Title: Wartime Sweethearts
Author: kototyph
Pairing/Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes/Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Tags: Threesome - F/M/M, World War II, Wartime Romance, Ficlets
Notes: porny ficlets no one asked for, inspired by a lovely little bit of Steve/Bucky/Peggy on tumblr by faun-songs. I would link you but ff dot net is the blackest, darkest hole on the internet ¯\_(ツ)_/¯


Part I

"Hey. Any of you Barnes?"

The private asking looks a decade too young to be caked with mud on the front in Ardennes, but what the hell does Bucky know? They all look too young to him. "Yeah? Something the matter?" he asks, still braced over the hood of their homely little Model GPW.

"Sorry, Sarge," the private says, sketching a belated half-salute. "Message from Miss— from Agent Carter. Captain Rogers wants a word."

"Why didn't he come down and tell me himself?" Bucky says, irritated. "We just got the damn maps laid out, he can have a word here."

The private gives an expansive shrug. "Dunno, Sarge. She just said to get you."

"Cap moving the meeting upstairs?" Gabe asks, pointing up the street at the grand hôtel that's hosting operations and officers' quarters. It's only missing half its roof; prime real estate in a battered town like this.

"Only Sergeant Barnes. She was real specific."

Dum-Dum's eyebrows are pulling into a thick hedge across his forehead, Morita squinting like the watery sun's in his eyes. Bucky looks down at the maps, sighs, and straightens up with a groan for the ache in his back. "Fine," he says. "Lead the way."

The private ambles off through camp, Bucky stalking along behind him. The two-star who's commanding this front nods as they walk past his tent and up the marble stairs to the hôtel's open doors. Crystal chandeliers drip light and sparkle into the dreary foyer, where radio equipment and extra ammunition are stacked in muddy squares. The fussy carpets are beige with ground-in muck.

"SSR find something new for us?" Bucky thinks to ask.

"No idea, Sarge," the private says. "Miss— I mean, Agent Carter, she just left for Reims with the colonel."

That makes Bucky pause at the landing, frowning at him. They were supposed to have the whole weekend with Peggy, something they'd been working to get for a solid two months. "What? She say why?"

The private shrugs again. "I dunno."

Bucky's had about enough of this kid. "Hey, I know how to get to quarters from here. Why don't you head back to your unit?"

The private throws him another sloppy salute and leaves Bucky to tackle the last three flights alone, until he reaches the once-sumptuous eighth-floor hallway the officers have claimed. Steve wouldn't have taken the royalty suite if they threw in all the dames in Paris, so the general had forced him into the one reserved for newlyweds with a hearty backslap and off-color references to "strategic" science. Steve'd turned the color of a surprised strawberry, and when they told her later Peggy had laughed, laughed and laughed and kissed Steve on one of his burning ears.

"Fucking Reims," Bucky mutters under his breath, striding down the hallway. "What the hell."

He gets to Steve's door and raps impatient knuckles against the painted wood. "Hey, Steve? You rang?"

Nothing for a second, then, "That you, Buck?"

Bucky scowls at the closed door. Steve's voice is low and a little raspy, like he's just woken up. "You called me up here, pal. You got a good reason for lying around while we do all the work?"

"You alone?"

Bucky rolls his eyes and turns the knob. "No, I got a whole brass ba— Jesus Christ."

"Close the door!" Steve squeaks, and Bucky steps in, slams and locks it behind him. There's no way he's missing out on this.

Someone— and Bucky has pretty good idea who— has wrapped Steve's wrists in his own belt and tied them to the headboard, leaving him stretched out on his stomach in the middle of the massive bed. He's bare to the waist, though the sheet pulled over his ass is almost too sheer to count as cover. Little marks and scratches from the nape of his neck down to the small of his back say as clear as anything a certain brown-eyed Kilroy was here.

"Jesus Christ," Bucky says again, slower and more appreciatively. "It's not even my birthday."

"Bucky," Steve groans, squirming against the bed. "C'mon, please, I'm about ready to—"

"Whoa, no, let me look at you," Bucky says, pulling off his gloves, his jacket, leaving his muddy boots and socks in a trail across the room. He kneels up on the bed, mattress dipping under his weight, and Steve blows sweat-damp hair out of his eyes and gives him a baleful glare.

"Buck—"

"Shhh," Bucky says with a growing grin. "Just look at you. Agent Carter strikes again."

"She said she felt bad about getting called away so suddenly," Steve grumbles, hiding his face in his arm. "Said she wanted to make it up to us."

"Yeah?" Bucky's tracing the gleaming line of Steve's spine, lingering at each bruise. Steve arches into the touch, a smooth ripple of muscle that makes the sheets slip scandalously low. "No complaints so far. What'd she do to you?"

"She didn't even take her clothes off," Steve says plaintively. Bucky lays a hand on the back of his thigh and his hips come off the bed. He has to swallow before he can get out, "She was her uniform with her hair all done up and she just—"

"Oh God," Bucky breathes, because a curious tug makes the sheets fall away completely and Peggy's made a fucking mess of Steve, his skin flushed and wet from taint to tailbone and his angry red cock bobbing with every needy twitch of his hips, smearing precome on the linens. His pinked-up hole clenches hungrily at nothing, just begging for Bucky's fingers, for anything.

And planted on the firm curve of his left asscheek, like the proverbial fucking cherry on top, is a single, perfect print of pursed lips in Besame Red Velvet.

"Oh, Mags," Bucky says worshipfully, both hands on Steve now, urging his legs wider. "Steve, you better marry this girl or I'll do it for you."

"Please," Steve says, hands making fists above his head as he spreads his knees. The wooden headboard groans at the pressure. "Bucky, c'mon, please."

