5 Surefire Ways to Torment Tony Stark

Five times Steve and Bucky get under Tony's skin, and one time he gets under theirs.

one. body

The first time it happens, Tony doesn't think much of it.

Well, in all honesty, he wasn't really thinking much of anything—an eyeful of sweaty super-soldier doesn't exactly help one's mental processes—but it's not uncommon for most of the Avengers to see each other shirtless (or in Clint and Scott's case, pantless) at some point. He's helped stitch Wanda up after a mission against a horde of particularly disgruntled hamsters, and sparred with Nat in the gym; he's even walked into the common area to see a sweaty Sam digging through the fridge, and, on one particularly memorable occasion, chased a naked Bruce through the tower brandishing a pair of shorts made of ultra-resilient fabric with high elasticity.

The two super-soldiers, however, are a different matter entirely.

It's not to say his fellow teammates aren't attractive—it's undeniable that Sam's quite the looker, and annoying as he is, Scott's not half bad. Sharon's beautiful, even if it is the scary kind of beautiful, and Nat is, of course, gorgeous, not that he'd ever tell her that unless he wanted a knife in his back. No, his issues with handling the lack of clothing on the pair of super-soldiers runs entirely on his rather unfortunate attraction to the two.

Which is why when he runs smack into one shirtless, dripping Bucky Barnes, his first thought is "fucking hell".

"Hey, Tin Can." Bucky smiles at him, brushing his dripping hair back from his forehead. "Ach, sorry. Don't worry, it's just sweat."

Tony would reply, except he can't help but be rather distracted by the display before him. Bucky's wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweats on that—Jesus—leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, hanging low on his hips. He's practically glistening with sweat, chest rising and falling heavily, and Tony forces himself to shut his mouth to prevent drool from leaking out of it.

"Tones?" Bucky's voice is concerned, and amused, for some reason. There's something odd glittering in Bucky's eyes, but it's gone before Tony can look closely, instead replaced with bright mischief, similar to the kind that Steve tells him was always present in the old Bucky.

Tony sees it more often these days, along with a sort of quiet happiness or serenity. The thought makes something in Tony ache, even if he's told it's not quite the same as it once was; the more he comes to know about this man, the more he wants this man to be happy.

Not that it matters, because Bucky's still looking at him with that strange look in his eye, and Tony realizes he's been staring at Bucky's sweaty chest for almost a full minute. "Robocop," he manages, forcing a casual smile. "I need your arm."

Bucky raises one eyebrow, crossing his arms. "My arm."

"Yes." Tony brandishes his schematics at him. "I've been thinking—you're always down in my lab for cleaning and repairs, right? Well, for aesthetic purposes, I've been drawing up some ideas for some synthetic material to both protect the surface of your arm and maintain its appearance."

"You want to make synthetic skin," Bucky says softly, lips curling, "for me?"

"Well—" Tony shifts nervously. "I mean—it's not just for you, of course, if it's successful, it'll be presented to the general public and put on the market, and if I can get Pepper's approval, we can distribute it to hospitals for free and—"

"But you're making it for me." Bucky's grinning now, and then he's swinging him up into a bear hug, knocking the air out of him. "You're a real sweetheart, you know that?"

"Yeah, I got it, Robocop," Tony chokes out, trying to ignore the fact that holy shit his chest is pressing up against me, because Tony Stark is a grown adult and not an inexperienced teenager who pops inappropriate boners at unfortunate times, thank you very much.

Bucky sets him down, pressing their foreheads together; Tony wills the bright red flush creeping up his neck to go away. "When do we start?"

"Now works, I guess," Tony mumbles, and Bucky releases him. "I've got the plans and a few preliminary tests."

"Then lead the way, Tin Can," Bucky says, brandishing his arm in a mockery of a bow. Tony shifts uncomfortably, trying to keep his eyes fixed on the wall beside them and not Bucky's muscles.

"Uh—aren't you going to put a shirt on?"

"Why?" Bucky cocks his head. "Does my nakedness offend your delicate Stark sensibilities?"

Tony snorts, rolling his eyes. "In your dreams, Robocop. I've seen dirtier things in bad pornos."

With that, Tony finds himself jabbering away, unable to stop the technical jargon from flowing as he leads the way to his lab. He's so focused, he doesn't catch Bucky's calculating gaze, nor see the smirk that graces his features, brimming with promise.

By the twenty-second time, however, Tony is beginning to suspect that something's up.

It's endless. If Steve isn't wandering around for hours after a shower wearing nothing but a towel, it's Bucky wandering around in nothing but one of Steve's shirts. There's no escape, either—even when Bucky comes down for arm maintenance with his shirt already off, Steve shows up with his own discarded in the name of 'solidarity'. Tony has started going in for post-mission checkups right away instead of disregarding them entirely, just to avoid having to see the two stripping right on the landing deck with impunity before heading to sessions of their own.

He's still debating between "neither super-soldier is willing to admit they're losing clothes" and "Loki is fucking with us again", but right now, the only for-sure truth Tony has is that he's devolved into constant screaming inside his head.

He's never believed in the existence of any higher deity, but for a moment, he curses them all, Thor included, for sentencing him to this horrific combination of paradise and torment, because this is the fifth time this week alone that he's caught at least one super-soldier wandering around with far too few clothes on, and it's far too early for this, goddammit!

"Mornin', fellas," Bucky yawns, stretching as he makes his way into the kitchen, and of course he's clothed in nothing more than a pair of boxers. Bruce mumbles his greetings, nose buried in his newspaper, and Sharon gives him a half-hearted wave, mouth full of pancake. Nat and Scott, who are decidedly not morning people, give no notice that they even know Bucky's present, while Thor claps him on the shoulder with a broad smile.

Tony, on the other hand, buries himself deeper into his pile of blankets. He's probably slept three hours in the past forty-eight, and is only here because he passed out in his lab and woke up in bed drowning in one of Steve's grandpa sweaters. To put it simply, he is in no way equipped to handle a practically naked Bucky Barnes at nine in the morning.

"Look who's finally up," Sam calls over his shoulder, flipping another pancake.

"And don't the birds sound real swell," Bucky shoots back. Tony winces as his abs come into view."S'cuse me, Tones. I like em' better when they shut the fuck up, though."

"May I have another?" Wanda asks, and Sam flips her one over his shoulder with practiced ease, which she promptly douses in maple syrup.

"Hey, who stole my orange juice?" Bucky demands, scanning the contents of the refrigerator and frowning, and he's bending over of course he's bending over because Tony's head should be hurting from that ass, not just sleep deprivation.

"You mean my orange juice." Sam wriggles the carton over his shoulder, then downs the rest of it. Bucky narrows his eyes.

"I guess I do. Since this—" He snatches Sam's leftover Thai, "—is my curry, right?"

"You touch my leftovers, and I will take you out," Sam tells him without even turning his head.

"Do it, Tweety Bird," Bucky challenges, seating himself so close to Tony that he can, quite literally, feel the muscles of his arm through his blankets, and this is getting ridiculous, especially since he knows Bucky wears shirts to bed, okay, and it's not like he can't borrow one from Steve—

Before things can escalate (and before Tony explodes), Steve makes his way into the common area, back from his post-run shower, and thank god, at least Steve is clothed this time.

