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“Let’s play a game,” Natasha said wickedly.

Bucky looked up, squinting curiously against the light behind her – she was standing in front of the French windows, and the sun was coming out, glittering and bright after this morning’s rainstorm. “Is this another weird Eighties movie reference?” he said without really thinking about it.

Half an hour later he was one hundred percent positive the answer to that was a definite no.

“Easy,” he whispered to her when her hips twitched against him. “I thought the point of this was not to fuck.”

Natasha bit her lip, sighing, and her head fell back against his shoulder; he was captivated by the flush on her cheekbones, the fluttering of her eyelashes.

“I said let’s play a game,” she said breathily. “I didn’t say I wanted to win.”

“Baby love,” Bucky murmured in her ear, caressing her bare thighs gently, “there’s only one other person on the planet who’s a worse loser than you, and that’s Steve.”

She snickered. He adored her. “The genius of this is, even if I lose, I win.”

He couldn’t help but pinch her nipple for that, and she writhed against him, laughing, her hot tight body clenching up beautifully around his cock.

“So d’you wanna put the game on, or should I just read a book –“

“If you so much as think about baseball while I’m sitting on your cock,” she said dangerously, and he laughed.

“I think about baseball while I’m in you all the time. Keeps me going off like an overeager fourteen year old on his first date.”

“Oh!” she said, laughing again. “That’s OK, I guess.” And wriggled a little, fluttering around him.

“Anyway,” Bucky said, biting his lip, “you’d like it.”

“Baseball?” Natasha was doubtful. “I don’t understand anything about it. Except the sex metaphors, xkcd had a chart for that. It was very helpful that time in Missouri when I had to replace the high school guidance counsellor.”

“Ex-kay-what? Never mind. And no, not baseball. I mean if I put the game on –“

“I would hate it if you –“

“Shush,” he said, pinching her nipple again, “and let me finish. Maybe it’s summer, you’re wearing one of my shirts – it drives me crazy when you and Steve wear my clothes. And you’ve got your panties on underneath and nothing else.” Bucky reached out with his foot and nudged the example of the garment in question where it was lying on the couch cushion after having been discarded a little time ago; the movement of his leg moved her against him, on his cock, as her thighs were spread over his, and Natasha moaned a little. “So we’ve been doing nothing all day, and we’re making dinner and you keep coming in and kissing me, and I can feel you all warm and soft under the shirt, and maybe when the food’s ready it starts, yeah, you come over and sit in my lap and I just pull your panties to the side.” He stroked her cunt, gently, imitating the movement in question, hook his fingers in, pull… “And we eat dinner with you sitting on my cock, yeah, like you are now, just exactly like this. And after there’s the whole evening to play with.”

He felt her shudder, her small strong hands gripping his forearms as he cupped her breasts in his hands, each a perfect handful, like she’d been made to fit into his arms, under his hands. She’d let her head turn to the side so her hair hid her face from him; she must be blushing like a wildfire. Bucky was a little unsteady himself. He hadn’t realised just how hot this little fantasy would make him, let alone her.

“And there’s a game on,” he said, keeping his voice low, a little dreamy, a little crooning. “Or the radio, or we both got a book to read, I don’t know. So we come back through here, bring a bottle of wine, and this time you take those panties off. Maybe eat you out a little. Maybe during dinner I rubbed your clit till you came for me, right there at the table, showing off for Steve, yeah? You’d writhe about, and tighten up so sweet, and you’re so wet you’ve probably ruined my slacks.” Her nails were digging into his right forearm, her left hand slipping against the smooth plates of his left arm, trying to catch in the rills between them. She shook her head: not to deny him, but to try and clear it; she was breathing quick, and her thighs were shaking.

“But we come back through here. And you come back to me – hitch that shirt up round your hips and sit back in my lap again – or Steve’s. I’ve had a turn, now he gets you. Maybe he gets you to come the first time. Maybe he holds you by the waist and bounces you on his cock till he fills you up, and you come back over to me with his come dripping down your thighs and sit here sweet and quiet on my cock till I decide I’m ready and come inside you too.”

“And then?” Her voice was hoarse.

“And then?” Bucky shrugged. “Got all evening. Got all night.” He reached up to rub his thumb over her lips; she kissed the pad of it, suckled it into her hot wet mouth. Bucky shivered, helpless, fighting not to buck up against her, into her; this was too good to end, far, far too good. “You go back to Steve, I guess. Ruin his trousers too.” He kissed her shoulder, smiling. “Spend the night being passed back and forth. Always been good at sharing.” She moaned a little; few things got Natasha as wild as being possessed by them, shared between them. “Yeah. You’d like that.”

And softly she turned her head against his shoulder so he could kiss her lips and said, when he leaned down to do so, “So would you.”

Bucky shivered again. “Yeah.” He was hoarse himself.

She blinked, lazy, lust-drunk. “Really?”

“Kitten,” Bucky murmured. “Nothing in the world drives me quite as crazy as the way you kneel in front of me and tell me you’re mine.”

