#cagewrites

The snort Bucky gives shows just how much he thinks of Peter’s promise. The armchair is still beside the bed where Bucky left it earlier. Peter had thought about pushing it back to the spot in the corner, but a part of him likes the new spot for it. It was a fond reminder of the man who had just sat it in hours before and who was there again now. Maybe it was time to redecorate—call it fengshui. 

Peter settles in amongst the blankets and sheets still smelling of Tony’s scent. With his lover miles away, this is the most contentment he can find. Against his will, he feels the sting of exhaustion at the back of his eyes, the tender ache relieved only for a moment when he blinks. 

“Can you believe I don’t know anything about you,” Peter says, resting one hand beneath his cheek on the pillow.

Bucky shrugs one shoulder—the one without the terrible scarring. “Not much to know.” 

“You’re the Winter Soldier,” Peter says with no small amount of awe in his voice. The way Bucky’s shoulders tense at the title isn’t lost on him, but by then the words are already tripping their way out of his mouth. “You must have plenty of stories you could tell—” 

“They aren’t bedtime stories.” 

Peter winces. Maybe Bucky has a point. “Then just tell me about Bucky Barnes. What’s your middle name?” 

The man’s mouth twitches, his eyes glinting in a way that makes Peter feel like the butt of a joke. All at once, the expression is neutral again as Bucky says: “Don’t worry about it.” 

“Oh man,” Peter says with vicious glee. “It must be awful, then.” 

“Terrible,” Bucky agrees. 

“What’s your favorite color?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know? Pick one.” 

“Pick one for me.” 

Peter sighs. “That’s not how favorites work.” 

Bucky stares at him, solemn. “It’s not how I work, kid. I’m not that kind of man.” 

“Your favorite color is blue, now,” Peter says. “I’ve decided.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes in answer. 

“You said you lived in Russia. Were you born there?” 

“No.” 

When the man doesn’t elaborate, Peter presses. “Where were you born?” 

“The west.” 

“I’m sorry, the west? That’s not a satisfactory answer.”

“What do you want me to say?” Bucky asks. “I’m wanted internationally. Telling you anything about me could get me killed one day, or—” 

“Or?”

“Or it could get you killed,” he says, expression dark. “I have powerful enemies.” 

“Powerful allies, too,” Peter points out. “Not that I can imagine anyone ever getting one over on you.” 

“It’s happened before.” Bucky’s hand comes up to trace at his shoulder along the mottled scars that circle the shoulder joint. With the attention drawn to it, Peter allows himself to look. The skin is heavily textured, shiny pink in some lights and a dark purple in others. Fresh, he thinks. Maybe a few years old. During Tony’s employment, he thinks. “I’m human, kid.”

“Does it hurt?” Peter asks. 

Another one-armed shrug. 

“Is the person who did that—are they dead now?” A slow, mirthless smile stretches across Bucky’s face; an answer in itself. Peter finds himself mirroring it. “Good.”

Without a further thought, Peter throws the blankets off of his bare legs. Bucky’s eyes flicker over them: pale and soft with dark, sparse hair, gaze lingering on Peter’s glossy clear-polished toes. When Peter crawls towards that side of the bed, Bucky’s chin ducks down like he’s preparing for a physical attack, though the way his eyes shimmer like molten mercury makes Peter think it wouldn’t be altogether unwelcome. 

Peter opens the bedside drawer on Tony’s side of the bed. Tony’s personal handgun is gone, which makes it easy to rifle through the condoms and lube to find the half-empty tube of cream the older man had received from the dermatologist. 

“Come here,” Peter says, patting the bed. 

“Why?” Bucky asks, eyes narrowed at the tube in Peter’s hands. “No fucking.” 

“No fucking!” Peter says. It takes all the mental fortitude he has not to roll his eyes. Who could have imagined that an international assassin would be such a prude? “Tony—he’s got a scar too. They gave him this cream that he was supposed to rub on it three times a day to help the scar tissue break down and lighten, but he’s too fucking busy for that.” 

“And I’m not?”

“You’re with me two-thirds of the day,” Peter says, opening the tube. He squeezes out a generous amount of pale colored cream onto his fingers. “And I’ve got nothing better to do.” 

When Bucky makes no move to come to the bed, Peter lets his legs dangle over the edge, reaching out to where the man sits at the bedside, but before his fingers can come close to Bucky’s shoulder, the man flinches backwards, catching Peter’s wrist in a fierce grip. 

“Don’t,” Bucky rasps. “You don’t have to touch it.” 

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Peter scoffs. The grip around Peter’s wrist tightens to the point of pain before going slack again, Bucky’s thumb pressed against his pulse point which must be hammering. “When will you learn that there’s not a person in the world who could make me do something I didn’t want to do?” 

After a long moment, Bucky lets go. 

Gentle, Peter lets his fingers trace over the ring of scars. It lacks the clear edges of Tony’s stab wound; if Peter had to guess (which he doesn’t, he doesn’t have to think at all about what gave Bucky those scars, about how badly it must have hurt, about how long it must have taken him to heal), he would say that the scars look like burns. 

The scars don’t have the same texture as the surrounding skin, no softness, no stretch. Peter rubs the cream in with the utmost care, working hard not to cause any pain. He coaxes Bucky’s arm to shift so that he can reach the scars that extend towards his armpit and then stands, t-shirt touching his thighs to walk around the other side of the man and make sure every inch of tissue receives the same attention. 

“I hate this.” Bucky’s voice makes him jump, jerking him from where he’d become lost in his own thoughts and in the pleasant monotony. His hand freezes, but Bucky goes on: “I hate the way I am around you.”

“Nobody said you had to be such a hardass,” Peter says. He reaches out and gathers Bucky’s hair where it’s falling onto his shoulder and getting stuck in the cream. When his fingers brush the back of the man’s neck as he brushes the hair to the other side of his head, Bucky shivers. 

“That’s how I’m supposed to be,” Bucky rasps. “I hate how you make me so—” 

Bucky cuts himself off and Peter waits one endless moment before he prods the other man. “So?” 

“Weak.” 

Peter isn’t sure what to say. There’s a queasiness in his stomach. He remembers when things started to get serious with Tony, when his older lover had explained that affection was weakness. There’s a reason why cold men make it so far. When you fall in love with something, it becomes a part of you, an extension of you. Suddenly, you’re taking up more space in the world, Tony had said. The man had turned his hand into a makeshift gun, pressing the barrel of his pointer finger to his temple. Bigger targets are always easier to hit, sweet thing. 

He’d lifted a hand, shifting it between Tony’s finger and his head. Then, it had frightened Peter. Tony was right; love could be a liability. But after Beck, Peter knew that for people like them, that wasn’t true. Love could make him colder, braver, bolder. Strong. 

When he opens his mouth to tell Bucky that, he notices that the man’s head has slackened, body loose in the chair. One glance at his face shows that he has fallen asleep. 

-

Peter falls asleep himself, somehow. When he wakes he can see the dim signs of impending morning through the window, but the chair beside the bed is empty. He stretches, groaning with satisfaction before reaching for his phone on the nightstand to make sure that he hasn’t missed his morning Facetime with Tony. 

He has a handful of unread messages from the man, which is more than he fell asleep with hours ago. Smile stretching his face, Peter opens with one hand while the other reaches down to palm his morning wood (more out of habit than anything else). When he sees the wall of text sent, eyes skimming it quickly, he squeezes his erection tightly and hisses through his teeth. 

Fuck kid, Tony begins. I just finished that footage and I don’t think I’ve ever been so hard in my life. I’d kill to have been a fly on the wall, to hear whatever filth he was spewing in your ear. How did his cock feel pressed against you, honey? Looks like it felt good with the way you rutted against him like an animal. You looked like an absolute slut pinned underneath him and so desperate for whatever scraps he’d toss you. When I’m home, I want to see you suck him off and show him your gratitude properly, is that understood? 

If there’s any doubt how I feel about this, see the enclosed.

Next Tony sent a video. The thumbnail tells Peter everything: just a still of Tony’s shirtless torso. He clicks on it frantically and makes it full screen, mashing the button to turn up the volume. For being in his forties, Tony looks incredible. He’d worked hard with the physical therapists hired to come to the mansion after Beck, and it shows in the flat lines of his abs. Dark hair is smattered across his chest and then against below his belly-button. The scar at the center of his chest is dark with shadows from the dim lighting. 

Tony fiddles with the placement of the phone until it is propped up on what appears to be the desk of his hotel room. A glass rests just barely in view, drained. Tony sits back in his chair, the movement flexing the muscles in his core. Peter can only see him from nose to knee, but it’s more than enough. His dress pants are open, cock tenting his boxer-briefs obscenely. But he doesn’t touch it; instead, he takes a package of cigarettes from where they rest offscreen on the desk and expertly taps one free. Just the sight of his capable hands has Peter’s throat bobbing, the hand on his cock squeezing to the point of pain just to pace himself. 

Tony lights the cigarette with the lighter Peter bought him at the mall, and Peter swears he can feel the flame. 

“There’s no smoking in this room,” Tony says after the flame catches. “But with a sinful little thing like you at home, a fee is the least of my worries. I haven’t smoked cigarettes in over a decade, pumpkin. You see what you’re doing to me?” 

Holding the cigarette in his lips, Tony reaches down to work his cock free. The sight of it evokes a physical response, Peter’s mouth salivating, his throat tightening. Leisurely, Tony fists it while his other hand comes up to take the cigarette from his mouth, smoke rushing from his nose. 

“You can show this to him, if you feel so inclined. If you really think he’s interested.” The handsome, full mouth twists into a smirk. “You know I’m not shy. And if he’s going to have you, he’s going to have to get used to me, too. The things I’m going to have him do to you,” Tony sighs wistfully, shaking his head to clear the illusions. “You’ve got no idea what you’re in for. I’m going to take you apart, sweet thing, and he’s going to be the tool that does it for me.”

Peter can imagine. Beneath the sheets, he shimmies his underwear off and runs his fingers over his cock. All at once he remembers that he isn’t allowed to touch himself and his expression sours. On screen, Tony taps ash onto the desk. Peter hopes he has to pay a big fine. Huge, he thinks sulkily. 

But if Peter is anything, he is resourceful. Rolling into his stomach (kicking when his legs get all twisted up in the sheets), he presses a pillow down between his legs and groans at the pressure on his aching cock. It’s juvenile, but it will work, and if Tony didn’t want him to exploit loopholes in his orders, then he shouldn’t have left the loopholes in the first place. He turns his head until his cheek is pressed into the pillow, holding the phone inches from his face. 

Tony’s stamina and cool head always impress Peter. Surely it is something that comes from twenty more years of experience, but Tony always strokes his cock like he has all the time in the world, like he’s savoring the feeling of himself in his hand and cumming is secondary. His knees are spread wide, the perfect place for Peter to kneel between. 

Behind him, the door opens. 

He sucks in a breath, rolling onto his side to take in Bucky’s figure where he leans against the doorframe, eyes narrowed at Peter’s suspicious figure on the bed. Peter lets his back arch, emphasizing the obscene curve of his ass where he continues to rut against the pillow, leaking precum. 

“Jesus, kid, it isn’t even eight AM. What the fuck has you so worked up?” 

