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I've found the velvet sun that shines on me and you.

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The bunks are lonely in basic. Jack and Brock have kissed before, behind the barrack buildings and the mess hall and sometimes up against the rope obstacles, but they haven’t gone too far beyond that other than quick hand jobs in the shower. Brock is aching for something more, for the feeling of another body pressed against his.

One night, he climbs into Jack’s bunk, collapsing on top of him and making him grunt in surprise. “Hey,” he whispers, when Jack stares incredulously at him. When Jack is obviously still waiting for an explanation, he shrugs easily and snuggles up to the much taller soldier. “Got lonely. Thought you might want some company.” He winks and presses his hips against Jack’s leg and then the other gets it. He shrugs, mumbles a quick ‘sure’ and rolls onto his back so Brock’s hips are settled against his.

Brock starts to roll above him, dragging their hips together and Jack helps him, sliding his hands over Brock’s ass and guiding him. They’re hard and Brock is panting wetly against his mouth, but he spaces out a little during. It feels nice and he likes the choked sounds his friend makes, but otherwise, he’d just as well rather be sleeping together than doing this. But he feels that way with everyone he’s fooled around with. It’s all ok, but it’s nothing special.

It’s been quite awhile since they’ve had time to do anything like this and so it doesn’t take long before Brock is growling against his lips and spilling between them. He swears and apologizes and reaches for Jack’s cock, but Jack kisses him again and pulls his hand away. “It’s fine, Brock. Just go to sleep.”

Brock almost seems offended. “Come on, Rollins, I’m sorry. It’s been too long. I’ll get you off too. Want me to use my mouth? I’ll make it good for you.” And he sounds so earnest that Jack almost lets him. When he shakes his head, Brock starts to pull away from him and Brock can make out a hurt expression on his face. “What did I do?”

Jack reaches out to pull Brock back down on the bed and while he resists a little, he eventually caves and lets himself fall against Jack’s chest, sliding between his legs where the erection is already flagging. “I just… I don’t like sex all that much.” No one’s ever asked him before, but it feels good and a little frightening to say it out loud.

Brock tenses in his arms and Jack waits for him to push away and abandon him. But he only sounds worried when he opens his mouth. “Did I make you do all this? Make you feel like you had to?” He speaks quietly, his voice small as he presses his forehead into Jack’s neck, and Jack can’t help but rub his hands up his back and into his hair.

“Of course not, Brock. You’re my friend. And I… I can have sex I just don’t really care about it.” It’s not easy to explain. He doesn’t hate it exactly. He loves kissing Brock and holding him, and jerking him off in the showers can be kind of fun, but he doesn’t really want anyone touching him and he doesn’t think sex is anything interesting.

Brock is quiet for a few minutes before he snuggles closer. “Oh ok. Like an ace?” When Jack doesn’t give him a confirmation, instead asks what the hell that is, Brock explains about people who don’t have sex drives or just don’t like sex and Jack can’t help but be astounded. He asks how the hell Brock knows about this kind of thing and his friend shrugs. “I read about it somewhere.”

Jack snorts. “You can read?” He gets an elbow in his gut for it but then Brock is forcing them onto their sides and curling up around him. He’s always proclaimed himself a big spoon, and Jack rolls his eyes and tells him to go to sleep.

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Brock Rumlow is attracted to power and efficiency. People like Natasha Romanov, Nick Fury, and Alexander Pierce get his blood running hot. He jacked off to Captain America porn parodies as a teenager. Of course he’s ruined when they introduce him to the Winter Soldier.

His CO tells him he’s in for a fucking treat the first time they bring the Soldier out, and Brock can’t help but scoff. What’s one guy supposed to do that impresses him that much? And yeah he’s kinda hot, in a dead hooker sort of way with unwashed hair and blank eyes, and Brock’s pretty sure he’ll have sex dreams about that arm, but he can’t be that special, right? Wrong.

The soldier flies through enemies with the precision of a missile strike. He takes out more men on his own than their entire time combined. Brock has never before seen such methodical killing. It’s exhilarating. It’s arousing. He spends half the mission straining the zipper of his pants. Every time he sees the soldier, looks into those cold eyes, he remembers how he looked dripping with blood and surrounded by bodies and his cock hardens and he forgets where he is.

There are rules against interacting with the soldier. Brock ignores them. He can’t help himself. One minute he’s running a hand over that sleek metal arm, the next he’s crushed between the soldier and a wall. He’s hard, terrified and aroused and trapped. The soldier doesn’t snap his neck like he’s expecting, but he leans forward, all his weight falling on Brock, and growls. Brock’s eyes roll back in his head and he comes, harder than he has in his life, untouched and in his pants.

The soldier shoves away and, weak-kneed, Brock slides to the ground. He can’t wait for the next time they bring the soldier out to play.

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Everyone on STRIKE is a bit of adrenaline junkie. It’s hard not to be and still love getting up every morning for work. So they’re not exactly strangers to post-mission erections. The Winter Soldier is no different. Sometimes he sits on the bench in the vans on the long trek back to base and fidgets wordlessly, cock swollen in his thick canvas pants.

It takes Brock a few missions to realize what’s happening, but when he does it doesn’t take much to convince him to help out. Ignoring the incredulous look Jack sends him, he takes a seat next to the soldier and offers his assistance, nodding his head toward the prominent bulge between his legs. The soldier, unused to any kindness, nods eagerly, making a low sound behind his muzzle.

When Brock wraps his hand around the soldier’s already slick and purpling cock, he grunts and lurches forward, panting against the thick plastic of the mask. Brock’s own cock twitches in his pants and he grins, a little crazed, as he slides the soldier’s foreskin down his cock and then drags it back over the dripping head.

Pleasure is a foreign concept to the asset and it’s only a few more pulls before he’s crying out, wild keen muffled as he shoots off over Brock’s fist. Brock can’t help but groan at the sight and wipes the mess across the face of the mask, where the soldier’s mouth would be. The soldier is staring pointedly at Brock’s own crotch, where the soldier’s noises have had an affect on his dick. “Help?” The soldier croaks, and even men stronger than Brock would cave in the face of such an offer.

The metal arm is a temptation, but its grip, while enticing, is more of a risk to Brock’s dick than he can afford. He frees himself and guides the soldier’s flesh hand to his cock. They don’t have a lot of time left, but he’s on edge enough that it’s not going to take much. The soldier is clumsy and inexperienced but that makes it a little sweeter and a little hotter. He bites his lip when he comes, growls low in his chest as he does so.

The soldier raises his hand, mimicking Brock’s movements and bringing the mess to Brock’s face. Brock thinks he should slap him, but instead he takes the soldier’s fingers into his mouth and licks them clean, smirking as the asset’s pupils dilate.

When they pull in, he tucks them both back into their pants. Jack tells him he has a fucking death wish.

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The Soldier catches Brock and Jack kissing. They’re on a mission somewhere in Estonia and it’s frigid enough that Brock doesn’t care when Jack drags him into a spare room of the safe house and slides his cold hands under his shirt. They’re trading rough kisses on the bed when the door opens and the Soldier stands in silhouette, head tilted in confusion. Brock nearly jumps out of his skin, but Jack just pulls him closer and moans softly against his lips.

When Jack does pull away, Brock smacks him in the chest, but he only grins and extends a hand toward the Soldier in invitation. Brock wants to ask what the fuck he’s thinking, but he doesn’t get the chance as the Soldier steps hesitantly toward them. It doesn’t take much coaxing to get him to lean into Jack’s touch, and when the taller man covers his mouth with his own, the sound he makes, a shaky gasp, goes right to Brock’s groin.

Jack releases the Soldier who turns, almost eagerly, toward Brock, head tilted and lips parted in expectation and Brock is not a strong enough man to deny him. It’s an amateurish kiss, clumsy in a way that makes it sweet and hot and wrong, and the Soldier whines a little against his mouth, hips fidgeting, and when Brock lets his hand fall from his shoulders to his hips and he rubs the heel of his palm over the Soldier’s crotch, groaning to find him already hard and straining beneath his zipper. The Soldier grunts and bucks into his hand.

“W-what?” He demands when his mouth is free, looking down in confusion at the bulge in his own pants, frowning like he doesn’t understand. Brock meets Jack’s gaze and he knows he’s going to hell. He tells the Soldier he can help, unzipping the tented pants and swallowing the sound of relief the Soldier makes when his cock is free. It’s incredible, Brock thinks as he wraps his hand around the dripping cock and pulls. Winter very nearly yelps, the confusion on his face melting into white hot pleasure, and he arches desperately in an effort to get more of the not pain. “What? Ohhhh, what is?” Words fail him and he falls back into little choked whines.

It’s incredible, it’s fucking intoxicating. Brock feels like a god, allowing the Soldier this hint of pleasure. It doesn’t take long before he’s squirming and keening under Brock’s touches, like it’s too much, and Jack turns his head back to kiss him again. The Soldier clings to the taller man, moaning desperately into his mouth and clawing at him with a metallic grip that is sure to leave bruises. And then it’s over, the Soldier’s body seizing up, choking gurgled sounds muffled against Jack’s lips as he shoots off over Brock’s fist in thick ropes of seed. Brock and Jack and breathless and the Soldier is going limp between them.

Brock and Jack kiss over the Soldier’s body as he slumps against the bed and watches them. Jack is the first to pull away, tucking the Soldier’s limp cock back into his pants and patting his sweat-slicked stomach gently. He calls the Soldier a good boy and asks if he liked his treat, ignoring the incredulous look Brock shoots him. He receives a shaky nod in response and offers the Soldier a fond smile and a gentle order to get some sleep.

Brock continues staring until Jack smacks him and drags him down onto the small bed to join them. He tries to ignore the way the Soldier shifts to accommodate him, the way he nuzzles against him in a way that is definitely not a part of his programming. But he can’t stop himself from pressing his lips to the Soldier’s head, reiterating Jack’s order to go to sleep.

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Brock isn’t sure how to react when the Winter Soldier grabs him and pulls him to the side. The asset is making frustrated sounds, little growls and grunts that he hasn’t yet learned how to interpret and Brock is unsure what’s ailing him until his hand is being jerked down to the bulge in the soldier’s pants. Oh.

And Brock’s had quite a few late night fantasies about the soldier and his unbelievable control, his body, his blind loyalty, and the mindless power he exudes. He’s jerked his cock to the thought of getting on his knees and worshipping between the asset’s thighs. So he’s going to fucking pass this up, pulling the soldier by the flesh arm into an alleyway. He unfastens the stupidly difficult pants and when his cock is released from its confines, the soldier makes a sound that goes straight to Brock’s own dick.

Spitting in his hand, although from the looks of the thick flesh, red and ripping in the pale light, he wouldn’t need the extra lubrication, Brock wraps his fingers around the soldier’s cock and tugs in quick twisting motions, pulling the foreskin over the broad head of his cock and sliding it back down. The soldier bucks and growls and Brock’s knees feel weak.

But it’s not enough. Long minutes go buy and the soldier’s frustration builds, dick angry and throbbing in Brock’s hand. There isn’t enough time for Brock to open himself up and let the soldier fuck him and while sparks of pain with pleasure are good ,explaining tears and blood in a very sensitive area is not on his agenda. And although he’s been dreaming of sucking the soldier off since he first laid eyes on him, they’re both disgusting and sweaty and even he has standards.

So before the asset can decide he’s useless and kill him for failing to get him off, he’s shoving his own pants down and guiding the soldier’s cock between his thighs. It only takes a moment for him to get the picture and start thrusting, pinning Brock against the wall and fucking the soft flesh of his inner thighs with rough thrusts and snarls.

It’s intense, and Brock presses his face into the soldier’s throat and whines quietly, the drag of the asset’s cock between his thighs, rubbing across the underside his own cock with each push, and then suddenly the soldier is sinking his teeth into Brock’s shoulder and he’s pretty sure the skin is breaking, but the flash of pain and the heat of the asset coming between his thighs sets him off and he spills between them with a stuttered gasp.