That delighted her. “Really,” she said again, shivering. “Tell me, tell me.”

“Christ alive,” he said helplessly. “Don’t you know by now how much I get off on it when you – you, my Natalya, my heart’s own, my Widow – when you give up everything you are to me, when you go all – all relaxed and open and so sweet, so greedy for me, for my cock.” Did she think he spent his days sitting around here indulging her weird perversions because he was just that saintly and patient? He planted his feet against the couch cushions and rocked his hips up into her, short, vicious little thrusts, his fingers on her nipples. “Nothing turns me on more than watching you fall apart under my hands, how you get so calm and quiet and sweet for me till all that’s left in you is wanting me and to do what I tell you.”

Her head was lolling against his shoulder, her eyes closed; she wore a smile as if he’d shown her paradise. For an instant or two her legs rubbed along his; then she stilled, her hands unclenching, her body relaxing muscle by muscle, languid and biddable; only she clenched around his cock again, and he felt her grow wetter. “I want you,” she said. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

“Baby love,” Bucky said again. “You have me. You’ve been sitting on my cock for hours, and you’re gonna stay right here till I get bored, which will be never, because you’re so tight and so hot and so, so good to me. You’re gonna make yourself come on my cock in just another minute, and then I’m gonna fill you up and make you mine, and you’re definitely not going anywhere after that because you’ll make a filthy mess of the couch and yourself. And later on I’m gonna lay you out on the dining room table with your hands above your head and your legs spread just right so when Steve comes home he can kick his shoes off and wash his hands and walk on through and have you.”

That made her squirm, a little desperate, beautiful, beautiful; he loved to watch that moment – not the one when she made up her mind to it, but the one right after, when it hit her what she’d done, when she remembered she was his, his, his. Vicious, nasty possessiveness was unfolding itself in his chest. Maybe he’d make her wait to come; maybe he’d just use her, and hold her here against him, watch her work herself up to the point where her orgasm, when he finally let her have it, would be overwhelming, make her cry. He loved it when he could drive her so completely out of her mind and self-control that she cried. She was completely and utterly his in those moments, broken open and vulnerable and everything, but everything, he would ever need again; saving only Steve. He reached between her legs to circle her clit with his fingertip, and god she felt good, soft and wet and swollen. The muscles in her thighs tensed when he touched her, and Bucky drew his hand back and painted her skin with her own slick, a half-circle around her navel.

“And then,” he said, because he didn’t enjoy causing her physical pain but he sure as hell did enjoy teasing her to breaking point, which probably made him some kind of a sadist, “I guess we’ll have to flip a coin, Steve and me, to see who gets to cook and who gets to sit in the kitchen with you on his cock and play with your pretty tits until you come.” She could come from that, from having her breasts played with, if she had a cock in her at the same time; it made her desperate and oversensitive in a way few other things did, made her writhe and sob and whimper, little noises that filled up Bucky’s head and made him crazy.

“Yes,” Natasha said, and dug her hands into his thighs trying to get leverage to fuck herself on his cock; Bucky wrapped his arms tight around her and held her still, merciless, laughing in her ear as her hips jerked against him minutely, her legs rubbing against his. “Yes, oh, come on, please, please –”

“Please what?”

She laughed, shakily, desperately. “Let me come, you bastard.”

He stroked her flanks, put his hands on her hips. “When I have. Fuck me, come on – no, you wanted it, you take it.” He dropped his head back against the cushions piled against the arm of the couch when she knelt up, folded her legs underneath herself, sank back down onto his cock, one hand positioning him, the other on his thigh, hot as a brand. “That’s it.” Her curls bounced against her smooth slender back, and he had a beautiful view of that perfect ass; she was moaning, low and delighted, gravity and the change in her position working him deeper inside her, as deep as he could go. “My Natalya… oh, Christ, that’s good, that’s – you’re perfect, sweetheart, yes. Not gonna take long, been so sweet to me today, then it’s your turn, yeah, promise. Lie back and let me rub you till you come for me, sweet. Just – just –” He trailed off into nonsense and groans; she laughed triumphantly, clenched up around him, and then, rocking her hips in figure-eights, balanced with her hand on the back of the couch, she reached down to cup his balls in her hand and fondle them and – and –

Yeah. Bucky dug bruises into her hips as he came, his back arching up, eyes on the ceiling; so good, so good. He lay there panting for a few moments; she was squirming, her breathing shaky, until finally he caught her shoulders and pulled her back down to lie atop him, sighing when it shifted his cock inside her; stay in her a few more minutes and he wouldn’t even get soft. She’d wanted to sit on his cock for the rest of the afternoon, she damn well would.

