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Your fingers slip between the sheets on either side of your still-waking-up body. Cool material greets your fingers—empty spaces.
Searching for the warmth that should be there, the solid weight of Steve, the early stirrings of Bucky, but they are both gone. Not just out of reach. Gone.
You blink slowly into the morning light pouring through the window, the room still firm and heavy with sleep. Dust floats lazily in the golden rays, and somewhere downstairs, the floor creaks faintly. But no voices or footsteps.
Just the soft shift of the sheets as you sit up.
Dodger lifts his head at the foot of the bed, ears twitching before his heavy tail gives two slow thumps against the mattress. His sleepy eyes track your movement as you push the comforter off your legs and swing your feet over the edge.
“Morning, handsome boy,” you whisper, voice barely more than a breath so early in the morning.
You scratch gently behind his ears, fingers stroking the thick fur at his neck. He sighs, content, and rests his heavy chin back down on his paws.
You pad down the hall barefoot, skin pricking at the subtle chill in the air. The house was obscenely quiet, too quiet. You’re used to hearing at least one of them. Steve hums under his breath as he trims his beard. Bucky is talking to Dodger in that low, affectionate tone that only comes out before 9 a.m. Jazz from the kitchen speaker. The soft clink of dishes.
But today, it’s just silence. You find Sam, your ever-faithful friend and bodyguard, in the kitchen, leaning against the counter in joggers and a fitted black shirt, cradling a chipped mug in his hand, the one he claimed was his mug and no one else's. The smell of burnt coffee reaches you before you say a word.
His eyes lift the moment you appear, having been tracking your soft steps on the landing above. He gives you a warm smile, but it's not quite right.
“Hey, Boss Lasy,” he says, gently. “You sleep okay?”
You nod, your hand coming up automatically to fidget with your opposite thumb. You pick lightly at the skin there, not enough to break it, just enough to ground yourself.
“Where are they?” you ask, voice small.
“Meeting came up. Steve got a call just after five. East docks. They left about an hour ago.”
You nod again, slowly this time. Something in your chest tightens, a familiar little ache you’ve come to recognise: the not knowing. The not being told. You try not to let it show.
“Did they eat?” you ask, stepping around him towards the fridge.
“I don’t think so,” Sam says, watching you. “Steve was glued to his phone. Bucky looked like he was ready to murder someone. Same old, really.”
You don’t respond to your friend. You’re already pulling out eggs, butter, cream, and bacon. Your hands move automatically, stirring, whisking, and heating the skillet. It feels better to be doing something. Anything but letting yourself spiral.
Dodger lies down near your feet in silent support. Sam lingers for a while, sipping his coffee, but eventually excuses himself. “I’ll be outside if you need me, and we’ve got eyes on the house, don’t worry.”
He pauses before leaving, “They’ll be back soon, sweetheart.”
You smile, but it’s halfhearted. You know Sam means well, but still, it feels like a lie.
The rest of the day drags as you wander from room to room, picking things up, putting them back down and folding laundry that was already folded. Checking your phone, though no one’s texted. The silence settles over you like a second skin, itchy and cold and hard to shake.
You try to keep busy. You answered a few messages from Natasha. She says she’s with Steve and Bucky and that everything is “fine”. But she never says when they’ll be home.
You end up sitting on the couch with Dodger’s big head in your lap, your thumb rubbing small circles into his fur as you fidget with the other hand. Sometimes it’s the hem of your sleeve, sometimes the collar of Steve’s old hoodie that you’d thrown on this morning. Your fingers won’t stay still.
By the time the front door finally creeps open, it’s nearly dark. You’re curled in the same spot, legs tucked under yourself, a cold cup of tea forgotten on the coffee table. The second you hear Bucky’s voice, low and tense, your head lifts.
He doesn’t come into the living room. Neither does Steve.
They’re talking in sharp murmurs, too quiet for you to hear. Natasha’s voice joins in, crisp and flat, before fading away. Then the door closes again. Someone must’ve left. You stay on the couch, just simply waiting.
