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The Sexual Education of Steve Rogers

Chapter Text

Steve has finally managed to put Natasha on the mat, and he’s fairly proud of that; she’s awful slippery and he’s not great with this new chess-master hand-to-hand quasi-gymnastics stuff. He really prefers the old ‘hit them in the face until they don’t get back up again’ school of fighting, but Coulson has been adamant and Natasha has been more than game to lay him out flat on his ass twice a week, so he’s been keeping with it even if it does hurt his pride, and now he’s actually managed to put her down. He’s pleased with himself, even if he knows it’s only for a moment, and he braces up, because usually this is about the time when she decides to cold-cock him just for spite. He can take it, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

There’s no keeping her in a hold, so he hardly even tries anymore, but he makes a token grab at her anyway, throwing himself off balance in the process. She just writhes out of his grip, all effortless balance and grace, and as she slides out from beneath him, her hip lightly grazes against his crotch. There’s a moment of perfect friction, and suddenly he’s all too aware of how Natasha smells, the way her chest rises as she breathes; his vision narrows like he’s just been blindsided. It’s only a moment before muscle memory kicks in, and already his body is trying to get him back on his feet. He focuses on the lingering ache in his knee from where she took him down hard earlier and tries to shake it off, but it’s like there’s no air in the room, and he’s not entirely sure which way is up. He ends up just sitting there, half-stunned and feeling stupid.

Natasha stretches, working a sore muscle in her arm, and grabs her water bottle, but when he doesn’t get up straight away, she drops back down beside him, “Are you alright?” She tilts her head back as she drinks, the tendon along the side of her throat in sharp relief against sweat-slick skin, and he can’t quite look away as she swallows.

He looks away just as she catches him staring, tries to stare at the mat, but he just gets stuck on the flash of skin at her ankle, the zipper there left undone, silver split wide along the curve of her calf, pulled tight against her skin. “I, uh, yeah,” he hears himself, but he’s still caught in that zipper, the way it drags and catches as she shifts.

“Are you sure?”

“I, um. Sorry,” he shakes himself out of it, “It’s not personal.”

Natasha just stares at him blankly, and he realizes maybe that wasn’t actually the best thing to say.

“I…” he coughs, clearing his throat, “It isn’t that I don’t find you attractive… I just…”

Natasha lets him choke for a moment before she finally smirks, “It’s alright.”

He manages some approximation of a laugh and grabs his towel, wipes the sweat from the back of his neck, playing for time, looking for a way to brush this off, so they can just pretend she caught him off guard, winded him, and go on beating the ever-loving hell out of one another like it’s just any other Thursday afternoon. Or, well, Natasha can go on beating the ever-loving hell out of him, and he can keep learning to dodge the hard way. He’s come to accept that.

Natasha doesn’t say a word, and he’s intensely aware of how she’s watching him; even though he trusts her well enough, knows she’s on his side, he also knows she’s cataloguing every breath and twitch, reading him like an open book. The way she tilts her head and almost smiles, it would be comforting from anyone else, but from Natasha it just makes him feel like an insect under glass, and while it’s not an entirely novel sensation, what with all the poking and prodding the Army and now SHIELD has put him through, it’s still enough to make him wish he could just disappear, sink into the mat and never be seen again.

He sighs, “Well, they did say it would enhance everything,” and here he manages a casual shrug, throws his towel over his shoulder, “I just didn’t think they meant, you know, everything.” He stares off into the distance, absently reading a note taped to the gym door, “It’s just hard to take the edge off, alone.”

The sheen of her jumpsuit in the harsh gym lighting brings out all the strong lines of her body, and he can just see her out of the corner of his eye as she slides closer, putting a hand on his shoulder, “Easier to just be so tired, you don’t care,” and her voice is surprisingly kind.

It’s harder than he thought it would be to actually admit it, but she knows every tell he has, and he just nods. It’s not dignified, talking about things like this with teammates, and he really wishes he were a bit more clever. All he wants to do is make some excuse and slink off to his bunk, hide until next week or next year. All that effort he put into studiously ignoring the supple curve of her waist, the sinuous lines of muscle as she stretches, that satisfied little huff she makes every single time she lays him out, as if it never gets boring, never ceases to be satisfying — it’s all for nothing, now. He’s so caught up in imagining what she must think about him that when she rests her hand on his shoulder he startles hard enough to make her draw back, but only long enough to move closer, to squeeze his arm, slide her hand down his side, fingertips grazing bare skin where his shirt has ridden up.

His first instinct is to bolt and just apologize profusely later, but despite his best intentions, he finds he’s still just sitting there. She leans in close, whispering something, he knows he should be listening, but the way her voice has dropped to a low growl, the way her breath feels against his throat, all warm vowels and cool, sharp consonants, and he finds himself letting her pull him close, and he doesn’t catch a word of what she says. He’s still strung taut as a wire, but she somehow gentles him into leaning his head against her shoulder, shifting into her touch, and all the while she keeps whispering, fingers slipping beneath his waistband, stroking his skin, and her hands are so warm, so soft.

She leans her head against his, a stray curl falling into his face as she slips her hand beneath his waistband, and it’s impossible not to notice the soft rise of her breast, the long, gentle slope of her neck, the hollow of her collarbone, pale skin dappled with sweat. He rubs his face against her shoulder, feeling the slick slide of spandex against his cheek, breathing her in; shampoo and clean sweat, the lingering musk of well-worn leather and the sharp tang of gunpowder, that faint sweet note he’s never quite been able to place as perfume or just Natasha.

She palms his cock, and he just barely stifles a moan, melting into her touch even as his body near screams with need. Her hands are small and delicate, but so incredibly strong; when she squeezes at him, dragging her thumb across the tip of his cock, smearing that wetness between her fingers, he can hardly stand it. He shifts and pushes into her grip, and she strokes him, slow and confident, letting him lead the pace. There’s nothing hurried in her touch, but she clearly doesn’t intend to keep him wanting long, and if he let himself think about it, if he could manage to think about anything but her hand on his cock, he might feel almost pathetically grateful. He closes his eyes, focusing on sensation, giving himself over to it, and her breathing quickens as he tenses, a soft sound of want at the back of her throat. As he spills into her hand he thinks he almost hears her purr with satisfaction, and then just like that, it’s all over, so fast and easy he would be ashamed of himself if he weren’t entirely convinced this was a pity jerk.

Natasha leans over, reaching for her towel, but she lets him stay where he is while she wipes her hands, waits for him to catch his breath and put himself back together before she shifts and stands, stretching, acting for all the world like she hasn’t just made him come in his suit. She picks up her water bottle, takes a long, deep drink, and looks back over her shoulder, “So, Tuesday, yeah?”

Tuesdays and Thursdays, 2PM; Steve’s got it written down in his calendar, ‘Get Ass Beat by Natasha.’

“Yeah,” he says, “Sure.”

She smiles and walks off, throwing her towel over her shoulder as she goes. He has absolutely no idea what to make of what’s just happened, and since it’s Natasha, he thinks it might be best to not even try.

Chapter Text

It’s when Clint knocks on his door a few nights later, looking a little out of place and seeming like he’s trying awfully hard to be casual, that Steve starts to wonder. He peers around the door, and on seeing Steve isn’t particularly busy, just invites himself in.

It’s not that he minds the interruption, he was only reading, stretched out in his bed with the radio on, like most nights, but people don’t normally drop by so late, and, well, Clint never drops by. He quickly decides he’s going to politely ignore the fact that Clint’s girlfriend jerked him off the other day, at least for the time being, and at the back of his mind he’s rather desperately hoping Natasha hasn’t mentioned it, because he really does not want to be involved in some bullshit rivalry over, well, not quite nothing, but close enough that he doesn’t want to fight anyone over it. “Something the matter, Barton?”

Clint closes the door behind him, “Tasha said you might need some company,” and he smiles that easy, idiotic smile.

Well, that wasn’t the response Steve was expecting, not by a country mile. He dog-ears his page and sets his book aside slowly, giving himself time to consider whether this is some sort of elaborate, cruel prank, when Clint says, “Look, I’m probably not your type, and you’re not really mine,” Steve actually doesn’t take offense at that, because it’s true, “But I can…” Clint shrugs, “Well, I can still get you off.”

Steve’s patience is running ever so slightly thin, and he shifts, drawing his leg up, trying for all the world to make what he says next sound like it’s not a threat, “If this is a joke, you should leave.”

When Clint doesn’t move, Steve looks him dead in the eye, “Now.”

Clint just gives him that look, the one that’s pretty close to the look Tony gives him when he’s about to roll his eyes and use small words, the look everyone gets when they’ve decided they need to explain something obvious to Captain Mothballs-for-Brains, “I can leave if you want me to…” Clint sits down at the foot of the bed, “It’s no big deal, though,” and gives him a sympathetic half-smile, “Look,” he says, “I haven’t always been the upstanding citizen you see before you,” and he almost laughs, as if he’s remembering some private joke, “Let’s just say you wouldn’t be the first guy I’ve, well, serviced.”

That last word sinks in slowly, and even if Steve isn’t entirely on board with the idea, his body has definitely figured out that this is an actual possibility, and it is very keen indeed. Mostly he adores this body, loves the strong, lean lines of it, knows its strengths and limits down to the raw, bleeding edge, but every now and again, he really, really hates it, and this is definitely one of those latter moments. He shifts a little uncomfortably; somehow this is considerably more awkward than making arrangements with a professional, or at least, well, a professional he doesn’t work with on a regular basis. He’s not exactly sure where anything stands right now, and even though he’s already decided to grab his checkbook regardless of the number Clint throws out, he’s wondering if it’s bad etiquette to negotiate.

Still, he clears his throat, trying to sound at least slightly unruffled, “Price?”

Clint actually laughs then, and Steve seriously starts considering whether or not the team can function down one archer if he has to break someone’s smirking face, but Clint just shakes his head, “Not like that.” He sounds almost apologetic, “I mean, buy me lunch if you have to or something, but…”

This is, well, not the most surprising night he’s had since he’s woken up, but it’s certainly ranking in the top ten, and when Clint just slides up beside him and settles in, and Steve finds himself letting him, finds himself closing his eyes as Clint pushes him onto his side, sighing as Clint spoons up behind him, he starts thinking it’s going to end somewhere in the top five.

It’s obvious that Clint isn’t hard, but he doesn’t seem too deterred by that fact; he’s already dragging Steve’s sweatpants down, squeezing at his ass with a sort of genuine enthusiasm, and Steve just gives in, because it’s been far too long since someone’s touched him like this, since he’s felt strong, rough hands against his skin. Clint traces his fingers down the back of Steve’s leg, slowly sliding his hand back up along the inside of his thigh, and when Steve moans softly, shifting into that touch, Clint asks, “Want me to finger you?”

Steve isn’t entirely sure what to say, and all of this, frankly, is so far beyond the realm of what he’s prepared to deal with that he just reaches under his pillow for the lube and passes it to Clint, hoping he’s not being, well, rude. There’s a moment of cold, unrelenting inevitability as he hears Clint flick open the cap, that awful moment where the floor drops out from beneath him, and he knows that if he doesn’t call everything off right now, it’s going to spiral out of control and then he’ll have… Well, he’s not quite sure what the word is for this sort of thing, but he’ll have done it with two of his teammates, and he’s seriously considering backing out, telling Clint he should just leave and forget everything, but then he feels Clint’s fingers, slick and warm against him, and there’s just nothing doing for it.

Steve arches back, taking him so easy Clint gasps a little, but he’s on his game, and he slips in a second finger as he twists his hand, pulling out slowly before pushing in again. Clint’s hands are hard, scarred and probably broken far too many times, and at the back of his mind Steve is genuinely worried about how long those hands are going to hold out, about whether the team really can function down one archer, but right now all he can think about is the rough ridges of those knuckles as he takes them in, the friction of callused fingertips against sensitive skin.

Clint leans against him, pushing deeper as he reaches around to take him in hand. Steve’s breath catches in his throat as he feels that long, gnarled scar across Clint’s palm, the one that runs the length of his wrist, coated glossy slick with lube; it’s not the sort of thing Steve would have ever thought about as sexual, but the extra sensation, the strangeness and wrongness of it, it’s going to be the end of him. He wonders what it feels like for Clint, wonders if it’s hot or sharp or just numb, wonders if it still hurts and how he got it, and he’s almost considering asking when Clint crooks his fingers, pressing gently. Steve has just enough self-awareness left to bury his face in his pillow as he moans, just enough self control that he doesn’t arch too desperately against Clint’s hand.

Clint makes it last, dragging it out until Steve is shuddering, gasping against the pillow, hands knotted in the sheets, sweatpants kicked down around his ankles so he can spread his legs further. If he had the words, he would be begging for it, begging for anything, babbling nonsense and pillow talk between desperate, pleading moans. Clint keeps him at that edge of madness for what feels like an eternity, and just when he thinks he can’t bear it anymore, Clint pushes him over, stroking him as he spills into his sheets, finishing him slow and easy, leaving him so spent he feels like he’s floating; all that tension, his constant companion, seeming like a distant memory.

Steve is vaguely aware of Clint shifting behind him, sliding out of bed, and when Clint comes back with a warm washcloth, Steve just lets him do what he wants. By the time he’s come even moderately back to his senses, Clint has him back into his sweatpants, draped with the clean half of the sheet. It’s probably breaking some sort of unwritten rule, but as Clint leans down to switch the lamp off, Steve reaches out, catches his hand, mumbling, “…thank you.”

Chapter Text

On Tuesday, Natasha doesn’t quite bother to hide her satisfied smirk, and Steve figures there’s nothing to be ashamed of, not really, so he smiles bashfully, and he sort of enjoys it when Natasha lays him out flat, actually manages to knock the breath from him. He doesn’t ask, and she doesn’t offer, so he figures it was all just a one-time thing, and he’s fine with that; it was nice, but it’s probably better this way. Just when he’s sort of started to get over that small, if rather piercing disappointment, Natasha pauses by the door and glances back at him, “Leave your door unlocked tonight, hmm?”

Steve swallows his surprise and nods.

It’s a long night he spends waiting, and a longer morning when the dawn finds him still alone. He bucks up, quietly muttering to himself about bootstraps, sets his jaw and heads for the gym. He’s beaten his way through half a dozen sandbags, beaten his knuckles bloody and aching before he feels like he can cope with the day, and when he finally heads to the showers, he still hasn’t decided whether he’s pissed off or just relieved.

He’s lost in his thoughts, and doesn’t notice Bruce lingering in the locker room, doesn’t mark it when that small, quiet man, who is so very unassuming, who seems so very unthreatening, follows him into the showers. It’s only when he starts unwrapping his hands, dropping the mess of gauze and tape on the bench, and Bruce makes a pained sound, that Steve finally realizes he isn’t alone.

Bruce is frowning, looking at Steve’s hands, “That looks like it hurts.”

Steve manages not to glare at him, but only just, “Nothing I can’t ice later.” He starts stripping out of his uniform, and he’s moving a little more slowly now that the soreness and fatigue has begun to creep in, concentrating on just not tearing the spandex off in frustration. It’s a bad habit that he doesn’t really want to start.

He doesn’t think much of it when Bruce starts to unbutton his own shirt, folds it cleanly and drapes it across the bench before sitting down to unlace his shoes, because it isn’t the first time they’ve been in the showers at the same time; Bruce loves to swim in the mornings, and they’re often crossing paths, Steve on his way out, fresh and starting his day, Bruce on his way in, tired and stiff after a long night in the lab.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says, turning on the shower next to the one Steve has claimed, and when Steve just looks at him blankly, wondering what on earth he might be sorry about, Bruce smiles, but it's almost a flinch, “About last night, I mean. I’m sorry.”

Steve is looking at him now, really looking at him, and he’s just noticed that Bruce isn’t bothering to lather up, hasn’t even really gotten wet, but there’s a fine sheen of water beading across his skin, bringing lean muscles into sharp relief, and it takes everything Steve’s got to look up before he glances further down.

Bruce half-shrugs, “I lost track of time. I meant to be there, I really did. I just…” He glances away, “I forgot.”

Steve has to give him credit for honesty. ‘I forgot’ wouldn’t be all that convincing, except that Steve has more than once carried on half a conversation with the man before he’s realized that Bruce hasn’t even noticed he’s in the room yet, much less heard a word he’s said, and somehow it seems entirely plausible that Bruce would forget about something like this. He clears his throat, pays a little more attention to his soap and water, “It’s not a problem.”

Bruce sidles a little closer, “I wanted to be there,” and he rests his hand on Steve’s shoulder, “I want to be here.”

Steve takes a deep breath and rinses the soap from his face, slicks his hair back. His tendency to stare at his feet when he has to say something he doesn’t really want to say, that tendency not even years onstage could break, for once it serves him well, because when he looks down, intending to put Bruce off, he can’t help but notice the little tremble in Bruce’s free hand, can’t help but see how hard Bruce is, and his breath catches in his throat. Bruce shifts, and before he’s had a chance to reconsider, Steve pulls him close, dragging him into the water, leaning down just enough to rest his head in the curve of Bruce’s shoulder, and Bruce settles into his arms so naturally, so readily, that after everything else, Steve thinks maybe he’s actually dead, and this is just the light at the end of that tunnel before everything ends; the greatest hits of what might have been.

Bruce slips out of Steve’s grasp, kneeling down, and Steve shudders, threading his fingers through sticky-wet curls, closing his eyes as memories of Bucky and Howard and a few too many USO boys in showers and dressing rooms flood across his skin. It was good, being Captain America. It’s still good, apparently, being Captain America.

Bruce moans softly as he takes Steve in his mouth, and between the hot water and the heat of Bruce’s mouth, Steve actually has to brace up against the tile, lean his head against his arm while he tries to remember how to breathe again. Bruce doesn’t seem to need his hands; he’s gripping Steve’s thigh, almost absently tracing his thumb along the tendon in the hollow of his hip, holding himself in balance with his free hand. Steve wants to bend down a little, put Bruce in a more comfortable position, but he’s afraid if he moves his knees will buckle, so he makes due with steadying Bruce, holding his shoulder, and he feels a little less selfish when Bruce relaxes ever so slightly, leaning into his grip.

Bruce breathes a soft, pleased sigh as he swallows against Steve’s cock, and Steve actually can’t remember the last time someone sucked his cock, much less like this; the way Bruce is devouring every inch of him, completely heedless of the water streaming into his mouth, splashing across his face and into his eyes, it’s famine. Bruce is like a man come in from the wasteland, licking at him, nuzzling against his crotch, moaning quietly and straining for more. Steve’s favorite aphrodisiac has always been desire, to be wanted, needed, and if he didn’t know better, he would swear he was the one doing Bruce a favor.

Bruce doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, doesn’t pause for breath or give Steve a moment’s respite, and soon Steve is gasping with every stroke, biting his lip and straining just to keep from falling apart, and when Bruce shifts, grabbing Steve’s hips, pulling him close, making him fuck his mouth, he can hardly take it. He braces up, holding his breath for just long enough to give Bruce the time and the space to pull back, but Bruce just moans, opening his mouth wider and swallowing him to the hilt. Steve chokes, clutching at Bruce’s hair, coming so hard his vision goes a little dark around the edges, seed and tension both spilling down Bruce’s throat, leaving him spent and whimpering. He staggers back, leaning against the wall, breathing open-mouthed, watching as Bruce wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, runs his fingers through his hair. It’s maybe the most amazing thing he’s ever seen.

Bruce shifts, getting his balance to stand, and Steve notices then that Bruce is still achingly hard, still as needful as he feels like he’s ever been. He feels bad for having forgotten, and he closes that distance between them, even though his head is still spinning, and takes Bruce in his arms, sliding his hand down along taut muscles, fingertips brushing against that hardness.

Bruce catches his wrist, shuddering with obvious lust, but his voice is unnervingly even as he says, “I’d rather not.”

Steve draws back, a little stung, but Bruce shakes his head, “It’s not…” he takes a deep breath, like he’s considering trying to explain, “Well, never mind.” Steve would swear in that moment that Bruce could see right through him, could see through the suit and the name and the bluff, could see straight through to that kid in Brooklyn who just wouldn’t learn when to quit, and it catches him completely off guard when Bruce says, “Maybe we can… do that again sometime.”

Steve makes a sound like he’s just been given the keys to a candy store, and nods, trying to think of something to say other than, ‘yes please,’ but Bruce just smiles, wipes the water from his face, and nods. Steve spends the rest of his shower, and really the rest of the day wondering what he’s done to deserve living in the same world as people like Bruce and Natasha and Clint.

Chapter Text

A little over a week later when Steve staggers in, tired from a very long couple of days putting down a minor insurgency in some country that didn’t even exist back in his day, all he really wants is a shower and a nice long snooze, but what he finds when he finally makes it to his room is nothing less than a feast, food and wine laid out on every available surface. He pauses for a moment, taking it all in, turns on his heel and goes to find Natasha.

She pleads ignorance, but isn’t even pretending to hide the fact that she’s lying, and when he leans against the doorway, quietly refusing to leave, ready to wait her out, eventually she stifles a laugh and says, “They do things a little differently in Asgard.”

Steve really, really wishes he had something clever to say, but Natasha just laughs and laughs.

The next day he comes back from the gym to find a set of golden vambraces laid across his pillow, stars and stripes etched into the metal, which isn’t gold, and isn’t steel, or anything else he’s ever seen for that matter, because when, on a whim, he decides to see if he can bend one of them out of shape, he finds he can’t even manage to dent it.

On the third morning, when he comes back to a room filled with flowers and honeycomb, sweets and cakes on silver plates, and bowls of fruit that glistens like fresh-fallen dew, he finally manages to catch Thor in a neutral space; the kitchen, actually, and in the gentlest possible way he can think of, he asks Thor to stop turning his room into a suite more suitable for a bacchanal than a bachelor. It’s only slightly awkward, all things considered.

Thor gazes into the middle distance, looking ridiculously heroic even in jeans and a teeshirt, and frowns slightly, “I assumed it was practice to court a lover no matter the circumstance.”

That throws Steve a bit, and he can’t even believe what he’s saying, but he says it anyway, “I think it more accurately might called a hook-up, these days?”

Thor levels that gaze on him and suddenly Steve remembers he is actually in the presence of, well, a demigod at least, “Casual encounters are not uncommon on my world,” Thor says, as if explaining to a child, “but one treats a lover with respect nonetheless.”

Steve has the sense he’s actually managed to offend Thor, and he ducks his head, rubbing at the back of his neck, “Well… um… thank you,” he looks up at him, smiling a little awkwardly, “It’s not really necessary, though?” Thor doesn’t say anything, and so Steve just keeps talking, saying the first thing that comes to mind, another tendency he’s never quite managed to quash, “I uh, consider myself adequately courted?”

Thor smiles at that and nods, seeming somehow larger, prideful with perceived victory, and for just a brief moment, Steve has some little sense of what his own perfect, knock ‘em dead stage smile used to do to people. It’s heady, to say the least, and his mouth goes dry at the way Thor seems to almost glow from within. He’s not entirely sure how he never noticed that before, except that maybe he was devoting rather a lot of energy to not looking.

Thor lowers his voice, “Will you join me tomorrow evening?” but even in a whisper his voice carries, and Steve doesn’t miss the way Bruce cocks an eyebrow before pointedly licking his finger and turning the page of his most recent scientific journal, looking as intent as possible with his concentration completely broken.

Steve nods, and Thor claps him on the shoulder with genuine affection before nodding again, and going off to do whatever it is demigods do in their spare time. Steve still hasn’t quite figured that out yet, but he knows Thor doesn’t actually need to sleep more than, well, once or twice in a blue moon, and he doesn’t seem to have any regular obligations on Asgard, so he’s starting to wonder. Apparently though, part of his time lately has been spent acquiring exotic flowers and otherworldly vambraces. Steve shrugs. Everyone needs a hobby.

Bruce has started flipping through his journal, trying to seem busy, and Steve makes as nonchalant of a beeline as he can manage, leaning over the couch, half-looking over Bruce’s shoulder, trying to seem like he’s just there to make idle conversation.

Bruce mercifully spares him the effort, “So. Thor,” he nods approvingly and flips to another page.

Steve clears his throat, “You, um, you don’t mind, do you?”

Bruce shrugs, frowning a little, “Should I?”

Steve is pretty sure this is how a deer caught in headlights feels, but then Bruce looks up at him and smiles, chuckling softly, “No, I don’t mind. We agreed to…” he gestures a bit, looking for the right words, “take turns.”

Steve isn’t surprised, but no, actually he’s pretty surprised, and he ends up parroting those last two words, “Take turns?”

Bruce nods as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, “We decided it was best if, for the time being, you had a little…” he shrugs again, “variety, and, well, we didn’t want to put you in the position of feeling like you’d been railroaded into a relationship. There’s a schedule,” he mentions, almost as casually as if he were talking about the weather, “I’m up again next week,” he smiles, “and I promise not to forget this time.”

There are a great many words in that statement that Steve is still trying to wrap his head around, but what he settles on is, “We?”

Bruce has actually started reading his journal again, something has caught his attention in the few moments it took Steve to manage to make words, and Bruce sort of half-mumbles, “Well, we are a team, aren’t we?”

It all seems so reasonable, somehow.

Steve wanders back to his room, half-questioning his own sanity, and when he opens his door, instantly reeling with the almost overwhelming scent of flowers, which he had, somehow, managed to forget about in the brief time he was away, he just shakes his head, deciding that if he’s going to live in a madhouse, he might as well do as the madmen do.

He falls asleep that night in sheets that smell of orchids and roses and some flower he’s not sure he ever seen before, dreaming hazy dreams of violence and thunder.

When hakes up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, thrusting desperately against his sheets, clutching his pillow like a lover, he laughs and wonders aloud if maybe romance isn’t dead after all. He strokes himself into an easy orgasm, slow and gentle, letting his pleasure build until he shudders with every stroke, covering his mouth with his free hand, eyes shut tight, thinking about the way Thor looked at him that morning.

He slips back into sleep still touching himself, and this time he sleeps more deeply than he has since he woke up listening to the radio broadcast of a ballgame he’d attended decades earlier.

Chapter Text

Thor meets him at the door to his quarters, and Steve finds himself staring not so much at Thor, but at his room. It’s probably nothing compared to Asgard, but what Tony has managed to do with mere mortal instruments is impressive, to say the least. Everything is built to a slightly larger scale, making even the furniture feel imposing and appropriately grand.

Surrounded with gilt and furs, backed by lush tapestries and embroidered pennants, Thor looks struck from some romantic painting, but more importantly, he seems at home. The demigod usually has an affable and gentle manner, but there’s an easy grace to his movements in this room that Steve isn’t sure he’s ever seen before; that careful restraint seems forgotten, and Steve can sympathize. There aren’t many places where he actually lets himself relax, either.

“Be welcome here,” Thor says, with a sweeping gesture, and closes the door behind him, “Will you sit with me beside the fire?”

Steve is marginally nonplussed that Thor has a fireplace when he basically has a barracks room, but then he considers how ridiculous he would feel with his own fireplace, and it strikes him, not for the first time, that Tony somehow knows them all better than they know themselves. That has always made him slightly uncomfortable, especially when Tony uses it to his advantage, but right now it just feels reassuring, knowing that somewhere out in the world there’s a very strange, entitled, difficult man who somehow has managed to become the glue that holds them all together… and somehow, against all odds, that togetherness has lead to this.

Thor offers him a cup that seems to be carved from horn of some sort, pours golden wine from a pitcher for them both. Thor raises his cup, and Steve returns the gesture. The wine is sweet, but not cloying, with a crispness that smells vaguely of apples and dry summer grass. It tastes like nothing he’s ever had before, but it’s delicious, and he has another sip, “What is this?”

“It is honey wine from my father’s hall,” Thor almost preens, “Idunn’s harvest was most bountiful last year.” He settles on a cushion by the fire, and motions for Steve to join him. “Ordinarily, I would not offer it to mortals, but you are more than just a man.”

Steve can see why Idunn’s wine might be a bit more than most could handle, he’s barely touched it and already his head is ever so slightly fizzy. He has another sip, “Actually it’s rather nice.”

Thor reaches for the pitcher and tops up Steve’s cup, “Then you must have your fill.”

They sit like that, drinking and watching the fire as it slowly burns low, occasionally chatting about nothing, but mostly just enjoying the warmth and one another’s quiet company for long enough that Steve finds himself more than a little tipsy. Thor has stretched out, propped himself up with a pillow, and Steve leans against him, resting his head on his shoulder, enjoying the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the low rumble of his voice when he speaks. There’s a certain quiet companionable feeling between them that Steve hasn’t felt in ages, and he isn’t keen to let it go.

Thor notices him absently stroking the pale grey fur beside them, and reaches to pull it closer, “It is an amarok,” Thor says, and Steve looks at the fur, wondering what sort of creature that might be, but for some reason it seems like it would be rude to ask. “I took it in my fiftieth year,” Thor continues, tracing his fingers along a stained tear in the fur, “I have made greater kills, taken many more magnificent trophies since,” he says, smiling, “but I have always been most proud of this.”

Thor sets the fur aside and reaches to caress Steve’s face, “You are no trophy, though, and I do not wish to offend,” searching his eyes for the answer to some question he doesn’t want to ask, and not seeming to find it, glances away for a moment, ”Would you be willing to receive me?” It takes Steve a moment to figure out what Thor actually means, and Thor seems to find the silence uncomfortable, continuing, almost as if to fill the space he feels between them, “I know I have asked your favor…”

Once Steve actually clocks it, though, he smiles, interrupting him, “Of course,” and when Thor looks about to protest, he closes his hand over Thor’s, “I enjoy it.”

Thor strokes his thumb along Steve’s cheekbone, an inscrutable look in his eyes, something between confusion and admiration, but as soon as that look comes it’s gone, and he pulls Steve close, catching him in a languorous kiss. The taste of sweet wine still clings to his tongue, and Steve closes his eyes, letting himself be drawn deeper into that kiss, sighing against Thor’s mouth and licking at his tongue. His head is swimming, and he’s certain it’s not just the wine. Thor lays him down on the furs, and he lets himself be undressed, a slight shiver at the sudden chill, quickly quelled by Thor’s warm hands against his skin, fingertips tracing his ribs, sliding down his hip, traipsing teasingly across his groin before pulling away. He feels content, but more than that, he feels safe, and he hadn’t realized how much he has missed that. It’s almost like coming home.

He hears a rustling, and opens his eyes to see Thor stripped to the waist and unbuttoning his jeans. His cock is perfection made flesh, smooth and shaped as if by a master’s hand, flushed deep pink, hard and so very thick. Steve’s mouth floods with desire at the sight of it, and he reaches for Thor, pulling him close, dragging him down, making him settle atop him. Thor is solid muscle and Steve revels in that weight against his chest. It’s almost novel, feeling smaller than someone else, and when Thor shifts, trying to make him more comfortable, Steve just catches him in another kiss, determined not to let him move.

When Thor finally pulls back, they’re both short of breath, both flushed and aching, and Thor leans over towards the fire, reaching for a small glass bottle. He pours the oil onto his fingers, and Steve shifts onto his side, drawing his leg up, settling against the pillows. Thor settles in behind him, stroking him slowly, teasing at him. Steve can feel that hard length against the back of his thigh each time Thor shifts, and it makes for marvelous anticipation as he closes his eyes, relaxing into Thor’s touch, body opening up so easily, so readily; there’s no effort to it, no tension left to melt away between the wine and the warmth of the fire and Thor’s gentle glow.

Thor makes a soft, pleased sound, “You are well ready,” he leans down, breath warm against Steve’s neck, “but we are not stealing pleasure from the night, and I would have you aching for me.”

Steve moans into the pillow, tangling his fingers in soft fur as Thor pushes his fingers deeper, twisting his hand, sending a jolt of pleasure tingling straight up Steve’s spine. He keeps a steady pace, working him just hard enough that Steve can never quite relax, can never quite catch his breath, and that pleasure builds like a flood, sweeping through him until he finds himself shuddering into an orgasm, spilling across the furs as a roaring, blissful release washes over him. It’s all he can do to breathe, mouth open against the fur, body slack and shuddering, and he moans with loss as Thor withdraws his fingers.

Steve isn’t sure how he does it, but he manages to catch Thor’s wrist, he feels so wrecked, even that is a challenge, but the last thing he wants is for Thor to stop, “No… I…”

“I do not wish to overwhelm you,” Thor whispers.

“…exactly what I want.”

Thor strokes Steve’s hair, hand lingering at the back of his neck as he settles behind him, pressing close. Steve leans into his embrace, letting himself be cradled in those strong arms, and he reaches down, slipping Thor’s cock between his thighs. He arches back, enjoying the smooth slide of Thor’s cock against skin still slick with oil, teasing them both, arching so that the tip of Thor’s cock almost slips inside him, reveling in the feeling as Thor tenses up, breath going thready with anticipation. Steve is just about to arch back properly, just about split himself on that magnificent cock when Thor catches his hip, holding him still. Thor pushes into him so slowly that Steve moans and knots his fist in the furs, desperate and straining against Thor’s grip, whining with frustration. By the time he bottoms out, Steve is trembling, whimpering with need, “Oh… God.”

“…yes,” Thor’s voice is a low purr.

Steve laughs, though it’s more of a halting gasp, “Pretty…” he still can’t quite catch his breath, “Pretty sure God doesn’t dress like…” His thoughts trail off into an aching moan as Thor pushes still deeper, and Steve arches against him, shuddering.

Thor chuckles, sliding his hand down Steve’s hip, fingers grazing his cock, “Perhaps,” he whispers, “though you will note I am wearing nothing at the moment.”

Thor palms his cock, stroking him slowly as he fucks him, and Steve moans, grinding his hips back against Thor’s, completely overwhelmed and still wanting more. There’s a fine sheen of sweat slicking their skin, leaving a chill as it cools in the night air, and Steve reaches back to pull Thor closer, wanting to feel his warmth again. Steve almost melts into his arms, and Thor clutches him tighter, bracing his arm across Steve’s chest, holding him in place.

Thor moans softly, a deep rumbling that Steve can almost feel in his own chest, and gently shifts him so that he can settle to rest atop him once more. Thor slips his arm beneath Steve’s hips then, pulling him back, and something about the angle makes Steve shudder, makes his toes curl when Thor arches against him. A few slow strokes and Steve can hear himself mumbling about what he wants and how he wants it, but all he can concentrate on is the slow grind of Thor’s cock inside him, and the way the furs stick to his sweat-slick skin, the way Thor’s hair brushes against his face when he dips his head to listen, the low rumble of Thor’s soft moan. That alone is almost more than he can take.

Thor shifts, kneeling and pushing Steve’s legs apart, pulling him up onto his knees as he fucks him hard, every thrust making him moan and cry out, straining and grasping for purchase, fingers knotted in long fur. When he feels like he can hardly stand it anymore, when he feels like there’s hardly enough air in the room, when he’s gasping with every breath, Thor squeezes at his aching cock; his hand is still vaguely sticky with oil, and so very, very warm. Steve hears himself whine, feels himself buck against Thor’s hand, and it’s as if time stops for the space of a breath. Thor shivers to feel him come, moaning softly with him, and works him through it, gently, slowly.

Steve can feel Thor’s cock throb within him, and Thor takes a deep breath, tenses up as if to pull away, but Steve reaches back to grab Thor’s hip, digging his fingers into muscle, holding him close, making him stay. Thor drops his head against Steve’s shoulder, gasping, straining against his own pleasure, but Steve locks his leg around his knee and arches against his hips, clenching down around him, shuddering and overwhelmed. Thor moans, anguished with orgasm, spilling into him, clutching at him, gasping for breath, and Steve trembles as that warmth flows into him, seeming to seep through his body, suffusing him with a feeling he can only describe as light, until it feels as if even his skin glows with it. He revels in it, breathing slow, letting it linger.

“Forgive me,” Thor whispers, voice low with regret, “I did not intend to sully you so.”

Steve threads his fingers through Thor’s hair, “I will forgive you,” he says, as he shifts so he can see his face, look into those clear blue eyes, “…but only if you do it again.”

Thor smiles, and a faint blush blooms around his cheeks, “As you wish.”

Chapter Text

Steve spots Darcy lingering rather obviously in the break room a few days later, spending far too much time picking over the fruit basket, especially considering there’s nothing there but two apples and an overripe orange. She wanders over while he’s looking in the fridge for something to eat, and brushes up against him rather purposefully as she reaches to grab a drink. He clears his throat and gives her the most platonic smile he can manage.

“So…” Darcy opens her soda, casually grabbing a seat on one of the barstools, “Is there like a sign-up sheet or something?”

Steve has settled for cold pizza, and he takes a bite out of the piece he’d held in his mouth while he was rummaging for something to go with it, “Sign-up sheet?” he mumbles.

“Yeah,” Darcy shrugs, “You know. For you.”

Steve nearly chokes on his pepperoni. Once he’s regained his composure and remembered how to breathe again, he’s just about to ask how Darcy found out when she shrugs again and smiles, “Thor.”

Steve nods. He hadn’t really spotted Thor for a braggart, but now that he’s thinking about it, it makes sense.

“Nah, not like that.” Darcy seems to be able to read him rather well, and he gives her a look. He wasn’t so obvious, back in the day. “He told Jane,” she says, and when Steve doesn’t respond, she continues, “You know, honor and all that. He didn’t want her to think he was being unchivalrous. His words.” Darcy presses her fingers to her lips, in a mockery of looking ponderous, “Thor wouldn’t tell anyone. Jane, though,” she nods, “Jane’s a gossip.”

Steve laughs. It’s almost a relief.

“But seriously though, is there a sign-up sheet?” Darcy takes a sip of her soda, licking at her bottom lip, and not for the first time, he notices how full her lips are.

Steve takes a good look at her; she’s dressed in the sort of way that might just be her everyday style on a good day, but she’s also managed to accentuate every curve, particularly the gentle slope of her breasts, and he doesn’t have to think very long before he nods, “There actually is, or so I’m told, but,” he purposefully looks away, trying to seem casual, “I’m free tonight if you are.”

“Right.” Darcy nods and gets up, looking as if she’s just accomplished a small coup, “So, your place, yeah? I’d invite you over, but I’m in a tenth-floor walkup with no AC.”

Steve chuckles, because he definitely remembers those days. “Sure, no problem. Around dinnertime?”

“Rock on,” Darcy says, which Steve takes to mean ‘yes.’ He watches her leave, mostly admiring the curve of her ass in her skintight jeans, but he doesn’t fail to notice the little quiver in her smile as she knocks back the last of her soda, either.

He decides to take a page from Thor’s book, and picks up some flowers while he’s out that afternoon.