Brock expects the soldier to pull away immediately, having gotten what he came for, but he stays right there, pressing Brock into the brick wall of the alleyway as his breathing evens out. He takes it upon himself to tuck the the asset’s flaccid dick back into his pants and zip him up before doing the same for himself, ignoring the sticky seed drying on his skin. When their eyes meet, there is more clarity, more humanity, in them than he’s seen before. The soldier pats him twice on the chest and tells him he’s good before walking away. Brock is still breathless.

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Brock’s been too occupied fussing over the nearly-failed mission and keeping the soldier stable to pay much attention to his bladder. Once they’re on the plane, if it can even be called that, a fucking floating microwave for all it holds, himself, Jack, and the soldier crammed in uncomfortably, he has nothing to distract him from the sudden pulsing need. He can feel his heartbeat throbbing painfully in his gut and down to his dick and he squeezes his eyes closed, trying to shift subtly in the seat, thighs squeezing together.

It only takes seven minutes for Jack to notice, seven minutes of increasingly noticeable squirming, legs jiggling until the movement jostles his bladder too much and he bites through his lip and tries to hold still, shifting as low in the seat as he can to try and relieve some of the pressure, before Jack twists in the pilot’s seat and gives him this look. He grins wryly and raises an eyebrow.

“Really STRIKE Team Lead? Have to potty?” He gets a middle finger and a grumbled ‘fuck off’ for his troubles. Brock’s had other things on his mind, dammit. But Jack doesn’t let up. “No no, it’s kind of hot, watching you squirm for me,” he says, winking with his tongue between his teeth, and Brock’s next swear is half-forgotten as they hit a bit of turbulence and drop a hundred feet or so. Normally, Brock deals with that kind of shit just fine, but the sudden rush, the negative gravity of the drop, puts a sudden unbelievable pressure on his bladder and he actually yelps, hand flying to his cock and pinching the tip hard enough to make his eyes water to keep the sudden stream inside. Jack stops joking, spouting apologies he ignores in favor of breathing shallowly and damned near writhing in his seat, his cock rising to half-hard in desperation.

Winter takes notice. Hell, he probably took notice before Jack, but he chooses now to take action. And fuck does he take action. The soldier is seated across from Brock, their knees nearly touching with how packed they are in the tiny aircraft, and it’s nothing for him to reach out. He presses his flesh hand over Brock’s in his lap and rubs firmly, obviously mistaking the erection bulging Brock’s pants for a very different kind of need.

It’s not like they’ve never jerked each other off on long missions, but it’s always been Brock to initiate the contact. For a moment he’s too shocked to react and the soldier wraps his fist around Brock’s dick and pulls in a way that would make his toes curl if they were anywhere else but instead leaves him whining and shoving at the soldier roughly, head whipping back and forth. Winter looks confused, head tilted in curiosity, before a light hits his eyes. Somehow, Brock thinks that’s worse.

The soldier leans forward again, and Brock can’t squirm away from him in time, movement limited by the now near-bursting feeling throbbing between his legs. Winter bypasses his dick and Brock counts his stars, until the cold metal hand trails over his stomach, slips under his shirt, and then presses firmly against the swell -fuck there’s a bulge there low in his belly that he knows is his bladder he can fucking see it- and Brock’s vision whites out in pleasure-pain as the pressure mounts. He kicks out as best he can, snarling. “Fucking jackass!” He hisses, trying to shy away. “Cut it out! That’s an order!”

But his voice shakes and it doesn’t sound anything like an order, a fucking whine, a plea, and the soldier just fucking grins at him. He slides out of his chair and far too close into Brock’s already cramped personal space. Both hands rest on his thighs and suddenly the soldier is forcing his legs apart and settling between them, hand replaced on Brock’s trembling stomach and positively kneading. Brock keens like he’s being tortured, like he’s being fucked, and thrashes. He’s about to fucking lose it, the hand desperately squeezing his cock, piss building behind it, no longer doing enough to keep the flood in check, when Jack finally starts their descent and Winter reluctantly backs off.

The plane hasn’t really stopped yet when Brock stumbles out. He doesn’t give a fuck about the debrief where he’ll be reamed for the disaster of a mission or the soldier who still needs to be taken down to the vaults. All he fucking cares about is getting off the tarmac before he pisses himself. He knows he’s probably waddling more than running but he’ll fuck up anyone who snickers after he empties his bladder. And he’s almost fucking there, bathroom just around the corner, when something bowls into him and slams him into the wall. Winter growls and presses their hips together. “Wasn’t done.” His voice low and gravelly in Brock’s ear, and he curses every god that could be out there.

That hand is sliding back between them, pushing against the swollen bulge while hips are grinding into the half-formed erection he’s still sporting. Brock shudders and tries futilely to twist away, a mewl on his tongue, gasping that Winter has to let go or he’ll piss on him oh fuck let go please please please, but the soldier just pushes harder and tells him, orders him to let go. And suddenly his pride and his restraint are out the window and he’s fucking moaning like a bitch in heat, sudden heat running down his legs and soaking the thick canvas of his pants. He thinks he blacks out for a minute because the next thing he knows he’s quivering and breathless and the soldier is supporting his most of his weight, flesh hand patting his head in a rough sort of stroking, a low hum of satisfaction on his lips. For a moment, he’s still in bliss, and then the realization and humiliation soaks in and it hits him that he’s 45, the Commander of STRIKE, and he just pissed himself caught between the Winter Soldier and a wall. He shoves away and the soldier lets him pass. He stumbles to the bathroom and looks miserably at his ruined pants.

He’s never felt this embarrassed in his life and he still has to give report to Pierce soaked and stinking of piss. He suddenly wishes his childhood fear of being sucked down the toilet was real and he could just fall in and disappear. There’s a knock and the door opens and he twists spitting fire. And it’s Jack, who always manages to find him when he’s feeling the most vulnerable. Brock almost wants to cry he’s so ashamed, but there’s no pity on his face and no judgment. And he’s holding a clean pair of pants from Brock’s locker.

And then Brock really does almost cry because there just isn’t anything like supreme humiliation followed by the kindness and compassion of your oldest friend. But two indignities is just two too many, so he chokes back the burning in his throat and in his eyes, although he knows he’s looking at Jack like he’s the fucking sun. He lets his best friend and second in command take his face in hand and kiss him softly, soaking in the sweet comfort and soothing noises Jack makes against his lips. He doesn’t protest when the wet pants are unbuttoned and slowly peeled from his legs, growing cold and sticking to his skin. Jack undresses him and wipes him down wordlessly, and Brock lets himself be taken care of. Jack tosses the pants and washes his hands, giving Brock one last lingering kiss before he heads out to face Pierce.

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Brock is a touchy kind of guy. He claps shoulders, slings arms around, bumps knees and nudges elbows. People either put up with him, shove him off, or lean in. When they bring Winter out of his icebox, he soaks up the little touches like a water-starved plant. It’s incredible and a little thrilling the way the soldier actually seeks him out for it, as long as they keep it a secret from Pierce.

When everything is over, HYDRA failed and falling apart, Brock can touch him more freely. He can’t quite believe Winter came to him and Jack when Steve Rogers himself is so desperately searching, but when he shows up on the stoop of the safe house they’re hiding out in, looking like a half-drowned puppy in the rain, Brock can’t help but open his arms and welcome the soldier home.

Winter lets Jack towel his hair dry, lets them both strip him and get him into warmer clothes. When they sit him on the couch, he pushes at Brock until the broader man is lying on his back, lies down on top of him, curling up against his chest and tucking his head beneath Brock’s chin.

Brock kisses the top of Winter’s damp hair and the soldier makes a wounded noise and nuzzles against him. Jack sits on the arm of the couch and rubs Winter’s back until he falls asleep, safe and warm for the first time since he fell from a train a lifetime ago.

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Winter comes out of the water with a new friend attached to his prosthetic arm. An octopus has managed to wrap itself around the shining metal. He stares down at it with a curious sort of affection and when Brock and Jack approach him to help untangle it, Winter looks up at them with a sort of half-smile. “Like Brock.” Brock goes hot and punches Jack when he chokes and almost falls over.

But he’s not wrong. Brock turns into a human octopus when he’s sleeping, wrapping around the nearest warm body like he’s trying to crack open a crab and doesn’t let go until morning. It’s even worse when he drinks, and it takes very little to get him drunk. Two beers and he’s a grinning dope, climbing into someone’s lap and waking up warm and sated and wound around whoever’s bed he climbed into.

Sometimes they mention the octopus again, when Brock is soft and pliant around them. They call him their octopus and he grumbles and swats at them but doesn’t protest much as long as they lie still and let him snuggle them and sleep.

Jack and Winter are on shopping duty, Brock on a solo mission, when Jack spots a stuffed octopus on sale. He nudges the soldier beside him and motions and they share a grin, Winter placing it lovingly in their basket.

They leave it on the pillow when Brock returns. He just heaves a sigh and asks what they named it. When they respond in unison, “Two Beers,” he launches himself at them, a half-laugh half-growl on his lips.

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Choice has never been a big part of Winter’s life with HYDRA. He does what he is told; his opinion is not asked and he does not offer it, there is no consideration of his preferences, no consideration of him. Brock and Jack try to make up for that a little bit when they take him to bed.

Winter is already stripped and trembling on the bed, but they haven’t done anything but tease, rolling his nipples, scratching nails lightly down his ribs, the barest whisper of fingertips up his cock. He squirms between them, trying to tempt them into speeding up without outright demanding it.

“I’m going to open you up now, Winter,” Brock husks, voice low and rough with arousal. “Slip inside you one finger at a time until you’re slick and sweet and open for me.” Brock knows Winter can take more than one finger at a time, and from the way he rolls his hips and whines, Winter knows it too, but he wants to hear his soldier ask for each finger, wants to make him beg for it. “How does that sound?” He asks, pressing a kiss to the soft skin of Winter’s inner thigh and circling a lube-slick finger around Winter’s wrinkled hole.

Winter responds with another whine but Brock waits until the soldier gasps out a, “Yes please!” before he breaches the ring of muscle. It’s not enough, not by a long shot, and the soldier tries to buck back into the touch, already keening for another, but Jack distracts him by gently tugging his hair and nuzzling against his throat, licking a stripe up the long column of his neck as Brock fucks him open in agonizingly slow motions.

The second finger only comes after Winter is shining with sweat and arching, shuddering and gasping for more between the men torturing him, and with it, Brock tells the soldier he wants to take his cock into his mouth, slide his tongue beneath the foreskin to taste his head, trace the thick veins on the underside of his prick, and Winter almost sobs for it as he acquiesces eagerly.

While he’s thrashing for the third finger, close to begging for it, Jack leans in, tilting Winter’s chin to face him. “Can I kiss you?” He murmurs and Winter mewls and nods, gasping a “Please, please kiss me, Jack.” and his moans of relief are muffled into the taller man’s mouth.

It wold be so easy for Brock to slip his cock inside Winter, stretched and open and waiting for him, to get Winter to beg for his cock, and it’s fucking tempting, but the soldier already so close. “I want to make you come for us, Winter. I want to see you lose control fucking yourself on my fingers and into my mouth. Can you show me? Come for me?”

Winter doesn’t give permission so much as wail, a sharp cry of Brock’s name falling from his lips as he comes, spasming around Brock’s fingers and shooting down his throat. When the shivers fade, Brock asks if it was good. Winter smacks him in the chest.

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Winter is unendingly sweet the first time he takes Brock to bed. Brock wonders if it’s love, as close to it as people like them can feel, or repayment for the shreds of kindness Brock afforded him during his time as the Winter Soldier, or maybe even a hint of whoever Winter had been before all the ice and blood shining through. Maybe it’s a little of each, but Brock can’t help but marvel in it. No one’s ever been sweet to him before, not in bed. Usually he demands to be fucked the way he fights: it’s not good unless he’s bruised and aching for days after, but this is… it strokes his soul a little, being cared for.

