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John And Bucky's Tentative Exploration And Dancing Ariund Each Other? Poetry - Blog Posts
Unholy Trinity
Summary : You're casually sleeping with Bucky and John. Not at the same time—until you are.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) x John Walker
Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers!!!!!! Tower fic! Implied threesome (MMF), Bi! reader, Bi! Bucky, Bi! John, Tech specialist! reader, it’s mentioned that you’re Ava’s ex, internalised homophobia, sexual identity exploration, past trauma (religious and societal repression), cursing, polyamory themes. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)
Word count : 9.3k
Requested by : Anon (Based on this request)
Note : As always, sex in my writing isn’t too detailed and not the centerpiece, but rather a storytelling tool. This fic is less about the threesome and more about the reader helping Bucky and John come to terms with their sexuality. I’m tagging the general Bucky taglist, but please ignore this if it’s not your thing. Enjoy!
They didn’t need another super soldier.
They had too many of those. What they desperately needed was someone who could reprogram a Stark-level firewall with one hand while defusing a biometric kill-switch with the other, or someone whose thoughts could move faster than a repurposed HYDRA drone and who could keep their head cool enough during a mission gone wrong so they could reroute a way out.
When Ava muttered, “I have someone,” the rest of the New Avengers raised their eyebrows.
Then, Ava said your name.
Yelena twirled a knife between her fingers. “You sure that’s a good idea? You told me she nearly blew up your apartment that one time.”
Ava rolled her eyes and looked down at her boots. “We’ve grown since then.”
You had grown. A lot.
The breakup hadn’t been graceful. There were tears, there was even a screaming match in a Denny’s parking lot that still lived rent-free in both your heads. You had called her “a quantum-emotional black hole,” and she had told you to go “code a conscience.”
Yes, it had hurt, but that was years ago. Now, you both have healed. Mostly.
When the team asked who the hell you were, Ava crossed her arms and said, “She’s… my ex.”
—
The first day Ava brought you into the team, you walked into the tower with a casual confidence that came from having seen some serious shit and come out the other end smarter.
“Hi,” you said, with a crooked smile. “I’m the tech gremlin Ava warned you about.”
Alexei boomed, “Welcome, gremlin!” and clapped you on the back so hard you nearly stumbled. Yelena snorted and shook your hand. Bob waved from behind a magazine.
That was when you felt two eyes watching you.
Bucky turned toward you, his eyes scanning you from head to toe. His face was unreadable, but his teeth clenched slightly as he studied in the way you moved, the way you owned the space around you without trying. His voice, when he spoke, was almost thoughtful.
“Good to have you here,” he said, like he meant it. Like he wasn’t just saying hello, but figuring out how to categorise you in his mind. You caught the flicker of curiosity in his eyes— the kind felt like… interest.
John didn’t even pretend not to stare. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest, and gave you a once-over that could only be described as bold. He ran a hand through his hair, almost reflexively, like he’d suddenly become aware of what he looked like.
“Well,” he said, dragging the word out just enough to make it suggestive. “Ava wasn’t kidding.”
You tilted your head. “What?”
He smirked unapologetically. “Trouble.”
—
It didn’t take long for the team to realise you weren’t just a tech genius, you were now fully committed to being their tech genius. You made the tower feel less like a military base and more like a home with a working AI that cracked corny jokes that you programmed, a custom coffee bar that responded to voice commands, and a training sim you programmed to replicate everything from underground bunkers to Waffle House at 2 a.m.
As expected, Ava adjusted to you faster than anyone. Maybe it was the years of history. After the first week, she stopped introducing you as her ex and just started calling you her friend.
You soon realised you still fight like you did before — a reason why this relationship would never work— but now, the two of you high-fived when you cooled off.
Growth, right?
Besides, you might not love her like that anymore, but you still liked each other as people.
Yelena warmed up to you in her own way. The first time she watched you dismantle a Chitauri drone with a spork and some chewing gum, she nudged your shoulder and declared, “I like you.” After that, you two started tag-teaming pranks. You were the brains, she was the brawn. Bob started avoiding both of you in the mornings.
Speaking of Bob— he liked you from the second you complimented the topping on his sandwich. It didn’t take long to figure out that the key to staying on Bob’s good side was noticing the small things—especially the ones he’d clearly put effort into. Whether it was a meticulously layered lunch or a new patch sewn onto his jacket, a little encouragement went a long way. Bob cared, and he noticed when you cared back.
Alexei decided you were family the moment you added a cooling system into his old Red Guardian suit. He cried a little, and you pretended not to notice. He started calling you "little hacker bear," which you endured with a sigh and a hidden smile.
But it was Bucky and John who were... complicated.
They were never outright fighting, not over you, but there was some kind of tension there.
Bucky would suddenly appear next to you during team meetings, John would offer to “help” on any mission you signed onto. It was like they were both orbiting you but never said anything since… they didn't even know you liked men.
Until…
It was sometime after midnight— Ava, Yelena, and you all gathered in the kitchen, raiding the snack stash and talking nonsense. Between spoonfuls of Nutella and sips of juice, the conversation had shifted to hookups and exes.
“I don’t really have a type,” you said, tapping the spoon against your lip. “But Ava’s still the most chaotic person I’ve ever dated.”
Ava rolled her eyes, orange juice in hand. “You’re just mad I called you a 'human rootkit' that one time.”
“One time?” you repeated incredulously. “You said it on my birthday.”
Yelena chuckled and bit into her cookie. “Wait, wait, I need a ranking. Who’s number one on your disaster list?”
“Oh, easy,” you said. “I once hooked up with a guy who tried to implant a chip in my spine during sex.”
Yelena choked on a chocolate chip and burst into laughter. “What?! Who does that?”
“That’s not a hookup,” Ava rolled her eyes, “that’s an assassination attempt.”
“Yeah, well,” you shrugged, “Sue me. He had a great jawline.”
Yelena wiped a tear from her eye. “I still don’t get how you both do the dating thing. Romance seems like... too much paperwork.”