Eventually, Steve appears in the doorway. His hair is a mess, his tie loosened, and his sleeves rolled up. His eyes land on you, and he softens a little.
“Hey, baby,” he says, stepping into the room.
You sit up straighter. “Hi.”
He walks over and kisses the top of your head, gently and briefly. Not the usual kind that lingers. “Sorry, it got late. Did you eat?”
“I made breakfast,” you say.
He blinks, caught off guard. “Shit. I didn’t even check my phone.” His palm rests on your shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
You shake your head. “It’s okay.” But it’s not. You don’t say anything else. Just sit there while he disappears again. Bucky comes in a little while later. He doesn’t even sit down, just crouches in front of you, brushes your hair back from your face.
“You good, Doll?” he asks, eyes flicking between yours.
You nod. “Mhm.”
“You sure?”
“Just tired,” you respond quietly.
He kisses your temple, then pulls back. “Gotta make some calls. I’ll be back in a bit.” You try not to show the sting when he walks away.
That night, you lie between them in bed, staring at the ceiling. Steve is on his back, already half-asleep. Bucky’s curled toward the edge, his back to you. Neither of them notices how still you are. How your hand keeps twitching at your side, fingers rubbing your thumb raw.
Dodger is in his bed on the floor, softly snoring. You turn onto your side and stare at the back of Steve’s shoulder.
You want to say something, anything, but the words feel too big, too heavy, too much. So instead, you stay silent. And in the dark, your hand keeps moving.
Fidget, fidget, fidget. If you keep touching something, someone might remember to touch you back.
The next day, you wake up earlier than the day before, like your mind couldn’t quiet settle into a long, blissful sleep.
You’re still in the same position you fell asleep in, curled on your side, blanket tucked around your legs, face pressed to the pillow Steve had vacated hours before. The space beside you is empty again, and so is the air.
Dodger lifts his head when you swing your legs out of bed. You give him a soft smile and scratch behind his ear. He yawns and lumbers after you as you shuffle down the hallway, up the stairs and into the kitchen.
You make breakfast again. It keeps your hands busy, gives you something to focus on when your thoughts start to swirl. Eggs, toast, and fruit this time. You don't know what they're in the mood for, or if they’ll even be here to eat it.
They’re not.
By the time the food is done, the kitchen is still empty. You set a plate aside for Sam, who shows up fifteen minutes later, gun on his hip and eyes already scanning the house like he’s looking for exits. His smile when he sees you is genuine this time, but he is distracted.
“They’re at the office,” he says, grabbing toast. “Shit’s heating up.”
You tilt your head. “Heating up how?”
He freezes for a second, caught off guard. “They didn’t tell you?”
You shake your head slowly, ignoring the heaviness settling in your chest. Sam exhales through his nose, tension flaring behind his eyes. “It’s not my place, but there’s a sit-down. Some out-of-town people are coming in. They're real volatile types. Steve thinks one of them’s been talking to the feds.”
Your blood runs cold. “Like, undercover?” you whisper.
“Not just that. It’s bigger. Federal surveillance, threats. If this goes sideways, everyone in that meeting is a target.”
You grip the edge of the counter. “They shouldn’t be going,” you say softly, scared that if you used any real emotion, the panic would truly set in.
Sam shrugs. “They're the ones running it. Can’t back out now.”
You nod once, even though your stomach has turned to stone. Sam doesn’t say anything else. Just squeezes your shoulder, eats his toast, and leaves you alone again in the too-quiet kitchen.
The day drags. Again. You try to distract yourself with a mundane task. Folding towels twice just to steady your hands. You feed Dodger and take him into the garden, sitting with him under the tree whilst he sniffs around the flowerbeds.
You check your phone at least a dozen times. Nothing.
No messages from Steve. No missed calls from Bucky. Not even a group chat update. Natasha hasn’t reached out either. Your hands start fidgeting again, fingers twitching the sleeve of your shirt until the threads unravel. You try not to spiral. You really do.
