So, for my first time writing smut, I figured I should just write something short and sweet and simple. ...I sorta failed at that. xD

Oh well! Enjoy:

There's a hand running down your left side. It's the first thing your mind processes as the fog of sleep starts to clear.

Steve. Because of course he's awake before you.

The second thing your mind registers is the uncomfortable strain in your left arm; your shoulder is pulled at an odd angle again, hand resting somewhere above your head, fingers near the headboard of the bed. And maybe the stretch felt comfortable at some point during the night, but now… Oh, you can already tell moving it is not going to be a fun experience.

A noise somewhere between a groan and a grunt slips past your lips, and the fingers at your hip pause for just a second before they continue tracing some invisible pattern down toward your knee. Steve must know you're awake now, but you don't bother opening your eyes. You want to take the moment to just relax and enjoy the feeling of his fingers ghosting over your skin… awkward uncomfortable position and all.

His fingers coast up to your hip and down to your knee two more times before that ache in your shoulder is finally bothersome enough to warrant immediate attention. A sigh of resignation, and you twist your arm so that your elbow is up in the air and move to tug it down to your side, but it only budges an inch before there's suddenly pressure on your wrist and no room to move. And you don't even know how it's possible to get your hand jammed through the bars of the headrest while you're sound asleep, but it's definitely not how you wanted to wake up.

Another sigh and a furrowed brow, and you move to shift your other arm, fully prepared to free your left without even bothering to open your eyes, but once again, you find your arm roughly halted. And this time, you hear the jingle.

Your eyes are open wide, then, adrenaline flooding your veins for a second as you try to pull yourself into an upright position. Of course, all that does is painfully jerk both of your arms in opposite directions, and so you settle for lying back against the bed, neck craned at a harsh angle so that you can see the handcuff that has your left wrist secured to the headboard. You don't need to turn and look to see that there's another one securing your right wrist, as well. You also don't need to look to know that those fingers still tracing patterns over your knee do not belong to Steve.

No, you know Steve better than that; he'd be reluctant to handcuff you even if you asked him to, and you sure as hell didn't asked him to at any point last night. You hate the handcuffs, hate how they restrict your movement and hate how they deprive you of the feeling of your fingers running through either of your boys' hair. No… Steve hadn't been the one to restrain you. There was only one individual in your little trio that would've broken out the handcuffs.

That bastard.

"Bucky!" you greet in a warm, cheery tone, a wide smile on your lips as you finally turn your head so that you can look at the man who handcuffed you to the bed.

He's fully dressed and sitting just off to your side, about even with your hip. He's not quite leaning over you, as he has his metal arm propping him up on the right side of you, but his body is oriented toward yours and he has his flesh arm hovering over you, fingers still drawing patterns on your opposite side. And he's watching those fingers, clearly getting a kick out of the way your abdominal muscles involuntarily contract every time he brushes ever-so-lightly over a ticklish patch on your side. He doesn't even spare you a glance.

Bastard.

It's easier to keep the warm smile on your lips with your next question: "When did you get in?"

His fingers trace over that same patch of skin again. "This morning."

Once again, you're lifting your head and craning your neck, because there's no way it's not still morning; you might not be much of an early riser compared to the two super soldiers who were up every morning before the crack of dawn, but you aren't usually one for sleeping in terribly late. Not without good reason, at least.

A particularly painful stretch of your neck, and the alarm clock comes into view. 8:03.

"You were sound asleep when I came in," Bucky comments as you flop your head back down onto the pillow. He's still watching his fingers as they run down by your knee, but he doesn't need to send a glance up at your wrists for you to know that's what he's talking about.

Your super soldiers are stealthy, sure, but you're generally a light sleeper. Sleeping through them sneaking in and out of bed is one thing, but sleeping through being handcuffed to the headboard…

"Must've been real fuckin' worn out last night."

Oh.

So that's where this is going.

"Bucky—" you try, only to cut yourself off with a surprised hiss of pain. His fingers are suddenly done tracing patterns, his nails now digging sharply into your hip. A warning.

"I'm offended, Doll," he drawls, old Brooklyn accent heavy as he releases his grip on your hip and goes back to trailing his fingers gently down your thigh. The attention is suddenly less relaxing and far more nerve-wracking.

Not because you are actually worried he might be offended, of course. He isn't; he's just pretending to be. And he clearly knows you know he's only pretending to be offended. He wants you to know, because he doesn't want you worried about his feelings; he wants you worried about what he's going to do next. Because he's a bastard and has undoubtedly been waiting for an excuse to use the handcuffs on you again.

"But you just couldn't wait for me to get back, could you?"

Irritation finally slipping through – even though you know it's not going to do you any good to give him any attitude – you clench your teeth as you force another smile. "You were gone two weeks, Buck."

Those fingers of his slow down again as they coast over your hip, and you find yourself biting your lip in anticipation. "'s only fourteen nights." The fingers trail downward again, touch still light as a feather.

Your eyes give an involuntary roll. "As if you and Steve could go fourteen hours."

The fingers on your knee tighten again, but this time Bucky's laughing, a deep, low chuckle. He gives your knee a pat, finally stealing a glance up in your direction. "Come on, now, Doll," he croons. "Stevie's a lamb. You really gonna blame this on him?"

You're tempted to, honestly, but you don't. Blaming Steve never gets you anywhere, even if it is exactly as much his fault as it is yours.

"Oh, good girl," the dark-haired man tells you then, apparently having deduced your answer from your silence, but the praise only has you bristling a bit. That damned grin he's wearing is cocky now. Because he's a fucking bastard.

