#ahith

“What do you mean, what—” 

“Why’d Tony say those things about me?” 

“Because he likes you? Jesus, I thought you were supposed to be some ultra smart assassin capable of, oh, no, no, don’t—” 

Bucky has leaned up, letting one heavy arm rest flat against Peter’s chest to keep him pinned to the floor and the other resting just above his cock, palm flat against the twitching abdominal muscles. Like this, no matter how much Peter strains, his cock receives no contact. Through his teeth, the dark man says, “What do you mean he likes me? He’s Tony fucking Stark!” 

“What’s that got to do with it? Please Bucky, please, it hurts!” Showing mercy, he drags his hand down from where it rests against Peter’s stomach, and when that large, warm palm cups his cock, it is almost enough to make him cum. He struggles to get his heels planted on the floor so that he can arch his hips upward. With surprising tenderness, Bucky cradles Peter’s aching balls in his hand before moving up to wrap his fingers around the clothed cock as best as he can, jerking Peter off in a slow, firm rhythm through the fabric of his sweatpants. “Oh fuck yes, thank you, sir, thank you.” 

“Focus, kid, and maybe I’ll let you cum,” Bucky says coldly. “Tell me everything Tony has told you.” 

“He, he thinks you’re hot,” Peter gasps, shaking, fingers scrabbling at the carpet for purchase. “He said that he re-respects you, oh god, thank you, don’t stop—” 

“Then keep talking.” 

“He said that you, you’re art and he admires you and you—oh fuck, please sir, squeeze me tighter, yes!—he said you make him feel safe. When he fucked me yesterday, he said he wished that you’d walk in on us, he said that he thinks about you in the next room listening in. God, please, Bucky, can I cum?” 

“What are you asking me for permission for? Like you’re not just a brat who will take whatever he wants anyway.” Bucky says. His voice is cold in the best way, a juxtaposition to the endless heat he pours off, the heat he’s ignited in Peter’s belly. Planting one palm on the floor beside Peter’s head, Bucky reaches down to slide a hand beneath Peter’s ass and drag his hips up off of the floor and grind them against Bucky’s own, their cocks a delicious, explosive friction. “But you told me what I needed, so I guess you’ve earned it. Go on, then. I don’t have all day.” 

Peter wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck, tangling his fingers in that dark hair and using his heels to get the leverage he needs to thrust his way off the deep end. The coil wound so tense in his lower stomach snaps, balls drawing up as he cums into his sweats, so long in coming that it hurts in the best fucking way. His body jerks, muscles tensing and untensing like he’s in the throws of a seizure. But Bucky holds on to him tight, firmly guiding his hips to drag out the orgasm until Peter feels like a cloth wrung free of water. 

His head feels a little fuzzy, throat dry by the time Bucky slips his hand from beneath him. The stickiness in his sweatpants tickles a little where it drips down his legs, but he can’t find it in him to care, not when he’s on this most fragile edge between staying afloat and going under. Then, coldness—and when he opens his eyes, he sees that Bucky has withdrawn, dragged himself and his heat back to the couch and seated himself heavily on the cushions, face tilted towards the ceiling with his eyes closed.

He’s still hard. Peter is just drunk enough to pull himself up onto his knees and make his way to kneeling by Bucky’s legs. The assassin parts them easy enough, leaning his head back up to watch Peter with an empty curiosity, even when Peter opens his mouth and breathes hotly on the bulge in his tactical pants. 

“What are you doing?” Bucky asks, low and dangerous. 

“‘m gonna suck you off,” Peter says. His tongue drags a long, wet stripe from the bottom of that twitching bulge to the top. All he tastes in his mouth is the polyester-cotton blend, and he can’t wait to replace that with the taste of Bucky’s cock. A noise rumbles in the dark man’s chest, a warning, but the challenge does nothing except make Peter’s eyes go glossy where he looks up from beneath his lashes. “I don’t mind if you pretend I’m Tony.” 

Bucky grabs a fistful of Peter’s hair and pulls his head back so harshly that a noise slips free of Peter’s mouth, his throat bared. Bucky pulls him, coaxing him back to the floor lest he snap his own fucking neck. One thick boot comes down flat on Peter’s chest, pressing just enough to threaten the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. Still seated on the couch, Bucky looms over him while he loosens his belt. 

“You want my cum, kid?” Bucky asks through his teeth. He draws his cock free from his pants and Peter cranes his aching neck, desperate to see it. The angle is no good, only lets him see the last three inches before the sight is blocked by Bucky’s thick thigh. But what he sees makes his own spent cock jerk. Bucky is thick, flushed a pink just as dark as his lips.With a practiced, firm hand, the man begins to jerk himself off. “Beg for it.” 

Beg for it? The words echo in Peter’s head, setting off alarms that he isn’t nearly far enough under to have silenced. Peter doesn’t beg. Alright, he does, but Peter is under no illusion that being submissive makes him any lesser than the people who dominate him. His submission is a gift to them, Peter Parker is a motherfucking gift, one that Bucky does not yet appreciate and has not yet earned.

“No, you coward,” Peter gasps. Both his hands wrap around Bucky’s boot, but even with all his strength, he can’t budge it. 

The force behind Bucky’s boot increases. When the man leans over to place more weight on it, he looks downright unhinged, his lips pulled back to bare straight, clenched teeth. “What did you just say to me?”

“You heard me. You’re a pussy! Does coming up with an excuse for your depravity make you feel better later? I had to jerk the kid off, for information,” Peter mimics, throwing his voice in a mocking impersonation of Bucky himself. “I wouldn’t have let him suck me off, but he begged for my cum. You are a twisted fuck. Own it, asshole!”

For a moment, watching the way Bucky’s handsome face twists in fury, Peter thinks maybe he went too far. The boot on his chest adds pressure until his ribs creak, and he feels true fear. Ever since he was a boy, people had warned Peter that his mouth would get him into trouble someday. Maybe this is his ticket about to be called. 

But instead Bucky slips down from the couch until he’s straddling Peter’s chest, pinning thin arms tightly to his sides with the larger man’s thighs, belt buckle gaping and framing his erection like the golden stage curtains at the fucking Lincoln Center. This close, Peter has to stare straight up to look at the man’s face. When his hands fall back to the buttons on his tactical pants, Peter’s eyes slip there instead. 

“Fine,” Bucky mutters. He pulls out his cock, and from this angle it’s truly something spectacular: long and thick and cut with neatly trimmed pubic hair and balls that hang low and heavy. Reflexively, Peter lifts his head up off the floor to see if he can crane enough to lap at the purple, slick head, but he can’t. “That how you want to play it, kid? I’ll own it. I’ll own you, you little shit. Gonna paint that pretty fucking face.” 

“Do it,” Peter groans. He struggles to breathe through the weight on his chest, heart hammering. Above him, Bucky strips his cock like it’s a weapon, stroking the length of it with an unforgiving grip while the other reaches down to cradle his own balls, palming them with uncharacteristic tenderness. It’s one of the most obscene, arousing sights Peter’s ever seen, his soft cock twitching where it rests in his own cooling cum. Bucky’s face is just as artful as his cock, head tilted in pleasure, full mouth parted to reveal his teeth clenched tightly shut, the ultimate juxtaposition of soft and bestial. 

His eyes slit open while Peter stares, dark stormy-sea eyes. Peter opens his mouth wide like a target for Bucky to shoot, and the way his face twists in arousal, the cry that comes from his throat as his head falls back - there’s no way Peter could ever forget those things. When Bucky cums, it’s downright explosive, pearlescent seed raining down on Peter, striping his face and the curls of his hair and landing on his eager tongue. 

A desperate sound slips from Peter’s throat as the taste bursts across his buds. It’s cum, not fine cuisine, but it’s Bucky’s. Above him, the man makes a tortured sound at the sight of Peter licking his lips. When at last Bucky has drained himself, cum trickling down his scarred knuckles, he shuffles off of where he pinned Peter to the floor. 

For a long moment, both of them rest and catch their breath. Bucky is the first to move, plucking a tissue off of the end table and holding it out to Peter like a white flag, a peace offering. The expression on his face is mostly unreadable. The man who pinned him to the floor and then jerked off onto his face seems to have receded, letting a more closed off Bucky to the forefront. Peter is more than a little fucked thinking about how fond he is of both sides: the unhinged and the sane.

“Don’t get soft on me now,” says Peter, even if it’s kind of nice. The last thing he wants is Bucky feeling some twisted guilt (all that bullshit Peter said earlier about the man’s perversion was just that—bullshit. Maybe they are all perverts, but at least they’re among like kind). He ignores the tissue and reaches up to wipe three fingers through the mess on his cheeks, slipping them into his mouth to suck them clean. 

“That was a mistake,” Bucky says, voice like sandpaper. “It’s never going to happen again.” 

Peter gapes. “Why not?” 

“Tony—” 

“Were you listening to that phone call?” Peter asks. He feels liable to explode, a ball of fury (of hurt) throbbing just beneath his throat, desperate to be released. How long will Bucky continue to play these games with them? With Peter? “He’s fine with it! More than fine. He’s fucking into it!” 

“Just because he might like it doesn’t mean it’s good for him,” Bucky grits out. “It’s the last thing either of you needs when you’re still getting over what happened with that cunt Beck.” 

“Right,” Peter says, pushing himself up so that the assassin is no longer towering over him. Bucky has an easy four inches on him (and probably sixty pounds), but Peter has never let his small stature keep him from speaking his mind. “Because you’re obviously the authority on what we need!”

