shame, Love Island), Bob would eventually get antsy. He would stand to stretch, collect some water from the cramped closet of a kitchen, drink it standing up, then bend down to brush a kiss against your ear.

“Anyone else bored?” he would say, or, “There’s only so much I need to know about Ben Franklin, right? I mean, we get it, you invented electricity, move on…”

John would reach for the remote while you were already crawling off the couch and into Bob’s arms. Bob liked to undress you, right there by the couch, the triple reinforced bed (a splurge John had waved off, though you knew it must have cost him a fortune) just a few steps away. While you were gently stripped, Bob’s lips attached to yours with feverish devotion, John turned off the lamps that weren’t necessary. Of course, Bob could do that with a thought, but it was just the way things unfolded. It gave space to the transition, allowed John to collect his thoughts while he turned down the covers, removed his own clothes, fetched towels, small domestic gestures that seemed to ground him.

There weren’t many rules so far except “no” was a full sentence and not the opening for negotiation, but another important one was that there were never any secrets as far as who was where and doing what. If you were alone at the apartment with John, Bob knew about it, and vice versa. Details of what transpired were shared upon request; Bob always wanted to know everything, John often less curious, sometimes only asking, “Did you have fun together?”

He was saying Bob’s name more and more, but you knew it was a challenge for him. This was an eeny-weeny itsy-bitsy departure from his previously vanilla experiences. But Bob liked to hear exactly what John had done to you, on the couch or the bed, for how long. How many times did you come, how many times did he. Sometimes this inventory was provided while John was right there next to you in bed, chest rising and falling hard as his eyes drifted shut in pleasure hearing you recall all the ways he had made you come undone.

Sitting with your back against John and his back against the headboard, Bob would kneel between your thighs, spreading them open, teasing playfully just outside the boundaries of your sex, eyes intent on you and then on John, like he was just as turned on by John hearing the replay of your exploits.

“Did he make you feel good?” Bob would ask, voice hushing as he watched you shiver and nod. “Where, babe? Show me.”

You’d hear John groan, jerking off underneath the sheet, occasionally still modest about that sort of thing being out in the open. He was getting there, thawing layer by layer, trying new things at a clip you found genuinely impressive.

And you would show Bob, taking his hand by the wrist and dragging his fingers to your pussy. “Here. It still aches.”

“I bet. I wanna make you ache too, should we do that?”

No was always on the table, but so rarely used it was starting to gather dust.

There was a language developing, too. Codes. While Bob undressed you and urged you toward the bed, a gentle inquiry began.

“How are you feeling tonight, babe?” Bob asked, sucking your lip between his teeth while you considered your answer. ‘Sweet’ meant it might be standard and somewhat brief, each of them making love to you in turn, the order never established until you were in the moment. ‘Sleepy’ meant there might not be sex at all, just three warm bodies sharing heat, cuddling, lazy fondling that sometimes went further, but just as often ended chastely, with goodnight kisses and Bob reading on his phone until he passed out against your back. ‘Messy’ was Bob’s favorite answer. You could see it instantly, the change in him, the way his eyes danced with gold, his kiss hungrier when he reached for you again.

Those nights were unpredictable, as close as you got to recreating the circumstances that initially inspired This. Bob kept an expanding collection of lubricants, clamps, collars, gags, flogs, cuffs, and vibrators in the bottom nightstand drawer. Once you were finally in bed, John lying on his side behind you, Bob would sheepishly draw out some new item, fidgeting nervously, eyes darting, like it was the weirdest show and tell imaginable.

John rarely had a strong opinion, although you got the feeling he liked you in the collars and the ball gag. You were working up to asking him to wear it, because there were weighty mental images visiting you in your cum-soaked dreams.

You both indulged Bob’s creative side when it came to these novelties. It excited him, fulfilled him, and you certainly had no complaints. It was never a complete surprise for you. Bob would text you on the side, sometimes while at the sex shop. Is this too weird? or Can we try this? or Babe you would look so fucking hot with this…

The lingerie was all John. Southern, traditional, ramrod John, could be a man of simple tastes. He liked a beautiful woman in a beautiful lacy thing. Bob was less interested in the outfits, but again, he was fine making the concession.

On ‘Messy’ nights, the only structure to it was the initial order. Bob wanted John to go first, he wanted you warmed up, fucked out, and a little sloppy before he had his fun. He liked your pussy swollen and full, got a thrill fingering John’s cum into you and spreading it all over your clit, painting like an artist at work, showing John how wet and sensitive you were. The first time it happened without the dust, you heard John make a sound like he was wounded, but then his eyes got dark and focused, and you saw his dick start to thicken again on his thigh, like the ghost of that night had possessed him, possessed you all, and there was no outrunning it.

There was only the giving in. There was only John holding you tight to his big, warm chest while Bob fucked you achingly slow, your legs hooked over his shoulders, his eyes eating up the way your tits bounced for him. On those nights, the towels never got used until the end, until it was so late you could hear the city waking up around you, until you couldn’t speak or think, just lie still while the bruises started to heal and your pussy leaked like a busted tap.

John liked to clean you up. Soothing words. Gentle kisses. A warm wash cloth. Ice-water. Tylenol.

It was after one of those messy nights that you woke up to something new.

Normally, all three of you were dead to the world until John’s fucking alarm, which he would silence with a mumbled apology. Certain aspects of that morning were in line with previous ones—you, sprawled halfway across the hairy wall of John’s chest and right thigh, a towel tucked under your hips for obvious reasons, and Bob thrown across your back and butt and legs like he had been dropped from outer space.

John’s alarm hadn’t ruined everything, so it had to be early early. You heard birds somewhere outside. Birds and the low rumbling of two male voices as they discussed something, under the impression that you were still fast asleep. Which you pretended to be, while listening harder than you had ever listened in your life.

“Come on, man, you’ve thought about it,” Bob was saying. He was on his side behind you, propped up on one elbow, his right hand stroking lightly up and down your flank.

“No, Reynolds, I really haven’t.”

John only used his last name when he was getting irritated. His fingertips swirled absent shapes across your scalp. What the fuck were they bickering about at the ass crack of dawn?

“Both of us at the same time,” Bob said, like he was picking up a dropped thread. “Think of how tight she’d be…”

“It would kill her,” John replied flatly.

“No, it wouldn’t. We’ll go slow.” Bob’s fingers moved inward, dancing up to your lower back, then down, hesitating just where your back became your ass. “I’ll train her.”

“Like a fucking dog? Jesus, Bobby.”

“No, dude, with toys and stuff,” he sighed. Bob’s forefinger moved in a disjointed circle on your spine. “I’m not gonna cram it in her ass tomorrow…”

“No you won’t, because I’ll snap you in half.”

“You’ll try.”

“You watch too much porn,” John told him, sounding exhausted. "That crap rots your brain."

“No, I don’t, I watch you fuck her.”

“You stare at her ass while I fuck her?”

Bob’s shoulder nudged yours as he shrugged. “Sometimes. Yeah.”