Peter grins. Holding up the phone, he says, “A gift. From Tony.” 

A muscle in Bucky’s jaw twitches as if he is clenching his teeth. The otherwise unimpressed look stays on his face until Peter adds: “He says it’s for you, too.” 

A normal person might react with interest, pleasure. Bucky looks as if he’s only been pushed a fraction closer to a murderous rampage. He stalks closer to the bed, boots silent against the floor. How a man with so much mass is so quiet, Peter will never know. “The fuck do you mean it’s for me?”

When he gets close enough, his eyes flit to the phone and there’s no hiding the widening of his gaze. His whole expression shudders as it struggles to return to a more neutral position, but it’s difficult when those pale eyes are glued to Tony’s tan hand where it leisurely jerks the impressive cock between his legs. Has Bucky always been this expressive, Peter wonders, or is Peter just getting better at reading the few expressions he has?

It was one thing to hear Tony’s sinful mouth yesterday on the phone, but it’s another thing entirely to be confronted with the image of it, the overt sexuality of the cigarette dangling from his lips, the way his head tilts back on screen as he draws closer to his orgasm. All this and Peter hasn’t taken his eyes off of Bucky’s face. On screen, Tony mutters, fuck kid, take it, and Bucky’s pupils dilate, and Peter is lost, the phone lax in his hand as he presses his face into the pillow until its hard to breathe, hips jerking through his orgasm.

He comes to in time to lift his head and watch Tony cum, all the muscles in his abdomen thrown into sharp definition as his hips jerk upwards into the tight circle of his fist, cum pale where it lands on his tan skin and the dark fabric of his dress pants. The groan he gives is music to Peter’s ears, one hand coming up to take the cigarette from his mouth so that he can pant properly. 

“Look what you fucking do to me,” Tony sighs smoke curling from his mouth. “And nobody here to clean me up. What a tragedy. Shakespearean proportions. Next time I cum, I’m doing it down your throat, sweet thing. Be good for Bucky. I love you.” 

He stands onscreen, tucking his softening cock back into his dress pants (though he leaves them undone as he reaches out and turns off the video). Peter dares to give Bucky a glance and finds him glaring at the phone. He waits to see what the other man might do, but eventually the phone screen goes dark and still Bucky stares, now at his own reflection. 

He drops the phone onto the bed with a quiet thud, fingers flexing and smoothing at his jeans as if he’s trying to wipe away a filthy touch. When he speaks again, it’s with a mixture of hostility and resignation that makes Peter shiver: “He knows.” 

“If you mean how obsessed you are with him, then he doesn’t. But to be fair,” says Peter, edging towards the far side of the bed just in case he decides to run for it. “You’re a little obvious.” 

“Obvious?” The word comes from Bucky’s mouth sounding like a curse. He shifts on instinct until he is between Peter and the one exit. Fucking assassins. “I’ve worked for him for eight years and he never caught on. Three weeks with you and now I’m fucked. What did you tell him?” 

“All I said was that I thought you had a hard-on for him!” Peter says. He pulls the blankets up, cocooning himself in soft cotton. A slip of dark fabric appears - his boxers, score! - so he works to tug them on instead. “He seemed shocked, but in a good way. Look, I don’t want to be presumptuous or anything, but I feel like this is a very natural progression given where we were heading. I don’t get why you’re freaking out.” 

“You don’t understand,” Bucky mutters. He breaks from standing between Peter and the door and chooses to sit in the chair Peter is beginning to think of as his. Slumped over, he looks like the picture of dejection. He mutters something under his breath but it doesn’t sound like English. 

With all the care of a man approaching a feral animal, Peter carefully slips off the bed (tugs up his boxers the rest of the way, even if there is cooling cum clinging to his well-trimmed pubes) and pads to the chair Bucky occupies. The carpet is soft and not uncomfortable to kneel on. When he tilts his head to rest it on Bucky’s jean-clad knee, the man flinches. After a long, still moment, he lets a hand come down to pat condescendingly at Peter’s head. 

Rolling his eyes, Peter says, “I don’t understand. Then tell me.” 

Bucky lets out a breath. He tugs on a lock of Peter’s hair until Peter turns, resting his chin on the man’s thigh to look up into his tired, uncertain face. “You want to know more about me? Tony is all that’s worth mentioning. This thing with you,” he begins. “It’s big. I’m not saying it isn’t. But this - thing - I’ve had for Tony? It’s been so long. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s formative. It made me.” 

“I still don’t get it.” 

“I’m still talking, aren’t I? Do I sound finished?” 

“Start from the beginning.” 

“You’re a bossy little shit,” Bucky mutters, flicking Peter between the eyes. “There’s going to be none of that when we’re fucking, you know that right?” 

Peter grins. “We’ll see. Quit stalling.” 

“About eight years ago, I reached the end of my rope. Lost my mind, a little. I convinced myself that I was being followed, that the people I worked for had put a hit out on me, and I ended up isolating myself in a tiny cabin - somewhere, don’t give me that fucking look, kid, be lucky I’m telling you this much. I was there for twenty days. Starving to death. Spiraling...then one day out of the fucking blue, Natasha called me.”

“Nat?” Peter asks, eyebrows raised. “You two knew each other?” 

Bucky nods and doesn’t deign to explain their relationship any further. “She called me to say she’d been stateside for three years, working for a man she couldn’t even name over the phone. She promised that if I ever wanted a change of scenery, I could catch a plane and there would be a job waiting for me.

“I thought it was a plot. Maybe she was in on it with the others, maybe they were just trying to lure me out. Maybe there was no job, maybe as soon as I stepped foot outside, they’d have my location confirmed and they’d send someone to kill me. The no food, no water just made me more paranoid. In the end, I told myself that even if it all was a plot - if I died trying to get out - it wouldn’t matter. Who’d fucking care if I died? Not anyone I worked for. Not Natasha. Not some boss in New York City. Least of all me. 

“So I caught a plane to New York, drank water out of the faucet in a bathroom at JFK International and met up with Nat. She took me to Le Cinq in downtown Manhattan, that fancy French place. Fuck, I must have looked like a nutcase walking in there, smelling like a homeless person, thin enough that a stiff enough wind could have carried me away. And there I was surrounded by all these white table clothes and maître d’s, luxury like I’d never been treated to. Then there was Tony, sitting alone at a table dressed in one of his suits but without the jacket. He stood up when he saw us coming, like some kind of gentleman in one of those old black and white movies. You know what he looks like. But it was more than that. He’s got a presence, and once I was in it, something inside me just - burst.  

“We’d never even fuckin’ met. Never even spoken. But I told him that my gun was his, my skills were his, my life was his, if he wanted it. We hadn’t even sat down yet. He asked me what did I want, and I said I didn’t know. Trust, maybe. Rest, but I didn’t fucking say that. And he just smiled and said, ‘well, how about a hamburger’?” 

“No,” Peter says, one hand clutching at his bare chest. “No, tell me you did not force Audric Ansel, head chef of Le Cinq, make you a fucking hamburger at the finest Parisian restaurant in the tri-state area. They don’t even have beef on the menu.” 

“I didn’t,” Bucky says. He reaches out and threads his fingers into Peter’s hair, pulling to coax him to rest his head back on the man’s thigh. Just that act of dominance alone starts a fire simmering low in Peter’s belly. “Tony did. Is that the only point you took from that story? Shows how fucking often I’ll open up to you.”

“Not the only point,” Peter says, eyes heavy lidded. He’d need a few more minutes to become hard again, but that doesn’t mean his cock doesn’t tingle with the threat of it. “I know now that you’re in love with him.” 

Peter feels viscerally when Bucky’s hand tightens in his hair, pulling at his scalp to the point of pain. He loosens them right away at the wince on Peter’s face, patting clumsily as if to soothe the ache he caused. 

“If you tell him,” Bucky warns. “I’ll make you regret it.” 

“Fuck, yes, threaten me again,” Peter groans lowly. He has to bite off the end of that sentence, the way the word daddy came so easily to his tongue. But the other man isn’t ready for that, hasn’t expressed any interest in it. Not to mention, maybe it makes him a sentimental fool, but Tony is the only man he’s ever called daddy, and it doesn’t feel right to pass the moniker along. Not without permission. Peter opens his mouth wide and plants his teeth into the muscular thigh that was resting beneath his cheek. When he pulls back, there is a shadow of the imprint in the denim. “It turns me on.” 

Bucky pulls his hair again, this time harsh and purposeful. Peter’s neck cracks, an unsettling sensation that makes him shiver. He leans down until his breath fans across Peter’s upturned face. “I mean it.” 

There is a real trace of fear that trickles down the back of Peter’s neck, but he leans into it. This is what he wanted. A dangerous man brings danger with him. His mouth opens to taunt Bucky more but the eyes - those pale, sea spray eyes - they are wild. Maybe frightened. It takes herculean effort to decide between egging the man on and comforting him. Well - it takes effort to choose what he knows to be right. 

“I’m joking,” Peter says, throat hoarse from how his neck is exposed. “I won’t tell him.” 

He’s left pinned under that fervent gaze for a few more endless seconds and then Bucky’s fist loosens. Brings him back down to rest his head where he had moments ago planted his cheek. Between Peter’s legs, he is throbbing. He can’t help but reach a hand down to palm at the tented fabric of his boxers. 

“None of that,” Bucky says sternly. “Jesus, how desperate are you? You came just fifteen minutes ago and you’re already thirsty for more. You’re going to learn some patience, kid, if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Their boy toy is the lead,” Romanov admits (to fresh groaning from around the table). 

Tony’s eyebrows raise. “Boy toy? All three of you?” 

“We are in the process of wooing him, so to speak,” Wilson admits, taking a swig from the bottle in front of him. “Barnes and Rogers might be willing to tag team him, but I want him all for myself.” 

Rogers’s eyes flash, cold steel in the overhead lights. “Watch the way you’re talking about Peter. He’s not a piece of meat to be shared.” 

“This is a goddamn episode of the Bachelor,” Tony laughs. “Which one is Peter: Maximoff or Parker?” 

“Parker,” all four chime together. 

“I feel like a father whose kids are going out on their first date. Are you buying him flowers? Are you opening the car door for him? Are you being safe?” Tony jests. He leans back in his chair feeling the warm thrum of the scotch in his stomach, glancing from one besotted man to the next.

“All that and more,” Barnes says. Then, with more than a little bitterness: “It’s the way he deserves to be treated.” 

Tony lifts his brows. Natasha slides him the deck of cards so that he can shuffle. He’ll lose, especially once he’s as drunk as he hopes to be, but there’s no amount of money he could lose to them that wouldn’t amount to pocket change in his book. Consider it their bonus. As he deals, he asks, “Trouble in paradise?”

“You could say that,” Wilson mutters. “He’s not exactly on the market.”

“Never took you for a homewrecker, Rogers. Barnes maybe—“

“Hardly a home to wreck,” Barnes admits. “Not a happy one, at least. Pete’s boyfriend is a perverted, abusive low life.”

Tony goes stiff. The buzzing in his gut transfers to his brain, raw as the sizzle of electricity. In his mind, he sees himself as a young boy sitting cross-legged by the vanity in his mother’s room watching her apply creams and powders to disguise Howard’s abuse. All the heinous crimes Tony commits, that one is not among them. He doesn’t prey on the weak. It’s the only promise to his mother that he’s never broken. 