When she shows up that evening, she’s wearing a pretty blouse, her makeup and jewelry are different, and he wonders if she’s gone home to change, wonders when she found the time. She smiles, glancing at the flowers laying on the table, and fiddles with the buckle on the strap of her handbag, looking like she’s trying to think of something witty to say.

The doors open themselves here when they’re unlocked, and Steve still hasn’t really gotten used to that; he would’ve preferred to finish tying his shoe before she came in, would’ve liked to greet her at the door with those flowers in hand, but there’s nothing for it now. He stands up, brushing the wrinkles out of his slacks, saying, “Those are for you,” and glances at the flowers.

Darcy rewards him with a warm smile, and blushes slightly, reaching for the flowers. “Thank you.” She traces the edge of a rose, still smiling. “I don’t think anybody’s bought me flowers since prom,” she smirks, “and that was my dad.”

“Guys just don’t know how to treat a lady, these days,” he means it, but Darcy laughs. “So, anyway,” he says, not quite annoyed, “I thought maybe we’d catch a movie? There’s that cineplex that just opened crosstown, I hear it’s nice.”

Steve loves movies, always has, and it’s always been his default choice for a date. These days it’s even easier, because you can just show up and there’s something playing, and if you don’t like what’s on, or you’re late, you just wait half an hour and something else is on in a different theater. No having to decide what to see first, no coming in during the middle of the last show of the evening, and maybe the snacks aren’t quite as good as he remembers, but the popcorn’s always fresh. Cineplexes are great.

Darcy half-frowns, giving him an almost quizzical look, “You really are weird, aren’t you?” but just as soon as she’s said it, she’s smiling again, and sets to breaking a rose off its stem. She plucks the leaves off, and tucks it into her hair, “There.” She strikes a pose and preens dramatically, “Am I ready for my close-up now, Mister DeMille?” she asks, batting her eyelashes at him.

He cocks an eyebrow, knowing there’s some reference he’s just not getting, but he nods quickly, “Oh yes, camera ready.”

“Excellent,” she holds her hand out, feigning disdain. “Shall we?”

They promenade properly to the elevator, but as soon as the doors close, he leans in close and whispers, “You’re weird too, you know.”

Darcy bursts out laughing, and hasn’t quite recovered by the time they reach the ground floor.

Chapter Text

“We could, um,” Darcy looks at her feet, as if gathering up a little courage, “…you know, go to my place if you want. It’s only a few blocks from here.” She blanches slightly, looking as if she’s suddenly thought better of the offer, and blurts, “But it’s kinda messy, though, and…”

Steve chuckles, laying a hand on her shoulder, “I’m a bachelor, remember? I only know how to iron a shirt because they made me learn when I enlisted.”

Darcy giggles, shaking her head, “I don’t actually know how to iron.”

Steve leans down and kisses her forehead, “I don’t care.”

She leads him through the alleyway, cutting through a park that he thinks she really shouldn’t be walking through after dark, certainly not alone, but he bites his tongue. This is the girl who didn’t hesitate to taser a norse god in the middle of the desert, after all. He figures she can probably hold her own against a few sketchy-looking kids.

A few more turns and Darcy pauses at the door of an otherwise entirely unremarkable brownstone, rummaging in her bag for her keys. She finds the right one, unlocks the door, and pauses, grabbing her mail. She nods toward the narrow stairway and shrugs a little, “Sorry about the hike.”

Maybe it’s something in her posture, or the way she almost bites her lip when she looks at him, but he finds he’s swooped her up in his arms without really thinking about it, and has made it halfway up the first flight before she’s managed to sling her arms around his neck, clutching her mail and her bag and laughing like this is the most ridiculous thing she’s ever done. He can smell her perfume, something vaguely summery and entirely modern, a slight tang of nervous sweat, and he holds her a little closer, breathes her in as he takes the rest of the stairs two by two.

“Ten-oh-six,” she says, and he pauses as they reach the tenth floor, looking for her door. He sets her down gently at the end of the hallway, keeping his hand around her waist, both to keep touching her, and because she’s a little unsteady on her feet after being whisked up ten flights of stairs.

She unlocks the door, braces up and shoves it open with her shoulder, flipping on a light before she gestures as if she’s the ringmaster at a circus, “Chez moi.” Her accent is brash and it makes him laugh.

It’s a tiny studio, even by New York standards, there’s hardly space to stand between the futon and the mini-fridge. Darcy scoops up a bit of laundry off the floor, shoves it into the closet and closes the door as if she hopes he hasn’t noticed, grabs a dirty dish off the side-table and quickly leans into the kitchenette to drop it in the sink.

“Want a beer?” There’s a bit of embarrassment in her voice, “I may not have AC but I’ve at least got cold booze.”

He laughs, settling down on the edge of the futon, smoothing out the blanket a little. There’s a cool breeze coming through the curtains, and it’s not actually bad at all, this little place. It’s entirely Darcy, right down to the white fairy lights twinkling on the balcony. Well, it’s not really a balcony, it’s a fire escape, but it’s close enough; nobody in New York has a balcony. Darcy pulls the curtain back, to better let the breeze in, and he sees there’s a sad little potted plant on the windowsill. He imagines her wanting a cat, but settling for a plant, and it makes him smile, remembering when his own life was, if not easier, a lot simpler. The beer is cold, and even though it tastes like every other light American beer he’s tried since he woke up, Darcy seems to like it well enough.

“So, um,” she says, scooting a little closer to him, seeming like she doesn’t really know what to say, “What next?”

Steve pets her hair, “Anything you like.” He shrugs, “You don’t have to sleep with me if you don’t want to, you know.”

Darcy half-chokes on her beer, looking entirely shocked, “No, I, uh,” she blushes, “It’s just that I’m usually drunk by this point in a one-night stand, and, uhm…” She picks at the label on her bottle, not looking back up, “The dude usually isn’t a superhero, you know?”

He laughs, “I wasn’t really much for smalltalk either, back in my day.”

Darcy goes wide-eyed, “No. You so did not.”

“It’s not like your generation invented sex, you know,” he says, finishing his beer and setting the empty bottle on the floor.

Darcy takes a sip of her beer, and makes a mocking face, “Gee, really?”

He holds up his hand as if to block some unseen watcher’s view, and stage-whispers, “We even had condoms.”

She snorts, “It’s all about the pill these days, thank you very much.”

He takes the beer from her and sets it aside, gently pulling her close. After a moment’s consternation in which she’s clearly trying to decide whether to argue with him about coming between a woman and her booze, she leans her head against his shoulder, sighing and closing her eyes. He brushes her hair back from her face, kissing lightly along her jaw until he reaches her lips, and she relaxes into his embrace, letting him lay her down on the futon as he kisses her. He gazes at her, sprawled there, and strokes her cheek, dragging his fingers across her lips, “Tell me a secret.”

She almost smiles, but turns her head to hide her face in the pillow, and half-mumbles, “I always sort of wanted to be rescued by Captain America."

He nuzzles at her neck, dragging his teeth against her skin, voice low as he nips at her throat, “…and ravished for the privilege?” She shivers, shifting awkwardly, and he doesn’t even need to look to know she’s blushing. He presses his lips against her ear, whispering, “Shame I didn’t bring the suit.”

“I… oh god,” Darcy almost giggles, thinking about it, “I’m not sure I’d survive.”

Steve smirks, slipping his hand under her blouse, trailing his fingers along the edge of her bra, “Guess I’d just have to save you again, then.”

Darcy laughs and gives him the most chastising look she can manage in her position, “You.” She pokes him in the chest, “Are. A. Hero. You are not supposed to think thoughts like that, or do things like this!” She bites her lip, looking almost as if she’s thought better of the entire affair, “We shouldn’t even be here. I’m pretty sure it’s a crime to besmirch a national icon. There’s got to be jail time involved.”

He manages to get his hand beneath her to unfasten her bra while she’s babbling, and actually manages to get it one-handed; he’s a little impressed he still remembers that trick, even if she doesn’t notice.

“I’m sorry to say that boat’s already sailed,” he whispers, tracing the curve of her breast, pulling her blouse and bra aside, “…and it was a very, very long time ago.” She giggles, but that breath turns into a soft sigh as he flicks his tongue across her nipple, and she closes her eyes, enjoying the feel of his mouth on her breast. After a moment, he reaches down to unbutton her jeans and slips his hand into her panties. She arches up against his hand, biting her lip and moaning. She’s so wet, and as his fingers dip into that wonderful heat, she drags him into a kiss, moaning against his mouth as he pushes his fingers deep inside her.

She shoves her jeans down, squeezing his hand in place between her thighs as she kicks off her boots, struggling with the tight denim for a moment before she finally gets herself untangled, and pulls him back close to her, sliding her hand over his, rocking her hips against his fingers, guiding him to do exactly what she wants until she shivers with every touch. He watches her, the way she bites her lip when he hits the perfect spot. She grabs his wrist, holding his hand just where she wants it, eyes shut tight, body tense and breath shallow, rocking her hips against his hand in sharp little thrusts until she shudders and collapses with a moan, breathing deeply, eyes still closed. He presses his lips to hers and she tangles her fingers in his hair, licking at his mouth, clearly just getting started.

When he pulls back to let her breathe she gazes up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. “You’re pretty good with your hands,” she says, and she gives him a wicked smirk, “but I think you should take off your pants now.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, and he kicks off his shoes, slipping out of his pants and boxers, dropping his shirt on the floor, as she shrugs out of her blouse and bra and tosses it aside. He crawls back to her, only pausing because she presses her foot against his chest, smirking again. He grabs her ankle, and debates tickling her toes for a moment before he decides to just lick the arch of her foot instead, which makes her giggle. He sets her ankle to rest on his shoulder, turning to kiss the side of her foot. He slowly crawls closer, bending down to kiss her thigh, to nuzzle at the soft thatch of fur between her legs. She makes a soft, pleased sound, settling in to get comfortable, arching her hips towards him, shifting so that she can drape her knee across his shoulder, leg resting on his back, and he takes that as all the permission he needs.

He licks the length of her, flicking his tongue across her clit. She spreads her legs and arches, making that soft little sound again, and he grabs her ass, squeezing and pulling her close as he buries his face in her scent, thrusting his tongue inside her. She tastes amazing, and as she arches against his mouth, tangling her fingers in his hair, wrapping her leg around his neck, it makes him glad he can hold his breath for a while, because the last thing he wants to do now is stop. He sucks on her clit, and he can hear her moaning with each breath. She’s pulling at his hair, trembling like she’s struggling to keep still, and he wonders if he should slip his fingers inside her again, wonders if this is enough to get her off again, but she solves that dilemma for him when she cries out, going stock still for a moment, shivering, tense, breath thready as she balances on the edge of an orgasm.

Her breath hitches in her throat, and suddenly she’s on him like a force of nature, grabbing at the back of his neck, his shoulder, anything she can get a grip on, pulling him up towards her. She drags him into a sloppy kiss, licking at his mouth as she fumbles with his cock, lining him up, but then she’s got it, and he slides home, no resistance at all, just a smooth, tight, wet heat. She arches up against him, biting her lip, and he grabs her hips, pulls her closer, thrusting deeper. She throws her head back, arm draped across her face, body gone slightly limp she’s so lost in it, and he fucks her hard, squeezing at her ass, digging his fingers into the muscle when she moans. He would feel like he was using her, the way he’s fucking her, but she’s clearly loving it more than he is, even if he is making a mess of her.

He feels her clenching down around him and slows just slightly, drawing back further, thrusting in deeper, and she moans this hazy, wrecked moan, gasping with each thrust. He slips his arm beneath her hips so he doesn’t lose the angle, and leans down to kiss her, but she’s so far gone she just whimpers against his mouth, so he kisses along her jaw, and dips his head to nip at her throat. She makes a soft little growl at that and so he bites a little harder, sucking softly. There’s something about the sounds she’s making, the way she’s clutching at him, the way she just takes everything he gives, that when she turns her head and rubs her cheek against his, whispering, “…yes…” it’s more than he can stand.

That one word sends a shiver down his spine, his breath catches in his throat, his hips jerk and he buries his face in her hair, moaning and whimpering, spilling into her.

He holds her that way for what feels like forever as they slowly come back to themselves, and eventually she shifts, stretching beneath him, and turns to kiss him, a soft kiss, all bleary pleasure and fondness. He sighs and takes a deep breath, makes himself get up, and fetches a dry washcloth from her bathroom. She has turned over on her side and half-buried her face in the pillow, but she smiles up at him when he sits beside her, and takes the cloth, wipes the sweat from her face before she makes a halfhearted attempt at cleaning herself up a bit.

He lays back down beside her, and pulls her into his arms again. She tosses the washcloth in the direction of the bathroom and snuggles close, resting her head on his shoulder, mumbling, “You can stay the night, if you want.” Her voice is far away, but there’s something very sweet to it, “You don’t have to, or anything, but, you know, if you want…” She nuzzles against his chest, sighing.

He considers leaving, but he hasn’t slept next to anyone in a long time, and by the time he’s thought of something to say that doesn’t sound absolutely corny, she’s drifted off, each breath a soft little purr.

Chapter Text

Morning brings a torrent of cursing from Darcy, and through it all Steve discerns she’s late for something, that she didn’t set an alarm and she’s slept in. She’s somehow simultaneously trying to fasten her bra, brush her hair and pull on stockings, and is essentially failing at all three. She tells him he doesn’t have to get up, and he doesn’t, because there’s not really room for two people to move around in this place.

She pauses in front of the mirror for a moment, trailing her hand across the fingertip bruises on her ass, turning her head to look at the hickey on her neck, “Huh.” He isn’t quite sure whether she’s amused or annoyed, until she gives him a wicked smirk and then immediately stuffs a ponytail holder into her mouth, throws her head back and sets to pulling up her hair, which is really more of an ordeal than he would’ve guessed.

Shortly, she’s fairly presentable, certainly for someone who’s gotten dressed so quickly. She takes a deep breath, “So, uh, spare key’s on the hook,” she nods her head toward the wall beside her and he sees a coat rack, overfull with lanyards and accompanying ID badges, an umbrella, several scarves. He assumes there’s a key in there somewhere.

“Lock the door when you leave, okay?” She thinks for a minute, “Just leave my keys at the desk at the Tower, I’ll drop by and get them later.”

“Sure,” he says, stretching and sitting up, feeling a little guilty for making her late and a little disappointed he didn’t get to cook her breakfast and find an excuse to make sure neither of them were dressed before noon, “I can bring the suit, next time, if you want?”

Darcy freezes, halfway out the door, eyes wide with surprise, and her voice doesn’t quite break, but it’s a near thing, “Really?”

He laughs, “Well, I understand there’s a bit of a wait…”

Darcy mumbles something, but he thinks he sees the hint of a smile as she braces up and pulls the door shut, and sure enough, when he finally hunts that list down, her name is on it, written in that bubbly, curling script of hers, a Saturday about two weeks away. He copies the date down in his calendar, and makes a mental note to see if any of his old stage suits are still wearable.

Chapter Text

When he doesn’t hear from Pepper at all during the week before they’re supposed to meet up, he figures maybe she’s changed her mind, or something’s just come up. They don’t tend to cross paths all that often, and so he shrugs if off. Around half past noon, though, she calls.

“I ordered at that Thai place you like,” she says, and from the sound of her voice, she’s clearly distracted, “think you can pick it up before you swing by the office?”

He isn’t quite sure when he volunteered to run errands in this deal, but it’s not like he has anything else better to do, and he does like Thai. He puts on a slightly nicer pair of jeans and a clean teeshirt, and stops by the Thai place. He tips the guy at the counter and has already walked out the door before he checks the receipt and realizes Pepper’s not only taken care of the bill, but the tip, too. He sighs, and keeps walking. He might still be Captain America, but he’s not going to start lecturing people about honesty on his days off. Certainly not when Pepper is waiting on him.

He hasn’t been to the new Stark Industries building before, not having had a particularly good reason to just drop by, and he definitely feels underdressed as he looks around the lobby — it’s nothing short of swank. The receptionist smiles and buzzes him into Pepper’s private elevator without so much as a word, so he figures he hasn’t committed that much of a sartorial faux pas, but then it occurs to him that she probably assumed he was the delivery guy, and he’s staring at his shoes, blushing slightly, when Pepper’s secretary meets him as the doors open. She certainly knows who he is, he’s met her once or twice, and they exchange pleasantries; she promises to plate the food and deliver it. He assures her it’s not necessary, he’s a bit fond of the cardboard boxes actually, but she insists.

Pepper is on a call, berating someone on the other end, and she holds up one finger as he walks in. He sits in one of the chairs in front of her desk and waits, trying not to listen in. He doesn’t have much context, but he gathers someone has missed a deadline, and Pepper is having none of their nonsense. He’s always liked that about her, and listening to her work is almost as satisfying as watching her take Tony down a peg. Almost. After a few moments of tense silence, she makes an inscrutable face and touches the button on her headset before pulling it from her ear and tossing it in a desk drawer, quietly huffing, as if simultaneously annoyed and relieved.

“Steve!” she exclaims, finally looking up at him, manner completely changed as she walks around her desk, “I wanted to take all afternoon with you, but R&D is hassling me, and I’ve got about six more calls before I’m going to have time for much…” her voice trails off, and she shrugs slightly, as if to say none of that is important. He’s just about to make some polite excuse about how he’s a bit tired anyway, when she smiles, tossing her hair back over her shoulder, “I hope you don’t mind a quickie.”

He’s a bit caught off guard, but apparently he looks game enough, because she leans in and kisses him roughly, cupping his crotch and squeezing just hard enough that it makes him shiver — and he has to admit, he’s not at all opposed to the idea.

Pepper purrs, biting at his lip, before she pulls away, turning around, lifting her hair up off her neck, “Unzip me?”

He obliges, and she shimmies out of her dress, laying it across the back of his chair, and just like that, she’s gone from almost prim to wearing nothing but a lacy black bra, stockings and a garter belt, and some of the most precarious high heels he’s ever seen. His mouth goes a little dry, and he swallows, trying not to stare at the neatly groomed ginger patch of fur between her legs, trying to think of something nice to say, but what comes out of his mouth is, “…wow.”

She laughs, kissing his cheek as she pops the buttons on his jeans, shoving them and his boxers down around his thighs. She spares a lingering glance at his cock, traces her fingers along the length of it before she reaches up, taking hold of his neck, and gently pushes him down, saying, “Bend over.”

He leans against the desk, resting on his elbows, trying not to stare at her ass as he watches her rummage in a filing cabinet, retrieving a tiny little pair of boy shorts, a modestly sized dildo, and a jar of Stark Industries All Purpose Lubricant. She sees him arch an eyebrow at that last, and shrugs, “He can be a real piece of work, but I’ve got to grant Tony knows his way around a jar of lube. We actually use it down in manufacturing…” She laughs when she sees the look on his face, “I promise, it’s completely safe,” and leans down to whisper, “I use it all the time.”

She steps into the boy shorts, balance impeccable even on one foot, and slips the dildo into a neat little placket at the front. She closes her eyes to adjust it, smiling slightly. Her hips twitch slightly as she finds the angle she likes best, and his cock twitches with anticipation, imagining what it must feel like for her, the soft drag of her shorts, the hard friction of her dildo against her clit.

She struts to the desk, an entirely different sort of confidence in her stride now, and stands in front of him, brushing that cock against his lips. Her voice is low and deliciously dangerous, “I think you should suck it.”

He dips his head and obediently licks the length of her pink cock, and when she makes a soft growl, he decides to just roll with it. This isn’t his kink, so much, and he’s never gone down on a dildo, but then again, he’s done a lot of things he never thought he would since he woke up. He licks his lips and looks up at her as he opens his mouth, lets it slide across his tongue. Pepper doesn’t quite moan, but her lips part, and her breathing quickens.

Her little pink cock is a lot harder than the real thing, and definitely doesn’t have the same sort of movement, so it takes a bit of work, but he manages to get the tip to the back of his mouth without that much trouble. Pepper’s eyes are shot black with lust when he looks up again, and she threads her fingers through his hair, holding his head in place as she slowly pushes that cock into his throat. He has to swallow, shifting a bit to get the angle right, but this is the sort of thing one just doesn’t forget, and muscle memory takes over once he remembers to relax.

He closes his eyes, letting it slide into his throat, nuzzling against those little shorts as she slowly fucks his mouth. He breathes the scent of her in; a little whiff of expensive perfume and fresh laundry, but mostly just that wonderful, sweet musk of hers, and he moans at the thought of burying his face in her.

He’s thinking about touching himself, stroking himself into what would surely be an easy and satisfying orgasm when he hears the door click, the sound of Pepper’s secretary shouting at someone about how Ms. Potts is in a meeting. He nearly chokes in a sudden panic, but Pepper seems entirely unfazed; she actually tightens her grip on the back of his neck, holding him still, and he takes a deep breath, telling himself it’s fine, it’s totally fine. He doesn’t believe it, but that’s what he’s telling himself anyway. The door shuts, and at the edge of his vision, if he strains just a bit, he can see Pepper staring daggers at the intruder.

“Jesus H. Christ.”

It’s Tony.

Steve almost sighs, but relief is quickly replaced with vexation. It’s a small favor that their uninvited guest isn’t a business associate, or worse, a reporter, but Tony wasn’t supposed to be back for another six weeks.

“That has to be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Pepper shifts slightly, stroking the back of Steve’s head, “What do you want, Tony?”

“Well,” Tony clears his throat, and Steve can’t see him, but he knows he’s doing that thing Tony does, where he looks simultaneously remorseful and like a complete jackass, “I had meant to surprise you and take you to lunch, but I see you’re otherwise engaged…”

Pepper doesn’t say a word, and even Steve can feel the sudden chill in the air.

Tony clears his throat, “Is this,” he leans down, eye-level with Steve, though he doesn’t actually look him in the eye, and gestures, “a thing, now?”

“This is hardly the time,” she says, loosening her grip and pulling back slowly. Steve massages his jaw, swallowing. That was getting a bit uncomfortable. She kneels down, smiling at him, and brushes his hair from his forehead as she leans close to whisper, “Would you like me to make him leave, or just make him regret interrupting us?”

He can’t quite keep from chuckling, and she kisses his cheek, whispering, “I’ll be right back. Try to relax.”

She stands and turns, striding towards Tony, and Steve rests his chin on his hands, watching. It’s a glorious sight to behold, her legs in those heels, the soft curve of her ass, the gentle slope of her back. She stares at Tony, and points at the couch against the wall, “Sit. Now.”

Tony sits.

Steve can’t blame him; if Pepper told him to do just about anything in that tone of voice, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

Tony makes to settle in, and starts unbuttoning his jeans, but Pepper laughs, “What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Tony opens his mouth to protest, but she cuts him off, “If I see you so much as think about it, you’re going to be watching Cinemax for a month. Alone.” Tony’s eyes go wide, and it takes him a moment to remember to close his mouth.

Pepper turns on her toe and gives Steve a sharp little smile, as if to say, ‘This is what happens when you fuck with me.’ He files that away for future reference. It suddenly makes a lot more sense that Tony is literally petrified of the woman.

She tosses her hair over her shoulder and walks back to the desk, heels clicking against the flooring, stride long and confident, and he has a feeling this moment, that sound in particular, is going to stay with him for a very long time. She comes up behind him and leans over him, that cock sliding into the curve of his ass as she presses her hips against his. He can feel the satin of her bra against his back, the soft scratch of lace as she leans her slight weight against him, pressing her body against his, trailing her hand down his arm to thread her fingers between his as she nuzzles at the hair behind his ear, whispering, “Is this alright?”

He nods, turning to rub his cheek against hers, and she kisses him, slowly, deeply, tucking her hair behind her ear as she pauses for breath, making sure that Tony can see. There’s a certain wickedness in the way that she's touching him, now that she’s putting on a show for Tony, as if whatever small reservation she might have had before has disappeared, that slight restraint replaced with a sort of exhibitionist abandon, and Steve closes his eyes, focusing on her mouth, the soft warmth of her skin, the way she sighs softly with each breath. He’s going to enjoy this.

Pepper straightens, slowly scratching her nails down his back, and he arches against her hands, biting back a moan. He hears her opening the lid of the lube, the slick sound as she coats her fingers. She pushes his legs apart, and he shivers at the sudden cold, wet touch between his legs. The lube warms quickly, and feels magnificent against his skin; not sticky or oily, just the right consistency. He takes the stretch easily, arching back against her hand, slowly fucking himself on her fingers.

Off in the corner, he hears Tony whimper.

She adds another long, slender finger, stretching him further, and he groans at the feeling, his cock hanging heavy and aching between his legs. She works him open, not rushing him, but not taking any longer than she needs to, and as she slides her fingers out, he grasps the edge of the desk, burying his face in his arm to muffle a frustrated whine. He looks over his shoulder to watch her slicking that cock, and when she sees him looking, she takes her time, caressing it, squeezing at the head, thrusting slowly into her grasp. She bites her lip, watching him watching her, and closes her eyes, slicking her cock to the base.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Tony squirming on the couch, shifting against the uncomfortable tightness in his jeans, and he can sympathize; he feels almost as pent up as Tony looks. He’s just about to reach back and pull her close when suddenly she slaps his ass, the last of the lube amplifying the smack, and it goes straight through him, sending a tingle up his spine, making his cock twitch in anticipation. Tony groans and half-crosses his legs.

Pepper trails her hand down his back, resting her palm at the base of his spine as she steps closer, lining that cock up. It has no give, no flex, and Steve exhales slowly as she pushes into him, breathing into that stretch. It feels like forever before the head slips in and that burn lets up ever so slightly. He shudders, bracing his forearm against the desk and cradling his head in the crook of his elbow, breathing heavy, eyes shut tight as he clutches at the corner of the desk, digging his fingers into the wood. She gives him a moment, stroking his back, their hips pressed together, but it feels like hardly the space of a breath before she pulls back just as slowly, letting the head of that cock kiss at aching flesh before she slides back in, slow and smooth. He doesn’t care that Tony is watching, Pepper’s hard little cock is almost more than he can handle.

She bends down to kiss his shoulder, whispering, “Alright?”

He nods, realizing he’s trembling, and exhales slowly.

She shifts and reaches around to take him in her hand, slicking him with lube, and he bucks against her grasp, hips stuttering to a halt as he feels that unyielding cock within him. She leans against him, arching her hips, and he moans, gasping at the sensation as the head of that cock hits such a perfect angle he almost sees stars. She squeezes, rubbing the palm of her hand across the head of his cock on each stroke, squeezing so tightly along the shaft it almost hurts, hips moving ever so slightly, grazing against that spot again and again, and he bites the palm of his hand, stifling a loud groan. She makes a soft, low sound at the back of her throat, and works him faster, fingers gliding across the head of his cock, thumb sliding along the slit on each stroke, and it drives him mad; the sort of pleasure that makes him shiver and whine, marvelous and too intense and blocking out everything else. He chokes on his breath, gasping at the sensation as she drags an orgasm from him, making him spill into her hand, clenching down on that cock within him.

She sighs, trailing her thumb along the head of his cock, sending a thrill up his spine as she finally lets go, and when she pulls out he shudders involuntarily. She leans across him, grabbing a box of tissues and wipes her hands on several. He hasn’t moved yet, doesn’t quite feel like he can, at the moment. She doesn’t seem to mind, she just takes another handful of tissues and cleans him up, wiping a splash of cum from his thigh before she pulls his boxers up, and pats his ass. He finally feels like he can breathe again, and he watches her shimmy out of her boy shorts, cock dropping to the floor as she steps out of them, and she bends, giving him a glorious view as she retrieves them, tossing the whole mess into a plastic bag in her drawer.

He stands slowly, hitches his jeans back up, and rolls his shoulders, working out a little kink in his neck that he’s just started to notice. Pepper shimmies back into her dress, and after he zips her up, he bends to kiss the nape of her neck, whispering, “That was amazing.”

Tony shifts on the couch, and Steve almost feels sorry for him. Pepper gestures in his direction, “You can go now.” Tony opens his mouth to protest, but thinks better of it. He doesn’t quite complain as he gets up to leave, but he makes his displeasure clear. He shuts the door behind himself, and as soon as he’s gone, Pepper laughs, “You have no idea how much he enjoyed that.”

Steve cocks an eyebrow, but to each his own. “I enjoyed it too,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Pepper stretches, glancing at her watch, “I’ve got time for a quick bite,” she says, “if you’re actually hungry.”

He chuckles, “Sure.”

She presses the button on her intercom, and a few minutes later her secretary brings in their lunch, sure enough, still hot and nicely plated on proper china. Steve sits on the edge of her desk and takes a bite of his pad thai, watching as she flips through a file, already engrossed in her work again, noodles forgotten.

Chapter Text

“I’m cutting the line.”

Tony comes out of nowhere, and Steve is so thrown off guard by the fact that he’s pushed him up against a wall without so much as a how do you do that he doesn’t protest. He hardly even minds. He does quickly look up and down the corridor to make sure nobody’s coming, though.

“What?” Tony looks mildly annoyed, “You seriously think I didn’t have FRIDAY lock every door between here and research before I came down?”

Steve laughs, wondering what else he might have thought of, and Tony leans in close, whispering, “I would’ve been home weeks ago if anyone had bothered to tell me.”

Tony shifts, pressing his hard cock against Steve’s thigh through their jeans, and Steve closes his eyes, exhaling slowly. He’s had a bit of a thing for Tony for a while, and it’s a little surprising, actually, that the feeling is mutual. He realized early on that Tony’s banter was either flirting or insulting, with little in-between, and from there he spent most of his time trying to decide whether Tony hated them all, or just really, really didn’t know how to deal with being attracted to people he works with. This afternoon cleared up any lingering doubt he might have had, but he’s still adjusting to the idea.

Fortune favors the bold, though. He takes one last glance down the corridor and grabs Tony by the shoulders, dragging him into a rough kiss, breathing in the all-too-familiar scent of him; metal shavings and tungsten gas, the same cologne Howard used to wear. It smells exactly the way he remembers it, even though the company went out of business 40 years ago. He remembers asking Tony about it early on, remembers Tony just shrugging as he explained that he’d bought the formula and was having it made in small batches, and he remembers exactly how absurd he thought that was at the time. He rubs his face against Tony’s, feeling the scratch of his goatee, and buries his face in Tony’s shoulder, breathing in that cologne. He’s so glad Tony is just as ridiculous as his father was, but he can’t deny that it also drove him up the wall at first.

“Ooh,” Tony almost purrs, “I take it you’re not busy, then.”

Steve threads his fingers through Tony’s hair, pulling gently as he whispers, “After this afternoon, I should make you wait your turn.”

Tony laughs, “After this afternoon, that might fall under cruel and unusual punishment.”

Steve drags his teeth against Tony’s throat, whispering, “I should probably take you off the list.”

Tony shivers, his voice almost cracking, “That is almost certainly a violation of the Geneva convention, and I might actually die.”

Steve chuckles, enjoying the prickle of stubble against his lips, “Wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

“No…” Tony looks like it almost hurts to push him away, “but we probably should get out of the hallway. I’m pretty sure R&D is having a fit by now.” He glances down the corridor, “Let’s go up to the penthouse.”

Steve smirks, “My room is closer.”

Tony grins, that same self-satisfied look he gets when he’s just done something incredibly stupid, or is just about to, “I think I can wait an extra 90 seconds for a king-sized bed.”

As soon as the elevator doors slide shut, Steve has him up against the wall and is rucking up his shirt, dragging his nails along his ribs, but the ride is all too short. Even so, Tony seems like he can just barely find the strength to push him out into the penthouse before the doors close again. Steve maneuvers him up against the wall again as he slips the button on Tony’s jeans, slides his hand into his boxers, and it turns him on more than he could say, the way Tony just melts into his touch.

“Fuck, Rogers,” Tony makes a show of letting his head fall back against the wall.

“That’s exactly what I intend to do to you.”

Tony whimpers, and Steve doesn’t waste time with pleasantries, just kneels down, dragging Tony’s cock out of his jeans, and swallows him to the hilt. Tony groans and tangles his fingers in his hair, pulling just a little too hard as he arches against his mouth. Steve grabs his ass and drags him close, swallowing around his cock, waiting until he sighs and relaxes into it, letting him really enjoy it. As he pulls back, he flicks his tongue across the tip of his cock, and Tony’s hips jerk. Steve licks little stripes along the shaft of his cock, mouthing gently at the head until he actually whines, grip tightening, trying to pull him closer.

It’s marvelous, the way he silently begs for more, and when Steve glances up, he can see Tony almost collapsed against the wall, mouth open, breathing shallow. Steve slides his hand up Tony’s stomach, presses his hand against his sternum to keep him from slipping, and Tony immediately relaxes, almost falls really, into his grasp. Steve settles into a comfortable position, balancing Tony’s weight against the wall, intending to take his time, but Tony loses himself completely after a few solid strokes, like a virgin on prom night. He swallows and pulls back slowly, letting the last of Tony’s cum pool on his tongue, licking the last drop from the tip before he stands, and leans down, kissing him slowly, letting Tony suck the slick from his tongue.

Tony moans softly, gasping, “Fuck…”

Steve drags his teeth across Tony’s lip, whispering, “Mm, now that you’re in the mood…” He presses his cock against Tony’s hip, and Tony just groans, throwing his arms around his shoulders.

Steve picks him up and carries him into the bedroom. It’s so easy, now that he has the hang of this, and he almost likes it. No worrying about making a good impression, no dancing around feelings. Bruce was right about that part, for sure. This is much easier, except for the part where they all keep acting like nothing has changed. He still finds that a little strange, and a little difficult, actually, but he’s nothing if not adaptable. Case in point; Tony.

Steve considers Pepper’s manner earlier in the day, and at the last moment, rather than laying him down, drops him rather unceremoniously atop the blankets. Tony gasps softly as he lands, and there’s a dreamy smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Steve wastes no time stripping him out of his jeans, and Tony just lays there and lets him; he doesn’t even open his eyes as Steve shimmies out of his own jeans, tosses his teeshirt onto the floor. He shifts onto his stomach as Steve crawls into bed beside him, and Steve trails his hand down along the curve of his spine, slipping his hand under the hem of his teeshirt and scratching gently at the hollow of his back, “I take it from Pepper that you’re fond of this sort of thing.”

Tony arches like a cat, sighing softly, “My safe word is…” it takes him a few tries to get the words out, because he shivers as Steve caresses him, “dyna… fuck, dynamite.”

“You like it rough?”

Tony nods, mumbling, “Christ, yes.”

“Where’s the lube?”

Tony gestures blindly in the direction of the nightstand, and Steve rummages in the drawer, grabbing the lube before crawling atop him, pressing his hardness against Tony’s ass, grinding against him. Tony moans into the sheets, spreading his legs, and Steve nuzzles at his neck, whispering, “Is this what you want?”

Tony groans, “…yes.”

“Tell me.” Steve slips his hand between Tony’s legs, cupping his balls, his soft cock, as he ruts against him, trailing his fingers up and down as Tony arches back against his hand, shifting to spread his legs further.

“I want…”

Steve scoops up a generous amount of lube and sets the jar within arm’s reach, cradled in a fold of blanket, and starts slowly, teasing and gentle. “Tell me…”

“I want you to fuck me…” Tony gasps as Steve slips a finger inside him, “I want you to…” He buries his face in the blanket, “I want it hard… so hard…” Steve pushes another finger in, and Tony shudders, arching back against it until his hips jerk and he moans into the blanket, trembling, “Oh god…”

Steve takes his cues from Pepper; not rushing, but not giving Tony much time to breathe, either, and soon enough, Tony is almost writhing beneath him, pushing back against his hand, demanding more with every muscle in his body. Steve slips his fingers out and slicks his cock, stroking himself until he’s exquisitely hard before lining himself up, breathing slow, making himself go easy, but Tony cants his hips, pushing back hard, taking him with a shuddering, broken moan.

Steve gasps, forcing himself to stay still, little stars dancing at the edges of his vision; that long slow slide is maddening, and Tony is so tight, clenching down around him, shivering. Once he catches his breath, he wraps his arm around Tony's waist, slides his free hand down Tony’s arm, threading their fingers together, squeezing at his hand even as he drags Tony’s hips up into a hard arch, pulling back just far enough to slam into him. Tony collapses beneath him with a soft cry, not a shred of resistance left in him, but still strung taut as a wire, holding on to his hand, squeezing tight. He isn’t certain, but he thinks that means everything is alright, and he shifts his balance so that he can keep his grip on Tony’s hand. He strokes his thumb across Tony’s palm, and Tony sighs.

Steve takes it slow, their bodies pressed together, grinding his hips against Tony’s, pulling back every so often, to thrust deep and hard. Tony whimpers and mewls, writhing beneath him, and Steve takes a gamble, voice dropping to a low growl, “Oh shut up, you know you want it.”

Tony’s breath catches in his throat and he tenses up, and for a split second Steve is convinced he’s just ruined everything, until Tony strains against him, arching hard, gasping, “…oh, please.”

“You do, don’t you?” he purrs, “You just want me to fuck you…” Tony’s breath breaks into a soft whine, and that’s really all the encouragement Steve needs, “To have my way with you…” Dirty talk isn’t really his forte, and if he were any less turned on, if Tony were any less enthusiastic, he would be feeling a little silly, actually; but the way Tony moans at the sound of his voice, the way he arches against him and shudders when he says something particularly filthy, well, he’s willing to say just about anything. He’d recite Shakespeare if Tony asked right now, if he could actually manage to remember any…

So, he says just about everything that comes to mind, trusting the moment, dreaming up little vignettes that mostly involve saying the word ‘fuck’ and variations thereon. It isn’t exactly poetry, but Tony doesn’t seem to mind. He has a bit more control thanks to this afternoon, and he takes full advantage of it, working Tony up again and again — bringing them both to a shuddering, gasping peak, until Tony strains against him, wanting it deeper, harder; he holds him there for just a moment before pulling back— again and again until Tony’s teeshirt is soaked with sweat, and he moans with every stroke.

He drags his teeth along the back of Tony’s neck, breathing heavy, lips pressed against sweat-slick skin as he nuzzles at the nape of Tony’s neck. Tony stretches, baring his neck, and Steve kisses just behind his jaw, biting gently. Tony makes a soft sound, a sort of pleased, wanting groan, and Steve wonders, fleetingly, what Pepper will make of his marking up her man like this as he bites deeper. Tony moans low and clutches at Steve’s hand as he shifts, bracing himself up on his shoulder and reaching to stroke himself, shuddering at his own touch.

Steve trails his fingers down along Tony’s arm and wraps his hand around Tony’s, fingertips grazing his cock, achingly hard in his grip, but Tony doesn’t stop; he’s gone tense and shivery, every breath a gasp. Steve fucks him hard and fast, trying to match his speed if not his rhythm, until Tony moans through gritted teeth, going stock still, clenching down around him, body spasming as he spills across Steve’s hand. Steve holds him close, letting Tony’s pleasure carry him along until it's too much and he gasps, dropping his head against Tony’s shoulder, spilling into him.

