I'm shy, don't let the freak flag fool you😇😇

So, he went and braced himself for impact.

He sat at a table and nursed a beer, his glasses perched low on his nose and feeling a little overdressed in his blazer. The lighting wasn’t too great, but at least he was able to see the guys. No one else looked his way.

They hardly ever did even when he wasn’t trying to fade into the background.

He was just in the middle of discussing the way sound carried in enclosed spaces when someone bumped his shoulder. Cold liquid splashed over his knuckles from his glass. He heard a scoff behind him.

“Oh. Sorry,” he blurted out automatically, even though it wasn’t his fault.

He looked behind him and saw the sneering girl who bumped into him. She looked him up and down like she was trying to figure out why he was in her orbit. It was a look that made him feel much smaller than his size.

“Wow.” Her lips curled in a mocking smile. “I knew this bar had gone downhill lately, but I didn’t think they let geeks in.”

Head flooded Bucky’s cheeks as her surrounding friends giggled. He fumbled for a napkin, his hand suddenly too big and clumsy. A weak laugh escaped because that was what he did sometimes when he didn't know what else to do.

“I, uh, I prefer nerd instead of geek,” he tried to joke, something to distract him from the ringing in his ears.

“How about ‘loser’ instead? I mean, if the glasses fit…” she retorted.

The girls laughed louder as his face burned brighter. Sam and Steve didn’t and he knew they were two seconds away from saying something. His best friends didn’t like bullies in any size or form.

“I’m…”

He wasn’t a loser just because he wore glasses and was passionate about things like science. He’d say he was conventionally attractive, his physical attributes at least passing enough that some would admire him if they looked hard enough. The most important thing was that he was a good man. A loving man. But he swallowed hard, the words stuck in his throat instead of defending himself.

Why did he bother to come out tonight?

“Hey.”

A voice cut through the noise in his mind. Calm. Clear. Confident.

Bucky looked up and, for half a second, his brain simply stalled.

A few heads turned as you walked toward his table with your head held high. He couldn’t help but stare since you were one of the most beautiful people he has ever laid eyes on. Even with the bad lighting in the place you burned so bright, like a lone star in the sky.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said to him.

Bucky looked around to see if you were talking to someone else. The lie sounded so sincere and convincing that he believed for a second you really were there to meet him. He wished you were.

You winked at him, subtly urging him to play along. “It’s okay,” he replied, his voice soft.

You stood close, not invading his space when you stopped but enough that he felt your warmth. Your presence made the small group of girls wordlessly move back, and his throat went dry. You glanced at his damp hand and sleeve, your eyes softening when they moved back to his face.

Was he dreaming?

“Is there a problem?” you asked, giving the mean girls a glare that made them squirm.

He didn’t spare them a glance, too busy paying attention to you. “No.” His voice cracked. “I’m fine.”

You smiled, something small and warm, and you leaned in just enough that only he could hear you over the noise. “May I kiss you?”

His heart slammed against his ribs. “What?” he asked in a whisper, convinced that he misheard you.

“May I kiss you?” you repeated gently, your smile widening. “It’s okay if you don’t want to.”

He pulled back and searched your face for the punchline. He waited for the cruel smirk or mocking laugh. There wasn’t any.

“You’re… Wait, you’re serious?” he asked incredulously.

You tilted your head and moved closer, like you two were sharing a secret. “Completely.”

He heard the girls mutter something between them, but he blocked it out. Why would someone like you want to kiss him? And did he have anything to lose since his dignity had already taken a hit tonight?

“Yeah.” His voice didn’t break this time. “Yeah, you may.”

Your hand came up to brush his jaw, his pulse going wild when you closed the gap. You didn’t rush, giving him a chance to stop you or pull away. He wouldn’t dare.

Your lips brushed his and his knees nearly gave out.

God.

The world around him narrowed to the feel of your mouths together, closeness and warmth wrapping around him. The kiss was slow, grounding, and somehow intimate in a setting that was anything but. You kissed him like you knew exactly what you were doing and exactly what it was doing to him. It felt like he was being kissed by someone who wanted to kiss him.

The bar felt oddly quiet when you pulled back, your eyes half-lidded and his lips tingling. Sam made a sound, but he didn’t acknowledge it. He couldn’t stop looking at you, his unexpected heroine.

Your thumb brushed his lower lip and he shivered. Did the kiss get to you, too? Did your heart swell? Was there crackling under your skin?

You turned to the girl who bumped him and your smile sharpened just a touch.

“Next time, watch where you’re going,” you said smoothly, your eyes flicking to Bucky’s damp sleeve. “And apologize to my boyfriend.”

Bucky just about short-circuited.

Boyfriend.

The girl’s mouth fell open, her friends suddenly finding the drinks in their hands very interesting. Bucky wondered if you were telling her to apologize for the spilled beer or her rude words. Maybe it was both. Either way, you raised an eyebrow and waited for the apology.

“Sorry,” the girl mumbled, like it pained her to do so, before she stomped off with her group trailing behind her.

You turned back to Bucky, your expression soft again. “I’m sorry, too,” you told him, surprising him. “I saw what happened and I couldn’t ignore it.”

“Don’t be sorry.” His stomach did a funny flip as he smiled gently. He couldn’t remember the last time someone gave him butterflies or stood up for him outside of his friends. “I appreciate it.”

“And you’re okay?” you asked, your brows furrowing.

He nodded, still stunned and his mind buzzing over you calling him your boyfriend, even if it was just to help him. Did you ever do that for another guy? “Yeah, I think so.”

“I’m glad,” you said, giving a shocked Sam and Steve a nod when you turned to walk away.

Bucky’s eyes widened and he felt a rush of bravery or foolishness wash over him, reaching out and lightly catching your wrist. You didn’t pull away. That was a good sign.

“Don’t go,” he practically begged, his ears burning as he cleared his throat. “I just…” He pushed his glasses up. “May I buy you a drink?” he asked, holding his breath.

Anything to keep you from walking away.

You glanced down at his hand and back up, your eyes bright. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

He exhaled, in slight disbelief that you agreed. He dared to look at the guys, both of them now sporting grins and he was sure he’d hear about it later. “You two mind if I-”

“Go,” Sam urged in a whisper and Steve nodded in approval.

You looped your arm with Bucky’s and he felt tingles down to his toes. “Thanks for letting me steal him away.”

And as Bucky went to the bar with you, feeling more confident than he had in days, he knew with a thrill that you’d just stolen his heart, too.

So, do we like him? Do we want more? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

"N-Nick!"

"Don't you ever - ever - talk to him again," each word is punctuated by a hard thrust that makes your vision blur. "You're mine, okay Bambi? Mine. No one else gets to see you like this but me."

Nick was usually a calm, collected gentleman. However, matters concerning you made him feral; a green-eyed monster that was possessive over you and your body. And though you should have been scared, it made you incredibly, undoubtedly turned on.

You whimper and nod your head as he swipes his thumb across your clit, coating it with your own cum as he ruts into you fast and hard - intent on making you remember his words... or at least until you can't think at all.

The memory foam mattress swallows your back, making you feel like you are literally on cloud nine as Nick continues at a relentless pace. He made you cum three times already and on night's like this when Nick's jealousy reared its head, you knew that you were in for at least double digits of orgasms as punishment.

Nick pinches a nipple to get your attention and you whine, his thrusts slowing enough to stare down at you with wild eyes. "Little slut," he murmurs. "This tight cunt belongs to me, right?"

You nod weakly, bottom lip wobbling from the overstimulation already. But you know better than to stay silent. "Y-yes, sir."

"That's right whore." Nick sneers before plucking your other nipple. "From these gorgeous tits all the way down..." His fingers trail down your stomach, ticklish sensation making it twitch, but stops right before your clit - that pulses angrily at the lack of attention. "To this pretty clit."

"Nick." You groan out and your boyfriend sneers at you.

"What? Need something?" You coos teasingly. "Tell me what you need, whore."

"Fuck, I need- you to p-play-" His fingers swipe your clit again mid-sentence and you cry out at the shock thay ascends your spine.

"Aw, honey. It's okay. I know what you need." Nick taunts, his thumb pressing down on your achy button and swirling circles. "You don't need to speak, just take what I give. You can do that right?"

You nod with a weak "yes sir" as Nick starts to pound your cunt again, picking up speed when circling your clit with his thumb. Your hands reach for the sheets as your legs grow slack, getting lost in the pleasure.

Just as you're about to have your fourth orgasm of the night, Nick hooks his arm under your left knee and pushes forward, angling deeper. Your cunt flutters at the sensation, the pleasure almost painful as the tip of his cock kisses your cervix. In this new position, Nick's face his closer, watching you sputter and whine over his cock centimetres from your face. You struggle to focus as his hands finds yours; one lacing your fingers and the other, the one under your leg, tugging your wrist down to anchor you.

"Fuck - look at you. So pretty just for me." Nick coos, dipping his head to push yours to the side and exposed your neck. His teeth graze your jugular as his thrusts slow to rolls of his hips, shifting from frantic and feral to loving and sensual. When his teeth finally bite down on the thin skin of you neck, you cum.

Heat blossoms as he sucks the bruise, gently kissing the mark he had left. He rolls his hips until he's completely buried to the hilt in your cunt and stills.

"Feel that, baby?" He murmurs into your ear. "You're gonna be feeling that for days."

You make a choked sound, but wrap your legs around his to keep him close.

"And with this pretty mark on show, no one will doubt about who you belong to."

Your heart soars and you peck kisses along his jaw as he starts to rut into you again. This was only the beginning of a torturously long, pleasurable night; and you couldn't wait to waltzed into work the next morning, walking bow-legged with Nick's love bite bared on display for everyone to see.

End

💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚

A/N: I was in a bit of a writing rut and this helped so much 😅

For reblogs of my fics follow @grems-library or join my taglist here

Tags for everything: @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @brianochka @looking1016 @almostglitterybear @blackhawkfanatic @waywardwifey @peaches1958 @michaeladmorris @alexxavicry @lexie983 @wint3rbarnes @sunday-bug @barnes-babydoll @alicedopey

Steve threw the last log onto the flatbed of the good ol’ truck, a thing that had seen more rust than oil changes in its life.

“That should be the last of it,” he announced from the back, closing the tailgate and giving it a solid slap to make sure it held. “Start her up, Buck.”

Bucky turned back to the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition. The truck answered with a loud rumble before sputtering out. He tried again, resulting in another shake that rattled the cab, and then… nothing.

Steve came up to the driver’s window, resting an arm on the sill as he wiped sweat from his face with a dirty towel.

“Lucy’s not startin’?”

“Does she ever?” Bucky sneered, turning the key once more as the truck grumbled in protest. “I thought you were supposed to look her over last night.”

“I was—then I got a call to round up some loose, wild chickens. After that I got sidetracked, and, uh…” Steve rubbed the back of his neck, guilty. “I fell asleep.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Perfect.”

“Hey,” Steve said, nudging his shoulder roughly through the window. “While I was being productive last night, maybe you could’ve spent that time fixing her up instead of jerking off.”

Bucky shoved the door open without warning, forcing Steve to stumble aside. He gave him a sharp side-eye glare.

“I was not jerking off,” he muttered, heading for the front of the truck and popping the hood to peer into the engine.

Steve barked out a laugh as he stepped up beside him, clamping a heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You keep tellin’ yourself that. The walls are paper thin, you know?”

“Shut up,” Bucky mumbled with a flushed face. He reached down, jiggled the loose battery cable, then tightened the clamp with a huff.

“All right,” he said, wiping his hands on his dirty jeans. “Try it now.”

“You sure that’ll—”

“Just get in the damn truck, Steve.”

With a shrug, Steve climbed back into the cab and turned the key. The engine coughed in front of Bucky, then rumbled to life, making the whole truck shaky but steadily idle.

Steve grinned out the open window. “Well, would you look at that. It’s our lucky day.”

“And we don’t get much of those,” Bucky agreed, not wasting a second as he slammed the hood shut and jogged around to the passenger side, yanking the door open.

“Don’t admire her too much now,” he warned, climbing in. “Start drivin’ before it gives out and we have to push this damn thing ourselves again.”

The truck rattled its way down the dirt road, tires crunching over gravel as the town came into view—if you could even call it that. The ‘town’ had a handful of weather-beaten buildings, a leaning water tower, and more livestock than people. Chickens scattered as Steve eased off the gas, the engine making a suspiciously loud noise that couldn’t even be ignored if they turned the radio up higher.

Fury’s place sat at the center of it all. A squat, sturdy building that had once been a general store several years ago, then a post office, and now served as whatever the town needed it to be. Meetings, supplies, paperwork.

Basically, everything important that no one else wanted to deal with.

A faded sign out front still read “COMMUNITY OFFICE,” though half the letters were missing.

“Made it,” Steve said, turning the engine off as he glanced at Bucky with a smile. “Told you Lucy had one more trip in her.”

“One,” Bucky huffed, hopping out. “Don’t get greedy.”

They climbed onto the flatbed and started unloading, tossing logs into a neat pile beside the building. The door creaked open halfway through, and Fury stepped out, cane in one hand. His good eye flicked over the truck, the wood, then the two of them.

“You’re late,” he said calmly.

Steve lifted his head as he tossed another log. “Truck trouble.”

Fury snorted. “That truck is trouble.” He eyed the woodpile with approval, though. “Still—this’ll last us through winter if rationed right. The town owes you.”

Bucky threw another log. “Town’s been owing us a while.”

Fury shifted his weight, tapping the end of his cane against one of the logs. “When you’re done,” he said, already turning back toward the door, “I’m gonna need you boys to come inside and sign the delivery papers. Wood tally, fuel credit, the usual nonsense.”