“So, take care of him,” Tony says lowly. “Do you or do you not have certain skills and the balls to use them? You could kill this boyfriend and have it look like a hundred different accidents. What’s the problem here? Do you need daddy’s permission or something? Well, here, I’m giving it.”

Rogers scowls darkly at his hand. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Wouldn’t I? Regale me, then! Because it sounds to me like I’m sitting around the table with a bunch of pussies.”

“Peter asked us not to,” Barnes says. 

Tony blinks. “Is—is that it? Good God. Definitely a bunch of pussies. Kill the bastard anyway. If you can’t stomach it; if you don’t want your boy toy mad at you, give me a name and I’ll do it. It can be done before we’re four rounds into poker, for fuck’s sake.”

“It’s not like we don’t have the stomach for it,” Wilson says. He’s the newest of their crew, but Tony appreciates his fearlessness, the open, unabashed expression he gives Tony when calling him out on perceived bullshit. “It’s about respect, man. We respect Peter’s wishes, and he trusts us because of it.”

The form of respect Tony is most acquainted with is fear. This softness he sees in his men right now translates to nothing short of weakness. Tony has never lived in a fairytale: the world is hard, and it makes hard people. 

The rest, it kills. 

“It’s complicated,” Rogers says to soothe Tony’s hackles. “If you knew the kid, you’d understand I think.”

“Now you’ve gone and done it,” Barnes mutters. There’s movement underneath the table: one person kicking another, everyone jolting to get their legs out of the way. Barnes looks like he’s sucked on a lemon, or taken a shot of Nat’s imported whiskey. “Now he’s gonna go see Pete for himself and none of us will have a chance.” 

-

As it is, Tony doesn’t have to lift a finger to meet Peter because Peter comes to him. 

-

Tony knows the benefit of giving his men a nice long leash. 

He doesn’t have to. With them living in the Tower, it’s within his rights to keep surveillance on all of them; except he knows that distrust breeds distrust. Wilson, Romanov, Rogers, and Barnes have earned his trust. For that reason alone, he removed the wiretaps and cameras in their rooms upon their arrivals. 

But it’s still his home, and he watches it. Closely. Tony has just poured his third glass of scotch when FRIDAY alerts him that there’s an unauthorized presence in the Tower.

“Unescorted?” Tony asks. His blood thrums—this is the most exciting thing to happen all day. 

“Mr. Rogers and Mr. Barnes are the ones who granted him entrance using Mr. Roger’s passcode, and they appear to be returning to Mr. Rogers apartment, judging by the floor number selected in the private elevator.” 

Tony rolls his eyes, relaxing back in his chair. “A fuck, baby?” 

Tony has asked them not to entertain guests at the Tower without his authorization, but Tony was young once. He knew the thrill of breaking rules, how good forbidden, casual sex could feel. He wouldn’t put it past Rogers and Barnes to have grown bored, considering they’ve been dicking each other down since they were teens. Just thinking about twenty years of monogamy has his cock shriveling. If they’re just bringing home someone to bend between them and spitroast, Tony’s not going to bother abandoning his scotch. 

“Judging by the young man’s level of inebriation, I would hope not.” 

Groaning, Tony sets his scotch aside. He gives it a mournful glance while he steps into a pair of jeans and straps up. “I’m coming back for you, baby,” he whispers. “Wait for me. Take no other lover. Fuck, I hate wasting my humor on an empty room.” 

“I’m here, boss,” FRI offers. 

Tony rolls his eyes.

-

When he knocks on Steve’s (Steve and Bucky’s apartment, considering how much time Bucky spends there) at fifteen minutes ‘til midnight on a Thursday, he would usually expect a bleary-eyed blonde to crack the door open, a dark apartment the backdrop behind him. Instead, the door opens and light floods out into the hallway. Steve is dressed in his pajamas, that is to say that he’s wearing only a pair of pajama pants that cling to his hipbones for dear fucking life. 

“FRI said there’s someone in my building and they’re drunker than I am. Don’t you know that’s a crime?” Tony asks, leaning against the doorframe. The cock of his hip emphasizes where his gun rests, but Steve’s eyes don’t even flicker to it. 

Nonplussed, Steve just steps aside to give Tony room to enter. 

Slumped on the sofa, bundled underneath a large blanket is a young man. Handsome, his face is a testament to masculinity: cut jaw, straight nose, flat brows and thin lips. The only hint of estrogen is the clear, smooth skin that looks like he’s never grown facial hair in his life. Right away, Tony places his bets that he knows who this kid is.

Peter Parker is resplendent, large brown eyes that blink sluggishly, dragging all over Tony’s figure like his eyes can’t decide where to rest. Sitting up, the blanket falls away and reveals his naked chest which Tony eyes with appreciation. He has the optimal figure for a ballerino, obvious strength that is lean and not bulky. 

One of the thin lips is split, bruise blooming like the most tender flower beside his mouth. The wound opens when the kid’s mouth falls open. 

“Ohmygod,” he slurs, elbows shaking from lack of strength. He collapses back onto the comfortable couch. “Tony Stark is here.”

Were he not so sobered by the kid’s appearance, the bruises and blood and the red-rimmed eyes and raw mouth, he might be charmed. Bucky appears dressed no more than Steve and Tony, a glass of water in his hand. He helps Peter sit up and coaxes him to drink from the glass. Every other sip, Peter gets distracted, gaping from naked chest to naked chest. At one point, he falls asleep propped up on Bucky’s shoulder. 

“He’s not drunk,” Tony says, standing back with Steve while they watch Bucky try to coax the kid into consciousness. “Drugged?” 

Steve hums. A muscle in his jaw jumps from how he’s grinding it. “It’s not the first time. Beck and Peter have different tastes in the bedroom. Peter has mentioned before that sometimes after their date nights, he wakes up sore.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. And you haven’t killed this guy, yet?” 

Steve looks downright tortured. He does it well; Tony’s always thought of him as a bit of a melodramatic. “Peter would never see us again if we did. We have to decide between being around to support and protect him or not being around at all.” 

“If Beck was dead,” Tony says coldly. “There’d be nothing to protect him from.” 

“James,” Peter groans, losing and finding purpose again during the middle of the word. “Tony Stark is here!” 

“In the flesh, kid,” Tony says, stepping forward. Peter’s eyes trace down Tony’s chest, tracing the matting of scars over his sternum before dipping over his abs (nowhere near as pronounced as Barnes or Rogers’s, but Tony does alright). The kid licks his lips. He can’t help but preen a little, winking at Bucky who is rolling his eyes. “

The curiosity has been planted like a seed deep inside Tony’s mind. It sprouts, soaking up thoughts until it’s the only thing he can think about, Peter Parker, principal dancer, owner of three of his best-men’s hearts. 

It leads Tony here, to the best seats money can’t even buy at the Lincoln Center in Manhattan, dressed in his best tuxedo, dark eyes focused on the curtain that glows gold. His heart pounds when it withdraws on a dark, empty stage, though he hardly knows why. 

By the end, he has a better idea. 

There’s no hiding a single sharp line or sensual curve in the outfits they wear onstage, the pale tights and leotards. There is nothing soft about him save for his curls, but still he leaps and lands silent on his canvas-clad feet. The dance is obviously based around Maximoff’s character with Peter there as her supporting love interest, but even when the red-head bewitches the audience with her fouettés, Tony can’t take his eyes off of Peter’s figure, bowed at the edge of the stage and watching her with the sweetest supplication. When it is time for his own variation, he leaps and bows with a boneless grace that does more than take Tony’s breath away. It makes him hard. It makes him think about those long, strong legs wrapped around his waist while he gives the boy his cock. It makes him think about peeling those tights off and wrapping them around the dainty, pale wrists. It’s a good thing no one can see his erection behind the wall of his box seat when they all stand to give their ovation. 

Peter bows and flushes, hand in hand with Maximoff before standing behind her sweetly while the entire place howls for her. 

Tony thinks that maybe he’s starting to understand. 

-

No one bothers him where he leans against the wall beside Peter’s dressing room door. Whether it is his reputation or his thunderous expression, he knows not, but he’s grateful for the lack of distractions while he eavesdrops on the conversation taking place inside the dressing room between Peter and a man Peter calls Quent. 

—work harder in the gym. Have you been tracking your calories on the app we downloaded together? 

Yes, Quent, Peter mumbles, barely audible through the walls. 

All of them? 

I said yes.

Don’t get defensive, babe. I had three different audience members come to talk to me about your figure tonight. It pisses me off too! If you’re ready to leave the industry—

You know I’m not.

Quentin sighs, the long-suffering sigh of an argument that has been often visited. I know. This is your dream. Poor baby. It must be so tough, loving a job that hurts you so much. But I’m so proud of you for pushing through, Peter, you know that, right? I just wish you were a little more grateful to me for trying to keep you on the right track. You treat me like the bad guy.

Peter doesn’t respond. 

Is there anything you need before I go? How’s your back feeling? Your lifts looked a little strained towards the end.

Feels okay. I’ve got everything I need back at my apartment. I’ll go home and put my feet up. 

You deserve it. Just don’t forget to use that app okay? There’s a rustle, a struggle, maybe Peter trying to pull away. But Tony’s always had an overactive imagination. Hey. Don’t be like that. I love you. 

You too.

Peter. Say it right. 

Tony slips away from the door before Quentin can come out. From his place around the corner, Tony still has decent vantage to put eyes on this man for himself. Average height, average weight. Fit enough—for a civilian. Tony’s hands positively ache for a gun. Though he’s carrying, he’s no fool. Now isn’t the time, nor the place.

Once he’s sure the man is gone and not returning, Tony makes his way back to the door. It’s time to meet this young talent from Queens (yeah, Tony read the brochure) for himself. But when Tony goes to lift his hand to knock, the door swings open.

Peter blinks in surprise. He’s dressed in gray leggings that look soft as cashmere, a NYDC hoodie on, sneakers on his feet. Spilling from the sneakers’ tops are black fuzzy socks, meant to keep his toes warm from the cold New York weather. 

He’s limping. 

And gaping. It never gets old, seeing the way his reputation precedes him. He loves the way the crowds part for him on the street, loves the way waiters and waitresses stammer and struggle to serve him, the way eyes grow wide like Tony is a god in the flesh. 

Tony extends a hand. “I’m Tony Stark. It’s a pleasure to meet you; you’re a very talented dancer.” 

“Hi,” Peter breathes, taking Tony’s hand. Tony grips gently, feeling like he’s liable to break bones, the kid’s so fucking delicate. And cold. But Tony knows the saying: cold hands, warm heart. He wonders what that makes him. Peter works to regain himself, saying, “Trust me, I know who you are. It’s so nice to meet you. Thank you—they didn’t tell me that anyone important was going to be in the audience.” 

“They who?” Tony asks. “Your managers, or my men?” 

Peter swallows, face draining of blood. As much as Tony likes these games, they aren’t as enjoyable when the worm on his hook is as pretty and polite as Peter is. He puts on his most charming (softest) smile and makes sure to ask, gesturing to the messy dressing room behind him, may I come in?

