consider!! flirty 40s Bucky with a strength kink sandwiched between post-serum Steve and big buff serumed reader. How did we get the serum? irrelevant, I'm here to rail Bucky stupid ❤️
(either agab is fine)
- Rosemint
Yield Strength
$ log - a material science principle where sustained stress past a critical threshold causes permanent deformation. sgt. barnes is, unfortunately, the prime variable — his stupid brain wondering just what else yours and cpt. rogers' heavy strength could do, preferably in close quarters. $ warn --nsfw --amab!reader --dom!top!reader --dom!top!steve --sub!bot!bucky --oral(blowjob, throatfucking) --positions(missionary, spitroast) --anal --rough --degradation(heavy) --praise --manhandling --impact-play(light) --mocking $ wc -w 6k $ from 1940s!marvel # authors-note = 40s marvel might be one of my fav concepts to write abt. # note = reader is a serum-induced captain. reader, steve are still getting used to their larger frames and strength. mean dom!reader, gentle dom!steve. bucky has a devious thing for big muscled folks.
0001 — one
The serum had its own opinions about your body.
Whatever the brass intended when they approved a second trial, classified down to the carbon paper, the result was you: taller, broader, dense with a musculature that didn't feel entirely earned. The quartermaster had let out your uniform twice. You stopped asking questions around month two; the science sat above your clearance level, the outcome beyond reversal.
So you wore it the way you wore your rank. Steady hands, chin forward, keep moving.
Steve was the only other man alive who understood the specifics.
The understanding was practical, not sentimental. He knew what it meant to misjudge a doorframe, to dent a canteen without thinking, to occupy a body that still caught you off guard in reflections. You'd crossed paths at inter-division briefings three times before your units drew the same operational territory.
The consolidation was mutual, arriving independently from both ends; two serum-enhanced captains running parallel missions across overlapping terrain was redundant at best, reckless at worst. Pooling forces was the obvious call. Neither of you deliberated long.
The formality between you had softened since then into something that might, generously, pass for warmth. He poured your coffee without asking how you took it. You annotated his situation reports in the shorthand he preferred before he had to request it. Neither of you remarked on any of it.
His unit absorbed yours with the practical ease of soldiers who understood shared ground meant shared risk. Good men, competent, loyal to Rogers in that bone-deep way that reflected well on his leadership.
You made a point of learning names, habits, rhythms. One name you already knew: Sergeant James Barnes.
Steve's right hand, his oldest friend, the one he mentioned with a frequency that bordered on devotion. You'd heard about Barnes before you ever shook his hand, which left you predisposed to warmth before you'd earned your own reasons for it.
The real thing matched the reputation: broad shoulders, a jaw that could cut glass, an easy confidence that sat well on a man who'd never once questioned how much space he deserved in a room. Half the nurses at base camp watched him pass like he was a weather event.
You could see why — a good sergeant, quick under pressure, steady in the field, possessing a loyalty to Steve that was written into every reflex he had.
You were still negotiating your own dimensions. Sleep had become a problem of geometry; the cots were too narrow, every angle wrong for the new architecture of your neck, your shoulders. It drew attention. But you were a captain. Everything you did collected observation, the low murmur of men recalibrating what a human body could look like. You'd stopped cataloguing the glances weeks ago.
Though Barnes, amidst the steady current, had been wavering in your periphery a beat too long. Not quite staring, nothing so obvious. Just a gaze that caught where it didn't need to, held a half-second past casual, with a regularity that was becoming harder to file under coincidence.
0010 — two
The Willys had room for three across the front bench if all three men were built to regulation standard — none of you qualified.
Steve drove because he insisted on it with the same polite immovability he applied to most decisions. You took the passenger side. Bucky, by process of elimination, got the middle.
He settled between you with the ease of a man who'd ridden in worse configurations, his shoulders fitted against Steve's on one side, against yours on the other. His thigh pressed flush to yours, warm through two layers of wool, the bench offering nothing that resembled personal space. He didn't seem bothered. If he was, the performance of unbothered was flawless.
"Supply route's compromised past the tree line." Steve kept his eyes forward, hands steady on the wheel. "Patterson's unit took fire there two days ago."
"From the east ridge?" Your arm rested along the back of the bench behind Bucky’s head, not around him, just where it fit.
"Northeast. Clean sightline on the road for about a quarter mile before the bend."