A bastard who's got absolutely incredible self-control, because he's somehow managing to keep his gaze locked on yours, even though you don't have a single shed of fabric covering your body.

You decided to test that self-control a bit, and fix another innocent, warm smile in his direction. "We don't really need the cuffs, do we, Bucky?" you ask, before bringing your right knee up toward your chest in order to swing it out to the side. You slip it between his metal arm and his side so that you can wrap it around his waist and give him a bit of a tug.

You don't have the angle to actually topple his balance and make him move, but he still allows you to guide him up onto his knees and over so that he's kneeling between your legs. Another tug, this time with both legs wrapped around his waist, and he's suddenly on top of you, his body covering yours and a noticeably firm bulge pressed against the juncture of your thighs. And you can't help but let out a noise of approval at the sensation.

But his reaction is far more contained. Snaking his flesh hand up under your back and weaving his fingers through your hair, he lets out a hum of consideration, his metal hand shifting to your side and running down your right leg. "I don't know, Doll," he starts, accenting the pause by grabbing your knee and hiking it up higher on his waist. "You're being awfully grabby already, and that's with your hands out of play."

And damn him and that cocky little smirk of his! But you still manage to keep the innocent smile on your lips. "I missed you," you tell him, the admission just as honest as it was meant to be manipulative.

He only draws out another hum, his head lowering so that his lips can run up your jaw line. He pauses just beneath your ear, giving a light nip to the skin at the junction of your jaw and neck. "I missed you too."

His voice is deeper, now, throatier, and it has you tightening the grip your legs have around his waist. His hips respond with a cursory thrust, and it's almost enough to make you think you're getting somewhere. But then he pulls his head back, half-lidded eyes flickering over your expression as his lips pull into a slow, knowing little smile.

"Which is why this is so disappointing, Darling," he drawls again, rearing his head back and out of reach when you move to press your lips to his.

The hand he has in your hair tightens until you can't actually lift your head. "Bucky…!" You mean it as a reprimand, but it comes out as more of a plea than anything else.

He lowers his head again, teeth tracing down your jaw as he meets your gaze with his stormy blue eyes. "What do you want, Doll?"

"You." The answer is automatic, and it earns you a roguish grin and a nip on the jaw.

"Oh, you're gonna have to be more specific than that."

You huff out a sigh, because you didn't want to lie there and tell him everything you want him to do to you, everything you want to do to him… No, you want to grab him and show him, but that isn't exactly possible at the moment. And he's getting far too much pleasure out of forcing you to use your words.

He cocks a brow, as if he knows exactly what you are thinking. Because he probably does.

"I want to kiss you," you tell him, before trying to tilt your chin up at just the right angle because he's so close.

But he only pulls his head back a few more inches, his expression one of false innocence as he looks down at you. "Where?" he asks. "Where do you want to kiss me?"

That had your eyes blinking shut as pressed your head back into his hand, because that had so not been what you meant, but now you couldn't picture anything else. And you could feel him there, pressed against your core, hardening even more at your reaction. Because he does know what you're thinking. There's no 'probably' anymore. You know he knows. Because he's a bastard.

And he's smirking down at you when you finally open your eyes again.

Suddenly unwilling to keep playing his game when he's got that damned smirk on his face, you straighten your shoulders and meet his gaze with confidence. "Take these cuffs off of me and I'll show you."

But he only clicks his tongue disapprovingly, head angled to the side. "That sounded like an order, Doll." He shifts slightly, pretending to make himself more comfortable in the position he's in, but you know his motions are completely intentional. There's nothing accidental about the delicious friction that appears against your clit only to disappear a fraction of a second later. "I didn't ask you to give any orders. I asked you tell me what you want."

Your eyes blink shut as you wiggle your hips against him, but his metal hand is on your hip only a second later, pinning you still. He clears his throat.

Your eyes fly open, irritation undoubtedly swimming in them. "Fine, you want me to tell you what I want? I want you to take these handcuffs off of me."

He dismisses the request with an easy roll of his shoulder. "After you tell me everything else you want."

And you're seething at this point, but he distracts you with another definitely-not-accidental-shifting, and you can't help the little moan that slips past your lips. "You promise?" you find yourself asking then. "You promise you'll uncuff me after I tell you everything I want?"

He looks up, seeming to take a moment to consider it – a gesture you can't decide if you like or not – but then he nods decisively. "I promise."

And those are possibly the two sweetest words in the English language, so you immediately set aside your pride and get to work calling to mind all of those things you'd been imagining in the past few minutes, the past two weeks. "I want to kiss you. I want to run my fingers through your hair, I want to feel your stubble against my cheek, and I want to scratch my nails down your back." He shifts again – this time maybe involuntarily, as you're now certain his pants must be absolutely killing him – and all you can do is bite your lip and throw back your head.

He seems to take your pause as a hesitation. "That's all very tame," he comments. "Surely—"

But you cut him off: "I wasn't done." Something flashes in his eyes, and he inclines his head just so in a clear gesture for you to continue. Although, now that you'd paused, it was suddenly much harder to get your nerve back up. The silence as he waited for your answer was maddening, but not quite as maddening as having your hands restrained as they were when his hair was starting to drape over his eyes. Screw it. Just rip it off like a band-aid, right? "I want your cock in my mouth, and then I want you inside of me."