"Good mornin', everyone. Hi, Tony," Steve says cheerily, giving Bucky a quick peck before snatching a small stack of pancakes from Sam and seating himself firmly on Tony's other side. "Gosh, it's really hot in here," Steve comments, and—fucking Christ—off comes the shirt. Steve sighs in relief, tucking into his pancakes. "That's better."

"You guys are really hot and that's great and everything, but I'm not secure enough in my masculinity to handle you two being naked all the time," Scott says through a mouth full of pancake. "Was that awkward of me to say? I can't be the only one who's noticed this."

"Scott, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," Steve tells him, entirely straight-faced, and Bucky simply tilts his head, frowning in that adorably confused way of his.

"What about you, Stark? You've noticed, right?" Scott asks, turning his accusatory gaze towards Tony, who resists the urge to punch him in the face.

"No, can't say that I have," he says through gritted teeth, scooting off his chair. "If you'll excuse me, I've got things to do. I'll be in my lab."

"Oh, I'll go with you!" Bucky rises from his own chair, Steve hurriedly shoveling the rest of his pancakes into his mouth.

"No!" The words are out of Tony's mouth before he can stop them; he curses inwardly at the twin looks of surprise and hurt on both super-soldiers' faces. "I mean—" He flails about for a moment. "It's—uh—"

Nat sighs, rising to her feet and dumping her plate in the sink. "Steve, it's been a while since we had a sparring session." She glances at Tony, shooting him a 'you-owe-me-for-this' look before turning to Steve and crossing her arms. "Gotta make sure our captain isn't getting rusty. And you." she glares pointedly at Bucky, who gives her his most innocent smile, "Finish your breakfast."

"Yes, ma'am," Bucky drawls, arm shooting into a mock salute, and Nat rolls her eyes, grabbing Steve's hand and dragging him out of the kitchen.

"Before you try lying," Nat states, twisting her torso and flipping Steve onto his back on the mat with ease, "I'd like to remind you that I am a trained spy and you are a terrible liar."

"Come on, Nat," Steve pants, wincing with effort as he frees himself from her grip, "Me an' Buck know what we're doing."

Nat blocks three of his swings, stopping the fourth with her hand and shoving him backward; he rights himself and swings his leg around in a feint. "I wouldn't call three years of pining 'knowing what you're doing'."

Steve sighs, signaling a time-out. "I'll admit it's been a bit difficult, but Tony can be a bit oblivious, you know that."

"Steve." Nat crosses her arms, expression deadpan. "You two have literally taken the man out on three dates, brought him flowers on five separate occasions, served him two candlelight dinners, and kissed him. Twice."

Steve downs the rest of the water in his bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Technically, two of those dates and one of those dinners were bonding trips with the rest of the team, and three of those flowers were 'get well soon' flowers."

Nat rolls her eyes. "Yeah, 'get well soon' because he's a self-sacrificing idiot with painfully low self-esteem. I still don't understand why you two can't just talk to him already instead of dancing around each other like this."

"We wanted to court him first," Steve protests, and Nat snorts, shaking her head. "The good old-fashioned way. Give him time to think it over, figure out what he wants."

"Steve, you could drop a billion different hints, and Tony would just pick them back up, brush them off, and hand them back to you without ever realizing they were for him." Steve laughs. "I'm serious, Steve. These past few weeks alone, you have been prancing around him half-naked, and the most he does is hide in his lab. If he hasn't figured it out already, he's not going to. Ever. Just talk to the man."

"Oh, we will," Steve promises. "Though I'm sure he'll notice before that, of course."

"Right. You keep telling yourself that." Nat takes a swig from her bottle. "Just—try to keep it down a notch, all right? The rest of us are already sick of seeing your abs."

Tony isn't sure of how much more of this he can take.

When he walks into the common area on his way to a meeting with T'Challa and sees a completely naked Bucky Barnes sprawled across the couch, an equally-naked Steve off to the side with a paintbrush in his hand and a half-finished painting on his easel, his brain shorts out, because they have literally started holding random nude painting sessions in his living room.

"Hey, Tony," Steve says cheerfully. "I hope you don't mind—I wanted to work on drawing full figures, and Bucky volunteered, so …"

"Oh, come on!" Clint complains as he walks in with Sam, who immediately chokes on his beer. "That is the communal couch, you two literally share a room, just fucking use the sofa that I know you have in there!"

"Don't flip your wig," Bucky yawns, stretching. "'Sides, Stevie needed this one 'cause the arms are better for sprawling." He shifts, glancing at Steve out of the corner of his eye and grinning. "Did you still want to try drawing it with the erection? I bet I can keep it up for at least half an hour."

It's at that moment that the elevator chimes and T'Challa steps out with a serene smile on his face, only to stop in his tracks, blinking at the sight of a red-faced Tony, a fuming Clint, a harassed-looking Sam, and two very nude super-soldiers. " … I can return at a better time?"

If he says something, Tony isn't entirely sure, because the next thing he knows, he's fleeing with T'Challa on his heels, the sound of Clint's frustrated screaming reverberating through the halls. They pass by Bruce, who raises a concerned eyebrow, and Tony shakes his head, storming past him, T'Challa exchanging a brief nod.

T'Challa places a hand on his shoulder, eyes full of concern. "Are you all right?"

Tony sighs, shoulders slumping for only a moment before he straightens, smiling. "M'fine, Your Highness. I'll admit, your concern is touching."

"It does seem rather well-placed, considering the, ah, current state of your team," T'Challa says easily.

From overhead, he hears Nat's annoyed voice, and Thor bellowing something about Midgardian traditions and communal masturbation. Tony winces. "Ah, yeah, can't argue with you there, Your Highness. So, about your recent nationalization of foreign companies in Wakanda …"

two. savor

It starts when Tony buys Bucky illegal fruit.

According to Steve, Bucky has always been a good cook, aiding Steve's mother in the kitchen during mealtimes, even helping out in the kitchen during big rush hours when he worked as a dishwasher before he was drafted. It wasn't until after they'd freed him from HYDRA that he began to cook as a hobby, baking as a way to relieve stress, though certainly not to ply the team with sweets (or so Bucky would tell you.)

On occasion, he'd grill up a few burgers for the team to enjoy while picnicking on the roof or fry a few hushpuppies, but his real interests lay in sweets. He'd make pumpkin cookies, or cranberry raisin oatmeal cookies with orange peel and walnuts, tart peach pies, flaky spiced apple tarts, muffins with fresh berries, achingly sweet blackberry jam, two-layered german chocolate cakes with cream cheese frosting, sundaes with homemade ice cream and chocolate shavings, spumoni cheesecake, cinnamon pound cakes with merengue and toasted nuts—and that was just to name a few.

All the while, he'd shoo Steve and Tony from the kitchen, threatening Scott and Clint with dismemberment if they so much as touched whatever desserts he had cooling on his racks, arguing with Nat in rapid-fire Russian each time he caught her trying to sneak a taste. Even balancing several trays in one hand and stirring with the other, he'd blatantly refuse Thor or Vision's eager offers of help, though he'd put Sharon straight to work if she put on an apron, and he'd spend hours with Sam, the two bickering over spices and measurements. As far as anyone knew, he'd only ever allowed anyone to sample his sweets early a handful of times, conceding to Wanda's hopeful puppy eyes with a sigh and a weary wave of his hand.