"Then we loop through the valley." You leaned forward to catch Steve's profile, your chest brushing Bucky’s shoulder as you shifted. An incidental thing, barely worth registering. "Adds forty minutes, but we keep the convoy out of range."
"Forty minutes is a lot of daylight to burn," Steve said.
"Better than burning men."
A beat of agreement passed between you, wordless, the kind of tactical shorthand that came from weeks of operating in sync. Barnes, bracketed between the two of you, sat very still during it.
"We could split the column." His voice was steady, practiced, delivered with a sergeant's certainty. "Half through the valley, half on the main road with a rearguard. Stagger by fifteen minutes so the first group draws their attention."
"That makes the first group a target."
"That makes the first group soldiers, Captain."
You looked at him. The correction was sharp, confident, accompanied by a half-smile that knew precisely how good it sounded. He met your gaze with a steadiness that almost held before it slipped, just barely, from your eyes to your mouth to the stretch of your collar across your chest. A fractional inventory. Quick enough to deny, but slow enough to feel.
"He's right," Steve said from the driver's side, almost amused. Humming in agreement, you turn back to the road.
Between two captains who'd just echoed each other on his behalf, Bucky exhaled through his nose. His thigh pressed a little more firmly against yours. Whether it was the road or a choice, you didn't examine.
0011 — three
The table in the briefing room wasn't large enough for the three of you to stand around comfortably — this was becoming a pattern, mind you.
Steve had the map weighted at the corners with spent casings, the region's topography spread between you like a question waiting on an answer. You stood across from him, Bucky at the narrow end between you. The lamp overhead painted the whole scene in amber, shadows pooling in the low corners of the room.
"They've been repositioning the artillery." Steve tapped a ridge line on the eastern edge. "Here last week. Probably here by now." His finger traced a path northwest. "They're staying ahead of our recon."
"‘Cause it’s predictable." You reached across the table to flatten a curled edge of the map, your forearm passing directly through Bucky’s sightline. He blinked. "Same routes, same intervals. They've had weeks to study the pattern."
"So we change the pattern."
"We scrap it entirely." The pencil from behind your ear found your hand without thought, circling two points on the western approach. "Smaller teams, irregular timing, no fixed route. Let them chase ghosts while we map their movements instead."
Bucky leaned in to study the points you'd marked, his shoulder settling against your arm with a naturalness that suggested habit rather than intention. Close enough that you could catch the standard-issue soap on his skin, something warmer underneath it. His frown at the map was genuine, focused.
"These ravines are tight." His finger traced one of the passes. "Two men across, maybe three. If a team gets caught in there, there's no room to maneuver."
"They won't get caught if they're fast enough," Steve said. He'd moved to Bucky’s other side of the table without ceremony, standing at his shoulder now. The geometry of it placed the Sergeant squarely between you, both of your frames eclipsing the lamplight from either side.
His finger stalled on the map.
He recovered quickly, a cleared throat that could've been the dust, a voice that held its ground. "The 107th ran ravine operations in Italy. I can brief your men on the terrain tactics if you'd like, Captain."
The offer was directed at you. His eyes, when they found yours, were sharp with an effort that suggested the alternative was looking somewhere he shouldn't. Like the way your hands pressed flat against the table's edge, wide enough to span the distance between two grid squares. Like the breadth of your chest where the lamp caught the fabric.
"I'd appreciate that, Sergeant."
Something in the word — sergeant — made his jaw tighten. The reaction wasn't displeasure, perhaps something more heated than that lived behind it.
Steve, on Bucky’s other side, said nothing. But his gaze lingered on the man’s profile for a moment too long, something quiet rearranging behind his expression. Recognition, maybe. The specific kind that belonged to a man who'd watched his best friend come undone in slow increments enough times to know what the early stages looked like.
He looked at you over his head. You looked back, but neither of you said a word.
"Right." Bucky straightened, squaring his shoulders in a way that might have been composure or might have been an attempt to reclaim space between the two of you. "I'll pull the Italian maps after dinner."
"Good." Steve's hand landed on Bucky’s shoulder, brief, a natural gesture between old friends. The span of his palm nearly covered the joint. His breath caught thin enough to miss before he stepped out from between you toward the door.
You watched him go. Steve watched you watch him.
0100 — four
The corridor outside the sleeping quarters was narrow even by military standards, built for function rather than comfort, a concrete throat connecting the briefing rooms to the officers' bunks. Most men could pass through two abreast without difficulty. For you or Steve, it was single file or nothing.