You chuckled. “That’s because you’re not built for emotional bureaucracy, Lena.”
Then came the sound—clunk—something hitting the floor behind you.
You glanced over your shoulder.
Bucky was standing in the kitchen doorway like someone had blue-screened his brain, his eyes just a little too wide. Next to him, John blinked, mouth half-open like he’d just discovered a cheat code.
Ava frowned. “You okay?”
Still, nothing. It was almost as if the two of them turned into statues.
Yelena tilted your head. “Let them be.”
You all turned back to your snack, brushing it off like it was nothing.
But Bucky’s mind was racing. She dates guys? She dates—oh. Okay. Okay, noted. Calm down.
John, meanwhile, was already recalibrating his entire mindset. Bi. She’s bi. That’s... that’s a green light, right? That counts. I'm still in this.
You smiled just a little wider as you took another bite of Nutella. Oh, You thought to yourself, they didn't know.
—
It was a lazy afternoon when Ava found you leaning against the railing of the upper balcony overlooking the tower’s gym. Your elbows rested on the metal bar, your eyes locked on the sparring mat below like a cat watching her prey.
Bucky and John were sparring.
Both of them were in sleeveless shirts, their muscles slick with sweat, fabric clinging to their bodies. Every movement was fast and brutal, calculated but controlled punches delivered by two men who knew how to hit where it hurt. The sound of fists meeting flesh echoed through the rafters rhythmically like the world’s most aggressive metronome.
You bit your lip as Bucky landed a clean hit to John’s ribs. John growled, retaliating with a shove that sent Bucky back, just enough to bait him. Then they were grappling— Bucky flipping John onto his back with a twist, only for John to wrap his legs around Bucky’s waist and counter. Your brain short-circuited for a moment.
A small, involuntary sigh escaped your lips.
Behind you, Ava flickered into solid matter and groaned. “No. No, no, no. Don’t even think about it.”
You feigned innocence, even though you were unable to keep your eyes off them. “Think about what?”
“Them!”
You arched an eyebrow. “Jealous?”
“Oh please,” she rolled her eyes, almost fondly. “I’m over you. You leave your wet towels on the bed and talk through movies.”
“But you loved it,” you teased.
“I was deluded.”
“Then why do you care who I ogle?”
Ava gestured aggressively toward the mat, where Bucky now had John pinned, forearm pressed to his chest. “Because I’m trying to save you from yourself. That—” she waved again, exasperated, “is more testosterone for any one girl to handle.”
You hummed, eyes drifting back down. Bucky smirked—he was enjoying this match. John wasn’t exactly fighting him off.
“…Still,” you whispered, mouth dry, “I could die happy.”
Ava gave you a look of utter betrayal. “I am begging you— please get a vibrator and some standards.”
You shrugged, smug.
“Fine,” she sighed, “Just don’t come crying to me when one of them broods in your bed for six hours and the other tries to impress you by bench-pressing a motorcycle.”
You rested your head on your hands and kept admiring the view. “Sounds kind of hot.”
She gave you a deadpan stare, but there was affection tucked under the exasperation. “So was Pompeii.”
You both fell into a companionable silence, leaning side by side on the railing. Below, John reversed the pin and shoved Bucky to the mat, bodies tangled, both panting like they needed to tear each other apart or make out about it.
Maybe Ava was right. Maybe this was a terrible idea.
But terrible ideas never looked this good.
—
The first time Bucky did anything about his little crush on you, it was in the kitchen.
After weeks of glances and flirtation, you and Bucky finally broke.
He was cooking that night.
That alone had caught you off guard. The vision of a man built like a brick house and shaped by decades violence, calmly slicing onions like he was born with a chef’s knife in one hand and a combat knife in the other was… something. He had his sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, brow furrowed in focus. His movements were measured, even now.
His human forearm flexed as he chopped.
You leaned against the counter, letting your eyes roam freely. “Didn’t peg you for the domestic type, chef.”
Without looking up, he replied, “Didn’t peg you for someone who talks this much, at first.”
Your eyebrow arched. “That supposed to be an insult?”
He finally glanced your way. “It’s just… true.”
With Bucky, everything felt like it could tilt into something else if you pushed too hard — or not hard enough. You’d been dancing around this for weeks.
Tonight, you reached.
You brushed past him, on purpose, to grab a spice jar. His arm shot out, catching your wrist mid-motion. Not hard, not rough, just… firm.
“You’re in my space,” he warned, almost amused.
You looked up at him through your lashes. “You gonna make me move?”
His eyes dropped to your mouth. “You like playing with fire?”
“Wouldn’t you like to find out?” You taunted, stepping closer.
That was all it took.
He moved forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like a nuclear detonation. His hands were on your waist, dragging you against him, mouth hungry like he’d wanted this forever and finally stopped trying to resist.
But even then—he pulled back, just enough to breathe.
“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to yours. “I need to hear it.”
You reached up, tugged the tie from his hair, and let his hair fall.
“I want this,” you confirmed. “I want you, Bucky.”
The look in his eyes was electric, like your words lit a fuse.
You barely heard the clatter of the spice jar hitting the floor.
“Upstairs. Now,” he growled against your lips, breath ragged.
You grinned, dizzy from his mouth. “Bossy.”
He grabbed your chin, fingers pressing just enough to make you gasp. “No. Just in control.”
You didn’t walk to your room. You stumbled and tripped. Bucky shoved you inside like he couldn’t wait another second—like he’d combust if he didn’t have you now.
He didn’t undress you. He destroyed your clothes, like fabric was just an obstacle between his hands and your skin. His mouth followed, trailing heat and teeth and filthy sounds.
His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wide.
“You wanna act smart,” he murmured, dragging his mouth along your collarbone, “but this—” his fingers slid between your legs, satisfied with the sleek heat, “—this doesn’t lie.”
You gasped, loudly.
He chuckled darkly before pulling back. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
And then, he wrecked you.
He fucked like he fought. He pinned your wrists above your head and made you beg without ever asking for it. Every breath he dragged from your lungs belonged to him. The bruises he left weren’t careless, they were crafted.
