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Last Night of Freedom

$ log - during his bachelor's party, cpt rogers is pushed to his limits by manipulative teasing of his two best friends: you and sgt. barnes. he always knew you liked to dance, and that bucky loves to rough-house with him — so he can't really blame you two for planning this special night! $ warn --nsfw --dubcon --darkfic --fem!reader --dom!reader --dom!bucky --sub!steve --1940s-brooklyn --flappers --lap-dance --intox(drinks, cigars) --mentioned-cheating --groping --riding --p-in-v --overstimulation --frotting --praise --degradation --humiliation --exhibitionism-ish --handjob --grinding --dry-humping --mocking --corruption --loss-of-innocence --possesive-bsfs $ wc -w 5.3k $ cd masterlist / bucky-barnes && steve-rogers $ echo "wasn't even going to do strippers in the first place 😭, it was flappers n' the 40's scene" > authors-note.txt

The Gilded Lily was a far cry from the clean, crisp air of the barracks, but Bucky had insisted. He’d spent a week’s worth of pay just to secure this little corner of sin for Steve’s final night of freedom.

He sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, looking entirely out of place in his best Sunday shirt, his shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself smaller.

"Buck, really," Steve muttered, his eyes darting toward the door as a group of loud flappers laughed in the main hall. "A place like this? Peggy’s gonna think I’ve gone soft in the head.”

"Soft? Please," Bucky chuckled, leaning back in his chair with a lazy, predatory grin. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, the ice clinking like a countdown. "You’re getting married, Steve. A man’s gotta celebrate the end of an era before he settles down into being a saint."

"It’s just — a bit much, isn't it?" Steve gestured vaguely to the dim, smoky atmosphere. He looked like he wanted to bolt, but the heavy, sweet scent of the whiskey Bucky had poured for him was already starting to settle in his chest.

"Nonsense," you chimed in, leaning against the doorframe of the private booth, watching him with a sly, hungry glint in your eyes.

You let your gaze linger on the way his collar strained against his neck. "You deserve a little indulgence, Stevie. One last night where you don't have to be the hero or the perfect gentleman. Just let us take care of you for once."

Steve let out a huff of a laugh, though his cheeks were already tinged with a faint, bashful pink. He reached for the glass Bucky had set in front of him. "I suppose. But don't tell Peggy about the venue, alright? She thinks I spent the evening at the library."

"Your secret's safe with us," Bucky promised, his voice dropping an octave as he caught your eye, a silent, knowing smirk passing between you.

Steve took a long, heavy swallow of the whiskey. He didn’t feel the warmth of the bourbon hit his stomach, a heavy, spreading heat that seemed to loosen the tight knot of nerves in his chest. He leaned back into the velvet, his eyes growing a little hazy as the room began to tilt just a fraction.

"There he is," Bucky murmured, watching the way Steve's eyelids fluttered. "The man of the hour."

You stepped away from the door, the silk of your skirt rustling softly against your thighs as you moved toward him. You could see the way his gaze followed you, wide and uncertain — caught between the urge to look away and the magnetic pull of the mischief dancing in your eyes.

"Drink up, Stevie," you teased, leaning down so your breath brushed against his ear. "We've got a long night ahead of us, and you're going to need all the courage you can muster."

Steve let out a shaky breath, his hand trembling slightly as he reached for the next glass. "I think I might need a second one," he admitted, his voice sounding thicker, more unmoored than it had moments ago.

Bucky didn't miss a beat, leaning forward to refill the glass, his eyes never leaving Steve's face. "That's the spirit. Don't hold back now. You've spent your whole life holding back, Steve. Tonight, you just let go."

You let out a low, melodic laugh, moving closer until you were standing right between his knees. The dim light of the booth caught the shimmer of your outfit, and you saw Steve's breath hitch as he stared up at you, his blue eyes clouded with a mixture of confusion and a growing, heavy heat.

He was a good man, a righteous man, but the whiskey was doing its work, melting the edges of his discipline.

"That's right," you whispered, your hand trailing lightly on his jaw, before pulling away. You leaned away, spinning on your heel to step away from the couch.

The whiskey in Steve’s glass wasn't just bourbon; it was a heavy, amber colored trap.

He’d asked Howard for a little something to ensure he could hold his liquor at the wedding, a way to keep up with the toasts and the celebrations without losing his dignity. He didn't realise that Howard’s "medicine" was a potent, euphoric cocktail designed to melt the very foundations of a man's willpower.