Winter kisses down Brock’s spine and strokes his hair, things Brock has done for him as well when he’s the one bottoming. He moans when he slides his fingers inside Brock, whines against the curve of his spine at the heat and tightness around his fingertips. Brock knows Winter, even with his intense stamina, won’t last long when they finally get to the act itself, is honestly a little surprised he’s made it this long without shooting off with or without a touch.

And then finally Winter is slicking himself up and Brock can feel the blunt head of his cock making its slow inexorable way in. He can’t help the groan that rumbles through him as the thick cock presses inside him in one fluid motion. He feels speared on it, stretched open and filled and it’s fucking amazing. Winter clings to him, hands digging bruises into his hips and he positively keens, face buried in Brock’s hair as he struggles to get adjusted to the sensation.

“Oh, ohhhh,” he pants against the back of Brock’s neck, whimpering into his skin, and if Brock could reach he would stroke Winter’s flank and tell him it’s ok, but he’s not sure he could even open his mouth without begging for more.

Winter makes it maybe three thrusts before the drag of his cock against Brock’s insides sends him hurtling over the edge of oblivion. He chokes off a cry and stays hunched over Brock’s back, hissing through gritted teeth as he pulses.

Brock tries to be more flattered than disappointed, heart swelling at the thought of giving Winter this much pleasure, but his cock throbs between his legs and whines himself, until the soldier pulls out with a swiftness that knocks the air from his chest. He’s flat on his back with Winter’s mouth closing over the head of his cock, body-warmed metal fingers finding their way to his sweet spot and rubbing until stars spark in his eyes and he howls his release.

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Brock is a goddamned beautiful sight, bound with leather straps to the bed. His tanned skin glistening with sweat as he strains and struggles against the thick straps. He always pulls hard enough to give himself dark bruises, but he can’t get free, and he won’t listen to Jack’s suggestion that they pad the straps. Jack knows he likes the bruises and he can’t deny they look good on him.

It’s a dark thrill in Jack’s chest, pulse racing, as he trails his hands over Brock’s skin. His fingers tingle where contact is made and he grins. Brock is built like a shit brick house, can easily dominate Jack in the field and having that kind of power over him is intoxicating. He could do anything to Brock and the commander would have no choice but to lie there and take it.

Winter sits in the corner, pupils dilated and hands clenched at his sides. Jack grins at him, but he doesn’t look away from Brock, entranced. He’s never been privileged enough to see this. Brock loves him, but this side of his need can be a weakness and he’s hesitated to bring Winter in on it.

Jack gives Brock’s hip a sharp smack only to watch him jerk and groan. It’s exhilarating, knowing Brock trusts him enough to do this. Delivering another slap, red handprint rising quickly in its wake, Jack soothes the sweet burn with a soft kiss and Brock positively whines under his touch.

“Exquisite, isn’t he?” He murmurs to Winter, blunt nails lightly scraping across Brock’s skin, smirking as he tries to follow it. Motioning for Winter to come over and touch for himself, Jack offers Brock like a feast. “He’s all yours.”

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Brock never remembers to put things on the grocery list. He drinks the last of the milk forgets to tell anyone until Winter is under the sink and Jack is ready to kill him when he goes to the fridge and finds nothing to tempt their soldier back out.

Honestly Brock shouldn’t be allowed to live alone. Jack isn’t sure how he’s managed to live as long as he has; he can’t cook all that well and he never remembers to go to the goddamned store unless it’s for cigarettes or whiskey. From the stories he’s dragged out of Liv, Jack gleans that Brock was very attentive when they were young. Somewhere along the line he’d just forgotten how to take care of himself, when he didn’t have someone else to look after. And now Jack was there to take care of them all. But he still wants Brock to put the fucking milk on the list when he drinks it all.

Winter, on the other hand, adds necessities to the list as soon as they get low, but he never adds little things like favourite cereals or pancakes, or things Jack knows the soldier would like. As long as they’ve been together, Winter is still hesitant to ask for more than he is given. They tell him time and again that he’s allowed to have a say in what they eat at meals or what kind of soap they use, but he just quietly accepts whatever they buy and never says a word.

Jack takes Winter to the store with him, makes the soldier hold his hand so he doesn’t wander off, and gestures toward the aisles in a bid to get him to pick something for himself. Winter usually just looks uncomfortable and shifts awkwardly until Jack lets him off the hook. They’re heading down an aisle of soaps and razors when Winter lets go of Jack’s hand, drawn toward a line of shampoos. He catches the name, HYDRALICIOUS, and nearly chokes. But Winter is already picking up a purple bottle and opening it, making a pleased sound when he catches the berry scent. The irony that Winter has picked up a shampoo called “De-Damage Boost” makes Jack flinch a little, but the way Winter looks up at him, holding the bottles up in a silent request melts his heart and he nods and motions to their cart.

When they get home, Brock raises an eyebrow at the purchase and Jack shrugs. “He asked for it.” Because that’s all the explanation they need.

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Winter stands stock still as Jack and Brock hover around him. It feels almost like he’s being prepped for a mission again, being fitted with armor, only instead of kevlar, he’s being bound with wool and thick down-filled nylon. When Jack starts wrapping a scarf around his neck, winding it up over his face, he whines beneath the fabric. He’s the winter soldier for god’s sake. He’s been frozen. He can handle a little snow without all of this. Brock gives him a slight slap on the ass for the noise and tugs a hat over his head.

When they’re finally done suiting him up, they usher him outside where snow is falling in fat flakes. He doesn’t quite understand how water ice can bring such broad smiles to Jack and Brock’s faces. It has never been anything but a hindrance to missions before, something to slow him down, but the mischievous look on Brock’s face before he grabs a handful of the fallen snow and shoves it down Jack’s shirt suggests it can be so much more than that.

Winter is dragged into a war, so much kinder when the weapons are balls of precipitation, and by the time they’ve run out of steam, the game has coaxed a breathless laugh from him and he understands why Jack and Brock bundled him up so thickly: even under all the layers, he’s shivering and wet.

It’s Jack who flops backwards onto the ground, spreads his arms and legs until the snow around him flattens. Brock laughs at him, then he leans over and nudges Winter, asks him if he wants to make a snow angel too. Winter knows what an angel is, a symbol of purity, of all things good, so he asks how he can possibly make one.

Brock’s laughter dies and Jack sits up, a pained look on his face, and Winter wonders what he’s done wrong to ruin the mood. He wants to apologize until Brock’s bare hands cup his cheeks and he leans in, telling Winter that angels are fucking warriors and he’s a good man and he shakes Winter a little until he says ok and agrees to make a snow angel with them.

Afterwards he lets Jack and Brock settle him in front of the fireplace with a cup of hot chocolate and dry him off.

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Brock groans deep in his chest, head hanging forward as Winter’s hips snapped into his. He hadn’t let the soldier top him before they left HYDRA and fuck it had been awhile since he’d taken a cock. Winter has a nice cock, shorter than Brock’s but thicker and the burn of the stretch is good. Brock gives as good as he gets, bucking back hard in time with Winter’s thrusts.

Winter grazes Brock’s sweet spot with every thrust, as proficient in fucking as he in killing, as he is in everything else, and Brock pants wetly, low growls and grunts punching from his lips. Heat is already pooling in his gut and his dick pulses between his legs.

Jack rests against the headboard, cigarette hanging from his lips, and watches the scene with obvious contentment. Sometimes he reaches between Brock’s legs and brings him off with steady strokes, but he doesn’t get the chance to tonight.

Winter pauses when he’s fully sheathed in Brock’s ass and grinds in a slow circle, a constant pressure against Brock’s prostate that makes his mouth fall open in a soundless rush of breath and suddenly he’s coming all over the sheets with nothing on his cock but air. Winter finishes in a few quick thrusts and pulls out to spray across Brock’s back.

“Fuck!” Brock hisses as he rolls over. “Haven’t fucking spouted off like that since I was fourteen!” He drags the soldier down to him to lick into his mouth eagerly. “You’re fucking amazing, you know that?” And Winter gives him a grin that’s somehow shy and lecherous at the same time as Jack leaves to get them a warm cloth to clean up.

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Winter isn’t a screamer but he sure as hell isn’t a quiet lover.

It’s just incredible how responsive the soldier is. Jack and Brock are stretched out on either side of him, lips attached to his throat. The kiss and nip and suck little bruises into the long pale column of his neck and he squirms, mewling breathlessly and twitching in their gentle hold.

Brock is the first to pull away from his throat and Winter makes a sound of loss that makes Jack chuckle against his jugular and and shift to nip at the soft skin beneath his jaw as Brock leaves a series of sharp little bites down his chest. Winter arches into them, mewls slowly morphing into panted moans as Brock finds his nipples and chews on them lightly until they are puffy and swollen under his mouth.

Continuing his journey down Winter’s body, tongue tracing the hard lines of his abs and dipping into his navel in a motion that makes the soldier yelp in ticklish surprise, Brock bites down hard on the sharp planes of his hipbones, enough that there are little indents from his teeth and bruises that will fade as quickly as they appear. The soldier groans and thrashes a little is response and Brock glances up to see that Jack’s hand is fisted in his hair, pulling his head back to expose more of his throat for him to feast upon.

Brock bypasses Winter’s cock and the soldier growls low in his throat, hips bucking insistently, but Brock just smirks and moves lower still until he can lave his tongue over the twitching muscle of Winter’s opening. The soldier’s chest seizes and his breath catches, mouth open in a soundless exhalation until Brock’s pointed tongue wiggles inside and he keens behind gritted teeth. Brock works him open with fingers and tongue until Winter is panting, breathy moans and gasps leaving him and chest heaving.

Finally, Brock takes pity on the soldier, when he is wet and loose around his fingers, and withdraws them, relishing the needy and broken whimpers of protest he makes, hands reaching up in grabby fists at Brock until he settles over his trembling soldier and slides home. Jack swallows the high-pitched whine that leaves Winter’s mouth in a slow kiss.

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Winter loves when Brock bakes. The commander isn’t allowed near the stove unless Jack is there to supervise (Winter knows it involves a frozen turkey and a frier and a patch of scars that Brock says are from an old war wound, but Brock refuses to allow anyone to go further into the story) but the man can bake like a professional.

Winter comes back from a long walk and lingers in the doorway of the kitchen. Jack and Brock and baking, the latter offering the former a taste from his wooden spoon before they share a few chocolatey kisses, but Winter doesn’t see them. He’s suddenly six years old and watching a kindly brown-haired woman lean over the stove. She kisses his nose and tells him the magic ingredient in everything she makes is love.

The world comes back to Winter to find Brock and Jack grinning at him and asking if he’s ok. He just smiles, a little wetly, and tells them it smells like his mother’s house. Brock kisses his cheek and offers him the spoon, and he lets it melt over his tongue. It tastes like his mother’s house too. It tastes like love.

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It’s been proven in the field time and time again that while rough treatment keeps the soldier obedient, sweet words and touches keep him eager and responsive. When he is free of HYDRA’s reigns, it carries over into the bedroom.

“You’re so beautiful, Winter,” Jack coos. The soldier’s head is pillowed his lap, dark hair fanned out on his thigh as he runs his fingers through it. “You open up so well for Brock.” Brock, who is between Winter’s spread thighs, fingering him open agonizingly slowly. Winter whines and arches so prettily for them, the words acting like a catalyst to his pleasure, cock twitching and dripping onto his stomach in response.

Brock mouths soft kisses against the soldier’s thighs as he works, breathlessly whispering how perfect he looks between them, how pretty his hole looks, stretched and puffy and red around his fingers, how he can’t wait to see him open up for his cock. Winter gasps and nods eagerly and finally Brock is sliding into him.

The stretch, the burn, the way Brock moans and tells him how amazing he feels, hot and velvet, the way Brock tells him he feels right, makes Winter shudder and moan shakily. Jack drops kisses to his hair and face, rubbing his chest which feels tight and swollen with the praise they pepper against his skin. “You’re such a good boy, Winter. Look at you, you’re so good for us.”