His favorite ingredient, however, was plums.

"I started trying to incorporate plums in my food for memory reasons," Bucky told Tony, tapping his temple as the Avengers crowded around the island in the kitchen, each grabbing at his plate of blancmange decorated with candied violets. "It turns out, they're real versatile. You can stick 'em in everything. But," he says, eyes growing wistful, "the best ones are the mirabelle ones, and those are best fresh. Or in tarts," he says as an afterthought.

"I've heard of those before," Sharon muses, sucking thoughtfully on her spoon. "Aren't those the ones that are illegal here in the states?"

Yes, they are, and as Tony discovers, they're incredibly difficult to smuggle out of Europe when you have a reputation for illicit activities and the owner of the plum farm recognizes you from that time with the feral cat, which, Tony swears, was completely an accident and can be blamed entirely off his dislike of being handed things.

Still, it's worth it to see the wide-eyed look on Bucky's face when he holds up the plastic bag, and the way his eyes grow wider when he actually looks inside it.

It's less worth it to see the thoughtful frown appear on his face. "Are they the wrong plums? Shit, are they rotten? I can't tell, I'm not good with food, or living things. You know what, let me just—"

"Tones," Bucky says quietly, grasping his arm, "You don't need to keep giving me things."

"Do you not want them?"

Bucky shakes his head. "It's not that. I just want to make sure you realize you're wasting your time." His smile is softer, sadder. "I'm not gonna leave you behind. Got it?"

Tony tries to tear his gaze away, and finds he can't. "Crystal."

"Swell." Bucky plucks a plum from the bag, admiring it for a moment before taking a bite, juice dribbling down his chin. "Fuck, these are good," Bucky moans, and Tony finds his gaze drawn to the way Bucky swallows, eyes tracking the slow bob of his throat. When he shakes himself and looks back up, Bucky's got that odd glitter in his eyes again before it's gone, replaced by sweet gratitude.

"Thank you, Tony," he says, all sincerity, and Tony can only bring himself to nod.

The team's just finished up a mission and has been milling about the tower for fifteen minutes when, out of nowhere, Steve suggests they go out for ice cream. Clint, of course, jumps on the idea.

"It's a beautiful day, we should celebrate another victory with popsicles and ice cream sandwiches," he declares, ignoring the way Nat rolls her eyes.

"That does sound nice," Sharon admits. "I do miss orange dreamsicles. But I get the feeling people would notice if the Avengers turned up at an ice cream parlor."

Natasha tilts her head. "Well, it could be good for PR. It has been a while since we've been seen out and about outside of missions."

"It'd be kind of funny to see Cap eat a Bomb Pop," Sam admits. "In an ironic sort of way."

"Is this really happening?" Scott asks. "Because I feel like I should be blogging about this or something."

" … What's an orange dreamsicle?" Wanda asks, and the team freezes.

Twenty minutes later, they're sprawled across two tables in Central Park, Wanda happily munching on an orange dreamsicle. Clint, who has somehow managed to eat fifteen ice cream sandwiches in five minutes, is whining at Nat, who's keeping the bag containing the rest of the sandwiches just out of his reach. Sharon, after much deliberation, had selected a strawberry shortcake ice cream, which she nibbles on delicately, watching Sam and Scott argue over the last Klondike bar.

"I'm the one who took out the queen centipede," Scott argues.

"I'm not arguing with you, just give me the damn Klondike bar. And besides, you did that with Clint and Tasha's help."

"This treat is reminiscent of the glorious Pop Tarts," Thor booms, mouth covered in rainbow sprinkles and chocolate syrup. "Are you not enjoying your victory delights, Man of Iron?"

"Mm? Uh, yeah. Sure." Tony would be listening, except he can't help but be distracted by the way the two super-soldiers currently seated on either side of him are eating their ice cream. He swallows as Bucky catches a few drops of melting ice cream with his thumb, sucking the appendage into his mouth.

"They're just as good as I remember," he groans, delicately breaking a bite off the top. Tony averts his eyes, sundae forgotten, and turns his gaze to Steve, who—

Who moans, lips sliding down his Bomb Pop, and Tony fumbles his sundae, nearly dropping it. "Wish they'd had these when we were kids, right, Buck?"

Bucky snorts. "We wouldn't have been able to afford them anyways." He grins, lapping up the side of his Drumstick. "Not that we wouldn't've smuggled a couple out of a shop. Though I think this time, I'd be the charm and you'd be the one with the sticky fingers. Hey, give me a lick."

Tony shovels the rest of his sundae into his mouth, refusing to watch as Bucky swallows Steve's Bomb Pop, sliding halfway down the stick and groaning. "That's a helluva lot more than a lick, Buck," Steve complains, and Bucky slides back up, licking his sticky lips.

"The way you two are eating your ice cream is making me very uncomfortable," Scott comments.

"I'm sure I'm far less qualified to pass any judgement in regards to consuming food, but I can't help but notice your particular manner of ingesting your ice cream is a bit—well, lewd," Vision notes.

"What are you trying to say?" Bucky asks, brow furrowing. His mouth widens to stretch around the head of his Drumstick, lips stretching, and Tony's spoon clatters from his grip.

"If Steve and Bucky want to deepthroat their popsicles instead of eating them like normal people, we should be respectful," Sam says through a mouthful of Klondike bar, and Wanda giggles.

"There are young ears here," Steve admonishes, and Sam snorts.

"Pretty sure Wanda knows already, if she hasn't figured out what deepthroating is from Clint's shitty porn."

"One time. One time, people! Can we let it go already?"

"Charming, but I meant those young ears," Steve says drily, nodding at a group of children who are rollerblading in circles twenty feet away.

"Yeah, like their minds aren't permanently scarred from your popsicle-eating."

Steve only blinks at him innocently, sliding his popsicle down his throat. Tony excuses himself to throw away his half-eaten sundae.

three. touch

Tony's tinkering with a 1932 Ford Flathead Roadster when he hears Steve hollering for him to turn down his music.

He pulls out from underneath the car, blinking in the bright light, and Steve smiles down at him. "What time is it? Is that sandwich for me?"

"Hello to you, too, and it's almost noon," Steve tells him, amused; he lifts the plate in his hand, and Tony's stomach gurgles at the sight. "And yes, I made you lunch. I hope you don't mind, it's egg salad."

"You're a doll," Tony groans, snatching the sandwich off the plate and cramming as much of it into his mouth as he can.

"When was the last time you slept?" Steve chastises gently. "You should take a break."

Tony pauses for a minute to swallow, then continues inhaling his sandwich. "Don't get your panties in a twist, Spangles. I took a nap two hours ago. I have a blanket to prove it. Also, FRIDAY can vouch for me."

"Actually, Boss, that was six hours ago, and Agent Romanoff provided the blanket," the AI supplies, and Tony frowns. He hadn't even realized she'd snuck down here, let alone that she'd been the one to tuck him in.

"Traitor. Still, I slept." Tony jabs a finger at Steve, who sighs. "Besides, I'm not tired."

"That so?" Steve watches him eat, ducking his head with a soft smile on his face, and Tony resists the urge to turn around so he doesn't have see him do it. "Then, I thought we could head down to the gym and go a few rounds."

"You want me to spar?" Tony asks around a mouthful of sandwich, swallowing hard. "With you?"