“This project of yours has to be okay with her,” John said, audibly exasperated. “If she wants it, then…” He trailed off, a hitch in his whisper when he started up again. “She has to want it.”

“I bet she will.” Bob’s fingers tickled across your right butt cheek, then the left, then swerved toward where they met. “Her little ass is so cute, man. I wanna play with it.”

At that, your I’m so totally asleep couldn’t possibly hear you ruse hit a snag. Your ass tensed under his touch, a soft, breathy moan escaping your throat. You felt John hear it. His thigh jumped under your stomach, his hand flexing against your scalp. They were both silent, listening, waiting…

You didn’t want them to shut up, so you did your best to play dead, and you were pretty sure they bought it, because Bob was rubbing up on your ass again like he was showing John a prime cut of meat.

“You’ve seen it, right?” Bob asked, lightly.

“Yes, I’ve seen it.” John sounded annoyed.

“Not her ass, her ass.”

You spasmed again, you couldn’t help it. God, it was so fucking hot, both of them talking about what they were going to do or not do. You wondered if it had happened before, if you hadn’t woken up those times…

“Hold her open for me.”

You froze, wondering if John would notice that you were starting to hyperventilate against his chest. He hesitated, then shifted closer to you, and you slid deeper across his body. Either you were imagining things or his dick was getting hard against your right hip. His huge, powerful hands slid down your back, firm enough that you would absolutely wake from the pressure, before smoothing over your butt. Moving lower like that put his jaw right next to your right ear.

“Kinda rude to eavesdrop,” he said in a low growl.

He eased your cheeks apart, Bob groaning behind you as John exposed your asshole to him.

“It’s so pretty,” Bob said, tracing his finger down your spine, taking his time, letting you anticipate the millisecond he made contact with your hole. “It’s gonna look so good taking me.”

“He’s going to play with you, baby, is that okay?” John asked, nuzzling against your face.

“Yes,” you breathed. Whined.

You heard the sheets rustle as Bob got closer, his hand gliding up your back to your neck, then around. His finger searched along the seam of your lips, then pushed in.

“Get it nice and wet for me,” Bob murmured, swallowing thickly as he pumped his forefinger in and out of your mouth. When it was coated in saliva, dripping, he put it where you really wanted it, against the hot, sensitive pucker that had yet to be explored.

John kissed your ear, absentminded, because you could tell his attention was fixed elsewhere.

Bob fingered you sweetly, teasing, rubbing in coaxing circles until you relaxed enough for him to ease the tip of his finger inside. You trembled violently against John, crying out into his chest.

“She likes it, Bobby. Fuck, she really wants it.”

“She’s gonna have it,” Bob promised. “But we have to go easy, babe.” He didn’t push far, just enough to let you feel the burn and the stretch. It felt crazy, vulnerable and intense, both of them watching intently as Bob opened you up. You wriggled against John’s side, grinding yourself against his thigh. The friction made everything better, and you had never felt more wanted or more wanton as you humped John’s thigh and moaned so loud it shocked you.

“I think it needs a tail,” Bob said, twisting his finger, making spots bleed across your eyes. “A fluffy one, like a bunny. Our cute little rabbit who loves to fuck.”

“They make those?” John asked, like he was discovering fire.

“They make those.” Bob pressed in to the knuckle, pumping in and out carefully, groaning when you wailed again. “Are you gonna come from your ass, babe?”

You nodded, hiding your overheated face against John’s pecs, humping so hard he had to hold you in place by your butt cheeks, catch you before you hurt yourself. It didn’t matter. There was just the delicate pressure lighting you up from behind and the steel ridge of his quad there for you to rub your clit against, and all the tension gathering in between, turning you into a fucking animal as you came.

“Jesus,” you hard John murmur.

“Oh my God.” You were lost, still going, chasing the last flickers of lightning while Bob slid his finger out of your ass and played teasingly with the outside again. He snugged up close to your back, lavishing wet kisses across your shoulder, nearly forehead to forehead with John.

“Messy girl, coming from your ass,” he whispered in your ear. “You love it, don’t you? Coming for us like that…”

“Mmhm.” You couldn’t really do words.

“Yeah, this little butt needs a tail, babe, it’s gonna look so hot. What’s all that lingerie for if you’re not going to show off for us?”

You heard John make a thoughtful sound at that.

It was a match made in hell, you decided. They did not get along, now they were teaming up against you. For you.

John’s shitty fucking alarm blasted off. You groaned, collapsing against him.

“Sorry!” He shouted, rolling over to find his phone. “Sorry, shit. Sorry.”

You climbed into Bob’s arms as if he could shelter you from the noise. His sugary, pancake smell filled your senses, his soft hair brushing your forehead. He gathered you close, cuddly and sweet, nosing along your temple while John fumbled with his alarm.

“That was so hot, babe,” Bob said, praising you with fluttered kisses against your ear. His breath warmed across your neck, making you squirm and purr. Maybe one more round, why not? Everyone was awake now… “Whoa, okay. Easy. You want more?”

You whimpered against his throat. John finally rejoined, solid and steady against your spine.

Bob flicked up a glance over your shoulder. “She wants more.”

You slammed your foot into his calf, making him stutter-step, stopping him long enough for the Sentry to arrive, a blurred ribbon of gold before he pulled up short, ripping the target off the ground. He threw him back down onto the concrete like he was an empty sack. The body rag-dolled, then rolled a few feet away, but he was alive. Alive enough.

John pelted up to you, not even winded. The Sentry floated gently down to hover between you and John, dusting off his hands.

“Thanks for joining us,” John muttered. There was something about them being together on a mission and Bob in the suit; the second he put it on, the old, scabbed wounds burst. Neither of them could resist school yard jabs, but John was usually the more aggressive offender.

“You had it handled,” Bob said mildly. His eyes, faintly gold, lingered on you, on where your chest pumped against your suit. Before it could become a tell, he met your gaze again. You never knew what to call him anymore—he was generally such a sweetheart, but something in him shifted when the suit went on. He stood taller. His responses were clear, fast, sometimes glib. “I did a sweep. Looks like we’re clear.”

“Smooth as silk, gentlemen,” you said, kneeling to check the guy for weapons. There was a suspicious keycard in one pocket, which you took, thanks much, before tossing his pistol somewhere he couldn’t reach.

“I just think you could contribute a bit more when we’re in the shit,” John was saying, launching in. “He was getting away. You can fly, for fuck’s sake.”

“Are you saying she’s slow?” Bob asked, and judging by his tone, with total knowledge that it would give John an aneurism. Either you were imagining things, or the vibe was particularly tense when it was just the three of you on missions. Like they were competing. Like every word of their charged exchanges was a fist beating on a chest.

“I’m not…no. Jesus, Bob, I would never say that.” John started pacing. He dodged closer to you, dipping down to make sure you heard the next bit clearly: “I would never say that.”

“It’s the Sentry,” Bob said, calm. You smiled down at your work; he never corrected you when you slipped up like that.