They both gave each other a look. Anything involving paperwork, pencils, and pens was well outside their familiar territory. Their comfort zone was muscles, strength, and work done with their bare hands.

The boys were… really good with their hands.

They finished stacking the last of the logs in relative silence, the only sounds being the dull thud of wood and the distant lowing of cattle.

Steve hopped down from the flatbed and dusted off his hands. “You ready, Buck?”

“Ready to skim the papers and not read a word of it?” Bucky wiped his hands on the dirty towel before tossing it through the open passenger window. “Sure.”

Inside, the building was way cooler, the air was filled with the smell of old paper, dust, and faint bitter coffee. Shelves lined the walls, stuffed with binders, ledgers, and boxes labeled in Fury’s neat handwriting. A single desk sat near the back, buried under forms.

The two men lingered by the front door, leaving a trail of dirt and mud beneath their boots as their eyes adjusted from the harsh sunlight to the dim interior.

“Come here, boys,” Fury called, circling around his desk.

Steve stepped forward—but Bucky stopped short, his attention snagging on something off to the side of the office.

“Uh,” Bucky raised a finger to point, not even trying to hide it. “Who the hell is that? She lost?”

There you sat, prim and composed, one leg crossed over the other, a newspaper folded neatly in your hands. Your clothes were clean, your shoes never touched by dirt, and the two suitcases at your feet looked like they cost more than what Steve and Bucky made in a day.

You looked like you had stepped off the wrong bus, yet decided to stay anyway.

Steve turned at Bucky’s voice, nearly breaking his neck to get a better look. His gaze trailed from your face down to your legs, the way you subtly bounced your foot as you were absorbed in whatever dull headline held your attention.

Your tongue darted out to wet your bottom lip, and Bucky’s breath hitched.

“Damn…” he muttered.

“No.” Fury emerged from behind the desk, glancing between the three of you. “She’s right where she’s supposed to be.”

You finally looked up when Fury tapped the side of your bench with his cane. Lifting your head, you pulled the earbud from your ear.

“Nick?”

“These are Rogers and Barnes,” Fury said. “They run the livestock operations on the outskirts.” Then he turned back to the two men. “And this is—” he paused, nodding to you, “—a family friend from the city, a couple hours away. She’s here for a research project.”

Steve stepped closer, raising a brow. “Research?”

You folded the newspaper and tucked it under your arm before standing. “Animal productivity,” you explained. “Sustainability in isolated farming communities. Breeding patterns, yield consistency, that sort of thing.”

Both of the boys tilted their head in sync, and Fury shook his own, looking at you. “You’re speaking a whole different language to these cave animals.”

Bucky crossed his arms, ignoring the jab. “And you picked this place?”

“I insisted she come here,” Fury said, raising a brow at him. “Why are you making it sound like this place is bad?”

Steve shrugged. “Well—”

“Don’t answer that,” Fury cut in with a sigh, waving a hand as he turned back to his desk. “Sign these. And once you’re done—” his gaze flicked to your suitcases, “—help her get settled in the farmhouse out back.”

“The farmhouse?” Bucky met Fury at the desk, planting both hands on the edge as he leaned over him. “You’re not stickin’ a girl like that in some dirty farmhouse, Fury.”

It seemed like every farmer you’d met so far was loud and painfully straightforward. You glanced down at yourself—your clothes, so different from the muted dresses the handful of elderly women wore around town. Since stepping off the bus, you’d been surrounded by the smell of manure, too much testosterone, and a growing sense of self-consciousness.

Fury looked up at Bucky with his good eye. “I already told her about our very limited lodging options.” He turned to you for backup. “And she was okay with it. Right?”

You were not okay with it.

You were used to a queen-sized bed in your comfortable city apartment, right in the heart of everything. Not a farmhouse.

“Yup,” you said anyway, forcing a nod and a smile.

For research. Right?

Bucky scoffed and clamped a hand down on Steve’s shoulder, pulling him closer hard enough that Steve nearly stumbled.

“You know, We’ve got Sarah’s old house right next to our farm—the one that’s been collectin’ dust,” Bucky said, giving Steve a firm slap on the back to rope him in. “What do you say, Stevie? Take us a few hours to clean it up, pull the mattress outta the closet, get it all nice and tidy for our little friend here.”

All three men turned to look at you, and you suddenly felt very small beneath their attention—especially under Steve and Bucky’s eyes.

“I… wouldn’t want to intrude,” you said gently, scratching at your temple. “I’m not sure how Sarah would feel if I just moved in—”

“Sarah—God rest her—wouldn’t want an impressionable young woman like you sleepin’ in a cold, dirty farmhouse,” Bucky cut in, flashing Steve a grin.

Steve let out a slow, patient breath through his nose. “I suppose you’re right. My mother wouldn’t want that.”

Bucky turned back to you, a charming smile tugging at his mouth. “How about it, pretty girl?”

You glanced at Fury, searching his face. He was the only person you trusted here, and as long as he trusted them, that would have to be enough.

Fury let out a quiet, weary sigh and gave you a small shrug. “They look like troublemakers,” he said, “but they’re the ones keeping this town running.”

He pointed at Steve while looking at you. “You can trust this one.” Then his finger moved slowly to Bucky. “But be careful with this one.”

“Hah. Hah,” Bucky replied dryly as he crossed the room, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his heavy boots. He bent down, grabbed one of your suitcases, and tossed it toward Steve, who barely caught it off guard.

Bucky picked up the other bag and flashed you a smile.

“Our truck’s right outside. Come on.”

With one strong hand gripping the strap of your suitcase, his other hand—surprisingly respectful—settled at your lower back as he guided you towards the front door.

On the way out, he gave Steve a look, nodding once to signal him to follow.

“You two better take good care of her,” Fury called after them. “She’s a family friend. Remember that.”

Steve paused, glancing back at Fury with a sigh.

“Yeah, noted,” he muttered as he stepped outside with the luggage, following you and Bucky.

Fury waved you off, then turned back to the desk, eyeing the untouched stack of paperwork still waiting for signatures.

“Goddamnit,” he muttered.

Outside, Steve and Bucky tossed the luggage into the flatbed haphazardly. The heavy thud of your expensive bags made you flinch, especially knowing your laptop and notebooks were inside.

Bucky swung the passenger door open wide and motioned you over with a hand. “Come on in,” he said. “Lucy don’t bite.”

“Lucy?” you huffed a small laugh, hesitating as you stepped closer. Leaning inside, you saw the floorboards caked with dirt and mud; one step in and your shoes would be ruined in an instant. “Uh, I don’t think there’s room for me—”

“Sure there is,” Bucky interrupted.

Without warning, his rough hands found your hips and lifted you easily, setting you down on the passenger seat. “Scoot over,” he said. “You’re gonna have to be the middle man.”

Before you could even say anything, Bucky planted one heavy boot inside the cab and hopped inside, rocking the truck and forcing you to scramble over as he slammed the door shut. You barely had time to find your balance before Steve opened the driver’s door and climbed in, settling behind the wheel with a huff.

Now, you found yourself wedged between two broad, very dirty men who smelt like sweat and sun.

And suddenly, the cab felt very, very warm.

“Let’s see if she’ll turn,” Steve muttered, twisting the key in the ignition.

“What do you mean, let’s see?” you asked warily, tugging at the collar of your shirt. “And does this thing have air-conditioning?”

Steve pressed his lips together. “Air-conditioning would be the very thing that puts Lucy in the ground.” He tried again—the engine sputtered, then died. “She’s a little rough around the edges, but… she should come around.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as you focused on your hands folded in your lap, realizing what you had gotten yourself into. You were in the middle of pretty much nowhere, with spotty service, no sleep, wedged into a truck with two men you had never even met, headed for a house where who knew what kind of bugs were waiting for you.

“Oh my god,” you whispered to yourself, voice shaky.

Steve glanced at you, his expression softening just slightly. “Hey—don’t panic. She’ll start. Just gotta—” he turned the key again, then once more. The engine finally roared to life, rattling violently as the truck shook beneath you.

“There we go.”

Bucky rested his arm out the window, flashing Steve a grin over your head. “Our lucky day, you said?”

The corner of Steve’s mouth tugged into a smirk as he shifted into drive. “Don’t get greedy.”

As Steve pulled onto the road, the truck rattled and shook over every rock and rut. You reached for the seatbelt, tugging at it, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Seatbelts don’t work, sweetheart,” Steve said, glancing over at you with a reassuring smile before returning his focus to the road. “Just try to hold on tight.”

That did very little to calm you.

That was a safety hazard and straight up illegal.

You pressed your palms flat against your thighs, shoulders rigid. Your eyes switched between the flaws of the old truck— to the web of cracks in the window, to the dust on the dash—and the unfamiliar stretch of land rolling past. The farther you got from town, the quieter it became. Fewer houses, fewer people—just fields and fences stretching on forever.

Bucky could feel how tense you were from the faint brush of your shoulder against his.

“You alright?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light. “You look like you’re thinkin’ about jumpin’ out and runnin’.”

You looked up at him and forced a laugh, though it came out thin and brittle. “I’m fine. Just… adjusting, I think.”

“A lot different than city life, huh?” Steve asked from the driver’s seat.

“Yeah,” you admitted. “This is… very different.”

“Well,” Steve said, resting one hand on the window sill and the other on the wheel, “since we’ve got a bit of a drive, why don’t you tell us more about this research project of yours?”

“Yeah,” Bucky added. “You studyin’ cows or somethin’?”

“Not just cows,” you said. “Basically, when communities are geographically isolated, access to veterinary care, supplemental feed, and modern equipment becomes limited. That can unintentionally alter breeding cycles. Livestock may breed earlier or later in the season, fertility rates can fluctuate, and stress levels directly affect overall yield.”

Bucky scratched at his chin, letting out a thoughtful hum. “Breeding…”

Steve glared at him over your head.

You just kept going, oblivious as your hands lifted slightly as you explained, slipping deeper into familiar academic territory.

“I’m also comparing seasonal fertility rates,” you said. “In places like this, breeding windows tend to be less controlled, which can lead to overlap between generations. That affects herd structure, genetic diversity, and long-term productivity.”

Bucky nodded slowly, eyes still on the road ahead. “Uncontrolled breedin’, huh.”

“Buck,” Steve warned.

“What? I’m not doin’ anything.”

You glanced between them, finally catching the smirk tugging at Bucky’s mouth as he fought back a laugh and the disapproving look on Steve’s face, despite the smile he was clearly trying to hide by staring out the window.

For fuck’s sake.

You were realizing now that Dirty Man One and Dirty Man Two were trying to crack inappropriate sex jokes.

“Jesus,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. “You men are disgusting.”

“Hey! Don’t lump me in with him,” Steve said quickly. “I’m the one tryin’ to get him to settle down.”

The rest of the drive was surprisingly pleasant. Both of them asked about your school and your research, and every time you answered in more detail, you noticed their slightly dazed and confused expressions. Steve tended to ask the more in-depth questions, genuinely curious, while Bucky nodded along like he understood every word.

The truck bounced and swayed over ruts, rocks, and packed dirt as Steve turned into a long, wide driveway. Ahead stood a large farmhouse, with a smaller cabin-like building off to the side.

Farther to the left sat another structure.

A very, very small one.

Too small to be a house, but just big enough to be a storage shed.

“Here we are,” Steve announced as the truck rumbled to a stop and the engine cut out.

You raised a finger, pointing to the small shed. “Is that—”

Before you could finish the question, both men opened their doors and hopped out of the truck without a word. They grabbed your luggage—now smudged with grime and dirt—and started carrying it to the shed.

You scrambled out of the truck, nearly stumbling as your feet hit the ground, and hurried after them.

“Wait—hey!” you called, jogging to keep up as they headed straight for the shed. “T-that’s not where I’m staying, is it?”

Bucky glanced back over his shoulder, adjusting his grip on one of your suitcases. “That little building over there? Yeah. That’s it.”

Steve slowed a little, giving you a little apologetic look as you caught up. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he promised. “My mom used it as a guest place for a bit. Solid roof, no leaks—”

“And a whole lot better than the farmhouse Fury was gonna stick you in,” Bucky added.

You looked at the structure again as you walked —weathered wood, a single small window, and a door that had clearly seen better decades. Your pace faltered.

“Guys,” you said flatly. “That is a shed.”

Bucky stopped in front of it and set the luggage down, turning to face you with a grin.

“Technically,” he said, “it’s a converted shed.” He lifted a hand just in time to catch the key Steve tossed his way.

“We fixed it up, mostly.” Steve looked down at your expression, the way your teeth caught your bottom lip and the weary, beady eyes you’ve been wearing ever since they picked you up in their truck.

Without thinking, he rested a protective hand at your back, drawing your attention.

“I know this is different from the city life you’re used to,” he said gently. “But I promise, it just needs a few touch-ups. You’ll get comfortable in no time.”

The way Steve looked at you eased the tension in your chest. His smile was warm, his voice patient and kind. And if Fury said this was the one you could trust, then so be it.

“Thank you, Steve.”

The other one, on the other hand…

Bucky unlocked the door with a huff. Dust immediately billowed out, making him cough as he waved a hand in front of his face. He glanced back at you and Steve.

“Oh, by the way,” he said. “There’s no bathroom in here.”

Perfect.

Bucky nudged the door the rest of the way open and stepped inside, his heavy work boots creaking against the frail wooden floorboards. Steve followed, setting your luggage just inside the doorway.

You hesitated at the doorframe before stepping in after them.