“You’re goddamn right I am!” Bucky shouts. “You think you need this? You think you need me? You need me like you need a fucking hole in the head.”

“You—aren’t—Beck!” Peter’s face burns, reddening with fury and embarrassment. How many times and in how many ways will Beck come back to haunt him? How long must he be dead before the cloud of him dissipates from above Peter’s head? “Tony hasn’t ever left me alone overnight in the five years we’ve been together. Why? I haven’t woken in the night once this week to find Tony sitting in the armchair by the bed, cleaning his gun because he can’t sleep. Why? And you heard us on the phone—Tony hasn’t bottomed in over twenty years, but he said he’d do it for you. Why? Because we trust you, fuckface!”

All at once, the fury drains out of Peter. He finds himself exhausted, eyes burning in a terrible, traitorous way. Turning away, he snatches up the tissue that Bucky had grabbed for him and begins to clean himself off, clenching his jaw so that it doesn’t tremble. His hands shake, adrenalin from the sex, the fight, hormones crashing. 

Peter sits heavily on the sofa, the pile of tissues beside him. His mind begins to whir, trapped in an endless cycle. It’s his fault he and Tony are in this mess, both lusting (that’s all it is, all it can be, Peter swears) after the assassin. When he speaks, his voice is fragile and cracking, slow and slurred and not at all its typical self, but he can barely hear it, can barely feel the words as they trip from his open mouth: “I just don’t get it. You’re attracted to us. It won’t get you in trouble. Why, then? Why do you keep doing this? Is it—is it me?” 

“Don’t,” Bucky says, low and threatening. 

Peter doesn’t hear it, lost in the fear that creeps over his mind like fog too thick to see sense through. His words come out garbled around the knot in his throat that is strangling him. “Is it because I’m, because I make things so hard? Running from you ‘n talking back? Because I, I can be good. I swear. Just give me a chance and I can show you.” 

Firm hands grab the collar of Peter’s shirt and drag him right up off the couch until his toes struggle to touch the floor, fabric ripping underneath the brutal grip. Now he’s face to face with Bucky who searches his expression with furious eyes and a downturned mouth. “What’s wrong with you?” the man asks. He shakes Peter a little. “You’re acting like—what’s wrong?” 

“I don’t know,” Peter says, answering a question Bucky never asked. His voice warbles, thick with emotion, eyes misting. “I’ve never known—” 

Bucky squints, eyes raking over Peter’s face before settling on his trembling mouth. “Are you dropping?”

Oh, he thinks, teeth chattering. Yes, yes I am. One of Bucky’s wide palms comes up to cradle the back of his head and coax him to look the larger man in the eyes. They’re narrow, intense, unreadable as always. “Come on, snap out of it. Tell me what helps when you’re like this, kid,” Bucky says. 

“Nothing,” Peter says with wet lashes. Because that’s how it feels when he drops this hard, like nothing will help, like nothing will ever get better. 

Bucky pulls them flat together, chest to chest, tucking Peter’s head underneath his chin and wrapping his arms around Peter’s thin frame, squeezing firmly because Peter can’t stop shaking, because he’s trembling like a leaf on a tree tossed in the wind. The warmth the other man gives off is heavenly, cutting through the chill on Peter’s skin and soaking into him deep. Awkwardly, one hand begins to pat at Peter’s back. 

“You’re okay,” Bucky mutters. “Just—fucking calm down. Please.” 

Bucky says please like he’d usually say a threat, and it makes Peter’s heart squeeze.

He shakes his head before burying his face deeper into the man’s broad chest, inhaling while he twists his fingers around the fabric of his shirt. Bucky smells always of leather and cologne, sometimes of sweat, but even the smell of sweat isn’t unpleasant when it comes from the him. Groaning, Peter lets himself relax into the heat and the scent and the arms that feel like the only thing tethering him to this world. Half of him wishes that they’d let go, that he’d float away somewhere where he’d cease to bother and burden the ones he loves. 

The ground slips out from beneath his feet as Bucky scoops him up and into his arms. Peter struggles for only a moment until Bucky’s grip tightens in a way that is both threatening and soothing. Under that grip, Peter goes lax and lets the man carry him up the stairs as if Peter were nothing more than a basket of laundry. Outside the doors, Bucky hesitates for only a moment between his own door and the door Peter shares with Tony before choosing the latter. 

The sheets smell like Tony. Peter rolls upon contact with them, burying his face and inhaling. Trying to clear the fog from his head. He jerks when someone touches his shoulder, but it’s just Bucky, staring down from so high up with his typical frown and stormy eyes. The bed depresses as Bucky kneels up onto it, coaxing Peter to roll over and sit up. He feels like a child when Bucky takes his shirt off, but there’s no fight in him, not with his mind so far away and his body so weak and fragile. With uncharacteristic tenderness, Bucky uses a cloth dampened from the en suite bathroom to clean Peter’s face of any residual cum, wiping carefully at the delicate skin beneath his eyes, across the expanse of his forehead, down over the slope of his jaw. Peter lets his eyes fall shut, feeling the rasp of the cloth against his sensitive skin, the warm dampness of it. 

He lowers Peter carefully back down into the den of soft sheets and blankets and pillows, and Peter stares through heavy eyes at the man’s figure—

Then he blinks, awakening. The lighting in the room has changed, the sunlight tilting to a dramatic new angle to show that time has passed, that Peter has been asleep far longer than he might have expected. His head throbs, the skin beneath his eyes tender and crusted with dried tears, but he sits up anyway and wipes the drool from his mouth. 

Bucky is seated in the armchair having pulled it up close to the bedside. He’s slumped over, his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands. At the sound of the sheets rustling, he lets his hands drop to a more neutral position while he looks up, face blank. 

“Why didn’t you wake me for lunch?” Peter asks. His hands still shake, but the terrible tightness in his chest is gone. “I had a salad in the refrigerator, now I’ll bet the lettuce is all wilted. Thanks for nothing.” 

“I’m sorry,” says Bucky. 

For a moment, Peter thinks he’s misheard. When he asks Bucky to repeat himself, the man looks like he’d rather face torture. But still, he says it again. 

“The salad isn’t a big deal,” Peter jokes weakly. 

Bucky ignores the attempt at deflection.

“I’m supposed to be keeping you safe. But I just keep fucking up.” He stands up and sheds the dark henley he’d been wearing. Peter’s mouth goes dry at the sight of the man shirtless: pale skin, every muscle defined from his pecs to the abs and the lines that frame his package. Here and there are scars: brutal ones along Bucky’s shoulder that make Peter wince in sympathy; a hole of twisted scar tissue from a bullet wound long healed over. Every last detail takes Peter’s breath away. “If you want me, you can have me,” Bucky says, jaw clenched. “I’ll—take care of you.” 

“What am I, a fucking houseplant? Did Tony leave you instructions to water me every other day if my soil feels dry and give me a quarter turn so I don’t bend towards the sunlight? I don’t need you to ‘take care’ of me.” 

“Kid,” Bucky says, low and dangerous. “You make it real hard not to throttle you. I’m trying to have a serious conversation here. Dial down the brat.” 

“I am the brat. Conversation would go a lot smoother if you’d stop being a dumbass, how’s that for a suggestion? A life hack. Yours for free, asshole. And for what it’s worth, I do want you,” Peter admits. He scoots across the bed until his back is pressed against the headboard, pulling the sheets up around himself. It feels easier, here on his turf, in this place that he and Tony have worked so hard to reclaim as safe. Easier to be honest. “Just not like this.” 

Bucky scowls. His abs tense, a distracting motion. “Either you want me or you don’t.” 

“You’re missing the point,” Peter snaps. “Just as much as I want you—maybe more than I want you—I want you to want me. I want to be wanted.” 

“You think I jerk off on casual acquaintances?” Bucky asks. “I want you, okay! Maybe if we fuck, you’ll get this out of your system—” 

“I don’t want you out of my system!” 

“What do you mean? What, you want more than a fuck?” 

The way he says it, like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world that Peter could possibly want—it makes Peter feel cold all over. Suddenly, he realizes the gravity of what he is saying. He’s admitting to things he didn’t know he felt, things that he’d buried. Tony, he thinks. I need to talk to Tony. “Forget it.”

Bucky seats himself again, slouches deeply and tangles his hands in his hair to tug.  Watching all the muscles in his chest and torso work makes Peter lick his lips reflexively. “Jesus Christ. I still don’t know what you fucking want from me, kid.” Then, with a vulnerability that shakes Peter to his very core: “I’m not good at this. You want me to snipe a guy from a thousand yards? I’m your guy. You want me to build a bomb with whatever you’ve got under your bathroom sink? I can do that. But this—whatever the fuck this is? I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m just going to fuck it up.” 

Peter swallows heavily. A part of him wants to reach out and take Bucky’s hands from his hair, coax him to let go of a grip that must surely be painful. A bigger part of him wants to say something foul and snappy, something that will keep this argument spinning forever and forever, like tires stuck in slick mud. “I believe in equal opportunity,” he says, as gently as he can. Gentleness doesn’t come easy. “So I’d like a chance to fuck this up, too, please.” 

Bucky snorts softly. “And with both of us working to fuck everything up, who the hell is going to hold this together, huh?” 

And isn’t it obvious? Peter thinks. 

“Tony,” he says. “Duh.”

Reaching out, Peter pats at the bedspread beside him. Bucky watches with wary eyes, like maybe Peter has slipped a whoopee cushion under the blanket, or maybe there’s a land mine that’s been left sitting since WWII buried beneath the sheets of a bed in a 2010 built mansion in New York, still active, ready to detonate as soon as he sits. But after a long moment, he pushes himself up out of the chair (which creaks with his muscled weight) and sits gingerly where Peter directed. 