Perhaps, after so many years without control, he craved it in other ways.
You weren’t complaining.
And when you came, you saw white.
You didn’t even know your own name for a moment. Just the sound of his voice growling filth in your ear and the press of his body, too hot, too good, too much.
Then, when your body was trembling from aftershocks and your back had slid down the wall—he crouched in front of you, sweaty hair falling into his face, pupils blown wide. He kissed your thigh, then your knee.
“Not done,” he said roughly. “Not even close.”
Much, much later, you lay tangled in his sheets, his hand splayed over your hip, thumb idly stroking a bruise he’d left with his teeth.
You turned your head lazily. “Just so you know… I’m seeing other people.”
He didn’t look at you, but blinked up at the ceiling like he was processing it.
“That okay?” you asked.
“I told myself I didn’t want anything serious,” he said carefully.
“And now?”
His eyes finally met yours. “It’s still okay.”
You smiled, smug. But his grip on your hip tightened, just a little. Just enough to remind you who put those bruises there.
“Just make sure they don’t leave marks I can see,” he warned. “Because I will cover them up.” His mouth brushed your shoulder. “With mine.”
—
You and John started in your workspace.
It wasn’t planned. It sure as hell wasn’t smart.
John Walker didn’t do subtle, and he didn’t really do hard boundaries, either. He just strolled in one afternoon—boots echoing against concrete, hands in his pockets, that shit-eating grin already stretching across his face.
“Whatcha workin’ on, genius?” he asked, giving a peek to his southern charm.
You didn’t look up, though you smiled. You just kept working, fingers moving with precision over the exposed wiring of a decapitated drone.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” you teased.
He moved closer and leaned in. Your teeth clenched when his breath skimmed your neck.
“Not when I’ve got the best view in the building,” he said, like it was obvious.
You finally glanced over. “You flirt like a linebacker with a head injury,” you pointed out playfully.
He laughed. “It’s working, is it?”
John kept showing up after that. You kept pretending he was a nuisance. He asked stupid questions just to make you roll your eyes. Sometimes you caught him watching your hands while you worked— like he was wondering if they could dismantle him as easily as they dismantled a machine.
By the fourth visit, you flirted back. You didn’t expect him to love it. But he did, as if you’d flipped a switch in him he didn’t know he had.
By the next visit, you had him against the wall,your fingers twisted in his collar, mouths crashing like you were trying to win a war through friction. He gasped into it, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to touch until you grabbed his wrist and put it on your waist.
See, John didn’t take control like Bucky did.
John gave it up.
Maybe, after years of being on top of the chain of field command, he now just wanted to follow orders.
“You want this?” you asked, lips brushing his jaw.
“Yes,” he groaned. “Fuck, yes. Just—tell me what to do.”
So you did.
You pushed him down to his knees on the cold concrete floor. He didn’t hesitate. Looked up at you with flushed cheeks, eyes wide, tongue wetting his lower lip, palms pressed to your thighs.
You used him, and he liked it.
He made sounds like prayer— muffled, desperate, needy. And when you came with your hand in his hair and his name tangled in your throat, he looked prouder than he did when he got a medal of honour.
Later when your bodies were tangled in sweat-stuck sheets, he sat on the edge of your bed, bare-chested, his hands twitching like they didn’t know how to relax around you.
“I’m not lookin’ for anything serious,” he said suddenly, voice quieter. His back was to you. “Got a kid. A real messy life. Divorce. Not yet, at least.”
You reached for the sheet, tugging it over your chest. “Same, I…,” you hesitated, but then realised you needed to be honest. “I’m seeing other people, too,” you added carefully.
He froze as you watched the breath catch in his throat before he forced himself to nod.
“Cool,” he said, but his voice cracked. He reached down and started picking at a loose thread on your blanket like it might hold him together. You tilted your head.
“You sure?” you asked, not unkindly.
He turned back to you then. All that Walker bravado was stripped away. He was just a man now— a little bruised, a little confused, but also… satisfied.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice rougher and forcing a smile. “Long as I still get to see you.”
—
This was fine. It had to be fine.
You’d been honest with them—at least technically. You told them you weren’t exclusive, told them you were seeing other people.
What you didn’t tell them—what you hadn’t figured out how to say—was that the other person was each other.
You didn’t plan for things to get this tangled. At first, it really was casual — nothing more than mutual attraction carefully packaged in boundaries you thought would keep everyone safe.
But those lines blurred fast.
Because it didn’t feel casual when Bucky touched you. Not when he held your face like it was made of gold, or kissed you like he was trying to edit your past and write himself into every footnote. His control made you drown in your own body, in the best possible way.
And it didn’t feel casual when John looked at you like you were a miracle. Like every time you gave him an order was a gift and he didn’t know what he did to deserve it. He pleased you with a grin and a groan— and then he’d hold you afterward, tighter than you’d ever asked him to.
They were both rough— just in different ways.
Bucky fucked you like he had to, like he was afraid it was the last time, like he needed to memorise you. Like if he touched you hard enough, long enough, the world would stop trying to take things from him.
John fucked you like he wanted to, like every touch was a prize, like he couldn't believe you kept letting him back in. Like he was proud to be wanted, even if only for the night.
You weren’t supposed to catch feelings. Not for either of them.
Definitely not for both.
But then you started smiling when you heard their footsteps. You reached for both of them in your sleep sometimes, not knowing who you were dreaming about.
Every other night, almost like clockwork, one of them would find their way to your door.
You actually had to make a chart. A chart, because you were starting to forget who liked which pillow, who left bruises and who left bite marks. You were scheduling orgasms like mission briefings, trying not to moan the other’s name by mistake— because you could not choose. You held affection for them equally, and it hurt too much to let either of them go. It got to the point where you were on your knees for John in the sauna, still tasting Bucky’s name in your mouth. Or bent over Bucky’s bathtub, still sore from the night before, as he grunted your name against your throat.
And it wasn’t just about the sex anymore.