"Well, yes." Steve nods, leaning back and stretching. "You said you wanted more practice in hand-to-hand, right? And Bucky said you're finished with your latest project …"

Tony silently curses himself, stuffing the rest of the egg salad sandwich in his mouth and searching for some other excuse to wriggle his way out of sparring with Steve—he can't use his usual work excuse since Bucky told Steve he's nearly finished with the final draft of his synthetic skin. He doesn't have any meetings today and he can't beg Pepper to invent one on the spot, as she's off in Tokyo finishing a deal in Tony's place while finishes up his latest invention. Rhodey can't save him, as he's off at some diplomatic meeting in Argentina, and he can't say he's helping Bruce in his lab, as Bruce is off speaking at some convention in France on the potential benefits on dimensionally altering the speed of particle collisions.

He almost considers lying, but Steve's looking at him with those goddamn puppy eyes of his, and even if he'll never admit it, least of all to Steve, Tony can't say no to that look.

"Sounds great," he mumbles, and Steve lights up like a Christmas tree, giving Tony that god-awful smile that Tony's convinced actually emits sunlight. "Just gotta finish up here, run some more tests," he adds hurriedly, but Steve's radiant expression doesn't flicker in the slightest, only grows painfully fond.

"That's real swell, Tony," Steve murmurs, reaching out and placing a hand on Tony's arm; he slips into a Brooklyn drawl, and Tony curses internally again at the way that accent makes a spike of arousal shoot up his spine. "I'll be waiting down in the gym for you."

He squeezes Tony's arm gently and leaves, and Tony can't help but watch him go, eyes drifting absently down the super-soldier's frame before snapping up guiltily the moment his gaze reaches Steve's ... assets.

I'm so fucked, Tony thinks.

As it happens, that's far from the only time he thinks this while sparring with Steve in the old boxing ring over the course of the next three hours. Steve is fully clothed this time, instead wearing a sinfully tight white shirt and sweatpants. It is, unfortunately, making it a little difficult for Tony to focus, but at least he's not naked.

The idea of grappling with Steve like that, pressing up against every inch of that golden skin, sends a bolt of arousal coursing through him, and he forces the image away, trying to concentrate.

"You're favoring your left side too much," Steve tells him, throwing another punch before Tony can adjust and then sweeping his leg around, which Tony only barely manages to dodge. "Remember, you get better balance planting your feet flat."

"I get it, Cap," Tony says, forcing a tight-lipped smile.

Just as he remembers, Steve is a hard sparring partner, not simply because he's an excellent fighter, but also because he has a habit of coaching Tony while they spar, which wouldn't be so infuriating if he'd asked Steve to do it. Which he hasn't. Ever.

"Focus, Tony," Steve says, voice pleasantly warm and full of intent, and Tony huffs.

"What do you think I'm doing?" He demands, and curses internally when his next swing goes wide, Steve sidestepping with ease.

"Not focusing?" Steve's smirk makes Tony want to both land a punch and kiss it off his face, and he isn't entirely sure which one he wants more. "Don't snap your cap, sweetheart. It's not good to get so riled up, especially in the heat of battle."

"I'll try to keep that in mind," Tony says through clenched teeth. He feints to the side and throws another punch, and Steve grabs his fists and yanks him forward, throwing him off-balance—Tony faceplants into his chest with an oof, and then Steve's got his arms locked around Tony, keeping his arms trapped between them.

"Do you want me to go easy on you?" Steve asks, lips an inch from Tony's ear, arm tightening around his waist, and Tony winces, throwing his head back in a feint and then twisting hard, wrenching himself out of Steve's grip.

This, Tony thinks miserably, is why I hate sparring with Steve. It's not just the constant chastising or the constant bossy commentary, it's the way Steve spars—it's intimate, natural, and some way or another, Tony finds himself too close to Steve for comfort.

"I don't need your pity, Rogers," he snaps. Steve whips his leg around, throwing a series of jabs that, Tony realizes too late, push him into a corner.

"You know," Steve says conversationally, "you always call me something different when you're annoyed or trying to hide something. Usually Cap or Rogers."

"Do I?" Tony throws another punch, trying to step under Steve's arm.

"Yeah," Steve pants, "but I want you to me Steve." And then suddenly, he's on his back with Steve pinning him down with one knee. Quick as a flash, he captures Tony's hands, pinning them to the mat, and leans down, murmuring, "Just Steve." Tony feels his breath puff against his ear, warm and feather-light, and represses a shiver.

"That an order, Rogers?" He asks, swallowing, and Steve's mouth curves up. He pulls back, and Tony isn't sure if it's just the lighting or if Steve's eyes are really that dark a blue.

"Depends on whether or not you're gonna keep actin' hardboiled," he drawls. "If you need me to tell you what to do."

"Maybe I don't like you ordering me around."

"Maybe you should listen to me anyway," Steve says, light and teasing, smile turning crooked as his grip tightens on Tony's wrists, "or you could get used to being on your back."

If Tony didn't have a problem in his pants, he sure does now, which would be kind of hilarious in any other situation, except where Tony is now, pinned under him, capable of being discovered at any moment …

"What's wrong, Tony?" Steve asks, all soft and sweet, the manipulative bastard. "You look like you're going to explode."

"Or maybe I'd just like you to get your heavy ass off me," he tries to quip, but it comes out too shaky, too forced. Steve cocks his head to the side, sweet expression melting into a smirk, and well, fuck, there goes all hope of getting his little problem to go down anytime soon.

"Come on, Tony," he teases, hand a solid vice, knee a rock. "Just say my name, I'll let you up, and you can run away." His smirk widens. "I promise I'll give you a head start."

"Mind if I cut in?" And thank the heavens, Tony has never been more grateful to hear that voice. Bucky makes his way to the ring with his hands jammed in his pockets and a smile on his face, swinging under the ropes, and Tony could kiss him.

"Hey, Buck." Steve turns his head to capture Bucky's lips, and if that isn't a sight, watching Steve kiss Bucky while trapped underneath him, unable to do anything but watch as Bucky deepens the kiss with a hum, smiling against Steve's mouth.

"You gonna let him up or what?" Bucky murmurs, and Steve pulls back, sighing.

"I suppose." Tony gets out from under Steve—gracefully, he does not scramble because he is a fully grown adult—and ducks out of the ring, snatching his water bottle and hurrying out of the gym.

"You still need that head start?" Steve calls after him, but Tony keeps his pace, half-sprinting out of the gym. With any luck, Bucky will distract him, and the two will stay in the gym for at least an hour or two—enough time for Tony to grab some food from the kitchen and then lock himself in his lab for the next twelve hours.

four. watch

Prior to the team moving into the Tower, Tony spent much of his time in his workshop alone and without anyone to disturb him while he worked. He wasn't without interruptions—Pepper would come in with paperwork once a week, and Rhodey and Happy once a month to drag him out of the lab to eat and sleep.

After, of course, he grew used to prank wars with Clint and Nat, and Bruce's quiet yet comforting presence; Thor, when he was present, filled the tower with bright, booming laughter. Peter would stop by with questions for Tony and Bruce, especially after he began college. Vision would attempt to cook food, Wanda would get rid of it before it stunk up the Tower, and Sam would usher everyone out of the kitchen and whack Tony and Clint's thieving fingers each time they swiped at whatever he was cooking.