Nodding, Peter opens the door wider. They both ignore how he was clearly on his way out, a backpack in his hands. He sits it down carefully by the vanity where he applied his stage makeup and seats himself on the chair, nudging his shoes off. When he stretches the arches of his feet, he winces. Tony gives him a moment to settle, stepping around the tiny room and taking in the smells and sights. On one wall is a picture of Peter and Quentin, arms around each other, beaming. 

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, voice quiet. Tony glances over at him. “Are your—men in trouble?” 

“No,” Tony admits. “If they were, I certainly wouldn’t be here watching ballet; I’d be...busy.” 

Peter sags in relief. The way his shoulders hunch throw his collar bones into sharp prominence where they peek out from the neck of his sweatshirt. “Oh thank God. They’re so nice, Mr. Stark, and I promise they don’t tell me anything about their—your work. James still insists that he works for some guy named Potts in New Jersey. Who’s Tony Stank, he asked me when I brought you up.” 

Tony lets his lips twitch. “James’s middle name is Buchanan. Some call him Bucky. Tell him I said: now we’re even.” 

Peter grins and it’s radiant. Tony feels an unsteadiness in his gut, like missing a step on the stairs or hearing a gunshot go off when he’s not been the one to pull the trigger. There’s just the gentlest stirring of jealousy when Peter mouths the name, Bucky, testing the way it tastes and wrinkling his nose in laughter. 

“I can’t wait to see the look on his face,” Peter says. “Thank you, Mr. Stark.” 

Now might be the time to offer to let the kid use his given name but—Tony’s kind of into it. A few more instances of Mr. Stark rolling off that polished tongue might have Tony hardening in his tux. “Take a picture for me,” Tony suggests, sitting down on the cozy loveseat that is opposite of Peter’s vanity. 

“You said—you enjoyed the show?” Peter asks, demure. The sleeves of his sweatshirt pass his wrists and most of his palms, turning his hands into adorable little sweater-paws. When he reaches up to bite at a nail, the sleeve slips down past his tiny wrist. Tony could surely wrap an entire hand around that wrist and have more to spare. 

“It was incredible,” Tony admits. “I don’t usually have the attention span to sit through longer shows, but I was hooked from curtain rise to curtain fall, kid.” 

Peter flushes, not so much in embarrassment as he does from the pleasure of being complimented. The flush of the drunk, though it seems Peter’s poison of choice is praise. Tony can’t help but want to spread him out on the sheets in his bedroom and say the sweetest, filthiest things to see if he can get the kid hard with just his voice. “I’m so glad. There hasn’t been as much press; new shows are always a little slow to take off. Wanda really is something special, though. She spent a season overseas and came back with so much more grace and growth—” 

“Did she do well tonight?” Tony asks, unbuttoning the top button on his jacket to reveal the trim waist and vest beneath. He realizes what he’s doing just as the words are coming out of his mouth. Tony is flirting with Peter, and his flirtation is a force of nature. “I barely noticed her. Couldn’t take my eyes off of you, kid. How the hell you manage to dance that way, I can’t fathom.” 

Now the flush hints at being flustered. He soaks in the way Peter’s face darkens, the way he hides behind one of his hands as the praise makes his posture go soft and waxy. His voice is remarkably even when he says, “Lots and lots of practice.” 

“Your hard work pays off. I was captivated. I could tell that my men were the same.” 

That topic sobers Peter, who sits up straighter. His pretty face twists, the question mark clear, the confusion too genuine for Tony to take it disrespectfully. On the contrary, Tony finds his forthrightness attractive when he asks, “Why did you come tonight, Mr. Stark?” 

“I came to see what it was about you that has my men so enthralled,” Tony admits. With the kind of power he has comes the freedom to be honest, even painfully, brutally  honest, because repercussions are either minimal or nonexistent. 

“Did you figure it out?” Peter asks. Tony can’t help but feel like the kid is asking him for the both of them: what is it so special about me? Yes, this boy is fragile. That can’t be overlooked. But inside of him there’s still a spark of spirit ready to alight at any moment, grateful for any tinder that it’s given. He’s not Maria Stark. Not yet. 

“Yes,” Tony says, standing. He rebuttons his jacket. “And I’d like very much to get to know you better, if you’re agreeable.” 

“Me?” Peter’s head cocks, squinting up at Tony like he’s trying to see through him, to see what is really being said. “Why?”

Tony is used to letting his baser instincts guide him. He fucks who he wants, goes where he wants, says what he wants, and he owes no one alive an explanation for it. Many people have stopped asking Tony questions like why? Certainly none of Toomes’s men asked Tony why when he was torturing them forty-eight hours ago. 

“Because I want to,” Tony says. He reaches down and picks up Peter’s backpack, putting it over his shoulder, the canvas bag downright gauche against his Givenchy tuxedo. “So what do you say, kid? You look dead on your feet, but would you like to be dead on your feet somewhere more private?” 

Peter takes a long moment to think about it before tucking his toes into his shoes. 

-

He belongs there amongst the backdrop of Tony’s penthouse. Peter glances around with all the coltish wonder of a newborn, running his fingers across the genuine leather of the sofa, leaning forward to look at the smart-glass table that Tony likes to prop his feet up on at night. Upon entering, Tony removes his tuxedo jacket and takes Peter’s hastily-removed sweatshirt. He appreciates the four inches of skin that appear when his shirt rides up, sticking to his outerwear. 

He doesn’t appreciate the yellowing bruises dotting the kid’s biceps. Fingertips, he knows. His mother wore them round her neck like pearls. 

“Is it okay if I take my shoes off?” Peter asks. He limped from the theater to the car, from the car to the elevator, and from the elevator to the couch where he collapsed with a sigh of relief. When Tony encourages him to, Peter nudges off his comfortable shoes and brings one foot up into his lap where he firmly presses his knuckles into the sole. 

Peter asks for a drink. Tony gives him access to his wine, and the kid chooses for himself: a red, Chateau Margaux that smells of rose petals and hints at citrus and turns Peter’s cheeks pink. He doesn’t ask for a second glass, and Tony doesn’t offer it; the last thing he wants is the kid to think that Tony invited him here to take advantage of him.

“Tell me,” Tony asks, watching with rapt attention the faces Peter makes, like he’s dancing on the knife’s edge between pleasure and pain. “Tell me how you met my men. They aren’t exactly patrons of the arts.” 

Peter’s face smoothes and he smiles. “It was Natalie, actually. She comes to shows every so often; I think her and one of the instructors know each other. Sometimes, she sponsors promising dancers.” 

Romanov. Her and this instructor must truly know each other for her to be using a cover name around them. He files all this away in the darkest parts of his mind, should she ever become a problem someday. Tony has places reserved in his brain for all of his closest allies; already, he is making one for Peter too. Trust is earned but ever ephemeral. 

“So Nat introduced you?” 

“Yes. She sponsored me for a while, so we got to know each other pretty well. Once I mixed up my days and showed up at her condo when I wasn’t supposed to, and I met the others. Sometimes they would come to shows or send me gifts backstage.” Peter frowns. “I asked them to stop though because—Quent would just throw them all away.” 

“Quentin Beck.” 

“How’d you know?” 

Tony just smiles and changes the subject. “You must know that the three of my men are half in love with you.” 

Peter groans, pressing both his palms flat to his heated cheeks. “I had a feeling they were...interested. I hope they don’t feel that I’ve led them on, Mr. Stark. Nothing untoward happens at all when we’re together; sometimes I, I meet Steve and James for dinner, or other times Sam comes over to my apartment and we just talk, I promise. They’re so kind and it’s—it’s nice to have people to talk to.” 

Peter stops talking abruptly, mouth open. He lets it fall closed with a click. When Tony prods him gently, he admits, “The attention is nice, too. It feels good, feeling wanted. Does that make me bad?” 

Tony wonders what kind of miserable asshole would have Peter in his bed at night and not show the kid attention. It takes a special fuck-up to come home to a lover like Peter and not make him feel wanted. “Wanting attention? Not at all, kid. It’s the least of what you deserve.” 

“You sound like them,” Peter says, smiling. “James and Steve and Sam. They’re always doing and saying nice things and telling me that I deserve them.” 

“Good,” says Tony, one side of his mouth curling upwards. “I feel like a proud father; I’ve taught them well. Should you have those elevated?” 

“Sorry?” 

“Your feet. Elevation will keep down the swelling.” Tony places one of the expensive throw pillows on his lap and pats it invitingly. Peter stretches out without anymore prompting, toes flexing as his joints pop before curling in. The kid makes for an indecent picture, all long lines, absolutely nothing hidden by the leggings he wears. 

“I asked them if I could meet you, you know,” Peter admits. He’s red from far more than the wine, now, judging by the way he has one hand pressed over his eyes to shield him from Tony’s gaze. As if it’s possible to. Peter peaks through his fingers. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Stark, but I’ve had a crush on you for ages.”

A crush. God. Tony doesn’t know what’s more hilarious, the sweet naivete of this boy or how it makes his cold heart flutter. Tony’s eyebrows raise. “Is that so? I’m not exactly crush material for the mentally stable.” 

Peter hums. “When I was a kid, I had a lot of bullies. I started dancing when I was four years old, and not a lot of other boys understood. Sometimes, I used to daydream about you coming to protect me from them. To put them all in their place and then whisk me off to that house you gave a tour of on TV once, the one in Malibu.” 

“Good taste,” Tony says. “You know, I used to do the same thing when I was young. I dreamed about someone coming to protect me and my mother, to take us both away somewhere where no one could ever hurt us.” 

Sitting up on his elbows, Peter fixes Tony with a serious, solemn stare. “Really?” 

“Really.” 

“Is that what happened?” 

“No. I became that someone. What happened to you?” 

“I guess I gave up on the idea,” says Peter.

Up close, the man is even more striking than he’d appeared across the quad. He has thick, dark hair that lays with stylish disorder, and neatly groomed facial hair threaded with gray. His eyes are hidden behind dark Ray-Bans, but they can see his eyebrows rise steadily at their approach, the corners of his full mouth slipping upward. He’s more than a head shorter than they are, but his petite stature belies a strength. 

Steve, ever amiable, offers his hand. “Hi there. Steve Rogers, Art postgrad. This here is—” 

“James Barnes, Criminal Justice.” 

“—do you need any help finding your dorm?” 

As they speak, the stranger’s smile grows wider and wider. He reaches up to push back his sunglasses, really dark eyes surrounded by healthy lines hinting at many smiles. When he takes Steve’s hand in a firm shake, Bucky feels downright jealous of his own boyfriend’s palm. Hastily offering his own, he’s treated to a calloused palm that is small in his own grip but no less strong. 

No wedding ring.

“Tony,” says the man. “Boys, you should know I’ve been playing the game longer than you’ve been alive.” 

“What game?” Steve asks, grinning widely. They all take note of the way Tony’s eyes drop to Steve’s mouth, the full lips, the neat lines of white teeth, the facial hair he’s taking way too much fucking pride in (though Bucky sure as hell doesn’t mind the beardburn). 

“If you know the game, then you should know how to play along,” Bucky says, winking. 