Tony shivers and collapses with a soft whimper, mumbling something into the pillow.

Exhaustion sinks in before Steve has even managed to catch his breath, and he pulls back slowly, dropping onto his side next to him, pressing his forehead against Tony’s arm, closing his eyes and letting it wash over him.

“So…” Tony groans as he finally comes back up for air, “Can I stay on the list?”

Steve half-laughs, still slightly breathless, “After that,” his body feels leaden, but he shifts to keep his arm from going numb beneath him, and gazes up at the ceiling, “you practically are the list.”

“Yay,” Tony manages, weakly, and laughs softly.

Chapter Text

His old stage suits aren’t exactly purpose-built for this sort of thing, the top never quite fit right, and the gloves aren’t exactly made for precision, but he pulls it out of the dry-cleaning bag, folds it up and tosses the whole kit into a duffel bag. He’s been so busy he hasn’t been able to try it on, but he assumes it’ll fit, at least well enough for his purposes. He finds he’s really looking forward to seeing Darcy again, and he’s actually pretty fond of her little flat, too. He gets off the subway a few stops early and stops by a shop Pepper suggested, asks for the most accessible, but interesting light beer they have, and buys two. It’s sold in a large old-school crock bottle, and the label has pink elephants on it. Something called Delirium Tremens, which he’s pretty sure is something that happens when you don’t drink. Beer has gotten really strange since he woke up.

He almost skips up the stairs, and Darcy opens on the second knock, peeking out through the chain on the door, as if a chain lock mounted on drywall has ever really deterred anyone in the history of mankind. She closes the door again and he hears her fiddling with the chain. When she opens the door, his mouth goes dry at the sight of her; it’s only just past lunchtime, but she’s wearing a silky neglige, just long enough to be classy, and just short enough that he immediately wants to get his hands underneath it. He sets his bag down and catches her as she turns to walk away, wrapping his arm around her waist, and picking her up to kiss her. She giggles, kicking her heels in a play of struggle, and kisses him in little pecks, leaving him wanting more.

“Did you bring it?” She’s almost blushing, and he notices she’s wearing lipstick, that she’s styled her hair instead of just letting it loose, and he’s glad he put the effort into digging the suit up out of the archives last week. He smiles, “I did,” and she squeals with delight as he sets her down again.

He digs in his bag, hands her the two bottles of beer, and hefts the duffel as if it’s heavy, “Mind pouring while I get dressed?”

She laughs, and takes the beer. When she turns away from him, heading towards what passes for a kitchen, he notices the seams up the backs of her stockings. He’s certain she has no way of knowing how much he loved seamed stockings back when ladies wore them, but he wonders if someone hasn’t tipped her off, because he’s pretty sure they’re as hard to get these days as good beer seems to be.

It takes him longer than he would like to get the old suit on again, partly because he keeps thinking about her legs in those stockings, but mostly because he’s apparently a bit better built now than he was back in the day, the zipper is a bit sticky, and old polyester doesn’t have much give. The cowl smells vaguely of mothballs, too. The boots and gloves actually still look pretty good though; when he asked to have the suit cleaned someone took the time to polish them. He makes a note to find out who and say thank you.

Darcy doesn’t quite drop her glass when he walks out, but it’s a near thing, and it takes her a moment to remember to shut her mouth again. She leans over to set her glass on the side table, and watches as he plants his hands on his hips, squares his shoulders, and flashes that heroic, three-quarter-profile Hollywood smile he practiced for hours and hours in front of a mirror.

“Are you…” Darcy puts her fingers to her lips, “Are you wearing booty shorts?” She stifles a giggle.

He sighs, all that practiced swagger gone, and looks down at his pants, “Yes, and tights.”

She bites her lip, barely containing her mirth, “I’m sorry…”

He laughs, shaking his head, “No, it’s alright. That’s what I thought too. All I ever wanted was to join the Army, and they put me in tights.” He sits down on the futon beside her, “So, anyway, I can take it off now.”

She gives him a wide-eyed look, exclaiming, “No! Are you kidding me? This is priceless.” Her eyes flash as an idea comes to mind, and she dashes over to the door, rummaging in her purse for her cellphone, “We have to take a picture.” He opens his mouth to protest, but she shushes him, “I promise I won’t post it on Facebook.”

He takes a deep breath and smiles, giving her a thumbs-up for the camera. The flash goes off a few times and she drags her finger across the screen, looking to make sure she’s gotten a good one. She sits down beside him, scooting up close, and he puts his arm around her, looking over her shoulder. She turns the phone back to camera mode, and holds it out at arm’s length, “Okay, selfie now.”

He leans close, and seeing she’s not going to get the photograph she wants, he takes the camera out of her hand, but he fumbles with his gloves, so he bites the thumb of one, pulls it off and sets it off to the side before holding the camera out at arm’s length, “Alright, smile.” He holds it as steady as he can as he reaches to press the button a few times, so it snaps several photos in a row.

She smiles for the flashes and then squeaks and grabs the phone from him, excitedly brushing past a few blurry photos, one where his thumb got in the way, and then there’s one of them together that isn’t half bad; she’s laying her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest, and she looks absolutely delighted. He looks down at her, and she’s biting her lip again, gazing at the picture, “Oh my god this is so fantastic.”

He laughs. Maybe a little public humiliation is worth it, if it makes her so happy. He shakes his head, because he knows he’s going to regret this later, “You can post it. Just don’t tag me, alright?”

She squeals with delight, and spends the next five minutes typing furiously with her thumbs. He tosses his mask onto her bedside table, kicks his boots off and drinks her beer while he waits, occasionally looking over her shoulder, but the way she talks online might as well be greek to him, and he gives up after reading something about a cinnamon roll that ends in “OMGIDEKW2D,” which is definitely not a word in any language he speaks. He thinks she’s talking to Jane, but he’s got no idea why they’re chatting about breakfast, especially not now, so he’s at a total loss.

After another minute she sets her phone next to her now empty glass, and leans back against his shoulder, still giggling quietly to herself as she leans over to kiss his cheek. Her cheeks are flushed and he’s not sure he’s ever seen her so happy. He strokes her hair with his ungloved hand, toying with an errant curl, and just watches her as her mirth subsides.

“Sorry,” she says, stroking her hand down his chest, and she doesn’t really sound all that remorseful, but he’s happy to let it slide, because she kisses him again, tracing that star on his chest with her fingertips, and that’s just as good as sincerity, under the circumstances.

He slides his hand up her leg, tracing his fingers along the elastic of her garter belt, letting it lead him to the promised land, and that’s when he realizes she’s not wearing panties, which is quite possibly the sexiest thing he’s ever encountered. He lets his fingers wander along the crease of her hip, trailing down along her stomach to that soft thatch of fur, “Oh, god…”

“Captain!” she gasps, teasing, “Language!” but even before she’s finished pretending to be scandalized, she’s wrapping her leg around him, whispering, “I’m supposed to be the naughty one.”

He laughs and pulls her close, giving her a conspiratorial look as he playfully swats at her ass, squeezing plump flesh. She moans softly, shifting so that he can get a better grip, and when she arches her back, giving him a perfect, round target, he can hardly resist. His gloved hand lands with a loud smack, and she yelps, but it’s all theatrics, as she immediately wiggles her hips as if daring him to do it again, laughing softly. So he does, and again once more before she arches into his grip, purring softly and dragging him into a kiss.

He grabs her phone as she kisses him, holding it out at arm’s length, as he slips his hand down between her legs, whispering, “Okay, selfie now,” as he flicks his fingers across her clit. She gasps, and the flash goes off. He tosses the phone onto the bed, whispering, “Don’t post that one unless you want to make Page Six,” and slowly pushes his fingers inside her, turning her laugh into a halting moan.

It’s not the best angle, and he pulls her closer so he can get his fingers deeper inside her. She groans, rubbing her clit against his thigh, and he can feel how wet she is even through his tights. He nuzzles at her neck, whispering, “I want to make you shiver, and moan,” he bites gently at her shoulder, “I want to pleasure you until you can hardly breathe,” she gasps, “I want to make you beg for me to stop because you just can’t take any more,” he drags his teeth along her throat, “…and then I want to do it again.”

She clenches down on his fingers, shuddering, and he kisses her, swallowing her cries. She shivers as he slips his fingers out, and there’s a dreamy haze in her eyes now. He brings his hand to his mouth, watching her as he licks the length of his fingers, sucking the taste of her from his glove. The look on her face makes his cock ache, but he takes his time, making a show of it until her gaze is shot black with lust. He dips his head, taking his fingers completely into his mouth, and she bites her lip, whimpering.

He pulls her atop him, grinding his hips against hers, “I want you,” She lets her head fall against his shoulder, moaning, as he whispers, “I want to be inside you…”

She shivers, “Oh, fuck yes.”

He smirks, “Language.”

She rolls her eyes, “Just shut up and fuck me, Captain.”

“I can do that,” he whispers, and shoves his shorts down, pops the snaps at the crotch of his leotard, slips his cock out of his tights. It used to be a real hassle, getting out of this costume, but after the first couple of weeks he had it down to an art. She shudders with anticipation as he lines himself up, and slowly sinks down on his cock, eyes closed, mouth open, breathing shallow. She’s so wet, and warm, and takes him so easily as he arches up against her. He pulls her down, pushing as deep as he can, and she moans softly, letting her head fall back.

He takes her slowly, thrusting deep, pulling out almost completely before sliding home again, working her up until she shudders and arches back, bracing her hands against his chest, weight resting on his hips. Whenever he thrusts up against her, she has this peculiar habit of tucking her feet beneath his hips, and he can feel her toes curl as she leans back, hitting just the right spot. It's somehow impossibly intimate — as if he’s an integral part of her pleasure, not just one of many partners, interchangeable and essentially anonymous; and it’s unlike any woman he's ever met.

The strap of her neglige has slipped from her shoulder, and he slips it down, exposing her breast; a perfect, soft teardrop. He trails his fingers across her nipple, a little rush of delight as it perks beneath his touch, flushing a delicate, deep rose pink. She shivers and smiles, eyes still closed, and leans down so that, if he cranes his neck just right, he can reach to suckle that beautiful nipple, mouthing and teasing with his tongue. He strokes her other breast through her neglige, loving the contrast between satin and silky soft skin, the slip of the fabric beneath his hand as he gently squeezes, the light scratch of lace.

She threads her fingers through his hair and strokes his cheek, sighing softly with each thrust, languid and dreamy. His own pleasure builds slowly, almost imperceptibly, until in the space of a breath he finds himself shuddering, struggling against it, clutching at her, desperate to hold back the tide. Her hair has fallen across his face, and his entire world is contained in the little space between her neck and shoulder; the subtle scent of her perfume, the quiet rise and fall of her breathing and the gentle sounds she makes. He fights it, but she’s so warm, so tight, and she keeps slowly grinding down against him. He kisses along the smooth, pale arch of her throat as he grinds his hips against hers, thrusting hard, making her moan, and his resolve breaks; he gasps, burying his head in her shoulder, shuddering through an orgasm that comes in relentless, crashing waves.

She falls against the pillow, breathing heavy, staring at the ceiling. After a moment, she looks over at him with a soft smile, “Do you have plans this afternoon?”

He laughs, but it’s more of a breathless sort of sigh, “Other than this? No.”

“Mm, we’re going to have to order in, then,” she says, stretching, “because I don’t want to let you out of bed.”

“We can do that,” he trails his fingers across her shoulder, “or if you’re not hungry yet, I can go again in a few minutes, if you want.”

Darcy cocks an eyebrow, “Oh really now?”

He tries not to look completely smug, and knows he probably fails, “The serum had some unexpected… bonuses.”

She rests her chin on his shoulder, giving him a look of intense attention, “So…”

He glances down, letting her follow his gaze, and drags her hand to his soft cock, still slick with their pleasure, “I just need a little encouragement.”

She gives him a wicked grin, “I can do that.”

Chapter Text

Steve has always been a fairly light sleeper, and lately he hasn’t so much been sleeping as just napping for a couple of hours here and there. When a message comes through at about half past four in the morning, even though he’s set his phone to vibrate, he still hears it.

It’s from Bruce, and reads simply, ‘sauna, 10p’

Steve stretches and yawns, squinting at the bright light in the darkness, and types back, ‘See you then.’ He thinks about trying to say something clever, or adding an emoticon, but in the end he just hits send.

Bruce doesn’t type back.

Steve sets his phone down and sighs. He’s almost certainly up for the day now. It’s too early to go down to the gym, even for him, but it’s not so bad being awake at this hour, not really, even if it’s a bit lonely. He’s been catching up on a lot of movies in his spare time. So far, he’s worked his way through just about everything that’s won an Academy Award, and most of the major box office hits of the last twenty years, though he’s saving all the costume dramas for later.

He yawns and gets out of bed, flips through the latest stack of DVDs he’s borrowed from Phil, but he’s already watched most of the English titles, and he doesn’t really feel like reading a movie right now. He digs through his own collection, wavers between Apocalypse Now and The Big Red One, but finally settles on Dr. Strangelove.

He’s watched it so many times now, he can almost recite it from memory. Jack D. Ripper reminds him of a guy on his block who kept a stockpile of survival supplies in his basement, and sang the praises of radium toothpaste to anyone who would listen. He wonders what happened to that guy sometimes. Probably nothing good. Turns out radium wasn’t such a miracle after all.

He settles back into bed, building a little nest out of his pillow and blanket, zoning out to the familiar opening credits, feeling nostalgic for simpler times. Not only were the threats concrete and relatively straightforward, and generally earth-bound, but his personal life was a lot less fraught as well.

He had Bucky, and Peggy, and sure, that was complicated, but if all he needed was to get laid, there were a dozen pretty USO girls and a dozen more gentlemen of the theatrical persuasion hanging around the show at any given time who were more than game to spend a night with a national icon. Everyone knew how that sort of thing worked, and all it took was finding a place neither of them had any particular desire to linger; a cheap hotel or the showers in the barracks, his dressing room or even a blanket spread out under the stage.

It was much easier to keep his distance back in the day, when the people he was fucking weren’t really his friends. They would both get what they wanted and go their own way, exchange pleasantries the next time they ran into one another. Maybe they’d even do it again sometime if it went particularly well, but even that didn’t matter, the performers were constantly being shipped here and there, reassigned. A new handful would arrive every few weeks like clockwork.

It made everything so much simpler, and in a way, he almost appreciates Bruce’s holding him at arm’s length now. He knows he’s already a little falling too deep into whatever he has with Darcy, and at least this way, maybe it won’t turn into another awkward triangle where everyone pretends it’s anything but. He sighs and turns off the TV, rolls over and tries to get a little more sleep.

The more things change, the more they stay the same. Story of his life.

Chapter Text

When he finally makes his way down to the showers late that night, he finds Bruce already in the sauna, stretched out on one of the wooden benches, draped in a towel and luxuriating in the dry heat, eyes closed, a dreamy smile on his face. Bruce rouses as Steve opens the door, his skin visibly pricking to gooseflesh in the sudden rush of cool air.

“Hey,” Bruce says, and shivers slightly, brushing damp hair out of his eyes.

“Hey,” Steve says, and he’s a little surprised at how genuinely pleased he is to see him again.

With Bruce working on Norwegian time lately, they’ve crossed paths even less frequently than usual, and it occurs to him that this is the start of Bruce’s day. He wonders what excuse Bruce has given to skip out on the inevitable morning meetings that come with an international project as large as this one, and he near blushes to his toes imagining Bruce telling a room full of scientists the unadorned truth about what they’re doing, in that earnest, unequivocal way of his, as if he were just recounting the details of some experiment.

Bruce hitches himself up on one elbow and gestures to the bench beside him, stifling a yawn, “Plenty of space.”

Steve sits, and sidles a bit closer when Bruce reaches out towards him, letting himself be pulled into an awkward sort of embrace as Bruce wraps his arm around his hips and drapes himself across his lap, laying his head on his thigh and sighing contentedly.

It’s been a long day, and for now he’s more than happy just listen to the slow fall of Bruce’s breathing. He threads his fingers through Bruce’s hair, sticky with fresh sweat, and exhales slowly, closing his eyes and leaning back against the wall, enjoying the warmth radiating from the wood paneling, the heat of Bruce’s skin. He trails his fingers down Bruce’s throat, seeking out the heartbeat there; flesh and bone, real and reassuring. With all the noise and chaos constantly surrounding them, it’s all too easy to forget they’re all only human, or close enough to it. He sighs and settles, taking the time to just breathe, just be.

It’s not all that long before Bruce shifts, stretching and stifling another yawn as he rolls over to look up at him, and with a wry little grin, asks, “Come here often?”

Steve laughs, looking down at Bruce, “Every now and again…” voice trailing off as he gets caught in those shining, deep brown eyes. There’s a gentle, almost unselfconscious air about Bruce tonight, something very different than his typical practiced calm; that quiet, slow-moving ponderousness, carefully calibrated to set people at ease, an elaborate performance of safeness. This feels genuine, unrehearsed, maybe even relaxed. Somehow, it feels a lot like trust, and it draws him in like a moth to a flame. He trails his fingers along Bruce’s collarbone, puzzling at the tangle of thoughts and feelings in his head that is this strange man, and finds he’s leant down and pressed his lips to Bruce’s; a gentle kiss, but more passionate and openhearted than he might have intended. He feels Bruce go tense with a sharp, shallow gasp, and his instinct is to pull away, apologize profusely, but then Bruce relaxes with a soft sigh, lips parted, and Steve kisses him softly, feeling so tender towards him that it almost physically hurts.

Bruce shifts, trying to sit up without breaking away, and Steve slips his hand beneath those lean shoulders, pulling him up, cradling him in his arms, his own sigh of relief turning into a low, aching moan as Bruce reaches to pull him down into a deeper kiss, grip slipping with the sweat that has already broken out across the back of Steve’s neck.

Steve wants to touch, wants to kiss, wants to have Bruce trembling beneath his hands, but he remembers last time; how Bruce shied away, shuddered to be touched, his aching desire and self-denial. He has the impression Bruce is a sort of untamed horse underneath that air of beatific calm, strong and proud but ready to bolt at the slightest provocation, and he’s resolved to tread lightly. If he were to think about it, he might decide his hesitation was just another variation of that one unbreakable rule that everyone has quietly adopted, the rule that even interns somehow know on their first day — Never. Startle. Dr. Banner. — but then, Dr. Banner doesn’t startle so easily, and Steve knows that, too. In point of fact, Steve is fairly certain he’s never seen anyone actually manage to startle Bruce, not even Tony, not even when he spent most of his time trying. They all know that, and yet all of them, every last one of them, they still tread lightly. He’s never stopped to think how Bruce might feel about that.

He sighs against Bruce’s mouth, squeezing at his shoulder, and whispers, “Let me touch you…”

Bruce makes a soft sound as he closes his eyes, leaning his head against Steve’s shoulder, relaxing into his arms. Steve almost purrs with satisfaction, and strokes his hand down Bruce’s chest, tracing the curve of bone, letting his fingers settle in the hollows between ribs, holding him close and sighing with each breath, kissing him slow and deep, hand wandering across soft, sweat-slick skin until he reaches the boundary of that towel. Bruce shifts, drawing his leg up. The towel slips down, and Steve squeezes at his hip, tracing the ropy outlines of lean muscle, trailing his hand along the inside of his thigh. Bruce sighs, letting his legs fall apart, and Steve pushes the towel aside as he drags his hand across Bruce’s groin, scratching gently at thick pubic hair, not so much teasing as giving Bruce ample time to change his mind.

Bruce just rubs his cheek against Steve’s shoulder, making a soft, almost encouraging sound, and when Steve finally trails his fingers along the length of his cock, Bruce shivers, breath catching in his throat. Bruce’s cock is marvelously thick, firm and flushed a gorgeous pink, and Steve’s mouth floods with desire at the weight of him in his hand. He wants to lick and kiss and suck, feel that wonderful length in his mouth, but instead he holds Bruce close and rubs his cheek against the crown of his head, burying his nose in the smell of him, all clean sweat and soft musk.

Bruce moans softly to be touched, rocking his hips and meeting him at every stroke, needy but still restrained, wanting but not taking. Steve is tempted to quicken his pace, to drag him shivering and whining into a well-deserved climax, but Bruce seems so content, breathing slow, every muscle in his body so relaxed. He squeezes at Bruce’s cock, working him slow and easy, occasionally drawing out his touch to trail his fingers across the tip of Bruce’s cock, loving the soft shudder it sends through Bruce, but he always goes back to that gentle rhythm, letting Bruce enjoy himself for as long as he wants. Now and again he’ll feel Bruce shudder, biting down on a quiet little moan, and he can’t keep himself from squeezing a little harder, making his next stroke a little stronger, until finally Bruce arches against his hand, tense and whimpering with every breath.

“I’ve got you,” Steve whispers.

Bruce gasps, clutching hard at Steve’s wrist, face twisted into a grimace of pleasure, breathing sharp through clenched teeth, until finally he moans, an almost anguished sound, and lets his head fall back against Steve’s shoulder, collapsing into his arms, breathing slow and deep, as if he’s just come. His cock is still hard, flushed and needy as ever, but Bruce just sighs and drags Steve’s hand back to his chest, threading their fingers together and squeezing fondly.

“I had no idea how much I needed that,” Bruce sighs, sounding overwhelmed and almost surprised, “Thank you.”

Steve leans down and nuzzles at his cheek, feeling the soft scratch of stubble against his lips, and whispers, “That was wonderful.”

His own cock is aching; there’s a thick, wet smear of precum across his thighs, but Bruce’s satisfaction is almost contagious, and even though he feels like he could be fucked for days and love every moment of it, he’s not sure he would feel any more content, at the end of it, than he feels right now. The physical need has always been the least of his problem.

He sighs and leans back against the wall, resting his head against the paneling, but before he’s even settled, Bruce has wrapped an arm around his neck and is pulling him down, dragging him into a deep kiss, pushing his tongue into his mouth, demanding and possessive and fierce, licking and sucking on his lip until he’s gasping, moaning softly, all that want suddenly overwhelming; bone-deep contentment turned to aching desperation in the space of a breath. Bruce knots his fingers in Steve’s hair, pulling gently, making him arch his head back so he can nip at his throat, teeth grazing against sensitive skin, and Steve whines, pulling him closer, shifting against his own hardness, suddenly aware of how uncomfortably needy he really is.

Bruce trails his tongue along that thread of exposed tendon that runs the length of Steve’s neck, making a soft, low sound, and with no warning at all, bites down hard. Steve gasps, entire body gone tense with surprise as pleasure floods through him and he moans, shuddering in Bruce’s grip. When Bruce finally lets up, Steve shivers, moaning softly, wanting him to do it again. Bruce hums softly, licking at the stinging indentations left by teeth, and slowly leaves a stripe of wet kisses and stinging bites along Steve’s throat, fingers tracing across his chest as he slips down, pausing to suckle one nipple to taut hardness, rolling the other between his fingers, pinching gently.

Steve feels overwrought, like it’s too much effort to even keep sitting up, and he sprawls out along the bench, closing his eyes, letting Bruce do what he wants.

Bruce just slides down to kneel beside him, sucking a meandering trail of deep bruises into the skin across his ribs, down his side, along the crest of his hip, lips ghosting across his cock. Bruce nuzzles at Steve’s crotch, licking at the hollow where hip joins thigh, dragging his teeth against the tendon there. Steve whines with want, but that whine turns to a yelp as Bruce bites down, hard and deep. Steve tangles his fingers in Bruce’s hair, simultaneously trying to pull him away and keep him exactly where he is. Bruce sucks a deep bruise into Steve’s thigh, not stopping until Steve is almost writhing, whimpering and trying to bury his face in his arm to keep quiet. It feels incredible, the heat of his mouth, the hardness of his teeth, the way muscle yields and skin flushes. When Bruce finally stops, Steve is gasping, shuddering, cock aching.

Bruce just makes a soft sound, lips ghosting across the tip of Steve’s cock, and when Steve whimpers, Bruce slowly swallows him to the hilt.

Steve can’t help himself, he arches against Bruce’s mouth with a wracked moan, thrusting into that heat. Bruce doesn’t bridle, doesn’t pause, he just swallows, breathing slow, and Steve knots his fingers in Bruce’s hair, pushing deep into Bruce’s throat. Bruce moans so low and wanton that any guilt, any lingering hesitation Steve might have had simply vanishes. It feels so good, and he can’t help but think about how it must feel for Bruce, how his jaw must ache, how his throat must feel so tight and raw, and before he can even build up a rhythm, he’s gasping, almost completely overwrought. Bruce feels him falter and takes over, keeping that relentless pace, dragging him right to the edge with lips and tongue, but it’s the soft flutter of Bruce’s throat as he swallows that truly undoes him, and he spills into that warm, tight wetness, trembling as Bruce swallows again and again, taking everything.

It takes him a few moments to catch his breath, and then Bruce is pulling away, looking tired, but deeply content. Bruce leans close, drawing him into a lingering, passionate kiss that hints of things to come, and if Steve wasn’t already wrecked, that kiss alone might have broken him. He sighs, the taste of sweat and his own pleasure lingering on his tongue, pervading his senses.

Bruce just smiles and picks up his towel, draping it around his hips. He squeezes Steve’s shoulder, and doesn’t so much as look back as he leaves.

Steve shivers in the sudden rush of cool air, but it clears his head a bit, and he takes a deep breath, trying to rouse himself. Still, he takes a few moments before he makes himself get up. The last thing he wants to do right now is move.

Chapter Text

All his talk about coming home early, not three days have gone by before Tony has up and gone to Australia to work on something with some upstart kid. Steve doesn’t really catch much of it, something about robotics, he thinks, or maybe some sort of neural interface, he’s not entirely sure. It’s all very exciting though, at least if how fast Tony talks is any measure.

Natasha has vanished to deal with problems almost as old as she is, and despite her stern warning to the contrary, Clint has followed her. It’s admirable, how determined Clint can be about that sort of thing, even when he knows Natasha will be more angry than grateful. That sort of loyalty is exactly what Steve wants in a teammate. It just happens to be working against him this month.

Jane has absconded to Norway, and taken not only Thor with her, but Darcy too, which was a bit of a surprise, since Darcy doesn’t actually work for Jane anymore. Neither of them seemed particularly bothered by that detail, and, as Darcy reminded him before she left, “Science waits for no man.” Not even Captain America, apparently. The worst of it is that they’ve taken Bruce, too.

Even Pepper has gone to Los Angeles, which, compared to the rest of his team, is just a hop and a skip away, but without a good reason to visit she might as well be half the world away. Pepper has made it clear she’s entirely game, but nonetheless, ‘Hi, I was really hard up, and you were only five hours away by plane,’ has to be the worst line he’s ever heard.

Which is all just a long way of saying that his dance card is empty, and having been spoiled for choice for so long, he had forgotten just how awful it was to be hurting for company.

The third week going, he’s beaten his way through most of the sandbags in New York, as well as every single agent and intern willing to step into the ring with him. He’s made a point to go fairly easy on the interns, but there are still more than a few walking a bit more gingerly than they really should be, and as for the agents, well, he’s really hoping the criminal element decides to take a vacation for the next few weeks.

So when he notices Phil standing in the corner of the gym one morning, just watching him, arms folded, an almost vexed look on his face, he’s expecting a fairly well-deserved dressing down, rather than an invitation to get a drink. He blinks, trying to come up with something that isn’t the excuse and apology he was planning to lead with, but finally just nods dumbly.

Phil meets him downstairs promptly at half past five, looking only a little worse for wear. He simultaneously leads the way and steers the conversation, chatting amicably about everything and nothing, drawing Steve out and setting him instantly at ease, the way he always has, and before Steve has even had a chance to start to wonder where they’re going, Phil is leading him through the lobby of a chic little boutique hotel.

He’s a little surprised at the choice of venue. It doesn’t have the air of a place Phil would frequent, or even choose for a casual drink, but he keeps fast on Phil’s heels, and soon enough they’re settled in a quiet corner of the lobby bar; Phil sipping a Manhattan, Steve with the first decent beer he’s had in ages. Judging from the first few intrepid happy hour patrons slowly making their way though the heavy glass doors, it’s evidently a pretty hip joint, and they’re more than a little out of place, but Phil doesn’t seem to care. In all truth he seems to not notice the people at all as he finishes his drink and sighs, leaning back in his chair, a soft smile on his face.

Steve knocks back the last of his beer, catching the eye of their server and gesturing for another round, “Rough day?”

Phil laughs, loosening his tie, “Not so much, but it’s finally Friday, and nobody’s currently trying to destroy democracy as we know it, so…”

The server comes with their drinks. This time she leaves a little bowl of salted nuts and a menu, mentioning that they’ll be serving dinner in about half an hour. Steve notices Phil is making rather impressive headway on his second drink, and so he sets his beer down, grabs a small handful of the nuts and conspicuously munches as he pushes the bowl towards Phil, trying to lead by example.

Phil glances at the bowl for a moment, but then absently gazes off towards the bar as he reaches into his breast pocket and sets a keycard on the table, sliding it towards Steve.

“I’ve got a room, if you’d like,” his expression is nonchalant, noncommittal. He’s just watching the crowd of bright young things slowly gathering at the bar, almost as if he does this sort of thing every day, like it doesn’t matter one way or the other to him, and they might as well be talking about the weather.

It catches Steve completely flat-footed, and he ends up just studying the man, trying to suss out whether he’s actually interested or just trying to keep one of his more notable assets entertained. Phil takes a sip of his Manhattan and grimaces slightly, as if his sweet drink has suddenly turned bitter, and that’s all the warning Steve gets, but his reflexes are extraordinary, and he manages to grab the keycard before Phil has taken it back.

Phil gives him a weak smile, and starts to say something, but Steve interrupts him, saying, “I didn’t know… I was just surprised.” He glances down at his hands, clearing his throat, “Sorry.” He tucks the keycard into his pocket before either of them have a chance to change their mind.

Phil actually does smile then, “I would’ve suggested we get a drink ages ago, if I’d known. They didn’t mention that particular side-effect in any of the reports.”

“Yeah,” Steve blushes, “It’s not something I ever really mentioned to anyone before,” he says, and glances around, lowering his voice, “I’ve really got to get with this century. Apparently half the team is willing to take me to bed, if I ask nicely.”

Phil laughs, “I’d put it at closer to half of the organization… Do you really think all those interns were lining up just for bloody noses? Most of them are in the research division, they’ve never had a day of combat training in their lives.”

It all suddenly makes sense, and when Phil just smirks and shrugs, finishing his drink, Steve bursts out laughing, because here he’s been dying for company, and it’s been staring him in the face and occasionally bleeding on him all along. He sighs and finishes his beer, wondering how he could’ve been so obtuse. He used to be really good at this sort of thing.

“We should probably go up separately,” Phil says, but then almost seems to think better of it, “Unless you’d like another drink? Or dinner? They do mostly pub food, but it’s good.”

Steve demurs; he’s not hungry, another beer won’t make any difference, and he’s feeling more and more underdressed by the minute, now that the after-work crowd has started to arrive in force, clad in thousand-dollar suits and smart, provocative dresses. Phil nods, “Room 712, I’ll get the tab and join you in a few minutes.” Steve stands, but hesitates, looking around, and Phil gestures towards the bar, “Go out around the back, then make a right. Elevators are on the left.”

Steve takes a deep breath and smiles, trying to make a casual, inconspicuous exit, despite the fact that he has the sudden sense everyone in the bar knows exactly who he is and what he’s up to.

He stares at the floor while he’s waiting for the elevator, trying not to blush, and it’s a little strange, because it never bothered him back in the day when everyone really did know who he was, and it was all too easy to guess what he — and every other serviceman in town — was up to on a Friday night. It’s a small mercy that nobody joins him in the elevator, and as soon as the doors close he leans against the wall, breathing a sigh of relief. He’s got an odd case of the jitters, and he wishes, not for the first time, that it was easier for him to get drunk.

The room is on the smaller side even for New York, but it’s a corner unit and the view is stunning, not so much for its breadth as for the sunset still lighting up the skyline in fuchsia and gold. There’s an antique-looking gilt mirror on one wall that catches the last of the fleeting daylight coming in through the curtains, scattering broken sunbeams through the room, sparkling against glass and brass accents, giving everything a faint glow. He lingers at the window, watching the sunlight slowly fade into twilight.

Phil is taking a while.

Steve sighs, glancing around the room. There are a pair of plush robes in the closet, fancy, expensive-smelling toiletries in the bathroom, and somewhat surprisingly, he finds a bottle of lube and a Gideon Bible in the nightstand drawer. He’s pretty sure the first isn’t standard, wonders if Phil has been by earlier in the day, but as for the second, well, it’s comforting to know that some things never change. He kicks his shoes off and strips down to his shorts, sprawling across the bed.

When Phil finally arrives, heralded by the electronic click of the lock, Steve pushes himself up on one elbow. There’s a moment, so fleeting and subtle he might almost think he had imagined it, where Phil actually looks surprised to see him — and then Phil smiles that same practiced, easy smile he can manage even while the world goes straight to hell all around him.

Something about that smile, the way Phil is trying to play everything off so casually, it makes Steve feel playful, a little wicked, and he drops his voice to a sultry purr as he asks, “So, is this what you had in mind, when you were watching me sleeping?”

Phil stops mid-stride, and actually has to take a moment before he recovers, “Well, I…”

Steve laughs, and in one smooth motion he reaches out and catches hold of Phil’s arm, dragging him down onto the bed, whispering, “If it wasn’t, I’ll be sorely disappointed.”

Phil smirks as he kicks off his shoes, clearly relieved, “I’m taking the fifth,” he says, and pulls away for just long enough to shrug out of his jacket and toss it over the back of a nearby chair, “But I’m not saying you’re wrong.”

Steve leans close and brushes his lips across Phil’s cheek, whispering, “You wouldn’t be the first person who wanted to besmirch a national icon…” as he slowly draws him into his arms. There’s a moment where Phil hesitates, a sharp, tense breath, but just like that it passes, and he sighs, closing his eyes and letting himself be kissed. He tastes of bourbon, citrus and syrup-sweet cherries, and Steve suspects he might have had another round before he came upstairs; Steve can sympathize. He trails his fingers down Phil’s cheek, smiling as Phil shivers, a little gasp. This is going to be fun.

He sets to loosening Phil’s tie, unbuttoning his shirt, tracing his fingers along the little semicircle of exposed skin between his throat and the collar of his undershirt, bending to kiss his jaw, licking a long, wet stripe across his collarbone. Phil makes a soft sound, and cards his fingers through Steve’s hair, arching into every little touch, but he doesn’t so much as shrug out of his shirt until Steve slips it from his shoulders. Steve undresses him slowly, taking his time to stroke and caress, his touch lingering as he explores the curve of his ribs, the dip of his sternum, the hollow at the crest of his hip. He doesn’t seem shy of his scar, and Steve notices it’s just one of many; there’s a bullet-wound just above his right hip, through and through to his back, a long gash across his right bicep, and countless other less-distinct, better-healed scars. He has the urge to kiss every last one.

Phil shudders as Steve slides his hand down the front of his trousers, stroking him through his boxers. Phil just melts into it, almost sighing with each breath, stretching out across the bed, eyes still closed, breath a soft moan as he spreads his legs. Steve teases, touch gentle and fleeting, kissing him deep, licking at his mouth, sucking at his lip, and soon Phil is trembling, making soft, needy little noises with every caress, taking everything he gives, but not asking for anything.

“Tell me what you want,” Steve whispers, trying to draw him out.

“I…” Phil’s words are breathy with desire, but there’s still a little quaver of uncertainty in his voice, “I want you.”

“You’ve wanted me for years, haven’t you?”

Steve hardly notices the way Phil’s breath catches in his throat, how he goes deathly quiet, rigidly tense, as if he’s just been caught at the scene of a crime. He’s too caught up in the fantasy of it all; Phil with an old, battered copy of On Patrol in hand, stroking himself into an easy orgasm, mouth slack, staring glassy-eyed at a faded promotional photo, or maybe one of the candid photos they staged out in the field.

“God, I love the idea of you touching yourself, thinking about me,” he purrs, rubbing up against Phil’s leg, shivering with the thought, but Phil’s trousers are in the way, and he’s feeling suddenly impatient, needy. There’s nothing he wants more in the world right now than to get the man naked, and he drags Phil out of the last of his clothes, tossing them to the floor and kicking off his own shorts as well.

Phil just watches, trembling, expression equal parts desperation and trepidation, as Steve bends down to lick a long wet stripe up the length of his cock, and slowly swallows him to the hilt.

Phil shivers and his breath goes thready, gasping and desperate until finally he tangles his fingers in Steve’s hair and arches against his mouth, throwing his head back and moaning; such a low, mournful sound it catches Steve off guard, leaves him almost dizzy with desire and suddenly a little short of breath himself. He swallows, trying to marshal himself, but Phil has knotted his fingers in Steve’s hair and is pulling, trying to drag him away.

Phil is overwrought, shivering from head to toe, eyes shot black with desire, and he pulls Steve into his arms, kissing him messily, panting against his mouth. Phil swallows heavily, licking his lips. His voice is wrecked, thready, almost hoarse with desire, as he whispers, “I want you…”

Steve’s mouth floods with desire, and he slips his hand beneath Phil’s waist, grinding their hips together, shuddering. They’re both so caught up in the moment, Steve doesn’t stop to think, doesn’t ask, he just reaches over and blindly grabs for the lube in the drawer, squeezing a dollop of the silky smooth lube across his fingers, into the palm of his hand.

Phil groans and spreads his legs, closing his eyes, breath gone sharp and thready with anticipation.

Steve smears an obscene amount of lube between Phil’s legs before he slicks himself; he can’t keep from bucking into his own grip with a shuddering moan. He’s so turned on he can hardly think.

Phil is trembling, but his grip is steady as he takes hold of Steve’s hip, pulling him close. Steve doesn’t bother with teasing, probably couldn’t make himself even if he wanted to, and once he feels that soft, perfect kiss of Phil’s body, he just pushes into that beautiful heat, thrusting slow and deep.

Phil moans to feel him, but that moan breaks off into a sharp cry as the head of Steve’s cock slips inside, he goes stock-still, every muscle straining, his grip suddenly so tight Steve actually gasps.

That little bit of pain brings Steve back to himself, and he finally looks down at Phil, really looks, and finally sees the anxious tremble, the sheen of nervous sweat across his collarbone, and he feels the first inklings of a realization he doesn’t entirely like.