But the image of them in that meeting won't leave your mind. What if someone pulls a gun? What if the feds sort the place? What if Steve tries to talk to someone down and it backfires? What if Bucky put himself between Steve and a bullet like he always does?
What if they both-
You don’t finish the thought.
You go up to their room instead, curl up on the bed, and tug Steve’s hoodie over your head. It’s too big. It seems like cedar and cologne and him. You bury your face in the sleeve, trying to anchor yourself to it.
The ticking of the clock on the wall feels too loud. Your breath feels too shallow.
You don’t realise how much time passes. Maybe hours. Maybe more.
You zone out completely, drifting and floating. Not quiet here, not quite gone.
Your limbs feel soft. The world sounds far away. You don’t even hear Dodger hop onto the bed next to you, his big body curling around your legs. Everything starts to feel quieter. And in that quiet, a familiar numbness creeps in.
That night, Seve comes home first.
You hear the front door creak open, the subtle thud of his boots on the floor. You’d moved at some point to the couch, curled up in your hoodie, hands tucked into the sleeves, your gaze hazy and unfocused on the blank TV screen.
He walks past the living room without looking in. He doesn’t hear you breathing softly, like he usually would pick up on.
You don't say anything, don't trust your voice to sound normal right now. You're not even sure you could make it loud enough.
Bucky follows behind him, jacket half unzipped, knuckles bruised. His eyes sweep the hallway but never land on you. They're muttering something to Natasha, she's walking beside them, her voice clipped. She mentions something about “too many eyes” and “changing the location for next week.”
You press your hands tighter into your sleeves. They're still planning another meeting. Another risk, more dangerous. You don't even ask them how it went, already knowing the answer.
That night, they’re with you in bed, but it feels like they're a thousand miles away. You like to be there in Selene, curled up small in the middle of the bed, waiting for them to reach out, to ask how you’re feeling, to notice how glazed your eyes have gone or how quiet your voice has become.
But they’re tired, stressed and focused on tomorrow. Steve's eyes are closed within minutes, his breathing slow and deep. Bucky's phone is still in his hand when he falls asleep, screen glowing softly in the dark.
You don't cry, you don't speak. You just lie still, your hands curled into the sleeves of Steve’s hoodie, your knees drawn tight to your chest.
And quietly, slowly, gently… You slip.
Your thoughts grow fuzzier, your lips go heavier. You left the silence to cover you like a weighted blanket, warm and distant, floating just about on the edge of real life.
You don’t want to be a problem. You don't want to interrupt, so you drift.
And no one notices.
You wake up already floating.
You don’t remember falling asleep. You’re still wearing Steve’s hoodie. You think you brushed your teeth. You think you ate yesterday, or maybe the day before.
Everything is foggy. But it's warm inside the fog. Soft, quiet and safe. Your fingers twitch inside your sleeves. You rub your thumb against your knuckles, the way you always do when you're trying to hold onto something, but there’s nothing to hold onto now. Nothing but the haze, the softness, the weightless way the world feels around you.
You don’t panic. There’s no room for panic here.
You’re too deep for that.
No one had decided to tell you the meeting is cancelled. The out-of-town guests got caught on surveillance. That Steve, Bucky, Natasha, and the trio top circle spent the morning locked in strategy, rescheduling everything.
No one remembers to tell you.
And so, hours later, you dress quietly, buttoning up the soft, cream-coloured blouse Steve likes. Pull on the tailored pants Bucky picked out for you last month. Slip your shoes on slowly, fingers trembling just a little as you tie the laces. You forgot to eat. You forgot to drink. You barely remember to bring your phone.
Dodger whines softly as you pick up your keys. He noses at your hand, sensing something’s wrong. You press your face to his head, breathing in the smell of warm fur and comfort. “Be good,” you whisper, “I’ll be back soon.”
When you arrive at the warehouse, you’re immediately out of place. Sam’s not outside. There are too many black cars in the lot and too many men and women with guns at the door. Familiar faces. All part of the family. But they look at you funny, not because you’re not welcome, but because you don’t usually show up unannounced without Sam at your side.