Tony laughs, the lines around his mouth and eyes blooming. The sound makes Bucky’s gut flutter, his chest clenching tight with fondness that feels too strong to have for a man they’ve just met. “I’m no student,” says Tony. Then, a little more cautious:  “I just finished moving my son in. Freshman; bioengineering.” 

Bucky’s eyes nearly roll. He reaches out to put a stabilizing hand on his boyfriend’s strong shoulder, leaning into him dramatically. Yeah, Bucky has father issues, what else was he going to get growing up with a ma who raised him and his sisters alone after their old man walked out? The gray in Tony’s facial hair had called to him, but the downright authenticity in him being a parent? Bucky can feel his cock tingling already. 

“You hear that?” Bucky leans in to whisper into Steve’s ear dramatically. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Tony watch them, notices dimly the flicker of anxiety that passes through his expressive eyes, the drawing of his brows together. His eyes widen with more than a little incredulity when Bucky goes on to say: “He’s not just a daddy, he’s a dad.” 

Steve slips an arm around Bucky’s shoulder and pulls him close, patting at his head with theatrical indulgence. “Your weakness,” Steve sighs. 

Tony snorts, turning away to stare out over the quad and pretend to give them privacy. A healthy flush rises to his face, a few shades short of a flush. Flattered, Bucky thinks. Maybe he’s been turned down recently for his age, for having a grown son. Maybe he thinks he’s getting too old to attract lovers but he’s dead fucking wrong. 

Steve murmurs something else to him but it falls on deaf ears because Tony’s head has turned back towards them, eyes widening in horror. Bucky reels just in time to catch a football as it strikes him in the chest, knocking the breath out of him a little. Sprinting across the quad towards them is a familiar, dark skinned man who looks more delighted than concerned.

“Jesus Christ, Wilson!” Steve barks, demeanor changing from soft to authoritative in an instant. “What the hell are you thinking, kickin’ a ball this direction? You could have hit someone!” 

“Just Barnes,” Sam pants. “No great loss.” 

“I’ll remember that next time we’re in a sociology class and you’re begging for my notes, buddy,” Bucky says, throwing him the ball. Sam catches it with a dry thud, tucking it under one arm to greet Steve with a pat on the back.

A hand touches his shoulder and he turns to see Tony, eyes flickering between his sternum where the ball made contact and Bucky’s face. “Are you alright? I’m sorry I didn’t notice it sooner. Fuck, I thought it was going to take your head off.” 

“I’m alright, doll,” Bucky says, realizing a little too late the endearment slipping off the tip of his tongue. 

Tony snorts in a way that makes Bucky feel silly for falling into familiarity so soon. “I’m hardly a doll; I’m twice your fucking age, James.” 

“Bucky,” Bucky supplies. “Friends call me Bucky. Twice my age, huh? Does that mean you’ll call me ‘baby’?” 

“Means you should address him as sir, Buck,” Steve chimes in. Tony licks his lips, a subconscious action that he and Steve can’t help but zero in on. Feeling the heat of their gaze on him, Tony reaches up to slide his sunglasses back down over his eyes, a loss Bucky downright laments. The silence that rests between them feels thick with something. Promise, Bucky hopes. Chemistry, for sure. 

“Oh Jesus,” Sam mutters, breaking the moment. “Y’all make me sick with that fifty-shades of gray bullshit. If I have to hear Rogers spanking the holy hell out of you one more time I’m going to mistake it for a domestic dispute.” 

“Hey, let’s not make light of domestic violence,” Steve says. When he glances over (hoping for a blush, a flush, any sign that their banter is affecting him), Tony’s head is ducked, and maybe he’s looking at the ground, politely playing spectator in the conversation, but Bucky thinks that maybe he’s looking at Steve’s hands, broad and strong and capable of delivering spanks that have Bucky’s teeth chattering. 

Bucky ups the ante. “Can’t mistake it for nothing than what it is, Wilson, not when I’m thankin’ him after every spank.” 

“If you were spanking him right,” says Tony suddenly, flashing eyes that burn from behind his sunglasses. “The only word he should be able to say is please.” 

Bucky’s mouth goes dry, a ringing in his ears as he stares at Tony’s confident, experienced gaze where it rests on Bucky’s own boyfriend. He’s got the urge to go down on his knees then and there, to ask for a demonstration that will leave his ass aching for days. By the time his soul returns to his body, he’s missed half of whatever Sam is saying.

“—came over here to find you two fuckers because some of the other boys asked me to. Want to throw some ball? The field’s clear for it.” 

“Hell yeah,” Bucky says to cover up the fact that he wasn’t listening. “Steve?” 

“Sure,” the blond agrees in his calm, agreeable way. 

Tony clears his throat, taking a step away from the group. Bucky and Steve share an alarmed look from behind their own sunglasses. Tony strikes them as the kind of man who always keeps a foot out the door, but they don’t want him to get away so easily. Especially if what he really wants is to be there as bad as they think he does. 

“Nice meeting you boys,” he says. “Enjoy your game—I’d say stay out of trouble but if you’re anything like I was, that will only encourage you—” 

“Whoa, you’re leaving already?” Bucky asks. At risk of coming on too strong too soon, Bucky reaches out to put a gentle hand on Tony’s shoulder, watching him closely. When the man’s mouth parts a little, no sign of being uncomfortable visible in the set of his shoulders or the lines of his face, Bucky squeezes a little, feeling burning skin through Tony’s leather jacket.

“We could really use a referee,” Steve offers. In a stage whisper: “Bucky cheats.” 

Bucky pulls away to lightly punch at one of Steve’s broad shoulders. “That’s Steve’s way of saying I’m talented. If we have an unbiased judge for once, will that put to rest this cheating bullshit, Steve? Then Tony, you’ve got to come watch. Unless you’ve got someplace to be. Is your wife waiting in the car, maybe?” 

Tony snorts softly. He holds up his hand, free of rings. “No wife. But if you’re any good at this game, you already knew that.” 

“If you’re so knowledgeable, then you must know that we needed to hear you say it,” Steve counters lowly. It’s Steve’s turn to put one broad palm on Tony’s shoulder, and the size difference between them is enough to have Bucky’s throat squeezing tight like when Steve’s got a hand around it. Fuck, he could see it all in his head like the filthiest show: Steve bending Tony in half across the island in their off-campus apartment together, Tony’s smaller figure riding Steve, making eyes at Bucky across the room. But he’s getting ahead of himself. “What do you say, Tony? Help us settle an old score?” 

“At your service,” says Tony, grinning widely. 

-

“What the fuck are you doing, Tony,” Tony mutters under his breath to himself. The field looks lovely,  even if the lines are faded and not yet repainted. The grass is lush and green, providing the perfect background for Steve and Bucky’s pale bodies. They’ve got him set up on the first row of the stands so that he has ‘the best vantage’. 

The vantage is pretty fucking good. When the two grad students had joined their half-dozen friends, the two had immediately shed their shirts, giving them to Tony for safekeeping. Thank God for sunglasses, because it gave Tony the freedom to let his eyes wander over two of the most sculpted chests he’s ever seen outside of a magazine or television. It’s fucking obscene how broad Steve’s shoulders are, the way they taper to his slim waist. Neither of them has a single hair on their chests, and Steve is notably lacking the fine line of hair that Bucky has running from his navel down into his shorts. 

Tony remembers those days. Waxing, working out, keeping his body firm and appealing so as to attract and delight whatever sex he wanted to go home with that night. That had changed after Pepper, her not-so-playful wondering of Why are you trying so hard, Tony? You’ve already got me. Their breakup years ago had swept all the dirt from beneath the rug, and her accusations of infidelity still stung after all this time. 

Still reminded Tony that he was just a washed-up old man compared to these kids horsing around on the football field of his alma mater. If he wanted to have a midlife crisis, he could go to the nearest dealership and buy a corvette. But is that all this is? When the two had approached him like tigers closing in on a tasty meal, he’d felt flattered. Almost embarrassed. He’d done such things during his college days—volunteered to wear the ugly red shirts that would set him apart as a student underclassmen could look to to ask questions. Escorting freshmen and sophomores to their dorm rooms had been the perfect way to strike up conversations, and Tony had ended up inside those dorm rooms more times than he could count. 

He’d never been interested in men like him, though, always more interested in people his own age. If he’d seen a man in his (very) late forties with so much gray, he never would have given them the time of day. Too old for the casual lifestyle. He’d been prepared to tell the boys that, to send them on their way. But the same reason he didn’t was the same reason why he wasn’t meant to have casual-sex anymore. He caught feelings too quickly. Fifteen years of monogamy has reconditioned his brain, and now he craves the connection. Wonders what Steve and Bucky do on dates together, if they want to travel, if there’s room between them for another person. 

“Tony, you dumb bastard,” he sighs to himself. Then, louder, cupping his hands around his mouth: “Hey—! That was holding, Bucky! Roll around with Steve on your own time!” 

On the field, Bucky has Steve pinned to the grass. His torso, damp with sweat, catches the light as he twists to listen to what Tony’s saying. The grin he gives is far from apologetic, and judging by the way one of Steve’s large hands splays against the curve of his boyfriend’s waist, Steve is hardly a victim. 

The rest of the team boo at Bucky, Sam cuffing his head gently as they all set up another play. 

This must be foreplay for them, Tony thinks fondly, working hard to keep from grinning. The two of them have basically spent the entire game with their hands on each other. Tony won’t say he’s unaffected by the sight of two attractive men grappling with each other, of the position of power he’s in. When he shouts stop, they stop. Clearing his throat, he shifts, leaning forward to plant his elbows on his knees and hide the growing bulge in his jeans. His own jacket has been removed and sat to the side, too hot to wear it in the direct sunlight. 

When Steve misses a signal because he’s too busy looking at Tony in the stands, it’s a good fucking feeling. 

The kiss the two of them share when Bucky scores a touchdown (even if he’s on the opposite team from Steve) is open-mouthed and deep, both of Steve’s hands cupping either side of Bucky’s face to hold them together, the searing heat between them enough for Tony to feel even so far away. One hand drifts down to cup Bucky’s ass and Tony groans under his breath, forced to turn his gaze away. 

By the end, Bucky’s team has won. 

“Losers buy drinks!” Sam shouts to cheers from all. 

A Monday night and they’re going out for drinks, oh to be young again. 

Tony meets them on the field and is roped into an exuberant, sweaty hug from the victorious Bucky. They are easily a head taller than he is, and even though Tony isn’t some twink (he works out plenty often, though warding off heart disease isn’t sexy in any way shape or form), he can’t help but feel dwarfed. The hard planes of Bucky’s body pressed flush against his own, the way Steve’s eyes glitter as he takes in the sight of them—there’s a heat pooling low in Tony’s gut. 

“Congratulations,” Tony says, breathing in the masculine scent of sweat. “And Steve, my condolences.” 

“Thanks,” Steve laughs. 

“Enjoy your drinks, gentlemen,” says Tony. 

Bucky pulls back, frowning down at Tony. “What, you’re not coming with? Steve owes you a drink too. The referee gets the first drink, as a matter of fact. Come out with us.” 