“Natalya, Natalya. Made it so good, my love, so good.” He fondled her breasts, rubbing his thumbs over her nipples; but that would take too long, and after a second he put his right hand between their legs again to wet his fingers with her slick and trace circles over her clit. So on edge, so close. Natasha cried out softly, ragged, and begged him for it without even being told to, incoherent and desperate. Bucky kissed her hot wet face as he stroked along the swollen root of her and clamped her to his chest when she spasmed, jerking up away from him, her left leg kicking out against the back of the couch. “So, so good.” Her skin was hot and sticky with sweat, and the smell of her body – of her cunt, and of his own come - was thick in his nostrils; but the weight of her was negligent, and Bucky had no intention of letting her go. Trapped between them, her hair scratched and tickled; after a moment, as her breathing slowed, he eased her up and twisted it over her shoulder again, out of the way, so she could lie on his chest and not have it caught when she moved. He stroked her again, teasing little aftershocks out of her, till she pushed at his wrist with her hand and he knew it was enough this time. He’d make her come again in a little while, watch her get oversensitive, drive her out of her own head.

“OK?” he murmured.

Her face was slack with pleasure and contentment; her eyelashes fluttered but she didn’t manage to open her eyes. “Yes,” she said, in that rich warm voice he loved. “Oh yes.”

“Happy right here?”

“Deliriously.”

“Good, cause here’s where we’re staying.”

She rubbed her foot against his calf. “Love you so.” And then, because Natasha really was the worst, worst, worst loser ever, she added cheekily, “Told you – win/win situation all around.”

Bucky sighed. “Anyone would think you only want me for my cock,” he said.

“I love everything about you,” Natasha said, mock-offended. “I love your stupid face and your stupid opinions about books and those stupid waistcoats you wear that turn me on –”

“Do they?” He was delighted.

“– and I love your voice and your mouth and your hands and your thighs and your ass.” She paused, contemplative. “Your best friend. And your –” but Bucky was laughing so much he didn’t hear the rest; much better to kiss her till she lost control and started giggling helplessly herself.

+++

When Steve got in and shut the door behind him he could hear Bucky on the phone somewhere in the back of the house: the kitchen, the dining room – it was a one-sided conversation, at any rate, Buck’s voice a low continuous rumble of uh-huhs and yeahs and of course yes-es. Steve sat on the bottom stair to unlace his boots and hung his jacket over the bannister, defiantly: it was his house, he could make whatever mess he chose.

In half an hour he’d come out of the kitchen for something, see it there, have a vision of his Ma glaring at him, hang it up neatly and go back to the kitchen having completely forgotten what it was he’d actually been meaning to do.

Friday night, Bucky was saying as Steve washed up in the downstairs bathroom, will do. Yeah I. No, just cookin’. Sure. You too. But there was something about his voice. Steve leaned against the doorframe, smiling.

“Evening.”

“Hey there.” Bucky hung up and put the phone on the sideboard by the door to the dining room, looking faintly exasperated. “Our next Friday is fully booked from ten a.m. on up.”

“And you’re annoyed about it.” Steve wandered over to him, curious. His t-shirt was wrinkled, and his hair was a mess. He was standing just behind one of the chairs at the kitchen table, the back of which came up just about to his hips, so Steve was excused, at least in his own mind, for not really noticing the fact that Bucky was hard in his jeans until he’d snugged their hips together and was kissing him.

“Oh,” he murmured, a little amused and instantly a little turned on, when Bucky caught his face in both hands and bent him back over the kitchen table a little, bit at his lower lip, kissed him all deep and wet and hungry.

“Not annoyed,” said Bucky, eyes glinting. Steve loved him like this: a little on edge, just enough to be all take-charge and dangerous. Of course, Steve loved him just about any way he got. “Not really annoyed. My own fault. Missed two calls this afternoon. Thought I’d be polite.”

“Instead of entertain yourself further?” Steve rolled his hips against Bucky’s, welcoming heat and hardness. Was Tasha here? The living room was empty and he couldn’t hear her moving around upstairs. “That’s generous of you.”

Instead of answering Bucky crowded him up against the table, unbuttoned his jeans, and cupped Steve’s hardening cock in his palm; Steve leaned back on his elbows and spread his legs, laughing quietly, loving the rub of the fabric of his underwear against his skin, the heat of Bucky’s hand through the cotton. He closed his eyes against the lights overhead and let himself sink into it, biting his lip, rocking his hips into that hot firm grip, arousal building in him slow and warm, making him a little dizzy, his kisses clumsy; Bucky laughed at him, lovingly, and for long heated moments they made out lazily, Steve's whole body a silent invitation. God it was good to have this, have him…

But: “Laugh it up, Captain,” Bucky said, when he’d apparently decided Steve was hard enough for purpose, and stepped back. “Dinner won’t cook itself.”

Steve said, disbelieving, “Are you kidding me?”

Bucky’s grin got downright filthy. “Left you a present in the dining room.”

Steve looked down at the state of his pants – and himself – halfways to being debauched on the kitchen table, wet spot on his boxer-briefs and his shirt rucked up where Bucky had been tracing his abs with metal fingertips, making him shiver.

“I want a divorce,” he said, slithering off the table.

“How dare you,” said Bucky, already rooting around in the fridge. “We’re Catholic.”

Steve couldn’t help but laugh. “Lapsed,” he said. “Really, really, really lapsed.” It wasn’t totally true, but, well, look at the state of him.