As the liquid slid down his throat, it settled into his bones like a thick, golden fog, blurring the sharp edges of the very foundations of his willpower.

You stepped into the center of the small, dimly lit space, the fringe of your flapper dress shimmying with every deliberate step. The silk was thin, barely a suggestion of a garment, and as you moved, the light caught the curves of your hips and the smooth expanse of your legs.

You prowled, your eyes locked onto Steve’s with a heavy, unblinking intensity that demanded he look.

Steve’s breath hitched. He tried to fix his gaze on the glass in his hand, but his eyes kept sliding back to you, drawn like a moth to a flame. "You — you look different in this light," he stammered, his voice thick and unmoored.

"Do I?" you purred, stepping closer until the hem of your skirt brushed against his knees.

You didn't wait for an answer. You sank onto his lap, the thin silk of your dress sliding over his heavy thighs. Steve let out a choked sound, half gasp and half groan, his large hands hovering uncertainly in the air as if he were afraid that touching you would break the spell or worse, confirm it was real.

"Y/N, what are you — " he started, his blue eyes wide and swimming with a mix of bashful panic and a hunger he couldn't quite suppress.

"Relax, Steve," Bucky’s voice cut through the haze, smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous. He was lounging on the opposite sofa, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched the way Steve’s chest heaved. He took a slow sip of his own drink, his eyes dark with amusement. "You always knew she liked to dance. Don't go getting all stiff on us now. It's your night, isn't it? Just enjoy it."

"But Bucky, she's —" Steve trailed off, his hands finally descending to rest tentatively on your waist.

The contact was electric; even through the thin silk of your dress, the heat of his palms felt like branding irons against your skin. He was trembling, the super soldier strength in his fingers fighting against the overwhelming urge to pull you closer.

"She's what, Steve?" you whispered, leaning in until your lips were a mere breath away from his.

"She's just being friendly, Steve. Don't make it weird," Bucky added, though the predatory glint in his eyes told a completely different story. He leaned forward, his gaze dropping to where your hips were grinding slowly, rhythmically against Steve's lap. "Besides, you've spent enough years being the soldier. Let someone else take the lead for once."

Steve let out a ragged, broken sound, his head falling back against the velvet cushion as you began to move in earnest.

You leaned back, arching your spine so the light caught the sweat glistening on your collarbone, and began to move with a slow, punishing rhythm. You ground your hips in heavy, circular motions against his groin, the friction of your silk fringe teasing the sensitive skin of his thighs through his trousers.

You reached up, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull his head back, forcing him to watch as you swayed, your breasts brushing against his chest with every deliberate tilt of your torso.

Steve’s hands, once tentative, were now clenching the fabric of your dress, his knuckles white as he fought the urge to rip the silk away. He was caught in a fever dream of scent and sensation — the smell of your perfume, the heat of your skin, and the low, rhythmic thrum of the jazz that seemed to pulse in time with his own racing heart.

Every time you pressed down, harder and more insistent, a low, guttural groan escaped his throat, a sound that was stripped of all his usual polite composure. He was drowning in the sensation, his senses overwhelmed by the friction of your body against his and the heavy, intoxicating fog of the whiskey that made every touch feel like a lightning strike.

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his muddled, trembling ones in a kiss that was more of a claim than a greeting. You began to grind your hips into him with a slow, punishing pressure, the flimsy silk of your outfit offering almost zero protection between your groin and his growing ache.

Steve let out a broken, high pitched whine, his eyes fluttering as he tried to find some shred of his old self. "Y/N, wait — Peggy — we shouldn't — "

Before the protest could even leave his throat, Bucky was there.

He leaned in from the side, his hand sliding firmly under Steve’s jaw to tilt his head back, forcing him to meet a gaze that was dark and entirely devoid of mercy. The kiss was a mean bruise, with a hard, possessive pressure that stole the very air from his lungs.

As Steve gasped, Bucky’s other hand slid down to grope Steve’s chest, his fingers digging into the muscle through the thin fabric of his shirt, anchoring him in place.

"Shh," Bucky murmured against his lips, his voice a low, commanding vibration that brooked no argument. "Stop thinking, Steve. Where's that good man now? The one who always does what he's told? This is the last time, pal. The last time the three of us are like this before you're a married man. Don't ruin it by being a saint."