For all three of you, it was an exercise in proximity that nobody had agreed to but nobody was leaving.
The evening had wound down an hour ago. Most of the unit was asleep or near it, voices fading to the low hum of a camp settling into itself. You'd stepped out for air, found Steve already leaning against the corridor wall, found Bucky already with him.
The conversation started easy, drifted into nothing consequential. Plans for after the war that none of you fully believed in. A bar Bucky knew in Brooklyn. The specific quality of light in a city without blackout curtains.
It was the most informal you'd been with either of them.
Steve leaned against one wall, arms folded, his shoulders spanning most of the available concrete. You mirrored his posture against the opposite wall, the corridor's width reduced to the narrow channel of space Bucky currently occupied between you. He stood with his hands in his pockets, chin tipped up in that easy way he carried himself. Comfortable, nearly.
"You're telling me you never once started a fight at that bar," you said to Steve, a thread of disbelief pulling through your voice.
"I said I never started one." A smile ghosted across Steve's mouth. "There's a distinction."
"He started all of them." Bucky’s voice was warm with the particular fondness of someone recounting a long-documented history. "Every single one. He'd find the biggest guy in the room with the worst opinions just to make a point nobody asked him to make."
"The point usually needed making."
"The point usually got us thrown out, Steve."
You laughed. Low, genuine, unexpected enough in the concrete quiet that Bucky looked at you with something unguarded crossing his expression. Surprise, maybe — like he hadn't expected that sound from someone your size, like the warmth of it didn't match the architecture.
His gaze held yours a second too long.
The ease between the three of you had shifted over the past hour into something less simple. Not tense, not exactly. Aware.
Every movement felt catalogued. Every silence carried a specific weight. Steve's voice had dropped lower as the night wore on, settling into a register that was less captain, more something older than rank. Your posture had loosened in a way that should've read as casual but instead made the full breadth of your frame more apparent; shoulders dropped, chest open, occupying precisely as much space as the serum had built you to fill.
Bucky kept adjusting. His weight shifted from one foot to the other. His tongue wet his lower lip when he thought neither of you was looking. Both of you were.
"So what's your excuse?" He turned to you, his voice still easy on the surface, something thinner running underneath. "You pick fights too, Captain?"
"I don't need to." You said it simply, without posture. "Most people don't argue with me twice."
"I believe that." His gaze dropped to your shoulders, your arms, the way your hands hung loose at your sides. The survey lasted longer than the ones before it — he didn't bother disguising it. "I genuinely believe that."
Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor. Two soldiers from the night watch rounded the corner, voices low. The corridor was too narrow for them to pass without someone adjusting.
Your hand found Bucky’s waist.
It was instinct, more practical. You drew him closer into the triangle, into the shallow alcove of space between your body and Steve's, making room for the soldiers to squeeze past. A casual gesture, barely a conscious thought. Your palm settled against the curve of his hip, fingers spread wide over the wool of his jacket, the pressure firm enough to guide without asking.
Bucky came willingly. His body followed the direction of your hand like water finding a new course, his back nearly flush to your chest, Steve close enough on his other side that Barnes could probably feel the heat radiating off both of you in stereo. The soldiers passed without a glance.
Your hand stayed.
The corridor was clear. The practical reason had walked around the corner thirty seconds ago. Your palm remained on his waist, the weight of it steady, your thumb resting against the jut of his hip bone through the fabric. You could feel his breathing beneath your hand — a carefully measured rhythm, controlled — the kind of deliberate control that only became necessary when the natural alternative was something far less composed.
Steve was looking at your hand on Bucky’s waist, then at his face, then at you.
You met his gaze. Something passed between you that carried the weight of a full conversation compressed into silence. He knew. You knew he knew.
The formality you both wore like rank, like insignia stitched into your bearing, was still technically in place. The seams were beginning to show.
Bucky hadn't moved away, nor had he shifted your hand. He hadn't cracked a single joke to dissolve the moment the way you'd watched him do a dozen times before when something drifted too close to real. He stood between the two of you, solid, warm, his jaw set in a way that looked less like composure now, more like restraint.
"You good, Buck?" Steve's voice was low, gentle in a way that had nothing to do with softness. The question was precise. He knew exactly what he was asking.
"Fine, Steve." The answer came out rough. "Just fine."
Your fingers tightened on his waist. A fraction more pressure, the kind of thing that could be accidental, could be nothing, could be everything. Bucky’s breath stuttered once, thin as paper.