Bucky started learning your habits like clockwork. He remembered which tea helped when your anxiety hit at 2 a.m. He kept your favourite blanket folded on the couch and would wrap you in it without a word when you looked too far away in your thoughts. On missions, he always messaged when he could, just a single “Still breathing” or a blurry photo of him with his thumbs up. And when he knew he’d be gone too long, he pre-ordered your favourite takeaway to arrive during dinner time.
John, in his own chaotic way, made a ritual of “jogging” every morning, conveniently ending his route at your favorite coffee shop. The baristas all knew your order by now, and somehow, he always remembered to ask if you needed anything added— extra syrup on bad days, oat milk when your stomach was off. The cup would be in your hands before you were even fully awake, a lopsided smile on his face like he hadn’t just run three miles to bring it to you.
Afterward, when your bodies were tangled and the room smelled like sweat, they both let you talk about anything and everything. Bucky would lie behind you, chin resting on your shoulder, his fingers tracing shapes into your skin, humming low while you vented about broken code. The next night, John would lie there shirtless, grinning like your voice was the soundtrack to his day, chiming in with half-jokes even when he had no idea what you were talking about.
They didn’t interrupt. They didn’t try to fix you. But Bucky always made sure your favorite hoodie was warm before you put it on. John picked up extra snacks at the store he thought you’d like and left them on your desk without a word.
With them, you didn’t have to perform. You could just be.
Neither of them never really asked who else you slept with, not in any way that mattered.
Maybe, they just didn’t want to know.
Then… you started watching them.
Not in a weird way.
But you had to. Because somewhere between the fourth orgasm of the week and realising you were genuinely worried about hurting their feelings, you started noticing… things.
You’d catch it in the small stuff first — how Bucky would shift his stance slightly when someone mentioned John’s name. He wasn’t annoyed, it was just… tense.
Or how John would crack a playful joke at Bucky's expense with just a little too much nervous laughter. Like he was trying to prove it didn’t get under his skin.
You told yourself it was nothing. Just two men with history, different temperaments, too much testosterone and too many kills between them.
But then came the moments that weren’t so easy to brush off.
Like during training, John tossed Bucky a practice knife with that cocky little grin he got when he was showing off. Bucky catching it mid-air without even glancing up, tossing it back with an underhand spin John blinked, just once—but his ears went a little pink.
Or in the gym, they loved sparring with each other, circling like wolves. You were pretty sure it wasn’t just competitive. Bucky would push a little too hard, like he was daring John to pin him. And John did— just a second too long, straddling Bucky’s hips before standing up too fast, like he suddenly remembered where he was.
In the field, too. One time, a mission went sideways, and Bucky took a hit meant for John— just a graze, but it was messy. And John, who rarely ever panicked, looked like the ground had dropped out from under him. He didn’t even realise he’d said Bucky’s name three times until Yelena touched his shoulder in an attempt to calm him down.
Then, Bob would complain after walking out of the locker room, telling you John and Bucky had stood side by side as they changed shirts. Apparently, according to Bob, neither looked, but their necks were tense like they were fighting not to.
The week after that, after a tough fight, John was bleeding from a cut along his ribs. You were too tired to play nurse, so Bucky offered. You watched him clean the wound with a gentleness that was only usually reserved for you. John didn’t flinch, he didn’t even look away. When Bucky finally stepped back, he said, “Should’ve been more careful.”
John, who usually scowled when Ava patched him up, answered quietly. “I know.”
Bucky didn’t answer.
One night, they both even showed up at your office for a little visit—separately, but close enough that the timing got awkward. You made up some excuse about being busy dismantling Yelena’s widow bites to send them both away.
As they stood at the door, Bucky glanced at John. “New haircut?”
John blinked. “Yeah. You noticed?”
Bucky shrugged. “Suits you.”
John’s ears turned red. “Thanks.”
They didn’t make eye contact again before leaving.
That was the first time you really saw it. The… shape of it. It became too persistent to ignore.
Because the more you studied them, the more you started to understand.
Bucky had grown up in a time when you didn’t talk about attraction unless it was for a woman in a red dress. And John… John had that Southern-boy thing. That “yes sir, no sir, God bless America” kind of upbringing that didn’t leave a lot of room for nuance.
Neither of them had been homophobic, but there was shame woven into their bones. Silent, inherited shame, that you once felt yourself, woven so deeply they didn’t even recognise it. They didn’t know what to do with the tension, the quick glances, the way their bodies leaned toward each other before jerking back.
So they wrote it off, buried it.
But you saw it. Because you were sleeping with both of them. Because you knew how they kissed. How they touched. How they looked at each other the same way they looked at you.
And sometimes… you caught yourself wondering, What if they kissed each other?
Would Bucky be gentle at first, like he didn’t trust it to be real? Would John go still before melting into it like he always did so desperately?
Would it change everything?
—
The week later, you watched above as the gear room buzzed with noise— velcro was ripping, gear shifting, metal clinking, and the buzz of fluorescent lights filled the room.
Bucky and John were prepping side by side.
They moved like practicing dance— a precise, practiced choreography of compression shirts, tactical pants, holsters, buckles, and chest plates snapping into place.
Bucky leaned forward to check his knives, his shoulder brushing John’s.
John didn’t flinch or step away. Instead, he smirked the kind of smile that was either a challenge or a dare.
“You’re slow today, Grandpa,” he said, trying to sound casual, like he wasn’t paying too much attention. Like he hadn’t noticed the contact, but his eyes slid sideways, catching the line of Bucky’s jaw.
Bucky didn’t glance up. “You’re being too skittish. Rookie nerves?”
John chuckled. “Just don’t wanna carry your corpse out of another blown-up warehouse.”
That made Bucky pause. He turned, eyes sharp but not hostile. “You couldn’t lift me if you tried.”
John stepped in, barely an inch closer. “You want me to try?”
For a second, neither moved.
They stood there— inches apart, shoulders squared, as if they were two lions deciding whether to bite or bare their throats.