“Little too queer not to be,” Bucky agreed.

“You know that’s still an insult, don’t you,” said Steve. There had been a couple years as an adolescent when the word had followed him around like a stray dog you’d made the mistake of petting, and it still made him – well, Steve was over being mad at it, but he didn’t have to like it, either.

“Better men than you have been calling me a fairy since before you’d even worked out that you liked it up the ass,” said Bucky vaguely. That was probably an exaggeration, but only probably. He straightened up with a Tupperware box in his hand and said, “Sandwiches?”

“Sounds great,” said Steve. “What –”

“Dining room,” said Bucky, insistent, and, Steve thought, a little too intent, a little, well, mischievous, as if there was a booby trap waiting for him in there and Bucky had been looking forwards to the joke all afternoon. Sighing, he buttoned his jeans up – only the top two – and said, “Dining room,” aware he sounded suspicious. The possible retaliation would have to be tailor-made to fit the crime, but some sort of threat to his wardrobe…

But it wasn’t a joke. It was sort of like being punched in the gut, only the breathlessness was because all the blood in his body had gone south between one second and the next. The light was off; only the dim glow of the lamps in the living room fell onto the floor, but didn’t reach the table. This meant the room was mostly filled with dim grey twilight; Natasha’s white shirt shone in it, and her naked skin seemed only slightly less pale. Her wrists were tied above her head with something loose and dark – her own panties, Steve strongly suspected – and her hair lay loose on the table around her head, curling locks trailing over her upper arms to her elbows. He swayed a little, walking over to her; it was only three steps.

The dining room table – how had he never noticed this before? – was just the right height. Her legs had been spread and left to hang over the edge of the table, and though he was standing between her body and the light he could tell she was wet – soaking – filthy, in fact; Bucky’s come was on her inner thighs. And he could smell her, sweaty and musky and – and his. That was what his downstairs brain was yelling: mine, mine, mine.

The shirt was either his or Bucky’s. She wasn’t wearing anything else. Only the bottom four buttons were done up, which meant that above her navel it began to gape; Steve wasn’t an idiot, it had been arranged that way, twitched into place like the final rose in a bouquet of flowers. The hem had been pushed up artfully to just above her pubic hair. The sides of the shirt lay on her breasts, coyly covering her tight hard nipples, exposing a deep v of skin, and just in the middle of it his dog tags rested dark against her pale smooth body. They had to be his: Bucky’s were lost. They’d gone upstairs on purpose to fetch them out of the bedside table to – to decorate her – to – well, to tag her. Property of Rogers, Steven Grant. He wanted to grab a hold of them and haul her up and kiss her; he wanted to rip the shirt away and sink his cock inside her and see her tits bounce as he fucked her; he wanted to put her on her knees and watch her wrap those lush full lips she was biting around his cock. She was breathing quick but quietly, and there was a faint tremor in her body, anticipation, desire. Her head was tilted back, exposing her throat, and the blindfold covered half her face, nearly to the tip of her nose.

Steve said, “Next time I get a present maybe let it not be sloppy seconds?”

Her fingers flexed; her breath stuttered, but she didn’t speak.

“I mean it’s rude,” said Steve, and put his hands on her at last, on her upper thighs, feeling her tremble under his fingers, hot, so hot, and slightly sticky with perspiration. “Making me clean up my own present before it’s halfways presentable.” And he went to his knees on the polished wooden floor and buried his face in her cunt.

Natasha made a strangled noise, choking back her cry; he grinned against her, rubbing fourteen hours of stubble against the soft skin of her inner thighs when he turned his head; she was straining not to wrap her legs over his shoulders, he could tell, so he did it for her, hands on her knees pulling her in, feeling her heels against his back. She was wet, wet, wet: either they’d fucked just now before he got here or waiting for him had got her this way, listening to him and Bucky in the kitchen – Jesus wept, listening to Bucky on the phone to their friends while she lay spread out here with his come on her thighs, waiting to be fucked again. Steve trembled. She was so hot, musky and delicious on his tongue; he could taste Bucky’s come on her, in her, and it made him wild, to have them both in his mouth, to have her – to have her offer Bucky up to him like this, passing it on.

Left a present for you in the dining room. Christ he was an animal, to like this, to love her helplessness so much, her silence, the sweet way she strained to follow the orders Bucky must have given her, even when Steve was doing his damnedest to make her break. She’d put his shirt on and his dog tags and she’d laid herself out for him to admire and caress and use and it made him crazy: this was his, his alone, for always. (Well, and Bucky's. Who was also his.) Steve licked her slick up, ate Bucky’s come out of her, stroked the folds of her cunt with his tongue, crooked two fingers inside her long enough to get them wet and then went to play with her anus; the muscle fluttered against his fingers and then opened for him, giving way so sweet, but dry; good.