He offers a lazy blink. "Is that all?" He draws the question out in a way that makes it clear he's somewhere between disappointed and extraordinarily amused. "Do you maybe want my mouth on you? Biting you here?" A metal finger glides over one of your almost painfully hard nipples. "Or maybe you want me to kiss you here?" His voice drops at the word as he grinds into you, then. "Or perhaps you'd—"

But you cut him off once more, because what you don't want to do is just lie there and listen to him run suggestion by filthy suggestion when he should be making good on his promise to free your hands. "Maybe later," you tell him, voice surprisingly firm despite the desperation that is starting to rise in you, "but after."

He hums out once more in consideration, his expression settling into one of false contemplation. "How do you want me inside you, then?" he asks, voice still just as throaty as it was a moment ago. "Do you want me slow and sensual?" He punctuates the question with a painfully slow roll of his hips. "Or do you want me hard and fast?"

For a second, you're too focused on trying to squeeze your legs in a way that would get him to move again, but he's still got your hip pinned down and it's far too easy for him to hold his own position without budging. And God damn it, he's a bastard!

"Hmm?"

A moment passes before you can remember the question, and your voice is somewhat breathy when you finally reply. "Hard and fast."

His teeth are at your jaw again, and you're suddenly not sure when you'd turned your head and pinched your eyes shut, but it's helping you to focus on the sensations you can feel. Like the tickle of his breath just beneath your ear. "You want me to fuck you?" he rephrases, as if clarification could even possibly be necessary.

"I want you to make me fear that you might actually split me in two. That's what I fucking want."

"Oh, Doll…" If he were a cat, he would've been purring, but he still managed to capture the Cheshire grin as he pulls his head back and looks down at you. The hand that was in your hair shifts and he swipes his thumb affectionately over your cheek. His head dips, and he presses an incredibly chaste kiss to your lips before pulling back once again. "Do you want to know what I want?"

No. But it wasn't as if he was actually waiting for a response.

"I want you to watch as I do all of that and more with Stevie." And before you know it, he's managed to untangle himself from your legs and has rolled off of the bed, and he's standing now still grinning, and what the actual fuck just happened?!

"Bucky!" This time it does manage to come out as a reprimand, because he's sure as hell not making a move toward your still-restrained wrists. "James! You fucking promised!"

"I did," he drawls, "and I will. After."

And that's when you realize your mistake, because you'd only made him promise to uncuff you after you did as he asked. You didn't specify how soon after. But you'll be damned if you're going to let him get away with that, because he damn well knew what you meant when you asked him to promise. "James!" you snap again, temper rising as you watch him just stand there, undoubtedly just out of kicking range. Of course, that doesn't stop you from testing it out once, much to the obvious amusement of your bastard of a lover. "You get me out of these handcuffs right fucking now!"

He winces, almost apologetically, and gives his head a little shake, as if he's actually fucking sorry to be informing you that he won't be removing the handcuffs any time soon. "I think you should beg me to keep them on," he tells you.

And that only earns him a snort. "Go to hell."

But he's smiling that cruel little smile of his, and you immediately want to take back your outburst. "I think you should beg me to let you keep them," he repeats, "because I'm a hundred years old and my hearing ain't that good, and if the next words out of your mouth aren't 'Bucky, please keep me handcuffed to this bed!' then I'm gonna assume you just said Jersey."

You still at the word, because the reaction is just automatic at this point. Jersey – you've never hated the word more, that fucking ridiculous safeword both of your boys had been accustomed to long before you came around. Normally the idea of it amused you (when you weren't immediately freezing and releasing anyone you might've been holding at the time), but right now… Oh, you don't have words for how much you hate that word.

Bucky was threatening to bring everything to a full stop if you didn't beg to keep you cuffed. He'd release your hands, sure, but then he'd step back, and he wouldn't touch you or let you touch him. He'd stop, and all possibility of release would disappear, too, because he didn't mess around when it came to a safeword.

Which was great. When he wasn't leveraging it against you like he was right now.

And he was really leveraging it; you could tell by the expression he was wearing that he wasn't joking around. He was really going to treat a refusal as if you'd invoked Jersey.

For one crazy second, you wonder if you could possibly get out of the situation by actually saying Jersey, but that isn't how it works, and you know it. Jersey is a full on hit-the-breaks,-get-the-fuck-out-and-go-straight-home sort of word. It wasn't a do-a-u-turn-and-try-again word.

Which meant you were left with a shit choice, but that was how he wanted to play it, apparently. Go big or go home.

Huffing out a resigned sigh, you met his gaze with a heated glare. "I fucking hate you right now," you inform him, only to immediately curse your lack of foresight when he doesn't hesitate to jump towards your restraints. "No, no!" you shout out, tucking your wrists back against the headboard as if that would actually block his efforts to release your bindings. "Please, no! Bucky, please don't take the handcuffs off! Please keep me handcuffed to the bed! Please! Bucky, please leave me here and make me watch as you fuck Stevie. Please, Bucky, please!"

And for a second, you think he might still release the cuffs and call it quits, because he's still kneeling on the bed beside your right wrist, and there's a sadistic little glint in his eye that tells you he just might enjoy it even more to see your frustration at begging in vain.

But he drops down, flesh hand reaching to sweep up and down your left side once again, and you can't help but release the breath you didn't even know you'd been holding.

"Alright, Doll," he drawls, voice rough and accent thick again, "if that's what you want."

And this time you feel comfortable vocalizing that thought that's been running through your mind since you woke up: "You're a bastard."