From the upper level of the gear bay, Ava walked in and settled beside you.
“Jesus,” Ava whistled low at the sight of the two supersoldiers. “Either they’re about to punch each other, or they’re about to make out on the bench.”
You didn’t look away. “Honestly?” You sighed, “Either would make it so much easier on me.”
Ava turned her head cautiously. “What… did you do?”
You sighed again. “Them.”
She choked on her spit. “What?”
“Not at the same time,” you added quickly, raising both hands in surrender. “It just… happened.”
“Oh my god,” she breathed, laughing somewhere between horrified and impressed. “You actually did it. You overachiever.”
You shrugged helplessly, eyes drifting back to the scene below.
John was brushing imaginary lint off Bucky’s chest now. Bucky swatted at his hand—but not really. Then adjusted a strap on John’s vest, muttering something that made John roll his eyes. But he didn’t move away, not even when Bucky tugged the strap tighter than necessary.
You tilted your head, frowning. “You ever think…”
Ava cut in. “That they might be bi? Uh, yeah. Look at them. They’re two seconds away from full Top Gun volleyball.”
You heard a voice behind you.
“Oh, those two?”
You turned to find Yelena approaching—completely unfazed, chewing a bubblegum.
She shrugged. “Bob and I have a bet going on who’s gonna come out first. He thinks Walker. I say Barnes.”
You chuckled.
Below, John reached over Bucky’s shoulder for a carabiner and absolutely did not need to drag the back of his hand across Bucky’s chest to do it.
You crossed your arms tighter, heart thudding in your chest as you watched them move around each.
Maybe, just maybe, you weren’t the only one tangled up between the lines.
—
The mission had been a goddamn mess— a high-risk information extraction in tight hallways with zero visibility and bodies coming from every direction. When they were done, getting out felt more like an escape than a strategy. Bucky’s shoulder was wrecked, John’s knuckles were split, raw, and bloodied.
The flight back was quiet.
No banter or bickering— just the hum of adrenaline simmering beneath the surface. Now, back in the Tower, they sat in the locker room, stripping out of kevlar, breathing hard.
John was the first to speak up.
“Christ,” he said. “I need to blow off some steam.”
Across from him, Bucky sat hunched forward on the bench, forearms resting on his knees, head bowed. His breathing had steadied, but his heart was ticking like a clock.
“Yeah,” Bucky said, “Me too.”
John leaned back, swiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “What’s your method? Gym? Whiskey?”
Bucky’s head tilted slightly, and like a match had just been struck from behind his eyes. “I’ve got someone.”
John narrowed his eyes. “Someone?”
“Yeah.” Bucky didn’t volunteer any names or details, but his tone changed. It wasn’t cocky— but it was almost a private kind of smug satisfaction.
John’s brow furrowed. “In the Tower?”
Bucky gave a small nod. “Mhm.”
John’s posture shifted. He sat up straighter, body suddenly more alert than it had been during the mission. “Wait. Who?”
John ran through the options quickly, mentally eliminating names like a checklist. Not Ava—definitely a lesbian. Yelena’s ace. Mel was too young for either of them, and no one liked Val. Bucky was straight, right? Which left…
“No,” John said aloud, mostly to himself. “No fucking way.”
Bucky didn’t say a word and started wrapping his shoulder with compression tape.
John’s stomach dropped. His throat tightened. “…You’re not talking about—”
Bucky’s eyes lifted to meet his. “Why?” He arched a brow. “You got a guess?”
A part of John didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to know. But his brain was already lining up all the pieces.
The look you gave Bucky after missions. The scratches he didn’t remember leaving that definitely weren’t left by human hands. The way Bucky looked at you sometimes—like he was starving and angry about it. In hindsight, it was obvious.
“I…” John cleared his throat, suddenly unsure of how his voice worked. “Yeah. I do.”
And then, he said your name.
Bucky didn’t deny it.
John stared at him—and for the first time, he saw the cuts, the bruises, the fact that he looked like he was safeguarding his own heart.
“I…” John hesitated, “I am, too,” he finally choked out, barely audible.
There it was.
It all… clicked.
All of it. The missing hours. The bruises in the same spots. The way your voice always changed when you talked about “seeing someone else.”
“Oh fuck,” Bucky sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re the other guy.”
John sighed, “You’re the other guy.”
They stared at each other. Both had trained for war, both had been through too much, but this kind of realisation was... different.
Not because you lied; you hadn’t. You’d been honest from the beginning. You just never told them it was each other.
And now, they were too deep to pretend it didn’t matter.
—
Your room was dim, bathed in the amber glow of the bedside salt lamp. Outside the Tower, the city glittered like spilled stars against the velvet in your room. You were in satin— shorts riding high, camisole slipping from one shoulder.
You hadn’t dressed for anyone but yourself, yet somehow, you found yourself excited when someone knocked on your door.
Barefoot, you walked to the door of your quarters and opened it.
There they stood, both John and Bucky.
John’s eyes burned — wounded and questioning, but desperate not to show either. Bucky, flexed his metal wrist like he couldn’t decide whether to knock again or slam it into the wall.
“Well,” you breathed out, leaning against the doorframe, “either someone died… or you two finally figured it out.”
John brushed past you and entered without a word, while Bucky lingered a second longer, his eyes dragging over the line of your throat, the slope of your bare shoulder. before stepping in and closing the door.
“Make yourselves at home,” you said dryly, but your heartbeat was thundering beneath your skin.
You sank into the couch, letting your legs drape sideways. They didn’t sit.
They circled — not around you — but around each other.
“You should’ve told us,” John said. “Told me.”
“Told you what?” You tilted your head. “That I wasn’t exclusive? I did.”
“No,” Bucky interjected. “That we were both seeing you.”
“And if I had, what?” you arched a brow, “You would’ve compared notes? Flipped a coin?”
John’s lips tightened. “You could’ve said something.”
“You’re just mad you didn’t figure it out on your own,” Bucky grumbled under his breath.
“I should’ve,” John snapped back. “You acted like you owned her.”