“It’s eat my fucking dick,” John snarled, arms crossed as he finished pacing, placing you directly in the crossfire between them.

“Down, boys,” you said. Your hands moved firmly over one pocket of the man’s cargo pants. Something bulged inside. They went on bickering. You dipped into the pocket, withdrawing a cylinder that looked like a cologne or spray. Before you could examine it further, the man lurched upward, hand closing over yours, forcing your fingers down around the latch mechanism. “Shit,” you managed to whisper. “Get back—”

The cylinder broke, the amber liquid inside exploding into gas as the dispersal apparatus fired.

Bob’s hands closed around your waist, yanking you away from the mushrooming cloud that erupted. John staggered out of that same cloud as Bob set you down gently a few yards away. Without hesitation, Bob went to collect John, too, carrying him back to where you waited. There was no point pretending you hadn’t inhaled the mystery gas; you could taste it in the back of your throat.

“What the hell was that?” John asked, wet coughing into his fist.

Bob frowned, backing away from the cloud as it thinned and spread, the color fading as it diluted. “Smelled like…turpentine,” he said.

“And cotton candy,” you added.

John stopped coughing long enough to turn pale and then slightly green. “Shit.”

“What?” you asked, following as he strode down the walkway between the old, moldering construction machines, double timing toward the arched doors leading out of the warehouse. “Do you know what that was?”

“We need to get back to the safehouse,” he said. “Now.” Then softer: “God, I hope I’m wrong.”

Minute by minute, John knew that the agent you had all inhaled was exactly what he feared it was. The smell, the symptoms, the method of deployment, it all added up. He was just trying to decide how to deliver the news to two colleagues that they were in for a very intense, very awkward night.

You and Bob went ahead into the safehouse, John lingering outside to grab a few more cold breaths of wintry air before barricading himself inside. His poker face was failing him, because you looked panicked as you swished the curtains aside on the front window and peered out at him. Just the sight of your face and how his body reacted was further evidence that his theory was right. He turned around, paranoid that you would see how tight his pants were becoming.

This is not how I wanted to do this.

For God’s sake, he had pictured a leisurely date, maybe a place with a dress code, flirting with you over a few drinks, a meandering stroll back to the tower with plenty of stops to make out like teenagers in the shadowy alcoves between buildings. Not this. Never this. You were going to turn into animals, all three of you; losing all inhibition with you was one thing, but now Bob was part of it. Fuck. His collar was choking him. The unnatural heat clawing its way across his chest was damn near unbearable. He scratched open the toggles on his uniform, pulling until he could expose his neck to the cool air.

There was no point prolonging the inevitable. It was still possible, he thought, to get through this without detonating a bomb in your personal and professional lives. Maybe you could tie each other up, separate yourselves in different rooms of the house, figure out some kind of quarantine system. This wasn’t defcon, not yet. John strode in through the front door, closed it, and spun to engage every bolt and lock. He went window to window, making sure the curtains were tightly closed.

It was a quaint two-story cottage, nondescript, white plaster walls and black roof, a working fireplace, the first story dominated by a cozy sitting room with two sofas and a coffee table, and an adjoining kitchen with a farmhouse dining table. Nestled in the French countryside, it didn’t exactly scream orgiastic sex frenzy.

John told himself it wasn’t going there. It couldn’t go there.

“Guys,” Bob murmured, decidedly more Bob than Sentry as he smoothed his hands down the front of his suit, fingers spreading across his stomach. “I don’t feel right.”

“I know,” John said, massaging his temples. He threw you a helpless look, maybe a preemptive, silent plea for understanding. You hovered in the no man’s land between living room and kitchen. Nobody seemed willing to sit down.

“I feel…I feel like I need to barf or jerk off,” Bob continued, squeezing his eyes shut, swaying. “Maybe both.”

That didn’t draw a snarky response from John, which made you instantly suspicious. John never missed an opportunity to get a lick in. You rounded on him, marching over and poking him in the chest. There was already a glaze over your eyes, like you were halfway to wasted, but you were holding on, pushing through it. “John. What the hell is happening to us?”

“Rapid breathing, heart palpitations, fever, sweats, sweats and then chills, sensitivity to light and touch, did I miss anything?” John asked, listing out the symptoms. As he named them out, he watched you get more and more withdrawn.

“Feels like my dick is growing another dick,” Bob muttered.

“And that. Yeah. Whatever that is,” John said with a loose gesture. “Does anyone read the mission briefs? The addendums in the back? You know, we print those out for a reason.”

Bob said nothing, still holding his stomach like he might puke on himself at any second. You shook your head, blinking too fast, like you were having trouble following a simple question. That tracked. You had taken a full blast in the face of the stuff, and he had no idea if the serum would slow things down or speed things up. Either way, you stumbled forward suddenly, grabbing his arm to stay upright.

John held you by the waist, but loosely, aware that any touch at any time could make things descend into chaos. “Jesus, you two. It’s experimental chemical warfare. It depresses your central nervous system, inhibits memory formation, rapid GABA deployment, prioritizes blood to erogenous zones—”

“Erogenous zones?” Bob covered his mouth, laughing.

“Yeah. What? Is that not the right term?”

“No, it is, I just didn’t realize you were a grandma.”

John’s mouth fell open in exasperation. He considered how much torque would be required to tear off a god’s head. Probably more than he could generate just with his bare hands. “Okay, wise ass, try this instead: it’s fuck dust.”

That shut him up.

Your grip tightened on John’s arm. You stared up at him, dazed. “Meaning what?”

John’s tone softened as he addressed you, his heart pounding in his ears as his attention snagged on your beautiful mouth, the way your pulse fluttered in your neck, how lickable you had become all covered in sweat… He shook his head, fighting the urge to press you against his body. “Meaning we’re about to experience a real HR nightmare, that’s what. If the lab tests I’ve read are accurate, then the…the need for stimulation is going to become painful. It will feel life or death.”

The silence was almost comical. John usually yearned for a minute of peace with the two of you around, but now he was desperate for someone to fill the void with a genius solution.

“For how long?” Bob asked, frowning, brow furrowed. He was clawing at his suit like it was full of fire ants, tugging at the collar.

“Hard to say.” John wiped his hand down his face; it was getting tougher to form a clear thought. You smelled so fucking good, fresh meat to a starving man. “Depends on length of exposure, metabolic rate…” He trailed off, begging his last available brain cells to have mercy, cooperate. It felt like a veil was closing over his vision and all he could see was you. “If we’re lucky, twelve hours. If we’re not lucky—”

“Twelve hours?” Bob shouted, startling you. “I can’t do this for twelve more minutes.” Before either of you could tell him to calm down, Bob detached his cape, tore away his gauntlets, then flipped the latch on the back of his rubbery black neck guard, yanking it off and tossing it across the room. The lights overhead flickered ominously. He wrestled with the zipper on the back of his suit until it gave, and with a grunt, he pulled his suit down, letting it hang loose over his belt.

John felt you twitch in his grasp.