It’s overwhelming. He’s never felt this… loved and full and attached. He can’t hold it all in and suddenly his eyes are hot and wet spills down his cheeks. He’s not sad, he’s transcendent, his body can’t take the love he’s being given. Brock cups his cheeks, thumbs brushing away his tears, and when Jack leans down to kiss him, asks him to come for them and let them see how beautiful he is just for them, he comes apart sobbing into Jack’s mouth.

The world goes quiet and fuzzy for awhile. Winter shakes and cries as they wipe him down with a warm cloth and bundle him up in blankets between them. He’s sandwiched between the men who love him and they’re stroking all down his body and telling him he’s theirs, he’s the best and he’s loved and he cries until he falls asleep, safe and warm in their arms.

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Brock has been on the brink for over an hour; his cock is drooling steady until his stomach, its head flushed an angry shade of purple. He’s torn between begging for mercy and threatening Jack with bodily harm if he doesn’t get to come soon. They’re not even using a fucking cock ring and he can damned near taste the orgasm Jack keeps just out of his reach. Winter watches hungrily from the corner, learns how to touch Brock to bring him the same kind of pleasure, the same kind of agony.

“See how wonderfully responsive he is? You can keep him on edge for well over an hour if you play your cards right.” He speaks slowly and calmly, just loud enough to cover the string of swears Brock spits at him. “And if he is good,” Brock goes silent mid-swear, “you can let him find release before it becomes painful.”

It’s already painful, has been for half a fucking hour, but Brock doesn’t do anything but groan. Jack has jerked him to the edge three times already without letting him fall over, fingered him open until he was nearly thrashing, and described in delicious and terrible detail to way Winter should run his tongue over Brock’s dick to make him shake, while Brock growled his threats from the bed. Now he’s doing both, two fingers of Jack’s left hand pressing insistently against his sweet spot while his right hand jerks his cock in slow pulls.

“Should we let him come, Winter?” And Brock shoots the soldier a look of desperation, whining in a fashion most unlike him while he tilts his head, appears to consider the idea of allowing Brock his long-denied release. But after tortuous moments, Winter meets his gaze and gives one slow nod. Brock could cry with relief.

Suddenly Jack’s hand moves with brusque force over his cock, fingers applying a constant pressure against his prostate and Brock howls under the touch. Just before his orgasm hits, Brock hears Jack’s voice, “give him a kiss, Winter,” and then a mouth is covering he is and he whites out as the orgasm finally finally crashes over him.

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Winter wakes up cold and wet and whimpering. It takes a few seconds before he understands, the acrid smell and the way his pants stick to his skin, what has happened. Brock and Jack are stirring and he whimpers louder, knowing that as close as they’d been lying, there’s no way they aren’t soaked in it as well. Winter hasn’t had his humanity back for long but he remembers targets pissing themselves when he came for them, he remembers it being shameful and burns with it now.

“Shit,” Jack is the first to come to understanding and he swears in a low voice that still makes the soldier flinch, although they’ve never raised a hand to him. Jack is sitting up and Brock is becoming aware as well and Winter curls in on himself and trips over his desperate apologies. The “Oh fuck,” that Brock murmurs comes just before hands rest on Winter’s shoulders, followed by a “come on, it’s ok, we’ve got this,” as he is guided off the bed.

Eyes stinging, Winter lets himself be moved and stands, shivering and wet and miserable as Brock strips the bed. He tells Jack to help Winter get cleaned up, stopping to lean in and press a kiss to his nose and tell him it’s ok, it happens. Then Jack is gently pulling him toward the shower and helping him out of his wet clothes. The urine sticks up his back and all down his legs and he gasps quietly once he’s naked and under the warm spray. Through the water, he can see that the legs of Jack’s pants are also wet and he can’t help but whimper again.

Jack steps into the shower with him and takes his face in hands as he splutters more apologies and kisses him gently until he falls silent. The tall man washes them both with quick but gentle strokes of the soap bar. As he does so he explains to Winter about Brock’s nieces having accidents every once in awhile when they come over, but it only makes Winter feel like a child, so he switches tactics and tells him about STRIKE team and how some of the missions and the memories leave them all waking up soaked in piss; it’s a normal part of a soldier’s life, Jack tells him, and he quiets, leaning into Jack’s chest and soaking in the affection.

By the time they are dried off and changed, the bed has been stripped and scrubbed with baking soda. The sheets and blankets are tossed in the washer and Brock gives them a quick kiss and orders them into the living room while he grabs a shower himself. In the living room, there is a blanket fort awaiting them, built between couch cushions and coffee tables. The start menu for Mulan is playing on the TV and just as they enter the room, the microwave dings and fills the house with the smell of buttery popcorn. When Brock joins them minutes later, Winter is snuggled up in Jack’s lap and smiling at Little Brother chasing the chickens.

Stealing a handful of popcorn, he settles in with his boys and gives them each a kiss. He’s had a lot of practice dealing with accidents, and by the time Mulan is cutting her hair, the incident is forgotten.

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It’s by accident that Jack and Brock find out that Winter has talents beyond murder and obedience. They’re on a mission in some village in Germany, just the three of them for the first time. The target is some scientist whose research is fucking with HYDRA plans, and Jack and Brock sit back to watch the soldier get to work on the cameras the placed in the house earlier. What they don’t expect, is for Winter to hang around in the house after the work is done. He gravitates towards a piano in the corner of the room, head tilted curiously, trailing his metal fingers over the keys. With a groan, they decide to go get him themselves.

By the time they’ve entered the house, a soft tune is filling it, somewhat mournful but picking up. They find Winter, not seated, but leaning over the piano keys. He looks more peaceful than they’ve ever seen him, more human, eyes closed in bliss as his fingers fly over the keys. They should stop him. It’s dangerous, these bits of the Soldier, whoever he was before HYDRA got its hands on him, but they’re both entranced. Jack mumbles something about the piece he’s playing as being Liszt but Brock doesn’t know who that is and he doesn’t care. It’s fucking amazing.

They must stand there for ten minutes before the song ends and that tiny bit of humanity that crept into the soldier’s eyes fades and he goes blank again. They want to applaud but think better of it, gently tugging him to his feet and guiding him back to the rendezvous point and don’t mention it to anyone.

Years later, the memory still weighs on them. Months after Winter comes back to them and they’ve formed a strange dysfunctional little family, Brock spots a piano in a second hand store and elbows Jack until he takes notice and smiles.

They leave it in the living room for when Winter comes home and when he sees it he stares silently and gives them a shy smile. It takes awhile for him to warm up to it, but soon the soldier plays for them every evening. Brock and Jack curl up on the couch and listen to their soldier play.

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Winter seems to have made it his personal mission to destroy Brock’s pride in the bedroom. With Jack, Brock typically resorts to growls and demands, half-hearted threats to get what he wants. But Winter is unaffected by such things and continues teasing until Brock breaks down and begs for more, for less, for fucking anything. He’s a goddamned menace and a gift and Brock cannot fucking handle it, threatening to shake apart under the soldier’s fingers and tongue and cock.

He holds on as long as he can, silently pleading with his pride to hang in there just a little bit longer, but Winter is a patient and persistent son of a bitch. He licks Brock open, fucking him with his tongue in a way that has Brock biting his lip until he bleeds to keep from keening because fuck he could come from just this if only Winter would let him. But of course he doesn’t; Brock hasn’t performed for him, so he cannot get what he wants. The tongue retreats and cool, slicked metal fingers take its place, stretching him further.

Brock shakes his head in attempt to clear the building arousal. Winter purposefully misses his sweet spot and he whines in his throat at the almost-brushes of his fingertips. Jack watches from the corner of the bed, cigarette between his lips, and Brock wants to bite him for how goddamned nonchalant he looks. He just winks in response and tells Brock to be a good boy for them, to open his mouth and beg like a good dog. Brock wants to snarl but Winter chooses that moment to reward him with a firm stroke of his prostate and sweet press of lips to the head of his cock and what was meant to be a threat comes out a shaky moan. Jack smirks again and Brock loses focus.

The slow touches are tortuous and soon enough Pride takes a backseat to Need. As much as Brock tries to sound tough, he knows he’s pleading as he begs Winter to put his cock in him. “I’ll be good ok please please fill me up. Come on baby, stick your cock in me.” He shudders and arches against the bonds holding him still. “I’ll make it so good for you just please give it to me.” Nothing matters but the awful gnawing emptiness that screams for Winter’s cock to fill.

Just when it seems like the soldier is going to ignore his pleas and continue teasing, Winter glances over at Jack, who gives him an affirmative nod. Brock sobs with relief when the soldier slicks up his cock and finally finally slides home.

Chapter Text

Brock finds a note in his pocket one day when leaves for a long mission. “Be safe please.” It almost looks like Jack’s handwriting, but the p is different, and Jack is more the type to threaten him into being cautious more than leave him a note. He spends the mission with a warmth in his chest that nothing can keep down and when he comes home, he wraps himself around Winter and doesn’t let him go.

Jack opens his crock pot to find a note for him as well, in an almost-familiar scratch of Brock’s handwriting. “Thank you, you’re wonderful.” The y’s are neater than Brock’s, and anyway the former STRIKE commander is horrible with anything resembling sentiment. Jack gives Winter an extra portion of food and plays with his hair for most of the evening in gratitude.

They keep finding little notes everywhere. “I love you” “I’m lucky to have you” and the like. It’s always in the other’s almost-perfect handwriting. It’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for either of them. It’s even better that the soldier thinks he’s tricking them into thinking it’s the other one leaving them notes.

Brock and Jack get together and write hundred of notes for Winter. Instead of hiding them, they lay them out on the bed and wait for him to come home. They make him sit with them and read them all. “You are our hearts.” “You complete us.” “We love you.” And Winter’s eyes are a little wet by the time they’ve finished.

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Whenever Winter feels threatened he hides in the cupboard under the sink. On the rare occasions that Jack and Brock fight, the tension in the house sends him scurrying for his cupboard. When visits with Captain Rogers don’t go as well as Winter wants, he climbs beneath the sink and stays there until morning. Jack is very good at dealing with this. Brock is not.
It isn’t often that Brock is left alone with Winter. For all that he was great with Liv when he was younger, with Hazel and Clara now, Jack just has a fucking gift for their soldier. Jack is quieter and gentler than he is, and always seems to know instinctively what cognitive level Winter is functioning on in the moment. So Brock loves Winter but more often than not, they frustrate one another and wind up in their respective “safe places,” Brock in the garage and Winter tucked up in the cabinet under the sink.

It’s how Jack finds them when he gets home. Brock is clinking around in the garage, fixing up a car he’s been working on for years and never finished, loud music playing, and Jack sighs. He leaves Brock to it, knowing what a stubborn mule his husband can be. 

Winter is soft and pliant under the sink, flinching a little when Jack opens the door although he knows they’d never lay a hand on him. He lets Jack lean in and pats his head, tilts into the touch with a quiet sound. 

“Do you want to come out?” He murmurs, and Winter shakes his head in response; he isn’t ready and Jack doesn’t push. “Do you want some milk?” It gets a nod and he retrieves a glass, pressing a kiss to the soldier’s hair as he hands it to him that grants him a quiet hum and a nuzzle before the glass disappears and the door clicks shut again.

Brock comes in a little later while Jack is preparing dinner, looking sheepish with his hands stuffed in his pockets and eyes on the floor. Jack doesn’t say anything, but shifts to the side, giving Brock an opening to help him chop vegetables. This is about as close to apologies as they get, but it works for them.

It takes longer for Winter to emerge. Dinner is almost ready and he peeks his head out, peering around the corner up at Brock and Jack elbows him hard enough to make him hiss. He’s been mixing brownie batter and he glances over at Winter and winces, cluing Jack in that whatever had happened had been Brock’s fault.  “You wanna lick the spoon?” The shorter soldier asks, holding up the chocolate-covered utensil like a peace offering. 