“Yeah, Tony,” says Steve coming up to wrap an arm around Bucky’s waist. The look they give him leaves no room for interpretation. Tony isn’t slow—for some reason he can’t begin to imagine, these two want to fuck him. Taking him out for a drink is far from a contract set in stone, but it’s the next step to Tony ending up between their sheets. Steve lifts a hand to thread it through Bucky’s dark hair. “Do you want us to beg?” 

Tony licks his lips. “That would be a sight.”

“Is that a yes?’ Bucky asks. “Or should I get on my knees? You know—to beg.” 

That image spears through Tony’s gut like a lightning bolt. “I could come out for a drink or two.” 

-

One by one, their friends take their leave in various states of intoxication, many of them with aching cheeks and chests from laughing. Tony is a fucking hit, witty and sarcastic and clever. He roasts the boys like he’s one of them, but Steve and Bucky are all too aware of how he isn’t. The wisdom in his eyes, the sadness of his silences when he slips out of the conversation and loses himself in his thoughts. 

Sam plays the most excellent wingman. When he leaves, dragging Bucky up out of the chair to grab him in a bone-aching hug, Sam mutters in his ear, “I like this guy. Treat him good.” 

“And then there were three,” Tony murmurs, voice nearly lost to the noise of the bar. “Should we call it a night, or should we order another drink?” 

“I don’t know about you two,” Steve says, “But I need to slow down. Maybe we should order something with a little more sustenance than the typical bar food.” 

“Burgers?” Bucky offers. “What do you say, Tony? Are you in?” 

Tony’s glossy eyes flicker between them, narrowed in playful confusion but with a healthy dose of skepticism. He’s had more to drink than any of them, starting out with hard liquor (letting everyone try his expensive aged whiskey) before tapering off to beer. His body is loose, face flushed, but he’s just as quick. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you two are trying to get me...sober. Which is actually a refreshing change of pace from the people I’m usually at bars with.” 

“You don’t have to stop if you don’t want to.” 

Reaching out, Tony finishes off the last of his draft before pushing the glass away. The smile he gives them is so fucking handsome, none of the anxiety or self-consciousness in his gaze the way there had been at the quad. What this incredible man has to be self-conscious about, Bucky has no fucking clue. Tony rubs his hands together. “So. Burgers?” 

Over burgers, the conversation changes tempo from the fast-paced, superficial topics they’d discussed among the other college boys. The three of them may as well exist in their own little world; once the bar’s busy hours began, they moved to a smaller table in the corner to free up seats for larger parties, families flooding in to have their last dinners with their college kids before driving away. Gravitating towards each other, heads always leaned close to be heard over the music, Bucky has seen the waitress turn away from them more than once, unwilling to break the spell they all seem to hold over each other. 

“So your son’s going to school for bioengineering?” Bucky asks, licking grease off his fingers. 

Tony’s eyes watch the movement, so Bucky plays up the action, giving a flash of teeth and tongue before sucking his fingers clean. He’s already feeling more sober, the greasy food soaking up the alcohol in his stomach. Tony reaches out for his sweating water glass and takes a large gulp that has Bucky hiding his smirk. “Peter. Yes, he’s always been especially interested in advanced prosthetics.” 

“He’s in the right place then,” Steve says. “We’re number one in engineering this side of the Mississippi, and the head of the bioengineering department is top in her field.” 

Tony smirks. “No need to sell me on the college, kids. I went here myself.” 

Bucky leans forward. “Major?”

“Which one?”

“Ho-ly shit, Steve. You hear that? Which one. All the ones, Tony, all the ones.”

“I have a Masters in electrical engineering and physics.” 

“Fuck me,” Bucky breathes. “You’re a genius.” 

“It’s funny that you say that,” says Tony. “I have been called that once or twice or ten dozen times.” 

“Can we ask about Peter’s mom?” Steve asks. He immediately regrets the question when Tony’s face falls from its easy smile. The crowd mills around them just outside the gravitational pull of their table, and Tony leans back in his chair to watch it for a long silent minute. Steve nudges the older man’s foot under the table. “Hey—you don’t have to answer that.” 

Tony waves a careless hand, though there’s nothing relaxed about his expression. “It’s fine. Peter was the result of a one night stand during my younger less responsible days. Mary and I co-parented fine. She passed away after a terrible accident many years ago, when Peter was just a boy.” 

Bucky’s heart aches, a physical weight in his chest it sinks like a stone tossed into water. “I’m so sorry,” he says. 

“Me too. She was a very good woman and an incredible mother. After she died, I knew I couldn’t care for a young child on my own, so I remarried. Pepper is an awesome step-mother; when I was leaving Pete’s dorm, he was just booting up his laptop to Skype with her and show her his room. We divorced a handful of years ago because of—irreconcilable differences. It was rough on Peter.” 

“And on you,” Bucky surmises. 

Tony winces. He lifts his water to try and hide behind it. “That obvious?” 

“Do you miss her?” Steve asks. His face is clear and open and sympathetic; Bucky knows him well enough to know that he isn’t the easily jealous type, that even if Tony said he was still madly in love with this ex-wife Pepper (and what kind of name is that, Bucky wonders) Steve wouldn’t take it personally. 

“No,” says Tony without preamble. “The fighting was bad. I worked too much, I didn’t want more children, I didn’t make her feel wanted. She was convinced that if I wasn’t being intimate with her, then I was being intimate with someone else. My porn history is what really tipped her off to my changing proclivities. I thought, I’m too old to be having a sexuality crisis. She thought I’d misled her—tricked her into marrying a gay man.” 

“There’s no such thing as too old,” Steve says with tenderness. “And you hardly could have tricked her if you hadn’t known yourself.” 

Tony’s smile is misty, distracted. “Yeah. Well. Jesus, boys, would you look at the time?” 

“Tony.” 

“It was sweet of you kids to humor me, but I really should get going. It’s a long drive back to New York City.” 

“Are you sure? You had a lot to drink,” Bucky says. There are a host of reasons why he wants Tony to stay—at this table, in this moment, in this bar—but more than anything, he wants Tony to be safe. And he wants Tony to want to stay. 

“I’ll sober up on the walk back to the university’s parking lot, don’t worry.” 

“Our place is close by,” Steve says. “We live in an apartment for graduates. It’s small and the walls are thin, but it’s clean and you’re more than welcome to stay and drive back in the morning.” 

Tony frowns. Bucky wishes that he’d push those ridiculous tinted glasses back so that they could see the darkness of his eyes and whatever might be swimming in them. Face flushed with either drink or anger, the older man scoffs, pushing away his water. “I really don’t get you two. There were half-a-hundred other men and women in the quad who would have been happy to go home with you. Why the hell did you target me? Look, here’s some life advice: try to avoid picking up middle-aged men with as much baggage in their past as they have bags under their eyes.” 

“Wait a minute—” says Steve firmly. Bucky can feel the tenseness in his form mirrored in his boyfriend’s body, a rising sense of alarm that the night is not turning out the way they had hoped. It happens sometimes: Bucky and Steve will pick up a person only for the night to end outside the bar. But judging by Steve’s clenched jaw and the way Bucky’s own heart pounds, this isn’t a situation they’ll be able to walk away from - not without shooting their shot properly. 

But Tony makes a derisive noise to stop Steve before he can start. Reaching into his wallet, he takes out an obscene amount of cash to leave it on the table. “Please. No more. Thanks for trying to repair an old man’s pride.” 

They watch his figure as he begins to shuffle his way through the crowd towards the exit. 

“I don’t wanna let him go,” Bucky says. “Not right now, but not tomorrow morning, neither.” 

“You really like him,” says Steve, more of a statement than any question. He takes a last drink of water before standing hastily. “Then we’d better not let him walk away without knowing.” 

Outside, the air has a chill in it. People stream along the sidewalk wearing jackets to protect them from the beginning hints of the New England fall. Their height gives them an advantage as they search the crowd for a shorter head of dark, impossibly fluffy hair. Steve takes a firm grip of Bucky’s arm, pointing, whispering a breathless, there! 

Bucky sees him. Tony has stopped the next building over and is leaning heavily against the brick wall, both hands rubbing at his face as if trying to wipe the remnants of sleep away. The people flooding in and out of the bar have disguised Bucky and Steve’s exit; they nearly make it to him unseen before he turns and begins to walk away back towards the university, when a knot of fear that’s tied itself deep in Bucky’s throat makes him call out, “Tony!” 

Glancing over his shoulder, Tony’s face displays a complex series of emotions that Bucky can’t properly follow—but at least he doesn’t run. Stepping out of the crowd’s current, he lingers at the mouth of an alley while the two younger men catch up to him. 

“I know I left enough cash,” Tony says tiredly. 

“We aren’t here about the cash,” Steve says. “We really had a good time tonight, and we don’t want it to end. If you’d rather head home alone instead of with us, could we at least get your number?” 

“My number?” Tony asks, eyes wide. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets. “What for?” 

“To text you,” says Bucky. “To maybe set up another time to meet up whenever you’re back this way.” 

“Come on, boys,” Tony murmurs, his voice nearly lost to the crowd. He looks at them with soft, sad eyes. “Come on. Let's just quit pretending.” 

“Who’s pretending? What will prove it to you? You want me to beg? I offered it once before. I’m not above it.” 

Neither of them can miss the way Tony’s throat bobs at the suggestion. Before anyone else can say a word, Steve’s hand is pressed to Bucky’s shoulder. When Bucky glances over, he sees the cool level gaze and immediately goes soft and spacey in the head (though hard everywhere else). 

“Go on,” Steve says to Bucky. His voice is low and sure and goes straight to Bucky’s cock. “That’s what he wants. You want to give him what he wants, don’t you? Get down on your knees and beg him.” 

“Steve,” Tony croaks. 

The rest of his sentence is lost at the sound of Bucky’s knees connecting with the pavement. Tony looks good from down here, Bucky thinks dimly, looks good from every angle, but there’s something about being on his knees that makes Bucky see through different eyes. 

“Please don’t be done with us,” Bucky begs through numb lips. Behind him, the raucous mill of the crowd melts into white noise. They’re only just inside the mouth of the alleyway. People would barely have to turn their heads to see them and the thought sets Bucky’s nerves on fire.  “Please, give us a chance.” 

A long breath comes out of Tony’s nose, jaw clenching and unclenching. His looks from Steve to Bucky again and again before he lets a tentative hand reach out and touch Bucky’s hair. Bucky’s eyes fall shut at the feeling. There’s a reason why he keeps his hair long. Mouth parting, he tilts his head into the older man’s touch. 

“Jesus,” Tony breathes. “What am I going to do with you, kid?” 

“There’s plenty you could do,” Steve offers. “But you don’t have to do anything at all, if you don’t want to.” 

Then Tony is kneeling in front of him, shifting those tinted glasses until they rest in the impeccable cloud of his hair. He takes up all the space in the alley, all the space in Bucky’s vision, all the space in his brain. 

“What about you, James?” Tony asks. “What do you want?” 

Without any hesitation: “I wanna make you feel good.”

They kiss. There’s no preamble, no gentle exploration; Bucky and Tony are both masterful kissers after years of experience, and at the moment neither of them are sober enough to worry about finesse. Bucky takes Tony’s tongue into his own mouth and suckles, swallowing the way the older man groans. His facial hair abraids Bucky’s mouth and chin, the sting making him feel raw and hot all over. It’s one of the best kisses he’s ever had, and if it’s an omen of how the evening will progress, it’s a very fucking good one. 