The place was ridiculously tiny. One narrow room with a low ceiling, a single window coated in dust, furniture and cabinets that looked like it could barely hold up. It smelled like old wood, hay, oil and something faintly metallic—you didn’t know what.

Back in the city, you had white walls, clean linens, and the oddly relaxing hum of traffic outside your window. Here, you had stained wallpaper peeling at the edges and bawking chickens.

For your research project, you reminded yourself. You chose this.

Bucky looked around with his hands on his hips. “It’s small,” he said thoughtfully, “but I think it’s the perfect size for a girl like you.”

He smiled, and you weren’t entirely sure how you were supposed to take that.

When he noticed your silence, the smile slipped just a bit. “You okay?”

You snapped out of it, nodding a little too fast. “Yeah, I just…” You exhaled, rubbing your arms. “I think I really need a shower. If that’s—uh—even possible.”

“Oh,” Bucky said with a shrug. “Sure. But you’re not doin’ that here.”

You gave Steve a look, almost like a silent plea for backup, but he only shrugged in response as Bucky continued, smirk firmly in place.

“C’mon. Our place is right next door. Real bathroom. Hot water.”

You shifted on your feet, eyeing them both suspiciously. “And the door,” you asked carefully, “it locks?”

The two men exchanged a silent look, and immediately, you regretted asking. Here they were—offering you a ride, a place to stay they’d fix up just for you, even letting you use their shower—and you’d gone and asked if the lock worked, as if you were accusing them of being some kind of creeps.

But then they blinked at each other and burst into laughter.

Bucky let out a sharp bark, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he grinned. “It locks.”

Steve wiped at his face, trying to rein it in. “You know, you’ve got men out here showerin’ in their front lawns with a bucket of water and a bar of soap,” he added. “But I get it. Can’t blame you for askin’. City instincts.”

Your face immediately burned with embarassment. You’ve delt with your fair share of annoying men in the city, but it was something about being surrounded by farmer men that made the teasing feel ten times more insufferating.

“Yeah,” you mumbled, crossing your arms. “Very funny.”

Still smiling, Steve wiped at the corner of his eye and motioned toward the door. “Come on. Follow us—we’ll show you where you can wash up.”

After you quickly grabbed a fresh set of clothes out of your luggage, they led the way across the yard, Steve out front and Bucky hanging back just enough to make sure you were keeping up. The dirt path had been worn smooth by years of boots and tires, and on either side of it the farm stretched out in every direction.

Cows clustered near the fence line, tails swishing lazily. A pair of horses lifted their heads as you passed, ears flicking toward you with mild curiosity. Chickens roamed freely, darting around your feet like they owned the place. Everything felt alive— busy and loud in ways that reminded you of the city, though it couldn’t have been more different.

The farm loomed closer as you approached—big, solid, and weathered, with hay bales stacked nearby and buckets of feed scattered around the yard.

Walking past, you reached the house itself. It was a small, one-story, cabin-like structure built from dark wood. The door creaked as Steve pushed it open, and the scent inside was a stark contrast to the earthy, animal smells outside.

From the doorway, you could smell the soap, clean laundry, and coffee. You were met with heavy wooden furniture. Worn floors. Tools leaned neatly against one wall. A pair of muddy boots sat by the door.

Very manly was the only way you could describe it.

Steve stepped aside to let you in. “Watch your step.”

As you stepped in, dodging the muddy boots, the house felt sturdy and lived-in. Not polished, but definitely cared for.

Bucky shut the door behind you with his heel and jerked his head down the narrow hallway. “Bathroom’s this way.”

You followed, your gaze drifting over the details as you walked by. Family photos tacked messily to the wall—they didn’t look alike at all, had different lastnames, so siblings seemed unlikely, yet there were dozens of pictures of them together from childhood. A calendar hung nearby, crowded with notes about feed deliveries and vet visits, all scrawled in incomprehensible, sloppy boy handwriting.

Bucky paused and pointed at one of the photos—a younger version of him and Steve standing side by side with crooked smiles.

“Handsome, ain’t he?” he asked, tapping at himself.

You couldn’t help but grin. “I’ve seen better.”

Steve snorted while Bucky rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath. He stopped at the last door and pushed it open with his knuckle.

“Here we go.”

The bathroom was small but clean. White tile lined the walls, a deep tub sat beneath a real showerhead, and shelves held neatly folded towels alongside mismatched bottles of soap. A narrow window above the sink let in a stripe of late-afternoon light, dust motes drifting lazily in the air.

“Hot water takes a minute,” Bucky said, leaning against the wall. “Gotta let it run first.”

You looked between the two men, clutching your folded clothes to your chest. “Thank you—both of you. I really appreciate this.”

“Don’t mention it,” Steve said with a casual wave of his hand. “A friend of Fury’s is a friend of ours.”

Bucky pushed himself off the wall and stepped aside, giving you room to enter. “Steve and I will clean up the shed while you’re in here. By the time you’re done, it should be ready with the mattress and all.”

Your smile softened as you glanced at him. “You guys are great. Seriously, I couldn’t be—”

“Just make sure you shout us out in that research paper,” Bucky cut in with a grin, resting his hand on the doorknob. “And don’t forget to let the water run. Enjoy your shower, pretty girl.”

The door shut softly behind you.

And on the other side, Steve immediately whacked the back of Bucky’s head.

“Pretty girl? Pretty girl?” Steve whisper-yelled. “Are you kidding me?”

Bucky winced, rubbing the back of his head as they headed down the hall towards the front door. “What? She is pretty, Steve. And don’t act like you’re any better. ‘Sweetheart’? Really?”

“I’m trying to be respectful, Buck,” Steve sighed as he pushed the front door open.

“And I was being respectful,” Bucky clicked his tongue. “You know how rare it is for a beautfiul woman like that to be around here. Gotta make a good first impression.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Get your head out of your ass. A girl like that would want nothing to do with dirty men like us.”

“Oh—come on, Steve,” Bucky whined, following after him like a bug in the air, “why you gotta be so hopeless, man?”

“Not hopeless,” Steve corrected, pushing the shed door open. “Realistic.”

Bucky scoffed as he followed him inside, heading straight for the closet. He hauled out the folded air mattress and the old hand pump, dropping them onto the floor. “Yeah, yeah. Still—doesn’t hurt to imagine, you know?”

Steve grabbed the broom and dustpan from the corner and started clearing dust and debris. “Imagine what, exactly?”

Bucky grinned, eyes drifting back to the window that faced the house for a second before he caught himself.

“I dunno. Coming home after a long day, boots covered in dirt, back sore as hell—and there she is. Clean, soft, talkin’ about all that smart stuff she knows. Maybe dinner’s on the stove, or she’s sittin’ at the front there with a book, lookin’ all pretty.”

Steve snorted. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“Have not,” Bucky said, laying the mattress out where Steve had just swept and starting to pump air into it. “Tell me you wouldn’t want that—a gorgeous girl like that walkin’ around the house, keepin’ it warm and cozy—barefoot and all.”

Steve went quiet as he lifted an old bed frame and leaned it against the wall. He didn’t answer right away, but the faint pink creeping up his ears gave him away at the thought.

“…I guess,” he admitted slowly, “it’d be nice to have someone to come home to.”

Bucky’s grin turned smug instantly. “Ah. There it is.”

“She’s here for research,” Steve reminded him firmly, snapping himself back to reality. “Not to get hitched to a couple of guys who spend all day haulin’ logs and tendin’ cattle.”

“But picture this, Stevie—” Bucky glanced up as he crouched on the floor, steadily pumping air into the mattress. “You work yourself half to death,” he went on, muscles flexing. “We both do. Up before the sun, down after it sets. Muscles sore, hands cracked, brain fried.” He slowed, leaning his weight against the pump. “Wouldn’t kill us to have someone who… helps take the edge off.”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve groaned, turning to try and hide the blush on his cheeks. “You’re gross, man.”

“Look—” Bucky sighed as he stood, “we haven’t had a woman like that around here in a long time. And she’s not just any woman—she’s smart.” He shook his head, scoffing lightly. “A man’s allowed to dream about comin’ home to somethin’ nice. Maybe even havin’ a smooth pair of legs wrapped nice and tight around—”

His voice trailed off as his eyes caught sight of you through the window.

You stood on the front porch, barefoot, a towel draped around your shoulders as water dripped from your hair. You were dressed in something light and easy—a dress. Nothing fancy, but far more comfortable than what you’d worn when they first met you.

… And somehow, far more domestic.

Steve followed Bucky’s gaze, his breath hitching once he saw you. Bucky swallowed hard. Neither of them spoke.

Then, they finally looked at each other, faces warm, wearing the same boyish, awed grin—just like the ones frozen in those crooked childhood photos on the wall.

“Pretty,” they both murmured at the exact same time.

They watched as you lifted a hand to shield your eyes, squinting against the afternoon sun as you scanned the yard. You took a few steps down the porch, bare feet tip-toeing around the dirt as you tried to squint at the shed.

Bucky straightened immediately, dropping the pump as it hit the wooden floors with a loud thud. “She’s lookin’ for us.”

Steve was already moving, setting the broom aside so quickly it wobbled, then clattered against the wall before falling to the floor. “Well—don’t just stand there!”

They headed for the door at the same time, bumping shoulders as they squeezed past each other, neither willing to give ground. When you spotted them walking toward you with Steve taking the lead and Bucky half a step behind, clearly trying to edge ahead, a small smile spread across your face.

“Oh—there you two are. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to—” you sighed in relief, gesturing vaguely at the farm around you. “—wander.”

Bucky let out a short chuckle, rocking back on his heels as he tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You can wander all you’d like, darlin’,” he said. “What’s ours is yours.”

The nickname threw you off guard. You felt your face warm, heat creeping up your neck that had nothing to do with the sun as you tucked a damp strand of hair behind your ear. Back in the city, men didn’t really talk like that unless they were intoxicated at a bar and trying to get in your pants.

But this felt different. Maybe it was just that gentleman, charming, farmer boy thing.

“Oh,” you said, a little breathless. “That’s—uh… really sweet. Thank you, Bucky.”

Steve gave Bucky a look out of the corner of his eye—a careful look. Bucky, meanwhile, looked far too pleased with himself.

“Just don’t go wanderin’ too far, baby,” Steve added quickly, stepping up onto the porch beside you. “Some of the fences are old, and the horses don’t always respect personal place.”

If you hadn’t been flustered before, you definitely were now.

You didn’t get called things like darlin’ or baby very often, and even when you did, the words had never affected you like this. Not the way they sounded coming from two devastatingly handsome, accommodating men with soft southern accents.

“I—okay,” you said quickly, nodding as you snapped yourself out of it, though the corners of your mouth still tugged into a smile. “I’ll be careful.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as he glanced at Steve, then back at you, his own lips twitching like he was biting back a comment.

“We’ve fixed up the shed for you,” Bucky said instead, propping one leg on the porch step and resting a hand on the railing. “Mattress is ready if you wanna rest. You wanna take a look?”

Your attention drifted past the shed, toward the open fields, the fencing, and the animals moving lazily across the land.

“Actually,” you trailed, removing the towel from your shoulders, “would it be okay if I checked out the animals first?”

Bucky tilted his head. “Animals?”

“For my research,” you clarified quickly. “I’d really like to get an initial survey while there’s still daylight. Just some baseline observations—livestock condition, spacing, behavior. I won’t get in the way.”

Steve exchanged a glance with Bucky—a look you’d noticed they shared often since you arrived.

Then Steve smiled back at you. “Yeah, that’s fine. Just—” he gestured vaguely to the fences, “—stay where we can see you. Okay?”

“Don’t worry,” you said, rolling your eyes playfully. “I’m not planning on getting lost.”

As you turned back to the house, already half a step up the porch with the intention of grabbing your shoes, something caught the corner of your eye. Your gaze snapped to the far end of the pasture, where a small cluster of animals had gathered. A few cows wandered lazily nearby, but it was two chickens in particular that caught your attention.

A hen crouched low to the ground, wings spread slightly, tail lifted—while a rooster mounted her from behind.

Your eyes went wide.

“Oh—wait, wait, wait!”

Shoes forgotten entirely, you pivoted on your heel and hurried back down the porch steps, already digging your phone out of your dress pocket. “This is perfect timing! Hold this—please—”

Behind you, Steve barely had time to react before the towel was tossed his way, landing squarely over his head.

“Hey—” he started, but you were already jogging barefoot across the dirt, eyes locked on the breeding chickens.

Your hair breezed through wind and they got a good whiff of the pleasant scent before you ran off. Despite using the same shampoo as them, it smelled surprisingly soft and very feminine. A smell they weren’t used to, but one they’d easily grow fond of.

You slowed as you got closer, steadying your hands, snapping a few quick photos as discreetly as possible, and crouching slightly to keep from startling them. Your lips moved as you narrated under your breath.

“Estrus behavior visible… herd proximity unchanged… minimal disruption…”

Bucky stared after you, incredulous, before letting out a low whistle. He nudged Steve in the arm just as Steve pulled the towel off his face.

“What’d I tell you?” Bucky murmured with a crooked grin. “Barefoot—” he nodded inside the house, still warm and humid from your shower, “—and already keepin’ the house warm.”

“Alright. Enough gawking,” Steve warned, though his eyes were still still fixed on you. “Just ’cause we’ve got a pretty girl livin’ with us now doesn’t mean we don’t have work to do.”

Bucky snorted. “Yeah, keep tellin’ yourself that while you stare even harder.”

For the rest of the afternoon, until the sun laid low and the sky began to darken, the two men worked diligently around the farm. And despite Steve’s warnings not to gawk, their eyes found you anyway—again and again.