Winter doesn’t scramble, but slips slowly from his hiding place and takes the proffered spoon with a whispered “thanks” before taking his place at the table and running his tongue across the bowl of the spoon. Brock just nods in response and Jack rolls his eyes. His fucking boys.

Chapter Text

Jack doesn’t give a damn about sex but the look on Winter’s face as Brock pushes him toward yet another orgasm is intense. It’s like a higher level of existence, the way he whines, teeth clenched, body tensing rhythmically as he shakes and sweats to his twelfth orgasm. Jack can’t imagine the human body finding release twelve times without just coming apart and Winter looks like he’s about to shatter under Brock’s sure touches. The commander had brought him off with fingers, tongue, toys, and his own cock before returning to a particularly powerful vibrator, ripping chocked off gasps and moans from the soldier’s lips.

Winter is thrashing, begging for more, for less, for anything, whines morphing into a long keen as he finally reaches his peak. Seed drips sluggishly from his cock and Jack is mesmerized by his eagerly sobbing face. Brock keeps the toy insistently inside until pleasure edges too far into pain, when he eases it out and sets it aside. They take turns cleaning Winter up, as gently as they can, while he twitches and sobs between them, wiping him down and stroking his sweat-slicked skin, murmuring how good he is for them. He falls asleep, passes out more like, with Jack and Brock nuzzling into his hair.

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Brock is half asleep when Winter joins him in the bed, but instead of curling up in the middle like he usually does, he pushes Brock over and presses his chest up against Brock’s back, spooning him. Brock grunts sleepily and smacks at him with a gentle hand. “G’toff,” he slurs, “‘m the big spoon.” Brock on the short side for a man and he’s always asserted himself as the house’s Big Spoon, and he doesn’t like giving that up.

Winter just snorts and tightens his hold. “Yes dear,” he says placatingly, in the exact tone Jack adopts when he thinks Brock is being “ridiculous and adorable.” He even pats Brock’s head in with the patronizing strokes.

Brock hears Jack howl with laughter from the kitchen where the taller man is brushing his teeth. Brock quietly hopes he chokes on his toothbrush. When Jack emerges, wiping his mouth and grinning stupidly, Brock lazily flips him off.

Jack joins them in bed, leans over Brock to give Winter a minty kiss, and ruffles Brock’s hair in the same infuriating way. “You’re our big spoon,” he chuckles. Brock tells them both to fuck off, but doesn’t protest when they kiss him again and settle in to sleep.

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It never fails to amaze Brock how incredible Winter’s stamina is. It’s impressive, it’s… fucking overwhelming. Sometimes they need Jack to be there to calm Winter down when he gets in one of his moods, when he wants to fuck Brock on the wall, the floor, the bed, the shower; when nothing is enough to leave him sated and purring. But Jack isn’t home today. Winter doesn’t even seem to be in the mood to fuck Brock until he can’t move; he’s more interested, it seems, in seeing if la petite mort is literal and accurate.

It fucking is.

Brock is well on his way to losing his fucking mind. He’s never really been quiet in bed but christ the sounds Winter is pulling from him would make him blush on any other day. Winter had opened him up with fingers and tongue while he mewled and squirmed on the bed, desperate for something more substantial to fill him up. His wish had been granted, fucked rough and full of come until he had shouted his own release against the sheets. But Winter wasn’t even close to done with him.

The moment Brock had spilled Winter had ripped out of him, rough enough to make him yelp at the drag against his insides and pushed him onto his back. Winter had sucked him down and not moved his head until Brock was curling around him, fists in his hair, hips bucking up in desperation and the choked sound that escaped him was damned near a scream.

And now Brock is squirming weakly, voice all but gone, while Winter’s metal fingers, warmed from the furnace of his body, rub at his prostate with an intensity that sparks tears in his eyes, cool lips nipping lightly at the soft flesh of his inner thighs. It’s too much oh god it’s too much. Brock feels like he’s falling apart, the pleasure so intense it fucking hurts and if he had the strength he would be crawling away from the magnitude of it all. The next orgasm rips out of him accompanied by choking sobs. He comes dry in a way he didn’t think he could without a cock ring blocking him, and Winter doesn’t fucking stop.

Brock hits weakly at the soldier and his voice is more of a squeak than a growl as he pleads. “Stop Winter, please, fuck too much.” The pleasure has dissolved into nothing but a painful intensity and he whimpers on the bed until Winter obeys and draws his fingers out and Brock can breathe again.

Winter’s eyes are completely black with lust. He kneels over Brock and jerks his dick, an angry pulsating purple, with rough strokes until he’s coming with a growl. His warm seed splattering over Brock’s aching dick and puffy fucked-open hole is the last thing he takes in before the world goes black.

Brock wakes up in the dark. Winter has cleaned him up, wiped him down and loosely wrapped him in a blanket and is stroking his sweat-mussed hair. He’s aching, sore in places he didn’t know could feel pain, but there’s a heavy satisfaction thrumming through him that can’t be matched. When Winter realizes he’s awake, he presses a few firm, dry kisses to Brock’s hair and tells him he’s beautiful and good, and Brock manages a weak nuzzle before sleep reclaims him.

Chapter Text

Growing up with a baby sister and mostly absentee parents, and later on having two nieces who adore him, Brock Rumlow has gotten pretty good at navigating long hair. Sometimes on missions he would sit the Winter Soldier down in front of him and finger-comb the tangles out of his hair. The soldier would arch and lean into the touch of fingertips against his scalp, going limp and harmless as a purring kitten between Brock’s knees.

Brock doesn’t realize how much Winter missed that routine until a few months after they’ve gotten out and away from HYDRA and SHIELD and the problems of the world. He sits himself between Brock’s legs on the floor and leans back against his knees, practically shoving his head back into Brock’s lap and mewling a little.

Jack snorts and tosses a brush to Brock, leaning down to kiss the top of Winter’s head and promising it feels even better than fingers through his hair when the soldier looks at it skeptically. Winter actually moans when Brock drags the brush through his thick hair, arching his back into it. Brock continues long after the tangles are brushed out and Winter’s hair shines silky soft beneath his fingertips before he drags them both the bed.

He and Jack take turns stroking and massaging through Winter’s hair and down his spine until the soldier is pliant and snoring between them.

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Winter gets it in his mind that he should bake for Jack and Brock, since they’ve been taking such good care of him. He knows it doesn’t show all the time, but he’s very aware of the burden he can be, has been, and how wonderful and patient they are, putting up with him. So he wants to bake for them to show them how far he’s come and how much he loves them. He’s watched them cook before and although they don’t seem to have any recipe books that he can find, he’s sure it can’t be all that hard.

He’s wrong.

If asked to give a mission report, although those are a thing of the past, Winter is not sure he could describe exactly what happened. The mixer, he’s pretty sure, attacked him, spewing flour and sugar and baking soda, and in his flailing attempt to turn it off without breaking it, he had knocked a dozen eggs to the ground. Things get blurry after that but he winds up sitting on the floor in front of the sink, fighting the urge to crawl into the cabinet and hide because he knows that he will have to explain when they get home. There is milk and oil all over the counter and the floor, he’s covered in flour and egg yolks and hugging his knees, waiting for it to be the final straw, for Jack and Brock to give up and send him away.

Winter hears keys jangling in the doorway, warm laughter in the hall, and hunkers down. He knows when they’ve reached the kitchen when the footsteps stop and a “holy shit” is murmurs. He closes his eyes and only opens them when a warm body crouches next to his, arm sliding around him. He’s expecting Jack, whom Brock claims is better at the “mushy emotional shit” (Winter disagrees, but he would never say that) but Jack is starting to clean up and Brock is rubbing his arm gently and telling him he’s ok.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, trying to twist away so he doesn’t get Brock messy, who snorts and tightens his grip, pulling Winter so his head, matted with egg and sugar, is tucked into Brock’s shoulder. “I wanted to make something nice.” It comes out a whisper, and he sighs at the mess he’s made. This baking attempt feels so much like his life sometimes, trying so hard to do things right and fucking them up worse.

Brock gives him a long look, kisses his temple, and reaches out for the sole unbroken egg still on the floor. Winking at Winter, he aims and lobs the egg at Jack, who is starting to wipe down the counter. It smacks into the side of his face and shatters. Winter is frozen, Jack is frozen, Brock is grinning. The confused and irritated look on Jack’s face fades in seconds and he grabs the remaining sack of flour, walks over slowly and calmly, and upturns it over the two of them.

And then it’s on. The kitchen is a goddamned disaster and they are laughing breathlessly on the floor, looking more like baked goods themselves. The three of them exchange kisses, sugar sweet and a little oily, between giggles. Cleanup will be a bitch but it doesn’t matter; they’re content to nuzzle and kiss until the world ends and fuck messes. The oven dings. Winter forgot to turn it off. Laughter explodes across the kitchen.

Chapter Text

Jack is still sleeping when Winter rolls to face Brock, pawing at him with a quiet sound. Brock mumbles drowsily and tries to placate the soldier with a hand on his chest, but Winter gently knocks his hand away and reaches out, pressing the heel of his palm to Brock’s morning wood. When Brock hums and rocks into the pressure, Winter makes another sound, more insistent, and Brock opens his eyes to see the tent in Winter’s pants as well, his hips twitching. Oh.

Sparing a glance at the still-slumbering Jack, Brock tugs Winter to him until their bodies are flush against one another, chest-to-chest. He dips his hand beneath the waistband of the soldier’s sleep pants to wrap around his cock, and Winter’s eyelashes flutter as he sighs in pleasure, hips rolling into the touch. His hand finds its way into Brock’s pants and Brock hums when his fingers stroke along his own cock.

Winter tilts his head up, mouth parted, asking for a kiss, and Brock dips his head to oblige him in a languid kiss. Their hands move in unhurried strokes and pulls, hips rolling into one another’s grasp, muffling sighs and hums and gasps against one another’s mouths as they rock. The fire burns low in Brock’s belly, a sweet simmering heat that builds slowly, and he is shocked when Winter tenses and spills over his fist with a quiet whimper.

After his orgasm, a muted thing, Winter continues to pull on Brock’s dick until he shudders as well, muffling his low groan of completion into the soldier’s mouth. Beside them, Jack gives them a shove, having awoken sometime in the middle of their activities, and grumbles about having his sleep interrupted.

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Between the three of them, their immune systems are pretty strong, so when Jack falls ill, they’re not entirely sure how to handle it. When Brock’s nieces get sick, they cry and snuggle and beg for stories until the medicine kicks in and knocks them out. Jack is a big guy who doesn’t particularly like being coddled and a bit of a germaphobe so other than bringing him soup and medication, Brock leaves him alone until he gets better.

Something about Jack’s illness brings out the James Buchanan Barnes in Winter. While Brock stays away, Winter cuddles up to Jack and presses cool cloths against his face before disappearing to the store. He scoffs at the medications Brock has bought and comes home with vapor rub, quietly complaining about the price but pleased that it was so readily available, and sets about making something sweet-smelling in the kitchen. He brings Jack a hot drink of milk, sugar, and ginger, and holds Jack’s head up as he tilts it down his throat.

While Jack doesn’t like to be taken care of, the way Winter murmurs, “it’s ok Stevie, you’ll be fine in a few days,” his eyes glazed and far away, stops him from protesting. And Winter is theirs but it doesn’t stop him from murmuring, “Thanks, Buck.” He hates himself for playing into it but Winter’s, James’, responding smile makes it a little worth it and he resolves not to tell Brock and worry him further.

Winter’s home remedies work surprisingly well and Jack is back on his feet after a few days. He doesn’t mention Winter’s slip-up, but a week later, when it’s nearly forgotten, the soldier corners him in the kitchen one day while Brock is out.