None, however, ever made themselves at home in his workshop until Steve and Bucky.

Originally, most of the time Steve spent in Tony's lab was used nagging Tony about taking better care of himself or being reckless and risking his life yet again after a mission. As time passed, the bickering turned to talking, mostly Tony chattering technical jargon while he worked and Steve half-listening while he drew in his sketchbook. When Bucky moved in, he made a home on one of the old couches pushed to the side of the room with Steve and watched Tony, occasionally migrating to Tony's side and handing him tools.

The helping and the drawing part was fine—in fact, Tony had grown used to their presence in his workshop, mostly quiet but always listening. The hard part was the watching. More often than not, and especially as of late, Tony couldn't shake the feeling that they were staring at him, and it made him oddly hot under the collar.

It's all in his head, of course, but the more time passes, the more he swears he can feel their gazes on him, and it burns, makes the back of his neck tingle, breath seizing in his throat, cheeks growing embarrassingly red.

Worst of all, it's messing with his productivity. There was a time when he could crank out three different mind-boggling inventions a month, but lately he's struggling to complete one. It's not even from lack of ideas—he can feel the inspiration bubbling at the corners of his mind, waiting to be realized—it's because he can't fully access his brain when it's fuzzed out simply by the mere presence of the Steve and Bucky.

He doesn't have the heart to lock either super-soldier out of his lab; the last time he tried that, Steve wouldn't stop giving him the damn puppy eyes and Bucky moped in the kitchen and baked enough sweets to fill the entire fridge, tossing out the leftover shawarma, much to Clint's dismay.

Eventually, the other Avengers had an intervention, demanding that Tony let the two back into the lab so that Bucky would actually let Sam cook "some real food, Tony, if I have to eat another goddamn lemon bar for dinner I swear", and Steve would, in Natasha's words, "stop making everyone else in the tower sad, I am a spy, Tony, I didn't sign up for this shit". Wanda complained that Steve's mothering habits had gotten worse ("He called me 'young lady' and tried to enforce a curfew"), and Sharon griped about their pouting ("When I said to be like a tree and plant yourself, I didn't mean 'hog all the equipment in the gym'"). Thor refused to return to the tower until it was "merry once more", instead choosing to remain on Asgard, and Bruce had taken to locking himself in his lab to avoid the two super-soldiers attempting to fill the void by watching Bruce work instead. Even Vision admitted that he had grown tired of their antics, stating that "Sergeant Barnes keeps attempting to feed me crème brulee, and I can't ingest food". As Scott put it, "it's just really awkward, man, and that's coming from me".

Needless to say, with a complete lack of support from his team (thanks, guys), he's stuck with both the blessing and the curse of the super-soldiers and the mysterious sensation of being watched that seems to follow him whenever they're around.

It seems it's the same situation every time—he works on a new invention he's been stuck on for the past few weeks, the sensation appears and distracts the hell out of him, and he doesn't finish working on his project and has to push back the deadline for releasing it again. This time, it's the latest addition to his line of eyewear—a pair of glasses that, along with automatically adjusting to proper prescription lenses, prevents visual sensory overload, reduces the severity of panic attacks and dissociative experiences, and guides wearers to safer locations and to medical treatment.

It's an invention Tony himself is particularly proud of—he just needs to work out the kinks. Unfortunately, it's difficult to work on an invention when you have two distractingly attractive super-soldiers in your lab with you, especially if one of them is sitting right next to you and (of fucking course) said super-soldier doesn't have a shirt on.

"You know, they do make these things called shirts," Tony drawls, keeping his gaze fixed on his glasses. "I know you grandpas are old, but I'm pretty sure they at least had shirts back in your day."

"Eh, we just ran around naked and hit each other with sticks," Bucky says easily. He seems far closer than usual, eyes half-lidded and hot, and Tony's breath catches in his throat. Then Bucky smiles, good-natured and serene, and presses the tool into Tony's hand with a grin. "You wanted the jeweler's one, right?"

"Right," Tony chokes out. God, he's a mess, not even able to handle Bucky handing him a tool. "I'll just—" He turns back to the glasses, hesitating. "Uh."

All in your head, he tells himself, tucking his loupe back over his eye, and tries to remember what he'd needed the tool for in the first place.

The screw on the left side is off by a fraction of a millimeter—most likely a manufacturing error, though he'll have to check his factory in person to make sure—and it's just enough to screw with the calibration of the glasses' programs, specifically those that deal with locational services. They're off by just a foot, but it's a foot too much, and so Tony sets himself to work, scribbling calculations.

He's so deep in thought that the next time he tries to pick up his pen, he grabs his screwdriver instead, and lets it roll too far when he discards it in search of his pen. "Fuck," he grinds out as the screwdriver slips from the table, fumbling madly for it before it clatters on the floor.

As he bends over to pick it up, the inexplicable sensation intensifies, and he scrambles for the tool and straightens with a snap, cheeks flushing. It feels like he's being undressed.

He tries to ignore it and continue working, but eventually, it's too much to take—it feels like he's being caressed, like fingers or tongues trailing feather-light and achingly slow up his spine, and it makes Tony's legs feel like jelly. He can't be imagining it, it's too real, too vivid, too raw a sensation for it to exist solely within the confines of his mind.

With another internal swear, Tony chances a quick glance, unable to stop himself from looking any longer. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Steve, half-smirking and gaze burning, lips just barely parted, and his breath catches in his throat. Tony whirls around with a jerk, half stumbling, and—

And finds Steve staring intently at his notebook with a frown, nose crinkling the way it does when he's deep in thought. He glances up at Tony and smiles, fond and brief, before turning his attention back to his sketchbook.

Tony deflates, caught up in a confusing mixture of relief and disappointment. Of course it's all in his head. It has to be. He's just imagining—longing for it, really, wanting them to look at him like that even for a fraction of a moment.

five. kiss

In hindsight, he should have realized it would come to this, but they were season tickets and Steve and Bucky loved the Dodgers, and Tony couldn't stop picturing the looks on their faces when he handed Steve the tickets.

Of course, he wasn't stingy—he bought one for each of the team members, so they could all go and entertain themselves with watching the two super-soldiers act like typical superfans—but that meant he was counting on the whole team to go and enjoy the experience.

Instead, Bruce, who'd gotten an overwhelmingly positive response from the other scientists at the conference, had taken several of them up on an offer to attend a post-conference workshop, and so would be gone for another few days. Nat, Clint, and Sharon would be out for nearly a month on a total-silence mission, Scott was visiting his daughter for her twelfth birthday, Thor was visiting Dr. Foster, and Rhodey wasn't coming back until the following Tuesday. That left Sam, Vision, and Wanda, and Sam—

"You sure you'll be all right?" Steve asks, all concern.

"I'd love to go," Sam says, voice hoarse, "but I'm a little under the weather at the moment."

"No shit, Tweety Bird," Bucky grumbles. "I told you you should've let me or Stevie be the ones to pull that kitten from the pond."

Sam coughs wetly, shoulders shaking with effort, then falls back against his pillow, curling up in a ball and sniffling. Tony sighs, patting his side. "Yeah, no offense, Wilson, but I think you might cause a flu epidemic, and we don't need another lawsuit on our hands."

"That last one was your fault," Sam mumbles, trailing off before he starts to snore.