You crouched near the animals, scribbling notes into your journal, occasionally lifting an expensive-looking camera—one in far better condition than their own damn truck—to snap photos of the cattle. And even after they’d warned you about the fences, you climbed up onto the railings anyway, the wood creaking beneath your toes as you leaned forward, determined to get the perfect shot of the horses.

Wood was getting stacked, hay bales tossed aside, tools scattered and gathered again as needed.

Still, every so often, Steve would glance up from his work to try and look at you, but only to catch Bucky leaning against the farmhouse doorway, eyes trailing shamelessly in your direction.

“Whatcha starin’ at, Buck?” Steve grinned as he tied off a rope around a hay bale.

Bucky didn’t look away from you. His smile softened as he watched the way you held the camera carefully, how your toes balanced on the fence rail, the breeze tugging gently at your hair and dress.

“Just admirin’ the view.”

Steve’s gaze followed his, and he let out a low groan as he stood up. “She’s gonna fall off that fence if she keeps leanin’ over like that.”

“And we’ll be there to catch her,” Bucky replied with a grin, pushing off the doorframe to help with the bales.

You had no idea you were being watched so closely.

Unbeknownst to them, you had been sneaking glances of your own towards the farm. Their white tank tops—streaked with dirt and darkened with sweat—clung to their muscular bodies. Broad arms and strong backs flexed and tensed every time they lifted something heavy. Each hay bale toss came with a grit of teeth, a scrunched brow, and a low, rough groan.

And afterward, they would both exhale deeply, chests rising as they wiped sweat from their foreheads with thick forearms.

They were both strong, capable men—reeking of masculinity, so sure with their hands with what came from years of real work.

Men you’d never meet in the city.

Night had fully settled in now, the sky stretched dark blue and wide, scattered with bright stars. From where you stood, you watched Steve and Bucky just outside the house, pumping water through the pipes as they rinsed off their hands and faces.

Water trickled from their chins, disappearing into the deep lines of their firm chests beneath worn tank tops. They wiped their faces with towels, murmured something to each other—and then both turned your way.

Two sets of eyes found yours that stared at them shamelessly.

You immediately looked down at your camera screen, pretending to be fixated on the chickens you photographed as you tried to play it cool.

Then you heard footsteps, two sets of heavy footsteps treading through the grass and dirt and closer to you.

Fuck.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Steve approached, crossing his arms while he looked down at you. “We were gonna grab some food in a bit. You hungry?”

“Oh,” you hummed, your stomach already answering with a rumble. “Yeah. I could eat.”

“Every Friday night, the town heads down to the bar,” Steve continued. “More of a saloon, really. Beer, cheap whiskey, food. Sometimes there’s live music if Gary brings his guitar—or the jukebox, if it decides to work.”

“And line dancin’,” Bucky added. “Bad line dancin’.”

“I’m not sure if you have that kind of thing in the city,” Steve went on, resting a hand against the fence as he hovered over you, “but if you wanna tag along for a bite, you’re more than welcome.”

You closed your journal and slipped the camera strap from around your neck, standing with a small groan as you stretched. You were here for research, yes, but it wouldn’t hurt to see what the town had to offer beyond livestock and open fields.

“That sounds fun,” you said, smiling. “I’ll come. I just need to rinse up real quick and I’ll be right out.”

Your gaze dropped to your feet, dirt caked between your toes, bits of grass still clinging to your skin. Then you glanced down at your clothes.

“Is… what I’m wearing okay?” you asked, a little self-conscious as you smoothed the fabric down.

Steve’s eyes dropped before he could stop them, taking in the way the dress fit you—how it followed and hugged your curves, how the neckline framed your chest just right. Realizing how intensely he was staring, he snapped his gaze back up to your face. His jaw tightened as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Yeah,” he nodded quickly, standing up straight. Then he cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s— it’s fine. You’re fine.”

Bucky, on the other hand, took your question as an invitation to check you out shamelessly. His eyes roamed over you—appreciating your chest and legs. Liking what he saw, his tongue flicked out to wet his bottom lip, teeth catching it afterward.

“Real pretty, doll,” he said lowly. “Wearin’ a dress like that around here… almost makes me wanna keep you to ourselves.”

You rolled your eyes, hoping the silver moonlight didn’t betray the flush on your cheeks or the way your lips twitched into a reluctant smile.

“You two are unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head as you stepped past them towards the house.

Halfway to the porch, you called back over your shoulder, your voice playful. “Do you flirt with every woman who crosses your path, or am I just lucky?”

Bucky’s mouth snapped open—a smart-ass remark already locked and loaded—but Steve cut him off instantly, pointing a stern finger at his chest. “Hey now! Don’t look at me. It’s him. He’s the problem.”

The sound of your light, airy laugh drifted back to them—a sound so soft and gentle, it seemed to knock the air right out of their lungs.

“I’ll be back in a minute!” you called with a wave, jogging up the porch steps and disappearing inside.

“Don’t take too long!” Bucky shouted after you. “Or else all the food will be gone by the time we get there.”

As the screen door clicked shut and you vanished from sight, their laughter trailed off. The silence of the countryside came back, broken only by the faint chirps of crickets in the distance.

Steve let out a heavy exhale, rubbing the back of his neck.

“…We gotta get a grip,” he muttered.

“I’m being serious, Stevie,” Bucky said, giving his friend’s arm a sharp nudge.

His flirtatious smirk was gone, now replaced with a protective look that Steve had only seen him give to their horses.

“I mean—look at her. If she shows up at the bar looking like that, every bastard in the county is going to be breathing down her neck.” He crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on the door where you had just been.

“…Yeah,” Steve huffed quietly. “I know.” His gaze stayed on the house, tracking your silhouette as it moved past the lit windows.

“Hell, half the men in this town would get worked up just seein’ a lady show a bit of ankle,” Steve added dryly. “I still can’t believe Fury told her to come to this dump.”

Bucky let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Listen to us—soundin’ real territorial all of a sudden.”

Steve scrubbed a hand down his face, his palm rasping against his stubble. “It’s just—she’s our responsibility while she’s here. Fury trusted us to look out for her. That’s all it is.”

“Yeah,” Bucky hummed. “That’s all.”

They stood in the yard, watching you move past the glow of the house windows.

In the long silence, they both realized how dead wrong they were. Truthfully, they weren’t all that much better compared to the sleazy, overworked men in town.

When they first laid eyes on you, they immediately wanted to keep you to themselves. And despite only having you here for a couple of hours, they were going to make sure to keep it that way.

Steve started talking lowly to Bucky, quiet enough to make sure you couldn’t hear—even though you were already inside.

“We stick close tonight. No one bothers her. No one gets handsy. And if anyone does—” Steve stopped himself, exhaling through his nose. “—we shut it down. Calmly.” He emphasized.

“Right.” Bucky nodded. “Calmly.”

“That means we don’t start fights, Buck.”

“Hey—I don’t believe in startin’ fights,” he mumbled, crossing his arms defensively. “Just… finishin’ ‘em.”

“Alright, enough loitering. Let’s start up Lucy.” Steve slapped a firm hand on Bucky’s back, nudging him towards the truck.

Bucky mumbled grumpily but trailed behind anyway, yanking the hood latch and propping it open while Steve climbed into the driver’s seat. The keys jingled as Steve turned the ignition.

The truck clicked, chugged, whined, and gave them nothing.

He tried again. Another cough, a weak sputter—and then silence.

“… You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Steve muttered, giving Bucky a flat look through the windshield.

Bucky leaned over the engine bay, bracing one hand on the frame. “Don’t look at me like that. She was runnin’ fine earlier.”

“Well, she’s got real bad timing,” Steve shot back sassily, twisting the key once more, like sheer will might help. The engine answered with a pathetic hiccup and died again. “We can’t invite her out and then tell her the truck’s dead.”

“I didn’t invite her,” Bucky said, poking at a hose. “You did.”

“Oh, don’t start.”

Bucky adjusted a loose wire, fingers blackening with grease. “Try it now.”

Steve turned the key, and still… nothing.

Steve leaned his head back against the seat, exhaling sharply. “Unbelievable. First night she’s here, and we’re about to tell her we can’t even get her into town.”

“Relax,” Bucky said, though his jaw was tight. “Lucy’s temperamental. Always has been.” He wiped his hands on his jeans and bent closer to look inside the engine. “Could be the starter. Or the battery. Or—”

The screen door slammed shut, and both men froze at the sound.

You stepped back out, shoes on this time, hair neatly fixed, looking entirely too put together for a place like this. You jogged towards the truck, a smile already on your face.

“Hey!” you called brightly. “You guys ready?”

Steve’s head snapped up so fast he nearly cracked his neck. Bucky straightened, narrowly missing the hood as he stood.

“Yeah—uh—we’re ready,” Steve said quickly, turning the key again. “C’mon…” he muttered under his breath.

Then the engine finally roared back to life, loud and rumbling, sounding like music to their ears. Both men looked at each other in disbelief.

Bucky slowly lowered the hood and gave it an affectionate pat. “Atta girl,” he murmured. Then he glanced at Steve, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Our good luck charm, ain’t she?”

Steve shook his head, trying to hide his own smile. “Yeah. She is.”

And you couldn’t tell if they were talking about the truck—or you.

Lucy rattled beneath you like she was held together by sheer luck alone.

The ride into town was loud and bumpy, the streets dark and lit only by the truck’s dusty high beams and the occasional window light from passing houses.

The windows were down, warm night air rushing through the cab, drifting in the scent of dust, grass, and something smoky from farther ahead. Steve drove with one hand on the wheel, relaxed now that the truck had decided to cooperate, while Bucky leaned back in his seat, elbow hooked out the window.

Town came into view slowly—a handful of buildings clustered under string lights and old streetlamps. It looked far more beautiful than it had in the broad daylight when you first arrived. The bar stood near the center, a squat wooden building with a faded sign swinging above the door. Even before Steve cut the engine, the twang of banjos and guitars met your ears.

“Well,” Steve said, hopping out and extending a hand to help you down. “We made it.”

The moment you stepped inside, you were greeted with the sounds of loud music, laughter, and the smell of cigarettes.

Glasses clinked, boots thudded and scraped against the old floorboards. A few men with weathered faces leaned against the bar with their sleeves rolled up, while a group of elderly women sat at a corner table with playing cards spread out before them. Someone whooped near the jukebox, and a few people were already on the floor, dancing and sweating.

One pair of eyes landed on you, then several.

Soon enough, nearly everyone in the damn bar was staring.

Conversation grew a little quieter. Curious, surprised, and a few openly appreciative glances lingered on you longer than they should’ve. You crossed your arms defensively on instinct, suddenly very aware of yourself.

And both of your boys noticed.

Steve stepped up beside you, resting a protective hand on your lower back that somehow managed to soothe you. Bucky moved to your other side quietly, his broad shoulders subtly boxing you in as he glared at everyone else in the room.

Most of the crowd looked away and returned to their drinks, but the younger men kept their eyes fixed on you.

“Don’t mind them,” Bucky murmured, leaning in so only you could hear. “Town don’t get many new faces. Especially not pretty ones.”

Before you could respond, someone at the bar shouted, “Rogers! Barnes! Thought that was Lucy I heard coughin’ her way into town!”

Steve laughed, lifting his other hand in greeting. “You know she wouldn’t miss a Friday.”

The elderly men at the bar chuckled, and one of them leaned back on his stool to get a better look at you. “Well, don’t just stand there hoggin’ her, Rogers,” he called out. “Come on over and introduce us to your new friend.”

You hesitated, your eyes darting between Steve and Bucky. Despite the protective hand on your back, Steve’s expression remained calm and gentle, clearly intent on not starting any trouble. Bucky, on the other hand, looked like he was ready to fight anyone who even dared to look your way.

“They’re alright,” Steve reassured you quietly. “Promise. Half the fellas at the bar are married.”

Then a burst of laughter exploded from a table near the back where a group of women sat hunched over cards and half-empty glasses—clearly the wives in question. One of them slapped the table. “That’s because you earned it, Marie!” another shouted back. “Now stop yellin’ and play your damn hand!”

You couldn’t help but smile.

Steve gave you a gentle nudge. “C’mon. Let’s say hello.”

They led you toward the bar, Steve’s hand relaxed and guiding at your back while Bucky stalked half a step behind you, mugging everyone who looked your way. The older men adjusted their stools, flashing friendly smiles as they made space for you.

“This is Frank,” Steve said by way of introduction, and you reached out to shake his hand.

“So,” Frank raised a brow, looking between the three of you. “Who’s the young lady?”

You returned his greeting with a polite smile. “I’m a family friend of Fury’s. I’m here for a research project.”

“Ohhh, Fury’s girl?” the bartender whistled, wiping down a glass. “Well, hell—someone warn the whole town not to lay a finger on this one.”

A few men barked a laugh, the scent of beer wafting from their breath, as Frank waved a finger between Bucky and Steve.

“Specially you two,” he said, looking at you. “These guys are the ones causin’ most of the trouble around here. Fury actually trusted you with them?”

“Hey, we’re perfect gentlemen,” Steve countered. “Ain’t that right, Buck?”

“Right,” Bucky muttered, his arms crossed as he glared at someone across the bar. “Gentlemen.”

You shrugged lightly, smiling. “They’ve been nothing but nice. They even fixed up a shed for me to stay in.”

“A shed?” one man barked, spit nearly flying. You took a subtle step back. “Rogers, Barnes—you stick a girl in a shed and call it hospitality?”

“Don’t sully my ma’s house like that,” Steve joked, reaching over the counter to grab himself a beer.

“Y’know, when Sarah was alive, she didn’t call it much of a house, either,” Frank added, stifling his cigarette in the ashtray as a cloud of smoke drifted toward you.