He pulled away from her cunt with an effort, aware his face was soaked and sticky. “Gonna let me have it? He’s had you all day, hasn’t he, you’re filthy with him. Open you up and fuck your sweet tight ass till you forget every second of it.” Her chest was heaving, but she stayed silent. Steve grinned; kissed her thigh. “You’re fucking beautiful like this, Tasha: you were made for us, sweetheart, made for us to use. Just look how bad you want it. Never seen you so wet. This what gets you going most of all: being tied up and blindfolded and left in the dark to wait for me to fuck you? Or not fuck you, if I don’t want; take a picture and tell you you’re pretty and then leave you here while I eat dinner, leave you here to imagine, and to hold still so sweet and wait for us.”

Her whole body was twisting against the table-top. It was cruel, she was trying so hard to stay still, to stay quiet, chewing her bottom lip raw; he leaned up, reaching out one wet hand to put his fingers in her mouth. “Careful. Don’t you ruin that pretty mouth. I love it more than anything else about you, except your cunt.”

She bit his fingers, disguised as a scrape of her teeth along them, and Steve laughed again and pulled them out and ran them, wet and sticky with her cunt and her saliva, over her chin and down her throat to her chest, the valley between her breasts where his dog tags rested. He circled them with his fingertips, sighing. “He tell you you’re not allowed to come?”

Her voice cracked, hoarse and harsh. “Yes.”

“Well I’m gonna make you.” And he put his head between her thighs again and licked at her and curled his tongue inside her till she gushed into his mouth, wetter than ever, trying to tighten up around nothing; then, finally, he went to pay proper attention to her swollen little clit, kittenish little licks and teases till he knew she was chewing back a litany of pleas.

“Beg me for it,” he said. “Make sure you say my name a lot. Make sure he can hear.” Bucky could hear every damn thing that was going on in this room, even if the door had been shut, which it wasn’t, and that he wasn’t in here watching was testimony to his self-control, in Steve’s opinion; or his desire to play.

“Please,” Natasha said, sobbing, “please Steve please make me come, Steve, Steve, want you so badly Steve, make me come, please.”

“That’s all you’re after,” he said thoughtfully, “to come?”

Natasha gasped a little. “Want your cock,” she said. “Steve, it’s all I can think about, please, want you inside me, want to feel you for a week, please –“

“You will,” he promised her, circling her clit with his fingertip. “You will, fuck you till we both pass out, watch you limp into fucking HQ next week wearing my dog tags round your neck and every leering creep who looks at you twice will know you’re mine. Know exactly that no one’ll ever put their damn hands on you but me and Bucky. Know anyone who tries’ll get ‘em ripped off. Don’t touch what’s mine.”

“Yes,” she said, and god, under the blindfold her face was wet; she was crying. That awed him. “Yes, want that, want everyone to know, everyone” – she broke off when he put his mouth on her again, and shuddered all over; Steve flicked her clit with his tongue and then sealed his lips around it and sucked and narrowly avoided a broken neck, he was fairly sure, when she bucked and twisted and her legs clamped down around him, orgasm shaking her head to toe.

Panting, she lay limp under his hands; the shirt was dislodged, showing off her right breast, and the tags had slipped over it – the chain had caught on her nipple, he saw, and that delighted him, for some reason.

Lapsed, he thought, looking at her: he’d just ravished his girlfriend – his right hand, his second in command – on their dining room table after she’d spent the afternoon, apparently, being fucked by his best friend, who had then arranged her for him to debauch the way you’d arrange a birthday cake for someone to blow out the candles; a better man would have apologised, probably. Lapsed and then some. The tattered, embarrassed, abandoned vestiges of his Catholic upbringing had gathered their dignity about them and left the building. He was breathing quick, and his cock was aching, and he loved her, loved her so much it made him dizzy.

Steve popped his buttons open, dropped his jeans and wriggled out of his boxer-briefs; Natasha was smiling, dreamy, flushed, as far as he could tell in the dark, and soft and pliant and open for him, managing somehow to seem – tamed – tractable. Steve caught Tasha’s knees in his hands and pulled her forwards, just a little; he stepped close, the head of his cock rubbing against her soft cunt. Christ she was hot.

“Dinner,” Bucky said from the doorway; he had the decency not to put on the light.

“Present first,” said Steve, and pushed inside her. Natasha gasped; he thought he saw her melt against the table-top. Oh, oh, was that how it was: one of those moods where nothing would be enough until between him and Bucky they had fucked her until she did actually pass out. That was fine. That was more than fine…

“You’ve been ages,” said Bucky.

“It’s about the best present I’ve ever got.”

“No arguments there.” Bucky didn’t even try to go away; he was leaning against the doorjamb watching Steve fuck Natasha with open and heartfelt appreciation, chewing on his lower lip, arms crossed over his chest. Natasha’s face was turned towards him, and she gasped a little every time Steve pushed inside her, little staccato noises that got louder as his pace grew quicker, plunging towards his own pleasure, taking and taking and taking from her. She was tight and hot and soaking wet around him, fluttering against his cock, dragging at him when he pulled out. He pulled the edges of the shirt away from her tits to watch them, watch the dog tags bounce against her chest too, cupped her tits in his hands for a moment, caressed her soft smooth flanks. Was that – there were bruises on her hips, finger-shaped. God almighty. Steve fought back an urge to follow suit, to mark her up, lay patterns of ownership on her skin: they had all evening, they had all night.