“Holy shit, Bob,” you murmured, glassy-eyed and gawking. You pointed first at his well-developed pecs, then his washboard abs. Even John could admit the definition was insane. “That was hiding under there this entire time?”

He absorbed your appreciation with a little toss of his hair, then flicked his gaze from your face to Johns. “Why?” he asked, voice rough with desire, full of the arrogance that the serum tended to bring out in him. “Like what you see?”

“Oh shit,” John groaned. Knowing it was fruitless to try and stop you as you tugged out of his grip and drifted toward Bob. “It’s starting.” He watched you cuddle up to Bob’s side, the other man’s hands immediately tangling in the zipper on the back of your suit, tugging it down. You didn’t notice or didn’t fight him on it.

“Whoa. Hey wait, okay? Are we not going to even try and figure out a way to fight this?” John asked, tearing his gaze away from the sight of you running your fingers up Bob’s ripped stomach. He paced back toward the door, hands in his hair, but each idea that sprang to mind was dumber than the last. “We could…we could find rope. Rope. Yes. Tie each other up. Do we have rope?”

Bob was listening but not looking. His attention was fixed entirely on you, his fingers catching on the open back of your suit, pulling until you wiggled and your arms came free. “Rope,” he murmured, laughing, eyes gold and hot as he leaned in to brush his lips across yours. “Do you think a rope will hold me?” He touched your chin with his thumb, the sheen of sweat across his bare chest so strong it looked like he had been dipped in oil. “I’d chew through it to get to you.”

You shivered, arching against him as he gave one more firm tug and stripped you to the waist. Like him, your skin-tight suit caught on your belt, but John wasn’t thinking about that, he was thinking about the big hand closing over your breast, squeezing it, testing the weight.

“I’d burn it to get to you,” Bob added, the fabric of your bra shimmering before it was incinerated off your body, there and then nothing, a whisper of ash scattering to the ground.

John knew he had to do something, but it was like every thought was on a five second delay. He had become a bystander. Incidental. A flurry of crucial memories passed in front of his eyes just then—you and Bob playing scrabble in the common room long into the night, bickering over whether or not bongwater was a playable word; Barnes taking Bob aside after one of his first missions back to lecture about not shattering anyone’s spine, which had been Bob’s enraged reaction after a goon got a clean punch on you; Bob hearting absolutely everything you said in the group chat, even things like okay; Bob bringing you back tiny mementos from his missions abroad…

John crossed the room in three immense strides, hooking his arm around your waist and spinning you until you squeaked and teetered against him, hands propped on his chest.

“Stop. Everyone stop. Slow down.” Maybe it was because he was the oldest, maybe it was because he was a father, whatever it was, he felt like it was his responsibility to protect both you and Bob. John wiped the sweat out of his eyes, holding up a hand toward the other man, who straightened up and grimaced like John had coldcocked him in the training room. “Don’t square up to me, Bobby. If we’re not going to sequester ourselves or…or…”

“Go ahead, man, sequester yourself,” Bob suggested lightly.

John was trying to be patient and fair, he really was, and this time out was as much for him as it was for Bob. But you were the one he worried about. It didn’t matter what the dust was whispering, you could get hurt, emotionally and physically, if they weren’t careful. You were trapped in a house with two of the most dangerous men on the planet, super soldiers who were about to lose all common sense.

John was trying to be patient, but Bob’s annoying little suggestion punctured his resolve. He wrapped you up in both of his arms, holding you tight to his chest as he leaned toward Bob over your shoulder. “If you have something to prove, that’s fine. I’m not letting her get hurt tonight.”

“I would never hurt her,” Bob whispered. He seemed to come back to himself all at once, noticing his own suit draped around his waist, then yours.

“I know we don’t always get along, Reynolds, but we set that shit aside here and now. She’s priority one tonight.” John said, using a tone of command he reserved for dire situations. The use of Bob’s last name seemed to reach him in a different way, like they were brothers in arms, maybe not friends but on the same side.

“Everything runs through you,” John continued, shifting you to stand at arm’s length. He winced. “Bad…bad choice of words, sorry. You get final say. On everything. We—” He glared across your shoulder at Bob. “—can’t let this spin out of control. We’re still a team.”

“Okay,” you said, softly, down toward John’s chest. You glanced up, nodding. “Okay. I say no and it all stops?”

Bob’s expression softened. He touched the back of your head, the gold fading from his eyes as he swallowed visibly. How the fuck would John make a god stop doing anything, he wondered, realizing their only hope was that Bob’s affection for you was strong enough to keep him in check. The Sentry with no inhibition, with the brakes off, scared the shit out of him.

You closed your eyes sleepily at Bob’s touch, then nuzzled forward into John’s neck, lips moving across his throat as you reached for the zipper on his chest. “And what if I don’t want to stop?”

Then we go until the wheels come off.

Bob had done a lot of crazy shit in his life, but this was right up there. He had never ingested an evil, experimental biological agent but there were times when he probably would have, if it meant a single night of numbed out bliss. But he was a different man now, in recovery, working on things, and Walker’s words of warning broke through the dark, thick haze that had hemmed him in on every side. Things could get seriously messed up if the three of you weren’t careful—he had seen significantly less complicated dynamics fracture just after a night of heavy drinking, and this was…this was…

“Can we at least do this in a bedroom?” John was asking, his huge hands wrapped around your wrists, stopping you from undressing him just feet from the front door of the safehouse.

Bob snapped back into himself, or as much as he could, the heavy, honeyed feeling sliding through his body making every non-sex related thought a chore. There were two bedrooms upstairs; the night before, you and Bob had each taken one and John used the hide-a-bed in the living room couch.

This was the first test. Bob could see John getting impatient for your answer, but he needed that answer. His chest was rising and falling like an overworked bellows, his throat bobbing around a cumbersome swallow as you looked at him and then Bob.

You nodded, unsteady on your feet.

“Words,” John grunted out.

“Take me upstairs.”

That was the gun firing at the starting line. John swept you into his arms, bridal carrying you out of the living room and to the narrow stairs, his boots thundering through the house. Bob stumbled after the two of you, noticing a weird, pink halo at the edge of his vision, a technicolor fog. His legs only cooperated when he began picturing what was waiting in that bedroom. Naked skin. Willing fingers. He groaned, shivering, pawing at the oversized S of his belt, unhooking it and letting it fall wherever. The hand railing creaked as he pushed his weight down onto it, pulling himself to the second level like it was a triumph of the spirit.

Time wasn’t making sense. He had no idea how long it took him to go from living room to bedroom, but it felt like hours, every minute without touch driving him a little crazier, making that fog creeping in denser, harder to push back. He paused at the top of the stairs, the sweat on his hands making the removal of his suit almost impossible. He had been on some serious drugs but this was something new. Just the feeling of his own hands sliding down his legs, peeling the suit away, pulling off his boots, made him want to fall to his knees and cry out.