“I used to take care of him,” he says quietly, eyes downcast, and Jack melts a little. He doesn’t like Steve Rogers, never really has, and it burns him to know that Rogers had such a history with their Winter. But he leans forward and kisses Winter’s hair, folding the shorter man into his arms.

“I’m glad you did, and I’m glad you took care of me. Thank you.” Steve Rogers may have a strong hold on James Barnes, but for now at least, Winter is still theirs.

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It’s well-known amongst the STRIKE team how terrible their captain’s taste in film is, and how large a crush on Captain America he had harboured growing up. Those two come together in his collection of truly horrendous Captain America-themed movies. It’s always been a source of amusement and teasing for them. Seeing Winter, clutching one of the tapes like a child clings to a security blanket, fingers tracing the face that’s not quite Steve’s, it’s not so funny anymore.

Jack is usually better with the emotional side of Winter’s recovery but it’s Brock who comes up behind him, stroking his hair hesitantly and laying his hands on the soldier’s shoulders. He’s picked up one of the better films, one that Jack can actually stand to sit through, and when Brock strokes down the soldier’s spine and asks if he wants to play it, Winter nods wordlessly. He puts the tape in himself, like he isn’t ready to let go of it yet, not even for Brock.

Jack very clearly doesn’t think this is a Good Idea and honestly Brock doesn’t either. But he can’t imagine saying no to Winter now, not about Steve and not with that look on the soldier’s face. They take their seats on the sofa, leaving a void for Winter to fill like he always does, but he’s kneeling in front of the television and doesn’t seem likely to move. When Jack calls out to him, asks if he wants to come sit with them, he doesn’t respond.

They don’t watch the movie. They watch Winter watch the movie and fall into his memories. He leans up on his knees when the camera closes in on Robert Redford’s face and touches the tv screen, making a wounded sound in his throat. Brock can’t take that anymore. When the film ends, he shuts it off and kneels with Winter. They’ve kept him from Steve mostly because he hasn’t asked to see him. They’ve kept him from Steve because they don’t know if they’ll get him back if he goes. It doesn’t feel like the right decision anymore.

Brock knows what Jack will say, knows he’s already opening his mouth in protest before Brock opens his to offer, but he doesn’t care. He asks Winter if he wants to see Steve again, and the way the soldier looks at him, so suddenly hopefully and so guilty for being hopeful, feels like a knife in his chest. Jack is shaking his head behind them, but Brock promises -and he never breaks his promises to Winter, not anymore- that in the morning, he’ll take him to see Steve. Winter throws himself at Brock in a hug that hurts as much as it feels good, and Brock holds on longer than usual like he’s afraid he won’t get another chance.

Winter doesn’t cuddle up to them that night and Jack is too frustrated to let Brock spoon around him. It feels like they’re already losing.

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Jack isn’t thinking when he licks chocolate from Winter’s metal fingers. The sharp “oh” Winter makes reminds him: the prosthetic arm is incredibly sensitive and even slight contact can give him a world of pleasure or pain. From the way his eyes have dilated until the blue is a barely visible ring, Jack would say he’s triggered a rush of pleasure for the soldier. He grins.

Wrapping his hand around the metal wrist, Jack traps Winter’s fingers against his mouth and draws them in. Winter gasps and presses his forehead into Jack’s shoulder as teeth gently scrape the metallic digits. When Jack starts suckling, he mewls and presses his hips against Jack’s thigh and rocks. He’s obviously hard and Jack grins around his mouthful and hums.

Winter keens as the vibrations go straight to his cock and send him over the edge. He sags against Jack, pants wet and sticky, whining as the man continues his assault on Winter’s fingers. He shakes with the aftereffects, squirming and whimpering as the tremors rock through him. Jack doesn’t let go until Winter’s legs nearly give out and he shouts. Jack just winks and kisses his fingertips lightly.

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Brock hates the cock ring as much as he loves it. It gives him the same rush of pleasured pain that he strives for in his everyday life and god the look of unbridled arousal on Winter’s face when they bring it out is just unreal, but it when he’s lying there, fucked out and striving to come, orgasm just out of reach, it’s the best worst thing in the world.

Winter runs his tongue over the thick head of Brock’s dick, humming appreciatively as he does so and Brock groans, head falling back as the vibrations travel up his cock. He’s pretty fucking sure he’d have come twice if that damned ring wasn’t tied tight around his base. Winter has already fucked him open and he can feel seed sliding down his thigh, a fucking tease of a reminder that his Winter has come and he is still just on the cusp of it.

Sweat drips down Brock’s ribs and Winter draws the entirety of his cock into his throat. Brock can feel the soldier’s tongue over the metal ring, warmed by his body heat, and he thrashes, hands flying to Winter’s head in a desperate attempt to keep him there. Behind them, Jack clicks his tongue in disappointment and Brock reluctantly removes his hands; if he can’t control himself, they’ll tie him down. He settles for growling desperately and panting, mouth hanging open.

Winter pulls away from and frowns wagging a finger in his face. Brock clenches his teeth to keep from biting him. He's close to begging, fine tremors running down his body and it takes everything in him not to open his mouth and sob for mercy. And while the Winter Soldier isn’t known for being merciful, their Winter is not as cruel; he takes Brock’s dick in hand and jerks him, twisting his fist just the way Brock likes and suddenly the tension in his belly releases and his vision whites out.

When Brock can see again, his cock is still hard and throbbing insistently in its ring and Winter and Jack are staring, mouths hanging open. It takes him a moment to realize that he just experienced a dry orgasm, something he’d heard of but never witnessed and suddenly his mouth is being ravished by Winter’s who whines against his lips, his own erection renewed watching Brock come. He slides inside, lube dried enough that the friction is fucking intense but not painful, and Brock howls as he releases the metal ring and finally allows Brock his relief.

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Brock is pretty sure he could get off just from bringing Winter pleasure. It’s incredible the way he whines and squirms when Brock touches him is amazing. He’s tonguing the slit of the soldier’s cock and pressing a thick vibrator inside him while Winter thrashes and keens. He himself rocks back against the plug stretching him open while he works on the soldier. It’s intense, both the anticipation that he will be next and the hot pride in him to be leaving Winter writhing on his tongue.

Pressing the vibrator against the soldier’s sweet spot and taking him as deep into his throat as he can, Brock groans as Winter positively howls and spills down his throat. He chokes a little, more out of practice than he’d like to admit, but swallows as well as he can. And then Winter’s eyes are flashing and he’s flipping them over before Brock even realizes he’s moved. It’s fucking thrilling.

Winter lightly taps the plug, knocking it against Brock’s prostate until he’s shaking and ready to threaten the soldier into fucking him. Winter’s mouth closes over the head of his cock and Brock fists his hands in the long hair, tugging the soldier closer and moaning. He’s too close already from being on edge while fucking Winter himself. When Winter gives the plug a hard smack, Brock gives a hoarse shout and loses himself.

From the glow in the soldier’s eyes and the way he’s crawling over Brock, erection revived and dripping, Brock knows it’s his turn again.

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Winter’s first meeting with Steve since the helicarrier crash does not go well. Brock and Jack try not to be glad. Well, Brock tries not to be glad. Jack doesn’t bother to hide his sigh of relief when Winter comes tearing around the corner where they’ve spent the last two hours waiting in their car while their soldier talked to Steve.

Winter is near tears when he curls up in the backseat and while he lets Brock reach back and stroke his hair, he won’t tell them what happened. Brock supposes it doesn’t matter. Winter is back with them and not with Steve and god that has to be a sign.

They put Winter to bed, kiss him and tuck him in and he’s out in minutes from the stress of the day, before retiring to the couch to share a beer. Jack says I told you so like Brock knew he would, that he’s fucking glad Winter came back to them and no he doesn’t give a fuck if Steve Rogers got his heart broken in the process. Brock wants to argue, because he really got to know Steve during their time on STRIKE and the shit with HYDRA and Insight really wasn’t personal, because he’s listened to Steve talk about Bucky and it made him think about how he felt about Jack and how much it would hurt if their places were exchanged. But if he’s honest, he can’t imagine his life if Winter left them, even if it was to go to Steve, where he knows their soldier belongs.

So he stays quiet and lets Jack have his joy, nurses his own quiet relief in the beer they’re passing between them, and it’s long hours before they join the soldier in bed, but when they go, they cling to him a little too much, so close to losing him that neither can stand the thought.

Steve Rogers is a good man, but Winter is theirs, their family, and they just can’t let him go just yet. So for now they take just a little bit of joy in his heartbreak, if it means their little family can stay intact just that much longer.

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Brock is a physical kind of guy. The idea of being stuck as a desk jockey kills him and frankly he’d rather be in fucking construction than in an office. Even as STRIKE team captain, he’d been forced to fill out paperwork and would have preferred to be back in the line of fire. But with his picture and deeds plastered all over the net thanks to a certain bitch of a Russian assassin, he couldn’t even get work as a mercenary without putting the rest of them in danger, and without HYDRA or SHIELD to pay the bills, he was forced to fall back on whatever he could get. And what he could get, was some goddamned office job sitting behind a desk. It is fucking mindless and two weeks into it he is ready to blow his brains out or turn himself in to the good Captain America for the slightest chance of being used in the field again after some torture and reprogramming. Luckily, Winter gets it into his head to spice up Brock’s workday with a little fun.

He shows up toward the end of Brock’s lunch hour with his own brand of dessert. The office door gets shut, blinds pulled, and Winter perches himself on the edge of Brock’s desk, hands fisted in the suffocating button-down shirt, and tugs Brock against him to trade rough kisses that leave both of their mouths swollen and red. As the lunch hour ends and Brock tries to usher him out so he can get back to work, Winter takes it a step further when he winks and slides beneath the desk. Brock’s got nothing against the adrenaline rush that comes with risky sex and the threat of getting caught pounding in his veins, but he needs this fucking job. It’s only surprise that halts his hands from pushing Winter away as the soldier’s mouth finds the zipper of his stuffy dress pants and tugs it down with his teeth. Suddenly this is very real and very arousing.

Brock bites his fist as Winter’s mouth closes over the head of his cock, coaxing it into hardness with sweet little licks across the velvet tip, trying to keep back the low groan that wants to escape. It’s fucking exhilarating, hips moving in muted little thrusts as Winter suckles steadily. And then his fucking door opens and his boss walks in.

Jerking up, Brock scoots as close to the desk as he can to hide his lunchtime visitor. He expects the soldier to stop, but as soon as Brock’s oblivious boss starts chatting, asking how he likes to place and how he hopes Brock is settling in nicely, Winter takes him to the root, swallowing thickly around his mouthful, and Brock stops talking mid-word and almost groans aloud. He doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation, nods hurriedly until his boss just fucking leaves. As soon as the door clicks shut, Brock shoves away from the desk and aims a gentle kick at the occupant beneath. “Not fucking cool!” He hisses, but Winter just chuckles and chases after him to finish him off.

Brock comes with a rasping growl, and kisses the smirk from the soldier’s lips before he kicks him out of the office.

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Brock and Jack enjoy several things that Winter does not understand. The snow, for example, although he has learned to like it, and most recently, fires. Fires, to him, are as dangerous as they are helpful in that they keep you warm in the cold but also allow you to be discovered more easily. But Jack and Brock have neither the need to keep warm nor the fear of discovery and here they are, sitting around a fire in upstate New York, chatting and grinning and more at ease than Winter has seen them in months.

There’s a perfectly good kitchen inside, but they insist on cooking hotdogs on metal sticks over the fire and although there is no grill, Brock has donned an apron emblazoned with the words GRILL SERGEANT, which Winter is sure is humorous even if he doesn’t understand exactly why. The mostly charred hotdog, while visually unappealing, brings a flash of a ferris wheel and a grinning blond slip of a boy when he bites into it and he instantly loves it. Eyes closed in bliss and memory, he doesn’t realize Brock and Jack are grinning at him until he finishes eating. They hand him another and he takes it with a smile.