He looks lost. Unsure. Younger than Peter’s ever seen him. 

“Tell me,” Bucky says, quiet though no less intense. They’re close enough that he doesn’t need to do more than whisper. “Tell me what you want from me. From this.” 

“I want there to be something between us to fuck up,” Peter admits. 

-

Peter takes Tony’s call out by the pool. The New York mansion sits on twelve acres of land, which gives him plenty of vantage points to watch the sun as it sets, smearing the sky with oranges and pinks. Even from this distance, he can feel the weight of Bucky’s gaze. The man is ever watchful, as if someone is going to step right out of the woods and try to drown Peter in the in-ground pool. 

Tony listens quietly while Peter tells him the events of the day, only interrupting to ask a clarifying question or two. That’s the thing about Tony: he’s an amazing speaker, but God can he listen. Peter is a habitually nervous talker, always eager to fill any silence between himself and another person. It works out in Tony’s favor on nights like tonight, when all he has to do is hum thoughtfully and Peter spills his guts and more into the empty air between them. 

The only thing he leaves out is the motivation for Bucky’s actions, the hard-on Peter believes he’s harboring for Tony. That he isn’t spilling yet; not until he has more solid confirmation.

“Are you angry, sir?” Peter asks. His anxious feet kick up ripples in the pool. 

“No—why in the world would I be?” Tony asks. “I goaded you into propositioning Bucky, or did you forget? And I’m more than half hard after hearing about your little tête-à-tête this afternoon. I’m downloading the security camera footage from the game room as we speak, just so you know. 39% of the way there.” 

Peter smiles, glad his back is to the house so Bucky can’t see. Knowing that soon Tony will be watching him driven to absolute desperation (and then he will see what he let Bucky do to him, not that Peter could have struggled free even if he’d wanted to) makes his gut clench. But as quick as it comes, his smile fades. “I knew you’d be okay with that part. But it’s not like you asked me to go and—catch feelings for him.”

Tony hums. 

“I don’t want you to think that you aren’t enough for me,” Peter goes on when the silence lasts too long. “Because you are. And I don’t want you to think I’m a slut, even if I am—” 

“Peter,” Tony says, voice low and infused with warning. Peter ducks his chin even three thousand miles away. He still feels the disharmonious undercurrent thrumming in his blood and chest from his earlier drop, and it makes him more pliant than usual. The last thing he wants to do is upset his lover, disobey his lover. “I’ve had it with you calling yourself that word in that tone. Do it again and for the next two weeks I’ll jerk off during my morning shower and the closest you’ll get to sex with me is overhearing any sounds I make through the bathroom door. Understood?” 

“Yessir,” Peter murmurs. Despite the sharp words on the other end of the line, Peter’s feet kick happily. There has always been a part of him that believes his love of sex is a moral defect—society, past lovers, past friends teaching him so. The reassurance from Tony is like aloe to that scorched part of him. There’s nothing wrong with him. Tony says so.

“Good boy. The only feelings of yours I’m concerned with are the ones you hopefully have for me,” he says. “Do you still love me, kid? Tell me now if you want me to cut you loose, and for both our sakes, I’ll pretend that I could do it.” 

“You can cut me loose, but I’ll never leave,” Peter says. “I know where I want to be, Tony. At your feet. Always.”

“I miss sucking on that silver-tongue, sweet thing.” Tony’s voice is just short of a growl, the sound of it rushing over Peter’s skin like the breeze, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

He lays down, back against the tiles of the poolside, feet still in the water. Above him, the sky is just beginning to turn cobalt blue. Jupiter is bright tonight. His heart squeezes in his chest when he dares to think about how lucky he is. Tony. And now Bucky. But he doesn’t want to count his chickens before they hatch. “Come home, sir.” 

“You just want to fuck,” Tony says slyly. 

Smiling, Peter lets his eyes shut. “I don’t want to go to sleep without you here.” 

“Are you afraid?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Tony hums. 

Peter sighs. “Maybe not. But I miss you even when you’re just in the city—imagine how I feel with you on the other side of the country.” 

“I left you in excellent hands. Speaking of which, I can hardly wait to see those hands on you. 92%.” 

“So slow?”

“The file is huge, kid.” 

“He says he wants to wait until you get back before we fuck,” Peter says, scowling to the stars. 

“No wonder you want me to come home. If he can manage to teach you the value of patience, I’ll double what I’m paying him.”

“The two of you are going to kill me.” Peter weighs his next words carefully. “You know, I think Bucky has a hard-on you.” 

Fabric shifts in the background. Tony’s voice is sharp when he asks: “What makes you say that?” 

Sirens go off in Peter’s brain complete with flashing lights. Abort, abort. “Well who wouldn’t, sir?” 

“Will you sit down or something?” Peter asks. “I feel like you’re some ghost perpetually waiting for me to turn around so you can scare me. No, not you Ned, one sec. Just, come sit on the couch or something. It’s less creepy.” 

Peter turns back to the television, feeling his face redden. Their interaction in the driveway in the driveway earlier that day is still fresh in his mind. Do you want me to say something to him, sweet thing? Plant the seed that he should keep you company while I’m gone? Tony had murmured into Peter’s ear, one hand reaching down to palm his ass. I feel like a daddy trying to set up his boy for a playdate. 

Peter had been simultaneously horrified and relieved. Less relieved at the stoic look on Bucky’s face at Tony’s offer, his insistence that nothing will happen between them while Tony is gone. Peter’s no quitter, but he can’t help but wonder if he isn’t chasing something that can never be caught. 

Bucky doesn’t move for a long moment, so long that Peter is sure that he won’t and consequently puts it from his mind—those parsnips aren’t going to plant themselves—but then he feels the change in the air as Bucky crosses the room in a handful of long, sure steps and takes a seat on the other cushion of the loveseat. Peter shifts over to give him more room, but they are still close enough that he can feel the obscene heat Bucky’s body throws off. It saps all the breath from him. And why the fuck are the guy’s thighs so thick? They’d be the perfect platform to straddle and grind on into oblivion. At his prolonged silence, Bucky lifts both of his brows in a challenging gaze. 

Clearing his throat, Peter looks away. 

“—roommate is back from class, so I have to get off.” 

“What?” Peter presses one palm to his headphone, like that will drown out the sight of Bucky which seems to stimulate every part of Peter’s brain and make it hard to do even unrelated tasks like hear. “Dude, we just started playing. Are you leaving me at the altar?” 

“The console is in the living room, man,” Ned whispers. “I don’t want to talk where people can hear me. Can we reschedule?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter sighs. “Tony is out of town so I’m probably not going to sleep. Hit me up.” 

Ripping the headset off of his head, Peter lets it drop to the floor, watching as Ned disappears from their voice chat together. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter can see Bucky on his phone, texting. A perfect storm is brewing: boredom mixing with temptation, the electricity lingering in the air like the promise of thunder. He turns until he’s facing the assassin, lifting his legs up to put his socked feet in the other man’s lap. It says a lot about how far they’ve come that all Bucky does is roll his eyes, lifting his arms to text above Peter’s legs. 

“Bucky, I’m bored.” 

“Find something to do,” he mutters, thumbs moving furiously. The expression on his face might mean he’s responding to bad news—but for all Peter knows, maybe he’s reading about the sudden miraculous implement of world peace. With Bucky, it’s impossible to tell if he’s feeling displeasure or nothing at all. 

“My something to do is in California.” 

“Call him.” 

“He’s in a meeting; he’s going to call me afterwards.” 

“What do you usually do when Tony’s gone?” 

“Jerk off and wait for him to come back.” 

“You need a hobby, kid.” 

“Says the guy whose hobby is following me around 24/7.” 

“That’s my job, not my hobby,” says Bucky flatly. “Trust me, no one would follow you around for fun.” 

“Do you really want to see me when I’m bored?” Peter asks. He stretches and is suddenly hyper aware of how close his feet are to Bucky’s crotch. Compared to the larger man, Peter’s feet look downright dainty in his white Fendi socks. Bucky's hand could probably wrap itself entirely around one ankle with some room to spare. Even Tony must feel small compared to him—but maybe not. Tony is larger than life in many ways. 

“Do you really want me to see Mr. Stark spank your ass raw?” Bucky asks. “Again?”

Peter scowls, pointing his toes to dig them into the inside of Bucky’s thigh. “Quit treating being an asshole like it’s your job.” 

“That’s not my job,” says Bucky, grinning without mirth. “That’s my hobby.” 

Groaning, Peter throws an arm across his eyes, unprepared for how long these three days without Tony might last. Phone pressed to his chest to wait for his older lover’s call, Peter lets himself daydream, thinking about all the ways he could be spending his time if Tony had taken him to Miami. Sure, Peter hates everything about the sun and the heat and the humidity, but Peter loves the impersonal luxury of hotel rooms, and he loves the amazing sex he’d likely be having in one right now.

Something touches his shin. He jerks, glancing around his arm to see that Bucky had relaxed his tense pose and let his forearm rest against Peter’s leg. The other man shifts, trying to find a more comfortable position in which he doesn’t touch the younger man, muttering, Sorry. 

“’s fine,” Peter says, putting his arm back over his eyes. After a moment, Bucky’s arm returns. There’s nothing sexy about it. Literally, Peter shouldn't be able to find anything arousing about someone resting their arm on his fucking tibia, but it’s the first time Bucky has touched him—without tackling him. 