You shouldn’t be here. But you don’t realise that. Not fully. You’re already too far under.
You step inside, softly voiced and slow-moving, your head down, your arms tucked close to your body. Your fingers fidget at the hem of your sleeves. Your eyes scan the space, searching, quietly, for the two people who make the world make sense.
And then you see them.
They're deep in conversation at the far end of the room, Natasha by Steve's side, Bucky pacing a slow line behind them, blanked by two other guards. Everyones ared. Everyoes sharp. The energy in the room is tense, poised to erupt at any moment.
You cross the room in silence, weaving between bodies, ignoring the stares, the confusion. Until you're standing right there in front of them. You don't say anything. You just exist in front of them, quiet, small, wide-eyed.
And that's when Steve looks up. He freezes.
Bucky turns, and his expression shutters into something unreadable, then something terrified.
“Sweetheart?” Steve’s voice is sharp with confusion, his body already moving toward you. “What are you–? You should be–”
And then he sees it. He really sees it.
Your slack shoulders. The softness in your face. The barely there blink of your lashes. The way your hands are twitching rhythmically, sleeves pulled over your fingers, your voice caught somewhere in your throat.
Subspace. Your safe space.
Bucky curses under his breath. “Fuck. Oh, baby…”
Natasha steps aside instantly, her eyes narrowing, calculating, protective.
But you barely register any of it.
You sway gently on your feet, gaze fixed somewhere near Steve’s chest. Your body is humming with foggy warmth. You were looking for them. You found them. So everything should be okay now.
Right?
Steve cups your face in his hands, tilting your head up. “Look at me. Baby girl, come here. Look at me.”
Your eyes meet his, but it's like you're underwater. Slow. Blurry. Safe.
“I-I wore your hoodie yesterday,” you mumble. “I was cold.”
His face crumbles. Bucky is at your side a second later, his hand sliding around your back like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “She’s gone,” he says under his breath. “Fuck, Steve, she’s gone.”
“No one told her,” Natasha says quietly, almost to herself. “She thought the meeting was still happening.”
Steve doesn’t answer. His jaw is locked tight, guilt pouring off of him like a tidal wave.
“She didn’t want to be alone,” Bucky says softly, tucking you under his arm. “Didn’t want to interrupt. Just want to be with us, Steve.”
And suddenly it’s all so obvious. The fidgeting. The quiet voice. The distant eyes. The hours you spent alone. The subtle, slo spiral. The dissociation that bloomed in your chest like a safety blanket when no one saw you unravelling.
You didn’t fall into subspace because someone put you there. You feel that it was the only safe space left to go.
Steve lets out a shaky breath and gathers you into his arms.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers into your temple. “I’ve got you now.”
You sink into him like it’s all you’ve ever known, like the only thing real is the warmth of his chest, the strong arms around you, the familiar smell of safety. You didn’t see the way the room empties.
You don't hear Natasha barking orders or Bucky snapping at the others to back the fuck off. You don't feel the movement until you’re lifted into someone’s arms – Steve or Bucky, you're not sure – and carried out of the warehouse like you’re something precious and breakable and theirs.
Back at the house, they don’t leave your side.
Steve runs you a bath, Bucky get you water and a protein shake. They keep their voices low, their touches soft. They brush your hair back and rub lotion into your hands. They ask, again and again, if you’re okay, and they don't care that you can’t answer yet.
They don't ask how it happened because now they know. And when you finally, finally drift to sleep between them, warm and safe and wrapped in their arms, Bucky leans down and presses his lips to your temple.
“We weren’t looking, but we’re never letting you fall like that again.”
You wake up with the weight of the world on your chest. Not a heavyweight, just real again.
The soft numbness is gone, replaced with something raw, like your skin doesn’t quite fit right. Like your brain is trying to stitch itself back together, but your heart hasn’t caught up.