None of you moved.
The generators hummed beneath the floor. Somewhere beyond the concrete, the war continued its patient work. In this corridor, three men occupied a silence that held more weight than any briefing, any map, any coordinated strike they'd ever planned between them.
Steve unfolded his arms. The movement was slow, deliberate, bringing his hand to Bucky’s other side. Not quite touching — but placed at the small of his back, close enough that he could feel the warmth of his palm without the confirmation of contact.
Bucky closed his eyes. When he opened them, the deflections were gone. No charm, no easy grin. Just want, bare and startled, directed at you with the full awareness that the same expression pointed just as fiercely at the man behind him.
Your thumb traced a slow line along his hip.
"We should get some sleep," Steve said quietly. He didn't move.
"Yeah." Bucky's voice barely held. He didn't move either.
You let go first. Your fingers trailed across the wool before falling to your side, the absence so specific that Bucky's exhale sounded obscenely loud in the corridor.
"Goodnight, Sergeant."
"Captain." His voice was not steady.
Steve's hand landed on Bucky's back, brief, firm, shaped like farewell while meaning something else entirely. Then he stepped toward the officers' quarters at a pace that suggested discipline was the only thing keeping his legs moving in that direction.
Bucky stood alone in the corridor. Somewhere behind his ribs, beneath the uniform, beneath the broad shoulders half the nurses on base admired, something had cracked open that he was not going to be able to close.
He pressed his palm flat to the wall where you'd leaned. The concrete was still warm.
Thirty steps to your quarters. You know because you'd counted them, the way any good captain maps his environment. Steve made it to his door, and you to yours. Bucky made it to neither.
The specifics of how all three of you ended up in the same room were mechanical in hindsight — a glance that wasn't dismissed fast enough, a door left open with intent that couldn't be called accidental, Bucky standing in the hallway like a man who'd run out of reasons to pretend he wasn't exactly where he wanted to be.
Steve reached him first. Gentle hands, a murmured word against his temple, permission asked with a patience that made his knees unreliable. You reached him second, less gentle. Your grip on his jaw turned Bucky’s face toward yours with a certainty that left no room for questions, only answers, and the sound he made in response told you everything.
0101 — five
The dim light of the barracks cast long shadows across Bucky's pale skin as he lay vulnerable on the cot, his breathing already shallow and uneven.
Steve was hovering over him like a guardian angel gone rogue, his massive frame casting a shadow that swallowed him whole.
"Easy now, Buck," Steve cooed, his voice a velvet murmur that betrayed nothing of the raw power coiled in his shoulders. His cock, thick and pulsing with the serum's relentless energy, nudged against his lips. He gave a slow kitten lick before gripping his own length, his palm dwarfing the cock.
Meanwhile, you were already positioned between Bucky’s legs, your own cock already throbbing against his skin. You didn't have the patience for Steve's slow burn approach; you wanted to feel him stretch around you right now.
"Hey, Rogers, quit playing nursemaid and hand over that oil," you snapped, your voice rough with impatience as you nudged your tip against Bucky's puckered entrance. "This soldier's gonna drive me crazy if we don't get moving."
Steve obliged, reaching for the small tin with one hand while his other remained possessive on Bucky's thigh. But as he leaned forward to help you, the sheer, uncoordinated power of his new frame betrayed him. His hips lurched forward with too much force, and before he could catch himself, his cock slid past Bucky's lips, lodging deep in the back of his throat.
He let out a muffled, startled noise, his eyes widening as tears welling in his eyes from the sudden intrusion. He gagged weakly, his throat working convulsively around Steve's impressive girth, but Steve didn't pull away immediately. Instead, he steadied himself, his large hands framing Bucky's face with surprising tenderness despite the cock blocking his airway.
"Shh, it's alright, Buck. Just breathe through it," Steve murmured, his voice dripping with that infuriatingly gentle concern as he carefully adjusted his angle, sliding his cock deeper but more deliberately into Bucky's mouth. "I've got you, just take it."
However, you weren't too interested in the sentimental routine. You were too busy wrestling with Bucky's stubborn resistance at your end. You had already taken a generous dollop of the oil Steve handed over, lathering the tight entrance with impatient fingers, but every time you tried to drive your tip home, he simply wouldn't budge. The tight ring ass refused to yield, clamping down hard against your slick tip like it was trying to shut you out entirely.