“And you weren’t?” Bucky scoffed. “Always marking your territory—”
“Don’t tell me how I—”
You cut in, too tired for this frankly pointless argument. “Is this really about me?” Your voice was more silent now. “Because it feels like you’re trying to fight each other through me.”
John stopped moving. Bucky’s shoulders dropped.
You leaned back, the satin pulling tighter over your thigh, and both their eyes flicked there instinctively, before snapping up with visible guilt. You sighed, resting your arms on the couch behind you.
“If it helps…” you said, treading carefully, “I think you might be into each other, too.”
The look they had behind their eyes was like dropping a match into oil.
“What the hell are you talking about?” John barked.
“No,” Bucky said at the same time. Not angry—terrified.
You tilted your head. “You fight like people who want to fuck or cry, maybe both. You get jealous like people who haven’t admitted how badly they want the other.”
They didn’t speak.
“I’ve had both of you,” you continued, voice intimate now. “I know how you touch. How you look when you want someone. How you breathe when you're holding yourself back. And I see it when you look at each other.”
Bucky looked away first. John opened his mouth before closing it again.
You leaned forward, now pulling the trigger with a statement. “You’re angry because you’re not sure which one of us you’re more jealous of.”
Just like that, they panicked and started talking over each other again, as if they just went into survival mode. “I’m not into guys—” “He’s not my type, at all—” “This is ridiculous—” “She’s deflecting—” “I’m straight—” “So am I!—”
You shifted, letting the silence take its course. The camisole slipped gently off one shoulder, and it pulled their eyes whether they wanted it to or not.
“Boys,” you sighed, barely above a whisper.
They froze. Their breathing slowed—almost in sync.
“I get it,” you continued. “It's confusing. But for fuck’s sake– stop lying to yourselves.”
Just like that, you felt the air shift, like a fragile click in the clockwork.
Bucky looked at John. And John… blinked like a door opened inside him that he hadn’t even known was locked.
You watched it wash over them: realisation.
Bucky’s lips parted. John took half a step back like it physically knocked the wind from him.
John finally whispered it. “Oh, fuck.”
Bucky shook his head slowly, lips pressed together. “No,” he whispered, eyes wide. “No, no, no—”
But his voice had no conviction.
You relaxed and patted the couch cushions next to you — two ends, just far enough apart to be safe.
“Sit,” you said gently, like coaxing frightened animals.
Neither moved at first, but they did, eventually. Acquiescence didn’t come easily — not with their pride, their confusion, their egos — but it came.
John dropped down, spine rigid but legs spread wide like he was still braced for a fight. His knuckles were white where they gripped his knees. Bucky sat slower, as if the cushions were barbed wire. His arms stayed crossed, metal fingers tapping restlessly against his bicep. You were still in the middle, legs folded one over the other, satin now higher on your thighs.
“I know what it’s like,” you said, laying your heart bare, “That click in your head… when you realise. And you don’t know if it’s freedom or a fucking death sentence.”
John’s eyes dropped to the floor, then flicked to Bucky, then away again, teeth grinding like he was trying to swallow glass. Bucky didn’t move, he didn’t even blink— he just stared straight ahead, breathing through his nose like his chest might cave in.
“It’s not a weakness,” you reassured quietly. “It’s not shameful to want something you were always told you shouldn’t.”
The plates of Bucky’s fingers twitched. John’s shoulders hunched.
“And you know what?” you kept going, carefully. “It makes sense that you’re confused. John, you told me about church. About football locker rooms. About your dad.” You turned to Bucky slowly, putting a hand on both their thighs. “And you came from a world where even touching another man too long meant getting locked in a psych ward. Of course you’re scared.”
Bucky’s voice was quiet, but hoarse. “I thought… I didn’t…” He managed to choke out, “I didn’t know.”
“I… I still don’t know,” John admitted, looking down.
“It’s not greedy to want both,” you said. “Or all. Or neither. Or something in between. You don’t have to call it anything. You don’t have to label it today, or tomorrow. But you shouldn't have to lie to yourselves just because the world made it hard to tell the truth.”
Their faces had changed, not dramatically. But the tension was different now. They were less… rigid.
You looked at both of them in turn.
“If you’re bisexual, you’re bisexual. If you’re pan, you’re pan. If all you know right now is that you want him, or you want me, or maybe you want both and it terrifies you—that’s okay.”
You reached for both of their hands—John’s was calloused, Bucky’s was cold vibranium. Your fingers slid between theirs, and neither pulled away.
“You don’t owe anyone certainty, but you shouldn’t deny yourselves that curiosity,” you rubbed soothing circles on their knuckles, “I care about both of you. ’m not trying to push you into something you’re not ready for. But I… see you.”
Their breathing had synced up without meaning to. They were both looking at you, and for once, it was not with jealousy or accusation or distraction—but with… recognition.
“I want this to be okay,” Bucky said, almost a whisper.
“So do I,” John echoed.
“It is okay,” you whispered. “You just have to let it be.”
You leaned in then, not to kiss, not yet — but to rest your forehead lightly against Bucky’s temple, your other hand brushing John’s knuckles as he gripped your knee.
And still, neither of them pulled away from your touch.
That’s when you realised, you weren’t in between them. You were the bridge.
You could feel them both vibrating beside you with something just shy of frenzy, as if touching each other or you would send everything over the edge. You exhaled slowly, before tilting your head toward them.
“Can I test a theory?” you asked, voice too sweet to be true.
They both nodded, eyes locked on you like you’d hung the moon.
You turned to Bucky first, climbing into his lap with grace, knowing exactly how to break a man apart. He choked on his own breath when your knees bracketed his thighs and your weight settled against him. His hands, both metal and flesh, fluttered for a moment, unsure of where to land, before they found your hips. Your lips brushed his—just once, like a tease— before you kissed him properly. He opened to you like a man who’d been holding his breath for decades. Your fingers wound into his hair, tugging, and he groaned softly into your mouth.