You're still in bed, wrapped tightly between their bodies. Steve on your left, Bucky on your right, Dodger curled at your feet like a loyal sentinel.
Your eyes flutter open. The light in the room is soft. Diffused. Someone must have closed the curtains.
You blink slowly. You remember the warehouse, the way they looked at you, the way they realised too late. You remember Steve's arms. Buckys voice. Natashas silence.
And then everything faded into a haze. A small breath escapes you, shaky and unsure.
Immediately, Steve stirs.
“Sweetheart?”
His voice is rough from sleep, or maybe from everything else. He’s already rising on one elbow, hand coming to brush your cheek. “You here with me?”
You nod. Barely. He kisses your forehead.
“Good girl,” he says thankfully. “You came back.”
Buckys awake too. You feel his hand slide over your stomach, grounding and warm. “Hey, doll, how are you feeling?”
You try to answer. But your throat catches, the word sticks. Steve notices, he strokes your back gently, soothing. “You don’t have to speak, honey. Just stay close.”
And you do. You stay curled between them, blinking back the sting behind your eyes, heart heavy in your chest. Your hands twitch. Your breathing stutters. That hollow, distant space you’d floated in is gone, but what’s left behind is just as terrifying.
You broke a little. And now you have to feel it.
The next twenty-four hours pass in soft murmurs and gentle hands. Steve makes you food. Bucky helps you eat. You don't talk much. They don't push.
They do everything right, guiding you through the emotional fallout of the subspace with a hengtleness that leaves you aching. They ask if you're cold. They remind you to drink. They offer you soft praise when you take a sip or whisper a word. You're not punished for disappearing. You’re cared for, protected, and held.
But even through the care, the guilt lingers behind their eyes. It’s in the way Steve watches you when you’re not looking, in how Bucky strokes your wrist over and over like he's trying to memorise your pulse.
That night, when you’ve finally drifted into a light sleep in Lucky’s lap, Steve's voice cuts the silence.
“We have to stop.”
Bucky looks up, reaching across and seeking comfort from his boyfriend by squeezing his hand. “Stop what?
“This. All of it. The meetings. The deals. The bullshit.”
Bucky's jaw flexes. “We can’t just walk away, Steve. You know that.”
“I'm not saying forever. But right now? We need to pause.”
His voice shakes slightly. “I didn’t even see her, buck. She was slipping right in front of me, and I didn’t even look.”
Bucky is quiet for a long time. Then he nods. “Okay.” Steve exhales. Bucky looks down at you again, asleep in his lap, your cheek smushed against his thigh, hand curled into the hem of his shirt. “Let's get her out of here.”
The next morning, they tell you the plan. You’re sitting at the kitchen island, wrapping Buckys hoodie, sipping tea that Steve made with honey and lemon. You're still quiet and slow, but your eyes look clearer today.
We’re going away,” Steve says gently. “Just us.”
You blink up at him. Lucky leans forward, leans on the counter, eyes soft. “Somewhere quiet. No meetings. No work. No guns. Just us three.”
You hesitate, a frown pulling at your lips. “But… the family–”
“Is being handled,” Steve says firmly. “Nat and Sam are staying behind. They're more than capable. We need this. You need this.”
You chew your lip, then nod. A small smile curves Steve’s lips. He reaches over and strokes your cheek. “You okay with that, baby girl?”
Your voice is still faint, a little unsure, but it's there. “Yeah, I want to go.”
Bucky's grin is immediate. He kisses your forehead and tugs you into his side. “Then it's settled.”
By nightfall, you’re packed. Steve rented a secluded cabin five hours away, deep in the woods, with a lake and no neighbours for miles. Natasha came by briefly to check in, hugging you and kissing you on the cheek before glaring at both men and muttering, “Don't fuck this up.”
You leave the city just before sunrise.
Dodger sits in the backseat with his head on your shoulder, and you rest your hand on his neck the whole drive, surrounded by silence, trees, and the promise of healing. You don't know how long it’ll take to feel normal again. But this? This is a start.