"Dammit, Bucky, quit playing tough and take it like a man," you growled, your fingers digging into the meat of his hip to hold him still. You leaned forward, your breath hot against his flushed ear, completely unfazed by Steve's tender ministrations nearby. "You're acting like some green recruit on his first day in the field. Open up."
Steve let out a soft, breathy laugh, his thumbs stroking Bucky's cheekbones as he watched you work. "Give him a second, Captain. He's still adjusting to... everything." Steve's cock gave a deliberate thrust deeper into Bucky's throat, forcing a wet, desperate whimper from the soldier's nose. "See? He's doing just fine, jus’ a good boy."
"Boy?" you scoffed, rolling your eyes at Steve's saccharine tone as you pressed your cock harder against Bucky's stubborn ring. "He's acting like a scared kitten, Rogers — can’t handle a little friction."
You grabbed Bucky's hip with enough force to leave marks, your thumb digging into the muscle. "Come on, darlin’, quit playing coy. You know you want this more than any commendation from Command."
Bucky's eyes fluttered shut, his face flushed crimson as he struggled to process being claimed from both ends. A wet, choking sound escaped his throat as Steve's cock bottomed out against his tonsils, the gentle captain's hips beginning to roll in slow, deliberate circles. "That's it, Buck... just let it happen," Steve whispered steadily despite the obvious desire.
"Save the sweet talk for the dames, Rogers," you muttered, though your own pulse was hammering against your ribs.
The sight of Bucky flushed, teary eyed, and utterly overwhelmed between two super soldiers was doing more to loosen his grip than any amount of gentle coaxing. You shifted your weight, grinding your cock against that stubborn ring. "Bein’ difficult, and I don't have all night to wait for him to find his courage."
Bucky's fingers curled into the rough wool of the cot's blanket, his knuckles white. A thick string of saliva escaped the corner of his mouth as Steve's cock slid deeper, the movement precise and devastatingly smooth. The soldier's hips gave an involuntary twitch upward, a desperate attempt to meet the dual assault, but you weren't having any of his hesitation.
"That's more like it, you little bastard."
You didn't wait for him to settle. Grabbing both of his thighs, you yanked them wider apart, exposing every inch of his vulnerable, slick ass to the dim light. The muscles there were quivering, caught between the gentle pressure of Steve's cock in his mouth and your own demanding presence at his rear. "Now quit stalling and take what's coming to you."
The resistance finally broke with a wet, obscene sound as you abandoned all pretense of patience. "That's it, Barnes. Stop fighting — take it like you mean it," you growled, your voice dropping to a rough command.
Grabbing his hips with bruising force, you drove forward. Your cock slid past the slick barrier, pushing its way with a gradual thrust. Bucky's back arched off the cot, a strangled, muffled cry dying in his throat as Steve's cock simultaneously filled his mouth to the hilt.
The sensation was too overwhelming the dual invasion of his body creating a pressure that seemed to split him open. You weren't gentle; you manhandled his lower half like he was military equipment, yanking his legs aside to find the perfect, punishing angle. Each time you drove yourself home, you heard the wet slap of your pelvis against his thighs.
You were incessant — hips working with a mechanical, brutal efficiency that left Bucky gasping for air he couldn't quite catch.
"Look at you," you sneered, leaning down so your lips brushed his burning ear while your cock hammered into his depths. "Caught between two captains, and you can't even keep your legs still. Pathetic."
The contrast between your two styles was devastating.
While you were all rough edges and demanding thrusts, Steve remained infuriatingly composed, his movements gently purposeful. Steve's cock slid in and out of Bucky's mouth with a practiced rhythm, his large hands stroking Bucky's jaw to keep him open, his thumbs tracing idle patterns on his flushed skin.
"You're doing so well for us," Steve cooed, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through Bucky's entire body.
To get the depth you craved, you grabbed his knees, hauling them up and back until his legs were spread wide against your own hips. The position left him completely exposed, his ass gaping open to every punishing stroke of your cock. You manhandled him roughly, adjusting his stance with bruising grips on his inner thighs, forcing his hips to tilt upward to accommodate your full length.
"There we go, there’s a boy," you grunted, your teeth bared in a feral grin as you found the sweet spot where your cock scraped meanly against his prostate.
"Easy now, Buck. You're getting sloppy," Steve scolded him softly, though there was an edge of command beneath the sweetness. "Try to keep a good rhythm for me — you need to focus."