He left behind a pile of clothing on the landing, ping-ponging against the hallway walls as he tried to remember the layout of the extremely tiny, manageable house. The dust wasn’t just settling in now it was taking hold, taking him by the throat and shaking. He slammed against the open doorway to the bedroom, hands curled into claws as he panted like an animal and watched the last of your super suit hit the floor.

“Jesus Christ,” Bob whispered, wiping the wet hair off his forehead and the sweat out of his eyes.

“Still with us, Bobby?” John asked. To his credit, he sounded genuinely concerned. His suit was gone, too, the towering V of his torso rising behind you as he held you lightly by the waist. The room was dark. That wasn’t good for Bob. He squeezed his eyes shut until two different lamps flickered on, bathing you both in wholesome, golden light. But what those lights illuminated was anything but wholesome—you, perfect and naked, head falling back against John’s shoulder as you reached for Bob, silently imploring him to join.

The amount of floor between the door and the bedside felt insurmountable. It was only the guarantee of skin to skin contact that got him there. Fuck, you were beautiful, held in the light, held by John, his scarred hands moving up your ribs to cup your breasts and pinch your nipples, pulling them toward Bob like you were an offering, an offering to a god.

That’s you, dingdong.

Bob raked his eyes up and down your body, taking in every delicious inch. He had pictured this many, many times, though admittedly never with John’s hands on your boobs. He hated it less than he expected. That was probably the dust talking, but the contrast between Walker’s huge, chiseled body and your softer curves made Bob’s head spin like a top. He dragged himself across the room, watching John’s calloused fingers tease your nipples into stiff, swollen peaks.

“This for me?” Bob asked, hands smoothing across your waist, head dipping to pull one of those buds between his lips. His tongue rolled out along with a groan; John hissed through his teeth at the contact, but he didn’t move his hand completely out of the way.

“Yes, for you,” you whispered, arching, fingers tangling in Bob’s hair, pressing him harder against your chest. He latched on, telling himself you had twelve whole hours of this to go, stuffing down the urge to disintegrate his own underwear and fuck you on the spot. No, he needed you to last.

John’s hands let go, scraping down your sides to your hips, one moved lower; Bob was only too willing to replace John’s hands with his own, squeezing and massaging you until your fingernails scraped across his scalp in response. He heard a soft, mouthwatering, wet sound as John started playing with your slit, dipping one finger inside, making it even clearer he had given up any pretense of trying to fight the dust.

Caught between them, your skin roared with heat, feverish to the touch.

“How does she taste?” John asked in a rasp.

“So sweet,” Bob murmured, eyes fluttering shut as he switched one from nipple to the other.

“Yeah?” John vented a wry laugh. “Bet I know something sweeter…”

His big hand slid into Bob’s hair alongside yours, jerking Bob’s head back and off of your tit until he released it with a reluctant moan. His disappointment didn’t last long; John slipped his fingers out of your body, offering a taste to Bob. If John was going to be a little bossy, Bob could put up with it if it was going to be like this.

“Words,” John prompted gruffly.

“Oh, hell yes,” Bob whispered, opening his mouth. Your eyes were wide and glistening, your lips parted in pleasurable wonder as John Walker painted your slick across Bob’s waiting tongue.

You watched Bob suck the shine off of John’s finger with a full body shudder. Holy shit. You had worried briefly about John’s ability to play nice and share, but whatever setting had clicked on in his head was exactly the right speed. Everything was moving forward, but not too fast, and even with the crazy-making dust screaming through your system, it quieted the panic in your chest to have John in control. The heat was building, but for now it was a controlled burn. You had no idea how he was managing, just gratitude that he was.

Bob slid down in front of you, knees thumping against the hard wood, hands clamping around your thighs as he pushed his chin between your legs. John met him there, fingers spreading, parting your folds, the combined pressure and presence of Bob’s mouth and John’s hand making you sizzle and buck.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, grabbing harder onto Bob’s hair. “No. No, no, no, too much, I can’t—”

“Actual no or good no?” John asked.

“Good no, so good.”

His breath warmed across your neck; those breaths came faster as you worked your hips against Bob’s face and back against the thick, heavy erection rubbing against your ass.

“Then you can,” John growled, biting the shell of your ear, tugging it. He laughed softly as you whined and twisted. “And you will.”

John held you open, Bob went to work, eating you like he was born to do it. You felt the atmosphere charge around the three of you—before it had been foreplay, but now the room filled with the wet sound of Bob dragging his face against you and you sighing at a higher pitch; his tongue speared up into you; there was no going back. Even if you wanted them to stop, you weren’t convinced you could dredge up the words.

Every part of you was too sensitive. It usually took much longer to get where you wanted to go, but now just the lightest graze of his nose across your clit pinched the world into a single, narrow slice. You could see the open door and Bob’s trail of clothing out in the hall, and if you glanced down, a pair of liquid fire eyes gazing up at you, half-lidded and dust-addled. He was watching you intently, keen on every new sound and every twist of your hips.

“Keep going,” you heard John mumble. His left hand slid from your hip, disappearing to tangle in his shorts, push them down, free the hard column of heat he had been pushing against your ass. You felt the thick, weeping tip dodge lower, nudging against your entrance. “I’m going to fuck you now, baby,” he whispered, gasping, probably to keep from tackling you to the ground in a blind heat. “And Bobby’s going to make you cum, isn’t he? He’s going to suck your little clit until you scream.”

Bob logged no complaints at that, hands gripping your thighs tighter as he licked a broad stripe up your slit to refocus on just your aching clit. He held you there while you shook, grabbing Bob’s head with one hand, the other reaching back to hook around John’s neck. He bent low to get the angle right, rearranging his hold on you until you could lean onto his forearm.

“You have to tell us,” John said, words a jumble as he pulsed against your entrance, his cock twitching in anticipation, jumpy, needy. “Have to say it.”

It was the dust. Had to be. You would never do this otherwise, never let one of your crushes eat you out while the other fucked you from behind. “Please, yes, please,” you whined, so wet you could feel yourself opening for John despite his brutish size. Maybe because of it. Fuck, he was gigantic, it was going to change everything, satisfy the burn, satisfy the dust, satisfy you. Then the pounding in your head would go away and the voice shrieking at you to screw everything in sight would be silenced.

“Please, please, god, fuck me, make me cum,” you moaned, half-swallowing the last word as John pressed forward, his teeth closing over your shoulder as he roared out the sound of a man in agony.

“She’s tight, Bobby, fuck, she’s tight,” John whispered, broken, hips stuttering as he worked you open. You could imagine the immense restraint required on his end to keep from ramming into you like a freight train because you were faced with the same brutal gambit—obey the insane demands of the dust and potentially hurt yourself or focus harder than you had ever focused in your life and wait.

John caught his breath, sweating against your shoulder, easing forward on another controlled thrust, claiming more ground. But even as you wanted to concentrate your entire being on the feeling of that glorious stretch, Bob wouldn’t let you forget he had been given orders. His thumb joined his mouth, circling your clit with firm strokes, tongue handling the more direct stimulation. Whoever had taught him to do that deserved a hundred million dollars.