Progress, Peter thinks gleefully. 

Now there is no chance he could daydream about anything except Bucky. The tactical pants that likely conceal a variety of weapons, including one of the cock-shaped variety. The broad chest that Peter felt pressed flat against his back when they were in the alleyway. The strength he exudes, the domination. He shifts a little, feeling his cock stir. 

In Bucky’s lap, one of Peter’s heels drifts too close to his crotch and rubs against the distinctive bulge of his soft package. Bucky jerks, and it’s Peter’s turn to pull away. He keeps his arm over his eyes, his chest struggling not to heave as excitement thrums in his veins. His mouth falls open a little and he hopes that he looks to be on the verge of sleep. At the other end of the couch, Bucky doesn’t call him out. Waiting with baited breath, Peter makes himself count to one hundred before shifting again. This time when his heel brushes Bucky’s groin, it is distinctly less soft. 

He hears Bucky’s intake of breath. Fingers brush his socks while the man adjusts himself. Surely, Bucky can’t truly believe that Peter is asleep—he’s a legendary assassin on the east coast. Pulling the wool over his eyes must be next to impossible. Still, he offers no acknowledgement. This time, Peter makes himself count to two hundred before stretching a little, twisting so that his heel drags up the entire length of an undeniably hard cock. 

Peter’s breath catches when Bucky takes his ankle in a firm grip, stilling it. He can’t help the unhappy sound that comes out of his mouth—but Bucky isn’t pulling him away. He’s just holding him still, the arch of Peter’s foot pressed against his cock. The sounds of the other man’s breaths are loud in the quiet of the room, but only because Peter himself isn’t breathing. Can’t breathe, not when he flexes to feel the grip around his ankle tighten. 

Then, beneath his touch, Bucky’s cock twitches— 

The phone on Peter’s chest bursts into wild buzzes. He gasps, jerking up into a seated position and the phone slips from his chest down into the couch cushions. For a moment, he doesn’t even reach for it; all he can do is take in the sight at the other end of the couch. 

Bucky has his head tilted back to rest against the couch cushions, his long dark hair having fallen back away from his face to give Peter a perfect view of the incredible profile, the straight nose, the eyes closed with lashes dark like ink against his cheeks, the mouth full and soft and just a little parted. Bucky’s chest rises and falls in a way that makes Peter think that he’s counting breaths, and the size of the bulge in his tactical pants has Peter’s teeth clicking shut, salivating on instinct.

Bucky turns his head slightly and lets his eyes crack open, the blue swallowed up with the darkness of his pupils. The gaze is challenging, and for a moment his hand tightens around Peter’s ankle before letting go entirely. 

With trembling fingers, Peter slips a hand between the sofa cushions and retrieves his phone just in time to answer Tony’s call. His voice is far too breathless when he says Hello.

“Getting started without me, Pete?” Tony asks, voice low. With the volume turned up all the way on his phone, Tony’s voice is audible in the room even when he isn’t on speaker. 

“No, sir.”

“No? Then what has you sounding like a cheap phone sex operator?” 

“Just—my imagination getting away from me, I guess,” Peter says. And hey, it’s not entirely untrue. After the punishment he’d received earlier in the week, Peter isn’t eager to lie and meet the flat of Tony’s hand again, even if comparing the infractions would be apples to oranges. 

“One second, Pete, let me get into the Jag.” 

At the other end of the couch, Bucky is back on his phone. When Peter strains his neck, he sees security camera footage for all over the mansion, one of Bucky’s favorite things to cycle through when his hands have nothing better to do. The rise and fall of his chest is steady, his cock already growing softer whether it’s from lack of attention or through sheer willpower. 

That just won’t do.

Peter hears the soft sound of the Jaguar’s car door shutting, and then the phone clicks while security measures are enabled—tech to keep people from tapping the call as Tony switches to the car phone, tech to tint the windows. 

His legs creep back into Bucky’s lap. Bucky’s fingers hesitate in their rhythmic swiping, the muscles in his jaw tensing, but he doesn’t push Peter away. In for a penny, in for a pound, Peter figures. He turns so that he’s on his side and drags the ball of his foot from the bottom of that bulge in Bucky’s pants to the top, eyes glued to the handsome, angular face as the eyes slip shut, teeth clenching. 

“Tell me about this overactive imagination you have,” Tony asks in his ear. Beside him, Bucky shudders. On the phone, fabric rustles—maybe just Tony loosening his tie. But the older man was right about one thing: Peter does have a very vivid imagination. His mouth goes dry imagining Tony taking out his cock in the parking lot of a respectable business, safe knowing that no one walking by will be able to see, even if they press their faces against the glass. “I know how your brain gets carried away. Let daddy decide if it’s going to get you into trouble.” 

“What’s the only thing either of us have been thinking of lately?” Peter asks into the phone. 

On the other end, on the other side of the country, Tony hums. “Bucky,” he says. 

On the sofa, Bucky’s eyes open. He turns to look at Peter, eyes flickering between his face and the phone clutched in his hand. For once, his expression is easy to read, even if Peter doesn’t understand it: the lines between his brows, the narrowed eyes, the downturned mouth. What has him confused, Peter wonders, when Peter’s been nothing but obvious about his obsession over the guy?

“Yeah,” says Peter, narrowing his own eyes while his brain whirls and whirls. “I can’t help it.” 

“I know you can’t, sweet thing. Where’s he at? Nearby, no doubt?” 

“Yeah, he’s here.” 

“Am I on speaker phone?” 

“No, sir,” Peter says. The space between the truth and what Tony wants to hear is just wide enough for Peter to stand on. 

“And how are you getting along?”

“Not as well as I’d like, sir,” Peter snarks. 

Tony laughs. “I don’t want to hear a single complaint, kid. Not when you’ve got him all to yourself in that house and I’m stuck three thousand miles away in board meetings.” 

“Hey, we could be there with you,” says Peter. He presses down more firmly onto Bucky’s cock and revels in the breath that hisses out through the other man’s nose. The phone in his hand has gone dark from inactivity, clenched so tightly in one fist that Peter thinks it might shatter. “I begged to come. Remember?”

“I’d be getting even less done than I already am.” 

“Business not going well?” Bucky has given up on holding his phone, letting it slack in his hand though the other comes down to reinstate its death grip on Peter’s ankle. Everytime Peter drags the arch of his foot against the man’s cock, Bucky’s hand tightens like he’s torn between bringing the pressure closer or pushing it away altogether. Peter’s own cock is hard and aching, but it’s tolerable. For now.

“It’s going well enough. I’ve just been, ah, distracted.” 

“Now whose imagination is getting carried away,” Peter breathes. Bucky’s hips jerk upwards, a tiny aborted thrust before he tightens the grip on his control, teeth gritting, but the brief crack in the man’s icy exterior sets Peter’s blood on fire. He presses his lips tight together, hoping that no whines slip past. Shifting the phone to hold it between his ear and shoulder, he lets his free hand down to palm at his cock. “Will you tell me about it, sir?” 

Tony hums. “Thinking about all the fun you and Bucky must be getting up to in my absence.” 

“Does that turn you on—daddy?” The words almost stick in Peter’s throat. While Tony loves the power trip of the title, not everyone is into the kink. The last thing Peter wants is for Bucky to be disgusted (or worse, to infantilize him). But Bucky has heard Peter call the man daddy before, heard it through the walls while they fucked with him stationed outside. That day in the alley, he’d mocked Peter for it. But watching the way the man’s neck go lax, his head slipping towards one side, Peter thinks that maybe he brought it up because he likes it. 

“You know it does, brat,” Tony says. His voice is low, a near growl. “Too long in those meetings and my mind goes wandering, thinking about coming home to find you and him tangled up in my sheets together. I doubt he’s ever sank his cock into a heat like yours, sweet thing. When you’re jerking off thinking about him, how does it go? Are you riding him, Pete?” 

“I think of it every way, sir,” Peter says. He wraps his hand around his cock as best as he can through his sweatpants, thumb finding the head so that he can tease it even while at the other end of the couch Bucky grinds his teeth and breathes through his nose like he’s trying not to commit a murder—or cum in his pants. 

“You’ve got too much time on your hands.”

“Yeah, yeah, I need a hobby. Keep talking, please,” Peter asks, slipping a hand beneath the band of his sweats. Bucky turns his head, eyes dark slit that narrow in on the shape of his hand jerking himself off beneath the fabric. He bares his teeth in a hiss, like an animal on the verge of striking out. The risk of being bit only turns Peter on more, feeling the way his cock jerks and spits beneath his palm. 

“Are you touching yourself, sweet thing?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Hands off.” 

Peter makes an indignant noise, hand stopping its motion though he doesn’t pull it from his pants, loathe to end the contact that feels so good. “Come on, Tony!” 

“At-at!” Tony tsks. “You heard what I said. Leave that cock alone.” 

“Or what, sir?” Peter grumbles. His thumb drags across his head and he shivers. Some rules are worth breaking, no matter the consequences, he thinks. This ache inside him has been building since he first made eye contact with Bucky on the other side of the dining room table. Not giving in would take herculean effort, and Peter is hardly known for his self-control, not when for the last several years, he hasn’t had to have any. 

“I’ll lock you in a cage and let Barnes be in charge of the key. There’d be no sweet talking him to get out early, would there, Pete?” 

Peter groans at the thought, and Bucky seems to react to it too, his head falling back to thump against the headrest of the couch. His chest rises and falls in a tempo just short of heaving. The sight of him, aroused, possibly struggling for control—it’s the last push Peter needs to begin resuming touching his cock. Cage be damned. It’s always better to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission anyway. 