DAY ONE:
You don’t wake up to the sound of arguing, tense voices on the phone or the sound of gunfire.
You wake up to birdsong and the quiet sizzle of bacon. The air smells like fresh pine and coffee. The bed is warm, one body behind you, one in front, both wrapped around you like armour. Bucky mumbles something against your shoulder before pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. Steve’s already up, cooking. You can hear him humming softly under his breath,
You don’t move. You don't have to.
They don’t let you lift a finger. Later in the day, Bucky builds a fire outside and brings out thick blankets. Steve sets up a tray of fruit and tea and reads aloud from a dusty paperback he found on a shelf.
Dodger lies scrawled across your legs, soaking up the heat. At some point, you start laughing at something, even though you're not even sure what. But it's the first time in days, and Steve drops the book in his lap just to stare at you, eyes glassy. Bucky leans in and compliments, “Miss that sound so fucking much, Doll.”
DAY TWO:
You fall asleep on the porch wrapped in Bucky’s plaid jacket. Steve carries you inside without waking you. When you stir a few hours later, the cabin is filled with the scent of candles.
Bucky is at the table, polishing his knife—Steve’s in the kitchen, baking banana bread from scratch. You blink blearily from the couch and mumble something incoherent.
Two heads snap up immediately. “Doll? You okay?”
You nod, stretching like a cat. “Smells good!”
Bucky’s grin is wide and genuine. Steve crosses the room and picks you up without a word, sitting down with you in his lap as if it's the most natural thing in the world. You melt against him. Neither of you says anything after that.
DAY THREE:
It rains hard as Steve helps you into one of his thick wool sweaters and builds the biggest fire yet. You all curl up on the rug, Dodger included, watching the rain streak down the big glass windows. Bucky massages your feet in his lap whilst Steve strokes gently over your shoulders and collarbones.
“You were right, we needed this,” you say, half asleep.
Steve leans in and kisses your temple, “I hated seeing you like that. I’m sorry we weren’t there for you.”
Hours pass by, and your boys help you into bed. Steve spoons you from behind, his heavy arm around your waist as Bucky sleeps, facing you, his forehead resting against yours.
You're not yet relatively fixed, but at least you’re in their arms.
DAY FOUR:
The fire crackles softly across the room. You’re stretched out between them on the bed, skin warm beneath the thick duvet, the comfort of the past few days still wrapped around you like a second layer.
But tonight, something in you is shifting.
Your body is aching, not just for touch, but for them to put their hands on you like you belong to them, because you do.
You turn to Steve first, and his hand is already resting lightly on your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles. “Steve?” Your voice is timid as you speak.
He hums, gentle and attentive. “Yeah, sweetheart?”
“I want you.” His breath catches, his eyes flicking to you. “I want both of you.”
That gets Bucky’s attention. His hand freezes where it was lazily stroking along your arm. He lifts his head to meet your eyes.
“You sure, doll?” Bucky asks, voice cautious. “You don't have to–”
“I'm sure,” you cut in, eyes fierce now. “I need to feel you. Really feel you.”
Steve watches you for a long moment. Then something shifts behind his eyes, some long-restrained part of him finally being granted permission.
“Okay, baby girl. However, you need to discuss with us how far to go. You say red, we stop, understand?”
You nod eagerly. “I don’t want gentle,” you say, louder now. “I want you. Both of you. The way I like it.”
Bucky lets out a soft, strained laugh. “Fuck, you’re gonna kill us.”
The switch is slow but unmistakable. Steve’s hand curls around your jaw and tips your head up, his blue eyes darkening.
“Then get on your knees, sweetheart.”
You obey instantly, crawling to the centre of the bed between them. Bucky’s already shrugging off his shirt, muscles flexing as he watches you with heat in his gaze. Steve’s behind you in an instant, kneeling close, one massive hand trailing up your back to grip your neck lightly.
“You want to be our good girl again?” he breathes against your ear.
You nod eagerly. “Yes, sir.”
That, sir, makes something snap in both of them.