Steve reached over the counter again, this time snagging two more bottles and sliding cash to the bartender with a nod of thanks.

“Alright, alright,” he said good-naturedly. “Before you all start fillin’ our girl’s ears with nonsense, we’re gonna grab a table.”

Bucky tipped his chin to the back corner. “There’s an empty one over there.”

Steve nodded in that direction, gesturing for you to lead the way.

“Oh, so she’s your girl now!” the men teased, their laughter following you. As the three of you walked away, they called out their goodbyes. “It was nice meetin’ you, sweetheart!”

You looked over your shoulder, giving them a quick wave.

“And it was nice talkin’ to you too, Barnes!” Frank shouted sarcastically. Bucky didn’t even look back, simply raising a hand in a dismissive wave as he guided you to the booth.

Bucky stood aside, letting you take the inside seat of the booth. As you slid in, the cushions felt worn and soft—broken in by years of Friday nights exactly like this one. Once you were settled and had set your beer set on the table, Bucky slid in right next to you.

“I’ll grab us somethin’ to eat,” Steve said, standing at the edge of the table and scanning the chalkboard menu. “Place may be small and reeks of cigarettes, but they do grill a mean burger.”

You smiled up at him. “I’ll trust your judgment.”

Steve turned back toward the bar, weaving his way through the crowd. It was just you and Bucky now, surrounded by the loud music and people nearly tripping over themselves. You took it all in with curious eyes while Bucky leaned back against the booth, his arm draped lazily across the top of the seat behind you, beer resting casually in his hand.

“So,” Bucky huffed after taking a sip. “How’re you likin’ the small-town nightlife? Real glitz and glamour out here.”

Your eyes continued scanning the room—the scuffed, dirty floors, the dartboard with three crooked darts still stuck in it, and some burly men arm wrestling in the opposite corner.

“Oh, yeah,” you agreed sarcastically. “Definitely glitz and glamour. We do this all the time back in the city.”

“Yeah?” he laughed softly. “Definitely just like the champagne-and-rooftop parties you have every night. Uh-huh, got it.” He smiled at you before taking another swig of his beer.

You watched the lines crinkle attractively at the corners of his tired eyes—evidence of long days and too little rest. His tongue swept across his bottom lip to catch a stray drop, and the simple motion made your stomach flip, your pulse ticking up a notch.

You took a quick sip from your own bottle to hide your reaction, then cleared your throat.

“Anyway,” you started lightly, “what’s with everyone telling me that you two are trouble?”

Bucky let out a playful scoff. “That’s just old-timer slander. We’re model citizens.”

You gave him a skeptical look. “Right. So innocent that every person I’ve met has warned me about you two,” you added dryly.

“Absolutely,” he said, lifting his beer in a small toast. “Wouldn’t hurt a damn fly, darlin’.”

“Does that explain why you’ve been scowling at every man in here like you’re ready to fight since we walked through the doors?” you taunted.

He set his beer on the table and leaned in closer; you could catch the scent of it on his breath. “Look around you, sweetheart,” he rasped.

You did. The room was full of weathered faces, grease-stained flannel shirts, and men who had clearly seen better days. Most of the women were gathered at the cards table—all silver hair and loud, gravelly laughter.

“See any other woman as young and beautiful as you?” he asked. His eyes trailed over your face, down to your jawline and your neck while you were too busy scanning the bar to notice. “Stevie and I are just protectin’ you, that’s all.”

Protecting you?

Your face warmed, and the second you turned your gaze back to him, you found he was already watching you, leaning in dangerously close.

“That so?” you asked softly, your eyes searching his.

“That’s so,” he repeated lowly. You watched as his gaze dropped slowly from your eyes to your lips.

In the city, independence was everything; women were expected to take care of themselves. But here, it felt like those modern rules had been stripped away in favor of the old ways. It was traditional—strong, capable men protecting and providing while the women held down the home. It was a lifestyle that didn’t—couldn’t— exist in the city where everyone was always on the clock.

Just then, Steve approached, setting down plates piled with burgers, fries, and ribs. He had a wide grin on his face. “Eat up, princess.”

As you looked at the food and then back at the two of them, you realized that maybe you didn’t mind being taken care of—especially by them.

You all dug in, the smell of grilled meat and greasy fries making your stomach rumble. Bucky took a massive bite of his burger, already smearing sauce across his chin. He glanced over at you, smirking while he chewed.

“Bet you don’t eat this kind of slop back in the city, do ya?” he teased, nodding at your hands as you tried to steady a burger the size of your head. “Probably don’t even know how to eat with your hands.”

You rolled your eyes. “I do know how to eat with my hands,” you said, adjusting your grip. “I’m just eating with manners—something you two should try learning.”

“Hey, don’t be afraid of a little mess,” Bucky said, swiping a finger over a barbecue rib until it was coated in sauce. “That’s part of the fun.”

Steve gave him a disapproving look across the table. “Buck, no—”

But Steve’s warning went in one ear and out the other. Before you could react, Bucky reached over and swiped a thick line of barbecue sauce right over your lips and chin.

“Hey—!” You recoiled, pressing your lips tight to keep his finger from slipping into your mouth. Bucky sat back in his seat, letting out a roar of laughter at your reaction.

“Oh my god, Bucky! You are trouble!”

You reached for a napkin, but Steve snatched it away before you could grab it, snickering along with his friend.

“Steve, you too?!” you frowned dramatically, dropping your burger back onto the plate. You stood up, reaching across the booth to grab it, but Steve held it further back, laughing at your sad attempt. “How could you do this to me? You literally told Bucky no!”

“I know, I know,” he laughed, wiping a tear from his eye. “But look at you—you look so damn cute, sweetheart.”

With a groan, you leaned over the table, stretching just far enough to snatch the napkins right out of Steve’s hands. You immediately started dabbing at the mess on your chin.

“Jesus,” you said, shaking your head playfully. “Nick was right about you two.”

All three of you were still recovering from the laughter when two large shadows fell over the table, blocking the warm overhead light.

“Well, well,” a slurred voice drawled, catching the guys' attention. “Ain’t this a pretty picture.”

Bucky looked up, and it was like a dark cloud loomed over him; his smile was instantly replaced by a hard, dangerous frown. “Get lost, Mike.”

‘Mike’ didn’t even glance at Bucky. Instead, his bleary gaze raked over you, slow and hazy in a way that made your skin prick uncomfortably. You sank back into your seat, subtly trying to hide yourself behind Bucky’s frame.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” Mike said, leaning his hands on the edge of the booth, trying to keep himself from toppling over. You could smell the cheap whiskey on his breath from across the table. “Didn’t know Buck was harborin’ such a pretty little secret. Take a look at this prize, Dave.”

His buddy, ‘Dave’, snickered beside him, resting a lazy arm around Mike’s shoulders. “Oh, what a pretty thing you are. City girl, right? You bored with these two yet? You know, we could show you a real good time.”

Steve shot you a careful look. “Just ignore them—”

“I’m good where I am, thanks,” you answered sternly, the words out before you could even register Steve’s warning.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving Mike’s. “I said get lost.”

They ignored him again.

Mike tilted his head at you, a lopsided, ugly smirk on his face as he adjusted his footing, nearly stumbling. “You’re probably gettin’ real tired of being stuck with these two nobodies,” he scoffed. “Why don’tcha hang out with real men like us?”

That was when Bucky’s hand curled into a white-knuckled fist on the table.

Steve reached out, his fingers brushing Bucky’s forearm as a warning. “Buck.” Then, he faced the men, his voice calm and level. “Alright. That’s enough. She’s with us. Go stick with your arm wrestling and leave us be.”

Dave laughed—a mean, loud sound—and reached over to give Bucky a mocking nudge on the shoulder. “Yeah, listen to your boy-toy, Barnes. Like the loyal dog you are.”

Steve’s brow twitched. “What the hell did you just say to him?”

You rested a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, leaning in with a worried look. “Bucky, I think we should just go—”

But before you could finish the sentence, Steve moved in one quick, explosive motion—his boots hit the floor hard as he lunged out of the booth. A blur of movement followed as his fist cracked straight across Dave’s jaw. The brutal, clean punch of skin-against-skin echoed through the bar, followed by a startled gasps of people who stood nearby.

Mike blinked in shock, watching his friend drop, then let out a roar and swung at Steve. The punch caught Steve high on the cheekbone, snapping his head to the side.

People jumped out of their chairs, wood scraping against floorboards as they shouted and lifted their drinks. “Fight, fight, fight!”

“Jesus Christ!” you gasped, quickly getting up. You nudged Bucky in the shoulder hard. “Bucky, grab Steve and let’s get out of here—!”

But Bucky was already standing, and he had absolutely no intention of ending it.

His blue eyes were filled with fury as he closed the distance to Mike. He grabbed the man by the shoulder, spinning him around just to deliver a devastating blow straight to his face—then another immediately to his gut, sending Mike doubling over.

“Fuckin’ Barnes!” Mike wheezed.

A circle formed around them almost instantly, leaving you trapped inside the booth with no escape. People cheered, laughing and whooping as if this were a Friday night show rather than a real fight.

“Knock ’em silly, Rogers!”

“Your punches are gettin’ sloppy, Barnes!”

Your heart thumped fast in your chest as punches flew in a blur and blood splattered the floor. You twisted in your seat, scanning the room desperately for anyone who might step in—a security guard, a bouncer, any responsible grown-up.

The bartender just threw his head back and laughed, wiping the counter with a rag. “Ah, hell,” he called over the noise, sounding more amused than concerned. “Didn’t think it’d only take two drinks tonight.”

A few men near the bar raised their glasses, toasting to the chaos.

“Hey! Can someone stop them?!” you tried again, but no one heard you. Or, more likely, no one cared.

A couple of the older women at the card table barely glanced up from their game, still laughing among themselves.

“They’ll walk it off,” a guy at a nearby table said casually, taking a slow sip of his beer.

“Barnes always did have a temper,” one of the elderly women added from the card table, her voice sounding almost fond of the memory.

You watched in horror as Bucky and Mike stumbled into a nearby table, knocking it over and sending beers flying as they exchanged heavy blows. Next to them, Steve had Dave in a chokehold while Dave repeatedly drove his elbow into Steve’s gut, making him recoil with every hit.

The bartender noticed you trying to push your way out of the booth, your hands waving in frantic, useless circles as you tried to get him to stop the madness.

“Don’t try to fix it, city girl!” he called out, his booming voice carrying over the crowd. “They’ll be done when they’re done!”

Your shoulders slumped in defeat. Just then, the room erupted into cheers as Steve delivered a massive hook to Dave’s jaw, sending him crashing to the floor. Dave groaned, spitting blood onto the floorboards as he tried to push himself back up.

Steve stood over him, chest heaving as he adjusted his stance. “You done?”

Dave wiped his mouth. “Not even close.”

“Good,” Steve huffed, raising his fists again. “I could do this all day.”

Oh.

Despite the panic, a snort escaped you at how ridiculously corny that was. Yet for some reason, the line seemed to amp up the crowd even more—as if he were a pro wrestler and that was his legendary signature catchphrase.

“That’s it, Rogers!”

“Yeah! Show ’em!”

“Knock his teeth out!”

As you looked between the men, your shoulders eased just slightly. You realized Mike and Dave were in far worse condition than Bucky and Steve.

They weren’t losing.

They were in complete control, moving like they’d fought like this a plenty of times before. It was as if this bar floor had been their training ground since they were kids.

With a defeated sigh, you tipped your beer back and took several long swallows, emptying the bottle in one go. The cheap alcohol hit your system, mixing with the leftover adrenaline and replacing your earlier panic with a sudden, sharp spark of excitement.

You slammed the empty bottle down on the table, cupped your hands around your mouth, and shouted over the roar of the crowd.

“Kick his ass, Steve!”

A few heads turned—some giving you surprised glances—while other men cheered along with you.

“Come on, Buck—you can do better than that!” you yelled.

Bucky blinked at you, a surprised smile ghosting over his bloodied face before he used your voice as fuel to keep going.

Steve ducked a sloppy swing from Dave, landing a clean hook that snapped the man’s head to the side. Dave staggered backward, fighting to stay upright as the crowd erupted. Meanwhile, Bucky had Mike pinned against the floor, each punch making the wood rattle and creak.

You watched, breath caught in your throat. You were worried about their safety, but God—they were good at this.

And they looked good doing it.

Their hair was damp with sweat, trailing over their faces as they grunted and delivered heavy blows. You couldn’t help but notice the way their muscles flexed or the way the veins stood out on their large, powerful hands.

The brawl continued until more tables were upended and bottles shattered, glass spraying everywhere as the locals scrambled to avoid the crossfire.

Finally, the bartender slapped his rag onto the counter with a sharp, fed-up sigh.

“Alright! That’s enough!”

Steve grabbed Dave by the shirt, his fist cocked back, while Bucky buried another punch into Mike’s stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs. The bartender’s patience finally snapped for good.

“I SAID THAT’S ENOUGH!”

The room finally fell quiet.

He jabbed a finger towards the entrance. “Barnes. Rogers. OUT. And take Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum with you before you bleed all over my damn floor.”

By the time you all made it back to the farm, the night air had cooled significantly, the crickets still humming lazily just as they had before you left. Lucy rumbled to a stop, and the three of you climbed out in silence.

As you approached the house, the porch light flickered on with a weak, twitching buzz.

In the dim yellow glow, you finally saw the extent of the damage.