But before he can blink, the hand around his ankle strikes out and grabs him around the wrist. Bucky wrenches Peter’s hand from his sweatpants (the band snapping against his abs narrowly avoiding the head of his cock) and pins it to the couch. Peter cries out a little, struggling against the grip on instinct, desperate for contact back where he’s aching, but fighting against Bucky is like pushing against a brick wall. 

“Let me go,” Peter whispers away from the phone, barely moving his mouth. 

Bucky’s eyes narrow and his grip only tightens, bordering on painful (like that’s going to do anything to the situation in Peter’s pants except fan the flames higher). Not one to give up easily, Peter uses his other hand to reach down. Bucky pushes Peter’s feet from his lap and drops to the floor near-silently, his phone falling to the couch cushions. His other hand takes Peter’s last free wrist and pins it up over his head. They’re close enough now that their breaths mingle, and it’s everything Peter dreamt of. Bucky is so fucking handsome, and the look on his face is dark and ravenous and borderline unhinged. 

The fact that Bucky is still following Tony’s orders, going so far as to force Peter to obey them to—it nearly drives Peter right to the brink.

“—ter? Ignoring me isn’t doing your ass any favors, Mr. Parker.” 

“Not, not ignoring you,” Peter pants into the phone. The change in his voice is distinct. He sounds absolutely wrecked, and there’s no way that Tony doesn’t notice. The Jaguar’s car phone is so good that Peter can pick up the sound of Tony’s breath leaving him in a whoosh. “Please, sir, let me touch myself!” 

It isn’t clear who Peter is begging, whether it is Tony or Bucky or both. Bucky presses down against Peter’s wrists more firmly, sinking them into the soft couch in an obvious reply. Over the phone, Tony’s response is a stern, “No chance, sweet thing. I want you nice and desperate for me when I get home.” 

“I’m always desperate for you,” Peter hisses, eyes locked with Bucky’s as he pulls on the man’s vice-like grip to no avail. “Please.” 

“No,” Tony breathes, voice alight with laughter. Cruel bastard. Peter groans. His hips arch upwards, thrusting against air while his feet scrabble against the couch cushions, struggling for purchase. “But keep begging. I’m getting off on it. Fuck, kid. You’ve got me so hard. You better hope there’s some napkins in the glovebox so that I don’t get cum on my suit.” 

“You’re going to cum?” Peter whines. “No fair, sir!” 

“No fair would be me telling you all about what’s getting me off,” Tony says, voice smooth though not unaffected. “Thinking about coming home to find you and Bucky in my bed, you riding his cock with your hands tied behind your back because you’re always a brat, my fucking brat, and surely he’s already had to punish you for something. Maybe he’ll make you face away from him while you bounce on his cock so that he can hold on to your bound hands like you’re nothing more than some wild horse that needs broken in. And I tell you this, kid, I don’t know who I’d envy more—him for being inside you, or you for getting to ride his cock.” 

Bucky’s chest stops heaving, his eyes going unfocused as they stare right through the younger man, lost in thought. That line is back on his forehead, his brows low. For a moment, the grip around his wrists slackens, but Peter is so stunned that he doesn’t even make to pull away. Because he understands now. Bucky didn’t know that Tony wanted him, too, and that revelation shocks (and arouses) the older man to his very core. 

Bucky likes Tony. 

Bucky likes Tony! 

This—is an opportunity if Peter’s ever seen one. 

“You’d bottom for him?” Peter breathes into the phone, eyes raking over Bucky’s face to see whether the concept appeals to him. His eyes are more present now, searching Peter just as intently, so cold that they burn. “I’ve never even seen—have you ever bottomed before?” 

Tony laughs. “The last time I took it up the ass was before you were born, kid, but for him? I could be tempted.” 

There comes a noise, the sound of a few sharp raps of someone’s knuckles on glass. Tony sighs and there comes the rustling of fabric. All sound cuts out (while he mutes Peter’s call, presumably) and when he returns, Peter can hear the frustration in his voice. “Sorry, kid. All work and no play. I’ll Facetime as soon as my meetings are done for the day. Until then? Absolutely no touching your cock, Peter.”

Peter groans, letting his head fall back against the arm of the sofa, gritting his teeth at the endless three days that still are ahead of him. “Daddy, please—!”

But then Tony continues his sentence, and it sends Peter’s heart pounding. “But! That doesn’t mean someone else can’t touch you. Don’t say Daddy never did anything for you. I’ve got to go, sweet thing. All my love.” 

The call ends. 

Tony smiles in a way that’s sad and soft and that Peter hates. “You didn’t feel that way when you were asking him to join us.” 

“Do y’ think I’m a slut?” Peter asks. He doesn’t cry—but it’s a near fucking thing. Everything, inside him and out feels scratched raw. “Why am I still like this after what Beck did? What’s wrong with me?”

“Pete. Hey, kid, look at me. Look at me. Good boy. Don’t talk about yourself that way. Do you know what I’d do if anyone said that bullshit about you? I’d kill them, sweet thing. I’d gut them. I’d grind them into dust. Nobody talks about my boy like that, and that goes for you, too. You fearless fucking thing. God, you know it drives me crazy watching you lose your mind, no matter who it’s over. And I don’t think there’s a person in the world who could fault you for wanting Barnes. He’s art, isn’t he?”

Peter sits up, startled. Water splashes over the side of the tub and soaks Tony’s pants (the only thing he wears, tugged on hastily after their fucking) but he gives no notice. Pieces to a puzzle he didn’t know existed suddenly snap into place. “You like him too.”

“I like him as much as I can like anybody who isn’t you. I’d say it’s more lust than anything—some admiration too. I’ve seen him dismember a body in ten minutes flat, you know that? I don’t think he knows the meaning of the phrase weak stomach. He’s got my respect is what I mean.” 

“More of your respect than Beck had?” 

Tony sighs and lets one hand slip into the bathwater to take Peter’s pruning hand. “Short answer? Way more than Beck had. But Pete, it doesn’t matter anymore. Beck is deader than dead. Do we need to go and visit the hole I dumped him in to make sure? It’s been a while since we’ve visited. Maybe it would help you put it to rest.” 

“And what about you?” Peter asks. He reaches out with the damp fingers of his free hand and runs a wet thumb beneath Tony’s eyes where the skin is thin and bruised looking from nights spent in insomnia and in poor sleep. “Are you resting?” 

“I’m getting there,” Tony promises. “Barnes helps. We’re going to keep him, Pete. You’ve got to make peace with it.” 

They’d spooned and spent the night in their room. Peter had stirred only briefly to Tony pressing a kiss to his forehead and giving him his love before leaving for the day. Plans are being drawn up for a Stark Industries tower in Manhattan, and Tony is up to his eyes with contractors and city planners and architects, spending more time away from the mansion in general. Though he doesn’t say anything, the knowledge is unspoken that Barnes is outside the door, that he will be Peter’s shadow from now on. 

Peter is ready, though.

Every hair in place, he moves to the door and opens it. Barnes is there in the hallway. He has the room beside theirs to sleep in (and isn’t that fodder for Peter to consider when he’s jerking off in bed, thinking about thin walls and naked assassins tangled in the sheets), but from what Tony told him, Barnes doesn’t often sleep. The years he spent in Russia being trained in God-knows-what have changed him. It’s no wonder that most of the people in Tony’s employ speak of him like he’s a phantom. 

Without acknowledging the other man’s existence, Peter goes downstairs and makes himself breakfast: organic overnight oats and avocado toast. Barnes takes up residence in a stool at the island countertop, eyes on his phone. He looks like a bored receptionist. 

Maybe Peter should make things a little more interesting for him.

“I’m going to the mall,” Peter says off the top of his head. Because the best plans are the ones no one can see coming, including Peter himself. Barnes doesn’t flinch at the sudden words. His head turns slowly, eyes half-lidded as he stares at Peter blankly. Did they not have malls in Russia? Peter thinks with scathing glee. “This is me being nice and warning you.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you asked me to?” 

“Why are you going to the mall?” 

“To hang out? To windowshop? To shop shop? I don’t know. I’ll figure it out when I get there.”

“If you don’t have an objective, why do you want to go?” 

Had he really spent so little time around normal humans that he’s forgotten the inherent illogic of them? 

Something stirs in Peter’s gut, a strange mix of softness and exasperation. Like always, when he’s presented with two choices, Peter finds himself tempted by the worser one. He can’t help but put his hand to the flames; he loves being burned. “I just—oh my god. Look, I need to spend time outside of the mansion or I’ll lose my mind. I’m trying to leave in a safe way. Unless you’d like me to wait for when you’re taking a shit for me to climb out the window?” 

Barnes shrugs one shoulder and goes back to scrolling through his phone. 

Brown eyes narrow. If there’s one thing Peter does not like, it’s being ignored. It makes him see red, like blood is dripping down into his eyes. If you’re ignored, then you’re ignorable. There is nothing ignorable about Peter B. Parker. 

“Shouldn’t you get a car for me or something?” Peter snaps. “Call me a cab?” 

“I’m your guard, not your servant,” Barnes says, his voice rough from disuse. 

Bust. Peter thinks for a long moment, chewing on his toast. At last, a smile spreads across his face. To his benefit, Barnes responds with a look of appropriate trepidation and scepticism. “That’s fine,” Peter says brightly, pushing away his empty plate. “I’ll get us a ride.” 