Bob’s hungry little hum, the vibrations, undid what weak shame remained. You couldn’t hold on, and John was right—you couldn’t control what came out of your mouth. For a terrifying second you thought you were losing your vision entirely. The room bent inward, squeezing until you couldn’t breathe, and without air, without sight, there was warmth and pleasure, the shocks of stimulation and the pressure of John filling you up. You felt him slide deeper, hilting you, just as your orgasm shuddered from your navel to your throat.

The relief was incredible, but painfully short. You slammed back down to silence, both men watchful and still.

“Are…are you okay?” Bob asked, gazing up at you with wide, terrified eyes. “Did we kill her?”

“She’s breathing,” John said, his hand closed over your chest, over your heart.

“I…I…” You had gone completely boneless in John’s grasp, your toes dragging against the floor. You stirred upright with a shudder, clenching around John’s dick with a gasp. “Fuck, I’m good. So good. Don’t stop.”

With Bob sitting back on his haunches, chin slick and shiny, John took advantage, turning you to the right, toward the bed, hauling you onto it until you were on all fours. He did it so fast, so easily, you didn’t have time to overthink it or even react. John shoved his knees against the edge of the mattress behind you and fisted his hand in your hair, pulling just enough to send electricity across your scalp.

“God, you’re beautiful like this,” he rumbled, stealing your breath away with a dragging thrust in and out. “Can’t…can’t last, not when you look like this…”

The dust was hitting him as hard as it was hitting you. Your ass slapped against his thighs as he drove home once, twice, a sound of strangled surprise preempting what felt like a volcanic eruption, his fingers tightening in your hair as he burst against your depths. You didn’t expect it to feel like that, but then you’d never been fucked by someone juiced to the gills with serum. You cried out too, shocked by the sensation, he let go of your hair and your head dropped forward. It was so warm inside, so good; you squeezed around his half-limp dick, milking it, gifting yourself another little whined out orgasm.

John staggered back from the bed on heavy steps, shaking the house, leaving you sensitive and swollen but nowhere near satisfied. Your knees buckled; you rolled onto your side, eyes closing on heavy blinks as Bob gave John a good natured shove and climbed onto the bed beside you. He smiled at you, gentle, hand smoothing down your cheek, stroking away tears you hadn’t realized had slipped out.

“How’s my girl? Happy?” he asked, smile deepening at your frantic nod. You didn’t know how you could still want more, but Bob was so beautiful, shining with sweat, eyes deep and blue and sweet as he stroked his hand down your face to your shoulder, tracing the lines of your arm, transferring to your hip, over the curve of your ass before his fingers danced between your thighs. He rolled you onto your back carefully, shifting closer. At some point he had taken off his shorts. His dick was hard and throbbing, curved against his stomach, pulsing faintly with his heartbeat.

You heard John sink onto a chair somewhere behind Bob with a fwoomp and a groan. Bob didn’t notice, his eyes following your line of sight. He looked down at himself, fisted his cock, gave a few lazy pumps while you watched. He read the hunger in your gaze, fingers pushing between your thighs and dipping into your cunt, fingering you with the same unhurried pace of his jerking off. 

“Is this okay?” he asked, shivering as he stroked himself faster, still watching you closely.

“Mmhm.”

“Words,” John grunted from across the room.

“Don’t stop touching me there,” you told them both, opening your thighs to give him better access. “I want it. I want you.”

Bob nodded, licking his lips, trying to gather his next thought into something coherent. “John got you all messy,” he said, fingers sliding deeper, fucking John’s cum back into you. “Are you our messy girl tonight?”

You closed your eyes, circling your hips and humping against his hand. “Yes.”

“You’re going to get a lot messier,” Bob murmured, but he sounded pleased about it. Excited. Curious. “Want to taste me? I’m kinda messy, too.”

His cheeks darkened, deep pink as he showed you how much precum was bubbling out of his tip. You whimpered, pulling yourself closer to him by his knee, flopping up partially onto his lap, resting your head on his thigh. Bob didn’t pull his fingers out of you, just shifted you around so he had a better vantage. With his free hand, he drove his thumb into your mouth, opening it, then urged his cock toward your widened lips, feeding himself to you.

Just the smell of him made your body flutter, made it feel like you could cum again. His salt musk taste pooled on your tongue while you licked him like a sweet. He groaned, abs clenched, stomach tensing while he let you take him in at your own pace. And your pace was eager but fascinated, tongue mapping the ridges and veins, the delicious length. You craned up suddenly, licking a smeared wet spot off of his stomach.

Bob laughed at that, cupping your cheek, just holding you, not pressuring you to go back to what you were doing. He knew you would; the crazed heat that burned in him still flamed high in your chest, in your abdomen. He inhaled through his teeth as you closed your lips around his tip, gliding over him, hollowing your cheeks and sucking experimentally, tongue rolling back and forth, teasing him.

“Shit,” he whispered, caving in slightly, shoulders slumping forward as he fought something off. “This is…I could fire off right now…shit.”

John huffed out a knowing laugh.

“Not yet, not yet,” Bob cautioned, shaking as he gently pried your jaw open, easing out of your mouth with a sigh. He pulled his fingers out of your puss and almost wiped his hand on the coverlet, then thought better of it and offered his hand to you. His eyes gleamed as you wrapped your lips around his fore and middle fingers and cleaned off your own arousal and what John had left behind.

“God, fuck yes,” he murmured, pulling his lip between his teeth. “Taste good?”

“Mmhm.”

“Want more?” he asked, scraping his fingers along your lower teeth as he shifted to reposition you on the bed, draping you across the mattress the short way, ass toward him and the wall, head dangling toward the rest of the room.

“Yes,” you said, knowing John would bark at you if you didn’t vocalize the answer. “More. I’m not…I can’t…”

“I know,” Bob said, voice full of sympathy. “It’s eating you alive.”

You whimpered, nodded, heat rocketing down toward your core as Bob settled on his knees between your legs, teasing his cock head up and down your sex. His gaze flicked from your heaving tits to the chair across the room, where John was seated beneath the glow of a golden and green stained-glass lamp.

“Look at that,” Bob whispered. “You’ve got Walker all worked up again.”

Upside down, you took in the harrowing vision of John Walker fisting his dick from base to tip, using a bruising grip as if punishing himself for liking what was happening on the bed. His face was red, his hair slick with sweat, eyes blue flames as he nodded and groaned with you as Bob dipped lower and fucked into you.

His path was smoother than John’s, your body so relaxed and ready for him, lubricated with your seemingly endless hunger and John’s cream. That didn’t lessen the pleasure, in fact, you couldn’t keep your eyes open or your mouth shut as Bob took his time on each devastating pump, fists pushed into the mattress on either side of your waist. What he lacked in sheer girth he made up for in length. And you felt it, scratching your fingernails across the blankets, meeting his thrusts with desperate shakes of your hips.

“More. Please more. Fuck me,” you urged him, a stranger to your own voice. Something deep inside you still longed to be dealt with, fed. If anything, your grip on sense and reality was only loosening. You didn’t know if this was the apex of the drug; you trembled to consider there was worse to withstand and what you would do to survive it.