"I should remain here to care for him," Vision tells him. "I've read somewhere that chicken noodle soup is a viable cure for his illness."

When he floats off to the kitchen, Wanda approaches the three with a harried expression. "I should probably stay behind and make sure he doesn't almost burn down the building. Again."

It's not that Tony isn't comfortable around the two by himself—on the contrary, it's because it's too easy to fall into step beside them, warm and secure between them with their arms tucked snugly around his shoulders or looped around his waist. He's used to being with them, utterly familiar with their presence, separately or together, and it's because he knows he shouldn't be that it hurts to be with them.

Not that that's not easy to forget when you have two very angry, very loud super-soldiers shouting and waving their hands at the players on the field. Because it is very easy to forget, mostly because it's fucking hilarious.

"Come on!" Steve bellows, flinging a hand up and nearly whacking an equally incensed Bucky in the face.

"Are you fuckin'—let's go, coach, put some decent players in already!" Bucky snarls, and Tony reaches out with his free hand to catch Bucky's caramel corn before it falls out of his lap. "Oh—sorry, Tones."

"Mm, no, it's fine," Tony says, holding in his laughter, and taps his screen with his thumb, ending the recording; later, he knows, he's going to have a blast watching this with the rest of the team. There's no point in teasing the two super-soldiers about their particular style in game-watching—they're completely shameless about it, even after Scott "accidentally" leaks a video of them yelling—but it's still fun to watch the foam practically drip from their mouths alongside Nat and Sam with their utterly unimpressed expressions and Clint laughing so hard that tears literally roll down his cheeks.

Maybe it's karma for filming them again and then sending it to Scott, or maybe it's just plain rotten luck, because when he returns in the middle of the seventh inning from a bathroom break and sits back down, chuckling at Scott's text, Bucky nudges him with an elbow and points up at the Jumbotron.

"Hm? Oh, fuck."

He's pretty sure the person running it must be an Avengers fan and a proud supporter of Steve and Bucky's relationship, because they've somehow managed to capture him between the two super-soldiers and is flashing the words "KISS CAM" in bright red letters.

Tony winces, tugging his baseball cap further down over his face; it's probably bad enough that the two resident super-soldiers are going to end up all over the news for yelling and swearing at a Dodgers game yet again—they don't need Tony and his reputation to get thrown into the mix.

"Guess it's up to us, Buck," Steve says, and Bucky hums in agreement and leans over, bracing one hand on Tony's knee. Steve mirrors him, and Tony starts leaning back, averting his eyes, and—

And suddenly there are two pairs of lips planted firmly on either cheek, far too close to his mouth, firm and warm, lingering there for far too long, and Tony doesn't realize he's forgotten to breathe until his vision starts to grow a bit fuzzy. He can feel them both sliding their hands up his thighs, Bucky stroking up and down with agonizing slowness, Steve squeezing dangerously high up his leg.

They don't pull away for what seems like hours, or perhaps several days (Tony isn't entirely sure, he thinks he may have blacked out at some point) and when they finally do, his brain continues to short-circuit. By the time he finally comes back to himself, the Kiss Cam is off, the game is back in session, and both super-soldiers are screaming at the top of their lungs.

Suddenly, Tony finds he's regretting buying them the season tickets.

Later, when they've returned home, Steve walks Tony down to his lab while Bucky goes up to check to make sure Vision hasn't accidentally murdered Sam. For once, Tony can't find anything to say, especially when Steve corners him, trapping him against a cluttered desk.

"You know, you don't have to keep giving us things, Tony," Steve says quietly. "Me or Buck. I know you want us to be happy living in the tower, but you don't have to worry. We're doing just fine." His smile softens, and he squeezes Tony's hand. "We want to be here. With you."

"Stevie?" Bucky pops his head in through the door. "Sam's asleep, but Wanda's still trying to clean Vision's soup off the walls. Think maybe you should help us out before it starts sprouting limbs and growling."

"We'll give you some space for now," Steve promises. "Just—don't hesitate to ask for something, all right? Anything at all."

"Right," Tony mumbles. "Good talk. Let's …" he trails off as the door shuts behind the two. " … never do this again."

+one. date

The answer comes to Tony when he's down in his lab in the midst of sawing through titanium, the realization so sudden and jarring that he nearly cuts his hand off. Suddenly, Tony understands exactly what Steve was trying to say.

It's because they feel bad for him.

The revelation is both deeply relieving and painfully heartbreaking, Tony finds, because of course, it all makes sense now. He'd broken up with Pepper, after all, and with Rhodey on loan to the United Nations, they must have seen that he was lonely, maybe even noticed he was pining after them, and they'd taken pity on him.

But maybe, a traitorous part of his brain thinks, it's not just pity. Maybe they like you.

It's a ridiculous idea, of course. Tony's past forty, an ex-alcoholic with heart problems and a mental state worth shit, and they're golden, two beautiful, strong men trapped in their mid-thirties for a lifetime and more, two halves of a whole. They belong together, just the two of them. Even if they did love Tony the way he loves them, Tony would just be an add-on, a pointless third wheel, and he knows it. There's nothing he can give them but his work, but money, but the team.

God, and it's so hard to give them up, because he wants them, craves their laughter and their smiles, aches every time they smile at him with that sugar-sweet fondness, like he means something special. He wants them and everything that could mean, even shouting matches with Steve for hours, even Bucky's bad days when he shuts everyone out. He loves them so much he forgets he doesn't deserve them, forgets that they could have so much better than a used-up, broken old man with a penchant for reckless behavior.

And so, after allowing Bucky to ply him with sweets and Steve to usher him up to bed to rest, he begins the following day by heading straight to the compound's main lab.

Everything is going according to plan until Steve wanders into his lab right as Tony's leaving, fully dressed and fixing his tie.

"Tony?" Steve's got a bright, hopeful smile on his face, and Tony's chest clenches for a moment before he shakes himself. "I know this is short notice, but Bucky and I were hoping you would—"

"Ah …" Tony forces a laugh. "Sorry, Cap, but whatever you got planned, I gotta take a rain check." He gestures to himself vaguely. "Kinda got a hot date tonight."

"You're … going on a date?" Steve asks, eyes widening.

"Yeah. Uh, you remember Helen. World-renowned geneticist, made the Cradle, lab got destroyed by that evil android I made. It's been a couple years, I suppose."

"You're going," Steve says slowly, "on a date. With Dr. Cho."

"Yeah. I, um, got us a private table at Antonio's." Tony smiles; Steve doesn't, only narrows his eyes, lips tightly pursed. "Thought I'd try the romantic approach for once. Rooftop dinner and all."

"I don't understand." And then Steve's stepping into his space, fingers tracing light, slow lines up his arms, and Tony has to stop himself from shutting his eyes and relaxing into the familiar touch. "Did—did we have a misunderstanding?"

His eyes are filled with concern, and he captures Tony's chin with his fingers, tilting his face up gently. "No," Tony says, pulling out of his grip, "I understand. I mean, sort of? I know what you want now, or what you think I need. And it's—it's fine, okay? I'm fine. I've got it covered. So." Tony swallows. "You don't have to feel bad anymore. Hey, I think I left something in the lab. Don't wait up."