His lips twitch into a wide smirk, and he gives you a quick pat before he's up and off of the bed once again. "Love you too, Sweetheart." And then he was moving to stand in front of the bed, pulling his shirt up and over his head as he sends a devilish look in your direction. "Steve?" he calls out, voice perhaps a bit louder than was necessary, what with the other super soldier's enhanced hearing. "Wanna come join us?"

Bucky's got his shoes kicked to the side and shirt tossed to the floor before Steve appears in the doorway, a spoon hanging from his mouth and a cup of yogurt in the hand he doesn't have on the door.

It only takes three seconds before the spoon is suddenly falling and Steve's struggling to catch it.

"Jesus Christ, Buck!" he nearly shouts, eyes wide as he glances between you and the other man in the room. He's got the yogurt and the spoon discarded on the dresser before he can drop either of them again.

And Bucky is grinning roguishly, again, as his gaze zeroes in on the obviously-flustered Captain America. But to your disappointment – because, really, there's nothing funnier than teasing Steve about how easy it still is to make him blush – Bucky doesn't torment the man. Instead, he simply gestures for him to come closer and then pulls him back against his chest, spinning so that the both of them are facing you, Bucky watching from over Steve's shoulder.

"Isn't she beautiful, Stevie?" he asks, voice in the other man's ear but his eyes locked on yours. Or, it was, because he takes a moment to trail it down your body before he speaks again. "Isn't she absolutely fuckin' gorgeous, lyin' there, all tied up and on display?"

And Steve can't manage an answer, but that doesn't mean that you can't. Locking gazes with the darker-haired soldier, you clench your jaw. "Fuck you, Barnes." There's no actual malice in your words, but that doesn't stop Steve's eyes from snapping up to meet yours.

Concern replaces the awe and lust that was in his expression before, because Steve's nothing if not a gentleman. A polyamorous, kinky fucker of a gentleman who somehow still blushes whenever someone says something even remotely dirty.

"Are the handcuffs really necessary?" he asks, then, because he knows exactly how much you hate them.

The bastard pretends to consider it. "That depends, Stevie. Did you use them on her while I was gone?"

And you're not the only one who can already see where this is going. Steve blinks shut his eyes. "No."

Bucky gave a tsk of disapproval at the answer, before craning his neck toward the blonde's head and giving him a smack on the backside when he sees the man's eyes are closed.

Steve opens them immediately.

"And how many times did you pin her to a wall?"

You can tell he's fighting the urge to blink his eyes shut again, but he keeps his gaze level on you as he offers up a reluctant answer: "I didn't."

"To the bed, then?" Bucky prompts, before making a face and trying to appear helpful. "Or the floor. Any surface, really."

A flex of his jaw, and Steve repeats himself. "I didn't."

Another tsk, and Bucky pulls back his head as if he's surprised. But he isn't. He's not fooling anyone. "Did you at least ask her to restrain herself?"

"No."

"Then did you give her any fuckin' orders? Even just one?"

Captain America only shakes his head stiffly. "No."

There's cruel satisfaction in Bucky's expression, then, as he leans in closer to the other man's ear, his gaze locked on the other man's profile. His voice is taunting as he finishes the interrogation by asking, "And how many times did you let her top you?"

Steve's eyes blink shut again, and you almost feel bad when you hear the smack of the correction that follows. Almost. You'd've maybe felt bad if you weren't currently cuffed to the bed.

"I don't know, Buck," comes his answer after a moment's consideration. "Nine?"

Bucky thinks the number's too low, because apparently he assumes that while he's away, everyone sits on their asses all day and no one else goes on missions; you can see the suspicion in his eyes when he glances your way in a clear request for confirmation. The number's close enough to true, but it's not going to do you any good to answer with a lie, so you roll a shoulder as best as is possible and offer him a wry smile. "And a half."

His lips twist in a way that makes it clear he fully understands your implication and is actually somewhat pleased with your smug little correction, but you can tell he's trying to hide the reaction. He huffs out an exasperated sigh, turning his attention back to the man in his arms. "Then yeah, the cuffs are really necessary."

"Bucky—"

But it's apparently no longer Steve's turn to complain. "I mean, fuck, Steve!" the dark-haired man interrupted, blowing out yet another long-suffering sigh. "You know what all that power does to her. We've talked about this. You know that if you let her boss you around that much, she starts to get greedy." A glance in your direction, and there's a smirk spreading over his lips. "See her glaring over there? That's because even she knows it's true."

No. False. Blatantly untrue.

That's not why you're glaring; you're glaring at him because there's literally no way in hell that you're the greedy one in the relationship. Bucky's the one who ties up whomever he wants whenever he wants. He's the one who wants to be able to boss both you and Steve around. Yeah, you're definitely not he greedy one.

But you wouldn't have it any other way, and that's why you just shake your head and snort out a laugh rather than actually correct him. Both of your boys know the truth – that's why Bucky's smirking the way he is, and that's why Steve's exchanging the look he is with you. They know.

Still, because you're not just going to stay completely silent, you end that shake of your head with a roll of your eyes and a quick "fuck you."

He, of course, only winks as he lets his smirk widen. "You're gonna have to wait, Doll."

That has your amusement dying away and your irritation resurfacing, because the teasing almost made you forget that you are still restrained to the bed, forced to wait until who-knows-when, when Bucky would finally decide he'd been cruel enough and would finally give in to his urge to touch you.

You're not the only one whose temporary amusement died away. "Buck…" Steve tries again. "You don't have to keep her cuffed. Let her join us, please."

The darker-haired man presses his cheek to the lighter's shoulder as he looks up at the man's profile again. "You wanna touch her, Stevie?"