“I… I’m a little tense,” Phil halfheartedly laughs, but his voice is broken, shaky.

Steve lowers himself to his elbows, and as he rests his hips against Phil’s, he notices Phil’s cock has gone soft. He laces his fingers through Phil’s hair, stroking his cheek, drawing him into a gentle kiss, dragging his hand down along his ribs, fingertips traipsing across the arch of his hip.

“We have all night,” he whispers, “…and there’s nowhere I would rather be.”

Phil holds him tight, taking a deep breath, and Steve expects him to relax, to settle, but instead he holds his breath and arches his hips, forcing himself to take Steve’s cock just a fraction of an inch deeper, fighting against himself, pushing until he trembles and finally collapses, gasping, with a frustrated groan, face twisted into a pained grimace.

Steve wants to pet him, wants to gentle him into an easy, relaxed sort of pleasure, but he can almost feel the iron in Phil’s voice as he half-whispers, “…just fuck me.”

It isn’t what he should do, isn’t what he really wants to do, but Phil isn’t going to be so easily swayed. “Alright,” he whispers, and shifts, going as gently as he can.

Even so, it’s a struggle. Phil is so tense, and his body just refuses to give way; even when he finally gasps, shuddering and finally almost manages to relax, every inch is a battle, the slide is so hot and unbearably close it makes Steve’s cock ache.

“Oh, god,” Steve drops his head against Phil’s shoulder as he finally bottoms out, “You’re so tight I can hardly stand it.”

Phil is panting, almost gasping, “I’ve never actually done this before…” and Steve can hear him lick his lips, swallowing heavily as he tries to catch his breath.

Steve knew it, knew it and ignored it, and he immediately curses himself. He shifts, wincing at the moan that catches in Phil’s throat, and looks at him, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Phil looks away, “You would’ve been a gentleman,” he pauses, drawing a shaky breath, “…and I would’ve lost my nerve.” He closes his eyes, “I nearly did anyway,” he sighs, “I’m such a fool. This is a joke. I should have known better.”

Steve frowns and brushes the hair from Phil’s forehead, “I meant what I said,” he’s looking for words he doesn’t have, he doesn’t know how to explain that he’s not just here because he was hard-up, and he knows that’s exactly what it looks like. Finally he just sighs, and bends to press his lips against Phil’s cheek, whispering, “I want to be here, I want to be with you.”

Phil makes a soft, sad sound that almost seems like a laugh, but doesn’t say anything.

Steve trails his fingers down Phil’s side. “Just tell me what you want…” he whispers, “Tell me what you used to think about, when you touched yourself…”

“It was… absurd.” There’s shame in that word, and the way Phil’s voice trails off with a sad little sigh, Steve knows the answer. “You thought about fucking me…” he whispers.

Phil makes an uncomfortable sound, and turns away. Steve can’t make out what he says; his voice is barely a whisper. There’s so much sadness, so much regret, it almost breaks Steve’s heart, and when he thinks about how easily this all could have been avoided, how little it would have taken, it almost makes him want to break something. He knots his hand in the sheets, clenches his teeth, and takes a deep breath, trying to keep his voice even, “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Phil’s voice cracks with embarrassment, “I couldn’t… I… You’re not…”

Steve has to bite back an angry laugh, and he almost growls, “Why? Am I not man enough to take your cock?”

Phil starts to say something, but Steve just bucks his hips, enjoying the way Phil startles and clutches at his hip, whimpering; it isn’t kind, but it’s very satisfying. He’s spent more than half his life with people being terrified of breaking him, and he’ll be damned if anyone treats him like that ever again. He leans down, meaning to say something to that effect, but as he shifts he feels Phil shudder, going stock-still and digging his fingers into Steve’s hip, gasping.

All that anger, that hurt, just melts away, and he bends to lick at Phil’s mouth, slipping his hand between them and palming Phil’s soft cock, squeezing gently. He rocks his hips and Phil trembles, breath a thready little whine that almost breaks into a moan.

Steve drops his voice to a purr, “This is what I love…” He pushes a little deeper, angling his hips just right, and Phil shudders and arches against his hand, gasping at the sensation. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? So deep, intense…”

“This is what I want…” Steve strokes Phil’s cock, working the length of him, “Your beautiful cock, filling me, stretching me…” Phil is getting hard at the thought, and Steve presses his lips to Phil’s ear, whispering, “I can take it for hours, you know. I can come again and again… ”

Phil shudders and groans, and Steve just keeps on, “I want you to fuck me until I’m so sore I can hardly stand it,” he moans against Phil’s mouth, “I want you to fuck me until I’m so desperate I’m begging you to come… Please,” he lets his voice break into a breathy little whine, “Please… Please…”

Steve pushes in deep, pulling Phil’s hips into a hard arch, holding there until he trembles, stroking his cock hard and fast, making him gasp and shudder and clutch at the sheets.

“Tell me what you want,” Steve purrs.

Phil is desperate, “I…”

He bites Phil’s lip, voice low, “Tell me.”

“I want you…” Phil whimpers, shivering.

Steve drags his thumb across the tip of Phil’s cock, squeezing, “Say it…”

“Oh god,” Phil shudders, “I want to fuck you.”

Phil moans so desperately, so low and loud that Steve wonders, briefly, what the people in the adjoining rooms must be thinking. Steve kisses him deeply, swallowing that moan and licking at his mouth, stroking him until he’s absolutely overwrought.

“That’s it,” Steve whispers, licking at Phil’s mouth, “Say it again, I want to hear it.”

“I want to fuck you, Steve,” Phil gasps, “I want to fuck you.”

“No,” Steve whispers, “You want to fuck Captain America.”

Phil’s eyes go wide, his whole body shaking with pleasure as he arches against Steve’s cock, gasping through clenched teeth, a keening whine at the back of his throat as he spills into Steve’s hand. Steve moans to watch him, feel him, as he strokes him through it. Phil collapses, exhausted and completely undone, breathing slow and deep. Steve slips out with a shiver. Phil moans softly to lose him and reaches out, catching hold of his arm, pulling him close. Steve gathers him up in his arms and holds him tight. He feels wrung out; there’s a tight feeling in his chest, and he doesn’t know why. The only thing he knows to do is to just hold tight, hold tight and not let go.

Chapter Text

It’s about 3AM, and Steve is lounging in the common room, half-heartedly watching terrible TV, a mix of thirty-year-old reruns and infomercials, still feeling jet lagged from his last assignment. Clint announces himself with a self-pitying noise, proceeds to grab a beer from the fridge, and then unceremoniously drops into a heap on the couch next to Steve with a whine.

Steve glances over, “Long week?”

Clint gives him a doleful look and takes a swig of his beer, “You could say that.”

“Sorted?”

“Mostly,” Clint yawns and stretches, flinching halfway through. He starts to massage a sore spot near his shoulder, but clearly can’t quite reach, so Steve scoots closer, patting his arm and saying, “Go on, turn around.”

Clint sighs almost as soon as Steve gets his hands on him, slowly relaxing under that strong touch. It’s been ages since he’s given anyone a massage, but his hands remember the work, fingers tracing out taut muscles almost by instinct, following every little twitch and shudder, slowly working down to the source.

The girls in the USO immediately adopted him as a bit of a lost lamb when he was thrown in amongst them. They took it upon themselves to teach him a great many things; Sue made a particular project of teaching him how to best to soothe sore muscles, and once she had him properly trained, he found his hands constantly occupied. Some of the guys took up knitting to deal with the boredom between performances, but he could hardly sit down without one or another of the chorus settling down beside him and draping their feet across his lap with a little smile, as if it were the most natural thing, as if he were only there for one purpose. Oh, he made a point to complain about how demanding they were, but it wasn’t exactly an imposition, stroking the beautiful legs of a dozen beautiful women, listening all the while to the equally beautiful sounds they would make as he found just the right spot.

He finds a knot near Clint’s spine and presses with the heel of his hand, loosening it with slow, gentle pressure. Clint gasps as it finally gives way and lets his head fall forward. Steve works through the rest of the tension; a veritable gordian knot of muscles gone rigid from making up for their neighbors, which are in turn taking the stress from others, and so on, such that Clint’s entire upper back is a strained mess. When he’s finally done, Clint is leaning against the back of the couch, breathing low and deep, and as Steve lifts his hands, stroking gently down Clint’s spine, Clint groans with relief and arches his back, stretching and looking almost a new man, if he weren’t so clearly exhausted.

“Better now?” Steve smiles. He’s missed being useful in little ways.

Clint sighs, a soft, hazy sound of relief, “Fuck, yes.”

“What on earth did you do to yourself?”

Clint just shakes his head, “Zigged when I shoulda zagged,” he clenches his hand into a fist, looking almost surprised, “Man, that is so much better.”

“In that case,” Steve says, trying to be nonchalant, “Would you let me buy you lunch sometime this week?”

Clint doesn’t respond for a minute, and Steve can almost hear him trying to figure it out. Just as he’s about to say something, Clint finally perks up saying, “Oh, right! Sure. When?”

“Whenever you feel up to it, really…” he rubs the back of his neck, hoping he doesn’t sound too eager.

Clint smirks, “Tomorrow night, if you like. I didn’t pull that, at least.”

Steve can’t help but laugh, “Tomorrow works. Just let me know when.”

Chapter Text

Clint arrives promptly at five past nine, and seeing that Steve is already in his boxers and teeshirt, just smiles and proceeds to strip down to his boxers. Steve tries not to seem as pent up as he feels, tries to be at least slightly subtle about watching him, but from the way Clint smirks when he finally looks up, he’s pretty sure it’s obvious. Clint doesn’t seem to hold it against him, though, just crawls into bed beside him and settles in beside him as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, saying, “So, what’s on the agenda tonight?”

“Would you…” Steve blushes a little, “Would you mind fucking me?”

He isn’t quite sure when he started being so blunt, but it seems to be working out alright, because Clint grins, and leans in close, almost purring, “I think I can manage that.”

Steve looks away and swallows, smiling awkwardly, “I, uhm…” It’s still a little bit strange with Clint, and he’s not sure what the etiquette is. Or should be. Or if there even is etiquette.

“Hey,” Clint says, laying a hand on his shoulder, “Look, it’s alright. I could’ve said no, could’ve just said I was tired, you know, and that would’ve been it,” he shrugs, “We both know you’d be the first person to lend me a hand,” he smirks, amused with the pun, “If it were me, so I’m happy to be of service,” he shifts closer, still smiling, “Especially if you throw me a massage now and again. I haven’t slept like that in months.” He pulls Steve close, almost purring, “Now c’mere,” and slips his hand down the front of Steve’s boxers.

Steve leans back with a sigh and rests his head in the curve of Clint’s shoulder, enjoying the way Clint trails his hand down between his legs, fingers traipsing the length of his cock, teasing and stroking. Soon enough he’s entirely forgotten that he should maybe feel a little embarrassed, a little shy about this sort of thing, and he’s arching into Clint’s hand, shuddering as the head of his cock slips against that gnarled scar that runs the length of Clint’s palm on every stroke.

Efficient. If Steve had to describe Clint in one word, that would be it. His hands are so deft, so skilled, and he uses them to such marvelous effect that it isn’t long before Steve has kicked his boxers to the floor and is moaning softly, pulling at Clint’s wrist, demanding and impatient. Clint doesn’t complain, just shimmies out of his boxers as Steve settles face down on the bed, slipping a pillow underneath his hips. Clint strokes his hand down Steve’s back, and Steve sighs, spreading his legs, angling his hips.

He’s been thinking about Howard a lot lately, between Tony and now Phil he hasn’t been able to get that one afternoon they spent together out of his head. They were in Howard’s workroom; he had been waiting for him to finish up some last additions to a new gadget, when Howard had finally had enough and just pulled off his gloves, throwing them on his table, saying, ‘Are you going to keep staring at me like I’m a slab of prime rib, or are you going to let me fuck you?’

He had been staring for weeks, the lean curve of his waist beneath that perfectly fitted shirt, strong shoulders cut into perfect symmetry by his suspenders, that slight bulge at the front of his trousers. He had been staring, and glancing away a moment too late every time, and hating himself every single time he did it, but he couldn’t help himself. The man positively dripped sex, always smelling like soap and grease and that peculiar cologne of his, too flashy, too complicated. He can almost smell it now, and he gets a heady whiff of it every time he passes Tony in the hall. From that day on, he had a particular affinity for it. These days, it makes him positively weak at the knees.

He grabs the lube and hands it back to Clint, saying, “Just use a lot… Don’t work me open.”

He feels Clint shrug, and then there’s that plastic click, the slick sound as Clint strokes himself, working his cock until it’s marvelously stiff. Steve swallows when he looks back and sees it, a slight shiver of trepidation runs up his spine, but it’s exactly what he wants. He closes his eyes, resting his head on his forearm and breathing deep.

All he’s got is KY, and compared to the magic potion that Tony has dreamed up — and apparently manufactured in large quantities — it’s sticky and viscous and not at all pleasant. He grimaces, making a mental note to ask Tony to send over a couple of jars, but something about Clint’s touch just steals the tension from his body, makes him feel leaden and light as air, and the thought vanishes into the soft whisper of the sheets as Clint kneels between his legs.

Clint braces himself with a hand on Steve’s shoulder, but as soon as Clint has his balance, Steve reaches back and guides that strong, coarse hand to rest against the back of his neck. Clint squeezes, pressing his thumb in the hollow just behind Steve’s jaw, a surprisingly sensitive pressure point that instantly leaves him shuddering, “You want it rough?”

He’s face down in the sheets and has to turn his head so he can actually speak, “Just…” he has to grasp for the right words, “Just take what you want, and… and…”

Clint leans down, cock slick and hard between Steve’s legs, “…and leave?”

Steve nods.

He hadn’t looked away that time, just licked his lips and swallowed hard, feeling like the air had suddenly gone out of the room, like his collar was two sizes too small, and that was enough. Howard hadn’t said a word, hadn’t hesitated or equivocated or cracked a joke, just taken a deep breath and slowly backed him into a corner. Even though Steve was substantially taller thanks to the serum, and all that much stronger than anyone else around for miles, he remembers feeling Howard towering over him then, all strong, swarthy masculinity, remembers going weak at the knees as Howard had taken him by the throat and kissed him, biting and pulling back every time Steve pressed for more. That kiss was like a fight, it left him breathless, and just the thought of it still makes him hard.

Clint gets a good grip on the back of his neck, lining himself up, and whispers, “Ready?”

Steve takes a breath, meaning to say yes, but that’s when Clint pushes in, slow and unyielding, and that breath shatters into a broken, aching moan. Steve gasps, clutching at the sheets, feeling the fabric shred beneath his fingers as he fights every instinct to bolt, but Clint doesn’t stop, doesn’t pause to let him catch his breath, and by the time Clint has bottomed out, they’re both a little desperate.

Howard had pushed him back, turned him around and bent him over the workbench. Steve had fumbled with his belt buckle, his hands were shaking, and he remembers how Howard had slid his hands along his wrists, undone his buckle and unbuttoned his trousers, shoved them down around his knees. He shivers even now to remember the rush of cold air all around him, the way his skin had prickled to gooseflesh, that metal and glass pop as Howard had opened a jar of Vaseline.

He remembers how badly he’d wanted it, and still having to bite his lip, clench his fists; refusing to let himself chicken out and say he’d got the wrong idea, play it off as a hilarious misunderstanding. Time had seemed to slow down, he’d run through all sorts of excuses in his head, come up with all sorts of reasons why he had to leave right then, before he finally felt Howard’s hand on his hip, still sticky and warm from slicking his cock. He remembers holding his breath, frozen in place for anticipation.

He’s panting through clenched teeth now; tense and aching deep between his legs. He feels weak, almost sick, like Clint’s cock is more than he can take. That burn is so intense he can hardly stand it, and he’s almost desperate to get away, but he loves it. His cock is so hard it’s driving him to absolute distraction, and every time Clint so much as breathes, the friction just from the sheets makes him shudder and buck back against Clint, forcing himself to take it. He doesn’t know how long he can handle this, but every moment feels like an eternity, so it hardly matters.

Clint shifts, resting his weight against him, and pushes his thighs further apart with his knees, pulling his hips back so he can push deeper on each stroke, and Steve moans softly, burying his face under his arm, tumbling headlong back into his fantasy.

It was like nothing else, having Howard inside him, that unyielding hardness, pushing so deep it made him shudder. He remembers gasping, shivering even though he felt feverish, Howard’s hand on the back of his neck, the almost sickeningly unfamiliar sensation of fullness and the prickle of nervous sweat on his skin, and that slow rush of heat as Howard had finished; the slick feel of it spilling out as he had pulled up his trousers, his own cock gone soft, dribbling pleasure down his leg… He hadn’t come, but he hadn’t cared. It hadn’t been about that.

He arches back against Clint, whispering, “Harder…” grasping at his shoulder, pulling him close, and Clint obliges, each thrust landing with the slap of skin on skin, jarring him firmly into the present.

He moans, desperate for more than anyone could ever give, skin burning with the same confused, needy shame he felt that day, that want he buried for so long, ignoring it, laughing it away, pretending it was nothing, aching all the while.

Clint reaches for his cock, squeezing at the shaft, running his thumb across the head, and he moans, bucking into that callused grasp, suddenly overcome and clenching down around Clint’s cock. Clint groans and loses his rhythm in a heavy shudder, gasping against Steve’s shoulder, and Steve realizes he’s been hanging on for ages, fighting back his own pleasure.

“Come,” he gasps, and it’s so hard to find words, his head is swimming, “Clint, please, come…”

Clint buries his face between Steve’s shoulders and moans, hips jerking in a few more short, uneven thrusts as he finally lets go. Steve reaches back, clutching at his hip, feeling him shiver, and he has the feeling that Clint didn’t actually expect this, that his own pleasure has somehow caught him off guard. It feels incredible.

Clint doesn’t linger once he catches his breath, just squeezes Steve’s shoulder and pulls away, stumbling out of the bed with a wrecked sigh. He dresses slowly, lost in his own little world, and Steve closes his eyes, feeling like it’s almost too intimate, too presumptuous, to watch.

He hears the door open, but it doesn’t close, and he looks up to see Clint standing in the doorway, looking back at him. Clint just smiles, saying, “I dunno where you were, just now, but it was really hot.” He raps his knuckles on the doorframe, and shakes his head as he walks away.

Chapter Text

It’s a lazy Sunday morning, and he has absolutely no plans for the day beyond laying in bed for the next hour or so, reading the paper. As far as he knows, neither does anyone else. The world has been surprisingly quiet of late, nothing regular military can’t handle, at least.

So when he hears that telltale chime and looks up to see Tony leaning against the doorjamb, wearing his most recent set of armor, yet another gaudy variation in red and gold, it’s a bit of a surprise. Normally, FRIDAY sounds the alarm when they need to suit up, and he doesn’t see Tony until they’re on the ground, or at the launchpad, at least.

He sets aside his newspaper, frowning, “What’s up?”

Tony steps inside, and the door slides closed behind him, “I thought you might like to try something a bit different.”

He’s a bit confused, but Tony’s not in crisis mode, so at least the world isn’t ending, “What are you talking about?”

Tony saunters over and sits at the foot of the bed, like he’s just there for a social visit, and Steve would almost swear he could see him behind the mask, that smug smirk of his.

“Seriously Tony, what’s going on?”

Tony doesn’t answer, just leans in close and rest his gloved hand on Steve’s hip, squeezing gently before rucking Steve’s shirt up, sliding those metal fingers along his stomach, and, oh. He gets it now. He’s not quite sure what to make of it, but at least he knows what’s happening. Tony slowly pushes him down on the bed, and he decides to just go with it. It’s been that kind of a month. He wraps his arm around Tony’s neck, pulling him down so he can tongue at that slit where his mouth would be, the slick gloss enamel warming with his breath, tasting strangely of nothing at all.

Tony makes a soft sound that doesn’t quite translate through the helmet, and it’s exciting, to think of Tony just behind that faceplate, aching to be kissed. He does it again, mouthing at Tony’s faceplate, moaning softly, reminding him exactly what he’s missing.

“Fuck…” Tony drags him roughly out of his shirt, tossing it aside, sliding his gloved hand along his ribs, across his stomach.

The metal is warmer than he expected it would be, and the repulsor pad at Tony’s palm feels amazing against his skin; a soft electric tingle along the edge that quickly gives way to the sticky drag of hot glass and an almost magnetic pulse. Tony’s gauntlets are superbly designed, all of the plates locking smoothly into one another even when his fingers are bent, nothing to pinch or catch, just sleek curves and relentless steel.

It’s somehow incredibly erotic, and he shudders, arching into Tony’s touch, eyes closed, breathing heavy. He’s enjoying it far more than he should; already he’s achingly hard, and feeling slightly ashamed about it, but when Tony notices his cock tenting the front of his sweatpants, he actually whimpers, and that makes him feel a little better. Tony doesn’t waste any time slipping his hand under the band of his sweatpants, as he’s tugging them off they catch on his hip, dragging roughly, digging into his skin as the elastic snaps. Steve shivers; it’s a visceral reminder of just how strong Tony’s suits are, and he relaxes into it, letting himself be torn out of the last of his clothing. Tony says something, a quiet little nothing that Steve can’t quite make out through the suit’s external audio system, but he knows exactly what he means, because that’s exactly how he feels, too.

Tony’s hand lingers on his hip, almost as if he’s asking for permission, and then he trails his fingers lower, gripping his cock, squeezing just hard enough that Steve whimpers and lets his head fall back, closing his eyes. The dry brush of metal and smooth enamel makes him shiver. Tony teases at him, caressing his cock, a gentle squeeze before fingers traipse down the inside of his thigh, almost as if Tony is enjoying the feel of his skin.

A quiet, sticky sound precedes the cool slick of lube, and Steve isn’t exactly sure when Tony decided to add a self-lubricating function to his suit, but it’s the sort of thinking ahead that Tony is great at. Real logistics, not so much, but having a plan in place for the one opportunity he might have to fuck someone in the suit, Tony’s ace. Steve tries not to think about it, because it’s only going to lead to frustration; he’ll start thinking about all the things that Tony doesn’t plan for, and that’s not where he wants to be right now.

He focuses on the sensation, giving himself over the slow drag of metal against sensitive flesh, until he feels like he can hardly wait another moment, and then Tony slowly breaches him; just one thick finger, a gentle slope followed by the promising bulge of each joint as it stretches him. He shudders at the foreign sensation, but it’s amazing, cool and slick as glass, hard and unyielding inside him. He arches back, spreading his legs, wanting more.

“Jesus Christ,” Tony says, and Steve suddenly realizes he’s hearing Tony’s voice — his actual voice, not his voice through the helmet — from across the room, “That has to be the hottest thing I have ever seen.” Steve looks up, and Tony is standing in the doorway, hand pressed to the crotch of his jeans, looking wrecked.

“You…”

“Yeah,” Tony smirks, stripping off his over-shirt, careful not to disturb the little headset making a crown at his temples, “Pretty impressive, huh?” He kicks off his boots and jeans, and crawls into bed beside Steve and the suit, sidling up beside him to press his cock against his thigh. “I thought about just fucking you in the suit, but then I thought, you know…” he whispers, mouthing the words against his jaw, “Why let him have all the fun?”

Steve shudders as the suit pushes in another finger, and he clenches down, arching against it despite himself, moaning through gritted teeth. He’s not entirely sure he wants to give Tony a show.

Tony’s breath goes a little thready, and he gasps, “Fuck, Rogers, how are you so tight?”

Steve closes his eyes again, intent on just enjoying the sensation, but a thought slowly creeps in around the edges, “Wait…” he says, frowning as he tries to put it all together, “You can actually feel that?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, biting softly at Steve’s throat. The suit squeezes at his hip with its free hand, and Steve can hear the slight echo from the suit, relaying Tony’s voice just a split-second off real time, before Tony remembers to shut it off, “Tactile response is wired into the command system.” Tony laughs softly, like it’s some kind of joke, “Well, some tactile response. Wouldn’t really want to feel it when I catch a bullet, but all the soft stuff…” His voice trails off into a moan as Steve grabs the suit’s wrist, squeezing hard, holding it in place as he grinds against those metal fingers.

“Oh god,” Tony gasps, “yes…”

Steve arches up against the suit’s hand, fucking himself with those metal fingers, and he grabs Tony’s hand, drags it to his cock, “Touch me.”

Tony fists his cock, squeezing almost too hard as he strokes him, and Steve shudders, arching into his grip, groaning as the suit pushes its fingers deeper, stretching him to the limit, so deep and hard. He whines, shivering on the edge of an orgasm, turning to kiss Tony, licking at his mouth, looking for that little extra something to push him past his breaking point, but just as he thinks he’s found it, and he’s threading his fingers through Tony’s hair, the suit pulls out its fingers, leaving him aching and empty. He grabs Tony’s waist, pulling him closer, half-delirious and demanding “Fuck me…”

Tony kisses him, slow and deep, but he doesn’t move, and when Steve feels metal hands on his thighs, pushing his legs apart, he gasps and stares at Tony, choking on his breath as a thick metal cock breaches him. He moans as it slides into him, unrelenting and slow, closing his eyes and breathing deep, trembling at the stretch. Tony whimpers, kissing at his throat, clutching at his shoulder, cock hard against his hip, sticky slick with precum. The suit pulls back and Tony shudders, moaning as it slides home again. Tony’s hips twitch with each thrust, and soon Steve is gasping, just letting himself be fucked. It feels amazing, and even so, from the little sounds Tony keeps making, he thinks Tony might actually be getting the better end of it.

He’s getting close again when the suit slows, each stroke long and deep, gentling him into a hazy lull, the sort of feeling where he just wants to be fucked for hours. It strokes its hand down his chest as it pulls out, and he bites back a groan, turning to Tony, kissing him, pulling him close. Tony almost whines, trembling like he’s overwhelmed, and something about that helpless little sound makes him feel wicked, makes him want more and more. He reaches out, grasping the suit’s cock, still slick with lube, and strokes it as he whispers, “I want to watch…”

Tony bites his lip, glancing at the suit, and Steve leans close, voice low with want, “I want to watch you fuck yourself…” He squeezes at the suit’s cock for emphasis.

Tony shudders, making a desperate sound and clutching at him, “Oh fuck…”

“Go on,” Steve whispers, shifting Tony, and the suit has settled back at the end of the bed, sitting, waiting, the slick across the tip of its cock faintly glinting in the light.

Tony crawls into its lap, eyes locked on him as he positions himself, leaning back against the suit, letting it reach out and brace him up, arms wrapped around him as he trembles on the tip of that gold cock. Steve strokes himself, squeezing the head of his cock, and nods, encouraging him. Tony lowers himself onto the suit’s cock, groaning through clenched teeth as the head slips inside, and sinks down slowly, haltingly, shuddering all over at the sensation, breath going more desperate and thready with each inch until finally he closes his eyes and drops his head back against the suit with a moan, going limp in its arms as he bottoms out.

“You…” his voice is hazy, he still hasn’t caught his breath, and it doesn’t seem like he’s going to, “You have no idea…”

Steve crawls over to Tony and kisses him, loving the way he trembles at every touch, the way he gasps open-mouthed against his lips when he strokes his hand down his chest, plucks gently at a nipple, pert and tantalizing even through his teeshirt. He kisses him deeply, touch strong and even, soothing, warm, giving him space just to breathe and relax. After a few moments, Tony sighs softly, and Steve slips his hand under Tony’s shirt to trace the little path of fuzz down Tony’s chest, along his stomach, teasing at his cock, stroking his balls. Tony makes a needy sound and Steve squeezes at his cock. Tony tries to buck into his grasp but collapses immediately, moaning softly, overwhelmed and trembling, seeming for a moment as if he’s forgotten how to breathe.

Steve leans close, lips pressed against Tony’s jaw as he whispers, “You know what you want to do.”

Tony bites his lip, rocking his hips slowly, shuddering and uneven at first, but soon the suit takes over, guiding his movements, working him into a gentle rhythm, and then quickly progressing to lifting him by the hips, pulling him down onto its cock with each stroke. Tony has started making a hazy little groan with each breath and he lets his head fall forward, like he can hardly take it, but the suit just keeps fucking him, rocking its hips up against him, pushing deep enough that Tony shudders every time.

Steve strokes himself, squeezing his cock and slicking himself with his own desire. It’s amazing, watching Tony fuck himself on that gold cock, watching soft flesh yield to hard metal, the way Tony is almost panting, staring at nothing, gone completely limp in the suit’s grasp, as if it were the one using him, as if it were the one in control, and soon he can hardly stand it, he wants more. He leans close and threads his fingers through Tony’s hair, stroking the back of his neck, “I want you…”

Tony moans softly, but it’s the suit that pulls him close, dragging him along as it leans back, laying them all down. He strokes his hand down Tony’s stomach and Tony closes his eyes, breathing slow and deep. He trails his fingers along the suit’s cock, tracing that place where it sinks into Tony, gently stroking stretched and slick flesh. Tony shivers, and Steve slips one finger inside him, so tight and hot against that unyielding metal cock. Tony shudders, whining at the back of his throat, and Steve feels him making himself take it, forcing his body open, feels the lube spreading thick and wet against his hand. He kisses Tony’s cheek, whispering little nothings, kissing at his jaw and along the tendons in his neck.

Tony is shivering, pale and gasping, and he looks completely broken, but the suit takes hold of his wrist, urging him on, and so he adds another finger, and a third, feeling Tony’s body spasm around the intrusion every time he moves. Tony is clutching at nothing, every breath a soft moan, eyes shot black with desire, shuddering with every stroke when Steve finally slips his fingers out. The suit grabs him, not quite so gently as before; demanding and insistent on Tony’s behalf. He lines himself up, breathing slow. The suit pulls at his hips and he pushes into Tony’s almost painfully tight heat, inch by harrowing inch, cock squeezed up against that metal cock such that he feels every ridge and bulge, the slick rush of lube.

Tony strains against him, trembling and whimpering through clenched teeth, looking strung out and clearly suffering, finally falling to gasping as the head of his cock slips in, but the suit keeps its grip on him, and so he doesn’t stop. He takes it slow, resting his weight partly against Tony, stroking his cheek, careful not to disturb his little crown of electronics. Tony’s teeshirt is damp with stress-sweat, and Steve slips his hand under it, stroking his ribs, but all too soon he’s closed his eyes, resting his head on Tony’s shoulder, caught up in the sensation, clutching at Tony’s hip, groaning desperately at how tight he is, how hard that cock is against his own.

Tony manages to grab his arm as he bottoms out, grip surprisingly strong, even though his voice is completely broken, “I… I can’t.”

It’s like a splash of cold water, and Steve slips out as gently as possible, kissing him softly as he gathers him up in his arms. Tony feels small, somehow, almost lighter, as wraps his arms around Steve’s neck and lets himself be lifted off the suit, gasping as he catches his first full breath and quietly moaning as he buries his face in the curve of Steve’s neck. Steve leans his cheek against Tony’s, laying him down on the bed. Tony doesn’t let go, just pulls Steve down with him, spreading his legs, and Steve has little choice but to settle atop him, half-kneeling between his legs, bracing his weight on his elbow.

Tony is in an almost dreamy sort of state, clearly exhausted but deeply content, and he mumbles something as he settles, closing his eyes. Steve leans down, kissing Tony’s cheek, as Tony whispers, “…want you.”

He squeezes Tony’s shoulder, whispering, “It’s alright, just rest.”

Tony makes a frustrated sort of groan and mumbles, “Mnn mmn, want you…” He still hasn’t opened his eyes, but behind them, the suit shifts, stretching out one arm to push at Steve’s hip.

Steve glances back at it and almost laughs, saying, “Alright, call off your dog. Good grief, you’re demanding.”

Tony grins and makes a satisfied little noise, as the suit goes back to its original position, waiting.

Steve slips his arm under Tony’s hips, pulling him close, and licks at his mouth as he lines himself up. Tony just lets himself be manhandled, moaning breathily as Steve slides into him, shifting his hips ever so slightly, but otherwise he hardly moves at all. He’s loose, fucked out, but the way his breath hitches in his throat on every stroke, the way he trembles and shivers, it’s easy to see how much he’s aching. He’s glorious, and Steve wishes he could fuck him like this for days, could just melt into him, but he’s so turned on, he can hardly keep himself together; every time Tony so much as shifts beneath him it’s a struggle, and when Tony moans, clutching at him and shuddering, spilling against his stomach, Steve loses himself completely. Tony arches against him, taking it all with a low, satisfied groan before collapsing beneath him, breathing slow, already seeming half asleep.

Steve takes a deep breath and shifts himself, limbs suddenly feeling leaden, exhausted through and through, and drops onto the bed beside him. He lays there, too tired to care that he’s not all that comfortable, and just watches Tony, listening to his soft breathing, the low, steady hum of the arc reactor, and as Tony drifts off, the little lights on his headset wink out. The suit stands and walks out of the room, seemingly on autopilot. Tony shifts and snuffles in his sleep, dragging him close, tangling their legs together. He stretches and reaches for the blanket at the foot of his bed, just barely catching the edge with his fingertips, and drapes it across both of them as he tries to find a more comfortable position, intending to settle in for a long nap.

Chapter Text

Not more than two days after Bucky is finally back, Steve bumps into him in the elevator. He’s pleased to see his old friend looking so well, even though he’s a little uneasy around him now, a little unsure — after all this time, after everything that’s happened — where they really stand. He smiles, trying for all the world not to look as awkward as he feels, pushes the button for his floor, and tries not to stare at his feet as the doors slide closed.

He doesn’t really mark it when Bucky takes a step closer, but then he leans close, so close Steve can feel those soft lips brush against his ear as he whispers, “I want you begging and desperate for me.” That low, gravely voice arcs through him like a lightning bolt, and he shudders as all the hair on the back of his neck stands up, his whole body suddenly flushed hot with lust. He has to bite his lip as he hears himself make a soft, needy sound, he’s right back in those memories that, only a moment ago, felt so far away.

Bucky isn’t thinking about any of that, isn’t lost or tentative. He just slips his hand into Steve’s hair, stroking his fingers down the back of his neck, pulls him close and drags him into a kiss.

“I…” Steve hesitates, tries to pull away, but he can’t keep himself from threading his fingers through long curly hair, sighing as Bucky licks and bites. It’s too easy, letting Bucky press him up against the elevator wall. The railing digs into his hips, but he doesn’t care. Bucky’s whole body is pressed against him, hard and lean; a little too lean, really, ribs too easily traced through his thin teeshirt, hips too sharp through his jeans. Bucky slips his left hand down the front of Steve’s trousers, cool and smooth, touch surprisingly gentle, and by the time the elevator reaches Steve’s floor, he’s leant his head back against the wall, breathing openmouthed as Bucky sucks a bruise into his shoulder, staring at the ceiling tiles and trying to keep his knees from buckling.

The sudden gentle jolt of the elevator coming to a halt, the soft ding and hiss of the doors, none of it gives Bucky a moment’s pause, but it brings Steve back to himself just enough that he looks at his friend, really looks at him, trying to puzzle out the answers to questions he doesn’t even know how to ask.

“Are you sure you want to do this, so soon…?” and it almost hurts to ask, but he feels like he has to, “Wouldn’t it be better to let things get back to normal, first?”

Bucky actually laughs, really laughs, and that’s a sound Steve had no idea how much he’s missed, except that it hurts, a little, for as nice as it feels to hear.

“This is the most normal thing I’ve done in decades,” Bucky presses his lips against the shell of Steve’s ear, “I never stopped dreaming about you. All those years… I don’t know how, but I never completely forgot. It was the only good thing…” Bucky swallows that thought and shifts against him, pressing his cock against Steve’s groin, the hard ridge of his zipper digging into Steve’s hip through his slacks as he purrs, “Let me have your ass, right here…”

It’s the sort of invitation he really can’t refuse, not with Bucky’s voice gone all husky with desire, not with his own mouth gone dry, and he glances up towards where he knows Tony’s AI must be watching. His voice is embarrassingly shaky as he says, “… a little help, FRIDAY?”

The dulcet voice comes from almost nowhere, “Sure thing, Captain.” The STOP button lights up, and the doors slide closed once more, “Nobody else is gonna be taking this ride for a while…” Steve isn’t quite sure, but he thinks the AI might’ve just made a joke.

He doesn’t have long to think about it though, because Bucky takes that as an invitation to drag him out of his clothing, and he gets tangled in his shirt, trying to help. Bucky just reaches up rand rips the shirt straight down the middle, pulling it off his shoulders and tossing it aside. It’s the sort of thing he always fantasized about, and he shudders at the feeling of fabric rending against his skin, a visceral reminder of just how strong Bucky is now, a promise and a threat and everything he ever wanted.

Bucky makes a soft growling sound as he pushes him back against the wall, kissing and stroking, squeezing at his shoulder as he slides his hand into Steve’s trousers, making Steve shift and shimmy to get free of them, drop them to his knees. Bucky leans back just long enough to strip out of his own shirt and Steve gasps to feel him so close, all strong muscles and gnarled scars. He hardly notices it, but his hands are shaking, and he can hardly get Bucky’s jeans unbuttoned, but then Bucky is shoving his hands away, and there’s nothing between them, just flesh and warmth and his own heavy breathing.

Bucky takes hold of him and roughly shoves him into the corner, facing the wall, and Steve grabs the railing, grateful to have something to hold onto. Bucky trails those metal fingers down his spine, stroking the curve of his ass. It makes him shiver, and then that touch is gone, but Bucky is leaning against him, and he can hear the soft sound of Bucky sucking on his fingers, feels the wetness between his legs; he gasps to feel two of those thick metal fingers breaching him, cold and unyielding, forcing him open, so smooth it hardly matters there’s so little slickness, and he moans, arching against Bucky’s hand, shuddering at the sensation. They never took much time before, never had much time to spare for kissing and petting, and now, even though he’s gotten used to going slow, come to love the easy slide of lube, he hardly cares, he doesn’t want anything so much in the world as to feel Bucky inside him again.

Bucky makes a soft sound of pleasure, almost a laugh, “Still just as easy as ever, aren’t you, baby?” He twists his hand and Steve gasps, biting down on a groan, breath shaky. “They say you’ve turned into a real Shiekh while I was out…” Steve grips the railing, fingers slowly digging into the metal as Bucky teases him. “Do you let all of them use you the way I do?” Bucky whispers, low and dangerous, biting softly along Steve’s shoulder, “Do you think about me when they come inside you?”

“Oh god, Buck,” Steve’s voice breaks, and he lets his head fall forward, “Please…”

Bucky’s voice is tauntingly sweet, “Tell me what you want, baby.”

“I want you,” Steve gasps, pressing his cheek against the cool steel of the wall, “Oh god, I want you, please…”

“You know what I want to hear,” Bucky purrs, crooking his fingers in a way that makes Steve see stars.