"Tony—"

But Tony's already fleeing, hurrying back into his lab and snapping for FRIDAY to initiate blackout mode before Steve can follow him. When he collapses into his favorite rolling chair at one of his desks, he can hear Steve's footsteps and the faint sound of knocking, and then Steve's voice, clearly annoyed, just outside his lab.

"FRIDAY, turn on some music," he says tiredly, and the AI complies, blasting AC/DC at full volume. "And open up the garage. I think I can sneak out through the side."

Because Tony's locked himself in his lab, he doesn't see the expression of complete and utter exasperation on Steve's face. "Christ," Steve blasphemes, and right at that moment, Bucky wanders up behind him, a plate full of crackers and a jar of plum jam in his hands.

"Steve?" Bucky frowns. "What's going on? Did Tony lock us out of his lab again?"

Steve lets out a long, suffering sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Bucky," he says evenly, "We have a problem."

"You realize this isn't going to erase whatever feelings you have for Captain Rogers or Sergeant Barnes, right?"

"How did you know it was them?" Tony demands, and Helen rolls her eyes.

They're in Tony's red Spyder Maserati on the way to his favorite Italian restaurant—the one off Broadway—for dinner. Helen looks stunning as always in a lovely one-shouldered Lanvin and a pair of Yves Saint Laurent pumps, hair falling in loose waves by her shoulders. Tony would almost be attracted to her if his mind wasn't full of blue-eyed super-soldiers with smiles so painfully sweet it made his heart ache.

"Tony, everyone who isn't currently in a vegetative state knows you're in love with those two. Half of what the tabloids say about you nowadays involve your supposed attempts to break up the resident superhero power couple. Not that they're true, of course," she adds, sighing at the stricken look on Tony's face.

"I—I just need to get back in the game, you know?" He tells her, almost pleading, rubbing the back of his neck. "The tabloids—they're not totally wrong, at least not about me, and you know me, even I wouldn't break those two up. They're like—peanut butter and jelly, or french fries and ice cream."

"French fries and ice cream are disgusting together," Helen tells him, "and peanut butter and jelly needs bread or crackers."

"Did you just compare me to gluten?" Tony demands, and Helen sighs, folding her hands on her lap.

"My point is, Tony, that I am a very busy woman, and I don't exactly appreciate being called away from creating permanent genetic immunities to hereditary conditions to be your rebound from a breakup that never happened in the first place."

"Come on, Helen." Tony spreads his arms. "It'd be just like the old days, right?"

"Tony, the 'old days' for us constituted of you vomiting in someone's backyard and me apologizing to the homeowner," Helen says bluntly. "And even then, that was more Rhodey's job than mine."

"Helen, please. I need this, okay? This—it's freaking me out, I can't even handle either of them with their shirts off or watch them eat popsicles anymore. Popsicles. I am losing my mind." Tony runs a hand over his face. "I just—need to get my mind off them for a little bit, and I'll be fine."

Helen mutters something under her breath that sounds an awful lot like 'yeah you keep telling yourself that', then shakes her head. "You know I'm only doing this for the food."

"But you're still doing it," Tony tells her gleefully.

Much to Helen's exasperated amusement, Tony remains cheery for the rest of the ride, humming acknowledgements when the conversation turns to science, letting Tony babble in excitement about his breakthroughs with the synthetic skin and the new additions he's been adding to his glasses. In turn, he listens with genuine fascination to Helen talk about her advancements in biochemical engineering to synthesize memories into digital replicas and her massive breakthrough in synthesizing adaptive gene switches, potentially eradicating hereditary diseases. He's in bright spirits when they pull up in front of the restaurant, even when the maitre'd finds herself caught dealing with an angry old man about precise butter measurements on his bread and they're kept waiting in the lobby. In fact, he's in such a pleasant mood, he doesn't stop to recognize the sound of a very familiar Harley pulling up outside the door, nor does he notice the two very annoyed looking super-soldiers walking into the restaurant behind him until it's far too late to make a run for it.

"Well, who's brainchild is this?" Someone drawls from behind him, and Tony stiffens, turning around to see Bucky and Steve, both of whom are glaring at him. They look gorgeous, both dressed in the same suits Tony and Nat make them wear for the occasional gala; Bucky is sleek in his grey tuxedo with his long hair tied back in a neat bun, tugging at his tie and wincing. He's clean-shaven, jawline mouthwateringly sharp, though Steve, oddly enough, is not. His midnight blue suit is a lovely complement to Bucky's, and together, with their twin cloudy expressions, they are a picture of sexuality and intimidation.

"Mr. Stark," Steve says coolly. "What a pleasant surprise."

The words "What the hell are you two doing here?" come tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them. Bucky raises an eyebrow, still unsmiling. The lines of Bucky's frame are tense, his eyes narrowed slightly and his usual soft expression sharp and hard, hands jammed in his pockets.

"It's date night," he says tightly. "Stevie and I thought going out for Italian at a swanky restaurant sounded like a real ball. Thanks for introducing us to Antonio's, by the way."

"It is Bucky's favorite, after all," Steve says. From where he stands beside Bucky, Steve is far more relaxed, face neutral and polite, but Tony can tell he's bothered from the way his arms are crossed, his stance wide and stubborn.

"Ah …" Tony shakes his head. "Helen, you know Steve and Bucky."

"Captain Rogers. Sergeant Barnes." She nods; for some reason, there's a hint of amusement in her features. Tony can't figure out what's so funny, but that might be because Bucky's currently attempting to burn a hole through his skull with his eyes.

"Dr. Cho. Well, since we're here, why don't we eat together?" Steve says easily. There's no room for argument in his tone, but Helen simply shrugs easily.

"That sounds like a wonderful idea. Tony?"

He shoots her an irritated glare, and she smiles. "Yeah, sure, whatever."

"Swell. But first—if you'll excuse us, ma'am," Steve says pleasantly, hooking his arm around Tony, "we have to go powder our noses."

"That's fine. I'll get our table." Helen's gaze wanders as she waves over the maitre'd, and before Tony can sidle out from Steve's grip, Bucky's on his other side, wrapping his arm around his shoulders.

"But I'm not wearing any makeup," Tony protests to no avail. He shoots a desperate, pleading look at Helen over his shoulder, who mouths 'good luck' at him before following the maitre'd, the absolute traitor.

And then Bucky's shutting the door to the bathroom behind them, locking it with a click, and suddenly Steve's hands are no longer on his waist, but lower, eyes burning and full of want, and Tony represses a squeak.

"Apparently," Steve breathes, fingers squeezing handfuls of Tony's ass, "Bucky and I did not make ourselves clear enough."

And oh. Oh.

Tony is a fool.

"For a genius," Bucky murmurs in his ear. "You're real fuckin' slow to pick things up."

"This is okay, right?" Steve asks breathlessly. "I mean—"

"Is this—Christ, Steve, just fucking kiss me," Tony demands, and then Steve's kissing him, pushing him against the wall and pinning his hands there, and Tony makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, melting against the bigger man as Steve devours his mouth.

"You," Steve gasps between kisses, "are the most," his lips move down Tony's neck, and he shudders, clutching at Steve's head, "clueless man I have ever met."

"Do I get a turn?" Bucky murmurs, lips pressed to his ear, and Tony shudders, hand flying back to latch a hand tight in his hair, tugging it out of its bun.

"God, yes," He manages, and then Bucky's whirling him around and shoving his tongue down Tony's throat.