And those blue eyes that are fixed on you suddenly darken – you can see it from across the room. "Always." And normally, that reply might be more 'sweet' than 'sexy', but not right now. There's nothing sweet in Steve's expression.

Bucky only hummed, before the hands that had been wrapped around Steve's torso slip lower. His fingers curl around the bottom of the cotton shirt, and it's only a second later before the grey tee is pulled up and the discarded onto the floor. And then Steve's eyes are starting to droop shut again, because Bucky's mouth is on his neck and his fingers are expertly unbuckling Steve's belt. He's completely naked only a few seconds later.

And what reason could you possibly have to not trail your gaze lower?

Bucky's eyes are on you when your gaze makes its way higher again, but his mouth is still on Steve's neck. He pulls away after a moment, still looking at you, but it's obvious he's still speaking to Steve as he says, "Well you're gonna have to wait, too, Pal."

And then Bucky's hands are on Steve and the poor man can't do anything more than let his breath audibly hitch. There's a small smile on his lips a moment later as he leans back against the man still standing behind him. "You're such a jerk," he says, the surrender clear in his voice. He sends you a look that you're sure is meant to be apologetic, but there's nothing actually sorry in that blissful expression of his.

You can't really blame him. A shrug to dismiss the look, and you offer a correction: "He's a bastard."

And Steve does a very non-Steve thing, and he actually nods his head at the suggestion. Or maybe he's nodding his head because there's nothing else he can do as Bucky is pumping him with slow, strong strokes. Still, he amends his statement, even though it comes out more as a moan than anything else: "You are. You're such a bastard."

"Oh-ho!" There's a hand in Steve's hair, then, and suddenly the blonde man's head is jerked roughly to the side so that the two men are face to face. "What was that, Punk?"

And it's the look in Steve eyes that lets you know his answer is going to be sassy before he even opens his mouth. There's a glint in his eye, and from the way Bucky's lips are twitching and his eyes starting to crease, it seems you're not the only one to notice. Neither of you seem surprised when Steve's answer finally comes: "Having trouble hearing, Old Man?"

Bucky's got his mouth on Steve's then, the kiss hard and demanding and by the time Bucky pulls back, you're not sure how, but somehow you're just as out of breath as the both of them. "You know," he starts to say, before pulling the other man in for another rough but quick open-mouthed kiss, "I think I like you better when your mouth is full."

Someone lets out a rush of air that sounds suspiciously like a moan, and it's not until you register the wicked smirk on Bucky's lips that you realize the noise came from you. And Bucky's watching you like a hawk, now, so there's no way he misses the flush that spreads over you in embarrassment, but as much as you want to duck your head and turn away, you can't keep your eyes off of your boys.

Steve's already turned his body toward Bucky's at this point, but there's still a hand in his hair as he presses open-mouthed kisses to the other man's neck. Bucky rolls his head to the side, humming out a noise of satisfaction as he guides Steve's head lower, all the while keeping his attention fixed on you.

And you swear, one of these days, that fucking smirk of his is going to be the death of you.

And that day might very well be today, because if any sort of threat were to appear right now – if a HYDRA agent decided to make a move on any of you at this particular moment in time – there was no chance in hell that you'd see an attack coming. Forget worrying about being handcuffed to the bed; the door could be kicked open and HYDRA could throw a fucking rave in your bedroom, and you probably wouldn't be able to tear your eyes away from your soldiers… especially not when Bucky's forcing Steve lower and lower until Steve's finally kneeling on the ground, mouth brushing down over the other man's abs.

And you're not sure why on earth Bucky's still in those black cargo pants of his, but they're on the ground soon enough, and a moment later, Bucky's back is against the wall and that damned smirk is finally wiped off his face because he can't contain his expression as Steve finally gets his mouth around him.

You still can't look away as Steve bobs his head, as Bucky's metal hand joins his flesh hand and his fingers tighten in the blonde's hair, as Steve's grip on Bucky's hips tightens, as Bucky throws back his head against the wall, lips parted in a silent moan and eyes half lidded but still focused right on you.

It's quite the sight to behold, and you're temporarily too captivated to do anything but watch with rapt attention, but then Bucky wrenches Steve off of him, hands roughly tugging the man's hair until his head is back and there's a filthy, wet plop. "Stop," Bucky directs, although the command comes entirely too late, since he's already ensured that the blonde isn't doing anything but kneeling there and looking up at him expectantly, head still pulled at that painful-looking angle.

Steve doesn't complain.

Still, after a moment of panting, Bucky releases the grip on Steve's hair, his metal hand lifting to run through his own hair for a second. "Sorry, Stevie," he says, then, his flesh hand moving and doing something you can't see because of the angle, but you're pretty sure he's brushing his fingers over Steve's cheek or something, "as much as I love your mouth, our girl over there begged me to let her watch me fuck you." That fucking smirk is back, just as his voice drops into that commanding tone that always sends a shiver down your spine. "Bed. I want you turned around and bent over it now."

Steve quickly complies, and the new position has him lying on his stomach with his elbows propping him up and his gaze looking straight up at you, and there's something about the movement that has you remembering that oh yeah, there was an actual reason for you to be pissed about the handcuffs, because watching your boys was arousing as hell, sure, but being this close and not being allowed to join or even touch? That's torture.

"Bucky," you try again, not even attempting to hide the hint of desperation from your voice as you tear your gaze away from Steve and look over at the man currently rifling through the drawer of the nightstand. He sends a look your way in response, and his expression has your heart constricting a bit, because you know that expression, and it's full of so much cruel satisfaction that you know that no amount of pleading is going to get you anywhere. Your mouth snaps shut, because you're almost tempted to beg him anyway, even though you know it won't do any good.