Steve loses his breath and gasps, swallowing more air than he actually inhales, “Oh… fuck…” he can hardly string words together, with Bucky still pressing against that spot, “I need it,” he whines, “Jesus, please Buck, just fuck me…”

“Slut,” Bucky purrs, and Steve shudders, moaning as Bucky pulls his fingers out. Bucky presses up behind him, the tip of his cock wet with desire that smears against trembling skin as he finds his angle, and then he pushes in, slow and deliberate, making Steve groan at the stretch, the pull of dry flesh.

He can take it, he’s taken more with less care, but it’s been so long. When they were young, he used to practically crawl back to Bucky’s apartment to lick his wounds, bruised and smarting after he’d been on the losing end of yet another fight, and Bucky would just cuff him upside the head, call him an idiot, and kiss him so hard, so deep, pin him against the bed and fuck him until he cried, begging for more and howling into the pillow when Bucky finally gave it to him.

He managed to find his way into a lot of fights, back then.

“Ssh,” Bucky whispers, and Steve realizes he’s been making a desperate, huffing sound with every breath. He loosens his grip on the railing, simultaneously surprised and not at all shocked to see he’s twisted the metal out of shape. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, trying to relax, but it just leaves him so woozy and weak he has to brace his arm against the wall, rest his head against his wrist. He’s trembling all over, whole body shaking, and he can’t quite catch his breath. Bucky strokes his shoulder, soothing, gentle, and rocks against him, building up a steady, easy rhythm, making soft, soothing little sounds, letting sore muscles relax and remember. Steve closes his eyes, concentrating on that warm, strong hand on his shoulder, the quiet sound of skin against skin, the magnificent burn between his legs, the wetness dripping from the tip of his cock, and soon he’s moaning softly, gasping and arching back against Bucky, wanting more and finally ready for it.

“They said most everyone here had a go,” Bucky purrs as he draws back until just the tip of his cock kisses against Steve’s ass, “But it seems to me like nobody’s taken care of you at all.”

Steve squares his hips and braces up, groaning into his arm at that next hard thrust, splitting him like fire and making his cock ache, a slow burn radiating out through his groin as Bucky takes hold of his hip; that hand is so cold, so wrong, it gives him chills, and Steve moans, he can’t keep himself from it.

“That’s it,” Bucky gasps, “I’ve got you…”

They never really talked about it, never came to any sort of agreement on where things stood, and that was alright. It was just something that happened between them, and then it was something that happened again… and eventually it happened enough that it turned into something like a habit, and that was alright, too. If anyone had ever asked, they both would’ve said it was just a laugh between friends.

Steve had gotten into another fight, out in the alley behind the chintzy old dive on the corner. Bucky liked it because the beer was cheap and the girls didn’t bother to play coy, Steve liked it because right around closing, he could walk outside and feel like the whole of the city was spread out before him, singing with potential, just waiting for something special. He’d gone out the back way for a breath of fresh air, and interrupted two kids who were hardly bigger than himself, harassing a weary-looking girl with a ladder in her stocking. He’d yelled at them, the dame had dashed, and they’d boxed him in with his back to the door, keen to take out their frustration on someone. He was just bracing up to get his teeth knocked out when the door had opened; he was so amped up, he’d just swung blindly, and, in something of a miracle, had actually managed to land a solid right hook. Except it hadn’t been the mean-looking kid he’d seen sleazing around inside the bar earlier with the two who had his back up.

It had been Bucky.

Drunk and broke and just as frustrated as those kids, and with even less to lose, he was enough of a threat that they had bolted at the sight of him; and when he grabbed Steve by the collar and shoved him roughly against the nearest wall, Steve had thought maybe they’d had the right idea after all. He’d looked away, ashamed, feeling like an idiot for picking another fight, trying to gather his thoughts, but all he could see was Bucky’s mouth, lips flushed pink, a fine trail of blood down his chin where his lip had split.

He had reached up, meaning to wipe the blood away, meaning to apologize, but all he had managed to do was mumble something idiotic. The words had just gotten lost, everything around them faded away, and the only thing left was the feeling of Bucky’s lips against his, the faint copper tang of blood, and the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears.

Steve had whimpered, strung out with adrenaline, whole body electric, yearning, needy, ready for a fight, or something a bit more unconventional, and when Bucky had just groaned and shoved his thigh between Steve’s legs, pinned him against the wall, rutting against him, Steve hadn’t been in any mood to protest. He’d thrown his arms around those strong shoulders and let Bucky do what he wanted. It didn’t take much, wasn’t long before Steve came in his shorts, spilling hot and furtive against his belly, his moan swallowed in a harsh kiss. Bucky had pulled back, eyes shot black with desire, muttered, “Stupid…” and kissed him again, biting down hard on his lip as he shifted his hips, rubbing his cock up against Steve’s hip, grinding him against the wall with every careless thrust.

“You’re such an idiot,” Bucky had whispered, kissing him again and again, “Pig-headed little punk, too stupid to even run away…” Every word was like a lover’s touch, and Steve had just closed his eyes and reveled in it. When they had finished, there was a wet spot across the front of his trousers, a deep bruise spreading across the back of his hips, and he felt like he’d drunk a whole bottle of champagne; fizzy-headed and slow-witted, the happiest, luckiest man on the face of the earth. They’d stumbled back to Bucky’s apartment, arm in arm, bracing one another up as they stumbled through the balmy summer night, laughing about everything and nothing, not a care in the world between them.

He moans to remember it, throwing his head back, and he can feel Bucky’s shuddering breath against his neck. He’s trembling, teetering on that edge, but Bucky is absolutely shaking, whole body shuddering with every stroke, a harsh, unsteady rhythm. He has a firm grip on Steve’s shoulder, and it’s as if that’s the only thing he’s got to hold to, those metal fingers are digging into flesh, bruising and cold. Steve turns and presses his lips to those fingers, and he’s not sure, but he thinks he hears Bucky choke back a gasp, feels him falter.

“I need it, Buck,” he moans, “Give it to me…” Bucky’s grip tightens, and Steve keeps talking, saying anything, everything, letting the words and moans tumble from his mouth, “I want it…” He cants his hips and his vision goes a little white around the edges as Bucky rams in, fucking him harder than he’s been fucked in years.

“Please…” he hears himself whining, and he’s not sure what he’s begging for, but Bucky takes hold of his cock, jerking him roughly even as he comes with a sharp little cry, losing his rhythm completely as he spills into him, but it hardly matters; a few short strokes leave him in little better state than Bucky, gasping against the wall, desperately trying to keep himself from collapsing. Bucky drops his head against Steve’s shoulder, and only holds him until he catches his own breath, but as he pulls away, straightening up, he whispers, “All these years, and you’re still mine.”

It’s the closest thing to ‘I love you’ Bucky has ever said.

Chapter Text

The next morning, he wakes up in a mood to actually cook breakfast; he was never all that great a cook, but he can manage to mangle a few eggs now and again. Bucky wanders in when he’s about halfway done, following his nose, and Steve knows better than to even ask, he just adds a few more slices of bacon to the pan. Buck was never much for mornings. Steve opens the cabinet where they keep the mugs and steps smoothly out of Bucky’s way, minding the bacon doesn’t burn.

Buck just pours himself a cup of coffee and settles in at the kitchen counter, looking miserable and hungover, which is his general state of being before about 10AM, regardless of whether he’s been drinking or not… and it occurs to Steve that he doesn’t actually know whether Buck can even get drunk anymore. He makes a mental note to ask sometime when he might actually get an answer longer than one syllable.

By the time he’s finished cooking, buttered the toast and set a plate in front of Bucky, his own coffee has gone cold, and he winces, pours the rest down the sink. That’s a new habit for him, but there’s something incredibly satisfying about just pouring himself a new cup, and it tastes so much better. He tops up Bucky’s mug, receives a muffled grunt for his trouble, and they set to their eggs in a companionable silence. It’s almost like old times, at least until Tony wanders in.

He glances over, sees Bucky, but doesn’t say a word. Steve glances between them, anxiously hoping the early hour means neither of them will have the energy to pick a fight. They’ve long since called a truce, but that doesn’t mean he’s not expecting a lifetime of petty turf wars and pissing contests between the two. They’re both stubborn enough to be his friend, and neither tends to back down from a fight.

Tony just pours himself a cup of coffee, and casually says, “Go easy on the furniture, will you two?”

Steve chokes on his toast and has to reach for his coffee to wash it down before he can get a word in edgewise, which gives Tony just enough time to add, “Or at least tell FRIDAY to stop recording, unless you meant for me to see your reenactment of Rough Riders…” Steve finally catches his breath, and he gives Tony a pleading look, but Tony just takes a sip of his coffee and says, “Made for pretty enjoyable viewing, actually. I had no idea you were into that sort of thing, Captain.”

Bucky just sets his fork down and slowly leans over, trailing his hand down Steve’s spine, and with a soft kiss, bites down hard enough on his shoulder that Steve can’t help but groan and arch against it. Bucky slips his left hand under Steve’s shirt, trailing cool fingers along his ribcage, and Steve shivers, dropping his fork. It clatters against the plate and tips off the counter. Steve can’t do anything but watch as it falls to the floor in a slow, tumbling arc. He feels, more than hears, Bucky’s soft growl, those hard fingers dig into his ribs, pulling him close, and he realizes that Tony has come around to their side of the counter.

Steve wonders when he got so stupid, to even think for a moment that these two could live peaceably under the same roof, and he’s trying to decide between throwing himself bodily between them, more than he already is, at least, or if it would be better to just lay them both out here and now, beat them into playing nice. He’s pretty sure he can take them both, if he moves fast; a straight right jab to Tony’s jaw, pulled at the last moment and redirected into an elbow back across Bucky’s cheekbone, glancing but solid, enough to leave them both smarting, enough to stun, but not enough to do any lasting damage.

It’s the best plan he’s got, and he’s just taking a breath, curling his fingers into a fist, when Tony grabs him by the throat and kisses him deep, no pretense of gentility or caring, rough and bruising and shockingly possessive. It leaves him reeling, and more than slightly confused, but more than anything, he wonders when he got so slow. He’d much rather this end in kisses than tears, but it’s jarring, takes him right back to being a scrawny little punk who never dodged because he never saw the hits coming. These days, it feels like he never sees anything coming, hits or otherwise. Tony is saying something to Bucky, voice low and words clipped, and Steve doesn’t quite come back to himself in time to catch it, but he clearly hears Tony growl, “…so we’re both just going to have to deal with it.”

It takes him a moment to put everything together, but by then Bucky has relaxed his grip and Tony is reaching for his coffee, and that frisson has entirely gone, replaced by a tentative detente; the fragile truce of mutually assured destruction. He knows Bucky doesn’t care about winning, but that he’ll fight like hell just so as to not be the guy who came in last, and watching Tony, the offhanded way he tops up his coffee, the almost-angry smirk as he glances at Bucky, he’s convinced both of his friends have decided that just not losing is enough. It’s as close to an unqualified win as he’s going to get, and he’ll take it.

“Just so you know,” Tony adds as he’s leaving, “Everything in this building is custom. It’s going to take two weeks to replace that railing. If you’re going to break shit, at least call me so I can watch.”

Steve takes one look at Bucky’s face, and laughs so hard he nearly cries.

Chapter Text

With Tony and Bucky at odds the way they are, he’s decided maybe it’s best for the time being to keep them both at arm’s length, just until they both cool off a bit and stop coming sniffing, jealous and ready for a fight, every time he so much as looks at one or the other. It’s all too easy to duck out of the tower when things start to feel a little too close, and more often than not he just lets his feet lead him back to Brooklyn, back to Darcy.

She gave him a key a while back, and had been so casual about it, he wasn’t sure whether it was anything special or not, just saying, “Oh, well, it’s a bother to constantly have to pick up my keys,” but more and more, when he comes wandering up her stairs, mid-afternoon or late at night, he has the feeling he’s coming back to a second home of sorts. Darcy hasn’t done anything to dissuade him of that idea, even offering him a very small sliver of closet space after tripping over his gym bag one too many times, and going so far as to present him with a toothbrush with a ribbon tied to it, as if it were a proper gift. He kept the ribbon, tied it to her key, and now when he’s feeling restless, he finds himself slipping his hand in his pocket, winding that ribbon around his fingers again and again, so much that the edges are starting to fray.

After he’d made her embarrassingly late three days in a row, she had somehow managed to convince whoever it is that signs her paychecks that spending time with Captain America should count towards her flex time, and, rather surprisingly, the answer had come back that in light of the circumstances, her schedule was now entirely up to her. He hasn’t asked, but he suspects Phil might be behind that particular bureaucratic miracle. He had teased her about it when she told him, rather proudly, that if she worked it just right, she was now essentially being paid to sleep with him. He made a show of pouting and asking if he was really so terrible in bed that a financial incentive was necessary, and she had just laughed, saying, “I’m a team player, what can I say? It’s hard work, but someone has to do it, and let’s face it,” she’d given him a mock-serious look, “Shakespeare gotta get paid, son.”

He wasn’t entirely sure how to take that, but then she had kissed him, slipped her hand down the front of his jeans, and he’d stopped worrying about it. If anything, he figures she deserves overtime for all the time he’s been spending at her place lately, and today is no exception. They’ve been laying in bed for a while, basking in the afterglow. He’s been watching the afternoon light fade to dusk through the curtains, thinking about how little Brooklyn has really changed. The noise outside is different, but the heart of the city hasn’t changed at all.

Darcy is lounging on his shoulder, propped up against a pillow, absently playing some game on her phone, but not really paying it much attention. Her lipstick is still perfect somehow; ruby red and so lush against her pale skin, and looking at her mouth, all he can think of is how badly he wants to make a mess of it. He only realizes he’s staring when she licks her lips and gives him the most knowing look he’s ever seen as she sets her phone on the bedside table.

She leans in close, smiling softly, reaching out for him, and before he knows it, he’s threaded his fingers through her hair, and is pulling her into a rough kiss, pressing his lips hard against hers, licking at her mouth and sucking on her lower lip until she’s gasping, moaning softly. When he finally pulls back, she’s flushed and slightly out of breath; her cheeks are pink and her eyes are sparkling, but that lipstick has hardly so much as feathered around the edges.

Her voice is low and silky, “Goodness, Captain, whatever’s gotten into you?”

He swallows, still staring at her mouth, “I…”

She moves closer, pressing her thigh against his cock, “You wouldn’t be thinking about taking advantage of my virtue, would you?”

Something about her words, the breathy inflection in her voice, it makes him feel absolutely — thrillingly — perverse, and he wraps his arms around her, bending close to purr, “You don’t think I rescue pretty girls just out of the goodness of my heart, do you?”

She gasps, making a show of being offended, but there’s a wicked, teasing note in her voice, “Oh I… I just couldn’t…”

“Oh,” he whispers, dragging his hand down her side, “I think you can.”

The lace at the hem of her neglige is pressed against the head of his cock, smooth and scratchy all at once, catching against the lingering slick of their pleasure, and he grabs her hip, grinding against her thigh, “You wouldn’t say no to Captain America, now would you? There’s a war on, after all.”

She makes a soft purring sound, biting her lip, “That is so hot.”

He leans in close, whispering, “I can keep doing it, if you like.”

“I’m going to make you work for it,” she whispers, stroking his cheek fondly.

“I love a challenge,” he slides his hand up her thigh.

She gasps, and the only warning he has is a fleeting spark of wickedness in her eyes before she slaps him; not hard, just hard enough to sting a little.

It’s a surprise, but the way she looked at him in that moment was enough to make him fully commit to the idea, and the little kick of adrenaline makes his cock ache. He catches her wrist and leans close, softly growling, “Is that what you want? To struggle and fight and have me have my way with you anyway?”

“Oh, fuck yes…” she’s biting her lip, gazing at him like she wants to devour him.

“I won’t hurt you,” he whispers, kissing her cheek, “I promise.”

She reaches out, putting her hand around his, and looks him in the eye as she tightens her grip until he’s squeezing her wrist so hard, he knows there’ll be a bruise there tomorrow. Her breathing slowly deepens until she’s nearly gasping, and then she whispers, “What if I say please?”

He shudders, cock twitching. He’s never seen a woman like this; lust almost rolls off her in waves, and he loves it. He squeezes just a little harder. She gasps and tries to pull her wrist away, struggling against him with what feels like her full strength, but she’s still gazing at him, still breathing slow and deep. She doesn’t want him to let go.

He holds tight, stroking his thumb along the inside of her wrist.

She pulls harder, and whimpers, biting her lip. Her voice is breathy and almost trembles as she whines, “Please, no…”

He just shoves her down against the bed and pins her wrist above her head, crawling partly atop her, pressing his cock against her leg. She closes her eyes, breathing deep, and whispers, “Oh, please…” and there’s no ambiguity in that please; she’s practically begging for more.

He cups her breast through her neglige, pinching her nipple a little harder than he otherwise might, feels her twitch and stifle a yelp, and he slips down, mouthing at that taut nipple. She whimpers, whispering, “No, I can’t…”

He flicks his tongue across her nipple, “Sure you can,” and sucks gently, leaving a wet patch on the silk, “We all have to do our part.” He drags his hand down her ribs, across her stomach, feels her shudder as he shoves his hand between her legs, “…and you’re going to, whether you want to or not.”

She moans as he rubs at her clit, and she’s already so wet he can hardly stand it.

“Maybe after I’m done, I’ll let my friend have you next,” he whispers, pressing two fingers inside her, “Bucky always loved a girl with a nice ass.”

He doesn’t know why he’s talking about Bucky, but Darcy moans softly at the thought.

“We used to share,” he whispers, and he’s lying, but he loves the idea, “Whenever we could find a girl who was game…”

“Ohh,” Darcy shudders, voice almost wanton, “Don’t tease.”

Steve presses his lips against her cheek and whispers, “Would you want that, both of us?”

“Fuck…” Darcy moans, arching against his hand, “Oh fuck, fuck…” He pushes deep, adding another finger, and she clenches down hard with a shuddering sigh. The words get lost as she turns her head, but he’s almost certain she whispers, “He’s so pretty…”

He tries to slip his thigh between her legs, but she crosses her ankles, trapping his hand between her thighs, and he huffs as he pulls his hand away, pushing at her knee.

“Oh,” she gasps, sounding breathy and helpless as she turns away, “Don’t make me, please!”

“C’mon baby,” he purrs, lips pressed against her cheek, “I wouldn’t have to, if you’d just spread your legs and play along.” He feels her shudder, hears just the hint of a moan, and he keeps talking, trying to summon up the spirit of every sleazebag in every movie he’s ever seen, “I won’t tell a soul. It’ll be our little secret.”

“Let me go,” she whines, trying to pull away.

“It’s too late for that, now,” he whispers, and licks the side of her face. She makes the most amazing sound and shudders, swallowing and biting her lip, breath gone heavy and fast. He mouths wetly at her cheek, and tries to kiss her, but she turns away. He trails his fingers along her face and takes hold of her jaw, gently pulling her back towards him, but she struggles and whines, and he tightens his grip, giving her a little shake. She positively purrs at the back of her throat, but she’s still fighting him, wanting more, and so he drags her close, pushes his thumb against her cheek until she has to open her mouth. She gives him a look both sultry and dangerous, and it’s his turn to smirk; he licks at her mouth, sucking on her lip, really taking his time. She squirms and struggles, but opens her mouth just a little bit more, and moans softly when he kisses her properly. He lets her go with a little shove.

“Now…” he says, dragging his hand along her hip, “What should I do with you?”

She tries to twist out of his grip, and he lets her go, wanting to see what she does. She’s on her knees in a flash, ready to bolt, and he’s actually impressed; he had no idea she could move so fast. He catches her by the ankle and drags her back, and he’s really starting to enjoy this. The way she moves, neglige hiked up around her waist as she struggles and fights, it’s surprisingly erotic. She glances back at him and makes one last lunge to get away, but he grabs her hips and pulls her into the center of the bed, settling between her legs with his cock pressed against her ass.

She huffs and scowls at him, almost pouting, but when he leans down and kisses the side of her neck, she arches into that gentle touch with a soft sigh. He whispers, “Look at you, so pretty with your legs spread for me…” She closes her eyes, rubbing her ass against his cock, and his voice falters a little to feel her pressed against him, but he keeps on, “It would be so easy, to just take what I want… Make you take it.” Her breathing has gone shallow with anticipation, and at some point, he stopped having to think about what to say next, “Or maybe I should ruin you the way I do all the pretty boys on the front lines…” he whispers, “Stretch your poor, sweet little ass with my thick cock,” he presses his lips to her ear, purring, “I’ll make it feel so good, you won’t even be able to pretend you don’t want it.”

She makes that sound again, that marvelous, gasping little growl, and grinds back against his cock, spreading her legs just a little further, so tantalizing and just so slightly out of reach. He threads his fingers through her hair and pulls, making her arch her back, “Would you like that, sweetheart?”

Darcy whines, gasping, “No… Please… You wouldn’t…” Her breath is thready, and she’s shifting beneath him, settling into a better angle. She reaches out towards her nightstand, but makes a vexed sound when she realizes she can’t quite reach, and her voice is clipped, restless, “Lube… drawer… and my vibrator. Pink.”

He lets go of her hair and leans over, opens the drawer, grabs the bottle of lube. It takes him a moment to recognize her vibrator, it’s oddly shaped, but it’s the only pink thing in the drawer, and he hands it to her. She grabs a pillow and shoves it down beneath her hips with an impatient huff, and then reaches back, grabs his hip and pulls him close again as she says, “Go easy, it’s been a while.”

That actually surprises him, and it takes him a moment to put it all together. He kisses her cheek, whispering, “I was just trying to play along, I didn’t mean…”

She makes a derisive sound, and when she speaks, it’s fairly clear she thinks he’s an idiot, “Make up your mind and hurry up, or I’m going to get dressed and go get myself a lemon ice.” She spreads her legs, settling against the pillow and lays her head on her hand, “I won’t even bring you one back, either.”

He laughs, and she smirks, looking satisfied with herself. He opens the lube, drizzles a generous amount across his fingers, and slips his hand between her legs. She hums, enjoying the touch, letting him tease and stroke her, occasionally letting his fingers slide further down, rubbing little circles across her clit. After a few minutes she sighs and reaches back, pushes his hand away and guides his cock to her ass. He’s not in a mood to argue, so he breaches her as gently, as slowly as possible, loving the way she just opens up beneath him, the warm slick of her skin, the heat of her body. She makes a soft sound and pushes back against him, taking him deeper, and her breath quickens with the stretch, but she doesn’t stop until she’s pressed back against him, and he’s buried completely within her.

She groans, almost stretching beneath him, and he hears the quiet buzz of her vibrator. She shifts, and suddenly her hips snap back against his, forcing him deeper. She makes a sound halfway between pain and ecstasy, not even trying to keep quiet, and finds her clit again with her vibrator, shuddering and straining against him.

“Fuck me,” she gasps, voice shaky and desperate. He doesn’t move for a moment, unsure, and she positively growls at him, demanding, “Fuck me.”

He slips his arm beneath her hips and slowly rocks back, drawing it out until she shakes and moans, and then he pushes in deep, thrilled with the sounds she makes, quickening his pace as she gasps and shivers. It’s incredible, watching the way her back arches, the way she strains against him, the little twitch in her shoulder as she holds her vibrator.

“Hard,” she gasps, tucking her foot behind his knee, and he thinks maybe that’s her way of pulling him closer. He pushes in deep, and she moans; he hears the vibrator get a little louder, and she’s struggling with the words, “Fuck me hard.”

He takes hold of her hip; she wiggles a bit against him and he pulls her back against him. She chokes on her breath and braces up on one shoulder. Her thighs are shivering. He draws back, slams in hard and deep, and she positively howls with pleasure. She’s breathing through clenched teeth, almost whining with every gasping breath, but her face is a mask of delight, her body is loose and wanting, and it’s impossible to deny her like this. Soon he’s moaning right along with her, bending over her to bury his face in her hair, breathing her in as he fucks her, reveling in all the magnificent little sounds she makes, the way she snaps her hips back against his every so often, clenching down around him and shuddering.

She feels him getting close, and suddenly shifts, breaking his rhythm. He wonders what she’s doing, but then he feels the hard pressure of her vibrator, that buzzing stimulation, as she pushes it inside herself. He can feel it through her body, incessant and strange. He shudders, gripping her hip, and he just barely manages to warn her, “I… I’m not going to last very long…” She makes a hazy sound and does something; the vibration becomes that much more overwhelming, pulsing with a staggered rhythm as she rocks her hips, and he digs his fingers into her hip, whimpering, shivering, completely overstimulated.

It builds to the point he can’t even breathe, every muscle in his body gone tense to the point of shaking uncontrollably, and then that tension breaks all at once, flooding through him in a rush that takes his breath away and leaves him gasping against her shoulder, hips twitching. There’s a pathetic little mewling sound, and he thinks maybe he’s hurt her, wants to comfort her, but then he realizes it’s him, and he’s still trembling, and he can’t stop making that sound. After what feels like an eternity, she pulls the vibrator away and he nearly collapses, his full weight falling against her. He hears her turn off the vibrator, and then she reaches back to stroke his hip, purring sweet little nothings.

When he finally feels like he can move without just melting into a puddle, he drags himself off her, falls onto his back beside her. She moves slowly as she settles in next to him, nuzzles at his shoulder as she murmurs, “…think I’m gonna go get that ice,” her voice is dreamy, and she takes a deep breath, sighing as she stretches, yawning and looking up at him, “You want one?”

Chapter Text

Bruce knocks, but doesn’t wait for an answer before he comes in, and Steve dog-ears the page in his book and sets it aside, drawing up his legs to make space on the bed.

Bruce is about three hours late, and even though Steve made sure to be back home half an hour early, and has essentially been doing nothing but killing time since then, mostly lounging around in his boxers catching up on his reading, he doesn’t mind. He knows how Bruce works, knows he never does things by halves, and he’s also noticed, as time has gone by, just how reticent Bruce can be about making promises he isn’t certain he can keep; he knew Bruce would probably be late, but he also knew he would eventually show up, and he doesn’t mind.

Even if he has spent a fair bit of the last three hours wondering whether it would be presumptuous to give him a watch.

Bruce sits, draping his arm across Steve’s bare knees, and smiles, “Hey.” He trails his fingers along Steve’s thigh, eyes drawn to the hem of his boxers, the bare skin beneath.

“Hey,” he says, leaning close and resting his hand atop Bruce’s, “Long night?”

Bruce half-laughs, looking a little bashful, and gestures vaguely, “By the time I realized I was late…”

Steve shrugs, “It’s alright,” and glances over at his book, “I’ve got about eighty years worth of pop culture to catch up on.”

Bruce really does laugh then, “Sometimes I feel the same way. We miss so much, living like this.” He gets a slightly wistful look in his eyes, “Then again, I suppose I never missed it before,” and there’s just a hint of melancholy in his voice, but he’s gazing into the middle distance as if he’s remembering something pleasant. Steve looks away, feeling suddenly as if he’s somehow intruding.

“I’ve always found relationships so difficult,” Bruce says with a sigh.

“Getting out,” Steve wonders aloud, “Or in?” Bruce doesn’t answer, and he finds himself anxiously smoothing out a wrinkle in the sheet.

He almost jumps to feel Bruce’s hand on his shoulder, and when he looks up he can almost see Bruce thinking, can nearly hear the calculations and careful equations of spontaneity and safeness, control and cravings. He reaches out to trace his fingers across Bruce’s cheek, skin still dewy from shaving, and it makes him smile, to think Bruce knew he was late, but still took the time to shave just before coming over. It’s exactly the sort of strangely thoughtful thing he’s come to expect.

Bruce catches his hand and gazes into his eyes as he kisses his palm, then pulls him closer and kisses him, and Steve almost melts with an odd feeling of relief, as if he had been holding his breath. Bruce’s lips are soft, full, he’s an excellent kisser; there’s a certain meticulousness underneath that groundswell of passion, and it’s Steve who finally breaks away, breathless and flushed. Bruce just gazes at him and slowly pushes him down, kicking off his shoes as he crawls atop him. Steve closes his eyes, breathing him in, the soft perfume of aftershave and laundry detergent, and the vague, lingering scent of something industrial, acidic. He catches Bruce by the collar, feeling the starched fabric crease and crinkle in his grip, and drags him down, kissing him deeply, moaning against his mouth. He fumbles with the button at Bruce’s collar, finally slips it free, and after several more he can get his hands on Bruce properly, slide his hands up under his undershirt, trace the smooth curve of his ribs.

Bruce shifts, pulling his shirt off and unzipping his trousers, shoving them down and kicking them off the end of the bed, and Steve moans, seeing the way Bruce’s cock tents his boxers, the wet smear across the front. Bruce settles atop him once more, and Steve can’t quite keep from grabbing him, pulling him close, grinding their hips together, the thin silk of Bruce’s boxers and the worn cotton of his own doing almost nothing to keep them apart.

Bruce slides his hand down Steve’s side, fingers tracing the slope of his hip as he ruts against him, wonderfully slow, and Steve can almost feel the ache in his bones, the iron-rod will that keeps his touch gentle. Bruce just gazes at him, smiling beatifically, looking positively serene as Steve fumbles for words, “I want to…” he starts, hardly knowing what to say, hardly knowing how to say it, “…to touch you.” “Not to just…” His heart is racing, and he can hardly hear himself think, “I want to…” and stops, because he had almost said ‘make love,’ but that isn’t quite right, and he keeps grasping for words, even though they stick in his throat, but finally he just sighs, hoping Bruce can read what he needs in that aching sound, and whispers, “Please…”

It’s awkward, halting, sounds even worse than he could have imagined, and he’s working up a solid blush by the time the words have even left his mouth, but he makes himself shut up before he says something even worse. Bruce kisses him then, slipping his hand into Steve’s boxers, stroking him gently as he asks, “Are you sure?”

Steve knows Bruce isn’t asking about anything quite so simple as sex, or even so pedestrian as a relationship, but he nods, rubbing his cheek against Bruce’s, whispering, “…yes.” He doesn’t really know what Bruce is asking, and he’s not all that sure he really knows Bruce — the real Bruce, the one underneath all that practiced calm — but Bruce knows him extraordinarily well, and he trusts Bruce not to ask for anything he can’t give. So he says it again, “…yes,” and kisses Bruce’s jaw, “…yes,” and threads his fingers through Bruce’s hair. Bruce makes a soft sound each time he says it, a sound so quiet and tentative, Steve isn’t even sure he means to make it, but that little sound convinces him that he’s made the right choice; even if for no other reason than it’s been far too long since anyone has told Bruce yes without reservation. He says it again and again, kissing and stroking, and soon Bruce is moaning softly.

“I want you,” Steve whispers, stroking his fingers down Bruce’s spine and rocking up against him, “I want to feel you inside me.”

There’s the subtlest shift in Bruce’s bearing, he can feel it in the cadence of his breath, and in one great rush, Steve feels that unflinching control break, like the collapse of some great dam. Bruce’s breath hitches in his throat, and there’s a marvelous, unbridled quality to his movements; there’s nothing frenzied in his touch, but there’s a new sort of passion, as if something in his soul has broken free, for just a moment.

They both shimmy out of their boxers, a tangle of limbs and haste and desire. Steve reaches blindly towards his nightstand, grasping until his hand lands on the jar of lube, and he hands it to Bruce.

Bruce actually whimpers to feel how easily Steve takes his fingers, and he arches against Bruce’s hand, moaning softly. Bruce’s hands are so strong, but almost incongruously soft, the hands of someone who has spent most of his life behind a desk, not the hands of a man accustomed to violence, not even the hands of a mechanic. Hardly the hands of a man who belongs on his team, and yet somehow he’s become integral — not just the monster, but the man himself — a man so thoroughly ruled by his passions he’s sublimated them into a strange sort of asceticism.

Steve wonders, sometimes, which of them is truly the more dangerous, the man or the monster, and he buries his face in the crook of Bruce’s neck, trying to stay in the moment, not think too hard about anything, to just feel that gentle hand between his legs, but Bruce is taking his time, going so slow and easy, his mind keeps wandering, he has to keep pulling himself back into the moment, and he just doesn’t want to wait any longer. He grasps Bruce’s wrist, biting back a moan at that feeling of emptiness, and drags Bruce atop him, wrapping his leg around Bruce’s.

Bruce slicks himself, and Steve just arches his hips, waiting for him to settle. Bruce pushes in ever so slowly, pulling back after the gentlest kiss of cock to aching flesh, working him open a fraction of an inch at a time, and Steve shudders, caught between desire and the truth of the fact that Bruce’s cock is achingly thick. With each slow thrust Bruce goes a little deeper, and as the head of his cock finally slips in, Steve arches up, making himself take another inch before he falls to gasping, feeling his body spasm around that hardness. Bruce bends down and slips his hand beneath Steve’s head, stroking the back of his neck as he whispers, “Slow…” His voice is soft and low, “There’s nothing to rush…” and as he goes on, whispering meaningless, soothing little nothings, thrusts slow and steady, he gentles Steve into a sort of hazy ache; a distant feeling of too much and not enough until finally he feels Bruce’s hips press against his, the reassuring weight as Bruce settles atop him, and he sighs, coming back to himself, shifting ever so slightly, straightening his leg a bit to keep from twisting his knee.

“You feel amazing,” Bruce’s breath is hot against his cheek, and Steve rocks his hips, just the slightest movement, but enough to make Bruce’s breath catch in his throat. Bruce kisses the side of his neck, pushing in deep, and Steve moans, grasping at Bruce’s shoulder, arching against him and taking him impossibly deep until the sensation makes him tremble, threatening to overwhelm him. Bruce pulls back slow, almost pulling out completely, making Steve ache to have him again, pushing in harder this time, not stopping when Steve’s breath breaks into a soft whine and he grabs at the sheets, not stopping until Steve has taken the full length of him. Steve gasps, feeling a fine sweat breaking out across his skin, but Bruce is as inexorable as he is slow and deliberate, and soon Steve can hear himself moaning with every stroke, begging for more.

His cock is aching, and the friction between their bellies is driving him to distraction; he doesn’t know if he wants to come, or if he wants to keep on like this, with Bruce fucking him until he just can’t take any more. He has a tendency to babble when he feels like this, and most of the time it’s little more than nonsense, but he thinks he must have made some sort of demand, because Bruce reaches down and takes him in hand, whispering, “Is this what you want?”

He arches towards Bruce, straining slightly, and Bruce obligingly dips his head, lets himself be caught in a kiss. Steve licks at his mouth, half-delirious with it, moaning against his lips as Bruce squeezes the head of his cock, dragging his thumb across the tip. Bruce does it again, and Steve whimpers at the sensation, every fiber of his body feels suddenly over-sensitized and electrified. Bruce just works him slow and steady, that same maddening rhythm building him up again and again to a sort of roiling tension that never subsides long enough to catch his breath, and crests just short of being enough, leaving him in a sort of slow, aching fever that seems as if it will never break. He can hear himself whining with every breath.

Bruce keeps him lost in that delirium for what feels like ages; too overwhelmed to demand more, reduced to moans and shudders, clutching at Bruce’s shoulder, digging his fingers into his hip, strung-out and shivering, until finally Bruce gasps, shuddering, clutching at Steve’s hip, moaning against his shoulder. The way he comes, all at once and as if he can just barely endure it, he drags Steve right along with him, tumbling headlong into the sort of deep abyss of pleasure that seems to stretch out forever until it simply ends, leaving them both collapsed in a heap, gasping, soaked with sweat, shivering with the aftershock. Bruce catches his breath ever so slightly, and rolls away, falling onto his back with an expression like he’s been dropped off a cliff.

Steve can sympathize; it takes him a little longer to really regain any sort of control, and when he finally does move, he feels as if he’s run a marathon. Every muscle in his body aches, and he groans, reaching out to touch Bruce’s shoulder, the only sort of closeness he feels like either of them can mange right now; his heart is pounding in his chest, Bruce is still almost panting, and they’re both sticky with sweat. They just lay there, neither of them moving, for far longer than Steve would ordinarily be comfortable lingering. Eventually, almost as if by a sort of mutual consent, they both start to revive, and Steve reaches out, pulling Bruce close, settling his head against his shoulder. Bruce wraps an arm around him, and Steve feels hazy and warm, like he could sleep for a month.

Bruce strokes his hair, “I don’t sleep much,” he says, almost as an afterthought, “Not at night, anyway,” and Steve nods, thinking he means to leave, “But you don’t have to worry, even if I do fall asleep…” Steve frowns, trying to puzzle out what Bruce could possibly mean, but Bruce answers his question before he’s managed to even work it out, “He doesn’t sleep — he’s just always there,” Bruce shifts, getting a little more comfortable, resting his cheek against Steve’s forehead, “So, it’s alright if you need to move, or get up in the middle of the night. He doesn’t startle all that easily.”

“Oh…” Steve says, already drifting off a bit, and he’s glad of it, but what sticks in the back of his mind is how it hadn’t even occurred to him to be concerned.

Chapter Text

He’s been out on mission for the last three weeks, putting down a paramilitary insurgency in some country that didn’t exist back in his day, but seems to be constantly causing trouble now. He hasn't slept more than a few hours at a stretch, and for the last few days he’s been running on nothing but adrenaline and protein bars, so when he finally drags himself back to base, sex is just about the last thing on his mind. All he wants is to get his mission debrief out of the way, find himself a hot shower, a real dinner, and a soft bed, in that order, but his priorities shift the moment he walks in for his debrief.

Phil is sitting at the desk he’s commandeered, somehow immaculate in a tailored suit, a bastion of calm in the eye of the hurricane, and something about the way he just smiles and sets his pen down, pushes aside the file he had been so intent on without so much as a second glance — as if there’s nothing more important in the world than whatever he has to say — it reminds him of the way Phil used to almost gaze at him when he thought he wasn’t looking, back before they had a chance to get to know one another, before Steve proved he was all too human for that sort of esteem. It’s not quite that same old adoration, but it’s still pretty amazing.

Before he even realizes it he’s closed the door to the office and he's halfway across the room. He’s not thinking straight, he’s not really thinking at all. Phil looks concerned, he seems like he’s about to say something, but Steve just grabs him by the lapels and drags him out of his chair, pushes him against the wall, grinding their hips together with a hungry sigh. That concern, confusion, sparks into anticipation and he pulls Phil into an angry, aching kiss, crushing their mouths together, sucking on Phil’s tongue.

He tastes the copper tang of blood, and he’s confused, worried for a moment before he remembers why; he got cornered and took the butt of a rifle straight to the face just before he figured out the rebels hadn’t shot him because they were out of ammo. It was a fairly simple exercise, after that. He was already so strung out at that point he hardly noticed that his nose was probably broken, much less that he was bleeding, and then he was calling for evac, and there were things that needed to be done, and he forgot all about it.

It doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts, right now. He’s still coasting on that beautiful surge of adrenaline that comes with a knock-down, bare-fisted fight. All the aches and pains that will greet him with the dawn just feel good right now; he feels alive. He feels like victory.

…and he is achingly, desperately horny.

Phil pulls back to catch his breath, and he’s almost shaking as he reaches into his pocket for his handkerchief, wipes Steve’s blood from his face. There’s a small part of his mind that recoils at the deep red stain spreading across white linen, but when he looks at Phil all he can see is how wonderfully clean and pressed he is, how composed he is, even now; staring up at him, breathing shallow with anticipation, waiting to see what happens next. Steve wants to mess him up, wants to wreck him, wants to break that composure into a million little pieces.

He nuzzles at Phil’s cheek and purrs, “I want you.”

He feels Phil’s breath catch in his throat, feels him go tense for a second, but then Phil nods and squeezes his arm, lets himself be kissed again. Steve leans against him, loving the feel of Phil’s body against his own. He’s filthy, he smells of gunpowder and smoke and sweat; he knows he’s ruining Phil’s suit, but it almost delights him. He strokes Phil’s collar, loosens his tie, unbuttons that top button, and he can’t quite keep from smirking at the smear of grime he leaves behind. He wishes he had the patience to take his time, to debauch Phil inch by inch, leave no stretch of his suit or his skin unsullied, but he’s already feeling that itch beneath his skin, hot and tingly and infuriatingly insistent. His body has needs he’s been neglecting for too long.

“I want you to bend me over the desk and fuck me,” he whispers, “‘till I beg for mercy.”

He’s still gazing at that stain on Phil’s shirt, the crisp white collar parted ever so slightly to reveal a tantalizing stretch of flesh, so he doesn’t see the flash of surprise across Phil’s face, but he feels the way Phil startles, the way his touch goes from tense and passive to almost greedy in a heartbeat. Phil drags him down into another kiss, reaching between them and fumbling with the buckle on his utility belt. Steve unfastens the buckle and drops his belt on the desk, shoves his trousers down a little, then Phil’s hand is on his cock, and it feels like heaven. He moans softly, arching into Phil’s touch, shuddering and closing his eyes.

Phil gives him a slow, gentle squeeze and then pushes him away, turning him towards the desk. He bends over, bracing himself on his forearms, and when Phil leans against him, when he feels the cold drag of Phil’s belt buckle against his skin, it’s all he can do to keep quiet. He grabs his belt, pops the snap on the back left pouch, fumbles for a moment but manages to catch hold of the small jar of lube, passes it to Phil. Tony’s insistence on upgrading his kit has really been paying off lately, and in so many unexpected ways, too.

Phil pauses for a moment, and there’s more than a hint of incredulity in his voice, “Really?”

Steve laughs and nods. He doesn’t bother to mention that if Tony wasn’t so obsessive about details, it would be Ballistol instead.

There’s the most marvelous sound as Phil pops the lid on the jar, dips his fingers in. Steve gasps at Phil’s touch, and has to rest his weight against the desk; Phil has used so much lube it leaves him feeling wet between the legs, somehow even filthier than before, and it’s marvelous. Phil is stroking him, teasing him, seeming like he wants to take his time, and Steve loves the idea, but he really doesn’t have the patience for that sort of thing right now. He grabs Phil’s wrist, whispering, “Just fuck me,” but it comes out an almost angry growl, and he takes a breath, loosens his grip, whispers, “Please.”

Phil makes a soft, uncertain sound, but then he’s shifting, trying to unbuckle his belt with one hand. Steve lets go of his wrist, and Phil pulls away, but then there’s the quiet scratch of a zipper, the soft rush of cloth and the muffled jingle of Phil’s buckle as it falls against his leg, and then Phil is pressed against him again, hard and slick as he lines himself up. Steve trembles with desire, his skin feels almost electric with anticipation, but he takes Phil so easily it’s almost disappointed. He clenches down as he arches back, wanting more friction.

Phil doubles over with a clipped moan, suddenly overwhelmed, and there’s a certain intimacy to the way he just rests his cheek against Steve’s shoulder as he catches his breath and marshals himself.

“Is this what you fantasized about?” Steve whispers, grinding his hips back, “Captain America, absolutely desperate for your cock after a long mission?”

“I never thought…” Phil swallows, shuddering as Steve clenches down around him, “You were so…” Phil’s voice trails off, and he whispers, “I thought I would have to be HYDRA.” He seems almost defeated, “I’m sorry. That’s degrading.”

It takes Steve a moment to put the pieces together, but when he does, he can’t hide the grin on his face. This is something he understands; he’s not oblivious to the fact that he’s spent most of his public life almost literally wrapped in an American flag. There are certain darker thoughts that come naturally with symbolism as obvious as that. Phil fantasized about taking what he wanted, and he’s such a good person, he actually feels bad about it. Steve adores him for that.

Steve turns to nuzzle at Phil’s cheek, coaxing him into a kiss, arching against him and trying to pull him back into the moment. “Did I fight?” he purrs, “Did I love it, even though I hated you?”

“…you never wanted to enjoy it,” Phil whispers, and there’s so much shame in his voice.

Steve hates that Phil is tying himself in knots, and he decides to take a page from Darcy’s book; he just embraces the idea wholesale. “I did love it though, didn’t I?” he whispers, letting his voice break into a soft moan, “I loved it and I hated you more and more with every little shudder, every gasp and shiver. You made me ache for it, didn’t you? I was begging by the end…”

Phil doesn’t say anything, but his breathing quickens, and his grip on Steve’s hip has slowly tightened.

Steve knows he’s pushing his luck, knows if he pushes too far, there’ll be another month, or more, where Phil manages to never be in the same room with him for longer than a few seconds, but he decides to take his chances, “You still carry cuffs, don’t you?”

Phil startles, but quickly gathers himself into a guarded calm, “I do.”

“Get them out,” Steve whispers.

Phil slowly straightens, shifting to reach his belt. The handcuffs jangle as he slips them from their leather case, and a thrill of anticipation sings up Steve’s spine.

He rests his weight on his chest and crosses his arms in the small of his back.

Phil hesitates, and Steve rocks his hips, glancing back at him and purring, “I’m waiting.”

Phil looks like he can’t decide whether to be terrified or turned on, but he fastens the handcuffs loosely on Steve’s wrists.

“Phil, come on,” Steve doesn’t quite hide his smile, “I could slip these even if I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Phil takes a shuddering breath and tightens each cuff until it rests snugly against Steve’s skin. Steve catches Phil’s hand and squeezes, and Phil just doesn’t let go, holding fast to his hand like it’s the only thing he knows how to do anymore. Steve hums his approval and slowly rocks his hips, earning a soft moan from Phil.

“Is this how it went?” he whispers, “Sweat and blood, gun oil, concrete walls?”

Phil groans and buries his face against the nape of Steve’s neck, his voice is muffled against the stealth suit, “…yes.”

“Then make me love it.”

Phil makes a sound like he’s just taken a heavy blow, like all the air has been knocked from his lungs, but Steve just rocks his hips, and ever so slowly, Phil comes around. Steve lets him find a gentle, easy rhythm, arching to meet him on each stroke until Phil seems like he’s found a little of his courage again, until he’s loosened that death grip on his hand.

Steve gives Phil’s hand a squeeze, then he clenches down and bucks his hips, gritting his teeth and hissing, “HYDRA bastard.”

Phil’s breath catches in his throat and he shudders. Steve keeps a tight grip on Phil’s hand and makes him fight for every inch, struggling ineffectually and arching back against him, pushing him deeper, finally collapsing with a defeated whimper as their hips meet.

“This is a pretty sight,” Phil whispers, and there’s just the vaguest hint of a German accent to his words, “Captain America, pinned on my cock.” Steve wonders if he even knows he’s doing it, but it’s very effective, nonetheless, and he shivers at the sound, biting down on a moan. The man who KO’d Hitler in more than a hundred cities, and here he is, aching and imagining Phil in kidskin gloves, shiny leather boots at the hint of an accent. He should be ashamed of himself, but he loves it.

“You enjoy this, don’t you?” Phil leans close, “I knew you would.”

Steve whines and twists against the handcuffs, and he aims for that breathy desperation that drove him to distraction when Darcy did it, “I… No!”

Phil is really starting to get into it now, and his voice is a low purr that sends a shiver straight up Steve’s spine, “Then why do you meet my every thrust, hm? Why do you arch against me when I pull away?”

Steve tries for a sob, but it comes out more like a hiccup; he stifles the laugh that threatens to bubble up, and whimpers, “No… No, you can’t…”

Phil strokes his hand down Steve’s side, squeezing at his waist, “Admit it…” he purrs as he pulls back until just the tip of his cock kisses against Steve’s skin, pushing in slow and deep.

Steve shudders and chokes on his breath. His cock is so hard it’s starting to hurt; a deep, throbbing ache that arrows straight into his groin every time Phil so much as breathes, and even if Phil wasn’t trying to work him up, this endless teasing would be driving him crazy. He can hardly stand it, and he doesn’t have to fake any of the desperation in his voice, “Please…”

“Please…?” Phil purrs, and Steve has a feeling he’s enjoying this a little more than is fair.

“Please,” Steve gasps, “Fuck me, please…”

Phil snaps his hips and Steve collapses with a broken moan, shivering and mewling.

“Ssh,” Phil whispers, reaching up to put his hand over Steve’s mouth.

Steve shuts his eyes, loving the closeness of Phil’s breath against the back of his neck, the warmth of his hand, the harsh bite of the handcuffs now that Phil’s weight is against them. He can’t keep from grinding back against that weight, arching until he’s trembling.

“Patience, Captain,” Phil almost sounds like he’s gloating. It’s infuriatingly sexy.

Steve bucks back against him with an insistent, needy groan.

Phil’s breath catches in his throat and he shudders, dropping his head against Steve’s shoulder as his resolve finally breaks and he gives in, gives him what they’re both desperate for. Steve is so strung out, so exhausted and so caught up in it that he can hardly keep himself together, and Phil really does clap his hand against his mouth then, trying to keep him from letting every agent within a hundred yards know exactly what sort of debriefing this really is, but he doesn’t slow up, doesn’t pull back. If anything, he doubles his efforts, quickly building up a rhythm that has them both gasping, shuddering.

Steve can’t find his balance, he can’t get any leverage, so he just has to take it, hard and deep and marvelously steady. He whines and grits his teeth, straining against the handcuffs, aching to touch his neglected cock, as all the while that pleasure just builds and builds, magnificent and so far beyond anything he thought he could endure. It’s partly exhaustion, but when that tension finally snaps it’s like something inside him has been torn loose; he hears his own muffled shout, feels the chain on the handcuffs give way, and then he’s gripping the desk and bucking back against Phil, fisting his cock so tight it hurts, coming so hard he almost blacks out.

He isn’t entirely sure he doesn’t, because when he finally comes back to himself he’s gasping against Phil’s hand, swallowing more air than he’s inhaling, shaking all over and whimpering with the aftershock. There’s cum dripping down the back of his hand, and Phil is almost laying against him, breathing slow and deep. After a moment, Phil groans and drags himself away; Steve shudders to lose him, but he finally manages to take a deep breath, lets go of the desk, leaning against it as he stands on shaky legs and forcing himself to stand up straight, pulling his trousers on, trying seem like he has at least a shred of dignity left.

Phil isn’t much better off, his suit is rumpled and filthy; he looks like Steve feels. He has an almost bashful smile on his face, and Steve isn’t sure whether the flush in his cheeks is from exertion or embarrassment, but then he runs his fingers through his hair and smirks, saying, “Mission report, Captain?”

Steve just leans against him, presses him back against the wall and kisses him, slow and deep, licking at his mouth as he whispers, “We won…”

Chapter Text

It’s Pepper who finally pulls him back into Tony’s orbit, and all it takes is a simple phone call.

“Tony’s had a rough week,” she begins, without so much as a hello, “I’d like you to come by and help me with something tonight.”

“Oh,” he says. He doesn’t actually have anything planned, so he doesn’t really have an excuse to say no, and he’s terrible at lying when someone puts him on the spot. “Um, sure. What do you need?”

“I want you to choke him on your cock while I fuck him senseless,” Pepper says, quite matter of factly.

Steve inhales his soda and ends up doubled over coughing. It feels like forever, but he finally catches his breath and brings the phone back to his ear.

“About nine, then, after dinner?” Pepper asks, unfazed.

Steve nods, still slightly stunned, but then he remembers she can’t see him, and somehow he manages to make a sort of affirmative sound. It takes him a few minutes to really get hold of himself.

***

Pepper meets him at the door to the elevator, wearing nothing but a jade green silk robe, sash tied loosely at the waist so that as she turns to lead him to the bedroom, the robe slips off her shoulder. What really draws his attention isn’t that little flash of skin, but the soft way she walks in her bare feet; it’s so different from the purposeful, assertive stride she has in heels, and further still from the almost predatory way she walked after she had slipped off her dress, but there’s a centered power to her stride even now, a certain unselfconscious élan. He finds himself imagining what she would look like if she were to dance, her delicate ankles, the gentle curve of her calves, all strength and effortless grace.

He only snaps out of it when she slips the robe from her shoulders and lets it fall to the floor, pooling in soft waves around her feet, and when he finally looks up — letting his gaze travel along her legs, the narrow curve of her hips and the smooth flat expanse of her belly, across her chest — she’s wearing a lacy little bra in the same jade color as her robe.

She smiles at him almost forgivingly, and he blushes, forcing himself to stop staring.

“Do you want to take your clothes off, while I get ready?” she says, and it’s not so much of a question as just a polite demand.

She stretches and turns to smile at Tony, who Steve finally notices is curled up on the bed, waiting breathlessly. He’s naked, and he gazes adoringly, hungrily at Pepper as she walks across the room to fetch something from a drawer. His cock is hard and his cheeks are flushed, there’s a slight sheen of sweat across his collarbone, and Steve wonders what he’s been doing to be in such a state already, but then Steve realizes this is the first time he’s ever seen Tony without a shirt, and he has to look away, concentrate on taking off his clothes so as not to stare at Tony’s chest, at the scar radiating out from the arc reactor.

He perches at the head of the bed next to Tony, not wanting to intrude on his thoughts. Tony doesn’t look at him, but he reaches out and lays his hand on Steve’s shoulder; a fond, lingering touch, not the casual slap on the back Steve is used to getting.

“God,” Tony says, “I love watching her get ready.”

Steve glances over and Pepper is stepping into a set of boy shorts, fingers trailing along the edge of the drawer as she selects a dildo, finally settling on something clear and seemingly soft, but surprisingly large, and intimidatingly thick at the base. Tony whimpers softly, and just out of the corner of his eye, Steve can see him bite his lip with anticipation as she positions it to her liking. Pepper tosses her hair over her shoulder, and Steve watches as she threads a pair of little combs into her hair at her temples, pressing them against her skin — it takes him a moment to figure out what those combs are for, but from the look of them, he’s pretty sure they’re a more compact, less complicated version of what Tony uses to control his suits. He watches with interest as she closes her eyes and waits, and sure enough, a little light blinks on, he can just make it out beneath her hair. She smiles a wicked little smile, and comes back to bed, that clear cock bobbing obscenely as she walks.

Tony has already grabbed a jar of lube from his nightstand, scooped out a ridiculous amount, and when Pepper gets close he kneels on the bed in front of her. She reaches out, threading her fingers through his hair, pulling him to rest his head against her hip. He reaches up and smears the lube across the head of her cock, squeezing as he slicks her. She gasps and her hips jerk, and Steve doesn’t fail to catch the self-satisfied grin that flashes across Tony’s face before he nuzzles at her crotch, mouthing at the base of that cock. Pepper shudders, closing her eyes with a soft, throaty purr. Steve shifts, uncomfortably hard.

She lets Tony stroke her until she’s practically gasping, and then she crawls into bed beside him, resting on her heels. Tony takes one last glance at that cock, with an expression halfway between lust and dread, and crawls back to Steve. Pepper catches his eye and Steve takes the hint and gets up, settles resting on his heels like she is. Tony drapes himself across his lap, nuzzling at his hip, kneeling with his ass in the air, legs spread, and Steve has to admit it’s a beautiful sight, especially when Pepper crawls up behind him, stroking her hands along his spine, slow and soothing. Tony knots his hand in the sheets, and Pepper trails her fingertips down his arm, squeezes his hand. Tony sighs, relaxing ever so slightly.

Pepper lines herself up, rubbing the head of her cock between Tony’s legs, teasing, but mostly letting him settle a bit before she pushes in, leaning against him. Tony makes a choked-off groan, buries his face in Steve’s lap, and suddenly he’s so tense he’s trembling, hardly breathing, clinging to Steve like his life depends on it. His grip on the sheets is so tight his knuckles have gone white, and his hand is shaking. Pepper makes a soft sound, almost an admonishment, and she strokes the small of his back, rubbing little circles even as she forces Tony to take more of her cock. She goes slow, but even so there’s a point where Tony sobs and shudders, clutching desperately at Steve’s hip, and Steve finds himself petting Tony, threading his fingers through thick, dark hair and dragging his nails along the nape of his neck, making shushing sounds.

Pepper only gets about halfway in before she pulls back, and Tony’s relief is palpable; his breathing deepens, his shoulders relax, and Steve watches in a sort of awe as Pepper fucks him shallowly, pushing a little further each time, until she’s back in almost as far as she was, and Tony is moaning softly, breath hot against Steve’s skin. Pepper has been watching Tony intently, and when she finally looks up at Steve, he shivers under the intensity of her gaze. She just nods at him, then reaches down to pat Tony’s shoulder.

Tony takes a deep breath and slowly, shakily pushes himself up onto all fours, gazing up at him, already completely wrecked, and then he just opens his mouth, pleading with his eyes.

It’s amazing, the way Tony has just completely given himself over to whatever happens next; Steve has never seen anything quite like it. He takes a moment to watch Tony, the hitch in his breath, the tremble in his shoulders, the trust and need writ plain across his face, and then he goes on instinct, tangling his fingers in Tony’s hair, dragging his cock across Tony’s cheek, smearing his skin with precum as he guides himself to rest against Tony’s parted lips. Tony whimpers at the back of his throat, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as dart his tongue out to flick against the tip of Steve’s cock.

Steve smiles, he can’t quite help but enjoy having Tony in this sort of position, and he tightens his grip, pulling at Tony’s hair. Tony tenses with a gasp, and then relaxes into it, exhaling slowly, breath wet against Steve’s cock as he reaches out and grips Steve’s leg, holding tight.

With one last glance at Pepper, and an approving nod from her, Steve pushes the tip of his cock into Tony’s mouth. He wants to close his eyes, revel in the softness of his lips, the light graze of teeth, the wet, unresisting heat of his tongue, but he knows he should watch Tony’s face for any sign of distress, and seeing himself sink into that mouth is a heady sight. Tony breathes slow and deep, moaning softly to taste him, and Steve pushes a little further, just until he can feel the roof of Tony’s mouth. Tony really moans then, digging his fingers into the muscle of Steve’s thigh, wanting more, but Steve draws back slow, entirely content to take it nice and easy, and Tony whines with frustration, but he still doesn’t move.

Pepper catches his eye and whispers, “Go on,” and Steve does, pushing slightly deeper on the next thrust. Tony swallows to feel him at the back of his throat, breathing shallow with anticipation, and at Pepper’s subtle nod, Steve lets himself lean into it a little, slowly pushing into the tight muscle of Tony’s throat. Tony struggles despite himself, half-choking and swallowing again and again, but his expression is still so placid; if it weren’t for the flush spreading across his cheeks and the tears pooling at the corners of his eyes, Steve might call that look bliss. He reaches a point where Tony truly bridles and chokes, breath gone gasping and ragged, and Steve shifts his weight, meaning to pull back just a little, but Tony digs his fingers into Steve’s thigh, grip strong enough to hurt, so he stays where he is.

He looks across to Pepper for guidance, but she just says, “You know why you’re here.” Her voice is somewhere between a purr and a promise, coaxing and commanding all at once. She was unequivocal about what Tony wanted. He looks down at Tony, gazing into those shining eyes, and ever so slowly he arches against his mouth until Tony’s lips and nose are pressed flat against his groin, and Tony is struggling for breath, drooling and swallowing desperately, near-choking with each breath.

If Steve didn’t know better, he would think Tony was suffering intolerably. Even knowing better, he would think that, but for the fact that Tony hasn’t loosened his grip, hasn’t so much as shifted an inch or tilted his head to make himself more comfortable. He strokes Tony’s hair, whispering, “You feel so good,” and wipes a tear from Tony’s cheek, bringing his thumb to his mouth to lick it away, “I knew you could take it.”

Tony makes a pained face and closes his eyes, whining, and Steve realizes Pepper has pushed deeper, her hand is on his hip, she’s pulling him back slightly so he can breathe a little easier, but she’s also making him arch his back in a hard bow as she makes him take the full length of her cock. She settles against his hips and then grinds into him, making him sob and shudder before she pulls back until just the tip of her clear cock kisses against his skin, and slides back home in one smooth motion.

Tony howls and Steve arches against his mouth, muffling that sound, and even though Tony struggles, pinned and helpless between them, Pepper looks pleased.

She fucks Tony slow, grinding against him, bending over to whisper against his shoulder, telling him how good he feels, how she loves to be so deep inside him, shuddering and bucking her hips when he manages to marshal himself enough to clench down around her, to arch back against her. Steve follows Pepper’s lead, holding Tony’s head in place, mostly fucking his mouth but occasionally brushing against the back of his throat when he gets a little too loud or enjoys himself a little too much, occasionally pushing into his throat and just waiting, keeping a tight grip on the back of his neck as he shudders and chokes, arching against him until he finally settles.

Steve hasn’t quite got Tony figured out, but he knows there’s something to the way he struggles, that it’s less about suffering and more about giving in, accepting it, yielding to those sensations. Tony’s a control freak. It makes sense, in an odd way.

Pepper has pulled back and is fucking him with just the tip of her cock, short, unsteady little thrusts, becoming more and more frantic and shaky, and Tony moans around Steve’s cock, almost fighting him, desperate to be able to fuck back against her, but Steve just tightens his grip, pushing as deep as he can into Tony’s mouth, and Tony shudders, clutching at him as Pepper gasps and closes her eyes, arching against him and shivering until finally she breathes deep, whole body gone slack, and lets her head fall back with a sigh.

Steve lets go of Tony’s head and Tony slowly pulls away, looking up at him with eyes shot black with lust, face flushed and streaked with tears, lips swollen and red. He gasps and nearly collapses into Steve’s arms as Pepper pulls out, breathing hard and heavy.

Pepper has recovered, and she pulls the combs out of her hair, sets them on the bedside table, and shimmies out of her shorts, dropping them onto the floor beside the bed as she settles in, leaning against the pillows, and pulls Tony back into her arms, letting him rest his head against her shoulder. He sighs, exhausted, but he’s settled with his legs spread, and his cock is still hard, glistening with desire. Pepper strokes his hair and looks up at Steve with a little smile, saying, “Your turn, if you want.”

Steve raises an eyebrow, knowing Tony has to be achingly sore, but Tony just groans and manages somehow to catch his wrist, giving him a squeeze. Steve crawls between Tony’s legs, bending down to lick a wet stripe up the length of his cock before mouthing wetly at the head. Tony’s hips jerk, and he makes the most desperate, yearning sound, trailing off into a whimper as Steve glances up at Pepper, and she motions for him to come closer. She slips her hand between her legs, dragging her fingers through the slick there. Steve knows the look on his face must be shockingly pathetic, because she just smirks and drags her hand across his mouth, smearing that wetness onto his lips before she pushes her fingers into his mouth for a tantalizing second, leaving him gasping openmouthed at the taste of her.

She glances down at Tony, who has been watching with no small look of desperation.

Steve follows her gaze, and he can take a hint. He leans down to kiss him, and is met with such ardor as Tony licks at his mouth, sucking the taste of her from his lips, that when Tony shifts his hips, trying to get closer, to somehow kiss him deeper, it’s the most natural thing in the world for Steve to just line himself up and sink into him. There’s not so much as a scrap of resistance left in Tony, he couldn’t fight it even if he wanted to, but he doesn’t struggle, he doesn’t seem to be hurting, he just sighs against Steve’s mouth, moaning as he pushes deeper.

“Oh god,” Steve whispers, dropping his head against Tony’s shoulder, “You’re so easy…”

Tony groans, too tired to even meet him halfway, and Steve just settles atop him, resting his weight on his elbows, rocking his hips and fucking him slow, Tony’s cock trapped between their bellies, hard and smearing want against their skin with every thrust.

Pepper mostly just pets Tony, but occasionally she reaches to trail her fingertips down the back of Steve’s neck, or to squeeze his shoulder, urging him on. It isn’t so long before Tony moans; a gasping, aching sound as he wraps his leg around Steve’s knee, there’s a hot spurt of cum spilling across his belly, and then Tony sobs, clutching at him.

At first, Steve thinks it’s relief, overstimulation, but Tony holds tight, and soon his breath goes hard, almost like a hiccup, and he realizes Tony is crying; curled against his shoulder, clutching him close and sobbing silently.

Steve looks up at Pepper, completely thrown, but she just shakes her head and mouths, ‘Keep going.’ He frowns, but she nods, reaching to stroke Tony’s shoulder, and Tony digs his fingers into Steve’s bicep. Steve recognizes that, at least, and he slips his hand beneath Tony’s hips, pulling him closer even as he rests his weight against Tony’s hips. He can feel the rise and fall of Tony’s breathing beneath his chest, the soft thrum of the arc reactor radiating through his sternum; a strange heartbeat, just as unlikely and astonishing as the man himself.

Steve doesn’t rush, but he doesn’t so much linger, either. He just follows Tony’s lead, going a little faster when Tony sobs and whimpers, gentle and easy when he gasps for breath, and soon enough Tony is sniffling, still occasionally choking on his breath, but mostly through whatever little earthquake has just shaken him, and he’s started to rock his hips, meeting Steve’s thrusts, clenching down and shivering, and Steve realizes that he’s been holding on for so long, keeping himself in rein for Tony’s sake, that he’s positively aching now.

He nuzzles at Tony’s jaw, and it takes a little encouragement, a soft sound of insistence, but eventually Tony turns to him, swallowing and still sniffling, face blotchy and wet. Steve doesn’t care about that; he just kisses him, long and deep, letting all of that yearning pour out of him, carrying him along to an orgasm like a wave slowly breaking against a shore. Tony just takes it, moaning softly, and Steve catches his first full breath in what feels like years as he drops his head against Tony’s shoulder.

Tony doesn’t so much let him go as just loosens his grip, only letting him go far enough to get comfortable before settling close and holding him tight again. Steve realizes he’s not going anywhere at least until morning when Pepper gestures for FRIDAY to turn off the lights as she curls up behind Tony and drapes a sheet across them, reaching as best she can to cover him as well. He manages to catch the sheet with his fingertips and pulls it up a little further, settles in a bit more comfortably, shifting against the pillow.

Tony snuffles and stretches, rubbing his cheek against Steve’s chest with a soft sigh, and Steve realizes Tony is already fast asleep. Pepper reaches out and squeezes his bicep, letting her hand just rest there, holding him close to Tony. There’s something surprisingly fond in that touch. Steve takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, letting himself sink into the silk sheets and pillowy mattress, and he’s drifted off before he even has a chance to wonder what morning will bring.

Chapter Text

Most of the team is away on a somewhat sensitive mission that — were Captain America to put in an appearance — could quickly become a political nightmare, and so he’s been rattling around the tower for the last several days, gazing out over the city and fancying himself some tragic figure from a victorian novel for the last several days. It doesn’t bother him, really, being alone; he learned the difference between being alone and being lonely early on, and he rather likes the quiet. It’s nice to have nothing to do. Still, everyone seems to think he needs company, so he's not all that surprised when Sam drops by late one evening carrying a pizza and a six pack from his favorite Brooklyn pie shop.

They settle in on the common room couch with that pizza, and a bit of whatever’s on TV. The best thing they can find is a marathon of old MASH episodes. Sam is a fan, and Steve has to admit it’s pretty funny, at least until it turns tragic. The next episode goes maudlin only five minutes in, and Steve sighs, switching it off.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Sam says, and rifles in his bag, retrieving, of all things, two battered VHS tapes of mid-80s lesbian pornography. Steve finishes his beer, and reads the synopses on the back of the cassette cases while Sam sets everything up. It takes Sam about twenty minutes of fiddling with settings to get the VCR working. The cases are battered and clearly have seen better days, Sam seems very proud of them, and Steve finally has some inkling as to why Clint is so adamant about keeping the VCR. When he’d asked, Clint had talked about it as if VHS tapes were the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and even after watching the VHS and DVD versions, Steve hadn't really seen what the big deal was about the original edit of Star Wars — Han shot first, whatever — but this, well, it certainly makes Clint’s loyalty to the outdated format make a bit more sense.

Sam settles in on the couch and unzips his jeans as the opening credits roll, saying, “You mind? Might as well get the full experience, right? Nice way to relax after a long week.”

Steve is a bit surprised, but he certainly doesn't mind. Sam passes him a bottle of lube, and Steve leans back, unbuttoning his jeans. When in Rome, he figures. The lube is thin, but silky smooth against his skin, and soon enough, he's hard and starting to enjoy himself.

Porn has come a long way from French postcards. He’s not so keen on the stuff he’s been able to find online, but unlike the short moneyshot clips that are popular now, this actually has a plot, and most every shot is filmed wide; he likes being able to see the actresses’ faces, enjoys watching them interact with one another. It’s a fairly pedestrian plot, even by his standards, revolving around the naughty antics of two schoolgirls who are pretty obviously in their mid-20s, but it's enjoyable enough. When the ‘headmistress’ walks onscreen, he sees why Sam chose this particular tape; she's a dead ringer for Natasha.

He glances over at Sam, who shrugs, “She’s hot. She’d probably just as soon break my neck as give me the time of day, but she's hot.” Steve has to cede that point.

As he looks away, he catches a quick glance of Sam’s cock; a little short, but beautifully thick and hard, flushed at the tip and shiny slick with lube. He makes a point to focus on what’s happening onscreen, he doesn't want to make Sam uncomfortable, but nothing on tape could really compete with an actual person, and his attention wanders, he’s drawn back to Sam again and again. It's a losing battle, and soon enough he shifts position so he can watch Sam just out of the corner of his eye — it’s not a classy move, but he’s trying to be subtle, at least.

The girls onscreen are playing petulant, the one that looks like Natasha is going through the motions of being a stern disciplinarian, though she doesn't seem to have any real passion for it. She picks up a ruler, smacking it against the palm of her hand for emphasis, and makes one of the girls bend over her lap. There's a marvelous close-up as the girl slowly lifts her skirt, pulls her panties down around her thighs, and then that ruler lands flat against her ass, leaving a pretty pink welt that the headmistress lovingly caresses.

Sam moans softly, and without thinking, Steve reaches out and squeezes his thigh. When he realizes what he’s just done, he pulls his hand away, “I wasn’t…” he clears his throat, “Sorry.”

Sam chuckles, saying, “I’m secure enough in my sexuality that I can deal with your hand on my leg. I wouldn’t have brought the tapes if that sort of thing was going to freak me out,” and just when Steve is feeling well and truly chagrined, Sam adds, “I can see you watching, you know.”

Steve stares at the carpet and tries not to blush.

“I appreciate the effort, you're just not very good at being sneaky,” Sam laughs, “It’s okay though, just relax.” He shifts slightly and spreads his legs a little as he leans back, “I don’t mind. It’s not my thing, but whatever. You do you.”

Steve glances back up at the TV, but he lets his gaze wander this time, and when he finds himself watching Sam instead of the video, he doesn't try to hide it, doesn't force himself to look away. Sam is enjoying the action onscreen, and doesn't pay him much mind. He’s working himself with long, slow strokes, occasionally dragging his palm across the head of his cock, teasing himself into a real state. Watching him is better than anything a porn producer could possibly dream up.

He's not sure if it’s because he's been staring, or because he's just licked his lips, but Sam glances over at him and pauses, squeezing the base of his cock as he says, “Wanna suck it?”

Steve doesn’t quite trust himself not to say something completely idiotic, so he just nods, swallowing heavily, and Sam adds, “I’m not going to return the favor, you cool with that?”

“Yeah,” Steve nods again, and he's a little hoarse, his voice cracks slightly, “Yeah, that's…” but he hesitates, “You sure?”

“Sure about not sucking your cock?” Sam laughs, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure. As for the other part, a mouth’s a mouth.” He shrugs, “Like you’d say no to a no-strings blowjob.”

Steve can feel the blush rising in his cheeks, but Sam squeezes the base of his cock, giving himself a long, lingering stroke, dragging his thumb through the wetness that beads at the tip, and Steve couldn’t look away right now if his life depended on it.

“Well?” Sam says, waiting.

Steve glances up at him as he leans over, Sam nods, and Steve closes his eyes, leaning across to nuzzle at Sam’s crotch. The lube is tasteless but vaguely sweet, a thin layer of it coats Sam’s skin, mixing with the taste of him and his soft musky scent. Steve flicks his tongue across the head, mouthing wetly at him, teasing before taking him completely inside his mouth. Sam shudders, groaning softly, and clenches his hand into a fist. Steve guides that hand to the back of his neck, humming contentedly as Sam’s fingers slide through his hair. Sam exhales slowly, leaning his head back against the couch, and shifting his hips to give Steve a better angle.

Steve moans softly around Sam’s cock, loving the feel of him, heavy against his tongue, filling his mouth, the slightly bitter taste of his precum mingled with the last of the lube. Sam strokes the back of his head, absently dragging his thumb down the nape of Steve’s neck, clearly enjoying himself. When Steve takes him deep, swallowing around him, Sam moans, a breathy, slightly surprised sound, and pulls his head down, arching up to get just that little bit deeper.

There's a great deal of exaggerated moaning coming from the television now, and Steve doubles his efforts, trying to keep some sort of pace with the sounds of the video. It doesn't take much to bring Sam to the point of trembling, to the point where he moans softly with each long, drawn out stroke, hips moving slowly, breath gone shallow and thready. Steve closes his eyes again and reaches down to touch himself, toying with his balls, teasing himself with light strokes as he works Sam into a real state. He can’t help but feel pretty pleased with himself, Sam is moaning softly, head thrown back, arching against his mouth.

Steve swallows around him, sucking hard, and Sam gasps, fingers slipping through Steve’s hair as he halfheartedly tries to push him away, groaning, “Oh hell, I’m so close…”

Steve just moans, moving faster, swirling his tongue across the head, reaching up to work the shaft with his hand; hard, sharp strokes, dragging a broken moan out of Sam as he tenses up, cock impossibly hard as he spills into Steve’s mouth with a short, shaky gasp. Steve swallows again and again; his entire world is that hot, bitter splash across his tongue, down his throat. He keeps working Sam slow and easy until the last of it has passed, only pulling away when Sam sighs and shivers. He pushes himself away and sits back up, licking his lips as he watches Sam, his eyes closed, swallowing slow, deep breaths.

The tape seems to have ended, the screen is black, and Steve leans back, closing his eyes and spreading his legs as he works himself. He feels Sam shift, wonders if he's decided it's time to leave, and he's just opening his eyes to see what's up when he feels Sam’s hand, strong and rough on his cock, taking over. It catches him by surprise, and he ends up staring into Sam’s eyes.

“Least I could do,” Sam says, and Steve has the impression he's just said something, though he couldn't say what if his life depended on it. Sam’s grip is strong and tight, his palm covered with deep calluses that have long since worn smooth but still haven't softened after so many years of civilian life. Steve is breathing heavy, open-mouthed at the sensation. Sam squeezes a little tighter and works him harder, and Steve makes a sound he couldn’t describe, a sort of choked off moan. Sam leans closer, watching him, and he looks so pleased with himself, Steve thinks he’s just a moment shy of breaking out in a full grin. “Come on, Rogers,” he says, smirking, and squeezes the head of Steve’s cock.

Steve closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the couch. Sam just keeps working him, hard and fast, and now, with his eyes closed, with the TV off, he’s not quite so aware of himself, not quite so concerned about what Sam might be thinking about him, and almost as soon as he lets himself really concentrate on the sensation, just a moment or two after he sighs and finally relaxes a bit, he’s shuddering and curling in on himself, whining through clenched teeth, cringing and biting his lip, gasping and throwing his head back as he spills into Sam’s hand. Sam gives him one last good, hard squeeze, and stands up, hitching his jeans up with one hand as he wanders into the kitchen to wash his hands. Steve just sits there, taking the opportunity to recover, and when Sam walks back in, he’s zipped up his jeans, but he pauses and leans against the doorway, as casual as can be, saying, “Wanna watch that other tape?”

Steve laughs, still a little breathless, “Who’s on this one?”

Sam smirks, “You’ll see.”

Chapter Text

It takes him a few days to work up the nerve to finally call Pepper, but when he admits why he’s called he can almost hear her smiling. Her advice is simple and to the point; a particular brand of harness she favors, and the name and cross streets of a little sex shop in a newly gentrifying part of town. As for the rest, she assures him Tony will be thrilled to have an excuse to go back to that particular line of research.

A few days later, he’s on the crosstown train in the middle of the afternoon, working up the start of a truly furious blush before he’s even stepped onto the platform, and when he finally makes it to the shop, he very nearly turns back. It looks rather seedy from the outside, but he takes a deep breath and reminds himself of the way Pepper shuddered as Tony touched her cock. Imagining that same look on Darcy’s face is enough to get him through the door.

A little bell jingles, and as his eyes adjust to the sudden dim, he realizes he’s in less of a sex shop and more of a sex boutique; it’s comfortably lit and elegantly furnished, small but somehow welcoming, a playground for every kink under the sun and a few more beside. A young purple-haired woman looks up from her book and greets him, telling him she’s happy to help him find anything he likes, or answer any questions…

He swallows thickly and shakes his head, not really hearing the rest of what she says as he glances around, already hopelessly lost. He makes his way towards the least intimidating thing he sees; a rack of lingerie by the door, but then flounders, not having even the slightest clue as to Darcy’s size and not having intended to buy lingerie at all. In his despair he finally settles on a pair of stockings and a garter belt, and girds himself as he makes his way further into the store, averting his eyes as he walks past a rack of riding crops and other items he can only guess as to their purpose.