Bucky throws a leg over Steve's calves and moves down the bed until he can kiss the ridiculously vivid patch of lipstick, laughing when Steve immediately bucks into his mouth. He imagines Peggy, olive lapels ruler-straight and curls neat as a pin, tying Steve to his own damn bed and marking him up with her mouth, with her clever little tongue until he's incoherent and aching for it. Then sitting back, pulling out her lipstick cool as you please, and leaving him here like this. For Bucky.

"Need you," Steve says pleadingly.

"Getting there," Bucky says, running a thumb just shy of that slick furl, following the line between thigh and groin and back. Steve cants his ass up like a pin-up girl. "Fuck, you're perfect. What else did she say?"

Steve mumbles something into the pillows, then yelps when Bucky bites him on the other cheek, perfect mirror to Peggy's lipstick. "She s-said she should be back. Before night. She's bringing us wine?"

"Fancy," Bucky comments with a smirk. He tongues a brief kiss right between the marks and listens with satisfaction as Steve's breath hiccups. Under Bucky's hands, his hips start to flex in rhythm.

"She said— she made me promise I wouldn't come, wouldn't, ah, until you were here," he gasps. "God! Bucky!"

Bucky makes a little, "Mmm," sound, the most he can do while licking broad and dirty up the seam of Steve's balls, faint taste of lipstick in his mouth and smeared over his lips as he rubs his face between Steve's thighs and makes his moan crack in two. "Anything else?"

"No, no, just—" Steve shudders and swears, low and helpless as Bucky teases him with soft pressure, lips and teeth running idly over sensitive flesh. "Fuck, no, I'm ready, I want…"

Bucky makes an inquiring noise, lapping harder while his fingers dig into the meat of Steve's legs, holding him open. Steve's body clutches weakly at his tongue, looser than he should be, and Bucky pulls back enough to ask, "You want… what? Want me to finish what Peggy started?"

"Yes." Steve nods furiously against the pillows and makes Bucky laugh again.

"Dunno, Stevie," he says in between lewd, open-mouthed kisses, the kind that send quakes up Steve's back and make his breath shake out of him in shocky little grunts. "Maybe I should wait for her. I'd hate to step on her toes."

"No, she— she said she wanted t-to make sure we, God Bucky—" Steve humps back without any finesse onto Bucky's tongue, loosing a sharp sound of protest when Bucky eases back. "Make sure we didn't miss her. While she's gone."

Bucky has to smile at that, if ruefully. "Like that'd work."

Steve sighs. "Told her so."

"Miss her already," Bucky says, not even half joking as he lets his words warm spit-slick skin, thumb rubbing up and down over Steve's grasping rim. "If Peggy was here, someone could give you a hand with that."

That being Steve's dick, so hard it's curved up to point at his navel, pearly white leaking in sticky drops from the head. When he catches Bucky's meaning Steve cranes his head back to stare imploringly at him. "You've got two hands," he says breathlessly. "You can't spare one?"

"Nope. Fully occupied," Bucky says, squeezing pointedly. "Guess you'll have to make due."

"Buck, I can't—"

"I bet you can," Bucky says, ducking his head and laving one tightly drawn ball into his mouth. Steve gives a whine that shoots up three octaves when Bucky sucks, slow and hard, and releases it. "Bet you can come just from this."

"At least— fingers," Steve pants, rocking back desperately. "Please?"

"Depends," Bucky drawls, pushing his thumb in just the tiniest bit into wet warmth and listening to Steve try to catch his breath. "How many did Peggy use?"

Steve snaps the headboard in half when he comes around three of Bucky's fingers, back bowing, body twisting as he pushes himself onto Bucky's hand with a hoarse yell and rides it out in frantic, jerky motions. Bucky bites into the tender join of his neck and shoulder, stroking quick and deep until Steve's sobbing out high, wordless whimpers.

"Oops," Bucky says a bit later, sitting up to survey the damage while Steve slowly melts into the dirty sheets, belt loose and frayed around his wrists. "We'll have to clean that up before Peggy sees."

"Mmhm," Steve hums, eyes closed.

"Hey, no sleeping." Bucky smacks his ass, already rosy and no doubt sore from earlier slaps. Steve jumps. "We've got people to see, maps to cuss at."

Steve opens one sleepy eye, and frowns. "Y'didn't come?"

Bucky looks down at his crotch with exaggerated surprise. He's still wearing his uniform pants, though the rough cotton is sticking unpleasantly to the sweaty creases of his body. "How about that. Lucky for me our girl is coming home tonight, huh?"

Steve gets his arms under his chest and heaves himself up, looking blearily determined. Bucky lets him lean in but swats his fingers away from his fly, reaching up instead to ruffle the hair haloed gold around his red face. Steve scowls.

"Leave it," Bucky whispers, kissing him brief and sweet. "I've got plans."

"Yeah?" Steve says, swaying forward when Bucky pulls back.

"Hell, yes. I'm going to lay you out for her tonight, Stevie," he murmurs, pulling Steve's solid weight closer until he's mostly in his lap. "I'll fuck you for hours. As long as it takes her get here. By the time she climbs all those stairs with her fancy French wine you'll be so desperate she won't have to do more than kiss you." He kisses Steve again, harder, and smiles when it prompts a blissful sound in his throat. "Just like that. You won't remember your goddamn name when we're done with you, Cap."

Nestled semi-soft against Bucky's arm, Steve's dick twitches interestedly. Bucky raises an eyebrow.

"It's the serum," Steve protests.

"Oh, sure it is," Bucky answers. "Get your pants on, Captain America. The Howlies'll think we left for the Rhine without 'em."