“You heard her.” John’s voice was closer now, much closer. He had crossed the distance from the chair to the bed. Even before you opened your eyes, you knew he was close—you could smell yourself on him, and the heady scent of your mingled sex clinging to his skin. When you did open your eyes, you were greeted with the underside of John’s hard dick. His head tilted to the side in playful inquiry as he took up one of your hands and brushed your knuckles across the heated flesh.

“More,” you said, both to him and to Bob. Your hand closed around him, John’s fist still closed tightly around the base as he fucked against your palm.

“Give it to her, Bobby,” he said through clenched teeth. “She wants it. Give her—fuck—give her whatever she wants.”

“More, yeah, sounds good,” Bob repeated, prompting himself. He leaned down, taking your legs and bending them back until your knees almost touched your tits. You cried out, struggling to catch your breath as he opened you up and found that much more of you to pound. “How’s that? Is that the spot?” he asked, eager, giving you a taste of the angle. Your eyes rolled back, hand numb around John’s dick as Bob lowered his weight onto your thighs; your hamstrings burned as he leaned down to kiss you, folding you into the mating press.

“I’m gonna die,” you whispered, laughing.

“Relax, baby, he’s going to make you feel good,” John said, smoothing the hair back from your face. Something about his encouragement made you shiver and loosen, another wave of honeyed pleasure rolling up from where your body met Bob’s. John gazed down at you so lovingly, eyes watery as if he had never been this proud of anyone in his life. “He’s gonna fill you up again, is that what you want? Is that what you need?” John’s pale eyes flickered as he glanced down your sweaty torso to Bob. “It’s what he needs. It’s what we both need, to fill you up until you can’t take anymore, until you tell us to stop.”

“Don’t stop, John,” you said, so fast it made them both chuckle.

“No, baby, nobody’s stopping,” John assured you. Bob started dragging himself in and out, groaning like he was in pain. “Bob’s not going to last very long in that tight pussy.”

“N-No,” Bob muttered, shaking the wet strands of his hair as he almost collapsed on his next thrust. He kept going somehow, brushing an absent kiss across your lips, eyes screwed shut as he picked up speed. “Shit, John, she’s soaking.”

As if to prove him right, his next thrust came with a filthy squelch. You arched, your own slick and John’s dripping down between your cheeks, pooling on the bed.

“Jesus Christ, did you hear that?” John worked himself against your hand faster, moving his fist up to tighten around your fingers and make a combined sleeve for him to fuck. You could feel him swelling, getting close…

“Wet, tight, fuck,” Bob whimpered, lost, somewhere else entirely as he rocked into you. He dropped his hips lower, angling his dick to scrape a spot you could feel in your teeth.       

“Oh god, Bob, oh god, oh god—” You blurted out words to the rhythm of his thrusts, sawed back and forth by the snap in his hips. John ran his thumb along the seam of your lips.

“Can you open up for me, baby? Wanna cum, wanna cum right now…”

You groaned, doing as he asked, drunk and dazed and fucked as Bob seized up, still for an instant before pounding into you on three quick strokes. Thick, salted heat poured down your throat from John as Bob finished, his face pressed against your throat as it worked to swallow John’s release. You felt Bob’s as the head rush ebbed, as you sputtered and coughed, John holding your head up and steady while Bob’s dick jerked against your depths. It was too much heat. It was just the right amount. It was on you and inside you and incinerating you from the inside out.

The come down nearly plunged you into a blackout. You couldn’t remember how all three of you wound up in the bed together, one bedraggled sheet slung over your bodies, Bob curled around your back, spooning you, the furred wall of John’s chest against your cheek. You could feel Bob’s erection pulsing against your lower back, his fingers toying idly with your nipples, his lips worrying along the ridge of your shoulder.

“Just relax, that’s it,” John was saying. You didn’t know what had come before that. Had you fallen asleep? It could be midnight or dawn, you had no idea. The burn in your chest was a simmer, but not completely gone. John reached down, feeling between your legs; you shivered, rubbing your face back and forth against his chest. “Are you done?” he asked, almost shy.

You tossed your head.

“Are you sure?”

“Come on, man, don't be an asshole, just give it to her,” Bob said, half impatient, half annoyed. “She likes it, she’s our messy girl. Aren’t you?” His tone changed, light and loving when he nuzzled into your neck, rutting slowly against your back. “If he won’t help you I will. I can go again. I can go again right now—”

John’s hand closed over the back of your head possessively, his long fingers still exploring you, as if searching for some physical sign it was time to call it quits.

“She gets to decide,” John said, firm. “Not you.”

You wiggled closer to John, hooking your thigh around his, inviting him in.

It just felt good when he slid into you, his erection as hard as the first time, far more controlled now, easy, like you were two lovers alone, tangled up in bed before going to sleep. He kissed you deeply, holding on like you could slip away. Time warped around you again, you remembered that kiss, not tipped with drugged fire but romantic, full of longing. And Bob’s steady heat against your back, his kisses along your shoulder tickling as his evening stubble scratched your skin. John held your waist while you ground against his pubic bone, shuddering and blissful and full.

When you opened your eyes again, John was holding your back to his chest, the steel bands of his arms anchored around your waist. Bob was crawling down the mattress, kissing his way down your body, detouring to suck and bite your nipples for so long John grumbled something at him.

“It’s all coming out, can’t have that,” Bob was saying, three fingers pushing into you like it was nothing. “Gotta keep us inside, can you do that?”

You wanted it, you supposed, anything to keep the pleasure coasting through your body. Anything to satisfy the demon, even if it was getting quieter, going to sleep. You came back to yourself minutes later, Bob fucking you against John’s chest. It felt like you were going to break, but it was too much in all the right ways. Every thrust sent you closer to yourself. Your arms fell back, looped loosely around John’s neck.

“One more time,” John murmured, nose against your temple as Bob shuddered and bucked. “Let us take you there one more time, baby. Have you ever been fucked like this? Have you ever felt this good?”

You shook your head, whispering nonsense.

You remembered a light clicking on, brighter. Someone carrying you. The cold bite of tiles on your bare feet. Soap that smelled like rosewater. Two hard bodies holding you up in the shower, gentle hands touching you everywhere, washing, caring. The towel was like a cloud. The bed was different, smaller, but you didn’t ask about it or complain.

Morning crackled behind your eyes like a seam of sunlight on the horizon.

You breathed into consciousness with a gasp, warm as bread in a toaster. You groaned; it felt like you had gone ten rounds with a grizzly bear. There was a persistent, intense ache between your legs. Someone had put your panties back on, but you could tell the crotch was wet. Fear lanced through you like a cold spike as you realized this wasn’t your bedroom back in the Watchtower.

What was the last thing you remembered? John and Bob fighting, bickering on the job. A white house with a black roof. France. Right. You tried to move, finding it very difficult indeed with two bodies pressed tight against you on either side.