The woman behind the register minds her book politely for a while, glancing up occasionally to check his progress, and after what feels like a lifetime, finally takes pity on him and steps in to help, asking him what sort of thing his friend likes. His friend. The world really has changed. He stammers something about not knowing Darcy’s measurements, and she leads him over to a rack of flowing robes, dressing gowns, and kimonos, trailing her hand across a sumptuously embroidered one before taking it from the rack and holding it up for him to admire. It’s pretty, but not quite right. He asks what sort of things women buy for themselves.

“Oh you’d be surprised,” she says, and smiles gently, “I can show you what I would buy for myself, if you like.” She sorts through the rack and settles on an elegantly simple robe in a charcoal watered silk. He can’t quite hide his surprise when he sees the number written on the tag, but she immediately makes a joke about having expensive taste, and mentions that she has items in any price range he likes.

“No,” he says, “I’m just… not quite accustomed to what these things cost, anymore.” He reaches out hesitantly, and she smiles, laying the robe across her arm for him to caress. He has to admit that it is brilliantly soft, and when she mentions its French provenance, noting the delicate embroidery along the hem, he’s immediately sold.

He glances down at the garter belt in his hand, suddenly realizing how cheap it feels by comparison, and weakly asks if she has anything to match the robe. She takes the stockings and garter belt from him, sets them aside, and leads him a little further back into the shop, showing him a selection of slips, one of which perfectly matches the silk, a dainty thing made of cloud-soft lace, flowing and flirty. It looks to be something close to the right size, and when he looks hopefully to the purple-haired woman, she smiles, telling him it’s meant to fit loosely. He listens as she tells him about the designer, a Belgian woman, and her workshop in Paris, as she points out the hand-finished details, the Chantilly lace and Lyon silk. It’s the sort of thing he’s always dreamt about seeing a woman wear, and he nods approvingly.

She takes it from the rack and adds it to her arm with the robe, asking if perhaps he knows his friend’s shoe size. He doesn’t, but further back they come upon another, smaller display of garter belts, panties and stockings, and he trails his fingers hesitantly across the nearest set. She immediately picks out a pair of knickers, delicately made with a tantalizing panel of lace at the front, and presents them for his inspection. He smiles, imagining Darcy wearing them, and hazards a halting and embarrassed query as to the woman’s own size. She laughs heartily, and sets the knickers back down, selecting another pair, several sizes up. He glances at the slip, and she nods knowingly, leading him back over to the rack.

He describes Darcy’s proportions to her, trying not to gesture obscenely, but seeing his blush and his helplessness, she hangs the robe and slip on the nearest rack, slips off her jacket, and deftly unlaces a corset he hadn’t even realized she was wearing, revealing a figure much closer to Darcy’s than he might have guessed from her silhouette. She holds up each piece, going so far as to point out how it will fit and what will be most flattering, and by the end, he’s fairly sure they’ve found Darcy’s size. He picks out a matching garter belt, and three pair of silk stockings with a cuban heel and a seam up the back, which back in his day were just stockings, but apparently now are quite a rare thing. The shop girl, whose name turns out to be Lena, seems mildly impressed.

Once that’s done, she leads him to the counter, setting the small heap of silk and lace next to the register, but doesn’t fail to note his lingering glance towards the back of the shop. She smiles easily, saying, “Let me guess, you didn’t come in for lingerie at all?”

He blushes to his toes, trying to think of something clever to say.

“You know,” she says, spreading her hands in an expansive gesture that takes in most of the shop, “Whatever it is you’re looking for, I’ve tried it myself, or I stock it on the personal recommendation of someone I trust.” She shrugs, adding, “I certainly didn’t sink my life’s savings into this place just to judge people for enjoying themselves.”

He glances up at her and she laughs, “Ooh, didn’t see that coming, did you?”

He stammers an apology, but she just smirks, saying, “I graduated from Wharton, so you’d think I’d be smarter than to run a business with margins as narrow as this. Ended up in the city after an offer from a firm here…” she shrugs, “It was good money, but it wasn’t what I really wanted to do with my life. Making people rich is easy. I’d rather make people happy.”

He smiles, finally properly meeting her gaze, and it’s like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. He finds himself telling her about the harness he wants to buy before he’s had a chance to be embarrassed about it, and she nods knowingly when he mentions the brand Pepper likes.

“They’re very reliable. Comfortable, too. People love them,” she looks back over her shoulder, once again leading him a little further into the shop, “…and now we know what size your friend will probably like best.”

She picks up a set of little boxer shorts — far, far too little from the look of them — and as he turns them over in his hands she explains how they should fit; that they aren’t quite so small as they look. He picks out a set in black, thinking about the little of Darcy’s lingerie he’s actually seen, but he keeps looking back to a set in cherry red, and finally decides he likes those best. Pepper tends to wear shoes with a red sole, and as he describes them to his new friend, thinking she might suggest something similar, that he could buy Darcy a pair, she raises an eyebrow, and says, “Louboutins?”

He realizes he must look completely baffled, because she just gives him an appraising look and flatly says, “Do they look expensive?”

He thinks about everything Pepper wears, and nods.

“Do you mind spending as much on a pair of shoes as most people spend on rent?”

“Well, um,” He pales slightly, and he’s mildly embarrassed at the thought, but he says, “Not really?”

“Christian Louboutin,” she says, with certainty, “They actually have a store not so far from here. The manager is friend of mine. I’ll let her know you’re coming, if you’re thinking about buying a pair.”

He nods, reminding himself that even ridiculously expensive shoes aren’t all that much up against eighty years of back pay with compound interest, not if he gets to see the look on Darcy’s face when she opens the box, and definitely not if he gets to see see her wear them at least once or twice.

“So,” Lena says, giving him a knowing look, “Did you want something to go with this harness, or is your friend all set?”

Steve really wishes they could’ve kept talking about shoes, but he manages to mumble something, and somewhat to his surprise, Lena doesn’t laugh at him. She doesn’t even snicker. He likes her for that.

The selection of dildos at the back of the shop is positively mind-boggling; lined up neatly on shelves by size, in every sort of material and color he could possibly imagine, and just as baffling a variety of shapes. He finds himself gawping at a particularly intimidating specimen, then blushes when he notices Lena glancing at him. “Something, um,” he glances towards the smaller models, “…a little more reasonable?”

Lena nods, and leads him through all the various materials, from glass to leather, hard latex to a supple, almost skin-like silicone that he finds genuinely intriguing. She hands him an ambiguously shaped dildo in a modest size, showing him the way the material flexes and gives when he squeezes it. She’s so frank and unflinching that he finds he’s hardly embarrassed at all, and it doesn’t take him too long to find something he likes; a modestly-sized dildo in that same skin-textured silicone. It almost matches Darcy’s skin tone, which he doesn’t mention, but it does make him like it just a little more than some of the others. It has a gentle curve and even though it’s slightly larger than he had intended, it seems much more forgiving than Pepper’s surprisingly punishing little cock.

She leads him back to the counter, and glances up at him questioningly as she lays her hand on the lingerie. He nods. She smiles, saying, “There’s nothing in the world like Carine Gilson. Your friend is going to be ecstatic. I promise,” and adds with a little smirk, “Especially if you buy her a pair of Louboutins.”

He laughs. At least some things haven’t changed.

Lena picks up her calculator and sets to writing out his receipt, but he just shakes his head and hands her his bank card, saying, “Don’t tell me.”

She sees the look on his face and laughs, saying, “Fair enough,” and runs his card, handing him a slip to sign, which he does without so much as glancing at it. He’s decided he’s just not going to think about it. Pepper has good taste, and apparently, this is just what things cost, these days. Still, he’s pretty sure he’s just spent roughly what he made in a decade when he was younger. He decides, again, that he’s not going to think about it.

“If any of the lingerie doesn’t fit,” Lena says, as she clips the prices from each tag, “Your friend is welcome to return in the next month or so.” She writes up a gift receipt, omitting the prices, and carefully folds all the lingerie, wrapping it in delicate, rose-scented tissue paper before placing it into a gilt-embossed black box which she ties with a silky peach ribbon, before sliding the box into a matching black bag. The harness and dildo she also wraps in tissue paper, and then bends down, rummaging beneath the counter, retrieving a small, disc-like vibrator. He cocks an eyebrow as she opens the box and turns it on before setting it back to rights and slipping it in the bag beside the dildo, saying, “A little gift.”

She finishes by placing both bags into a larger, unmarked brown paper shopping bag, and Steve breathes a sigh of relief, having not even realized until just then how awkward it might have been, carrying his purchases back home.

The walk to the shoe store is actually quite a lot further than he’d expected, but he doesn’t mind, he enjoys walking, seeing how the city has changed, and anyway, it takes nearly that long to get Jane on the phone; she has no idea what size shoe Darcy wears, and scoffs at the idea that she might, but she does mention that she’s pretty sure SHIELD does physicals on everyone who works with them, as she’s been dodging her own appointment for the last six months.

He feels like a fool, and calls Phil, who checks Darcy’s file, and tells him two different numbers, which he makes a note of, not having any idea which he’s going to need. Phil then casually mentions he’s just broken half a dozen laws.

Steve laughs nervously.

Phil doesn’t laugh at all.

He decides to stop for a coffee, not that caffeine does anything for him anymore, but he really enjoys the ridiculous confections people call coffee these days, laden with syrup and topped with whipped cream. One of those fancy frozen drinks and a cookie has become something a bit of a mid afternoon habit of late. There are some definite advantages to having a metabolism that puts everyone but gods to shame, and as he licks a chocolate flake from his lip, he wonders if anyone has introduced Thor to the joys of the Frappuccino.

When he finally arrives at the shoe store, he discovers that, true to her word, Lena has called ahead and told them to expect him. He ends up spending the next hour with the manager and her assistant as they guide him through an increasingly incomprehensible variety of high heels, kitten heels, flats and wedges, all gorgeous, shockingly expensive, and every one accentuated with that beautiful cherry red sole.

On a recommendation from a fellow customer, he finally settles on a pair of low heels with a round toe, beautifully crafted and subtle in their elegance, and when the manager mentions that she has a small wristlet that would go perfectly with them, suitable for day or night, and opens it to reveal a cherry red satin lining, he sighs and smiles and finally takes her up on her offer of a glass of wine as he hands over his bank card.

It’s entirely unreasonable, what he’s doing, but then, if he had wanted to be reasonable, he shouldn’t have asked Pepper for suggestions. If he had wanted to be reasonable, he probably shouldn’t have woken up in the twenty first century, either, now that he thinks about it.

He had been intending to have Tony work his magic, and then present the whole package to Darcy in one grand flourish, but they cross paths as he’s coming back into the building. Or, rather, she nearly runs straight into him and he dodges at the last moment. She’s looking harried, a frown on her face, and she’s so intent on something she’s typing on her phone that she walks right past him, doesn’t even pause when he calls her name. He makes a quick little dash across the lobby and catches her arm just before she walks out the door. She scowls to be touched, and she’s obviously building up to unleash the full force of her outrage, but her face immediately softens when she looks up to see it’s him.

“Sorry,” he says, letting go of her arm, “You didn’t hear me and…” he trails off, not having a good excuse, and by way of apology, offers her the black-and-gilt bag with her lingerie, along with the equally ostentatious bag from the shoe shop.

She slips her cellphone into her back pocket, frowning, and takes the bags, saying, “For me?” She looks positively baffled, as she peers into one of them, trying to see past the tissue paper to what’s inside, “Really?”

He laughs, leaning down, and kisses her cheek, “Well, you are my best girl.”

She makes the sweetest little sound of surprise, “Oh…”

“If you don’t like it, though,” he says, “Well, you can exchange it for anything you want.”

Her phone chimes and she immediately scowls again, slipping the bags over her forearm as she reaches into her pocket, “Look, I’ve got to…”

He nods, saying, “Call me, maybe.”

She laughs and shakes her head as if he’s just made a joke, saying, “I will,” and then immediately sets back to angrily jabbing at her phone with her thumbs, standing in the center of the lobby, completely oblivious to everyone having to make a path around her.

Chapter Text

Turns out Darcy was entirely serious about getting together with Bucky, and Bucky is also game, if a little noncommittal about the whole thing, so when Steve finally manages to get them together, he wants everything to be perfect. He makes dinner reservations a week in advance at a new place he thinks Darcy will like, and arranges for a room at the same boutique hotel Phil had booked. He drops by the room early in the afternoon to leave a jar of lube in the nightstand, calling down to housekeeping to have them leave a stack of extra towels and a third robe in the closet. He looks through the room service wine list, but finally gives up and just calls the concierge, asks her to set up a bottle of champagne and three glasses that evening, and agrees readily when she suggests a tray of chocolates and strawberries.

Darcy is running late that evening, and he’s starting to worry about making their reservation, but when she finally arrives, he decides it was well worth the wait. She’s dressed to the nines and makes both of them look sorry by comparison, wearing those gorgeous shoes he bought her, carrying that little wristlet, her nails painted in a cherry red to match, and if he wasn’t convinced it was worth it before, he sure is now. He doesn’t fail to notice the way Bucky’s gaze follows the line of her stockings up the back of her legs as she crosses the room, either, and that feels like a small coup. Buck always did like a girl with nice legs, and Darcy’s got legs that just about never end.

He’s so pleased with himself, he can’t help but catch Bucky’s eye, gives him a little smirk just to say, look who’s the ladykiller now, and bends down to kiss Darcy. She sighs against his mouth, parting her lips, and he doesn’t hold back — he knows just how impossible it is to budge that lipstick of hers — wrapping his arm around her waist, pulling her close, lifting her off her feet and loving every moment of it. She’s slightly breathless when he finally puts her down, and she lingers a moment in his arms before finally looking over her shoulder to Bucky.

“Hi,” Bucky says with a little smile, and holds out his right hand to her.

She turns to him and takes his hand, but then makes a little face that Steve can’t exactly describe — it’s not quite a frown — and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him down and standing tiptoe to press her lips against his. Bucky doesn’t quite startle, but he’s clearly surprised, and he holds back at first. Darcy just brushes her fingers through his hair, making that soft, throaty little purr of hers, and that’s all Bucky needs to find his bearings; he kisses her deeply, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her close, bending her back so she has to hold onto him.

Steve is caught off guard by a strange feeling of envy at seeing them together, and he realizes there’s an undercurrent of jealousy as well; from the way Bucky’s breathing has gone shallow, he knows he’s getting hard, and watching the way Darcy yields to him, the way she just relaxes into his grasp, he isn’t sure whether he’d rather be Bucky, or Darcy, or both — something in-between, something almost as improbable, impossible, as this moment already is. When Bucky finally lets Darcy go, she takes an unsteady half-step back, bumping into Steve as she catches her breath, but then she smiles, looking up at Bucky and softly saying, “…hi.”

Bucky breaks out in that same dame-killing smile he used to win over the girls back in the day, but Darcy doesn’t seem so much set aflutter as just amused, she actually laughs even though she also blushes and looks away.

Steve tells them his plans for the evening as he herds them out and into the city, but somehow, before the elevator has even opened on the ground floor, Darcy and Bucky have shared a look and silently come to some sort of agreement. Darcy takes a breath and nods to Bucky, and then Bucky says, “Let’s just head straight to the hotel.”

Steve, for his part, isn’t sure whether to be pleased, or vexed, or just flat out worried that they’re already getting on so well, but he knows better than to open his mouth and say something stupid. So he offers Darcy his arm, points out where they’re going, and lets her set the pace since she’s the one in heels. She occasionally leans against him as they wait to cross a street, and with her head resting against his shoulder, soft perfumed curls, and Bucky standing steadfast beside him, looking like he almost feels at ease, Steve feels positively buoyant, like he’s won a lottery he didn’t even know he was playing.

When they arrive at the hotel, he smiles to himself as Bucky raises an eyebrow, and Darcy makes a little sound of approval. He wonders what he looked like, the first time he walked through those glass doors, but if it was anything like either of them, he knows exactly why Phil chose this place. It’s not exactly The Plaza, but it does have that effect.

The champagne is on ice, and from as much as he can tell, it looks like a nice bottle. He pops the cork and pours Darcy a glass. She takes a sip and nibbles on a chocolate-covered strawberry, but when he doesn’t bother pouring more than a splash for himself and Bucky, she smirks, mock-accusing him, “Why Captain, are you trying to get me drunk?”

He laughs, “I’ve been trying to get you drunk since our first date, you just never let me.” It’s true, actually; he’s always wondered what she would be like a little tipsy, as carefree as she already is when she’s sober.

“Shame you two can’t get buzzed,” she says with a shrug, raises her glass to Bucky, and then drains it in a long, slow draught before holding it out for him to top up again, “More for me, though. It’s really good.” He pours her glass to the brim, and makes a mental note to tip the concierge on his way out.

Darcy kicks off her heels with a sigh and perches on the bed, and Steve has just slipped off his shoes and is about to join her, when he notices Bucky is still lingering at a distance, and it dawns on him that Buck has been keeping his left hand in his pocket, keeping his right side towards her, ever since she arrived at the tower.

Knowing Darcy the way he does, knowing what she’s seen, Buck’s arm hadn’t even crossed his mind, and he doesn’t know why he didn’t think to explain that to Bucky, he just assumed he’d know. Somehow. He feels like a jerk. He lays his hand on Bucky’s shoulder and whispers, “She doesn’t mind.”

Darcy glances between them, narrowing her eyes for a moment before she figures it out, “Oh,” she says, and takes a bite of her strawberry, “Is this about the arm?”

Bucky startles, but Darcy just rolls her eyes at him, “As if I haven’t seen the video of you tearing up the place, trying to murder everyone. It was all over the news for weeks, you couldn’t turn on a TV without seeing that,” and Bucky goes so pale he looks like he’s just been shot.

She sighs and takes a sip of champagne, and her voice is a little more gentle, “I’m not an idiot, you know. It’s not like you’re Superman and you can just put on a pair of glasses and nobody will ever recognize you.” She gestures towards him, “Anyway, you’d make a terrible reporter. Hair’s all wrong.”

Steve has to stifle a laugh, but Bucky just gives her an appraising look as he takes a step towards her. There’s no challenge in his voice, only curiosity, “Aren’t you afraid of me?”

“I guess I just don’t scare easy,” she sighs, and she sounds a little tired, “At least not anymore.”

She finishes her glass and holds it out towards Steve, or at least in his general direction; she’s still watching Bucky intently. Steve grabs the bottle, pours her another glass, and then settles in beside her, wrapping his arm around her waist and kissing her cheek. She makes a fond sound, leans her head against his shoulder, and he turns to Bucky as he puts the bottle back on ice, saying, “The first time she met Thor, she tasered him, you know.”

“I most certainly did.” Darcy nods, “So…” she shrugs, “Could be worse, right?”

Bucky laughs, a real laugh, and finally takes his hand out of his pocket. His new arm has the same high-tech visual camouflage Natasha favors, and from any distance whatsoever it looks indistinguishable from the real thing.

Darcy frowns, and she sounds almost disappointed, “Is that it?”

“It’s not much to look at,” he says, and turns off the camouflage.

She doesn’t bother to hide her surprise at actually seeing it, but surprise quickly turns to fascination, and she hands her glass back to Steve as she reaches out, moving slowly, like she’s trying to catch a frightened animal. When Bucky doesn’t shy away, she takes hold of his hand, tracing the grooves in the metal, turning it over in her hands, studying it intensely for a moment before she remembers herself.

She gazes up at him, and slowly, deliberately presses her lips to the plates that make up his palm. He curls his fingers under her jaw and she startles, but she recovers quickly, tracing her fingers up the back of his wrist before pulling him closer, coaxing him to sit beside her.

Bucky isn’t playing coy, but he still seems hesitant, and Steve assumes it’s because he’s still not accustomed to this sort of thing, he’s pretty sure Buck hasn’t had a girl since before everything went sideways for both of them. Still, Bucky lets her undress him, and drops his shirt on the floor when she pushes it off his shoulders, but he isn't so much participating as just allowing himself to be led along.

Darcy reaches out, but then stops, hand hovering a few inches from where metal meets flesh, and Steve can almost see Buck thinking, trying to decide what to do, but then he takes hold of her hand and presses it flat against gnarled, scarred flesh, saying, “It doesn’t hurt.”

Darcy cocks her head, tracing the edge of that scar, and whispers, “It’s… really beautiful.” She looks up at him and blushes slightly, realizing what she’s just said, but then she looks back at his shoulder. Bucky looks away, but Steve wraps himself around Darcy and slides his hand down her arm, threading his fingers between hers to squeeze at Bucky’s shoulder as he whispers, “It’s you, Buck. That’s all that matters.”

Bucky suddenly shudders and makes a soft sound, closing his eyes, and Steve looks down to see that Darcy has bent to press her lips against that scar, she’s mouthing wetly at the worst of it, tongue darting into the curves and folds of skin, and Bucky shivers, raising his metal hand to stroke her hair, but stopping at the last moment. Steve pulls Bucky’s hand down to rest at the nape of her neck. She moans softly to feel his touch, and from the way Bucky trembles, Steve knows she’s found a very sensitive spot.

He unzips Darcy’s dress, slipping it off her shoulders, and presses a kiss to the nape of her neck before he leans against her, reaching around her to thread his fingers through Bucky’s hair and draw him close, pulling him into a deep kiss over Darcy’s shoulder. Bucky rests his hand on Steve’s arm, lets himself be kissed, but there’s a reserve there he wasn’t expecting, a hesitancy in Bucky’s touch, and Steve realizes it’s because Darcy has pulled away slightly, and turned to watch.

“You two are…” Darcy makes an overwhelmed sort of expression, “I mean, I knew, but…” She slips out from between them, leaning to reach her glass, and grabs another strawberry, “I mean, wow. Just wow.” She pops the strawberry in her mouth and shimmies out of her dress before settling against the pillows.

Steve laughs, and he can feel the blush building in his cheeks, but Bucky just looks mildly confused. He leans close, pressing his lips against Bucky’s cheek, and whispers, “Darcy’s the most…” he drops his voice to a low purr, putting particular emphasis on the next word, “…modern girl I’ve ever met.” He trails his hand down Bucky’s chest, letting his fingers ghost across chiseled abs, and plucks at his belt buckle.

Bucky swallows heavily, and his breathing goes a little shallow, but he lets Steve slip his hand into his trousers, sighing softly to feel Steve’s hand on his cock. He’s only partly hard, and Steve can sympathize; he’s got a little case of the nerves as well. They touch and kiss, undressing slowly, Bucky seeming like he’s trying to delay the inevitable, and Steve, for his part, trying to drag Buck back into the moment, but it’s a bit of a performance, having someone watching.

It’s not that he isn’t game, because one look at Darcy in her lingerie is enough to remind him that he likes this idea almost as much as she does, but he wants to look good, wants to look like he’s enjoying it, and he’s spent enough time in front of the camera to know that’s a little different than just enjoying himself. It’s all the little things; squaring his shoulders, tensing his abs, making sure to not look away or close his eyes when he can look at her instead. He’s never had sex on camera, but he used to do his own stunts, and he’s pretty sure it’s basically the same idea. Hit ‘em hard, and look great doing it. Make it seem effortless, but not too easy. That’s harder than it seems.

He decides he has to just commit, just go for it, before he’s had too much time to think about it, and he lays Bucky back against the pillows beside Darcy, drags him out of his trousers, before settling on his hands and knees, arching his back to make the view that much more attractive. He nuzzles against Bucky’s groin, breathing in the smell of him, pressing dry lips to the length of him. Bucky threads his fingers through Steve’s hair, but he doesn’t tighten his grip, doesn’t try to pull him closer; Bucky knows this is a performance, too, and he’s decided Steve is in the lead.

It’s all theater.

Steve parts his lips, sighing a bit more loudly than he otherwise would as he takes the head of him in his mouth, licks away the salty splash of arousal, and he moans, because it truly is amazing.

Alright, it’s mostly theater.

Bucky groans, closing his eyes and tightening his grip, strong fingers digging into the back of Steve’s neck, pulling him close. He’s getting harder, cock growing thick and heavy on his tongue.

It’s partly theater.

He closes his eyes and loses himself in the feel of Bucky’s hand against the back of his neck, the coolness of his touch, and swallows him to the hilt.

Maybe it’s about twenty percent theater.

Bucky’s hips jerk, and Darcy moans with desire; he can see her, just out of the corner of his eye, she’s biting her lip and slowly stroking herself through her panties, the fabric dark and wet. Just the thought of it takes his breath away, makes him heady with desire. He loses his concentration and nearly chokes, but Bucky pulls back at the last moment; Steve coughs and swallows, nuzzling at Bucky’s balls, dragging his cheek against that hard, slick cock.

Bucky groans and shifts, Darcy is pulling him into a kiss, and Steve slips away, watching as Darcy wraps her leg around his hip. He already looks overwrought, chest heaving, and there’s a slight tremble in his touch as he drags his hand down her side, but Darcy doesn’t let up, she just threads her fingers through his hair and licks at his mouth, rubbing her crotch against his cock. Bucky shudders, slipping his hand into her panties, and she manages to shimmy free of them without letting him go. Bucky drops her panties on the bed beside him, and Steve catches them, fingers tangled in lace and silk, closes his eyes and takes a deep sniff; the heady scent of her perfume clings to them, along with the faintest hint of laundry detergent, and then of course that wonderful sweet muskiness of hers. His cock aches.

Bucky moans, shuddering as Darcy arches back, her belly and breasts pressed against him as she takes him deep inside her. He clutches at her, eyes closed, mouth open, almost panting, overwhelmed with desire. Darcy sighs and looks back at Steve, smiling as she reaches for him, turning her head to catch him in a kiss even as she pulls him close. He presses in behind her, nuzzling at her neck as she turns back to Bucky, and she hums contentedly. He can feel Bucky moving, taking her slow, and Darcy is rocking back against him, rubbing her ass against his cock with every stroke. He desperately wants to be inside her, wants to feel her, wants to hold her close and wrap his arms around Bucky, too.

He kisses her neck, burying his face in her hair, and whispers, “Do you want me?” She makes a soft, yearning noise, and reaches back to grab his hip, pulling him closer, so that he can feel the wetness between her thighs, so tantalizing and inviting. He slips his hand between her legs, and her hips buck. She shifts slightly, draping her leg across Bucky’s waist to give him access. She’s so wet, and every time Bucky rocks into her, she arches against him with an expectant little moan. If he slips his hand down a bit further, he can slide his fingers along the shaft of Bucky’s cock as he pushes into her, can tease and caress. She cocks her hips, dragging his hand to her ass and making a contented little sound.

He breaks away just long enough to reach over into the nightstand and fetch the lube, slicking his fingers generously. She groans and twitches as he pushes a finger inside her, clenching down and grinding her hips against his hand, and the way Bucky gasps, he knows he’s feeling it too. He opens her up slow and easy, kissing her cheek, sucking a mark into the soft skin at the nape of her neck. All the while she just grinds her hips against Bucky’s, arching and shifting to follow her own pleasure, and just when Steve is sure she’s ready, she moans and throws her head back, clenching down on his fingers, trembling, and he spreads his fingers out, pushing all the way in till his knuckles meet her thighs. She makes a sound like a bitten-off shriek and buries her face in Bucky’s shoulder, he gasps and his eyes fly open as he shudders, and Steve can hear Darcy’s muffled groan as she shivers and slowly relaxes.

Steve slips his fingers out and cuddles in close, pressing his body the length of hers, thinking maybe she’s finished, but she makes a hazy sound and reaches back to drag him into a kiss, slow and lazy, then turns her head, guiding him to Bucky’s lips as she nuzzles against Bucky’s jaw. It feels so good to kiss him, to hold her, and when she shifts between them, wriggling to get him where she wants him, reaching down for his cock and slipping it between her legs, he wraps his arm around Bucky’s waist, trapping her between them as he pushes inside her.

Steve takes it slow, and now he can feel exactly what Bucky is doing, not just the long slow slide of his cock through her flesh, but the way he tenses up as he arches into her. He matches that rhythm, pushing in as Bucky pulls out, and Darcy makes a hazy, desperate sound, muffled against between them. Steve makes just a little space, and she gasps, sliding her hand down to take hold of his hip and pull him close again. He nuzzles at her neck, and she sighs, melting into their grasp. Bucky groans and takes hold of his bicep, squeezing tight and using him, rather than her, for leverage as he pushes deeper.

It’s easier, somehow, with Darcy as a go-between to be gentle instead of rough, to make love instead of fuck, and he hopes Darcy can hold out, because he wants to keep them both right here for the rest of the night. She holds them together, keeps them entwined, dragging them into kisses and caresses, luring them to one another like a siren, until his fingers are tangled in Bucky’s hair, and Bucky is moaning against her shoulder, gasping at every touch, shuddering and trembling.

Darcy is long since overwrought by the time Bucky finally loses himself, his grip tightening, but still she clenches down and arches against him, her nipples pricking to hardness against his chest in the sudden cool air. Steve hears Bucky’s breath go thready, feels him lose his rhythm, thrusts growing desperate, and the way Darcy clutches at him, moaning through clenched teeth as he fucks her hard, shivering with overstimulation, it drives him mad. He thrusts deep, loving the way she shudders all around him. Bucky whimpers and makes the most beautiful sound, burying his face in her hair. Steve holds them both tight, digging his fingers into that scar along Bucky’s shoulder as he takes those last few strokes, feeling Bucky twitch and shudder, dragging an aching moan from Darcy before he finally closes his eyes and spills into her.

They lay there, a mess of sweat-slick skin and sighs, for what feels like forever.

He dozes off, and doesn’t realize it until he hears Darcy and Bucky whispering together, and somehow he’s missed the first part of what they’ve said, doesn’t have a clue what they’re talking about. His cock is soft and the wet smear across his thighs has gone sticky, his skin is nearly dry except where he’s still pressed close to Darcy, his head pressed against her shoulder, his arm around her waist.

Bucky is the first to notice he’s awake, and he shifts, leaning over Darcy to reach out and stroke those cool metal fingers against his cheek, whispering, “Welcome back, baby.”

Darcy stretches, not so much pushing him away as just making a little space for herself, and stifles a yawn as she says, “You know, if we order room service now, we’ll probably have just enough time to have a shower before it gets here… and then you two can both go again, right?”

Bucky laughs, but Steve just sighs and gazes up at the ceiling, wondering how he got so lucky.

Chapter Text

Clint made the terms of their engagement fairly clear from the start, but Steve’s been feeling lately like maybe they should just take a little while to relax, have a chat or a drink, and so now they’re lounging on Steve’s bed, and Clint has leaned back against him, kicked his feet up on the arm of the desk chair.

They’ve been talking about old flames, or at least, Clint has, for the most part, and Steve hasn’t been able to ignore the fact that they’ve all been women. “So,” he says, frowning a bit, stretching out a little, “you’re straight then, aren’t you?”

Clint shrugs, taking a swig of his beer, “I guess that’s how I’d describe myself, if I had to tick a box or something, but I dunno.”

“Why do you…” Steve gestures between them.

“I guess I enjoy it?” Clint shrugs, “I mean, there was a point when I mostly liked the money. It was a damned good living for a kid in his 20s with no real education or marketable skills… and then, well, it turned out that sort of experience was an asset back when SHIELD was a little more… scrappy.”

Steve is a bit perplexed, “…yeah, but hey didn’t send you here.”

Clint laughs, “Or so you think, Mr. Bond!”

Steve snorts. “If that’s how you dig for information, I think you’ve been doing it wrong.”

“That sort of intimacy is pretty heady,” Clint finishes his beer, “People will tell you anything, everything, when they know they’ll never have to see you again… It’s like you’re almost a mirror, and all they want is to show you who they really are.”

“But,” Steve hesitates, “what about the sex?”

Clint shrugs, “I just… Well. It’s going to sound ridiculous, but as far as my dick is concerned, sex is sex, and attraction, that’s entirely mental for me.” He seems like he’s searching for the right words, “Personality, I guess? I’d probably date a guy, it’s just that I’ve yet to find a guy who’s even half so fascinating as the most boring woman I’ve ever met.”

Steve laughs, remembering the first time, how Clint had said that he wasn’t his type, how he hadn’t even gotten hard even when he had Steve writhing against the mattress, and he says, “Am I really that terrible a conversationalist?”

Clint laughs, “Nah, it’s not that. I just meant, well, if I have a type, she’s about 5’ tall, with strong legs and soft, silky skin,” he smirks and shrugs, “You know how it is.” For all his bravado, he looks a little lost for words, and he hesitates before going on, “Since we started spending more time together, you know, I started looking for all those little things, the details that add up to make a person really attractive.” He looks slightly chagrined, “The spangly suit got in the way at first, gotta admit.”

Steve laughs.

“So, I guess the short of it is that I decided to find you attractive. That probably feels insulting, but it’s no less genuine than,” he shrugs, trying to say it gently, but giving up partway through, “well, whatever.”

Steve nods. He doesn’t quite understand, but Clint has no reason to lie, and he doesn’t pull his punches, so Steve has learned to take what he says at face value. “So, you’re… you’re not just here because you feel obligated?”

“What, like you’re a chore?” Clint chuckles, “Like I’ve got a chart with everything that needs to be done around here, and you’re on there right between 'do the laundry' and 'wash the dishes'?”

Steve laughs at the absurdity of the idea, but still gives Clint a slyly suspicious look, “Well, you might!”

Clint snorts and rolls his eyes.

“So…” Steve says, “Since you’re not just here because Natasha said you had to…” Clint laughs, and that gives Steve a moment to gather himself, but even so he still finds himself hesitating; he learned the rules of this sort of thing ages ago, and it’s hard to bend them, “Do you ever kiss?”

Clint cocks his head, giving him an appraising look. “Would you like that?” There’s a surprisingly kind note to his voice, and it catches Steve off-guard.

“I…” Steve says, looking away for a moment, “I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable.” He exhales, feeling suddenly much calmer for having finally spit it out and gotten an answer. It’s alright.

“Well,” Clint says, and he sounds like he’s considering something, “I’ll tell you the truth, I normally don’t.” He shifts and takes Steve’s chin in his hand, tilts his face so he can look at him, and then he slowly smiles, as if he’s remembering a fond moment, “I only ever made an exception for one other guy, he was… sort of in a similar position as you. There was just no other way for him to get anything close to what he needed.”

Clint pulls him close and kisses him then, and he just closes his eyes and lets it happen, relaxing into it, welcoming everything Clint gives, encouraging but not pushing for more, letting himself be led. After a moment Clint sets to pulling him out of his shirt, reaching for the button on his jeans before Steve finally takes the initiative. Clint joins him and strips down to nothing, his cock bobbing between his legs as he crawls back into bed. Steve pulls him close again, and Clint kisses him almost gladly, grinding up against his leg, rubbing himself off on Steve’s thigh.

Clint’s voice is a husky purr, “You kiss just like Phil.”

That fact takes a moment to sink in, but when it does, it hits hard, and it takes Steve a little while to pull himself back together again. When he finally looks back to Clint, Clint nuzzles at his cheek and purrs, “He’s always wanted you, you know.”

Steve nods, “Yeah, I…” He pauses, confused, “What does that have to do with you, though?”

Clint sighs, a sad, heavy sigh, “When you were still sleeping… it was years ago. He lead this mission. The intel was bad. A lot of people didn’t make it home,” he shakes his head, “He took a bullet to get me out, and I think he would’ve gone back in again, if we’d let him.”

Steve’s heart aches, because he knows that feeling, and he nods, but he’s still not sure why Clint is telling him.

“He… he didn’t really come back, you know?” Clint says, “He was a little gone when we got home, and he just stayed gone, and… Well, he was visiting you almost every day, back then. Normally he’d read, or catch up on paperwork or something, but the nurses said he started just sitting there, holding your hand for hours at a time. It was like he didn’t know what else to do.”

He nods. He knows that feeling. Only Bucky wasn’t around to hold on to. Peggy understood, but she couldn’t actually help. He’d been completely alone. He wonders if it would’ve been easier, or harder, if he’d had Bucky there, to sit beside.

“I’m not very good at talking things out with people,” Clint says, “I mean, I probably give the worst advice anyone could ask for, and words aren’t really my thing anyway, so I cadged one of your teeshirts off one of the nurses, showed up at his place, and… well, I helped out the only way I could.”

Steve frowns, “Why’d you need my shirt?” *

“I let him pretend I was you.”

Steve swallows heavily, his slight discomfort over the idea fading as he starts to wrap his head around Clint’s truly unorthodox brand of loyalty. “You didn’t…” he hears himself saying, “I mean, you weren’t bothered about that?”

Clint laughs softly, “What, that my boss was hung up on a vintage hottie who was literally the prototype for the perfect soldier?” He shakes his head, “No, it wasn’t like that. You were this… this perfect idol for him. It wasn’t even really about you, before you woke up. You were sort of… where he kept his heart. He needed to reconnect with himself, he needed to remember he was… I don’t know. It was the only thing I could think of. It made sense, at the time.”

“You’re really…” Steve frowns a bit, because there’s no particularly flattering way to say it, “There’s a lot more under the hood than I gave you credit for.”

Clint snorts, “Oh sure, Cap, lay it on thick.” He rolls his eyes, “Could’ve done with a bit of that back when you were riding my ass to shape up and get with the team, but no… Now you decide to flatter me.”

Steve laughs, but that laugh breaks into a yelp as Clint nuzzles at the crook of his and, with no warning at all, bites down deep into the muscle of his shoulder, dragging his teeth across delicate skin before nipping at the last bit of flesh trapped between his teeth, making him shiver as Clint sets to sucking a hard bruise into that bite. Steve can’t help but gasp and clutch at him in his surprise, and Clint just doesn’t stop. He finds himself almost desperately rubbing himself against Clint’s leg as Clint bites deeper, sucks harder, until Clint pulls away suddenly, leaving him shivering and relieved and desperate for more.

“That’s from Phil,” Clint whispers against stinging skin, breath hot, “it’s been about ten years in coming… Sorry it took so long.” Steve moans, feeling hazy, and threads his fingers into Clint’s hair, but Clint just trails his hand down his stomach, touch right on the edge of being light enough to tickle, making him twitch and squirm right into Clint’s waiting embrace. He sighs and lets himself curl into those strong arms, feeling oddly content, suffused with a warm, humbled feeling.

“He adores you,” Clint whispers, slipping his hand down Steve’s hip and slowly squeezing his cock, “Think maybe we should we call him?”

Steve nods, cock twitching at the thought, “Yeah, I…” he swallows, “If you want.”

Clint slips away just a bit and manages to reach his jeans, fishes his phone out of the back pocket, and dials Phil up on video. Phil answers on the third ring, and for just a moment he looks surprised to see Clint, chest bare, with bedhead and swollen, pink lips, but then he gets hold of himself and smiles cannily, glancing pointedly towards whoever’s offscreen before saying, “How can I help you, Barton?”