Steve’s cheekbone was already swelling, a dark bruise blooming beneath the skin, while dried blood traced a path from his split lip to his chin. His knuckles were raw and scraped open. Bucky didn’t look much better—one brow was split, a smear of red trailing down his temple, and dust was ground so deeply into his clothes it looked like he’d rolled through every inch of the town’s dirt.

“Well,” Steve sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess we’ll turn in. Big day tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Bucky added, brushing dirt off his shirt like that would somehow fix anything. “Let us know if you need anythin’, doll. We’ll keep the door unlocked for you.”

They both turned to the door, but your voice made them stop.

“No,” you said sternly.

They both looked back, Steve tilting his head in confusion. “No?”

“You guys are not going to bed like that.” You gestured wildly between their bruised faces. “You’re both bleeding. You’re filthy. And—God, both of your knuckles look like ground meat.”

Bucky glanced down at his fists and mumbled, “It’s not that bad…”

“It is,” you insisted.

He shrugged. “Fine. We’ll rinse off with some cold water and soap. Done.”

“Not done,” you corrected sharply. “You’ll wake up with infections and crusted in blood. You guys were rolling all over a floor covered in God-knows-what.”

They exchanged a glance, not really knowing what to say. You narrowed your eyes and crossed your arms over your chest.

“Inside. Now,” you ordered.

Steve opened his mouth, holding up a hand. “Honey, we’re fine. You should get some rest—”

You ignored him, pointing firmly past him toward the house. “Go.”

Inside, you guided them to the kitchen table like scolded schoolboys. Steve sat down, his posture stiff and awkward, while Bucky leaned against the counter with his arms crossed. He was trying to play it cool, though he clearly had no idea what to do with himself.

It had been years since they were in this position—not since they were kids and Steve’s mom was patching them up after a rough day of playing in the dirt and getting into scrapes. Back then, they’d have wide grins on their faces as she kissed their "boo-boos" goodbye.

But now, as grown men with a beautiful woman in their home tending to them, they were both as stiff as a load of bricks.

They watched in silence as you filled a bowl with warm water, found a clean cloth, and grabbed the small first-aid tin they pointed out in one of the cabinents.

You sat down in front of Steve. “Alright,” you murmured, dipping the cloth and wringing it out. “You’re first.”

You pulled your chair closer, tucking yourself between his knees as you gently tilted his face toward the warm overhead light. The bruise across his cheekbone looked even worse up close. When you pressed the damp cloth to his skin, he flinched.

“Sorry,” you whispered, softening your touch.

“S’okay,” he murmured back. “It feels nice.”

Bucky watched from the counter, his jaw clenching. He couldn’t quite place the feeling in his chest; all he knew was that he wanted the same focused attention Steve was getting.

So, when you said, “Bucky, come here. I’ll do you next,” his feet moved without hesitation.

He grabbed a chair and dragged it right up behind you—perhaps a little too close in his eagerness. He settled in as he impatiently waited his turn, sandwiching you between the two of them.

“Both of you,” you said, setting the bowl down and picking up the gauze. “Watch me. That way, when someone’s not here to take care of you, you can take care of each other the next time you get into a bar fight.”

You took Steve’s hand, and he shuddered at the contact. As you carefully wrapped his split knuckles, your fingertips grazed the sensitive skin of his inner wrist, making him swallow hard.

You could feel Bucky’s presence right behind you. He leaned over your shoulder, watching your hands work. Seeing how softly you cared for Steve hit him with a deep sense of longing he couldn’t hide anymore. He sighed softly, resting his forehead against your back, his rough hand finding your waist to give it a gentle, needy squeeze.

“I… need attention, too,” Bucky mumbled.

You finished wrapping Steve’s hand, snipping the excess gauze with a pair of scissors. A soft chuckle escaped you at Bucky’s blunt admission.

“Well,” you teased. “Maybe if you two hadn’t started a fight, you wouldn’t be in such desperate need of my attention.”

“We had to defend you, baby,” Bucky sighed. His hands palmed your waist, making you gasp softly.

For Bucky, there was something grounding about your proximity—the way you felt under his hands was relieving for him after the chaos of a long day.

“They were lookin’ at you with bad intentions, sweetheart,” Steve added, leaning in even closer as his eyes bored into yours. “We were just tryna protect you.”

You picked the towel back up, looking deep into Steve’s gaze. He was staring at you so intensely that it made the air feel thin. If you leaned in just an inch further, you could have kissed him.

And judging by the way his gaze dropped from your eyes to your lips, he was thinking the exact same thing.

“I’ve been stared at and talked about by plenty of nasty men in the city,” you explained softly, wringing the towel over the bowl. “But not once did anyone defend me the way you two did. You’ve both done so much for me since I got here, and I don’t know how to pay you back.” You lifted the damp cloth. “This is the least I can do.”

“You being here, taking care of us… that’s more than enough,” Bucky rasped.

You turned in your chair to face him, your brow furrowing as you took in his split skin. When you dabbed the towel gently against the cut, he hissed.

“You might need a butterfly bandage for your brow.” You frowned.

Despite the sting, Bucky let out a rough chuckle. “You’re speakin’ a different language, darlin’.”

You rummaged through the tin and, to your surprise, managed to find one. You held up the bandage; it was still in its wrapping, though the edges were a bit frayed.

“How long has this been in here?” you asked.

Steve shrugged. “I dunno. We don’t really use the kit. Not since my ma passed.”

“It should be fine,” you shrugged. “Better than nothing.” Because of Bucky’s height, even with him sitting, you had to stand up to get a clear look at the wound.

“Hold still,” you whispered, reaching out to push a few long, dark locks of hair out of his face.

Bucky’s hands didn’t stay still, they continued to roam around your waist, originally with the intention to steady you as you stood over him, but his touch was growing bolder.

He let out a low shudder as your fingers trailed over his forehead, smoothing his hair out of the way. The sensation of being taken care of by you finally broke through him as his palms slid from your sides toward the small of your back, pulling you just an inch closer.

Bucky looked up at you, his eyes dark and heavy—and it had nothing to do with the exhaustion of the day.

“You feel so warm underneath my hands, baby,” Bucky rasped, his thumbs grazing the hem of your shirt. “I like this sight. You takin’ care of us. Ain’t that right, Stevie?”

You felt the floorboards creak as Steve rose from his chair. A second later, his presence loomed behind you, solid and warm. You were completely trapped between them now—Bucky’s hands at your waist and Steve’s shadow falling over your back.

Steve leaned in, his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His breath was hot against your skin, sending a shiver straight down your spine that made your hands tremble as you held the bandage.

“You’re right, Buck,” Steve murmured against the smooth skin of your neck, resting his hands on your hips. “I like this. Very much.”

You stood frozen as Steve’s nose brushed against the sensitive spot behind your ear while Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his thumbs tracing slow, and smooth circles over your hips.

“You guys…” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper—breathless and trembling. You tried to focus on Bucky, your fingers shaking as you finally pressed the butterfly bandage over the split in his brow.

He leaned his face into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed as he let out a long, heavy exhale.

“Shhh,” Bucky murmured, his voice vibrating. He shifted his head to press a soft, lingering kiss to the palm of your hand. “Just stay here, baby. Let us hold you. We’ve had a long day.”

Behind you, Steve’s hands slid fully around to your front, his large palms splaying across your stomach as he pulled your back against his broad chest. He buried his face deeper into the crook of your neck, his lips grazing your skin as he spoke.

“Buck’s right,” Steve rumbled, his arms acting like a warm, heavy anchor. “Just for a minute. Stay right here.”

The silence of the night outside amplified the low, gravelly tones of their voices. They both spoke as if you weren’t there—or as if you were a prize— talking over and around you while their hands continued their slow, possessive exploration of your body.

“Fuck, she’s so soft, Stevie,” Bucky groaned.

His eyes were still closed, his forehead resting against your stomach as his hands slid lower, his calloused palms molding to the curve of your backside. “I didn’t think skin could be this soft.”

“Smells so good, too,” Steve murmured into your hair, his voice vibrating through your spine. He took a deep, shaky breath as his stubble grazed your neck. “Like vanilla… something sweet.”

Bucky let out a dark, huffed laugh, his grip tightening to let you know he wasn’t letting go. “What’d I say? A pretty girl taking care of us… ain’t this the dream? Makes you wanna keep her all to ourselves.”

Your breath hitched and your gaze dropped, looking down at Bucky as he sat between your legs. Through the thin fabric of your clothes, you could feel the heat of his body, but it was the sight of his heavy denim that made your heart skip a beat.

The friction of your bodies pressed together had clearly taken its toll because a prominent, hard bulge was straining against the fly of his jeans, mere inches from your legs.

Before you could even process the sight, you felt Steve shift behind you. He leaned his weight into your back, his large hands firmly placed on your hips. Then, he gave a subtle and slow rock of his hips, pressing his own growing hardness firmly against you from behind.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Steve whispered against your ear, his deep voice making your legs tremble. “You’re shaking.”

“It’s just… you guys are—” you swallowed nervously, embarrassment rushing to your face. “Hard.”

Bucky chuckled lowly, his hand coming down to palm himself through his jeans.

“Do you want us to stop, baby? We can stop—” he groaned, palming himself even harder as he looked at you with hungry eyes. “We’re good boys. We’ll stop if you want us to. We can behave. Right, Stevie?”

Steve was behind you, getting bolder with his movements as he rocked his hips deeper against the curve of your ass.

“Yes,” he grunted. “We’re good. Very good boys.”

Their hands continued roaming over your body eagerly. Bucky’s breath grew heavier as he touched himself through his pants, and the feel of Steve’s rock-hard erection pressing against you while he planted soft kisses on your neck was enough to make your head spin.

The whole kitchen reeked of lust, like there was spell in the air that only made you want them more and more.

“D-don’t stop,” you breathed, your eyes hazy with desire. “This is the least I can do to pay you guys back, right?”

Steve let out a sharp sigh and Bucky groaned so deeply—it was practically a growl.

Bucky pushed himself off his chair, his movements powerful and sudden as he crowded into your space. He didn’t give you a chance to breathe before his mouth crashed onto yours.

His kiss wasn’t gentle or patient; it was hungry and demanding, and you could taste the faint, bitter tang of the beer from earlier. His tongue swept against yours, a low, possessive sound vibrating in his throat as his hands moved from your waist to cup your face, his calloused thumbs brushing over your burning cheeks.

Now that Bucky was standing, Steve was able to press even closer, his large body a solid wall of heat against your back. His hands, now wrapped in the gauze from your careful work, slid upward from your hips.

One hand splayed across your stomach, bunching the fabric of your dress beneath his fingers as he pulled you firmly against his hips, rocking into you. Meanwhile, his other hand moved higher, his fingers groping your tits through the thin material.

Steve buried his face in the crook of your shoulder. “So good,” he murmured against your skin. “You fit so perfectly between us, sweetheart.”

You were drowning between them—lost in the friction of Bucky’s tongue and the way Steve’s hands explored your curves from behind. Your senses were completely overwhelmed. Every time Bucky tilted your head to deepen the kiss, Steve would find a new patch of skin on your neck to mark with his lips, leaving you gasping into Bucky’s mouth.

“Shit, baby,” Bucky groaned against your lips.

His hand slid down your arm, his fingers locking firmly with yours. He guided your hand down between your bodies, pressing your palm directly over the hard, straining heat of his denim. You could feel him twitch beneath your fingertips.

“Touch us, baby,” Bucky groaned, rocking his hips into your hand, his voice desperate. “Don’t be shy now. You wanted to take care of us, didn’t you?”

The friction of your palm against him made his eyes roll back for a second. Steve let out a low, approving growl against your neck. He reached around, his own hand covering yours, adding his strength to the movement as he pressed your hand even firmer against Bucky.

“That’s it,” Steve encouraged, his breath hitching as he watched your hand work. “Look at how tiny your hand looks against him. You like that, don’t you? Feeling so small and helpless between us?”

Bucky’s head fell back, his jaw tight as he fought for air. “God, Stevie…” he moaned. “Help her—guide her hand against me—fuck, just like that…”

Steve’s hand tightened over yours, his movements guiding the friction of your palm against Bucky’s heat. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear; his voice was a gravelly, commanding rumble.

“Get on your knees and take care of my best friend, would ya?”

“O…okay…”

You sank to the floor, the wood cool and hard against your skin as you settled between Bucky’s boots. He let out a ragged breath, his hands immediately finding your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands to tilt your head back so he could look down at you with raw, uncontrollable hunger.

But you weren’t alone on the floor for long. You felt the floorboards groan as Steve knelt directly behind you, his massive frame shielding you from the rest of the room. His large hands slid under the hem of your dress, gathering the fabric upward until it was bunched around your waist, leaving your skin bare to the kitchen air.

As you reached for Bucky’s belt, your fingers fumbling slightly with the heavy leather, you felt Steve’s hand slide between your thighs. His thumb dragged across your clothed clit with a slow, agonizing pressure that made your back arch and your head drop onto Bucky’s lap.

“Focus, sweetheart,” Steve taunted from behind you with a low, condescending laugh. His other hand came around to cup breasts—teasing your nipple through your dress, holding you steady as his thumb continued to work you. “Take it off him. He’s been waiting all day.”

With a sharp tug, you finally eased Bucky’s jeans down. When he finally sprang free, the sight made the air leave your lungs in a sharp gasp. He was thick and heavy, his skin taut and pulsing with a heat you could feel even before you touched him.

Bucky let out a low groan at the sensation of being exposed, his hands tightening in your hair. He seemed to preen under your shocked gaze, his hips giving a small, instinctive twitch towards your face.

Steve chuckled darkly behind you. His hand was still buried between your thighs, and as his thumb made another slow, heavy pass over you, he felt the sudden, hot gush of moisture through your panties that coated his fingers.