“Fucking knew you needed this,” Bucky growls, coming up in front of you now, his cock already heavy and leaking from where he’s pulled it free. “You need us to remind you who you belong to?”
“Yes, sir,” you whisper, eyes wide and eager.
Steve’s fingers tighten slightly on your throat, just enough to make your breath catch. “Good girl.”
Your reward is immediate.
Steve's hand tangles in your hair, pulling you back against his chest whilst Bucky cups your jaw and feeds the thick head of his cock past your lips.
He’s big, they both are, and your throat stretches around him, drool already leaking down your chin as Steve praises you quietly in your ear.
“That’s it, open up, baby girl. Let him in. Our perfect little thing.”
Bucky doesn’t thrust. Not yet. He lets you sink on him, inch by inch, both of his hands gripping your cheeks like he needs to feel you struggle to take it all when you gag just slightly, Bucky groans.
“Fuck, you look so pretty like this. All messy for us.”
Steve tightens his grip on your neck, thumb pressing lightly under your chin. You moan around Bbucky’s cock, and both men twitch with hunger. Steve pulls you back suddenly, popping Bucky from your mouth with a gasp.
“Need her,” he says possessively.
They flip you effortlessly.
Steve pulls your hips up and spreads you wide whilst Bucky lies in front of you, stroking your jaw, kissing your throat.
Steve pushes in first, a thick, slow and deliberate stretch that steals your breath.
You try out, nails clawing at the sheets.
“God–Too big–”
“Shh,” Steve soothes, bending over your back to press a kiss between your shoulder blades. “You can take it. You’re made for us.”
You whimper, squeezing around him as he starts to move, dragging his cock in and out of your soaked heat with controlled power. Bucky grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers.
“You’re doing so well, Doll,” he praises. “Taking him so fucking well.”
Your eyes flutter; your breath comes in shallow gasps.
“Use your words,” Steve growls behind you, slamming in harder. “You want more?”
“Yes, sir, please! I need both of you!”
“You will,” Bbucky growls, reaching down to stroke your clit with two fingers as Steve pounds into you. “Gonna fil you up. Gonna keep you so full you’ll feel us for days.”
Eventually, they trade. Steve pulls out slowly, and Bucky immediately takes his place, sliding in deep and fast with no resistance.
You scream, body arching as Bucky grips your hips and begins to fuck you. Hard.
“Oh my god!”
“That is, sweetheart,” Bucky pants, one hand coming around to press gently on your throat, controlling your gasp, making your inner walls clench tighter. “Such a greedy little thing, aren’t you?”
You nod, head spinning, pleasure bordering on pain.
Steve kneels in front of you, rubbing his cock against your lips. “Open.”
You do, and he pushes in, and suddenly you’re full in every sense, overwhelmed and used and adored.
You sob around him, tears slipping down your cheeks. They don't let up; you don't want them to.
Steve grips onto the back of your head as he thrusts slowly into your mouth. Bucky's pace is punishing, relentless. The stretch, the heat, the pressure on your throat, everything burns perfectly.
And through it all, they continue to praise you.
“Such a good girl.”
“Look at you. So perfect like this.”
“Taking us like you were made for it.”
When your orgasm hits, it crashes like a wave, full-body, uncontrollable, your thighs shaking, vision blurring.
They don't stop. They own you.
You barely register when they cum. First, Steve, groaning and spilling down your throat, followed by Bucky, slamming deep and filling you with his warm seed. Eventually, you collapse between them, trembling from head to toe.
Steve and Bucky take their time cleaning you up with gentle hands. Finally, Steve carries you to the bath and settles you in the warm water. Afterwards, Bucky wraps you in a towel, rubbing lotion into your sore thighs.
In bed, you're tucked between them again, skin still flushed, and legs weak.
“You okay?” Steve asks, voice barely audible but with a subtle gruffness.
You smile sleepily, eyes fluttering shut.
“Never better.”
Bucky kisses your forehead, arms tightening around your waist. “Still outs?”
You don't even hesitate.
“Always.”