-

Tony’s garage is fourteen-hundred square feet and houses six cars and two motorcycles. (His garage beneath ground houses much less legal and savory things, but Peter can’t open that with a press of the automated door opener) Barnes doesn’t look equipped to withstand the sunlight dressed in a black leather jacket that probably conceals far too many weapons and black fitted pants that appear too tight to conceal anything. Though judging by the organic bulge there, he’s certainly packing heat in a way that Peter would appreciate—

Peter opens the third garage door and Barnes squints into the darkness making out the shape of the Aston Martin One-77. It’s a beautiful car, almost supernatural with the allure it holds over most people, luring them in like fish to a pretty tackle. Barnes steps inside without being ushered by Peter. One hand reaches out to hover over the glossy surface as though he doesn’t dare touch it. 

“You like?” Peter asks smugly. 

“We’re not taking this,” Barnes says at length. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You don’t know the meaning of the word inconspicuous, do you, kid? You’re supposed to be laying low until Toomes is taken care of.” 

“Come on. It’s New York City. Conspicuous is the new inconspicuous.” 

Barnes doesn’t look impressed. “No.” 

Peter prepares to argue but just manages to stop himself, gritting his teeth. Pick your battles, Pete, he tells himself. It’s no use dying on this hill. Not when he’s sure that he’ll find a much more satisfying hill to die on later in the day. He takes a deep breath in, holds it to the point of pain, and then lets it all out silently. “Fine,” he says at last. “We’ll take the Cadillac. Happy?” 

“Thrilled,” says Barnes with all the joy of a pallbearer. 

“You’re driving,” Peter says, plucking the keys off of their designated hook. He tosses them and Barnes catches them easily, the bastard. He’s so unflappable. Peter has no idea what it will take to get a reaction from him, but he can hardly wait to find out. 

After adjusting all the mirrors and seats (Peter takes note of how far back the man has to adjust the seat to accommodate legs that are inches longer than Tony’s) Barnes sits stoic behind the wheel, unmoving. 

“Any day now.” 

“Put your seatbelt on.” 

“Are you kidding me? I’m not twelve.” 

“Put. On. Your. Seatbelt.” 

“Make. Me,” Peter mocks. It’s worth it when Barnes reaches out faster than Peter can blink, wrapping a gloved hand so tightly around the seatbelt strap that hangs beside Peter’s neck that the leather of his glove creaks. The scent of leather and oil in Peter’s nose nearly makes his eyes roll back before Barnes pulls his arm back towards the console, jabbing the seatbelt into place. 

“Safety first,” Barnes snarks. 

Turns out, it’s a good fucking idea: safety. 

While he drives them from the secluded suburban house into the city, he breaks every traffic law known to man. Maybe he’s doing it to frighten a reaction from Peter, but if so, he’s going about it in all the wrong ways. Peter is a total adrenaline junkie. The swoop in his stomach he feels at every descent over a hill, the way his body is pressed to one side or another when Barnes makes a turn at double the recommended speed—all it does is take his breath away, make his head spin. 

When they begin to enter the city, Barnes is forced to adhere to more conventional traffic laws, but Peter is already looking forward to the drive home. He glances at the older man’s profile, not bothering with subtlety. Sunlight lights up the edge of him, emphasizing the perfect slope of his nose and the defined jaw. 

“What?” Barnes asks. 

“What, what?” 

“You’re staring at me.” 

“You’re hot. Sue me.” 

Barnes lets a sarcastic breath come out his nose. Peter takes the lack of response as a chance to turn fully in his seat, the belt straining across his chest. “What?” Peter asks. “Has no one ever told you that before?” 

“Told me what?” 

“How hot you are.” 

“Is this a real question?” Barnes wonders, face expressionless, voice unwavering. 

“Very real. When’s the last time someone told you that you were hot?” 

“About thirty seconds ago.” 

“God, you’re no fun,” Peter says. “You’re like Steve Rogers Junior or something. Turn up here onto the one-way. I want to go to Brookfield Place.” 

No matter the time of day, everything is always busy in Manhattan. The mall is no exception, and Barnes has to go up three different floors before he finds a satisfactory spot in the parking garage. Going into the mall with the other man is a downright surreal feeling. Peter can’t help but wonder what they look like together: Barnes’s hulking, gothic mass and Peter’s petite, borderline-preppy figure. But if Peter thought that he would get the chance to interact with Barnes here, he was mistaken. The man cuts away from Peter and disappears among the sea of bodies, probably to do something like maintain a superior vantage point. Despite being amongst so many people, Peter feels the keen sting of loneliness. 

He hates when Tony spends so much time working. 

Determined to make the best of his time, he stops by Davidoff’s and buys the cigars Tony likes. There’s a lighter too that catches his eye: S.T. Dupont, brushed palladium. Peter doesn’t know much about lighters except that he loves the way they look in Tony’s hands, the way he opens them with sure, practiced fingers. 

Feeling a little cheerier (spending money has that effect on him, maybe a side effect from so many years of poverty in Queens, but Peter’s no therapist) he crosses over to the new Louis Vuitton store. Tony doesn’t step foot here—it’s ultra-gauche to him, and Peter finds a giddy little thrill in being surrounded by clothes he knows Tony would make a sour face at. He picks a few items that are the least offensive and steps into a private luxury fitting area. 

When he steps out of the fitting room to test his stride in the tight denim pants, Barnes is sitting in one of the chairs with his ankle resting on his knee. He looks out of place among the luxury and colors. 

“What are you doing here?” Peter wonders. 

“I can’t keep eyes on you when you’re in a fitting room,” Barnes says around a scowl. “Stick to the open areas.” 

“What’s the use of going to the mall if I can’t try on clothes?” 

“I’m not seeing the use of being here at all,” says Barnes, tucking one leg up to rest his ankle on his knee. Peter grits his teeth. It isn’t fucking fair that the guy is so attractive and repulsive all at the same time, that he has a body Peter wants to worship but an attitude that makes him want to take the elevator up to the top floor of the mall and jump off. Splat. 

Peter ducks into the fitting room without a word and tugs on his clothes in a cold fury. I’ll show him, he thinks, tucking his shirt into pants. Anyone who tries to fit a collar around Peter’s neck finds that he’s not afraid to pull on the leash, even if it’s a bad idea, even if it chokes himself. Barnes will see.

When he comes out dressed, Barnes lifts both eyebrows. 

“I’m going to go and get a shirt to match those pants.” 

“No,” Barnes says, slowly, like Peter is a child. “We’re leaving.”

“One more shirt, and I’ll go without a fuss.”

Barnes weighs his options, gray eyes flickering from side to side while he thinks. At last, he says, “Be quick, kid. Or else.” 

As soon as Peter is free of the fitting room, he turns towards the doors of the store and begins to walk briskly. Once he’s free of the store itself, he lets himself jog to the escalator. He goes up to the top floor to throw Barnes off in case he’s already looking, ducking into the stairwell and then sprinting down them to the ground floor, narrowly avoiding bumping into a man counting his change at the vending machine. 

The feeling inside him is like euphoria. It’s the way he felt in the car with Barnes behind the wheel taking turns at ninety miles per hour. He imagines that he can already hear the pounding of boots behind him, but when he turns around, there is no one there. Barnes is probably just realizing that Peter made a run for it, and when he catches the younger man (when, Peter notes distantly, even in his mind he knows now that he will never be able to escape the man, he is always the rabbit running just out of reach of the dog’s jaws) the punishment—well Peter can hardly imagine what he’s in for. 

Peter comes out of the mall and into the sunlight. He turns away from the parking garage and begins to stroll down the street, hoping to god no civilians passing by take note of his half-hard cock. Heart pounding, Peter glances back over his shoulder, looking for a figure dressed in black and towering over the others, but there is no sign of the assassin—

Until a hand grips his wrist and pulls him into an alleyway. 

The breath goes from Peter’s lungs and for a moment he feels true fear. He goes for his strap but the figure knocks him off balance, urging him further into the darkness and away from any prying eyes who might glance down the alley. A body presses him into the brick wall of the building, skewing his sunglasses. 

The hand that rests palm flat on the bricks beside Peter’s face is gloved in black leather.  

“You think this is fucking funny?” Barnes whispers hotly into Peter’s ear. 

“Maybe not funny, but I’m having a good ti—ow, fuck, watch it!” Barnes grabs the sunglasses and crushes them in his hand, glass littering the ground. “You asshole! Those were four hundred dollars!” 

The pressure against his back increases until he struggles to take in a breath. Gasping for air, Peter grabs at the wrist beside his face, struggling to make known his urgency. All at once, Barnes turns him around so they face each other, the back of Peter’s head thudding against the brick wall. He grits his teeth against the pain and goes to knee the taller man in the balls. But it’s a move Barnes has been expecting, kicking Peter’s legs apart and planting himself between his thighs. 

The position is more than intimate. There’s no way Barnes can’t feel Peter’s erection, pinning his pelvis to the wall the way he is. Their chests brush with every breath, and one of those strong, leather clad forearms presses against Peter’s throat, a threat that has his blood singing. 

“Do you want to die?” Barnes asks him through his teeth. “Because this is how it happens. By not listening to me. By running from me. Tony told me you were smart, but all I see is a little boy playing grown-up games. It’ll break your daddy’s heart when Toomes gets his hands on you, and who do you think he’s going to blame? His brainless little baby? Or me?”

It’s a good thing Barnes’s arm cuts off Peter’s ability to speak, because at least that way he can blame it on anything but the shame he feels, the embarrassment that ties his tongue. He struggles and writhes more out of instinct than real hope of escape, and during one undulation, his stomach brushes against a distinct hardness. 