John hadn’t moved. You could feel his eyes on you both — on the way Bucky held you, the way your hips rolled. You didn’t see a hint of jealousy, not even a single hint of possessive rage.
Instead, your theory was proven right.
He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even tense. He was... flushed, breathless, and very, very turned on.
You grinned as you rode one more slow grind into Bucky’s lap—just enough to make his head fall back against the couch with a curse—and then looked over at John.
“C’mere,” you said, voice like a spark to dry kindling.
He came closer. God, did he.
You reached for him as he reached for you, and your lips met in a kiss that was all tongue and heat and frustration burned down into feral need. John’s hands tangled in your hair, tugging, framing your face as you leaned back against Bucky, trapped between them. You moaned into his mouth, felt Bucky’s grip on your waist tighten as he watched.
And Bucky didn’t hate it.
He should have. A week ago, he would’ve punched John for taking what was his.
But now, after listening to you talk through your experiences, he couldn’t bring himself to look away. He loved the flush in John’s cheeks, the way your body writhed between them, the sight of his mouth on yours. He was transfixed.
You pulled away from John, lips swollen, and looked between them—your two soldiers, your boys.
“I want you to try something,” you said carefully. You nudged gently between them, drawing them closer together. “Only if you want to.”
They hesitated, if only for a second.
Then—almost in sync—they nodded.
And you watched as John turned to Bucky, watched as the uncertainty warred with curiosity in both of them.
It started clumsy, just a brush of mouths— more uncertainty than contact.
But then they clicked.
Bucky’s hand came up to cradle John’s neck. John leaned in. The kiss deepened, it became urgent. Mouths opening, tongues sliding together, a shared breath between them. A shocked noise escaped one of them—you couldn’t tell who.
You slid off Bucky’s lap, legs folding under you as you perched on the coffee table in front of them, watching them kiss like they were unraveling everything they thought they knew about themselves.
When they finally broke apart, it was almost… unwilling.
“What,” John blinked, dazed, “The fuck.”
Bucky was still touching his neck, his thumb rubbing slow circles. “I… liked that.”
You leaned in slowly, a smile curling at your lips as your mouth brushed Bucky’s ear, then John’s.
“Atta boys,” you whispered. “Told you. Nothing wrong with this.”
Your hands slid lightly across their thighs— just enough to make their breaths hitch again.
“Now,” you murmured, eyes dark. “I think it’s time we all blow off some steam.”
Their hands moved at the same time. One flesh, one metal. Both hungry, both learning how to be unafraid. They met midair, just inches from your thighs.
John’s calloused palm grazed Bucky’s vibranium knuckles, and both of them flinched like the contact had short-circuited their programming.
Then, you leaned back onto your hands on the table, satin parting at your thighs, fabric slipping open like a curtain revealing a show. Your legs shifted slightly apart as an invitation. As an anchor.
“Touch me together,” you whispered. “No one’s losing. You’re both here with me. With each other.”
You guided them up — gently threading your fingers through theirs, dragging their hands together up your thigh. You felt the tremble in both of them.
“Still scared?” you asked.
They nodded.
“Still want this?”
They answered in two voices, almost overlapping “Yeah.”
You dragged them both closer, until Bucky’s mouth was at your throat, his tongue tracing the beat of your pulse. John kissed your jaw like he wanted to bury every doubt he’d ever had.
You didn’t try to split the attention, and you didn't need to.
They were learning how to exist together.
You caught Bucky’s hand and placed it flat against John’s chest, just over his heart.
“Feel that?” you told him. “He’s not the enemy.”
John’s breath hitched, but he didn’t move away. His fingers hovered, then wrapped slowly over Bucky’s wrist, holding him there.
And then… without any direction from you, they… kissed again.
You watched, heat pooling low in your belly.
“Look at you,” you praised, almost reverent. “Figuring it out.”
John broke the kiss first, breathless. “I kissed a guy,” he whispered, like it hadn’t really hit him until just then.
“And you liked it,” Bucky said, almost amused.
You slid into John’s lap, letting your legs straddle him as you reached for Bucky, curling your fingers into the waistband of his jeans to pull him closer. The three of you tangled—hands on skin, mouths finding mouths, exploring, relearning what wanting felt like when it wasn’t laced with shame.
You tugged your top over your head. You were bare from the waist up, and their eyes followed, even as you helped them out of their clothes.
“I’ve got you,” you reassured, almost affectionately. “Both of you. Let go.”
And they did.
—
Hours later, the room was wrecked.
Sheets were half-hanging from the mattress. Your pajama shorts were slung over a lamp. Bucky’s dog tags tangled in the headboard, and John’s shirt was on the other side of the room. The air still smelled like skin and sweat and sex.
You were curled between them, blissed out, your limbs a lazy sprawl of post-chaos satisfaction. Bucky’s arm was draped over your waist like he’d claimed the space and wasn’t letting go. John lay on the other side, hands behind his head like a man pretending this wasn’t the first time he’d shared a bed with someone he couldn’t label.
“Well,” John finally said, clearing his throat, “that was… something.”
Bucky snorted without opening his eyes. “That’s your takeaway? ‘Something’? Jesus, Walker.”
John turned his head to glare at him, cheeks flushed. “Sorry, didn’t realise we were supposed to be doing slam poetry after an orgy.”
“It’s a threesome, technically,” Bucky corrected, just out of spite.
John rolled his eyes. “You’re technically so annoying for someone so hot.”
You made an amused sound between them, stretching with feline satisfaction. Your fingers traced a lazy line up Bucky’s chest, then reached across your stomach to trace the veins on John’s arm.
“You’re both very chatty for two people who just had their minds blown,” you said, lips quirked up.
John rubbed his face, groaning into his hands. “Yeah, well, I’m trying really hard not to overthink the fact that I—” He gestured vaguely, as if the admission physically hurt. “—liked it.”
Bucky cracked one eye open. “Define ‘it.’”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I really don’t. Be specific.”
John sighed dramatically, like a teenager admitting he cried during Toy Story. “You,” He choked out. “Okay? You.”