Steve’s head lolled back, his eyes rolling as you pressed even harder against him, your hips rolling in a way that made his entire body jerk. He was caught in a movement of sensation, your soft, insistent heat below and Bucky’s rough, demanding hands.

Every time he tried to pull back, to find some semblance of the righteous soldier, Bucky’s fingers would tighten on his chest or his mouth would descend again, effectively drowning out his conscience with pure, unadulterated sensation.

You could feel the tension in his thighs, the way his muscles coiled and strained under your weight as he finally stopped fighting and started responding, his hands moving from hesitant touches to desperate, bruising grips on your hips.

The "good man" was drowning, and as you leaned down to bite softly at his earlobe, you knew he was finally ready to let himself sink.

The friction was absolute, a searing, rhythmic heat that made your vision swim. That super soldier body of his was fucking delicious all hard, unyielding muscle and radiating warmth. The sheer, heavy weight of his cock filling you up was enough to make your toes curl into the velvet. But it wasn't just the physical fullness that had your pussy pulsing with every downward thrust; it was the sound.

Steve was a mess of broken, high pitched whimpers, his head tossing back and forth as you rode him with a predatory, relentless pace. He looked so goddamn helpless, like a poor, lost puppy caught in a storm of pleasure he wasn't prepared for.

"There you go, Stevie," you cooed, your voice dripping with a condescending sweetness as you leaned down to brush your hair against his sweaty skin. "Such a good boy for us, aren't you?"

He tried to find a moment of stability, his gaze flickering desperately to the side, searching for any kind of anchor in the madness. He found Bucky, but there was no salvation there.

Bucky was leaning over him, his expression a mix of predatory amusement and rough, boyish derision. He reached out, roughly ruffling Steve’s hair before his hand slid down to squeeze the back of his neck, pinning him into the cushions.

"Look at you," Bucky chuckled, the sound low and mocking as he watched Steve’s hips jerk under your weight. "The great Captain America, reduced to a whimpering little mess just because a lady’s sitting on ‘im. You're pathetic, Steve.”

Steve’s eyes were glazed, unfocused, as he struggled to keep his head straight.

"You're just a big, soft target for her, aren't you?" Bucky continued, his voice a rough, teasing growl that cut through Steve's haze.

He reached out and gave Steve’s cheek a playful, stinging slap, the kind of boyish roughhousing they’d done since they were kids in Brooklyn, but now it felt heavy with a new, carnal intent. "Look at him, darlin’. He’s practically begging for it. The big hero, shaking like a leaf because he can't handle a little bit of fun."

Steve let out a choked, humiliated sound, half sob and half moan, as he tried to hide his face in the crook of your neck. He was caught between the two of you, the shame of Bucky's mockery clashing violently with the overwhelming, primal need to just sink into you.

You felt the moment his control snapped. You tightened your internal muscles, a slow, rhythmic clenching of your walls that gripped his thick cock with punishing precision. Steve’s eyes rolled back into his head, his breath hitching in a way that sounded almost like a sob. He was so close, his entire body vibrating with the effort of not just exploding inside you.

You leaned forward, your damp skin pressing against his, and whispered directly into his ear, your voice a sharp, teasing blade. "You going to orgasm early, Stevie? What an eager puppy. How are you going to please Peggy if you can't even keep it together now? You gotta make a dame orgasm first, remember?"

The words hit him like a physical blow.

He let out a long, broken whine, his head nodding frantically against the cushion as if your command was a holy scripture he had to obey. He was desperate to be the man you wanted him to be, even if it was the man you demanded.

His large, trembling hands finally found their way to your clit, his touch clumsy and uncoordinated as he struggled to find the rhythm you needed. You took pity on your poor best buddy; he was trying his goddamn best, and he was getting there, his movements growing more insistent even as he fought his own instincts.

"Look at him fumbling," Bucky’s voice cut through the heat, dripping with a cruel, playful mockery. He reached out, his hand sliding from Steve’s neck to roughly shove his shoulder, making Steve stagger slightly against you. "Can't even find her clit without looking like he's trying to defuse a bomb. You're a real natural, Steve. A real smooth operator."

Bucky leaned closer, his eyes dancing with a predatory glint, his gaze dropping to where Steve’s clumsy fingers were working against you.

He reached out, his hand catching Steve’s wrist to guide it, his touch both a help and a humiliation. "Come on, Stevie, don't be shy. Show her you can actually handle it, or are you gonna cry for us to finish it for you?"