Peter freezes, eyes wide. Barnes’s eyes expand fractionally before narrowing even more, his jaw working as he grits his teeth. Arching more, Peter makes contact again. Barnes pulls him away from the wall for just an instant before jerking him back in admonishment. The rough bricks catch his hair and make his head ache, but it’s secondary. It’s all secondary. 

Because Barnes is hard. 

Peter begins to laugh. Even when the forearm pressed against his throat presses forward maliciously until no more noise can slip past his lips, Peter can’t stop shaking. Head spinning, Barnes gives him space to breathe before he can slip into unconsciousness and Peter gasps for air only to give it up again in laughter. 

Winning is so fucking sweet.

“I finally got a reaction out of you,” Peter rasps, eyes wet from the hilarity of it all. He bends at the waist, gagging, working to catch his breath. The whole time, Barnes watches with an expression that Peter can’t deduce, head tilted as if Peter is some microbe beneath a microscope that needs further studying. 

“Oh, right,” Barnes says at last, mouth curling upwards cruelly. He takes a step back to lean against the opposite brick wall, lounging there in a way that looks far too comfortable. Doubt sprouts in Peter’s mind and sours the joy of his victory. Whatever is brewing behind Barnes’s empty, smug eyes isn’t something Peter’s going to like. “I forgot. About your self-esteem issues.” 

That sucks the last bit of laughter from Peter’s lungs. “Excuse me?” 

Barnes crosses his arms. At length, he says, “Yeah. You know. How you correlate your own self-worth with the number of people who are sexually attracted to you. How if nobody has a hard-on looking at you, then you feel like shit. Because you are shit. That what you needed, kid? Needed to feel like more than just a poor orphan from Queens who sucks a powerful man’s dick to get affection and protection?” 

Peter’s blood boils. He feels himself shaking, fists clenched tight at his sides. For a moment, he thinks about drawing his concealed carry and pointing the barrel right at Barnes’s pretty fucking face just to see the smug expression drain from it. “You’re just talking out your ass right now because you have a hard-on for me. Must suck being human like the rest of us!” 

They’re both hitting new lows, finding cracks in the armor of the other person, because Barnes’s face twists into fury and he pushes away from the wall until they are nearly chest to chest again (and the size difference, Jesus, Peter has to look up at the guy, and that doesn’t even speak to how broad the other man is, bulky where Peter is lithe and willowy). Through his teeth, Barnes wonders: “What do you want from me? Jesus, if I knew you’d be such a fucking brat, I never would have taken this goddamn job!”

Peter pokes a finger into that broad, hard chest. “Right now? I want you to admit that you want to fuck me!” 

Barnes grabs him by the shoulder and shoves him back into the wall, pulling Peter upwards so that when he presses their bodies together, their cocks meet. Both of them are still hard. “Fine,” he snarls, breath wafting over Peter’s face. “I want to snap you in half from fucking you so hard. I jerked off last night wondering which I’d like more, to cum in your ass or all over that smart fucking mouth. Listening to you and your daddy fucking made me harder than I’ve been in my entire life. Is that what you want? Is this what you want?”

“Yes,” Peter chokes, eyes rolling. His hips thrust even though there is no space, even though the man is front of him is as yielding as the brick wall behind him, the pressure on his cock making stars burst in the back of his brain. “Yes, I want it all, I want it all.” 

Barnes drops him. The loss of contact has Peter’s head rushing. The man leans forward until their faces are inches apart, close enough to kiss if they so wanted, and for a moment Peter’s eyes even flutter only to be dropped back into reality when Barnes speaks: “But it’s never going to happen. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. This is my job. The last guy who fucked you on the job got himself killed, and I’m not looking to follow in his footsteps.” 

Peter is left gaping as Barnes steps back to put space between them again. It had all seemed so close, but now it had slipped through his fingers like sand in a clenched fist, like water down a drain. His mouth opens but no words come out. No words. 

There’s no way to tell with the man’s back turned, but Peter can feel when Bucky rolls his eyes. He’s got a sixth sense for when he’s getting under someone’s skin. 

Tony turns where he’s trapped in Peter’s arms. His eyes are dancing when he tucks Peter under his chin, cutting short the sexy dialogue and turning it tender. Typical Tony move, though it doesn’t happen often with his underlings around. Something about Bucky must be slipping past the man’s defences, and Peter can’t find it in him to complain about a more comfortable, natural Tony. 

“What’s this all about, Pete?” he asks. “You hate Malibu.” 

“I don’t have the legs to wear shorts,” Peter whines. He winds his fingers in Tony’s lapels, intending to hold him in New York physically if that’s what it takes. “I’m just going to miss you, is all. When you aren’t here, I’m bored.” 

Tony’s eyes flicker towards the doorway where Bucky stands. Smiling, he says, “I’m sure you’ll find something to keep you occupied.” 

“I’m going to jerk off for three days straight,” Peter says, throwing himself onto the bed. A pristinely folded pile of Ralph Lauren dress shirts topples over. 

“If you don’t stop, I’ll think that all you want me for is my cock,” says Tony.

“Have you seen your cock, sir?”

“That’s it, you little brat—” Tony lunges. Peter upends one entire suitcase diving off of the bed to avoid his touch. He fights to get his feet under him, adrenalin singing in his veins, and feels the brush of Tony’s fingers reaching for the neck of his shirt before Peter slips out of reach. Bucky has turned at the commotion and watches with a maternal disapproval, leaning with one hip propped against the wall and his arms crossed. 

Then he steps back further into the hall, reaches out with one foot and nudges the door shut. 

“Traitor!” Peter shouts, mouth split wide in a grin.

The moment gives Tony the chance to slip an arm around his waist and hoist him up and back towards the bed. His mouth brushes Peter’s neck when he says, “He works for me, kid. Don’t look so surprised that he’s on my side.” 

He deposits Peter flat on the bed, the bounce knocking several to-be-packed items to the floor. Tony stands over him, and fuck if he doesn’t seem so much taller than his five-foot-nine stature. Sometimes in their more tender moments together, Peter forgets just what the other man is capable of. But god, there is much pleasure in being reminded. Leaning over him, Tony pushes the last half-packed suitcase until it falls off the bed with a clatter that has Peter shaking. Removing his jacket, he tosses it back towards where there used to be an armchair—only now there isn’t. In his dress slacks is a bulge that has Peter’s pelvic muscles flexing in anticipation.

He reaches for his belt and tugs it free. Peter thinks he might be in for a spanking, until that belt hits the floor and Tony continues undressing, pulling that thick cock free. He assesses Peter with a frank stare. “Well, kid? You wanted it, didn’t you? It isn’t going to suck itself.” 

Peter slips off of the bed and onto his knees to let Tony seat himself on the mattress. He doesn’t need to be told how Tony likes it; that’s come from years of practice. Staring up at him through his lashes, Peter opens his mouth wide and lets the blunt head of Tony’s cock rest on his tongue, the familiar softness and hardness and warmth and smell and taste all filling up his head until it’s light like a helium balloon. When the man’s mouth twitches, fighting a smile, Peter lets his mouth close around it, his eyes falling closed in picturesque ecstasy as he suckles at it.

“What’s gotten into you lately, kid?” Tony wonders, threading his fingers through Peter’s hair. “You’re hornier than usual, and that’s saying something.” 

Peter pulls off to say, “Can’t help it. You’re so fucking hot. I’m thinking of it all the time.” 

Tony smiles, a mixture of fondness and pity that has Peter’s cock throbbing. His blunt nails scratch at Peter’s scalp in a way that makes him groan, and then Tony is guiding his mouth back to his cock. “I know, sweet thing. I know what has you so worked up—or should we just come out and say it? Who.”

His gut clenches, cock jerking between his legs. Pushing himself forward, he lets himself gag on it, throat convulsing around the head of Tony’s cock before the urge becomes too much to fight through and he has to pull away. Tony loves it like this, messy and graphic, like if Peter doesn’t get to suck his cock, it might kill him. Sometimes, it hardly feels like an exaggeration. 

“Please fuck me, sir,” Peter begs under his breath after pulling off, laying his cheek against the inside of Tony’s knee. His chest feels tight, balls heavy, ass already clenching around nothing because he’s empty, so empty, and nothing ever fills him up like Tony. “I need to get you in me. Please?”

Tony lets out a shaky breath through his nose, the only sign that he’s affected at all by Peter’s pleads. Nodding his head, he says, “Bend over the bed, Pete. I know what you need.” 

Peter’s fingers feel useless and thick, scrabbling at the button on his jeans until Tony helps, hands steady and gentle. Those hands are large enough that Peter’s entire cock nearly disappears when the older man palms at him, giving him a firm, warm place to thrust into. Neither of them have any more than their pants shoved down past their knees but Peter feels stripped to his skin when Tony presses flush against him, a mimicry of the way they were just minutes before. 

“Come on,” Peter gasps, feeling Tony’s naked cock rut against him from behind. He arches his back into a tantalizing bow. “It’s been, like, two whole days or something—” 

Tony laughs into the curve of Peter’s neck. His long fingers wrap around Peter’s hips, holding him in place while he thrusts against him. “Two days since we fucked. But when’s the last time you had those greedy fingers inside of yourself?” 

“This morning,” Peter admits, flushing. 

“I thought you took longer than usual in the shower. How many fingers?” 

“I had to condition!—and two, sir. God, please—!” 