The reprimand was gentle, but the effect was immediate. Bucky's throat worked harder, his eyes rolling back as he tried to salvage some semblance of control, his tongue swirling around Steve's cock in a desperate attempt to please.
But between the two of you, there was no mercy.
You weren't giving him any room to breathe, let alone focus. You gripped his inner thighs hard enough to leave crescent moon bruises, hauling his legs even wider until they were pinned against the mattress beside his hips. The position allowed you to drive deeper than before, each thrust hitting him with the pounding pace.
"That's it, Barnes, choke on it," you sneered, watching the way his throat convulsed around Steve's cock while you claimed his ass. "Show us how well you can take orders from both sides."
Every time you bottomed out inside him, Bucky let out a muffled
muffled whimper that died against Steve's cock, his whole body shuddering from the sheer force of your penetration. The sound was wet and pathetic, exactly what you wanted to hear.
You leaned forward, your chest nearly brushing his knees as you maintained your punishing crouch, using your body weight to drive each stroke even deeper into his slick, overheated ass.
"That's it, keep taking it," you commanded, your voice dripping with disdain as you watched his hips jerk involuntarily under your assault. "Both of you. Don't you dare slow down now."
Bucky's eyes were blown wide, glazed with pleasure and desperation as he tried to process the dual invasion. The wet sounds of his mouth working around Steve's cock mingled with the obscene, squelching slap of your cock hammering into his ass, creating a chorus of debauchery that filled the small space.
The tension had shifted from charged anticipation to something far more feral and obscene. The air was thick enough to taste salt, sweat, and the metallic tang of arousal. The debauchery was in full swing — the mercy that had defined the earlier moments had evaporated, replaced by a raw, unrelenting hunger.
"Jesus, look at him," you barked out a harsh laugh, your voice dripping with cruel satisfaction as you watched Bucky's hips buck uselessly. "He's completely undone. Can't even make sense of what's happening, can you, doll?"
Steve's jaw was set, his usual softness replaced by a focused, dominant intensity. He gripped Bucky's hair to tilt his head back further, exposing his throat more fully as he drove himself home. "He's doing exactly what he needs to do," he countered, though there was no kindness left in his tone — only the raw command of a man who knew exactly how to break someone. "He's doing what he's told."
"He's doing too good of a job, Steve," you taunted, your own breathing coming in ragged gasps as you maintained your relentless pace. "Almost makes me want to be nice to him. Almost."
You deliberately slowed your thrusts for a moment, just enough to make Bucky whimper at the loss of friction, before slamming back inside him with renewed vigour. "But he doesn't deserve nice, does he? Not when he's making such greedy noise."
Steve's hips stuttered for a moment as he watched Bucky's eyes roll back in pure, unadulterated agony and ecstasy. "Captain," Steve rasped, his voice rough with his own building need, "maybe ease up on him. Let him finish, help him cum."
You let out a sharp, mocking scoff that cut through the messy sounds of Bucky's distress. "Help him?" You pulled back just enough to glare at Steve, though you didn't stop the relentless grinding of your cock against Bucky's entrance. "You think this little soldier needs a helping hand?"
With a cruel smirk, you reached out and delivered a sharp, stinging smack to Bucky's inner thigh, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the small space. "Can't he handle it on his own?" You asked, punctuating each word with another vicious smack against his flushed skin. "Bet he can."
Bucky didn't even try to protest. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, and completely shattered. All he could do was give a weak, desperate nod. He was completely at your mercy, his body already betraying him.
"Look at that pitiful little nod," you sneered, but your words were undercut by the way your own cock throbbed painfully inside him. "Alright then, darlin’, show us what you're made of."
The challenge was all it took. Without a single finger touching him, Bucky's body reached its breaking point. The dual stimulation — your brutal pounding and Steve's constant stretching of his throat sent him over the edge. His hips bucked off the cot, his entire frame seizing as he orgasmed. Without a single hand touching his cock, Bucky came with a mess across his own stomach and the rumpled sheets.
"Holy hell," you barked out a derisive laugh, watching the pathetic display with undisguised amusement. "Look at you, Barnes! Squirtin' like those dames in the bar after three martinis. Couldn't even wait for a proper send off, could you?"
Despite your mocking words, there was an undeniable heat in your voice as you watched him unravel. "Wretched little soldier, cumming like a fountain without so much as a finger to guide him."