His gaze flickers over your face before his lips twist into a grin that is now undeniably wolfish, because he clearly has you beat, and he clearly knows you know he has you beat. "Yes, Doll?"

It takes all of your self-control not to crumble into a pleading mess right then and there, but that doesn't mean you can keep everything back. "Please," you implore, hoping beyond all hope that maybe, just maybe the simple request will get to him, and for a second, you think that maybe it has.

He kneels on the side of the bed, looking down at you as he ever-so-slowly reaches over and trails his fingers down your side again, up and over your stomach, and you spread your legs wide instinctively, but his fingers come to a halt just a couple of inches below your navel. "Beg me."

"Bucky, please, I—" And he's being cruel because you know he's just going to let you beg and then still walk away from you, because that's exactly the type of bastard he is, but it's hard to beat back the hope that springs in your chest, and—oh. "Beg you to do what?"

And that roguish grin of his widens even more. "Oh, good girl," he praises, moving his fingers another inch lower. It takes everything in you not to buck your hips up at him, but you've just pleased him and you figure that maybe if you can hold it together just a minute longer and please him again, he might actually take the cuffs off after all, or at least offer you some sort of release. "What do you want me to do, Doll? I want to hear you beg me for that."

And that's far fairer than you'd been expecting, so you're quick to comply: "Please fuck me, Bucky! I need to feel you inside of me; I've never needed anything more! I'll do anything; I just need you inside of me right now! Please, Bucky… please fuck me!"

His fingers dip an inch lower, and for a second you can't hear anything over the sound of your heartbeat and your breathing—heavy from the effort it was taking to keep your body still as you wait, as patiently as possible for Bucky to just move so that you could—

But he's not moving, and you blink your eyes open again the second you realize that he must still be waiting for something. A glance in his direction reveals he's no longer looking at you, however, because apparently Steve must've said or done something to draw your lover's attention away from you and back to him.

"You hear that, Stevie?" And it's so incredibly unfair that you did exactly as Bucky requested and yet he's standing there talking to Steve, but you manage to bite back the curse that you want to shout. He's still got his hand on you, and you don't want that to change. "Our girl says she'll do anything. See, she knows how to sing, Stevie; you just gotta know how to ask."

And that sounds a lot like praise, so you can't help but close your eyes and whimper in relief when he finally moves his fingers again, but they only move a centimeter before they up and disappear, just as the bed dips slightly before bouncing up again. He's off the bed before you can do more than cry out in frustration.

"And you gotta know how to be patient, Stevie. You can't give her what she wants until she stops demanding it."

And it's got to be the tension in your muscles or how incredibly frustrated you were, but your temper gets the better of you in that moment. "I wasn't fucking demanding anything, I was begging, you jackass!" you snap, only to regret the outburst a second later, because that stupid fucking smirk is back again.

He's standing behind Steve, cock looking painfully erect as he somewhat lazily rolls on the rubber he'd evidently retrieved from the nightstand. "What do you think?"

The question's not aimed at you, and so your gaze snaps immediately down to meet Steve's, but his blue eyes are focused a bit lower, because apparently you've been giving him quite the sight the way you've been lying there, legs spread wide. The attention brings a rush of heat, and you can't help but pinch your thighs together then, trying desperately to rub them together in a way that will give you any amount of friction.

His gaze flickers back up to yours, and your stomach clenches immediately, because he's not looking at you the way Sweet, Ask-For-The-World-And-I'll-Give-It-To-You-In-A-Heartbeat Stevie looks at you. He's not even looking at you the way Sassy Steve looks at you.

Shit.

"I don't know, Buck," he replies in his own take on a lazy drawl. "Doesn't sound much like singing to me."

And Bucky's grin literally could not be wider as he snaps the lid closed on the bottle of lube and tosses it aside. He claps his metal hand on Steve's shoulder in an approving way, his flesh hand already moving to work him open. "We can fix that."

And you're not sure how they can both be looking at you with that much confidence and self-control considering the positions they're in, but self-control is overrated and it can go to hell. "Guys, come on," you plead, before letting out a noise that sounded a hell of a lot like a frustrated whine.

Bucky barely spares you a glance, but his lips twitch in a way that makes it clear he heard you loud and clear. And Steve probably heard you too, but the noise he makes is certainly in response to Bucky and not to you.

"That's it, Stevie," your dark-haired tormentor coaxes, before that metal hand of his forces the blonde man's shoulder down into the bed. He's at an angle, but his face is tucked down into his own shoulder. "Let her hear you." A jerk of a metal hand, and Steve's face is suddenly pulled back at an angle that lets you see the half of his face that isn't pressed into the mattress. "Let her see you."

And that's all the instruction he's apparently giving, because all of a sudden, Bucky's flesh hand – fingers still glistening a bit with the leftover lube – is on Steve's hip and with a sharp thrust, he's up to the hilt inside of him.

The noise Steve makes has you whining again, your thighs once again rubbing uselessly together. And then Bucky's hissing out, and skin is slapping together, and Steve is half biting back moans, and the damned springs on the bed are protesting, and the entire fucking bed is moving with the force of Bucky's thrust, and your eyes are pinched shut and you still are caught somewhere between overwhelmed and underwhelmed all at once.

And God damn it, how is it possible to be so painfully turned on when you haven't even been touched?