Bucky tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it didn't look smug. A little touched, maybe. “You’re actually gonna say it out loud.”
John rolled his eyes. “You fucked me too, Barnes. Don’t act like you didn’t make that noise when—”
“Alright, alright,” Bucky cut in, holding up a hand. “Let’s not do a play-by-play.”
You bit your lip, half-laughing, half-listening — but you saw it. The edge under the jokes. The old fear, the years of conditioning.
So you pushed up on one elbow and reached for them both.
John closed his eyes. “I do. Like you. And…” He opened his eyes just to look at Bucky. “Him too, apparently.”
Bucky sighed, looking up at the ceiling.
“Do you… ever wonder,” he said, tentatively, like he was stepping into an old wound, “what it would’ve been like if we’d been allowed to figure this out sooner?”
John could only nod. “Maybe,” he started, “I wouldn’t have been so hard on myself.”
“You’re here now,” you whispered. “You’ve got time, and…” you paused to press soft kisses to each of their shoulders, before settling back against the pillows with a content hum. “You’re both mine. And maybe… just a little bit each other’s too.”
Bucky let out a chuckle. “We should be terrified.”
“I am” John said, already half-asleep. “But I don’t wanna run from it.”
Neither did Bucky.
Neither did you.
And as sleep pulled you all under, John mumbled one last thing, almost inaudible, “Still think I’m a better kisser.”
Bucky, slurring now, breathed out, “Debatable.”
—-
You did not wake up all at once.
The sun was too bright over the curtains. Someone’s – probably Bucky’s— thigh was over your legs. And there was definitely an elbow — probably John’s — wedged in the small of your back.
You shifted slowly, careful not to disturb the fragile peace.
Bucky made a quiet, muffled sound into the pillow and curled in closer, hair a mess across his cheek. John just groaned and rolled the other way, nearly falling off the bed, dreamily saying something about "needin’ a chiropractor" and "why do you bite."
Oh, he needed a chiropractor? Funny. Last time you checked, you were the only non-supersoldier here.
Not that you were complaining.
You cracked an eye open and saw your pajama top on the floor a couple feet away. Bucky’s henley was closer. That would do.
You dragged yourself from the tangle of limbs, tugging the henley over your head. It smelled like him — clean, metal and cedar. You walked quietly to the door, only grabbing an old mug on your way out.
The hallway was cold.
The common room, thank fuck, was not.
Bucky wandered in a minute after you, hair tied back with a rubber band he’d found on the doorknob, wearing John’s grey sweatpants. John followed a few seconds later, in Bucky’s boxers and your fluffy pink slippers — clearly stolen in desperation.
You raised an eyebrow.
He blinked at you. “What?”
“Slippers.”
“They were closer than my self-respect.”
Fair.
Bucky glanced down at the sweats and sniffed as he sat down on the couch. “Why do your sweatpants smell like an Axe spray bomb?”
John rolled his eyes and gestured at his current outfit. “Why do your boxers ride up my ass?”
From the armchair in the corner, Bob looked up from his Sudoku book and smiled. “Oh! You all learned how to share,” he exclaimed, “That’s nice.”
John jumped, none of you realising that he was even there in the first place.
Bucky coughed into his cup of water like he’d swallowed a fork.
You dropped onto the couch beside them with the blankest face you could manage. “Morning, Bob.”
Bob tilted his head. “So, you had a sleepover?”
“We had a revelation,” Bucky said dryly. John, who was sitting in between you and Bucky now, nudged his metal arm. “We had a lot of things.”
You kicked him lightly under the coffee table. He didn’t even flinch. He was too tired, too exhausted in all the best ways.
Bob leaned forward with a curious sparkle in his eyes. “Is it because you’re all dating now? Or… dating-adjacent? dating-ish.”
You chuckled. “You’re weirdly chill about this.”
Bob beamed. “I watched a lot of Bojack Horseman in recovery. I learned… a lot from that show.” He shrugged before giving John a proud thumbs-up. “Proud of you, buddy.”
You snorted into your coffee, while John managed a half-hearted salute, pink slippers dangling off his toes.
Then, you heard a SLAM.
The door burst open.
Alexei stormed in wearing the same shirt as last night — his hair rumpled with bloodshot eyes.
“I could not sleep,” he declared flatly. “Your room is next to mine. Next. To. Mine.”
Bucky lowered his mug. John looked like he was calculating if the toaster could double as a coffin.
Alexei’s eyes were cold and full of fury. “You screamed,” he said to Bucky. “Like we were under nuclear threat. I prepared go-bag before I realised it was sex.”
Bucky’s ears turned pink. “I...Sorry?”
“And Walker!” Alexei turned his glare to John. “You sounded like angry raccoon!”
John shuffled your slippers in shame.
“Do not even get me started on you!” he pointed at you, “I thought it was bad with one of them. I was wrong. Both is worse.” Alexei grabbed a mug of coffee like it was vodka, slammed it back like a shot, and let out a deep breath. “You all are lucky I support the gay,” he said. “But next time maybe do not explore your sexuality like… freight train.”
Bucky sank down on the couch. “We should really get Alexei noise-canceling headphones.”
You stood, grabbed a glass of water, and handed it to him. “Sorry, old man,” you winced, “I’ll upgrade the armouring on your suit, if that makes up for it?”
Alexei sighed, hand to his heart, and looked to the ceiling. “This is my penance. For being terrible father in past. I accept it.”
You all laughed — Bucky with a breathy chuckle, John with a wheezing groan, even Bob with a little grin that warmed up the whole room.
You leaned over, kissing Both John and Bucky temples as Bucky tugged the waistband of the boxers John was wearing — his own, technically — and pulled him closer.
John mumbled into Bucky’s shoulders. “Guess we’re doing this.”
Bucky nodded, pouting playfully as he pulled you back on the couch. “Guess so.”
Bob, watching the three of you squished into one couch cushion, just sipped his tea with a sigh of exaggerated patience.
“Well,” he said, glancing back at his Sudoku, “at least it’s good for team bonding.”
—
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