“How long?” he asked Bucky. “This afternoon?”

“Oh, not long,” Bucky said. “I mean not all day. She wanted to play.”

“Play what?”

“Apparently the internet calls it cockwarming.”

That sounded – Steve shuddered.

Bucky laughed. “Yeah. When you’re done,” he added, “I get her back. I want to sit her on my cock and feel your come run out around me.”

“Ask me nicely,” said Steve, breathless. “My present.”

“You always did,” Bucky said contemplatively, “tear the wrapping off in five flat seconds and eat all the candy before lunchtime on Christmas Day.”

That was true. “Presents aren’t for saving,” said Steve. “You only get ‘em once a year, so you enjoy ‘em when you do.”

Thus his mother’s stricture, but something rippled through Natasha then, something lazy and dangerous: “Captain Rogers,” she said, purring, “you get me whenever and wherever and however you damn well want.” And he heard the promise in her voice that if he didn’t believe it she would tie him down and make him believe it. Steve pitched forwards over her body to kiss her, elbows on the table at either side of her head, hot and deep and all-consuming. She was laughing silently when he pulled back, triumphant, jubilant, and why not? Steve was hers, and Bucky was hers, and for some damn fool reason she’d decided that this meant she’d won some cosmic lottery, in spite of all their manifest faults and foibles. “Come on,” she whispered to him, “come on, Steve, come in me, fill me up, mark me up, want to sit on James’ cock and spread my legs and show you –”

Just the thought was enough. He jerked against her in irregular spasms, gasping, his mind flying apart, rolled under a wave of physical sensation; overwhelmed and oversensitive, he let his forehead drop to the table next to her ear and panted, helpless, listening to her heartbeat so close, to Bucky’s breathing.

“So,” said Steve at last. He pushed himself up, couldn’t help but kiss the tip of Natasha’s nose, and saw her teeth gleam in the dimness when she smiled. “Dinner?”

+++

Having engineered one, even more or less by accident, Natasha was now in a position to say quite firmly that win-win situations were entirely overrated. She’d wanted James inside her, this afternoon, thought they would sprawl on the couch and make love for hours, be close and be loved. She hadn’t expected the sharp left turn into this – this delirium.

It was glorious.

They’d made her keep the blindfold on, because they were sadists, and her hands were tied behind her back still; loosely, with her own knickers, which meant that she basically had to hold the fabric in place herself, which was torture. And she was sitting on Steve’s knee in the kitchen being fed bites of sandwiches – his fingers brushing her lips was an unbearable tease – while he petted her, his arm around her, caressed her through the shirt she still wore, or played with his own dog tags round her neck; she was soaking his lap with his own come, her breathing uneven, gathered close to his chest and held there to be fondled and stroked and played with, casually and possessively, a cherished piece of property to be used how he wanted. She could hear James breathing, the sound of him eating or moving around; sometimes he passed their chair and ran his hands over her, absent-mindedly, and it rattled her out of her mind, not to have him close, not to know…

“So good, kitten. So sweet to us.”

Damn. She turned her face against Steve’s chest and felt him laugh; his hard cock was brushing her hip, smearing pre-come on the shirt. “Christ you’re gorgeous,” he said. “Don’t know how I ever take my hands off of you.” As if in illustration he spread her legs a little and curled his fingers inside her – just put them in her and left them there, his palm against her cunt, rubbing her labia above her clit, as if that was just something you did, slide two fingers into your girlfriend’s wet used cunt and carry on eating. She could feel herself fluttering around his fingers, on edge and desperate; his hands were big but there was no comparison at all to his cock, or to James’. The blindfold was damp on her skin. Natasha was trembling with the effort of staying still, of not trying to fuck herself on Steve’s hand, balanced precariously on his knee; she’d rested her right foot against the table leg, and the hard edge pressing against her skin was helping her concentrate, but really there was nothing she could do but trust him to hold her.

Damn and fuck and damn.

“What was that earlier,” said James, all sex-rough and growly and amused, “about win-win situations?” Trust him to rub it in. She shook her head angrily, and he laughed. “You invent as many of those as you like.” Hands on her breasts; Steve rubbed at her inner walls, just gently. “Make sure you lose ‘em every time…”

You think this is some kinda chore for me? he’d said earlier, crowding her up against their bedroom wall. You think I do this cause I’m bored and like indulging you? Don’t get me wrong, baby girl, I love indulging you. But I fucking dream about having you like this. And he’d picked her up by the hips and fucked her there until she couldn’t see straight, used her and filled her up and wouldn’t let her come; he’d had to carry her back downstairs to the dining room for Steve. Conscious thought had shut down then and Natasha wasn’t sure she’d recovered it yet; everything outside of what they were doing to her was so – nebulous, out of focus. Only their hands on her skin were real…

“Here. Last piece…” Roast beef sandwich; there was butter and salt on Steve’s fingers where he’d been eating chips, and she licked his fingertips before she chewed and swallowed, shivering when James’ fingers touched her jaw, her throat.