As Bucky’s hand guided Steve’s wrist, forcing his clumsy fingers to find the mark, you felt the sudden, frantic shift in his rhythm. The clumsiness vanished, replaced by a desperate, uncoordinated strength as he finally found the center of your pleasure.

He was working with the frantic energy of a man trying to survive a shipwreck, his large thumb pressing hard against your clit in a way that sent jolts of white hot electricity straight to your brain.

"There he is," Bucky purred, his voice a low, dark vibration as he watched the transformation. He leaned in even closer, his breath hot against Steve's ear, his hand moving from Steve's wrist to grip the back of his head, forcing him to stay focused on the task. "Look at that. The soldier finally found his aim. Don't stop now, Stevie. You're almost there. Don't you dare go soft on her now."

Steve didn't even respond with words — he was beyond words, his entire existence narrowed down to the frantic, heavy friction of his thumb against you and the desperate need to satisfy the woman riding him.

The sheer force of his release left him completely undone. As the heavy, thick flood of his super soldier load continued to pulse deep inside you, Steve’s strength finally failed him.

He collapsed forward, his massive chest heaving against yours as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His large, trembling hands clutched at your back, his fingers digging into your skin with a desperate, clinging intensity, as if he were a drowning man finally finding land.

He was a wreck of a man, trembling with the aftershocks of a climax that had been far too fast and far too intense. Small, broken whimpers escaped him, muffled against your damp skin, as he rode the waves of his own exhaustion. He was so sensitive, so completely unraveled by the pleasure and the shame of his premature surrender.

Then, in a voice that was startlingly clear amidst the haze of lust and the heavy scent of sex, he spoke. It was a low, breathless murmur, stripped of all the grit and the soldier's bravado.

"Thank you," he whispered. The words came out in that sweet, earnest pastor voice that always made him sound so damnably pure — even when he was covered in sweat and sin.

It was a soft, reverent sound, a humble offering of gratitude that felt almost out of place in the wreckage of the room, yet it was so quintessentially Steve that it made your heart ache with a cruel sort of affection.

He clung to you, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, a man who had been completely conquered by pleasure and was now simply resting in the grace of your afterglow.

You let out a long, shaky exhale, the pleasure still humming through your nerves like a live wire.

You leaned back just enough to look down at him, your voice a low, sultry rasp. "Fuck, Steve," you breathed, a lazy, satisfied smirk playing on your lips. "I could stay on this cock all day long."

"Hello? Earth to Y/N," Bucky’s voice cut through the heavy, post coital haze, sharp and impatient. He was leaning back, watching the two of you with a look of amused hunger. "You had your turn, sweetheart. Slide off already and take your cigar. You're hogging the view."

You rolled your eyes, letting out a soft huff of laughter as you playfully shoved Bucky’s shoulder. "Always so impatient, Buck," you teased. With a loud, uninhibited moan that echoed in the quiet room, you pushed yourself off Steve, the sensation of sliding off his thick, spent length making your breath hitch one last time.

You moved with a lazy, feline grace, plumping yourself down on a nearby velvet couch and reaching for a cigar. You lit it, the first plume of smoke curling around your face as you settled in to watch the show.

Bucky didn't waste a second.

With a predatory grin, he unbuckled his trousers and pulled his own cock free, thick and eager. He didn't go for you, though; instead, he crawled back toward the still recovering Steve, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Don't think you're getting out of this that easy, Stevie," Bucky teased, his voice dropping into that rough, playful growl. He grabbed Steve’s hand, guiding it to his own length, before pulling Steve closer until their hips were nearly touching. "Since you were so eager to finish, you can spend the rest of the night making up for that little performance. Now, rub 'em together. Let's see if you can actually handle a real man's pace."

Bucky forced Steve to sit up, his movements rough but not unkind, as he pressed their bodies together. He grabbed Steve’s hand and forced it to wrap around his own cock, then pulled Steve’s hips flush against his own, guiding the friction so their slick, heavy lengths began to slide against one another.

The sound of skin slapping against skin, wet and rhythmic, filled the space between your exhales of cigar smoke.

"There you go," Bucky purred, his eyes fixed on Steve’s flushed, embarrassed face as he began to drive their cocks together in a steady, grinding motion. "Don't be shy, Stevie. Feel how much harder he is than you. Just follow my lead. Rub it good."