"Buck—" It's not you pleading, this time, and the sound of Steve's pleas only has you squirming even more uncomfortably.

For a second, you struggle with your restraints, as if there's even the slightest chance in hell that Bucky hadn't properly secured them, but all that earns you is a sharp pain that never had a chance to be pleasurable. Still, the sounds around you are practically enough to drown in, and you're pretty sure the next high-pitched moan is yours.

"Don't hurt yourself, Doll." Bucky's voice is husky and breathy all at once, and it has you whining again as you try once more in vain to find a release on the cuffs.

The sound of a sharp slap has you snapping your head up, your focus immediately zeroing in on the way Steve's wincing as his torso is shoved back down to the bed, and you're not entirely sure what you missed, but after a few seconds of observation, you piece together enough to figure Steve must've tried to move from the position Bucky has him in. And that must've been a sight to see, because Steve's usually the picture of perfect obedience, able to hold perfectly still in absolute silence if you asked him to nicely enough. Or, you know, if you did the exact opposite of that.

Of course, no one had asked Steve to be silent this time around, though, and so he doesn't hold back when Bucky slams into him with a particularly sharp thrust, and it's that sound paired with the sound of Bucky's heavy panting and the sound of skin on skin that has you writhing once again, another whimper slipping out of your lips.

"Steve, Bucky, please!" you entreat. "Please, please…" And you're not even sure what you're begging for anymore, but the word is like a prayer on your lips as you repeat it over and over, your voice rising a bit in pitch as your desperation grows.

And one of your boys hums out a noise of satisfaction, but neither of them answers your prayers.

By sheer luck, you happen to kick out your legs in a way that bunches up the comforter, and inspiration is suddenly mixing with desperation in your mind as you twist your legs to the side and tug the thing closer, straining against your restraints this time for a very different reason. And you've got the blanket bunched and pressed between your legs just so after only a couple tries, and finally, finally, there's some amount of friction as you rub your legs together.

"Stevie—!"

It's a warning and a command, and the comforter's torn away before you can even blink, and the loss is sudden and overwhelming and you can't help but cry out in sheer frustration, actual tears in your eyes as you throw your head back against the pillow, and you figure you could probably get the both of them kicked out of the Avengers for pulling this shit, because there's no way this doesn't qualify as a violation of at least four UN treaties or conventions, but that wouldn't do you any fucking good right now.

"Bucky—!" But Steve's cry gets cut off by another harsh smack, and for a second, the only other sound you can hear is heavy breathing and a somewhat distressed noise that's somehow miraculously not coming from you.

"Don't even think about it!" Bucky growls, and it isn't hard to piece together what just happened, and you know on some level that you should probably take some amount of comfort in the fact that it looks like you aren't the only one being denied release, but it's a little bit hard to take comfort in just about anything right now.

Because Jesus fucking Christ, how are you not spontaneously combusting right now?

"Bucky!" This time it's you again, pleading for just about anything as you pant and twist. "James, Stevie, please! I can't—" And shit, you don't even know what you can't do. Wait? Breathe? Anything? Another cry of frustration. "Please! Please, please, please…" And you can't help but chant the word over and over again, because it's just about the only thing your mind can process right now.

…Aside from the grunts and moans and slapping skin and mattress squeaks that were tormenting you, of course.

For a moment, you almost wish you could pass out from desire, because you don't know how much longer you're going to make it and – besides! – you can pass out from pain, right? Because this was definitely a special kind of torturous pain.

But then Bucky's making a noise you're intimately familiar with, and when your gaze manages to finally focus again, you see him collapsed over Steve, metal arm wrapped around the blonde's waist as he presses a sloppy kiss to his back.

Another high-pitched noise from you and both men glance up at you again, taking a mercifully short moment to absorb the sight before Bucky's discarding the condom and crouching to the ground to rummage through his pockets, and Steve's standing up and looking between you and Bucky with what just might be the hardest erection you've ever seen.

"Buck…?"

"Yes, Stevie," the dark-haired man answers from where he's kneeling on the ground. "I'm going to let you touch her, now. Well... in a minute."

And somehow knowing the teasing is almost at its end is both incredibly relieving and also infinitely more torturous, because those next few seconds before he finds the key to the cuffs drag on longer than any hours ever have before.

"Hold onto the bars," he directs, and you comply without hesitation. He's kneeling beside you on the bed only a moment later, key still in his hands as he dips his head and presses a chaste kiss to your forehead. "What do you want, Doll?"

Your answer is instantaneous and thoughtless: "Anything. Whatever you want, Bucky—Steve. Anything at all."

A hum of approval, and his lips are on yours, dominating but surprisingly gentle. "There's a good girl," he murmured, before finally pulling away and reaching for your restraints. "Hear that, Stevie? Anything you want." A clink, and suddenly the pressure on your right wrist is gone, but you don't dare pull it away from the headboard. A second later, and your left is freed as well, but you remain carefully still, body practically quivering as you look expectantly up at Bucky.

Except he's looking to Steve, now, and after an almost imperceptible nod of his head, Bucky's rolling to the side of the bed and it's suddenly Steve you're focused in on, waiting for any direction at all.

"You can let go of the headboard."

You release the bars in a second, but the disapproving groan that sounds only a half a second later has your fingers twitching to wrap around the bars again.

"Steve—" Bucky starts to complain, but he's interrupted before he can get very far.

"Roll over, Sweetheart." And he's saying it gently, but it's still a command, so you're on your stomach before you can even blink, and then you're just as quickly popping up onto your elbows and knees when Steve's hands guide you up.