Steve didn't join in your mockery; instead, he let out a low, rumbling moan as Bucky's climax seemed to trigger his own.
"That's it, Buck, attaboy," Steve cooed, his voice dripping with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with your cruelty. "That's it, just take it all. You're doing so well."
As Steve reached his own breaking point, his hips bucked forward with desperate force. Bucky's eyes flew wide as Steve's cock buried itself to the hilt in his throat one last time, followed immediately by the hot, heavy pulses of Steve's climax flooding down Bucky's gullet. Bucky could only make wet, gagging sounds of overwhelmed pleasure, his throat working frantically to swallow the thick loads being pumped into him.
The sight of them — the Captain claiming his soldier even as the soldier unravelled was the final trigger for you.
"Fuck, Steve, he's fucking wrecked," you growled, your own control snapping like a frayed cable. You stopped trying to be precise and simply became a force of pure, unbridled aggression. You drove into Bucky's tight ass with everything you had left. The friction was molten, the slick mixture of Bucky's cum and his own arousal making each thrust slick and easy.
The moment Steve orgasmed, his hips gave one final, possessive thrust before he began to withdraw. Unlike your assault, his retreat was agonisingly slow and careful. As his cock slid free from Bucky's overstimulated mouth with a wet pop, Steve didn't pull away entirely. Instead, he leaned forward, his large hand cupping Bucky's jaw as he used his thumb to gently wipe away the stray threads of saliva and cum clinging to the soldier's swollen, straining lips.
"There we go, Buck," Steve murmured, his voice a soothing balm against the raw chaos you were still inflicting. "All done, you did so well, our good soldier."
Bucky was a broken thing beneath you. His eyes fluttered prettily, half lidded and glazed with a dazed, post orgasmic haze as he stared up at nothing, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches. He let out a weak, high pitched whimper that sounded more like a plea for mercy than anything else.
You weren't finished with him yet. Seeing him so completely undone — eyes unfocused, lips glistening, and body still twitching from his own uncontrolled release — only drove your own need to a fever pitch. "Not yet, doll. I'm not done claiming what's mine," you growled against his neck.
You delivered three more devastating, deep thrusts, each one more desperate than the last, until your own orgasm tore through you. You jerked against him hard, your cock buried as you came inside messily..
For several seconds, the only sound in the room was the ragged synchronisation of three sets of lungs fighting for air. When the tremors finally subsided, you let out a long, satisfied exhale. With a smirk of pure triumph, you reached down and gave his inner thigh a sharp smack that made Bucky flinch involuntarily despite his dazed state
"Good fucking job, soldier," you muttered, your voice rough with satisfaction. You pulled out with a wet, sucking sound, leaving his entrance gaping and slick with the evidence of your combined conquests.
thigh. "Good fucking job, soldier," you muttered, your voice rough with satisfaction. You pulled out with a wet, sucking sound, leaving his entrance gaping and slick with the evidence of your combined conquests.
Watching the way his ass gaped, slick with a messy cocktail of cum, you couldn't resist one last taunt. You reached down, pressing your thumb against the sensitive, swollen rim of his hole, deliberately pushing some of the leaking mess back inside him. Bucky let out a broken, high pitched whimper at the contact, his body still far too sensitive for even the lightest touch.
Turning toward Steve, you wiped your hand on your thigh and let out a low, appreciative whistle.
"Jesus Christ, Rogers," you said, your voice rough with residual heat. "Gotta try this again sometime — tight as anything, absolute fucking heaven."
You gestured toward the wrecked soldier on the cot, his chest still heaving as he tried to regain some semblance of composure. Steve just offered you a tired, knowing smile — one that lacked any real reproach for your crude language, as if he were already anticipating the next time you'd crash into their private world.
"I'll keep that in mind," Steve replied, his voice still carrying that warm, protective undertone even as he reached out for a water canteen and some ragged cloths.
You let out a dark chuckle, adjusting your clothes with lazy confidence. "You better. Because if this is what's in store every time I drop by, I'll definitely be paying visits to your unit more often." You shot one last glance at Bucky who was still staring at the ceiling with glazed, empty eyes before turning to leave.
"See you around, Captain. Don't let your soldier break too badly before next time."
The door clicked shut behind you, leaving the heavy silence of the corridor to swallow your footsteps. Behind that closed door, the only sounds left were the soft rustle of sheets and Steve's quiet murmurs as he pulled Bucky close against his chest.
0010 — willys jeep for reference
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