After the hotdogs, Brock and Jack bicker playfully about another fireside treat and how to prepare it properly. Winter watches them put thick white marshmallows on sticks and hold them over the flame. Brock, ever the perfectionist, slowly toasts his until it is a pretty golden brown all the way around and swears when he an edge turns black. Jack, less patient and more eager, sticks his directly into the fire until it is soot-black and flaming. They cram the sugary mess between chocolate and graham crackers and make somewhat obscene sounds when they bite into them and Winter wonders how something can taste that good.

He tries both ways, patiently toasting the marshmallow over the flame first, smiling a little when Brock complains his doesn’t have a hint of black when he finally sandwiches the perfectly toasted sweet between the crackers. The sugary taste that explodes over his tongue makes him shudder and he understands why Brock and Jack made such noises. It coats his fingers and he tries to use his teeth to scrape the marshmallow carcass from his fingertips to no avail. Allowing the second treat to burn gives him a strange sense of satisfaction. He likes the heavy charred taste and crunch it offers, but the hot melted mess squishes out from the cracker and smears across his face. He scrunches his nose and tries to lick it away, but only succeeds in exacerbating the issue.

Brock and Jack lean in to “help” him, trading sugary kisses until they are all a sticky mess and Jack is forced to retreat to the house for a wet cloth, scrubbing them clean like children before they attract insects. Winter settles himself between, warm in the parts of him he thought would remain cold and empty forever, and isn’t sure if it’s the fire or the company that chases away the cold.

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Jack wakes up with a shout, blood pounding in his ears and heart racing. Winter is already awake and watching him with concern, Brock doesn’t stir until Jack sits up, pulling away from the warm touch of Brock’s chest against his back. As Brock sits up drowsily, still rubbing his eyes, and slides an arm around Jack’s shoulders, mumbling groggily and asking what is wrong. But Brock is too close and Winter is still watching him and the room feels tight and hot and Jack pushes Brock’s arm off and stumbles from the bed, from the room, ignoring the the call of his name as he goes.

Escaping to the kitchen, Jack turns on the faucet and splashes his face, then dunks his head under the stream so the cool water slides through his hair and down the back of his neck. Cupping his hands to take a drink, he closes his eyes and tries to shake the effects of the dream, the blood on his hands, the dead eyes of Brock staring up at him, Captain America’s triumphant and glorious smile as he took Winter away, as Winter went willingly. His eyes burn and he hisses at himself and slams his hands into the countertop when the vision just won’t fade.

A cold metal hand creeps under his shirt, soothing as much as it is startling and he jumps. Winter watches him with the same concerned eyes, and Jack is sure Brock is waiting around the corner, having promised to leave Winter to comfort Jack but unable to stay in the bedroom. Winter opens the door to the cupboard under the sink and motions, offering up his safe place for Jack if he truly needs comfort, and Jack can’t help the shaky laugh he makes, pulling the soldier close and kissing his nose. He thanks his Winter and tells him he’s all right, and then bends to let Winter press a soft kiss to his own nose.

Brock is waiting when they climb back into bed. Jack settles in the middle, surrounded by his boys, and no more nightmares are to be had.

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Even Jack can’t coax Winter out of the cupboard. They aren’t sure what happened to put them there, but he’s curled up under the sink and making wounded sounds. They try making his favourite desserts, waving brownies and cookies outside the cupboard doors to tempt him the scent, Jack offers him milk and kisses and a hot bath, but hours go by and under he stays.

Brock and Jack fret and argue in loud whispers about what to do. Jack always tells them to wait until Winter is ready to come out on his own, but it’s never taken this long and he’s never sounded so upset before. Brock wishes the cupboard was large enough for them all to fit under so they could at least offer Winter some comfort, but honestly he’s never understood how the soldier manages to fit in it by himself.

As an older brother and the Best Uncle Ever according to his nieces, Brock remembers something that used to comfort his girls when they were younger. He takes Winter’s blanket from their bed and tosses it in the dryer while Jack watches skeptically. Once it’s heated, he knocks lightly on the cupboard’s door, offering up the toasty blanket. It’s promptly snatched from his hand and the door slammed closed again, but at least Winter is getting some comfort, even if it’s not from them.

Out of ideas, Brock and Jack resign themselves to going to bed. Somehow it feels emptier with just the two of them and sleep does not come easily. Somewhere around four in the morning Brock wakes to Winter standing over them, bundled in the blanket like a small child. He prods Brock insistently until he drags himself out of bed and reheats the blanket. Winter sits on the dryer until it buzzes and lets Brock wrap him up and kiss his nose.

Winter follows him back to bed, where Jack is awake and awaiting them. He looks like he wants to ask what prompted the hideaway, but Brock shakes his head the moment he opens his mouth and he closes it again. Winter crawls between and settles himself in, still bundled up. From the lump of fabric they hear Winter’s muffled voice, “Steve didn’t want me to come home,” and their hearts stop. There’s a long silence before he continues, “I love Steve, but you’re my home.”

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It’s Jack’s idea to take Winter to the museum. They know he’s been there before, that he brought back brochures and made them explain some of what they meant. How could he, an assassin, a doll with a gun, be considered a hero? They never know what to tell him. It’s hard to explain that he didn’t have a choice without strongly implicating themselves and the large part they played in his torture. James Barnes was a good man in World War II, and Winter is a good man now. The thing he was in between doesn’t matter.

Jack doesn’t like Winter going alone. Steve Rogers is too much of a temptation. If he finds Winter while he’s alone and vulnerable, looking at this man he used to be, it will be too easy for him to talk Winter home with him, force him to be Bucky Barnes again. Brock worries Winter won’t want to come back to them, Jack worries Steve will accidentally break him. So they take Winter’s hand and risk being seen, faces and misdeeds plastered across the web thanks to Natasha fucking Romanov, and take their love to see who he was.

In the end, they’re glad they came. It hurts to watch Winter’s face as he reaches out and strokes the images of Steve Rogers, the way his head jerks when he hears the voices, his own voice but lighter and happier and nothing like how he speaks now, in the recordings. It hurts because it hurts him, and it hurts because even when they loved Winter, they never thought of who he was before he was theirs, and seeing now weighs heavily in their souls.

But even when the recordings tell them about the evils of HYDRA, Winter doesn’t let go of their hands. He leans back against their chests when the foreign emotions swirling within him are too much and lets them hold him and kiss his hair. They stand in the exhibit for hours and watch Winter find himself, afraid he’ll find too much and let them go. But he never does.

Winter lets Brock and Jack take him home. Brock hesitates, opens and closes his mouth for several minutes before he asks if Winter would prefer to be called the name on the exhibit walls. Winter can’t ever be Bucky, might someday be James, but for now… For now he still feels like Winter. He tells them as much and doesn’t miss the sigh of relief that rocks through them.

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Jack curls his fingers down and Winter howls, thrashing beneath the onslaught of pleasure. Of course he could get away if he wanted to, but this is a sweet torture and he bares his throat, teeth clenched as another thick stream of pearly fluid drips down his cock.

Brock watches, slack-jawed and unblinking, from his place against the headboard. He has his hand resting in the center of Winter’s chest, grounding him as the soldier sobs and twitches. Jack grins at the two of them. Usually he is content to be the one watching, but there is a sharp kind of power in turning one of his boys into a weeping mass of pleasure.

There are a lot of things Winter doesn’t know about sex, about anything but war and death and pain really, and Jack loves bringing this kind of torment to him, circling his prostate and pressing hard enough to make him keen. It’s not like an orgasm, intense but less satisfying, and Jack nips the soldier’s thighs with flutters of apologetic kisses.

But Winter’s been so good for him and he’s already a mess of tears and sweet and come, and Jack is a merciful lover. He curls the knuckles of his free hand over the tight stretch of skin of Winter’s perineum, rubbing the soldier’s prostate from inside and out, and the soldier positively shrieks as he finally finds his release, back arched and mouth open in a wordless cry.

He shatters so beautifully that Jack almost wishes he could have dragged it out longer. Oh well, there’s always next time.

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Bringing Jack home to meet Liv and the girls was the biggest step Brock’s ever taken; bringing Winter home is so much more than that. He’s never been ashamed of his sexual preferences and while he’s pretty sure Liv knows, they’ve never talked about it. Explaining that he’s in love with his asexual best friend is easier than explaining a homosexual trinogamous relationship with said best friend and the former asset/assassin whose rap sheet has since been dumped across the internet.

Winter is more awkward and nervous than they’ve ever seen him, but Liv has more grace and tact than anyone else in Brock’s family and takes it all in stride. She gives him a hug and a kiss on the cheek and mouths ‘cute’ over his shoulder at Brock, who flushes and rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment while Jack snickers behind them before accepting his own hug and kiss.

The girls take a liking to Winter immediately. They tell him they like his arm, but otherwise don’t mention it and when he sits down they ask permission before climbing into his lap. He sits still and lets them use him as a jungle gym before settling against his chest. They don’t move the entire time while Ty grills, and ignore their mother’s firm suggestion that they get into their own seats and leave the nice man alone to eat. Winter doesn’t seem to mind in the least; he smiles more than Jack and Brock have seen in a long time and by the time they’ve finished eating he’s comfortable enough to press a hesitant kiss to each of their heads.

At some point while Jack and Brock are chatting with Ty and Liv, they realize Winter and the girls have disappeared. Brock can’t help the sharp stab of fear that builds in his chest; he trusts Winter, loves him, but he’s been unpredictable before and Clara and Hazel are his girls he can’t imagine something happening to them because he wasn’t paying attention. So while Liv tells him they’re probably fine and not to worry, he excuses himself to look for them.

The house is full of giggles when he enters and he follows them up the stairs to the girls’ room. His heart warms when he peaks inside. Winter has been dragged into a tea party, something Brock is very familiar with. The soldier is wearing a tiara and Brock is pretty sure those are pretty princess stickers adorning his metal arm. He and Hazel are sharing a spot of tea between them and a stuffed unicorn Brock bought them years ago named Periwinkle, while Clara, standing behind him, gently brushes out his hair. Winter seems to be having a very serious conversation with the unicorn and Hazel nods solemnly; Brock catches snippets of it and from what he understands, Periwinkle ate too many cookies without sharing and needs a firm scolding. Brock snaps a few pictures before creeping back down the stairs.

Bringing Winter home to meet his family was a big step, but it was definitely the right one.

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People are going to think Brock is either the best fucking lay in town or in an abusive relationship. Winter, whose skin bruises for a day and goes back to pale and pink and perfect, is obsessed with leaving lasting claims across Brock’s throat and shoulders and thighs. As soon as the bruises start to go green, Winter drags him back to the bedroom to freshen them up.

Brock has never enjoyed being owned this much before, but when Winter stakes his claim he wears his spots with pride, like a tiger earning his stripes. And Winter takes such pride in it. He decorates Brock’s thighs and chest with sharp bites and sucks dark marks into his throat with a patience that leaves his skin aching and sore and so fucking satisfied.

When Winter was still the Soldier and Brock was still HYDRA, his tendencies to leave evidence of their fucking was a problem, something Brock had to turn into a story about a rough drunken barfly who had dragged him home and had her way with him so their superiors didn’t find out.

But now there is no such problem and Brock comes home with a grin, tugging at the collar of his shirt to reveal slowly fading bruises. There is a hunger in Winter’s gaze when he sees the marred skin and he growls when he attaches his mouth to Brock’s throat to darken it again.

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Brock has never been much of a singer. He’s not tone deaf like Jack, who has been banned from turning on the radio on long drives, but other than quick little ditties for his sister and nieces to get them to sleep for him, he’s not particularly musical guy.

Steve Rogers, it appears, was.

Winter has a nightmare while Jack is off in Oklahoma visiting his parents. Brock strokes the soldier’s hair and rubs down his back in an attempt to soothe him, but he seems to be still caught in the dream like a spider’s web and nothing can shake it. They wind up with Brock sitting up against the headboard with Winter’s head in his lap while the soldier whimpers quietly and claws loosely at his thighs.