On of his hands trails affectionately up your back and then back down toward your hip. You do your best to avoid wiggling backwards, where you know his member is standing at attention.

"Your hands stay on your head." There's no or else. He doesn't need a threat, and he clearly knows it.

And there's a moment where you're just kneeling there, fists in your hair, and you're not sure if you're supposed to respond to his order, or maybe he just wants you to wait there in silence… but you figure it's safer to wait. …Unless it isn't, and he's actually not going to touch you until you speak, in which case you needed to say something yesterday or you actually are going to explode into a ball of fire.

You have your mouth open to speak, but he doesn't give you the chance, because in a second he slams into you, filling you completely without any preamble, but the stretch is everything you've been waiting for and you can't help but cry out at the feeling.

You think maybe you hear Bucky's voice, but it sounds far away and, besides, you're not currently capable of registering anything beyond what you're feeling. Which is currently everything, because all that cruel neglect from earlier has left your skin feeling hyper-sensitive.

You let out a moan just at the feeling of Steve's fingers brushing over your hips, before he's roughly holding you steady and then tugging you back into him as he pulls out and then immediately slams home again. You don't even try to bite back the cry that escapes you once again.

He finds a rhythm, but you hardly notice it, because there's pressure building and Steve knows just how to angle everything and it's a ridiculously short four thrusts later and you're already seeing stars. Your orgasm rocks through you so strongly and so suddenly that your entire body is shaking and thank god for Steve's grip on your hips, because you're pretty damn certain you'd be a useless puddle without his support.

And then the feeling fades, but Steve's still slamming into you just so, and so rather than finding yourself in a state of blissful contentment, you're once again right back on that train.

His thrusts have you crying out again, but this time your voice is quieter, more muffled by the pillow you somehow managed to shove your face into without suffocating. And there's no way you'd be able to manage words at this point in time, so it's good that Steve doesn't ask you to talk, but that comes as no surprise; Bucky's the verbal one out of the three of you – he's the one most likely to talk or to demand one of you talk. Steve's more likely to be talking when it's slow and sweet, and he's whispering sweet nothings into your ear as he makes love to you… And this? This is not that.

This is more than that, because you hadn't realized it at first, but this was what you'd needed, to give in so completely that you weren't even pretending to struggle for dominance. And Jesus Christ, why hadn't you let Steve take control when Bucky had been gone?

"There you go, Doll," Bucky says, then, as if he's privy to your thoughts and knows exactly what you'd been thinking. The cool of his metal fingers appears on the back of your neck, and then he's gently massaging the muscles that you're finally relaxing, even as Steve's still pounding into you.

You're not fucking telling the bastard he was right to cuff you.

But you're also not denying that his fingers feel good, and you can't help the contented rumble that escapes you as he rubs away at a knot you have in your shoulder. You also can't help but lean into his touch, another moan slipping out of your mouth just as that familiar sensation starts to build up and up and up and—

And fuck! Because Steve's grip on your hips has tightened, and he's suddenly stopped moving, holding you completely still as his cock twitches and spurts inside of you, but he shifts one of his hands the second he hears your little cry of complaint, and with a few practiced circles he's got you right back up at the edge of that cliff again. And then you're in free fall, crying out Steve's name as your muscles tense and release again and again, but the feelings that much more satisfying with the underlying tension gone from your body. And he keeps his fingers going for a few more seconds to help you ride out the wave, but then the feeling fades and this time you are left with that wonderful feeling of supreme satisfaction.

You're so content, in fact, that you don't immediately register the fact that Steve's pulled out or that you're somehow on your back again, but you do immediately register the jolt of discomfort when something so incredibly warm brushes over that sensitive little bundle of nerves.

Your eyes open to find Bucky's face between your legs, his eyes glinting with mischief as you squirm uncomfortably.

"Buck, wait, I can't—" you start to say, one of your hands reaching down to try and push him away because God damn it, you're more than a little bit too sensitive right now, but he just hikes your knees up over his shoulders and latches himself firmly in place, and you're not sure what he's doing with his tongue but it feels dangerously good—dangerous only because it has you dropping your protest almost immediately, even though you're still overly sensitive and the pleasure is still mixed with some discomfort, but it's fading fast. "Bucky—!"

But Steve's lips are on yours, then, and he swallows your cries hungrily, his nose brushing against your cheek because of the somewhat awkward angle. And you're moaning into his mouth as one hand pulls his head closer, the other drifting lower to dig into Bucky's scalp.

There's a hum of approval that sends you almost over the edge again from the vibrations alone, but it takes another few moments and then you're coming undone yet again, crying into Steve's mouth and muscles aching as the contractions rip through them one more time.

And Bucky's a persistent bastard, you realize, because you're once again uncomfortably sensitive and he's still right there, and it takes you pushing Steve back and tugging on the dark hair in your right fist to get the man to finally pull back his head.

And you were wrong because it's definitely that smirk that's going to be the death of you—that self-satisfied, impish little smirk he's wearing as he's looking up at you, mouth and chin covered in an obscene mixture of Steve's cum and your juices.

And you're not sure what it is about that image that possesses you to say what has to be the least sexy phrase that was running through your mind at that moment, but you're blurting it out before you can think of something better: "I missed you."

His grin widens. "I missed you too, Doll," he tells you as he gives you an affectionate pat on the outer thigh, "but I'm nowhere near done with you yet. Nine and a half, you said? Get your ass over here, Stevie."

And oh, yeah, he'll be the death of you, alright. But what a way to go!