“Fuck, Bucky. Look at that. It’s like she got even wetter just seeing how big you are.”

Bucky reached down, his fingers trembling as he cupped your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“Is that right, darlin’?” he chuckled, his thumb catching on your bottom lip. “You like what you see?”

“Think you can fit me in your tiny little mouth, baby?” Bucky challenged. You watched as his cock throbbed, the tip already leaking and eager to be inside your mouth.

You swallowed hard. You weren’t sure if you could; you had spent a handful of nights with men in the city, but none of them were of… this size.

“I don’t know,” you admitted embarrassingly, your hand coming up to circle his shaft. “But I’ll try—”

Growing impatient, he pressed the head of his cock against the seal of your lips, the warmth making your heart beat faster.

“It’s okay,” Bucky reassured, breathing hard above you as he began pushing past your lips. “Steve will help you. Ain’t that right, Steve?”

You weren’t sure what he meant by having Steve help you, but he didn’t give you much room to think or ask anyway. He probed his length more firmly against your lips, forcing you to open up. You began taking in as much of his thick length as you could manage, your tongue swirling around the broad head as you started to bob your head rhythmically.

“Fuuuuck, that’s it,” Bucky hissed.

His hands stayed firmly anchored in your hair, his knuckles white as he held you in place. Behind you, Steve became even more relentless. You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them aside until he could slide two fingers deep into your slick heat.

“God—you’re accepting me so easily, baby. Bet you’ve been wantin’ this from the moment we picked you up, huh?” Steve whispered, kissing your ear as he continued to work his fingers inside you.

“Jesus—Steve, I wish you could feel how warm her fuckin’ mouth is,” Bucky moaned, tossing his head back while giving you shallow, sharp thrusts. “This—this is incredible…”

The dual sensation was a sensory overload of pleasure—the feeling of Bucky stretching your mouth while Steve’s fingers curled inside you, hitting your sweet spot with every rhythmic movement of his hand.

“More… more…” Bucky groaned, his voice breaking as he tilted his hips up to meet you halfway. He was desperate, his breath coming in short, jagged hitches.

“You hear that, baby? He wants more,” Steve said.

He wasn’t just watching anymore.

His desire to see his best friend satisfied was overriding his patience.

You let out a small, muffled whimper of protest against Bucky’s shaft, your eyes watering as you reached your limit, but Steve didn’t let you pull away. He placed his large, heavy palm on the back of your head and…

… firmly pushed you down against Bucky’s cock.

Your eyes went wide as you took Bucky deeper than you thought possible, his length hitting the very back of your throat. He let out a sound that was half of a groan and a sob—a loud, desperate moan that echoed through the kitchen. He bucked his hips upward, losing all composure as he finally found the depth he’d been craving.

“Fuck—oh my god,” Bucky gasped, his eyes rolling back. “Just like that—keep her head down, Stevie—shit. Feels too damn good!”

The kitchen was filled with the lewd sounds of his ragged, uncontrolled breathing and the wet slide of your mouth working over him. Steve’s fingers were moving just as frantically inside you now, his rhythm matching the desperate pace of Bucky’s thrusts.

“That’s it, sweetheart, take it all,” Steve growled from behind you. “Keep your eyes open. Look at him. You’ve got him falling apart. Give him everything.”

Bucky’s eyes were blown wide, staring down at you with overwhelming lust.

“Fuck, Steve… she’s perfect. Her mouth—so tight… so warm,” he gasped, his voice cracking. He began to thrust more wildly, his hips snapping forward as he searched for that final bit of release.

“I’m gonna—fuck, baby, I’m gonna cum. Don’t you dare stop. Steve, hold her head. She’s gonna swallow every drop for me.”

“Do it, Buck,” Steve encouraged, his thumb hitting your clit with a press that sent sparks through your vision. “Fill her mouth up. Show her how much we needed this.”

Bucky finally snapped.

He bucked his hips hard against your face, his entire body shuddering as he began to pulse deep in your mouth. You whimpered, your hands gripping his thighs for balance as you felt the hot, heavy waves of his release hitting the back of your throat, making you choke around his shaft.

“Christ—God, her mouth is so warm… shit, Steve. You hear her chokin’ around me? She can barely swallow it down!”

“She’s fluttering all over my fingers too, Buck,” Steve groaned. “She’s gonna cum—I can feel it.”

Bucky finally pulled his cock out of your mouth with a wet, sloppy pop, his release dribbling down your chin as you fought for breath. Your head was dizzy from how brutally he had used your mouth and how deeply Steve was fingering you.

“Steve,” you gasped. “Don’t stop—please. Don’t stop—!”

But Steve didn’t give you the release you were begging for.

He abruptly curled his fingers and pulled them out of you with a sharp, wet sound that left you feeling cold and aching. You let out a cry of frustration, your hips twitching involuntarily to the space where his hand had just been.

Steve stood up, the floorboards creaking under his massive weight. He didn’t look satisfied. If anything, watching Bucky use you had only made him look more predatory. His hands went straight to his belt, the leather creaking as he unbuckled it impatiently.

“You don’t cum until you please the both of us first, darlin’,” Steve commanded.

“Steve, please,” you whined, turning around so that your hands tugged at his jeans. “I was so close.” You looked at Bucky next, frowning. “Bucky?”

“He ain’t gonna help you, baby,” Steve said. “On the table,” he ordered, nodding to the sturdy wooden surface where the medical supplies had been scattered. “Get up there and show us how much you want it. Lay on your back for me.”

Bucky was still catching his breath, leaning against the counter with a dazed, satisfied smirk.

“You heard him, baby,” he rasped, his voice still rough from his climax. “Better be a good girl and please him well.”

With your face burning in embarrassment and two sets of eyes watching your every move, you crawled onto the table, your panties soaked and dripping between your thighs. You slowly settled down on your back, with Steve standing before you and Bucky making his way to the other side.

Steve stepped up, reaching down and hooking his thumbs into the waistband of your panties, stripping them down your legs and tossing them onto the kitchen floor.

As soon as you were bare, he stepped into the space between your thighs, the heavy, scorching weight of his cock poking against your entrance. He was even longer than Bucky—not quite as thick, perhaps, but still more than big enough to stretch you to your absolute limit.

“Look at you,” Steve murmured, staring at you with hazy eyes as he stroked his length. “Look how ready you are for me.”

Bucky stepped closer, jeans still around his ankles, as he gripped his own half-hard length. He jerked himself off with slow, heavy pumps, his gaze fixed on Steve as he prepared to take you. With his free hand, Bucky grabbed the hem of your dress and hiked it all the way up to your neck, exposing your breasts to the cool air and their burning gazes.

“So pretty,” Bucky whispered in awe, as if he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

He leaned over, his fingers gently playing with your nipples as you whimpered and squirmed on the table, caught between the two of them.

Your heels dug into the wood of the table as you arched your back, the friction of Steve’s heat against your entrance making you whine. You were desperate for the fullness, your body burning with an unfinished ache that Steve was intentionally prolonging.

“Please,” you whimpered, your hands reaching out to grab Steve’s muscular forearms. “Steve, please... I need it.”

“Jesus,” Bucky rasped, his eyes dark with a mix of affection and hunger. “She’s so damn cute when she’s begging like this. Make it last, okay? I want to see our girl come apart nice and slow.”

“I’ll try,” Steve managed, his voice strained. He slowly pushed the broad head of his cock past your folds, stretching you open just enough to make you gasp before he pulled back, teasing the very edge of your sanity.

“Steve—please! Stop with the teasing, I can’t—” you begged, “I can’t take it anymore.”

Steve’s jaw clenched tight as he hissed through his teeth. “I know, baby girl. I know.”

Deep down, he wasn’t intentionally trying to tease you. The feel of your wet tightness already clamping down on him made him remember how long it had been since he’d fucked anything other than his own hand.

And it meant that, despite Bucky’s request, he likely wouldn’t be lasting nearly as long as he wanted to.

He slowly pushed in deeper and deeper, each inch making you gasp and arch your back off the table as you tried to adjust to his size.

“F-fuck, Steve!” you moaned.

Finally, he bottomed out completely inside you, his massive weight pressing you down into the sturdy wood of the table. Every time he slammed his hips forward, the medical supplies rattled and the table groaned under the force.

“Fuck, too tight,” he hissed.

His big arms circled your frame, holding you tightly as he began fucking you with a desperate, frantic hunger.

“God, you’re so tight,” Steve repeated, “so fucking warm.”

Bucky was right there, leaning over the side of the table to catch every detail. The sight of Steve losing his usual composure—seeing his best friend’s broad back muscles tensing and rippling as he drove into you—had Bucky’s cock snapping back to full attention for a second round.

He jerked himself off faster, his eyes darting between your flushed face and the place where Steve was disappearing inside you.

“Tell me how tight she is, Steve,” Bucky urged.

“Like you wouldn’t believe, Buck,” Steve groaned. “She’s squeezin’ me so good—it’s just like you said… a nice, smooth pair of legs wrapped tight around my waist. Fuck—it’s going to be so hard to pull out.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened at Steve’s words, the blue turning to a stormy midnight black. His cock was twitching and pulsing in his hand, slick with his own pre-cum and the lingering wetness from your mouth as he watched Steve’s massive body hammer into yours.

“Pump her full, Steve,” Bucky growled. “Breed her. Fill her up so damn deep she can’t think about anything or anyone else—until she thinks only about us.”

“B-breed…?” you whimpered, your eyes rolling back.

Your head spun at the words. The thought of Steve’s cum filling you— of that thick, heavy seed flooding your core while Bucky watched—sent a violent jolt of overwhelming pleasure through your body.

You felt your walls contract, clamping down on Steve’s length—milking him so hard that it made him choke on his own breath.

“B-Buck…” Steve gasped, his pace becoming erratic. He was losing the fight for control. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he felt your climax beginning to roll over him. “She’s so close… God, I’m gonna—”

“Cum inside her,” Bucky urged, leaning in close until his breath hitched against your ear. “Fill her up and make her our girl, Stevie. Pump her so full she’ll never want anyone else.”

The command from Bucky was the final blow to Steve’s restraint.

With a low, hungry roar that vibrated against your chest, Steve bucked. He rocked his hips into you one last time, pinning you to the table with his full weight as he bottomed out.

“Christ, take it, sweetheart! Oh—fuck, take it—”

His body went rigid as he began to pour himself into you. You felt the hot, thick jets of his release hit the very back of your womb. It felt like he was never going to stop—years of pent-up sexual frustration finally rearing its head.

Your mind fractured. The internal pressure of him, combined with the mental image of being bred, sent you over the edge.

“Oh my god, Steve! I’m—I’m gonna cum—!” you screamed into the crook of his neck, your walls seizing and pulsing in a violent, uneven rhythm that milked him for every last drop.

“Fuck—yes—take it all, baby,” Steve groaned, his voice jagged as he shuddered against you, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder.

Bucky stood before you, panting as he watched the liquid evidence of Steve’s climax begin to seep out and coat your thighs. Seeing you stretched and filled by his best friend was too much; with his own cock already hard again, he was more than ready for round two.

And this time, he wanted to be the one inside.

Steve slowly pulled out of you, the sound of the wet, suctioning release loud against the heavy breathing between the three of you. You let out a broken gasp, your body feeling hollow and sensitive as the cool air hit where his heat had just been. A thick trail of his release began to spill over your thighs, coating the wooden table beneath you.

Steve leaned down, his eyes a bit softer than they were before, reaching out to hook his arms under yours to help you up. “C’mere, sweetheart. Let’s get you cleaned—”

“Move aside, Steve.”

Bucky’s voice was like a whip crack.

He stomped over, his boots heavy on the floor, and physically brushed Steve’s hands away from you. There was no gentleness left in him now; his jaw was set, and his eyes were fixed on the mess Steve had left behind.

“Bucky?” you asked softly, trying to catch your breath. “Are you okay—?”

“I’m not done with her,” Bucky growled.

Before you could reply, he grabbed your hips and flipped you over. Your face was pressed down into the hard, cool wood of the table, your cheek flat against the surface as he forced your ass up high.

“B-Buck—!”

Without warning, Bucky lined himself up against your puffy slit, and in one aggressive motion, he buried himself deep in your overstimulated heat. You let out a muffled shriek against the table as he began to fuck you doggy-style, one hand pinning your head down while his other gripped your waist tightly.

“Fuck!” Bucky barked, biting his lip. “She is tight, Steve. Fuckin’ hell… like a tight, warm and wet fist wrapped around my cock.”

“Bucky—haaah, I… It’s too much—fuck—oh!”

The friction was almost too much to bear. You were a babbling, overstimulated mess, your voice reduced to broken sobs and incoherent pleas against the wood of the table.

With every heavy, bottoming-out thrust, you could feel Bucky physically pushing Steve’s cum deeper into your core. It was a strange, overwhelming sensation—the feeling of being claimed by one man while the other’s mark was forced even further inside you.

Steve stood by the side of the table, his chest still heaving as he watched. He looked genuinely surprised, a small, breathless huff of laughter escaping him as he watched Bucky go to work. “Christ, Buck... you're still going? Fuck. You’re ruinin’ her.”

Bucky only grunted like an animal in response as he gripped your waist tighter, rocking his hips even harder.

You were a drooling, slutty mess on the table, and the pathetic sight made Steve smile softly at you in sympathy. He reached out, his large hand stroking your sweat-dampened hair away from your face. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your temple while Bucky hammered into your hips from behind.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” Steve whispered, his voice a soothing balm against Bucky’s relentless pace. “Just let him in, darlin’. Such a good girl, taking him so deep for us. Just breathe through it for me.”