“Living room?”

“Yeah. In a minute. Make her come first. Been so good…”

“Leave your hand there,” James said wickedly and tugged on her nipples through the shirt: body-warm metal and hot flesh. Natasha made a noise somewhere between a sob and a whine, breathless, her breasts hot and heavy and aching. Steve crooked his fingers inside her, a beckoning little gesture, and her hips twitched involuntarily; both of them laughed, and James took his hands away and smoothed the shirt back – he had to undo another button to expose both her tits at once.

“Promised you, didn’t I,” he said, and put his hands on her again. Natasha clenched her hands into fists behind her back and bit her lips raw and sobbed helplessly: it was too much, far too much, too soon since that shattering orgasm under Steve’s mouth, she didn’t want – she couldn’t take it –

“You can take it, sweetheart.” Steve, as if he’d read her mind; he smoothed his hand over her abdomen, her chest; then he wrapped it loosely around her throat, possessive, and Natasha gasped, desire running through her; her thighs were straining – her whole body was straining towards it. “You’re gonna come for us again and then we’re gonna take you through the living room –”

“Play rock paper scissors for who gets you on his cock. It’ll be me, Steve always picks rock.”

Steve laughed out loud, the motion shaking her body too. “Yeah yeah yeah,” he said; you could hear the love in his voice, rich and warm. He rubbed his thumb over her neck. “I want to fuck her ass.”

God no, hadn’t she taken enough, she was sore and aching and wasn’t going to come again now, let alone manage to take him. She gasped again, biting back sobs when James put his mouth on her nipple, twisting back from it – which just pressed her more tightly against Steve’s hot chest – shaking her head.

“Yes,” said Steve lazily. “Oh yes. How about right here? We’ve already ruined one table, why not the other…”

“Brought the lube downstairs,” James said thoughtfully, cupping her breasts in his hands again; Natasha writhed, helpless, trapped. “Works out perfect. You have her ass and I’ll take her cunt.” Her face flushed unbearably hot, desire and humiliation a heavy tangle in her chest, contributing its own to how tightly wound she was, and then Steve crooked his fingers inside her again and James licked her right nipple wet and hot and all of a sudden – someone said, “Fucking gorgeous when you come,” and hands were on her everywhere, holding her as she jerked against them, shattered, swallowed up by ecstasy; they drew it out, merciless, rubbing at her clit till she cried, but as her body calmed and her breathing slowed they were tender with her again, soft kisses and gentle touches, thumbs wiping her tears from her cheeks, praise that settled her into her skin again, until she was slack and languid with pleasure, tremors running through her.

“OK?”

“Yes,” she whispered, working moisture into her mouth; someone held a glass to her lips and she drank, thirsty.

“There. You’re so good, sweetheart, so perfect…”

“You’re cruel.” Natasha couldn’t quite manage more than a whisper.

“Had enough?” Hands stroking over her hair, touching the blindfold.

“I think so,” Steve murmured.

“Yeah.”

But Natasha shook her head angrily, cuddled safe against Steve’s chest. “No, no, no going away. Not your call.”

“Shhh. Right here. Right here.”

“Upstairs, though.”

“You haven’t come,” she said, wriggling a little when the knickers were tugged out of her hands, when Steve put his arm under her knees to lift her in a bridal carry. She loved them so and she wanted to touch them forever, forever ever, and listen to those beautiful noises they each made when they came – James low and harsh and strangled, Steve louder, just as harsh but more likely to involve actual words – forever.

“Lay you out in bed in just a minute, fuck your mouth.” A smooth metal thumb on her lips; she licked it, chased it when he pulled back.

“Make you feel good,” she promised, only distantly aware she sounded – muzzy, pushing at Steve’s shoulders to get him to put her down. “No, you’re mine, I want to.” Natasha fumbled with the blindfold, yanking it off – it was a blur of colour, one of the silky scarves she wore for her up and coming yuppie identities – her eyes watered in the sudden light, so that she saw Steve’s flushed face through a blur, his pupils dilated, his mouth swollen with biting his lips, with kissing her, with eating her out, and she leaned in and kissed him and wrapped her hands, still full of that silk scarf, around his cock.

His hips bucked up against her; she nearly slid off his lap, shaky and uncoordinated, but James caught a hold of her, and she straddled Steve's lap, facing him, her knees on the chair.

“Bring you off like this,” Natasha promised. “Suck you off after –” She tilted her head back to look up at James, and he bent to kiss her, so soft it was a tease, after what he’d done to her today, and for fuck’s sake he was still dressed, was the man not human? Natasha wriggled in Steve’s lap and pouted. “Want you naked.” How dared he. Of course, she was still in Steve’s shirt. She was keeping the shirt, she decided. It was her shirt now.

“Ask me nicely,” James said.

“Please strip off,” Natasha said obediently. “Please.”