“Fuck,” Tony mutters, pulling back. His breath fans across Bucky’s face as he laughs, one hand coming to rest on the younger man’s shoulder. “I’m not twenty-five anymore; this kills my knees.” 

Steve, who had nearly blended into the shadows while watching them with bated breath, helps Tony up, adding, “I guess Bucky and I will be the only ones on our knees tonight.” 

Then it’s his turn to kiss Tony, tilting the older man’s chin upwards and cupping the back of his head with one broad palm. They are the antithesis of each other: one tall and broad, pale and blond. Bucky groans at the sight of his boyfriend’s jaws opening, the hint of hollowness in his cheeks as he licks into Tony’s mouth. 

“God,” Steve mutters when he pulls back to catch his breath. “That whiskey tastes even better comin’ off of your tongue.” 

“How close is your apartment?” Tony asks. 

“Too far,” Steve says roughly. “Too far for me to not have my hands on you. Yes or no?” 

“Yes. Yes, yes.” 

The two of them coax Tony deeper into the alleyway, his boots echoing off the concrete. When they’re a safe enough distance from the prying eyes of the street, Steve leans with his back against one brick wall, pulling Tony’s back to rest against his chest while Bucky presses himself flush to the man’s front. There’s no hiding Bucky’s erection which presses into the soft cotton of the t-shirt beneath Tony’s jacket, and when Bucky shifts a thigh between the man’s legs, there’s no way to miss Tony’s erection either. 

Tony sighs in pleasure as Bucky drags his thigh along his cock. When his head tilts back, Steve is there nuzzling into the side of his neck, scraping teeth along the sensitive skin. 

“Fuck me, look at him, Steve,” Bucky pants. With hands firm on Tony’s hips, he tugs the shorter man up while angling his own hips down until the bulge of their cocks can drag against each other. “He’s so fuckin’ beautiful, isn’t he?” 

“Like art,” Steve rumbles into Tony’s neck. “Wanna pin him up against the wall—” 

“I think I can feel what you plan on pinning me with,” Tony breathes, arching his back. 

“You think?” Steve asks, rutting his hips upwards. It punches a gasp from Tony’s mouth that Bucky swallows with his own. 

Between them, Tony must feel like the pivot on a seesaw, dragged back and forth, both of them desperate for whatever part of his body they could touch. Steve splays a wide hand against Tony’s breastbone between his open jacket and drags his palm from one pec to the other, fingers taking one clothed nipple (hard and delicate as a glass bead where it pokes through his t-shirt) and working it over, tender and merciless. 

In front of him, Bucky guides his hips so that Tony maintains a steady pace where their cocks are grinding together. He hasn’t cum in his pants since he was fifteen years old with his first girlfriend writhing against his lap, but he feels liable to repeat history tonight. 

“You feel so good,” Bucky groans into the juncture of Tony’s neck. “Been thinking about this ever since I spotted you on the quad, even more at the bar. Every time you’d flirt with the waitress I’d almost pop a stiffie. Nobody’s got a right being as sexy as you are.” 

“You’ve got it—ah!—wrong,” Tony pants. He’s wrapped his arms around Bucky’s neck, the fingers of one hand tangled and tugging at his hair. “Watching you and Steve roll around on that football field was like pornography. The hell do you think I had my jacket in my lap, for?” 

Bucky barely manages to stifle an embarrassing sound in his throat. His balls feel tight and heavy, as if he’s been edging himself all day long. His jerking thrusts against Tony’s jeans begin to become sporadic as he chases that high. His sweatpants will be ruined—they probably already are, if he’s leaking like a faucet how he thinks he is—but all consequences and repercussions fade as the coil of heat in his gut winds itself tighter and tighter. 

“‘M gonna cum,” he gasps, shivering when he hears the breath Tony sucks in at his words. 

“You want that, Tony?” Steve asks. “You want him to cum or do you want him to wait? You get to decide tonight—” 

“Steve,” Bucky says, voice strained. “Don’t make me stop, please don’t make me, he feels so good, Steve—” 

“Stop him,” Tony gasps, though his own hips offer no help considering he arches them to rub the burning line of their cocks together. “Don’t let him cum.” 

Steve reaches out to press firmly on Bucky’s chest until he stumbles back away from the warm cradle of Tony’s hips, an undignified noise slipping past his lips. From a distance, he’s treated to the incredible sight of them: Steve holding Tony flush against him, the way Tony’s eyes are dark and heavy-lidded, the obscene bulge in his denim and the way his entire body jerks when Steve thrusts his cock against the lush curve of Tony’s ass. 

“Jesus, you all aren’t making it easy on me,” Bucky says, palming his eyes. 

“Tony’s right,” Steve says firmly. “He deserves better than this. We need more room.” 

“Apartment?” Tony wonders through swollen lips. 

“Apartment. Let’s go, sugar, we’ll take a shortcut.” 

-

What the hell am I doing? Tony wonders for the thousandth time that day as they walk briskly down alleys and jaywalk across streets. The thought replays in his head like a track on repeat. His own erection wanes quickly thanks to a heart condition and as a lovely perk of aging, but he hardly minds when he sees how ridiculous the two younger men look trying to hide their half-hard cocks while navigating the downtown area. Tony removes his jacket and offers it to Bucky who has a tell-tale patch of darkness where the head of his cock has rested. The sight makes his heart pound. 

What the hell am I doing, he thinks again when the two of them pin him to the wall in the elevator of their apartment building, both of them grinding their respective erections into his hips while teasing the sensitive skin of his neck, hands creeping up under the hem of his t-shirt to trace his quivering stomach. 

He feels infused with some sort of youthful madness. The three of them stumble out of the elevator with swollen mouths and tented pants and he feels young again. Even for just a moment while Steve takes the time to unlock their apartment door. Then the three of them are tumbling over the threshold and Tony remembers—right, he’s on the wrong side of forty. 

“Goddamnit,” he hisses when his knee cracks against the doorframe. The twin expressions of horror on Bucky and Steve’s faces have his pained groan turning into laughter, even as Bucky leans down to wind one of Tony’s arms over his broad shoulders and help him to the couch. 

“Jesus, you okay?” Bucky asks, kneeling down between Tony’s spread thighs and tenderly running his fingers over Tony’s clothed knee. 

“Fine,” Tony laughs. “Still a little drunk.” 

Bucky’s eyes flash upwards, pale, liquid heat. His fingers trail up, up, until they trace the seam at the crotch of Tony’s jeans. “Too drunk?” 

“Not that drunk, kid,” Tony smirks. “Not by far.” 

“Good,” Steve says from where he’s locking up the door. “Do you want Bucky to suck you off?”

The idea, spoken so casually as Steve pauses to rifle through the drawer of the foyer table, sends a bolt of electricity down Tony’s spine. He’ll never get used to it—that flippant way Steve speaks about Bucky, as if Bucky is just an item Steve feels welcomed to loan out. Sure, you can take him home, Tony. Just rewind him before you bring him back. 

“I think he likes the thought of that,” Bucky says lowly, his mouth curving upward to hint at wickedness. 

Steve stops, rustling papers falling silent as he glances over his shoulder at them. “Tony? What do you want?” 

“I’m amenable,” he admits, far more breathlessly than he’d like. 

“Then get to it, Bucky, I’m looking for our papers we got from the clinic.” 

“Lookin’ in the wrong place,” Bucky teases. “On top of the ‘fridge.” 

Then he leans forward and licks a broad line up over Tony’s denim-covered cock. It barely registers as pressure on his dick, but it’s the imagery that has the blood rushing from his head in a torrent so strong he feels dizzy. Bucky keeps his eyes cracked open, glittering as he takes Tony apart, laving him from outside his jeans, dragging the line of his teeth down the growing bulge to laugh at the sound that slips past the older man’s lips. He opens wide to mouth at Tony’s balls, the heat from his breath and tongue seeping through the denim. 

“Finally,” Steve breathes, drawing Tony’s attention. He holds out two pieces of paper—how the hell he expects Tony to read given the lack of blood in his brain, Tony has no idea. “Bucky and I get tested regularly. Here’s our most recent screening, and we’ve only slept with each other since then.” 

“I don’t have mine,” Tony says. His voice sounds strained from the effort it takes to keep his hips still and not fuck up into Bucky’s mouth. “Condoms okay?” 

“More than fine,” Steve says. “God, look at you, Bucky. Makin’ a mess of him.”

“Get me something and I’ll blow him proper.” 

Steve retrieves condoms while Bucky unfastens Tony’s jeans. He gets distracted by the sight of Tony’s cock straining against the fabric of his boxer briefs and leans forward to nuzzle against it. It takes all the breath from him. When was the last time Tony felt desirable? To have Bucky looking at him this way, refusing to withdraw his mouth from Tony for longer than a moment at a time—it fills up an empty, wounded part inside of him that he had avoided acknowledging in the first place.

“Finally,” Bucky breathes, snagging a condom up from where Steve drops them on the couch cushion beside Tony. Tony wants to mirror the sentiment, but his throat is shut tight while he watches Bucky tear open the condom with expert fingers. 

Steve kneels down next to his boyfriend. One hand cups Bucky’s jaw and briefly turns his head so that their mouths can meet. If Tony thought he was breathless before, he knew differently now. It’s pornography in person, it’s erotica come to life watching both of these hopelessly attractive young men kiss each other so filthily, tongues flashing pink when they adjust the positions of their mouths. 

The aching of Tony’s cock is painful. When he reaches down to rub the heel of his palm over it, it offers only the briefest reprieve, his eyes fluttering shut. Then Steve’s fingers wrap gently around his wrist and his eyes open to see the both of them watching him, flushed with swollen mouths. 

“Sorry,” Steve rumbles. “We are easily distracted.” 

“Then you’re among like-kind,” says Tony. 

“May I?” Bucky asks, holding up the condom. 

“Please.” 

“Hips up, sugar,” Steve murmurs. There’s a fluttering of embarrassment at the endearment—in some ways Tony feels infantilized—but it’s been so long since he was called any sweet name (besides Peter’s fond, exasperated dad’s) that a larger part of him feels choked at the name. Swallowing hard, Tony shifts upward so that Steve can work the jeans and underwear down and off.

Bucky reels off a line of expletives at the sight of Tony’s cock: long, cut, flushed. It jerks under their gazes, the head slick and sticky. He can’t help but laugh under his breath at the expressions on their faces. The laughter ends when Bucky reaches out to trace his fingers up his shaft, thumbing at the sensitive skin beneath the head. 

“You’re perfect,” says Bucky. 

“It’s a cock.” 

“Yours,” says Steve. “Is there anything about you that ain’t perfect?” 

“I’m positive there is, but I really can’t think of them right now,”  Tony says, thighs tense from the effort it takes to keep still under Bucky’s explorative touch. When a warm palm cups his balls, rolling them tenderly, feeling the heft of them, all semblance of language leaks from Tony’s ears. 