Steve let out a shaky breath, his eyes squeezed shut as the friction of Bucky’s cock against his own sent fresh jolts of electricity through his sensitive, post orgasm skin. He was so raw, so vulnerable, caught in the middle of this intense, rhythmic grinding that made his breath hitch with every slide.

"Look at him, honey," Bucky called out to you, his voice thick with his own rising heat as he increased the pressure, forcing their slick lengths to dance together in a wet, slapping rhythm. "He's still shaking. The big hero can't even handle a little bit of skin on skin without turning into a puddle. You seeing this?"

Steve let out a low, humiliated moan, his head dropping forward as he tried to hide his face, but Bucky wouldn't let him.

He reached up, gripping Steve's chin to force him to look up, to look at you, to witness his own undoing. "Don't be shy now, Stevie. Look at her. Show her how much of a man you can be when you're not just a whimpering mess."

Steve’s eyes flickered to yours, wide and swimming with a mixture of pure, unadulterated lust and a deep, soul crushing embarrassment.

He looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor, yet he couldn't stop the way his hips instinctively chased the friction Bucky was providing. The wet, slapping sound of their cocks sliding against each other grew faster, more frantic, as Bucky leaned into the movement, his own breath hitching.

"That's it," Bucky growled, his voice dropping into a dark, commanding register as he increased the speed of the frotting, his hips driving against Steve's with punishing intent. "Rub it against me, Steve. Feel how much you want it like a cheap sleaze. Feel how much you need to keep up."

You leaned back, exhaling a long, slow plume of thick, grey smoke. As Steve’s eyes drifted toward you, wide and pleading, you leaned forward just enough to blow a cloud of fragrant smoke directly past his parted, trembling lips.

He inhaled it sharply, a soft, startled huff escaping him as the smoke curled around his mouth.

"There you go, Stevie," you cooed, reaching out to pat his flushed cheek with a condescending, affectionate touch. "Such a good boy, taking it all so well."

Steve let out a broken, breathless sound, his voice cracking as he tried to find some semblance of dignity. "Y/N, please," he whimpered, his eyes searching yours for a reprieve, but all he found was your amused, predatory gaze. "It's too much — Bucky, please, just a second —"

"A second? You've had plenty of seconds, pal," Bucky barked, his voice a rough, teasing growl. "You're already turning red again, Stevie. Don't tell me you're already losing it after just one round?"

Bucky’s hand tightened on Steve’s jaw, his fingers firm as he forced the soldier's chin back up, directing his gaze away from your teasing smirk and straight into Bucky's hungry, mocking eyes.

Steve’s head lolled slightly, his breath coming in shallow, frantic hitches. He was so goddamn sensitive! The mere friction of Bucky’s cock sliding against his own, combined with the humiliating weight of Bucky's hand on his face, was enough to send him spiraling right back toward the edge.

"Bucky — wait, it's — it's too much," Steve gasped, his voice a high, strained thread of sound. His hips gave a desperate, involuntary jerk, trying to both escape and lean into the sensation both escape and lean into the sensation.

He was so raw that even the slight shift in Bucky’s grip felt like a lightning strike to his nerves. His eyes were blown wide, swimming with a desperate, frantic kind of lust that made him look completely unraveled.

"Don't you dare pull away now, Stevie," Bucky growled, his voice dropping into a dark, commanding register as he increased the speed, his hips driving against Steve's with punishing intent. "You're right on the edge, aren't you? I can feel you shaking. Just take it. Rub it against me until you can't take it anymore."

Steve let out a choked, high pitched moan, his head tossing back as he surrendered to the friction. "God, Bucky, Y/N — m’cumming again, fuck, m’gonna cum."

The tension finally snapped with a violent, uncoordinated shudder.

Steve let out a high, strangled cry, his entire body arching so hard his spine nearly left the cushions as he hit his second peak. He came hard and fast, a frantic, desperate spray that coated both his own length and Bucky’s as he bucked helplessly against the friction.

Bucky didn't let up, grunting low in his throat as he drove through Steve's tremors, his own orgasm following a second later in a heavy, pulsing surge that left them both panting and slick with a mess of shared heat.

Bucky leaned in, his eyes darkening with a predatory intent as he reached out to grab a handful of Steve’s golden locks, intending to tilt his head back and angle those whining, parted lips directly over his cock.