“And for the rest.”

Steve’s hands were gripping her wrists, holding her still. Orgasm had made her clumsy, and a little stupid, and so relaxed she could easily have closed her eyes and gone catatonic, but they were both still hard and she wanted to make them happy and it wasn’t fair that they wouldn’t let her. James was gathering her hair into a ponytail, tugging at her lightly, and Steve was watching her with hooded eyes.

“Steve,” she said. “Please bend me over the kitchen table and fuck me in the ass.” His hands were printing bruises on her wrists. The pain of his grip brought her focus back, a little – but the knowledge that he was marking her for everyone to see made her go muzzy again, so it all evened out. “James, James, please put me on my knees after so I can suck you off and –”

He caught her chin in his hand and kissed her, upside down and a little awkward, his body curving over hers, his other hand wrapped around her hair and tilting her head where he wanted it, just exactly the way he would if she were sucking him off.

“Not the kitchen table,” said Steve harshly. “The living room, like we said. You’re gonna sit on my cock and ride me till you come again.”

“Don’t know if I can,” Natasha said, inclined to pout. Dammit, she wanted them happy.

“Can and will,” James promised her, his breath ghosting over her face; he kissed the tip of her nose, her wet eyelids, her forehead. “Makes me feel good to watch you come apart, kitten. Tuck a vibe inside you and fuck your ass open, fill you up again and plug you up after so you don’t make a mess of everything. You can sleep like that tonight, can’t you, sweetheart, fucked so good and full of us?”

Then again. Oh what had possessed her not to finish this already; she was squirming restlessly under his hands, Steve still gripping her wrists, her cunt hot and aching and swollen and empty, and she wanted – everything. Everything.

“Yes,” she said, her voice shaking. “Yes I will if you tell me to, if that’s what you want, you come so hard and there’s so much and I love it, I –”

“Yeah. So that’s what we’ll do.”

“The sight you’ll make,” said Steve. “The sight you make now.” He leaned forwards, kissed her gently, still teasing, smiling a little. “Keep you this way forever if I could. One thing though – you come on my cock or you come on Bucky’s or you don’t come at all. That’s the rule.”

“You’re a sadist,” James said admiringly, passing her pony tail from his right hand to his left; then he reached beneath her to wet his fingers in her slick and rub at her anus.

The vibe wasn’t needed – no one could be bothered to go upstairs and get it – they didn’t even manage to leave the kitchen: fucked her through another shattering orgasm on the floor, in fact, opened her up with spit and slick and used her mercilessly, first Steve in her ass, Natasha face down on the floor with the shirt rucked up round her waist, and then James, who rolled her over and lifted her hips into his lap and took her cunt again, fucked her halfway across the room, till she was crying and shaking and clawing at the tiles. She dug her nails into James’ arm, sobbing, when he put his fingers on her clit immediately after she’d come; Steve held her arms above her head and told her darkly that she should have thought of this before she asked for more and put his fingers in her mouth to muffle her cries as James ground his softening cock deep inside her and fingered her to a final ferocious orgasm that hurt, hurt so beautifully she almost blacked out, strung out and exhausted and high as a kite, pleasure so intense it was purest, sweetest agony.

The next time conscious thought entered Natasha’s head she was in the bath, hot water and bubbles up to her chin, every inch of her body deliciously sore.

“Definitely too much,” said Steve, sitting on the edge of the tub; he had a mug of hot tea in his hands. He'd put his jeans back on but not his shirt, bless him.

Natasha lifted her wrist out of the water and watched the soap bubbles slide down her skin, revealing the imprints of his fingers on her wrists, already dark and angry.

“I loved it,” she said. She’d been screaming so much her throat was sore, and the tea soothed her just right, hot and strong and sweet, sugar and caffeine waking her up just enough. Then she folded her arms on the edge of the tub and put her chin on them, looking up at him. “You don’t – you know, James said earlier that he – and –” Good grief, could she even get the words out? But how did you ask your boyfriend if he was sure if he really enjoyed tying her up and fucking her senseless, or if it left him sort of cold, actually, and he just did it because he liked to do stuff that made her happy?

Steve seemed to understand anyway. “It scares me a little,” he said. “How much I love to have you like that.” Natasha closed her eyes, sighing; his voice had gone a little rough on the last words, and it sent a memory of heat coiling through her body. “What if one day I –”

“Lose control?” She looked up. “What if it’s me?”

“My love,” he said, with a funny little smile, “of the three of us, you’re the breakable one.”

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “I guess I am, comparatively.” Then she grinned a bit. “If it bothers you that much, we’ll have to find a way to tie you down.”

A wave of red crashed over Steve’s face that made her laugh in surprise and delight, and from the doorway James said, “I bet I can find something,” his face lit up with mischief, and Steve said, “Can you not,” and James said, gleefully, “Lapsed, lapsed, lapsed,” which Natasha couldn’t parse at all, but it made Steve laugh, and then James caught him close and kissed him, and how she loved to watch them kiss.

Win/win situations. Beautiful things.