“God, you need to cum, don’t ya?” Bucky asks. “It’s been too long, hasn’t it? Bet you don’t like to cum with your kid in the house, but he’s been hanging around night and day to spend time with you before he went away to school. Has there been nobody since your ex, Tony? It’s like you were saving it up for us. It’s okay, it’s okay, we’ll take care of you. Just how you deserve.” 

With careful fingers, Bucky places the condom at the tip of Tony’s cock before rolling it down his aching shaft. Then Bucky is chasing the edge of the latex with his mouth, heat and pressure enveloping him. Tony makes a guttural sound, fingers scrabbling at the cushions of the sofa for purchase.  

“Don’t be greedy, Buck,” Steve says. With a hand on the nape of Bucky’s neck, he coaxes his boyfriend back off of Tony’s cock so that he can lean forward and lap at it with his own tongue.

“Holy shit,” Tony slurs drunkenly. While Steve sucks on the head, Bucky places open-mouthed kisses along the shaft. They urge Tony’s thighs wider and wider so they can comfortably take turns rolling his balls in their palms, tugging softly, hurting him in the best way. It helps to keep his orgasm at bay, though he still feels it creeping over him. It centers in his lower gut, a liquid heat relocating to his balls. 

“He’s getting close, Steve,” Bucky breathes, his lips brushing against Tony’s shaft. “His balls are drawin’ up. Feel—” 

“God, you’re right.” 

“Don’t want to cum yet,” pants Tony. 

“Do you want us to stop?” Steve asks. 

That idea is painful in a way Tony can't tolerate. 

“No, just—” His hands release their death-grip on the sofa to bat their hands out of the way. Using one hand to press his cock towards the flat of his stomach, his other hands slaps at his heavy sac. Gasping in pain, he doubles over on instinct to protect his most sensitive parts while the pain lances bright and sharp through his gut. As he catches his breath, he feels how his erection has waned. Still hard, but not in the danger zone. Had he been any closer, the blow to his balls might have made him cum, no matter how bad it had hurt. Tony’s always been one of those people to enjoy pain with his pleasure. 

“I don’t like that,” Bucky says, frowning as Tony uncurls and leans back to his original position. “Don’t hurt yourself. We coulda just put a ring on you—” 

“Rings will only do so much,” Tony laughs, still trying to catch his breath. Then, with surprising diffidence, he mentions, “Sometimes, I like to be hurt.” 

Steve groans, collapsing forward to rest on Tony’s thigh. Muffled, he says, “Don’t tell me that, Tony. Have mercy on me.” 

“Steve’s a sadist,” Bucky admits, grinning. He leans forward and laps at the latex covering Tony’s cockhead. 

Tony lets out a shaky breath through his nose. “Is that so?” 

Steve lifts his head and pins Tony in place with the heat behind his gaze. “Can’t help it,” he says, voice rough. “I love...confusing people. Take Bucky for example: the first few spanks, he flinches away, right? Puts up a real fuss. But position him so his cock’ll only brush against my leg if he’s arching his back, and he’ll be thrusting out his ass for me to spank in no time at all. Work a person over with pleasure and pain and they’ll start cravin’ both.” 

“Work me over enough so that it doesn’t hurt so fucking bad when you’re following too close at the grocery store and step on my heels, will you?” Bucky deadpans.

“You're doing too much talking,” Steve says. With a firm hand, he cups the back of Bucky’s head and coaxes him down until Tony’s cock bumps his cheek. “Go on, baby. Choke on him.”

Tony gives a groan that is mirrored (though muffled) by Bucky. That impossible heat and force of suction surrounds his cock as Bucky’s lips slide lower and lower, tongue working against the thickness as best as it can. When Tony’s cockhead brushes the firm back of his throat, Bucky’s dark eyelashes flutter shut. Steve is just as enraptured as Tony, watching with hooded eyes even as he presses down with more force on the back of Bucky’s head. 

Bucky gags, the back of his throat spasming around the most sensitive part of Tony’s cock. Tony moans long and low, reaching out to brush away the stray strands of hair in the younger man’s face. Bucky’s eyes flutter open at the touch. The whites are flushing red, tears at the corners as he continues to gag and gag and gag, massaging Tony’s cock with his throat. 

“He loves it,” Steve whispers over the wet, obscene sounds of Bucky choking. 

“That true?” Tony grits out. “Do you love choking on cock, Bucky?” 

Steve relents his grip so that Bucky can pull back, mouth wet and red and gasping for breath. “Your cock,” he says with a cracking voice. “Love choking on your cock, daddy.” 

“Fuck,” Tony groans, legs shaking. “Don’t call me that, you shouldn’t call me that—” 

“He shouldn’t call you that, or you shouldn’t like it?” Steve wonders. 

“Both.”

“He loves it too,” Steve whispers. He’s the devil on Tony’s shoulder, feeding him everything he needs to hear to drag him deeper to sin. “Look at him. If you bent your leg and gave him your shoe to rub against, he’d cum quicker than you could blink. It’s the power imbalance. He’s getting off on it, so why can’t you?” 

Bucky pulls back. His voice is throaty when he laughs and says, “Steve, I think you’re usin’ your mouth too much.” 

The blond man laughs. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.” 

Then both of their mouths are back on Tony’s cock, licking and sucking, making sure to run their lips over every last inch of him. Sometimes they are distracted enough to pull back and kiss for a moment, mouths swollen. Sometimes they refuse to part from Tony, instead lapping at each other’s mouths from around Tony’s cock. The heat in him builds slow like water turned from simmering to boiling. He reaches out and pets his hands through both of their hair, Bucky’s so fine and dark, Steve’s so thick and golden. When one of their thumbs drifts to the sensitive skin behind his balls and rubs in a slow, firm circle, all at once he feels like he’s vaporizing. 

“I’m going to cum,” he warns. 

Steve pulls off, nuzzling wetly at Bucky’s temple to say, “Go on baby, you’ve earned it. You finish him off.” 

Instead, Bucky pulls off too, looking at Steve with mournful, sulky eyes. “I want his cum, Stephen.” 

“Don’t talk to me, talk to him!” 

Bucky turns that heated gaze on Tony instead. He looks absolutely debauched: face flushed, sweat gluing strands of dark hair to his pale temples, mouth red and swollen. Leaning forward, he drags his smooth cheek along Tony’s throbbing cock. “Why can’t I have it,” Bucky mutters with all the morose energy of a teenager. “Come on, daddy, lemme have your cum. I'd strip this condom off of you and drain you, suck you dry."

It’s, fuck—what, like it can’t tempt him? It does. He hasn’t cum in anyone’s mouth since Pepper (and as per her preferences, she’d then spit). He’s never had someone acting positively thirsty for his cum. It's a heady feeling, something he could get drunk off of, could get used to. But Tony was a young queer man during the AIDS crisis. He knows that safety matters more than the heat of the moment. 

“You’ll take what I give you,” he says. “And I will give it to you, once we all know it’s safe and we can enjoy it properly. Now—be a good boy and, and suck daddy off.” 

If Bucky notices that the words are stilted coming from Tony’s mouth, he doesn’t show it. A noise slips from his throat, raw and high and desperate, and then he is leaning forward and taking as much of Tony’s cock past his lips as he can, groaning wetly when it chokes him. Tony’s fingers tighten, pulling harshly at Bucky’s roots as the heat in his balls builds back to boiling point. 

A warm hand reaches out to push Tony’s shirt up, baring the long line of his soft abs. He places his palm just beneath Tony’s navel just in time for the muscles there to clench up tight as Tony cums. 

For a moment the pressure builds and builds, leaves him standing at the precipice and looking over the edge for so long that he thinks it might last forever. Then one firmer press of that thumb behind his balls snaps the tether that held him back from plummeting down. His entire body tenses as his balls draw up tight. No sound escapes until his cock finally begins to release its spend, and then the only sounds in the room are Bucky’s wet gags and Tony’s choked groans as one of the best orgasms of his life is wrung out of him. Maybe it’s a good thing he shoots into a condom instead of down the kid's throat, because it seems to last forever. Steve presses him firmly to the couch even as his body spasms in the throes of pleasure, a comforting weight. 

“Jesus,” Tony whispers to the ceiling, body wracked with aftershocks. 

“Did you hear that?” Bucky rasps letting Tony’s softening cock slip from his mouth. Tony blinks down at him, unsure if there was something he as supposed to hear—a knock on the door, the wet sounds of the best blowjob of his life—but then he realizes that Bucky is speaking to Steve. “He said he will give it to me. That means we’re not finished, right? There’s gonna be more between us, right Tony?” 

Tony breathes out, his heart soft. Now that he’s cum, he feels the post-coital exhaustion coming over him. Christ, it must be late. The best way to spend his evening (if they’ll let him) would be to spend it pressed between their stacked, warm bodies.

“I’d like there to be more,” he admits. The blood returning to his brain brings back all of his doubts, his fears, his insecurities. What the hell is he doing, letting two young men take him home, letting two young men work their way into his heart like this? Surely it is doomed. But if there’s even the slightest chance of otherwise, then Tony feels obliged to follow it down, to see it through right to the end. 

“We can take all this slow,” says Steve, the voice of reason. “Exchange numbers. See each other next time you’re in town to see Peter. See what happens.” 

“I’m an exclusive kind of guy,” Tony admits. Realizing the irony of having such a conversation with his pants down, he works them back up over his hips, tying off the condom and depositing it in a trash can Steve produces from beneath one endtable. “Fifteen years of monogamy will do that to a man. If I’m talking with you two, I won’t be talking with anyone else.” 

“That’s fair,” Bucky says, leaning his cheek against the denim of Tony’s jeans. One side of his mouth quirks upwards. “Besides, you’ll have your hands full with the two of us, anyway.” 

“We’d extend that same courtesy,” Steve says, poking Bucky in the ribs. “Besides—I don’t think anyone is going to be peaking our interests. Not if they aren’t you.” 

“That’s sappy.” And everything he’s ever wanted. 

“It’s true, though.” 

“Steve’s a big softie,” Bucky teases. Throwing his voice in a poor imitation of his boyfriend, he adds: “I’m Steve and my childhood asthma left me with a huge complex—I want to make you crave pain and then make you vegan pancakes in the morning.”

“That’s it—” Steve slaps Bucky upside the head. “No pancakes for you in the morning. None.” 

“What about for me?” Tony wonders softly. 

Steve’s smile, when he turns it on Tony, is bright as the sun. “For you? All the vegan pancakes.”

Bucky mutters something foul under his breath, and all at once Steve is towering over him, chest nearly pressed against Bucky’s shoulder, a solid disapproving wall of muscle. The brunet has to turn his face into Tony’s thigh to hide his smirk. Tony watches the display of dominance with raised brows. 

“You’ve been pushing me all night, Buck, and I’ve just about had it.” 

“Just about?” Bucky asks. 

Steve’s eyes cut to Tony. “You said something earlier today, about the proper way to spank somebody. Care to show some pointers, daddy?” 

Tony’s cock, spent as it is, gives a valiant jerk. At his feet, Bucky’s entire body shivers. He turns to look up at Tony, his eyes like molten silver with all the heat and desperation packed behind the irises. It’s been so long since he spanked anyone properly (or was spanked in return); surely it would take him a few swings to get back into the hang of things. 

He has a feeling that Steve wouldn’t be the only one learning a thing or two tonight.