But before he could make the move, you lazily flicked the glowing butt of your cigar toward him, a playful warning. "Don't," you said, rolling your eyes with a smirk. "We can wait till the honeymoon."

You shared a knowing, silent look with Bucky — a brief truce in the midst of the chaos before you reached over and nudged a glass toward Steve’s lips, helping him take a much needed sip. "Plus, I love his little sounds," you added, watching him tremble. "He’s like a puppy. It’s cute."

Bucky rolled his eyes at your teasing, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted, plopping himself down on Steve's other side, effectively sandwiching him between the two of you.

He reached down, his hand finding Steve’s trembling fingers and guiding them firmly to his own cock. "C'mon then, Stevie," Bucky urged, a devilish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Help your best mate out. Don't just sit there looking pretty."

You leaned in from the other side, your lips finding Steve's plump, swollen ones in a deep, lingering kiss that tasted of whiskey and heat.

As you pulled back, you took his other hand, guiding it upward until his palm was cupping the weight of your breast, his fingers clumsily kneading the soft flesh. "C'mon, Stevie," you whispered against his mouth, your voice a sultry, commanding purr. "You've always been so good at multitasking."

Poor, sweet Steve.

He was caught in a delicious, overwhelming pincer maneuver, his senses completely besieged by the two of you. He let out a whimper so high and sweet it was practically a trill, a sound of pure, overwhelmed devotion that made your chest tighten with amusement.

His eyes were swimming with a mixture of exhaustion and a desperate, frantic need to please both of you at once. He was caught in a sensory storm — the taste of your lips, the weight of your breast in his hand, and the demanding, slick friction of Bucky’s cock against his palm.

"I am," he gasped, his voice trembling so violently it was barely a whisper. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breathing as he squeezed your breast with a clumsy, reverent grip.

"I'm listening, sweetheart, Bucky — I swear, I'm listening to you both." He let out another soft, pathetic whine as Bucky nudged him harder, forcing his hand to move in a more rhythmic, insistent stroke. "Just — give me a second to catch my breath.”

He was a man of iron, a legend of war, but here, pinned between his best friends, he was nothing but a beautiful, shivering mess of nerves. "I'll be the best," he promised, a desperate, breathless vow that sounded more like a prayer. "I'll do everything you want — just — don't stop. Please, don't stop."

His fingers tightened on your breast, his touch becoming more purposeful even as his eyes remained unfocused and heavy with lust.

He was trying so hard to find his rhythm, to balance the demanding pressure of Bucky's hand and the intoxicating sensation of your mouth, all while his own body continued to thrum with the aftershocks of his previous release.

He was truly, hopelessly, trying his absolute best to be the perfect, obedient puppy you both wanted him to be.

Steve groaned as he blinked his eyes open, the morning light feeling far too bright for his pounding head. He sat up slowly, a sharp wince escaping him as his entire body protested the movement.

His muscles ached with a deep, heavy soreness, and as he caught his reflection in the mirror across the room, he saw the evidence of the night's intensity: dark bite marks on his shoulders and angry red scratches tracing the line of his neck.

His memory was a fragmented, hazy mess. He could vividly recall the sultry heat of your lap dance and the way the smoke from your cigar had curled around his face, but everything after that was a blur of sensation and overwhelming pleasure.

His gaze drifted to the nightstand, which was cluttered with the gifts you and Bucky had left for him as part of his bachelor party celebration. There were fresh flowers, a few bottles of high end whiskey, and a stack of good luck cards.

He reached for the top one, his fingers trembling slightly as he unfolded the heavy cardstock. His eyes scanned the elegant, teasing handwriting, and a deep flush crept up his neck, clashing with the marks left there by your teeth and Bucky's nails.

To our favorite soldier, May your new life be as intense and uninhibited as your bachelor party. We wish you all the happiness in the world, but we also wish we could be the ones to give it to you every single night

He swallowed hard, his heart thudding against his ribs as he read the final line, which was signed with a playful, possessive flourish:

Signed, by your two best friends, the only ones who can truly fulfill your needs.

Steve let out a long, shaky breath, leaning back against the pillows as the sheer weight of the implication settled over him.

The ache in his hips and the lingering sensitivity between his thighs made him realise that the "honeymoon" might have to be a much more private, much more intense affair than he had originally planned.

If the bachelor party was any indication, the trip abroad was going to be less about sightseeing and more about finally letting his two best friends fulfill every single one of those "needs" they had so boldly promised.

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