Clint gives him the most self-satisfied smirk Steve has ever seen on anyone short of Tony, and says, “The Captain and I have been talking, and…” he turns the phone so that Steve is in frame, and Steve can see now that he looks even more of a mess than Clint, “I think he’d like to see you.” Steve smiles, blushing despite himself, and has to look away then, blushing even harder to have seen himself blushing on the screen. Clint turns the camera back towards himself, “I’m just going to assume you’re on your way, yeah?”

Phil glances away, there’s the sound of papers shuffling, and then he looks back at his screen, “I’ll…” his voice is wrecked with desire, “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Clint drops his phone atop his jeans and says, “So, first things first, do you still have any of those SSR teeshirts?”

Steve blinks, slightly confused, “Yeah, um, bottom drawer.”

Clint smirks, and fetches the shirt. Steve is a little surprised when he tosses it to him, rather than putting it on himself, but he gamely slips it on. It’s a little too small; he’s picked up some muscle mass since he’s been awake.

Clint nods approvingly, tracing the curve of his bicep through the thin fabric as he crawls back beside him, “Yeah, perfect.” He glances up at Steve, gaze suddenly sultry through thick lashes, “I told him to close his eyes, and I kissed him.” Clint smiles fondly, “He was so hesitant… so unsure. It took ages to get him to relax. I started whispering things I thought you might say, called him sir.” He grins, “That really got under his skin, the sir… He shivered the first time I said it.”

“He used to have this painting of you in his bedroom, one of the ones they used for the recruitment posters… When I pulled him into bed, I slipped down so he could see it every time he opened his eyes. You were smiling, looking heroic and sincere, and innocent as apple pie.”

“I made him finger me,” Clint whispers, reaching down to stroke Steve’s cock, “made him open me up so slow and easy, just the tip of a finger at first, and oh, when he got a good whiff of your shirt, I think he nearly came right then. He got a little desperate, but I clenched down and whimpered and gasped, told him how scared you’d be, how gentle he’d have to be, no matter how much he wanted it.”

Steve moans, remembering how even in the heat of the moment, Phil had let his touch linger, had tried to go slow.

“I think he got off on the anticipation even more than the fucking.”

Steve shudders, hips bucking, thrusting into Clint’s hand, ass rubbing against Clint’s hard cock, and yeah, he’s pretty fond of the anticipation, too. His heart is racing, he’s wondering if Phil is already on his way, where he is, what he’s feeling.

Clint rubs up against him, letting his cock slip between Steve’s legs, stroking himself with Steve’s body, his cock dragging against Steve’s balls, smearing a little trail of wetness on every thrust.

“When I finally let him fuck me, it was…” Clint’s voice goes a little breathy, “It was like it hit him all at once, he didn’t hold back at all, just grabbed my hip and,” he shudders, remembering, “it was almost too much. I was reeling, and he bit down on my shoulder so hard I thought he’d drawn blood.” He arches against Steve, grinding against him, “I came, staring at that painting of you.”

It’s so clear in Steve’s imagination he’s almost overcome with it, and he’s fucking into Clint’s hand, breathing openmouthed, completely lost when the door opens.

Phil just stands there for a moment, looking slightly stunned.

“Figured you’d want me to let Agent Coulson in, yeah, Cap?” FRIDAY says.

Steve doesn’t answer, but it’s enough to shake Phil out of his reverie, and he finally comes in, already loosening his tie as the door closes behind him. His cock is tenting his trousers, straining against the fabric. He looks like he can hardly breathe, seems like he shouldn’t be able to get out of his clothes fast enough, but he’s moving deliberately, unbuttoning each button, staring at them, mouth open, looking completely desperate. He finally gets out of his clothes and then he’s on Steve like a force of nature, pushing him onto his back with a bruising kiss.

Clint just shifts out of the way, edging up against the wall, and it’s a little tight with three of them in Steve’s bed, but the forced closeness makes it all the more intimate, somehow. Steve slips his hand into Clint’s, threading their fingers together and trailing his index finger along that scar. Clint leans a little closer, nuzzles at his cheek and whispers, “Some of his scars are really sensitive… that bullet wound above his hip… it was still fresh the first time he fucked me, must’ve hurt like hell every time he moved.”

Steve squeezes Clint’s hand and reaches up to search out that scar; his hands are just big enough he can rest his thumb in the front of it, and trail the tip of his middle finger across its mirror image on his back. He rubs a soft circle, making Phil shiver, and then he squeezes, digging his fingers into that scar so hard that Phil yelps, pulling away involuntarily. He stares at Steve, face still twisted with pain, but then slowly, recognition washes across his face as he takes in the teeshirt, the bruise at the base of his neck, and all the pieces fall into place.

“…you told him,” Phil whispers, and there’s just the slightest quaver to his voice.

“Yeah,” Clint reaches up, purring softly, “…and he loved every moment.” He kisses Phil deeply, and Phil relaxes into it, opening up in a way Steve’s never seen before. He wonders if maybe Clint isn’t onto something, with his whole secrets thing. He reaches up to stroke Phil’s cheek, and Phil breaks away from Clint, gazes down at him with shining eyes. Clint pulls Phil closer, stroking Phil’s arm, and slips the lube into his hand.

Steve glances at the lube in Phil’s hand, glances back up at Phil, and bites his lip, swallowing heavily, aiming for trepidation, “I…” he lets his voice tremble a little, “I’ve never…” He takes a deep breath, and whispers, “You’ll be gentle, won’t you, Sir?”

Phil’s eyes go wide and he chokes back a shudder, and just out of the corner of his eye, Steve can see Clint smirk. Phil slicks his fingers, still staring hungrily at him, and Steve parts his legs just a little, playing shy. Phil’s eyes go dark, and Clint says, “I told you he’d blush if you ever looked at him like that.”

Steve blushes even more, coyly ducking his head, and Phil just falls on him again, but this time his kiss is slow and deep, and he slips his hand between Steve’s legs. Steve whimpers and shifts his hips, doing his best to flinch rather than buck up against his hand as Phil strokes his fingers across sensitive flesh. Phil just rubs at him, so gentle and patient that Steve finds himself drifting into this wonderful, hazy bliss; the sort of foggy-headed place he could stay forever.

“Look at him,” Clint whispers, “he loves it.” Steve feels him shift, hears him whisper something, so low even he can’t make it out, and Phil moans, pressing one slick finger inside him. Steve arches up against it, taking him right to the knuckle, body spasming and aching for more. He takes a deep breath and lets his head fall back against the pillow, concentrating on the sensation, and soon enough he’s lost in it again, feeling almost as satisfied as if that one slender finger were the thickest cock he’s ever felt.

When Phil pushes in another finger, Steve actually does cry out in surprise, a little splash of precum spilling across his stomach. Clint drags his fingers through it, and then Phil makes this muffled, desperate sound, and Steve looks up to see Phil sucking on Clint’s fingers, looking like he’s just tasted heaven. Clint whispers something, and Steve still can’t make it out, but it’s that low, gravelly voice he uses when he says something particularly filthy, and Phil groans, pushing his fingers deep inside him, clearly aching for more.

Steve expects Phil to fuck him then, but instead Clint slicks his hand and takes hold of Steve’s cock, squeezing the head such that Steve almost sees stars. He’s been hard for so long now, just this is almost too much, and it takes everything he has not to cum straight away. Clint just strokes him, rubbing his thumb across the head of his cock, and he clearly hears Clint purr, “He’s going to come on two fingers,” Phil shudders and falters, “If he’s this tight, your cock is going to break him.” Phil whines through clenched teeth, and Steve loses himself, spilling into Clint’s hand, bucking up against Phil’s fingers.

He can hear himself gasping, a desperate, almost pained sound, and then Clint pulls his hand away, and Phil slips his fingers out. He opens his eyes, hoping they’re not leaving him. Clint is kissing Phil, but Phil has one eye open, is gazing at him like he’s almost afraid to look away, as if he’ll disappear if he so much as blinks, but then Clint wraps his hand around Phil’s cock, stroking him and slicking him with Steve’s cum, and Phil throws his head back in a low moan, arching against Clint’s hand.

Clint lets Phil enjoy it for a moment but then he’s shifting, pulling Steve’s leg over his own, leaving him sprawled across the bed and spread out for Phil. Phil just looks at him, but then Clint nuzzles at that bruise, dragging his teeth across it, and as soon as Steve catches his breath, he tries to look a little anxious, a little hesitant, and whispers, “Sir, I…”

Phil reaches down, hitches up Steve’s knee, making him shift his hips, and then slowly, teasingly lines himself up, pushing just the barest bit of the tip of his cock in before pulling back. He’s so sensitive, it’s the sort of tease that leaves Steve lost somewhere between overwhelmed desperation and screaming frustration, and hardly a few strokes in he’s gasping for breath, clutching at someone’s wrist. Clint lays a hand over his, giving a squeeze, and nuzzles at Phil’s cheek, whispering, “I still sometimes jack off, thinking about it.”

There’s this flash of lust across Phil’s face, an almost flinty cast in his eyes, and he thrusts in so quickly, so deep and so fast, that Steve actually loses his breath. The sudden change, from gentle to hard, it doesn’t so much hurt as leave him stunned, his body spasming around Phil. He feels himself curling up, drawing away from Phil, and he at least has the presence of mind to let go of Clint’s wrist, but he aches so keenly it’s almost unbearable, and his cock twitches, a faint attempt at orgasm that just leaves him shuddering.

Phil draws back and slams in hard, and Steve can hardly breathe, and Phil grabs at his hair, nuzzling at his shoulder almost exactly the way Clint did, lips brushing against that bruise, giving him just long enough to tense up with anticipation, and when Phil bites down Steve can’t help himself, he howls, clutching at Phil and shaking. Phil is making this low, deep sound, this possessive, utterly intoxicating sound, and when he finally lets Steve go, he kisses him like a man who’s spent his entire life waiting for this one kiss.

Steve just melts into that kiss, the gentle rocking of Phil’s hips leaving him almost lightheaded, and he can feel Clint holding him, supporting him on one side, and Phil has taken hold of his leg again, keeping him from sprawling off the bed. He feels completely leaden, marvelously fucked out, like he could take it for ages, and he closes his eyes, letting himself float on the sensation, moaning at the occasional hitch in Phil’s breathing. Occasionally Clint whispers something, the words get lost before they get through to him, but his voice is a low purr, and when Steve turns to nuzzle at his cheek, Clint will sometimes suck on his lip, lick at his mouth before turning him back to Phil.

Once, there’s a brief moment where Clint’s lips are still pressed against the corner of his mouth, and Phil has bent his head to kiss him, and having both of them there, two sets of hands on him, two warm bodies pressed against his, he comes again, clenching down around Phil, spilling against his belly, and that’s finally enough, he drags Phil down with him, holding him close as he shudders and moans, taking it all and loving every moment. Phil just rests his head against Steve’s shoulder, breathing slow and even. He can feel Clint slipping out of bed, hears him gathering up his clothes, and Phil turns, or tries to, but Clint just leans down and kisses Phil’s cheek, and from the way Phil shifts, the soft sound he makes, Steve can tell Clint is stroking him, soothing and strong.

He reaches down and squeezes Steve’s shoulder, and he sounds so satisfied with himself that he practically purrs, “He called out your name, when he came, that first time. Make him tell you what he was thinking about.”

From the way Phil’s breath catches in his throat, Steve knows it’s got to be something absolutely filthy, and he’s exhausted, but he’s also still so turned on he doesn’t care. He rubs his cock against Phil’s thigh, still soft, slick with cum, and whispers, “Now that’s a story I’d do just about anything to hear.”

Chapter Text

He has to seek Thor out: the Asgardian hasn’t been spending much time in the city lately, preferring to jaunt off to Norway with Jane, and when he does drop by the tower, he’s often gone again by morning.

Steve manages to run into him on one of those brief visits entirely by chance, and he decides there’s no time like the present. “Would you like to…” he pauses, looking for the right word, “spend the evening together again?”

Thor seems slightly bemused; the request strikes him and he immediately glows, clearly flattered and surprised by the request, but he readily agrees to set aside the following Wednesday, and as soon as Thor has gone on his way, Steve gets to work.

It takes Pepper’s help to coordinate, or more specifically, Pepper’s assistant’s assistant, but by the time Wednesday rolls around, there’s essentially a fully-stocked Starbucks popup in the tower break room. Vision is delighted, insisting on trying everything, going so far as to start customizing his drinks after the first few, and Wanda laughs, accepting taste after taste of the concoctions he’s dreamt up. Natasha gives the whole affair a rather skeptical look as she walks in, but within a few minutes has cozied up on the couch with a rather large cup of drinking chocolate. He calls Darcy, and she invites Jane, and soon it’s become a bit of a party.

When Thor arrives, he looks positively bewildered, and takes Steve aside, his whisper carrying through the room as he asks, “I had assumed it would be just us. I did not take you for the sort to participate in orgies.”

Tony has wandered in just in time to catch the last of that, and he laughs so hard he ends up doubled over coughing and trying to catch his breath between fits of giggles, finally coming up for air with tears in his eyes as he exclaims, “Fuck me this was totally worth it.”

He sidles up to the bar and points to the liquor cabinet, “Going to need a bit of… encouragement, if that’s how the evening’s going to go, though,” he says, directing the barista to make him what essentially works out to be a White Russian in Frappuccino form. He bats his eyelashes at her, saying, “Ever fucked a superhero? Want to?”

Pepper smacks him upside the head, and drags him away. The poor barista just sets to steaming more milk for Vis’ next concoction, and Steve is glad that Pepper’s assistant Charlie had insisted upon an ironclad NDA for the gal. He texts him and asks him to make sure her check at the end of the night is a bit larger than it otherwise might have been.

“Sorry about him,” Steve says, leaning against the bar, glancing over at Tony and rolling his eyes theatrically, “He’s an idiot.”

He puts his hands on Thor’s shoulders, “This man here, though, has never had a Frappuccino in his life.” He gives Thor a little shake for emphasis, “I don’t know how he’s survived so long without.”

The barista laughs, back in her element, and says, “Well we’ll just have to fix that! What sorts of flavors do you like?”

Thor lists off a few things that can’t be found on earth, and Darcy just snorts, leaning across the bar in front of Thor as she says, “You know those really amazing ones you guys make with blended cookies and extra whip and three different kinds of sauces, and they’re like ten bucks? Make him a Trenta that tastes like a Pop-Tart. And, you know, he’s a god, it’s okay if it’s like three thousand calories.”

Steve has just been gazing at her in wonder, and finally says, “They blend cookies into them?”

Darcy laughs, “Oh my god you have no idea. They’re like crack.”

He looks at the barista, “Can you make one that tastes like S’mores?”

The barista smiles, and grabs a cup, giving it a flip before writing up a formula on the side, “One Trenta PopTart special and a S’mores frapp coming up.”

The drinks are positively massive, in a size Steve didn’t even know existed, and Thor demands the barista add a small mountain of extra whipped cream to his before he’s satisfied.

They settle in between Jane and Darcy, and he raises his cup, making a joking little toast. Thor licks up a mouthful of the whipped cream and strawberry syrup before raising his cup to take a sip, and the sound of delight he makes at the taste is rivaled only by the positively radiant joy on his face. He ends up with whipped cream on his nose, syrup at the corner of his mouth.

Jane just laughs, so Steve pulls him closer, leaning over to lick the syrup from his lip, wiping the whipped cream from his nose with his thumb and licking it off. Thor smirks and leans down to kiss him, pulling him close, and someone takes his drink from him so he can wrap his arm around Thor’s shoulders. Thor really leans into the kiss, sucking at his lip.

Tony cheers, applauding.

“Damn,” Darcy says. “I would’ve asked you to take me out for coffee ages ago, if this is how you normally do it.”

Steve laughs and blushes, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees Vis gather Wanda up in his arms and dip her into a kiss, and everyone positively falls apart laughing. Vis looks a bit confused, and Wanda blushes, standing tiptoe to whisper to him. Steve assumes, from the modestly chagrined look on Vis’ face, that she’s explaining how this isn’t exactly the normal way of doing this sort of thing.

Thor finishes his Frappuccino in record time, and stands, raising his cup and shouting, “Another!”

The barista laughs and says, “You got it.”

Thor checks his pockets, producing a flask, and says, “I have one addition to make to the recipe, though.” He tosses the barista the flask from across the room, and amazingly enough she catches it. “PopTart Frappuccinos for all!”

She divides the mead amongst three blender pitchers, giving it a sniff, and asking, “Is this… cherry?”

“Good woman!” Thor exclaims, “It is indeed.”

“I’ve only got strawberry jam syrup, but I’ve got cherry and vanilla Torani, is that okay?”

Thor looks at her as if she’s speaking a foreign language, and Darcy interjects, “Yeah, that’s fine. Do the rest of us a favor and pour about half of what’s in those two extra pitchers into the first one.” She tosses her head towards Thor and Steve, “These two can drink the rest of us under the table without even trying.”

The barista nods, and sets to work.

A few minutes later, everyone has a large cup of the lurid pink and white concoction, topped with a massive heap of whipped cream, strawberry-white-chocolate flakes, a swirl of that jammy syrup, and a dusting of graham cracker. Pepper eyes her drink a bit suspiciously, while Tony goes all in. Natasha takes a sip and looks almost like she’s just been kicked in the teeth by the Jack Frost sugar mascot, but after a moment to recover, she takes another sip and nods her only modestly grudging approval.

Steve, for his part, loves this drink even better than the first, and resolves to never order from the regular menu ever again. Only a few sips and he’s already feeling a little bubbly, a little lighter. There’s something particular about Asgardian mead, it doesn’t make him feel drunk like he remembers being drunk. It makes him feel… serene. As if nothing in the world could interfere with his good mood. He’s relaxed, and he knows his guard is down, but he feels surprisingly clearheaded.

Darcy and Jane seem to feel the same way: Darcy leans against his shoulder with a sigh, and Jane is just smiling softly, eyes closed as she sips her drink.

Thor leans over to him and says, “We should consider retiring to a bedroom, do you not think?”

Jane perks up at that, and Steve can’t help but notice she looks a bit hopeful. He leans over to Darcy and whispers, “Do you think Jane…?”

Darcy nods, looking very mock serious, and leans awkwardly across both him and Thor, motioning for Jane to lean down. Darcy whispers something, and Jane nods, and as Darcy goes on, Jane slowly breaks out into a smile, exclaiming, “Oh my god, yes!”

Darcy looks over her shoulder at him and grins as she pushes herself back up, using Thor’s knee for support, and tosses her hair over her shoulder, “So, yeah.”

Steve nods and Darcy hops up, taking his hand and leaning down to grab her cup with the last of her Frappuccino. Thor looks positively baffled, but Jane just smiles and takes him by the hands, pulling him along with her. He too pauses, reaching to grab the last of Steve’s drink.

“…seriously?!” Tony shouts as they leave, “I thought we were gonna have an orgy!”

He hears Natasha laugh, and Pepper says something, but it gets lost in the noise of the blender; Vis has come up with yet another combination he wants to try.

Chapter Text

As soon as they’ve turned the corner, Jane and Darcy whisper something between themselves and break out in peals of laughter, and something about the way they both glance at him makes him blush right to his toes.

Thor gives him a solid clap on the shoulder as they pause, waiting for the elevator, and says, “It is good. This is like home,” he says, sounding ever so slightly wistful, “brothers in arms and fine women, sharing a bed, delighting freely in one another.” They step inside the elevator, and Thor leans down, whispering, “You must do for my Jane as she wishes. It would not please me, were you to feel timid about her pleasure.”

Jane gives Thor a bit of a look, then glances at Darcy, and very slowly, they both break out in the most delighted, knowing smiles. Steve knows they’ve just communicated something rather significant, and — not for the first time — he wonders if all women aren’t just slightly telepathic. It unnerves him ever so slightly, like every woman he’s ever met somehow knows some universal secret he’s never been privy to. He concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other, and tries not to think too deeply about it.

Thor pushes the doors to his room open, muscles flexing beneath his teeshirt, and Darcy makes a very soft sound of appreciation. The room is dark, chilly. Thor gestures across the room towards the fireplace, and a roaring fire bursts into glow, along with a handful of low lights.

Steve is stunned. “I didn’t know all Asgardians could do magic?”

Thor laughs, and FRIDAY chimes in, “I’m the best magician’s assistant in the biz, Captain.”

Darcy bursts out laughing, but he cuts her a bit of a look; she had clearly been just as impressed.

Thor kicks off his boots as he walks across the room, strips off his teeshirt, dropping it on the floor, and unbuttons his jeans, stepping out of them as he crawls into his gigantic bed four-poster bed. He settles in atop the furs, naked as can be, but then as Steve has just reached to unbutton his shirt, Thor suddenly looks horrified, and practically leaps back to his feet. Steve freezes, but Thor just walks swiftly past him, shaking his head. He pauses by the sideboard, resting his hand beside a pitcher, and says, “Forgive me friends, in my enthusiasm I entirely forgot to be hospitable.” He sounds truly chagrined.

Jane strokes his shoulder and leans against him, pressing her body against his. She’s unbuttoned her blouse, and Thor visibly relaxes to feel her skin against his. “I’ve told you time and time again, that sort of thing isn’t necessary…” she nuzzles at his shoulder, standing tiptoe to reach the nape of his neck, “especially not in this sort of situation.”

“It is even more important, under the circumstances,” Thor says, and he still sounds distressed, but Jane just slides her hand along his arm, whispering, “Well, isn’t it my place, to pour wine for your guests? You hardly gave them a chance to settle. Look,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at them, “they haven’t even taken their shoes off, yet.”

Thor sighs and rests his hand on hers, “Thank you, Jane.”

Steve glances at Darcy, wondering whether Jane is really starting to buy into all of this Asgardian social hierarchy, or if she’s just humoring Thor, because he really didn’t figure her for the sort of woman to do either, but Darcy just shrugs, and sits down in one of the chairs by the fire to unlace her boots.

Jane takes the pitcher from Thor and pours a cup of wine, gently guiding him back towards the bed, settling him once again in the cradle of furs before she hands it to him. “There,” she says. He takes a sip and smiles at her, with the grateful look of a man who’s just been saved from certain doom.

Darcy wanders over and confers with Jane about the wine, and after a moment’s debate, Jane pours two cups a quarter full, topping up the rest with water. Jane pours Steve’s cup last, and sets it on the bedside table for him, as he’s currently shucking off his jeans. She takes a sip of her wine, and just watches him. He tries not to blush, and slips out of his boxers. His cock is hard, whatever Thor had produced from his flask has left him with a wonderful, glowing warmth, and between that and the fire, it feels absolutely wonderful to be naked. Thor makes a soft sound, and when Steve turns to look at him, he gestures, inviting him to settle next to him.

Jane slips her blouse off, stepping out of her heels and shimmying out of her skirt. She and Darcy both are dressed rather nicely, a sort of classy business look, and Steve assumes they must’ve had something important happening today. They both have that air of someone who’s just finished a large project, like they’re finally standing up straight again and taking a deep breath after months bent over their work.

Darcy has stripped down to her bra and panties, and Jane takes a rather large swallow of her wine before pulling her aside. They confer, Darcy shaking her head, Steve can distinctly make out her whisper of, “It’s alright if you’d rather I didn’t, I mean… we didn’t plan this.” Jane takes a deep breath and squares up her shoulders with a smile before she whispers something soft to Darcy. Darcy looks down and quietly purrs, “Aww,” before reaching strokes her friend’s hair. She looks like she’s considering something, and then she kisses Jane’s cheek, brushing the stray hair from Jane’s face, and Jane hesitantly turns to give Darcy a tentative kiss, reaching out slowly to rest her hand on her shoulder.

Thor has taken notice, and shifts so that he can not only get a slightly better view, but rub his swollen cock up against Steve’s thigh. Steve shivers with anticipation, and watching the way Darcy coaxes Jane into a proper kiss, encouraging and rewarding her with soft sighs and caresses, giving her opportunity to take a little more liberty with each passing moment, and soon Jane relaxes into it, letting herself be drawn into Darcy’s arms. Darcy just unhooks Jane’s bra, and slips it off her shoulders, trailing her fingers down her breastbone. She smiles at Jane and tosses her head towards the bed, “I think they might be waiting on us.” Jane smiles a little bashfully, but she lets Darcy take her hand, and crawls gamely into bed. She tries to lay down beside Thor, but he takes her by the waist and settles her between himself and Steve. Darcy curls up at Steve’s shoulder, and she cards her fingers through his hair as he lays his head in her lap.

He closes his eyes, just listening to Thor’s quiet breathing, the soft rustle of fabric as Jane shifts, his own beating heart. He feels Jane settling a little closer to him, feels her small frame against his own, and he takes a deep breath, centering himself in the moment, before he turns to her. She smiles softly. He shifts and leans down to kiss her chastely, intensely aware of Thor’s gaze, but Thor lays a hand on the back of his neck, strong and reassuring, even as Jane sighs and opens her mouth, letting herself be kissed, and he focuses on the feel of her lips, the soft cadence of her breathing, and just lets himself be drawn into it, kissing her slowly, deeply. She sighs and he pulls her close, pressing his body against hers, and feeling her startle just slightly before relaxing against him makes him a little less self-conscious about being slightly apprehensive.

Darcy hums and rests her hand in the small of his back, leaning her weight against him slightly. The pressure is soothing, and he wonders how she knew to do that, when he feels Thor shift beside him, hears her moan softly through the wet sound of a kiss, and he realizes she’s just using him as a support, a bridge to get closer to Thor. That’s his girl.

They take it slow, kisses and caresses, Thor slipping Darcy out of her bra to caress her breasts. His hair falls across Steve’s face as he bends to suckle her nipple, but Darcy arches against Steve’s leg, rocking her hips and groaning, and Steve’s willing to endure just about any amount of hair in his eyes for that feeling, the wetness spreading through her panties, soaking the cotton, making it stick against his skin as she grinds her clit against him.

Jane is starting to warm up as well, and she drapes her leg across his knee, shivering as his cock brushes up against her thigh. He pulls her closer, just rocking his hips, letting his cock drag along the inside of her thigh, bump against her crotch. She moans softly, and shifts, looking for a little more friction. He trails his hand down her hip, sliding his fingers over the soft cotton of her panties, whispering, “Is this alright?”

Jane makes an ambivalent sound, with a nervous but enthusiastic nod of the head, and arches her hips against his hand. He rubs her through her panties, feeling the slip and drag of the fabric as she gets wetter, and soon she’s moaning softly, arching against his hand and then rocking back against Thor. Thor moans softly with desire and breaks away from Darcy, reaching for the bottle of oil on his bedside table, pouring a bit into his hand and slicking his cock before curling back around Jane and pulling aside her panties. She closes her eyes, shifting her hips and finding her angle, and then reaches back to pull at Thor’s hips. He slides inside her so easily, it makes Steve’s mouth water. She shudders and leans back against his chest, head resting in the hollow of of his neck. She looks so small against him, her pert breasts beautiful in his huge hands, nipples pricking to hardness as he plays them, slick fingers slipping against sensitive skin.

He glances up at Darcy, and she gives him a look as if he’s mad, gesturing for him to join in. She doesn’t seem even slightly upset to be the odd man out, in fact, she seems almost pleased as she watches him slip down till he’s even with Jane’s crotch. She leans over and grabs her cup of wine, leaning back against the pillows and taking a deep drink, gazing into his eyes as she licks her lips. The image of her, a Venus in furs, serene and almost queenly in repose, positively knocks the breath from him.

He presses his lips against the lace edging on Jane’s panties, pulling at it with his teeth before slowly kissing his way down along her hip, towards the inside of her thigh, still gazing up at Darcy as he slips his hand beneath Jane’s leg, lifting it so she can rest it on his shoulder. He presses his lips to her thigh, and she pulls her leg back, trying to give him a bit more access, slowly dragging her leg against his face in the process. He closes his eyes, enjoying that halting slide, and catches her ankle in his hand, holding her there, dipping his head and dragging his cheek against her panties, loving the scratch of lace and the softness of wet cotton. He pulls them further aside before nuzzling at that soft thatch, darting his tongue out, licking at her clit. Her hips buck, and she tangles her fingers in his hair as she rests her foot against his ribs, wanting him to get closer. She’s so wet, and every time Thor rocks into her, she arches against his mouth with an expectant little moan. If he shifts just a bit, he can reach to lick along the shaft of Thor’s cock as he slides into her, can lick at trembling flesh; Thor’s arousal, the lingering sweetness of that oil, the heady taste of them both.

Thor moans and shudders, reaching around Jane to tangle his fingers in Steve’s hair, pulling him back up to focus on her, which he does, licking and sucking at her clit. Thor reaches down, taking hold of his hand, and drags it down to cup her pert breast, squeezing. He drags his thumb across her nipple and she makes a contented sound, so he does it again, teasing at that nipple as he works her up, and with every little gasp and shiver, Thor takes her just a little faster, a little deeper. When she comes it’s with a bitten-off shriek that turns to a howl at the back of her throat as she clutches at Steve’s wrist, gasping. Thor makes a soft sound of pleasure, and slips out of her, caressing her as she softly moans, shuddering with pleasure.

Steve pulls back when she finally loosens her grip on his wrist, and she sprawls out between them, smiling hazily at Thor before reaching up to pull Darcy close, to whisper conspiratorially. Darcy makes a wicked sound of delight, and as she leans back, Jane gazes up at Thor, saying, “I want to see his cock in your mouth.”

Thor looks slightly surprised, but then Darcy is pulling him towards the bottom of the bed, grabbing Steve’s wrist and dragging him up to his knees. Darcy kisses Thor deeply as she pulls him down onto all fours, reaching out to wrap her arm around Steve’s hips and pull him close. Thor just lets her guide him, a look of vague disbelief on his face as he parts his lips, finally closing his eyes as Steve grips his cock at the base and guides it into that waiting mouth. Thor makes a soft sound of surprise and flicks his tongue across the tip of Steve’s cock. Steve rocks his hips ever so slightly, and Thor’s breath catches in his throat to feel him slide across his tongue. Steve makes himself go stock still, but he lets himself rest a hand on Thor’s shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze as Darcy brushes Thor’s hair from his face and nuzzles at his cheek, whispering little encouragements. Even though Thor is unsure of himself, his tongue is more than skilled, his lips are soft, and his mouth is unbelievably hot.

Sooner than Steve would really like, he finds he’s breathing heavy, shuddering, and he forces himself to pull back. Darcy moves in to kiss him, pulling him close to her as she lays down, and she’s beautiful; cheeks flushed with desire, legs slightly spread, hair falling across her breasts.

She arches and stretches, and Steve trails kisses along her hip, across the curve of her belly as she draws up one knee in, settling in a tangled sprawl. He bends to nuzzle at the dark thatch between her legs, breathing her in, and she arches her hips. He slips his hand beneath her tailbone, holding her up as he mouths at her clit, darting his tongue out to tease. She shivers, and he licks at her, shifting to get closer, find a better angle, luxuriating in the taste of her. He rests his hand on her thigh, absently stroking the tendon in the hollow of her leg as he pushes his tongue inside her, and she moans softly.

He can feel Thor shift beside him, feels Darcy draw him close and hears her whisper something, he can’t quite make it out over the heavy beating of his own heart, but Thor makes a soft sound of assent and kisses her, squeezing her shoulder as he pulls away.

Darcy is writhing against his mouth, and he pushes two fingers inside her, shuddering as she clenches down around his hand. The sounds she makes, the way she moves, it’s intoxicating, and he hardly even notices the way Thor shifts and settles behind him, those strong, warm hands on his hips, until Thor lines himself up, hard and slick with oil, and with one slow thrust, seats himself to the hilt, leaving Steve shuddering and helpless. The stretch is intense, obliterating everything beyond that sensation, and he nearly collapses as Thor arches against him, pushing deep. Every time Thor moves it’s like a thrill of lightning up his spine; a roiling shock of oversensitive pleasure that makes it near impossible to catch his breath. He rests his head against Darcy’s hip, clutching at her thigh, and feels her hands in his hair, stroking him, gentle touch soothing away the rough edges that have him gasping.

Thor takes him with slow, deliberate thrusts, holding him in place, strong fingers digging into his hips, keeping him still, making him take it all even when that deep pleasure makes him feel like his knees are about to give way, even as he shivers and struggles against it. The wine is in full effect now, and he feels simultaneously leaden and light as a feather, floating on sensation, and there’s no pain, nothing beyond that clarity that makes everything so intense and so all-consuming.

Soon he’s moaning and arching back, feeling pliant and easy, and that’s when Thor wraps an arm around his chest and shifts him, settling him between Darcy’s legs, his weight against her chest even as Thor leans down against him, bracing himself on one arm.

Darcy reaches down between them, lining him up; she’s so wet, unimaginably tight, and he buries his face in her hair to stifle his moan, trying desperately to keep himself in check as Thor pushes him inside her. It would be so easy to just lose himself, and he finds he’s breathing hard, but somehow, he’s not struggling to hold himself back. Thor takes hold of his hip, pulling back slightly before pushing in deep, and Darcy arches up just at the same moment, making him shudder and gasp at the sensation.

Thor is essentially fucking Darcy with his cock; he’s the one guiding the thrusts, setting the rhythm, responding to her pleasure. They take him slowly, enjoying themselves, enjoying him, and once or twice he tries to give a little more, but Thor just wraps his arms around him, Darcy kisses him, pushing her tongue into his mouth, and it’s all he can do to let them have their way: his world is little more than skin pressed against skin, warmth and softness. He can hear himself moaning against Darcy’s lips, and he slips his arm under her hips, drags her up, shuddering as she arches against him. That’s what finally pushes her over the edge, and she shudders, moaning and clutching at Thor’s shoulder, wanting it hard and fast and deep. Thor gives it to her, fucking him hard in the process, and by the time Darcy whimpers and bites her lip, Steve is amazed that he hasn’t come a dozen times over.

Thor pulls away slowly, settling on his heels and dragging Steve onto his lap, making him spread his legs around muscular thighs, as he settles onto that thick cock, and then Thor spreads his legs, making Steve open himself up even further, arching against him and pushing impossibly deep. He loses his breath and lets his head fall back against Thor’s shoulder, closing his eyes and shivering as Thor slowly rocks his hips.

Jane crawls onto his lap then, wrapping her legs around him and Thor both, and Thor reaches up, wrapping an arm around her waist, holding her steady as she squeezes Steve’s cock and slides him into herself, settling atop him. She arches back, shuddering as she finds some perfect angle, and he reaches out, stroking her breast. Thor pulls her closer, and she leans to press her nipple against Steve’s lips. He mouths at her, suckling gently as Thor arches up beneath him, pushing him deeper inside her, and he moans helplessly, caught between them and feeling utterly, beautifully used, once again.

Thor is strong enough to lift them both with ease, to shift and find the perfect angle for them all, so that every time he arches against Steve, both he and Jane shiver with pleasure. Thor works them up to a steady rhythm, Jane has a steady grip on his shoulders, and Thor has an arm around Jane’s waist, so when Steve moans, nuzzling against Thor’s collarbone, wanting more, wanting it harder, deeper, Thor gives it to him, snapping his hips on each thrust, fucking them both so hard the bed shakes.

Steve is clutching at Jane, moaning and shuddering and thinking he has to be just about to come, when there comes a great cracking sound, and one corner of the bed collapses with a crash. Thor loses his balance and Jane tumbles backwards, landing in a heap on the furs. Steve falls forward onto his hands and knees above her, suddenly aching and empty, and more than a bit stunned.

He lays his head on his hands and glances back to see Thor looking quizzically at the bedpost, slowly breaking into a grin. Thor looks at him, looks at Jane, and then suddenly bursts out laughing, so unguardedly and with such amusement, that Steve and Jane can’t help but laugh too.

"I have not done that," Thor says, gesturing at the broken bedpost, “In ages."

Up at the head of the bed, he hears Darcy softly groan, “…fuck, I wish I had a cock.”

Steve grins, thinking of the present Tony is currently working on for her, but at the moment he’s still a little too shattered to do anything about it, and he lays down, thinking to watch for a little while, but then suddenly Darcy is kneeling next to him, watching intently as Thor strokes her hand, slicking her fingers with oil.

Steve’s cock suddenly remembers that while he may be exhausted, it most certainly isn’t, and the empty ache in his loins threatens to overwhelm him. He bites his lip in a bid to make himself be patient, but still it seems like an eternity before he feels Thor’s warm hand on his hip, holding him still as he guides her hand along the curve of his ass. They breach him with their fingers; two each, hers slender and delicate, his thick and so smooth, slick and slow and gentle, stretching him until he shudders.

That alone is enough to make him bury his face in the furs, whimpering and desperate for someone’s hand on his cock, and then Thor shifts his hand ever so slightly, just enough that Darcy’s fingertips graze against his prostate, there and then gone, a split second of perfection that leaves him shivery and yearning for more. He arches back against their hands, but Thor pulls away, leaving him clenching down around Darcy’s fingers, frustrated and denied. He hears himself whine, and Darcy obligingly slips in a third finger and then a fourth, until finally he gasps, breathing deep. Her hand is small, but after the tight stretch of Thor’s fingers, she feels marvelously satisfying.

She lays down, draping herself atop him, and it’s soothing, comforting. He feels almost protected, even if the top of her head barely reaches his shoulders. She’s warm and soft, and her hand feels marvelous; she’s alternating between fingering him and just sort of stroking him, trailing her fingertips across his prostate, rubbing her thumb down along that sensitive stretch of flesh between his legs.

He arches his back, pressing his hips up against her hand until he feels the hard ridge of her knuckles, and keeps pressing, slowly, until he feels that slick burn running all the way up his spine. He closes his eyes, and she reaches up to stroke the back of his neck with her free hand, scratching lightly at the nape of his neck, trailing her fingers through his hair. Each time she moves, he can feel the soft weight of her breasts, the pebbled graze of her hard nipples against his skin. It’s all on the verge of driving him crazy, and when she whispers, “Let me make you come…” it just about short-circuits his brain.

He groans and shifts beneath her, looking for the willpower to move, to take hold of his cock, but she just takes the opportunity to slip her hand beneath his hips, to wrap her hand around the base of his cock, reaching down to stroke and tease his balls, and when she nuzzles against his neck, whispering how much she’d love to fuck him, to feel herself inside him, squeezing at his cock with tight, long strokes, it’s all too much to endure. He cries out, spilling into her hand, the head of his cock rubbing against her palm with every shiver and twitch as she keeps fingering him, stroking him until he shudders and sighs.

She slips her fingers out and rolls off him, laying on her back and gazing at the high ceiling, looking entirely delighted.

Thor just strokes a hand down his spine, and leans close, whispering, “I hope you do not think this means we are done with you.”

Steve shivers with anticipation.