Tony hushes him, pressing him forward with a hand at the center of his back until he’s bent in half, exposed and waiting. He leaves Peter there, rutting his cock against the six-hundred thread count sheets while he gets the lube from inside the bedside drawer. Peter turns his head to watch as Tony slicks his cock, taking a moment to jerk himself off. 

The sight of it makes him feel like fire is just under his skin, makes him give out a long, low, “Fuuuck.”

His older lover’s eyes crack open, mouth quirking slyly. Once behind him, he feels Tony spread him open and then the blunt head of his cock presses forward, docking against Peter’s opening and stealing the last of the breath from his lungs. “I hope you’re still a little loose, kid,” Tony says, gripping Peter’s hip. “Because this morning is all the prep you’re getting.” 

When he thrusts in, long and slow and deep, a similar sound comes from Peter. Peter has always been vocal during sex. Tony is similar, although in a more eloquent way; his dirty talk could melt the tar on a country road. Peter is monosyllabic at best, completely inarticulate at worst. Groans rip from his throat as he scrabbles at the bedsheets, clutching them between his spasming fingers. Tony wraps an arm around his waist, the firm bar of his forearm resting just above Peter’s neglected cock so that he can pull him backwards into short, hard thrusts that Peter can feel all the way in his throat. 

“Ohmygod,” Peter cries. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, never stop—” 

Pulling Peter’s upper half up until they are chest-to-back, he whispers in Peter’s ear, “You know he can hear us out there, don’t you sweet thing?” 

The noise that comes from Peter is hardly a cognizant answer, but Tony is fluent in it. He laughs a little. “Yeah, you do. You know it. More than likely he can’t make out what I’m saying, but your every little noise must come loud and clear through that door, baby boy. Are you putting on a show for him, Pete? You want him to hear how good your daddy gives it to you? Say it. Say it so he can hear—say, yes daddy.”

“Yes, daddy!” 

“Fuck, that’s perfect. Me too, kid, me too,” Tony admits. His thrusts are already coming more sporadically, like the thought of Bucky listening in itself is driving him wild. He slips his hand free from Peter’s grip and guides it to his lover’s neglected cock. Just the simplest touch feels like electricity, and he doesn’t know whether to thrust into the firm grip or to arch his back deeper, to open himself up more. Tony continues on, muttering in Peter’s ear: “Is it bad that I want him to walk back through that door and see you like this, half-naked and leaking all over my fist? Or at night lately when we fuck, I’m thinking about the best ways to get you to scream so that he might hear it through the wall? Don’t think about him lying there at night trying not to touch his cock to us, it will just drive you crazy, kid, it will—” 

Every muscle locks tight in Peter’s body as he cums. His body spasms, and he’d fall right off Tony’s cock if the other man didn’t have such a firm hold on him, pulling him back into his rutting thrusts again and again, giving him nowhere to run nor hide. Every thrust rubs the length of Tony’s cock against Peter’s prostate causing his cock to jerk and spit and his body to shudder from the stimulation. Still, Tony never stops jerking his cock, never stops those deep thrusts, and Peter feels an orgasm begin to crest in him again, equal parts painful and pleasurable. Synonyms, he thinks. It’s the same fucking thing, and then he cums again—

When his awareness returns, he’s on his back. Tony kneels on the mattress between his spread legs, cleaning him with a washcloth just warmer than his body. 

“God, what did you do to me,” Peter whines, slapping weakly at Tony’s hands. 

“Be lucky Bucky didn’t burst in here. I’m sure he thought I was killing you, with the way you were shouting,” Tony says. 

“You were killing me. You did kill me. I’m dead, sir.” 

“Had to give you something to remember me by, didn’t I?” 

“Call me every day that you’re gone and I’ll tell you again. No, twice a day. And text me during the meetings.” 

“Can do, sweet thing. Have fun with Bucky while I’m gone, alright?” Tony wiggles his eyebrows to clarify his meaning, like Peter’s mind doesn’t perpetually live in the gutter. Like 90% of his day isn’t spent thinking about riding one of their cocks or the other. 

Peter rolls his eyes. “I don’t think he knows the meaning of the word fun, sir.” 

Tony just smiles, hoisting one suitcase off of the floor and beginning to replace its contents. 

*

Bucky watches Tony put his suitcases into the trunk. Leaning against one of the posts of the veranda, he can’t help but acknowledge the pleasing picture that the kid and Tony make together. They’re both unfairly attractive. Dark haired and dark eyed, but Tony’s tanned skin sets them apart. Peter is all paleness and vitamin D deficiencies where he leans up against the older man, pressed tightly against that expensive suit without a hair's breadth between them. 

Fucking idiots, Bucky thinks to himself. If he had someone like that (or a couple of someone’s like that), someone he cared for and loved, he’d never let them out of his fucking sight. But that’s why he’s here: so that Tony can let Peter out of his sight without worrying about what might befall him. 

From this distance, he can’t hear what the two are saying to each other, but it’s punctuated with a lot of soul-deep kissing that makes his cock twitch. He changes his point of gaze and looks out towards the gate that Tony will drive out of any minute. 

Something flashes and draws his eye—Tony’s watch catching the light as he gestures Bucky over with two lazy fingers. 

Stomach rolling (in the best, worst way), he walks down to where the car sits, boots crunching in the gravel. 

Tony is stunning in the sunlight, glasses pushed up and away to reveal his eyes. They’re like amber, ready to trap Bucky inside them and keep him preserved there for a hundred thousand years. Gladly, Bucky thinks. Beside him, tucked into his side, Peter intently examines the edge of the property line, mouth red from being kissed and bitten. 

“It goes without saying that you’re in charge while I’m gone and that you’re free to exercise any executive decisions that might need made to keep Peter safe, understood?” 

“Yes, Mr. Stark.” 

Tony smiles, showing white, straight teeth that Bucky’s tongue has begged to taste. In these last two weeks, Bucky has seen the man smile more than he had in years of working for him. He holds out a hand, and it takes Bucky two seconds too long to realize that Tony means for him to shake it. Heart in his throat, he clasps that warm palm not quite as broad as his own, taking care to hold firm but gentle. “Bucky, I can’t thank you enough for volunteering to keep Peter safe. Hiccups aside, I think you’ve done an incredible job.” 

“The whole damn kid is a hiccup,” Bucky mutters, hoping that the stirring of fondness he feels inside his chest doesn’t transfer to his face. Peter scowls, flipping Bucky off behind Tony’s back. Without looking, Tony flicks the kid’s neck. The both of them laugh at Peter’s indignant, ouch! which only increases the storminess of the younger man’s expression. 

“A hiccup. Well, that’s putting it nicely. My hiccup,” Tony admits, one side of his mouth quirking up. He uses a fond hand to ruffle Peter’s curls into a riotous style that mimics bedhead, and the kid melts into him. Then Tony’s voice drops low into a sensuality that Bucky is neither used to nor prepared for: “Yours, too, if you’d like.” 

Bucky blinks, slow, retracing the conversation to see if there was something he missed, like a line skipped in the eager reading of a book’s page. On instinct, he feels his breathing grow shallow while he struggles not to make any secondary movements, to give away any tells. “What’s mine, Mr. Stark?” 

“Peter, of course. I want you to know that while I’m gone, you can make use of him in any way you and he see fit. What is that Spanish phrase? Mi fucktoy es su fucktoy? No? Well, I’m better versed in Italian—anyway, it might be the only way to keep him out of trouble; he’s an insatiable creature.” 

“I prefer cumslut, sir,” Peter says. “Fucktoy dehumanizes me.” 

“You’re right, pumpkin, I’m sorry—”

“Wait,” Bucky interrupts. His mouth is dry, lower gut clenched tight at just the thought of what the man is offering to him. Offering his own lover, like Peter is nothing but a fucktoy, like Peter is nothing but an amenity that Bucky can take advantage of, no better than room service or fresh towels at a hotel. Only way fucking better than room service, he thinks, looking at the heavy-lidded expression on the young man’s face. God, none of this perversity should turn Bucky on as much as it does. “When you say make use of him—?” 

“Fuck him. Suck him off. Have him suck you off. Peter can suck your soul out through your cock if you’ll just let him.” Tony puts a warm hand on Bucky’s shoulder. He feels it through his jacket, his shirt, his skin, right down to the bone. The man squeezes in a soft, friendly way. “I know that last time we discussed the idea I called it a, ah, forgivable indiscretion? But I think it’s clearer, now; you’ve earned him.” 

Jesus Christ. Bucky has to work not to grind his jaw. Why are these two so committed to taking Bucky apart? They’re specially shaped tools, perfect for weaseling into the cracks in his armor and digging deeper. Deeper. He feels on the verge of madness, jerking his cock at every available moment to keep from letting the lust crowd his mind. But every time the kid makes a pass at him, every time Tony goes and offers the kid up to him, Bucky feels that much closer to breaking. 

Maybe it’s inevitable. But Bucky hasn’t made it this far by breaking when the wind picks up. He plants his feet against the gale and resolves to stay that way—for however long he can.

“I won’t fuck the kid,” Bucky insists. He ignores the eye roll from the kid in question (that’s just Peter Parker, he’s learned. All eye rolls and sarcastic comments and rude hand gestures). Tony’s head tilts, like Bucky is a surrealist painting that will make sense if only he looks long enough. For a guy so good at strategy, at psychoanalyzing his enemies, Tony Stark sure doesn’t seem to know himself at all: the last thing he needs after what happened with Beck is Bucky fucking his boy. Desperate to be understood, he says: “You can trust me, Mr. Stark.”