While Steve kisses are strong and sure, Bucky's are hot and messy with clashing tongues and nipping teeth, and Tony whimpers a little as Bucky's hand slide down to grab handfuls of his ass.

"Christ, look at him, Buck," Steve murmurs, low and moaning, and Bucky pulls away, leaving Tony swaying a little, gasping, painfully hard. Whatever he looks like, Bucky must approve, because the soldier groans low and throaty, eyes burning as he reaches out to slip his thumb along Tony's swollen lips and slide into his trembling mouth.

"D'you know," Bucky growls, "how much you get under me an' Stevies skins?" He leans forward, mouth inches from Tony's ear. "How much it aches to see you box with Happy and watch how your skin glistens with sweat?"

"You look gorgeous when you're panting and dripping," Steve adds, moving to Tony's other ear, hand moving to grab his hip possessively. "Or when your eyes light up when you've made a breakthrough—all sweet and innocent, I can't help but want to wreck you."

"Did you know you bite your lip when you're thinking?" Bucky asks. "God, your kisser gets so pretty, all swollen and red. Or those goddamn fingers of yours. Real long, aren't they, Stevie?"

"Graceful," Steve agrees, and Tony whimpers as the two take firm hold of his hands, jolting as Bucky flicks his tongue against two of his fingers, slow and torturous. Steve swallows three on his other hand down with a moan that vibrates, lips stretching around them, sucking, and Tony mewls, loud and shaky and desperate.

"F—fuck," Tony grinds out, fingers trembling, and the two release his fingers with a pop.

"Wanna taste you so bad," Bucky groans, nipping his fingers and reaching down to fondle his ass slow and sure. "Take that pretty cock of yours and make it weep, get you all loose and sloppy—"

"See you lose control," Steve pants, cupping the painful bulge in Tony's pants, rubbing and stroking firmly, and Tony shudders and arches into the touch with a needy moan, eyes rolling back. "Wanna make you beg for it, fuck you till you can't walk straight, make you mine— "

"Mine," Bucky hisses, licking up Tony's neck.

"Ours," they growl in unison, and it's too much, Steve grinding with one hand and pinching one nipple hard with the other, Bucky squeezing his ass possessively and sucking a hickey into his neck, and Tony comes with a high-pitched whine, stumbling as his legs give out from beneath him, utterly blissed out.

Steve catches him by sliding his arm around Tony's waist, grip firm and steady. "You good, sweetheart?" he murmurs, nibbling at Tony's ear.

"Tones?" Bucky slips a finger under Tony's chin and tilts his face toward him, gaze full of concern. "C'mon, Tin Can, say somethin'."

" … Oh," Tony finally manages, and the two laugh, Bucky rolling his eyes. In one fluid moment, Steve scoops him up into his arms, cradling him against his chest.

"Yeah, oh." Bucky pulls off his suit jacket and tucks it over Tony, kissing his forehead.

"This isn't exactly how either of us planned for this to go," Steve admits, a bit sheepish. "Thought you'd appreciate it if we tried to court you instead of just dragging you to bed with us."

"We thought you'd assume we saw you as a pushover, and we wanted to do right by you," Bucky says earnestly. "We've been carryin' torches for you for years now."

"I've been stuck on you since New York," Steve confesses.

"What a coincidence," Tony says under his breath, and Steve smiles, ducking his head.

"We wanted to give you more time to think about what you want from this. From us." Bucky nuzzles his cheek, pressing a kiss to Tony's brow. "Also, it was kind of fun to watch you squirm," he adds, and Steve elbows him. "What? It was cute."

"Wait a second." Tony stares at them both, eyes narrowing. "The—the popsicles?" He gasps in outrage at the twin smirks that appear on their faces. "Oh my god, that was on purpose! And—and the staring, and the sparring, and the shirtlessness—"

Bucky laughs. "Y'know, sweetheart, I'll be honest, I thought you'd figured it out that time with the nude painting and King T'Challa."

"We are sorry for jumping you like this," Steve says softly, stroking a thumb over Tony's still-swollen lips.

"I'm not," Bucky says with a shrug, and Steve rolls his eyes.

"My point is, I know we should have talked this out first, laid out boundary lines. A plan of attack, if you will." Tony snorts.

"We're serious, baby doll," Bucky says quietly. "This—us—Stevie and me, we don't want a one-time thing, and we're not lookin' for just sex."

"We want forever," Steve murmurs, eyes bright. "If that's what you want, we're ready to try. And … if not … well, Buck and I'll just have to be okay with that."

Tony looks at them both, taking in their expressions, so painfully hopeful. "I'm not young anymore." He exhales long and slow, searching their faces. "God, even—even if, by some miracle, this actually works out—I'm reckless and self-centered and arrogant and I just—I'm kind of a handful," Tony says, shaky laugh cutting off abruptly when their faces soften.

"Sugar, you're talking to an ex-assassin who spent over seventy years under the control of an evil neo-nazi terrorist organization," Bucky quips. "And don't even get me started on Steve."

Tony chuckles, but it comes out breathless, and his eyes burn with unshed tears. "Bucky, even if it works out … I'm not a super-soldier. I—I'm past forty. Statistically speaking, you'll probably get another three decades, if I'm lucky."

"Sweetheart," Steve says softly, "If we had three weeks, we would take those three weeks and cherish every moment of them."

"It would be worth every second," Bucky whispers, and Tony lets out a quiet noise, overwhelmed, eyes flicking back and forth between them.

"You two," he says finally, mouth curling up in a smile, shaking his head, "are the biggest fucking saps I have ever met."

Bucky laughs, Steve ducking his head with a smile, and it's a bright thing, and maybe Tony fucks up more than he fixes things, but god, this time, this time—he thinks maybe he's got it right.

Helen isn't surprised when Tony comes out of the bathroom in Captain Rogers' arms, half-hidden under Sergeant Barnes' suit jacket with his face buried in Captain Rogers' neck. She's seen the pictures in the tabloids, after all, and from the way cameras and phones are flashing, the three are about to end up plastered on the front page yet again.

To be honest, she wasn't even surprised when Tony had asked her out on the date—they'd been friends for years, after all, she knows what it looks like when he's in love, and that includes when he's trying to deny the fact—although she is impressed that both super-soldiers managed to track the two of them down so quickly.

Luckily for her, she'd spotted a few of her friends and joined them for dinner, awaiting her "date" to be officially "canceled". In any case, the pomegranate salad sounds delicious.

"Is that—Captain America?" Her friend Vanessa murmurs, craning her neck to gape at the three. "Oh my God, is that—the Winter Soldier?"

"Holy shit, that's Tony," Monique whispers. "Is he okay? What's going on?"

As the three pass by, Captain Rogers nods at her politely, but Sergeant Barnes glares at her before Captain Rogers drags him away by the hand. Really, it's kind of cute.

"I think it's fine," she says. "I hear they're a bit of a handful, but I think Tony can manage."

Monique and Vanessa shoot her dubious looks, and she shrugs, sipping her iced tea. She'd probably get a call from an angry Colonel demanding to know why she let this happen and several dozen teary texts from Ms. Potts bemoaning just how bad the two were for Tony, but now, lunch awaited, and she was very hungry.

(The pomegranate salad was delicious, by the way.)

i just have a lot of headcanons okay

also please review