What. The. Fuck.

Your bleary eyes traveled up a column of skin dusted with freckles, landing on a russet beard and the calm, angelic face of John Walker fast asleep. His arm was slung across your waist. It felt like a barbell pressing you into the mattress. Judging by the way your nipples were pillowed against wiry hair, he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing.

“No, I’ll do it tomorrow,” someone slurred behind you.

Bob.

You carefully turned your head like a turret on a wheel, catching sight of Bob’s golden brown hair mussed against your shoulder. His nose was buried between your shoulder blades, his arm nestled just under John’s. They were naked. They were naked and they were touching.

The hyperventilating had just begun when John’s eyes blinked open.

“Whoa. Whoa. Look at me. Breathe.” He lifted his hand from your waist, cupping your jaw firmly until you did as he instructed. Worry tugged his brow down as he inspected you. “Do you remember last night?”

“N-No. John. John. What the fuck is going on?” you asked, trying not to scream. This was insane. A disaster. You were in bed with both of your crushes, with absolutely no memory of how things had progressed this far.

“When we were in the warehouse, when you chased down that guy, do you remember the cannister in his pocket?” John asked.

The specificity of the question lowered your panic. “I…Yes. Yeah. Something exploded. There was gas everywhere, it smelled like shit.”

“It was a chemical agent,” he explained, slow and clear. His thumb stroked gently across your cheekbone. “We all inhaled it. There’s really no professional or easy way to say this, but it made us all want to…” He closed his mouth, opened it, closed it, tried again. “We had a lot of sex. A lot.”

Memories started to percolate. Bob mumbled in his sleep, restless and shifting against you. His morning wood poked against your back. You closed your eyes and told yourself to breathe exactly sixteen times before saying anything else.

You remembered Bob’s suit piled in the hallway. The tremor in the usually unflappable John Walker’s hands as he helped you undress. Your own voice begging for more, more, more.

“Oh my fucking God,” you whispered.

“Yeah. Yep.”

“John, this is a catastrophe,” you added. Your eyes filled with tears as you forced yours to meet his. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t…I don’t know…”

“Sh-hh, hey, don’t apologize,” he said, voice just as careful and low. What was with him? Why did he care or not whether Bob Reynolds of all people had his peace disturbed? Bob was drooling down your back in his sleep. You were going to puke.

“No, you don’t get it,” you hurried on, scalding tears blistering down your cheeks. John hurried to wipe them away. “I…like both of you. Fuck. Like is such a stupid word. I mean I respect both of you, too, although I’m sure that’s fucked now…”

John suppressed a rumbled laugh. “Nothing is fucked.”

You stared at him. “How? You must think I’m some crazed slut…” You got up the courage to slip your hand down between your legs. The evidence was actually confounding. How was that possible? “Jesus Christ, John, how much sex did we have exactly?”

“A lot,” he said, cryptic, clearing his throat. His blue eyes searched every inch of your face. “Do…do you want the details? You’re owed them, obviously, I just--”

“How do you remember it all? My memory is gone…”

“The serum, I would guess,” he said. “Which, uh, means Bobby over there will also probably remember.”

“Oh my God.” You couldn’t breathe. You actually couldn’t breathe. “Yes. Details. Now. Tell me.”

John sighed, gathering himself. “You and me, um…” He turned a shade of red you weren’t sure until that moment was biologically plausible. “Four times, although once was—fuck, okay this is harder than I thought—”

“Once was what.”

“Once was in your mouth,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut.

“You and I had sex three times?” Your heart sank for reasons that were perhaps more embarrassing than the effects of the sex gas. Now you would never remember your first time with him. Them. More tears slipped down your face. John, as ever, was ready to catch them. “I don’t remember. I don’t…I can’t…”

“Hey, hey, hey.” John surged against you, pressing his forehead to yours. “Breathe. You have to breathe. You have to breathe and you have to believe me when I say that this doesn’t change anything between us, I’m still—” He caught himself, biting off the end of that confession.

“You’re still what?” you asked, hands curling against his chest.

“I’m still crazy about you,” he said. “Crazier, maybe.”

“Yeah, last night certainly sounds like it was fucking crazy.”

John laughed, and you thumped your fist on his chest. “I’m not going to speak for Bob, but I bet he’s going to say the same thing.” His eyes fluttered over your shoulder to where Bob was still peacefully drooling on your back. “We’re both crazy about you. I thought I was going to tear him in half when he touched you, but…I don’t know. I don’t know anything yet, I just know I’m not going to forget the way you said my name. And if you tell me to fuck off and die, I will, but I’m…here. Here and not going anywhere.”

It didn’t fix everything, but at least you could breathe again.

“Are there pancakes?” Bob asked in his sleep, flopping away from you and into the wall so hard he hit his head with a wheezed: “Ow.”

John looked at the ceiling for help, sighing. “Guess you can ask him yourself. Good morning, Bob,” he said, exasperated.

“Whoa. Hey. Morning?” Bob rolled back toward you both, his face appearing next to yours as he propped it on your right shoulder. “Is this, uh, the debrief? Does she—”

“She doesn’t remember much,” John said, and you were grateful for the assist. “I was just telling her how much we are not judging her for what occurred here.”

Bob snorted, ruffling your hair, his strong hands smoothing down your side to curve over your hip. “You were incredible.”

You raised your eyebrows at John, who raised his right back.

“Say: I told you so,” you muttered. “I dare you.”

“How’s our messy girl this morning? Sore? Tired? Fuck, you’re so beautiful…” Bob kissed your neck, hand sliding down your hip to your stomach, lower, playing in the absolute filth they had left inside you the night before. Judging by how otherwise pleasant you all smelled, they had tried to clean you up and done a very half-assed job of it. “God, you’re wet again, or is that us? Both, maybe? Shit, my dick has been poking you all morning, hasn’t it?”

“Bobby.” John’s voice sliced through the horny stream of conscious monologue Bob had decided to unleash first thing in the morning. “She’s still…figuring this out. Give her a break for God’s sake.”

“S-Sorry.” Bob’s hand stilled, his jaw tense against your neck.

But the fucked up part was, you didn’t want him to stop. Your mind raced, your traitorous fucking nipples hardening against John’s chest, your stomach unwinding, pooling toward the sensation of Bob’s hand cupping your sex.

“No, it’s okay,” you stammered out, licking your lips nervously.

John studied you, brows still at his hairline. “Baby—”

“Baby?” You snort-laughed, sizing him up. “Is that what you like calling me?”

His next blink was drowsy, his lips parting. “Next best thing after mine.”

“Ours,” Bob suggested, hand flexing around your pussy. When you twitched your thighs apart, his fingers slid right in. He groaned. “You’re ours.”

John leaned down to kiss your forehead, hands closing over yours where they rested on his chest. Bob went to work, John held you tight. “Everything runs through you,” he whispered. “Just say the word and it all stops.”

Your voice was your own voice as you arched against him, against Bob’s sweet touch, murmuring, “Don’t stop.”