It’s not a HYDRA nightmare, Brock can tell, from the way he reacts. When Winter dreams of his missions, of the chair, he wakes screaming and needs to be alone for awhile; when he dreams of his past, of the time before the ice when he was James Buchanan Barnes, he goes stiff in his sleep and whines quietly and he craves a touch when he awakes -it’s just not always his and Jack’s touch he’s yearning for.

It burns Brock that he’s not enough, that he can’t be what Winter needs in moments like these. The guilt he has denied his entire time working beneath HYDRA sits heavy in his gut on these nights, knowing who Winter wants, who he needs, is aching so desperately as well, and knowing he is keeping them from one another.

Winter is still trembling finely in Brock’s lap, eyes unfocussed, and he rubs his face against Brock’s knee. “Sing me to sleep, Stevie,” he mumbles, still so far away, back in Brooklyn, with the person he loves, and Brock flinches.

So although he isn’t a great singer and he’s never had an audience beyond his sister and the girls, he threads his fingers through Winter’s, James’ hair, and sings him to sleep.

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Jack is the only one in their little family who can hold his liquor like a man. Brock is a handsy drunk and a complete lightweight. Two shots and he’s in someone’s lap and mouthing at their neck. They buy him an octopus and name it Two Beers to tease him and he takes all in stride; it’s true enough. They know that Steve’s serum makes him invulnerable to alcohol, but whoever gave Winter his version must have fucked up somewhere. Half a shot of a good liquor and he’s goes sombre and silent, finds a corner to sit in and stares into space.

The first time they gave the Winter a few beers after a mission well-done, a stupid risk they hadn’t thought about in their excitement, but instead of become belligerent or violent or running off, he had retreated into himself, brooding for a few hours until he was dragged to bed.

It’s not been a great day. Any day where Steve Rogers is involved is rough for their family. Winter is always torn between his resurfacing memories of his love for his best friend and his conviction that he is too tainted to be around him. Jack and Brock end up arguing over whether it is right for them to want to keep Winter to themselves, if it’s worth the pain their soldier suffers when he sees his old friend or if they should give him up to Steve for his own good. Any day they see Steve Rogers is a day they open the liquor cabinet.

A few shots later, Winter goes quiet, head down, and they know he’s thinking about Steve and how unworthy he is. Brock, not being one to let him stew in his insecurity, climbs into his lap and holds him close until he coaxes a smile from the soldier’s lips. He nuzzles Winter like an overeager puppy and plants sloppy kisses along his collar until he’s squirming and giggling and they curl up together in a warm drunken haze.

Jack just shakes his head at his lightweight boys, covers them with a blanket when they finally doze off.

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Winter gives a low hum of pleasure as Jack wipes the cloth over his shoulders, rubbing him clean in gentle circles. Making a sleepy noise, he presses into the steady touch and Jack chuckles, pressing a kiss to his still-dry hair as he lathers the soldier up. It’s not that Winter can’t do these things himself, it’s just that it feels so nice to take care of someone, to be taken care of, that they both find solace in it.

Filling a bucket, Jack prompts Winter to tilt his head back so that he can wet his hair, tipping the water over the thick dark strands. Winter gives a little moan as Jack starts to soap up his hair. He digs his fingers against the soldier’s scalp and rubs firmly until Winter is going limp beneath his touch, arching back into it. Although Winter’s hair is lathered up, Jack continues the massage just to hear the soft mewls the soldier makes beneath his fingertips.

Still unused to kind touches, although Jack and Brock try to dote on him as much as they can, Winter’s sweet sounds of happiness turn to something darker and lower. Jack can’t help but ache a little even around his grin that such a gentle touch is so foreign to him that he gets this much pleasure from it. Reaching around, he wraps his hand around the soldier’s growing erection and Winter yelps a little and arches into his gentle grip.

Bath water sloshes over the edge of the tub as Winter thrusts his hips into Jack’s hand and it’s not long until he’s gasping and writhing in the water, spilling into the tub with a sharp cry. Jack smiles and tilts the soldier’s head back to pepper his face with kisses. “Looks like you need another bath, sugarpuff,” he says with a smirk, and Winter flushes hotly and squirms.

Jack kisses him again, leaning over him to pull the plug and drain the water out. As soon as the tub is empty, he starts to refill it with warm water so he can finish cleaning up his soldier.

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Jack is shot on a mission. Brock and Winter aren’t informed until he’s already patched up and on his way home. They pace and twitch in the hall as they wait. It can’t be too serious if he’s released before they can even get there, but it doesn’t keep them from worrying.

Jack is limping when he finally crosses the threshold of the apartment, waving off their concern as they rush him. When asked about his wound his neck gets curiously red. “It’s my…back…area. Near there. Back-ish.” Brock gets it instantly. It’s not funny exactly, but he has to bite back a laugh of relief that his partner was struck in the ass instead of the thigh or the spine. He catches the look Jack shoots him at the bitten off sound and immediately quiets.

Winter doesn’t seem to understand as readily. He’s still frowning in concern and looking like he wants to look Jack over himself and determine how well he’s doing. His face changes when Jack produces a blue inflatable ring from his bag, like ones Brock has seen pregnant women use, and set it between him and the chair, easing tenderly down. Winter snorts, and Brock has to twist away, fist going to his mouth to keep from laughing aloud again. It’s when the ring hisses beneath Jack’s weight that Winter loses his composure, a rough and creaky laugh, like a rusty pulley, groaning up from his chest.

And that sets Brock off. He has to lean against the counter, tears coming to his eyes, howling in laughter. Jack flips them both off and storms (waddles) off to the bedroom and slams the door. “You’re both sleeping on the fucking couch.” He snaps, although there’s a grudging hint of embarrassed amusement in the undertone of his voice; anything that gets Winter to laugh is worth it.

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Jack wakes up feeling warm and loved, Brock wrapped around him like the octopus he is. He knows exactly what is pressed against his ass and hums lowly, pushing back into Brock’s hips, grinding his ass into the morning erection. He’s not interested in sex, but it’s fun to tease and torment his partner.

Brock wakes up with a groan at the friction, mumbles a sleepy apology, and starts to roll away. Jack reaches a hand back and drags Brock back by the hip. Twisting, he presses a slow kiss to Brock’s lips and parts his thighs encouragingly. Brock had once divulged in a story from his early years in HYDRA involving allowing the Winter Soldier to fuck his thighs and how fucking intense it had been. And he’s fucked Brock with toys, occasionally with his fingers, and jerked him off before. He’s not averse to such things, more neutral, but he likes bringing Brock pleasure and knowing it was all him to do it.

So even though Brock opens his mouth to protest, immediately telling him he doesn’t have to, like he always does when Jack offers or instigates something remotely sexual, in a way that almost borders on offensive, like he thinks Jack can’t make his own decisions, even if that isn’t his intention, he only kisses Brock again and pushes back insistently. He wants this, he tells Brock, wants to make him come, and Brock groans in gives in.

Brock’s cock is slick in no time, pushing between Jack’s thickly-muscled thighs. It’s a strange sensation, not unpleasant exactly, but he can’t imagine anyone getting off from it any more than he can imagine someone getting off from fucking or being fucked. He tries gently squeezing his thighs together, rocking back in time with Brock’s thrusts and his captain makes a strangled sound in his throat he’s never heard before.

It’s over a lot sooner than Jack expected. He suspects Brock must have a Thing for thighs, because a few thrusts more, wet open-mouthed kisses panted against his back and shoulders and Brock is gipping his hips hard enough to bruise and groaning his way to completion. Jack takes it as a compliment and makes a mental note to add more thigh exercises to his workout routine.

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Brock and Jack come home to find Winter sitting at the kitchen table, arms folded and expression dark. They wonder what has gone wrong, a nightmare, a flashback, a bad visit with Steve, to make him look like that, and move immediately to comfort him. He shies away from their touch and gazes at them reproachfully and when he opens his mouth they understand why he’s acting this way.

“I remember what you did to me.”

They take their seats across the table; it’s a conversation they’ve been anticipating, fearing, and now that it’s here nothing comes out right. There is no excuse. Brock fell into HYDRA because he was tired of burying his men, tired of watching kids sent home in boxes or not at all and it had all sounded so fucking good, getting rid of threats before they fucked you up. It wasn’t freedom but if fear was what it took for the world to be better, for his sister and his nieces, for fucking everyone, then so be it. And Jack.. God Jack had followed for Brock and no other reason.

But he had stood by while they broke Winter down and remade him again, over and over, and had never raised a hand. Any kindness he showed afterwards, washing the soldier’s hair, kissing the top of his head, and giving him tastes of real food, paled in the light of everything else. He and Jack had tempted the soldier to bed when there was no way for him to consent; they had raped him, even if he had come to desire it, because he lacked the capacity to want it. And there was no fucking defense for that. They didn’t even try.

They love him, more than anything, and they tell him that, bleeding apologies and love until they disappear into silence when they garner no response. Winter soaks in the words and remains quiet while he processes it all. He loves Brock and Jack and the betrayal fills him with an emptiness he hasn’t felt since his last time in the chair. They let him be held under the ice and tortured. They attacked Steve Rogers, let him attack Steve Rogers, and even now their hesitance to allow him to be with his forgotten best friend grates at him like the electricity screaming across his brain. He knows they love him but it fucking hurts and he needs to get out.

“I need time.” He speaks quietly and rises and they don’t stop him.

Winter-James-Bucky-who is he? stays out for hours. He comes back, drained and aching, to find Jack and Brock in the same places at the table, shaking with anticipation of what he will say, what he will do.

“You don’t deserve forgiveness.” They have the decency not to flinch. “But I forgive you anyway.” They breathe a sigh of relief and he holds up a hand. He’s not done. “I can’t stay here.” He looks away, down at his hands before he gathers his resolve and mets their gaze. “I need to get out. I need to be with Steve.” And there’s nothing they can do but nod.

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Jack and Brock talk Winter into spend one more week with them while he arranges things with Steve. It’s strained. He doesn’t take the couch like they expect, but there’s more space between them in bed and he doesn’t press into their touch when they try to hold him. They stop trying. Brock takes to clinging to Jack and Jack clings right back, while they try to imagine a void without Winter. And then their week is up and it’s time to take Winter to his new home. His old home.

And it’s the right thing to do, it’s what Winter wants and if anyone on this planet deserves to get what he wants, it’s their Winter, but the car ride to Steve’s is one of the hardest things they’ve ever done. Jack drives with one hand, the other squeezing Brock’s, thumb running over his knuckles to soothe him, while Winter sits in the back, face pressed to window and thrumming with an excitement that burns in Brock’s gut. He’s so fucking happy to be leaving them.

Steve is right there waiting, Winter’s stuff already delivered and set up in his apartment. Brock doesn’t know how to say goodbye. Winter gets shy when they step out of the car, reaching for Brock’s hand and clinging to it and Brock wants to soak it in; God knows when they’ll see him again.

Steve lets them take their time, lets Winter press into Jack and Brock’s touch for the first time in a week, tilting their foreheads together, and even looks politely away when he presses his lips to their mouths in a goodbye. And then he’s finding his strength and letting go of Brock’s hand, stepping toward Steve and his new life and a rift is opening in Brock’s chest. His hand stays outstretched, hanging in the air for a few seconds until Jack grabs it and squeezes it tight.

Steve hangs back once he gets Winter -Bucky, now- inside and Jack tenses, thinking he’s going to renege on their deal and arrest them, but he just steps up, hands on their shoulders and thanks them for taking such good care of his friend. Brock nearly bites through his lip and Steve seems to melt a little, like he understands how hard it is to give up someone as amazing as James Barnes. He doesn’t make them hang around to drag it out.

On the drive home, Brock presses against Jack as much as he can, desperately soaking in the comfort. He loves Jack, but it’s not the same without Winter between them. They’ll make do, they have to, but it feels like they’re leaving their heart behind.