“Stevie,” you whined, your voice pitching higher. “He’s so th—thick… he’s stretching me so much…”

“I know, baby,” Steve murmured. You weren’t sure if his words were meant to soothe you, but his tone was shifting, becoming almost condescending—as if your overstimulated state was exactly where he wanted you.

He watched with a possessive sheen in his eyes as Bucky’s hips continued to batter against you. “Cum inside her, Bucky. Fill her up.”

Bucky let out a ragged, disbelieving laugh between the loud creaks of the table. “Shit, Stevie… you want me to knock her up too?”

Steve just kept stroking your hair, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear. “It’s just like you said—a pretty girl like her staying home and takin’ care of us. Don’t you want that, Buck? To see her round, glowin’, and barefoot? Somethin’ about keepin’ the house warm?”

The rhythm of Bucky’s thrusts faltered for a split second before becoming twice as violent. A low, needy sound escaped him.

“Fuck… I want that so bad. More than anythin’. Shit.”

Bucky leaned down, his chest crushing against your back, his voice sending tingles down your spine. “I’m going to breed her. She’s stayin’ here with us, Stevie. We’re makin’ her ours for good.”

The thought should’ve terrified you, but as you lay there pinned between them, lost in a haze of pure, unadulterated lust, the idea only turned you on even more. Your only concern now was whether you could even contain Bucky’s release inside you.

“I—I don’t think I can,” you babbled against the table, your words slipping out between broken gasps. “…take it… take Bucky’s cum… I—”

Steve didn’t let your panic spiral. He leaned down further, his large, warm hand moving from your hair to cup your jaw, forcing you to tilt your head so he could look you in the eye.

“Yes, you can, sweetheart,” Steve cooed. “You’re made for this. You’re made for us. Just relax those pretty muscles and let him in.”

He then pressed a soft kiss to your temple, his thumb stroking your cheekbone even as Bucky’s pace turned frantic.

“Look at her, Buck,” Steve whispered, his eyes never leaving yours. “She’s worried she can’t hold it all. Tell her what you’re gonna do.”

Bucky let out a choked, desperate sound, his fingers digging into your hips. “I’m gonna fill her to the brim,” he rasped, his breath hot against the back of your neck. “I’m gonna fill her so full she’ll leak all over the table.”

Another needy moan tore from his chest. “G-gonna knock her up until there’s—fuck— atleast one brunette and one blonde baby runnin’ around the house, Stevie.”

At Bucky’s nasty words, your walls spasmed, clenching around him as your second orgasm finally shattered. You let out a high, broken cry against the table, your vision sparking white as you came right along with him—completely spent, completely undone.

With a final, sloppy, and shaky thrust, Bucky fucked into you one last time. He groaned your name as his body locked up. You felt the first hot stream of his release hit you, and your eyes went wide as he began to pump himself empty.

He held you pinned to the table, his weight crushing you down, ensuring that every drop of his heat was forced deep into the space Steve had already claimed. “Yes, yes—that’s it…!”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Steve praised, his voice thick with pride. He watched the way your body jolted with every pulse of Bucky’s climax. “Takin’ it all, keepin’ it all inside for us. Such a good, fertile little thing.”

Bucky stayed heavy against you for a long time, his chest rising and falling in deep, heavy breaths.

Slowly, he eventually began to pull out. You let out a small, needy whimper at the loss of his heat, your body feeling heavy and thoroughly used. A thick, creamy mixture of both men began to spill out of you, making a mess of your inner thighs and dripping onto the dark wood of the table. He hooked his arm under your waist and gently pulled you back against his chest, tucking your head under his chin.

“Look at that,” Bucky rasped, his voice rough with post-coital bliss as he looked down at the mess they had made of you. He pressed a firm, possessive kiss to the top of your head. “You’re ours now, pretty girl. Every inch of you.”

Steve moved in from the side, his expression soft as he watched the two of you. He leaned down and wiped a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb before pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Our best girl,” Steve echoed softly, his large hand coming to rest over your stomach, splaying wide and possessive.

“We’re gonna take such good care of you. You’re never going anywhere else.”

I am so sorry about the massive wordcount. I got carried away at the end w/ all of the smut 🚬 anyways, credits to @earthsmightiestbenders for helping me come up with this massive filth of a line:

“G-gonna knock her up until there’s—fuck— atleast one brunette and one blonde baby runnin’ around the house, Stevie.”

You found him in the gym, tank top clinging to his chest. He turned when he heard you, blue eyes dragging over you slowly, down your tiny crop top, down your bare thighs, lingering on how you were trying (and failing) not to look needy.

“Doll,” he said, half-smiling, “you’re supposed to be resting. You said your brain was ‘tired.’”

You pouted. “It is tired. I got… um… overstimulated.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “From reading on your tablet for ten minutes?”

“Maybe,” you mumbled, stepping closer until your chest brushed his arm. “But now I need something else to, y’know… distract me.”

His breath stilled. “Oh,” he murmured, voice dropping, “I get it now.” He hooked a finger under your chin, lifting your face up toward his. “You’re not bored,” he said, amused, “you’re horny.”

Your glossy lips parted into a tiny “oh” and you nodded, leaning into him like a spoiled kitten.

Bucky laughed quietly, then grabbed your waist and walked you backward until your back met the cool wall. The intensity in his eyes made heat crawl all over your skin.

“Tell me what you want, pretty girl,” he murmured, thumb stroking your lip slowly. “I don’t think you came all the way down here to watch me train.”

You whined, hips shifting.

“I want you,” you breathed. “Please? You always make me feel so good. You make my brain go all soft ‘n floaty…”

His jaw flexed. “Yeah? You like when I make you dumb, sweetheart?”

You nodded way too fast. Bucky’s mouth crashed against yours. His metal hand slipped beneath your tiny shorts immediately, fingers gliding over your heat, and you gasped into his mouth.

“So wet already,” he groaned. “You walked in here dripping for me, didn’t you?”

“Mhm—wanted you so bad,” you whispered, clinging to him, arching when his fingers pressed harder. You couldn’t help the tiny moans falling from your lips, helpless noises that made Bucky curse under his breath.

“Look at you,” he said, kissing down your jaw, “my pretty little doll. You don’t need to think, do you? I’ll take care of everything.”

Your knees almost buckled. He lifted you with one arm, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you harder against the wall. The friction made your head drop back with a broken moan.

“Buckyyy—”

“I know, doll,” he murmured against your throat. “I’ve got you. Gonna make you come so hard you won’t remember your own name.”

His hand moved faster, firmer, his mouth at your chest now, sucking a mark above your top’s neckline like he wanted everyone to see it later. You were already trembling.

You grabbed his shoulders helplessly, voice cracking:  “Bucky—Bucky I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he growled. “Come on my hand like the perfect little thing you are.”

Your body obeyed instantly. The pleasure hit like a wave, warmth flooding through you until you were shaking and clinging to his neck, whimpering into his shoulder. Bucky held you tight, riding you through it, whispering praise against your ear.

“That’s it… good girl… my sweet girl… always so good for me…”

When you finally caught your breath, he kissed your cheek softly, thumb brushing your lip again.

“You wanna go back to my room,” he murmured, “or do you want more right here?”

Your blush was instant, your answer was even faster.

“…more.”

Bucky grinned like a man who’d been waiting to hear that all day. He didn’t give you a chance to get shy about your answer. The second you whispered more, he tightened his grip on your thighs, eyes darkening in a way that made your stomach flutter.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice low and hungry. “I’ll give you more.”

He set you down just long enough to tug your tiny shorts down your legs. They pooled at your ankles, and you whined when the cool air hit your skin.

“Hands on the mat,” he ordered gently, nodding toward the padded floor of the gym.

You blinked up at him. “O-on my hands…?”

“Yes, doll. On your hands and knees. Let me see you.”

Your whole body warmed at his tone, commanding but soft, like he was guiding you rather than telling you. You scrambled obediently onto the mat, arching without thinking, back dipping, chest pushed out, ass up.

Bucky’s slow exhale behind you told you everything.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he muttered. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

You giggled, hips swaying a little. “Maaaybe…”

He knelt behind you, big warm hands sliding up your thighs, thumbs brushing the curve of your ass before spreading you open. You gasped, and Bucky let out a low groan that vibrated straight through you.

“So pretty,” he whispered. “All wet for me again already.”

“Bucky,” you whimpered, almost panting at the touch.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” he said, leaning forward to kiss your lower back before lining himself up. “Just relax for me, doll. Lemme take care of you.”

The first push made your breath catch, thick, and slow stretching you in that perfect way that made your brain spark white. 

Your elbows buckled. “Bucky—oh my god—”

“That’s it,” he murmured, holding your hips steady, sliding deeper, “take me, pretty girl… doing so good already…”

You moaned high and helpless, head dropping, nails digging into the mat. He gave you a moment, he always gave you a moment, before pulling back and thrusting again, harder this time.

Your breath punched out of you.

“Ohh—! B-Bucky!”

“Sound so sweet,” he groaned, setting a slow, deep rhythm that made you tremble. “You’re always so tight—fuck—gripping me like you were made for me.”

Your voice came out broken, needy. “I c-can’t—my brain—”

“Yeah?” he rasped, fucking into you harder, pace quickening. “I’m fucking the thoughts out of your pretty head?”

You nodded frantically even though you couldn’t form words. Everything felt too big, too good, his hands gripping your waist, his breath hot on your shoulder, the way he kept dragging a moan out of you every time he snapped his hips forward.

“Look at you,” he groaned, “taking it so well—such a good girl—my good girl.”

Something inside you tightened almost painfully. “Buckyyy—gonna—please—”

He leaned over you, chest to your back, metal hand sliding under you to play with your clit in slow, deliberate circles.

“Come,” he whispered against your ear. “Come all over my cock, sweetheart. I wanna feel you melt.”

The orgasm tore through you so hard your vision blurred, your cries sharp and breathless as your body tried to curl in on itself. Bucky held you together, fucking you through it while whispering praise you could barely hear through the buzzing in your skull.

“That’s it—that’s it, baby—such a good girl for me—so perfect—” He pulled you up onto your knees, still inside you, one hand gripping your throat gently, tilting your head back into his shoulder. “Just a little more,” he panted, thrusts turning sloppy, desperate. “Gonna fill you up… fuck—”

You whimpered, dazed and pliant. “Please… please, Bucky…”

That did it. He groaned into your neck as he came, hips pressing tight to yours while warmth spilled deep inside you. You were shaking, breathless, floating in that soft empty-brained haze you loved so much, held up only by his arms. When he finally eased you both down to the mat, he wrapped you against his chest immediately, kissing your temple, stroking your thigh.

“You with me, doll?” he whispered.

You hummed, melting into him.

“So good,” he murmured. “My perfect girl.”

You smiled against his skin, out of breath and blissed out. “…Bucky?” you mumbled softly.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Can we do that again later?”

He laughed, and kissed the top of your head. “Oh, absolutely.”

She gasps, clutching her chest in mock offense. “Wow. Harsh.”

“The truth.”

I take the phone carefully, like it’s evidence at a crime scene, and swipe open the app. 

Immediately, I regret it.

The first guy pops up, half his face hidden behind sunglasses, standing next to what’s either a fish or a small sea monster. His bio says, ‘Just a guy who loves gym, gains, and grindset.’

I grimace so hard my jaw clicks. “This one looks like his middle name is Alpha.”

She giggles, tilting her head back, eyes shining with amusement. “Next.”

The next guy looks like he took his selfie in the middle of a funeral.

“Nope.” Swipe.

Then another: holding up a peace sign, captioned ‘Looking for my Player 2’.

“Absolutely not.” Swipe.

“You’re ruthless,” she teases.

“You asked for no bullshit,” I retort. “And also deeply concerned about the state of your options.”

We go through at least a dozen before I pause, thumb hovering.

This one—he looks… normal. No fish. No sunglasses. Smiling, but not too much. Has a dog. Works at a local vet clinic.

“What about this guy?” I ask, tilting the phone so she can see. “He looks decent.”

She leans over, eyes scanning the screen, her knee bumping my thigh in the process. “Hmm. He’s cute.”

Something tightens in my chest at that, but I ignore it, clearing my throat. “Yeah. Seems decent. Probably pays taxes.”

She smirks. “That’s your romantic barometer? Tax compliance?”

“It’s a low bar, Sunshine. You’d be surprised how many people trip over it.”

She laughs again, soft and warm, and I can’t help but look at her instead of the phone — the way her nose crinkles, the curve of her lips, the faint flush on her cheeks from laughing too hard.

I force myself to glance back at the screen.

Yeah. Maybe this guy looks decent. But I already don’t like him.

“Send him a message then,” she says, all casual, like she just asked me to pass the salt.

I turn my head toward her slowly, like a possessed marionette. “You want me to message him too? Christ, Sunshine, next thing I know you’ll want me to go on the date for you.”

She grins, unbothered. “You might actually do better than me.”

“Doubt it,” I mutter, squinting at the screen. “Alright, fine. But don’t blame me if this guy ghosts you. I don’t speak fluent dating app.”

“Just say hi! Or something charming! You can be charming.”

“I can do functional,” I correct, thumb hovering above the keyboard.

She leans forward, eyes bright, waiting.

So, naturally, I do what any rational man would do when given too much power.

I type:

“Hi, This is her roommate. I’ve screened your profile for suspicious behavior, excessive fish pics, and motivational quotes. You passed. Congratulations, you may proceed.”

I hit send before she even realizes what I’m doing.

“BUCKY!”

Her voice pitches up an octave, eyes wide as she lunges for the phone. “What did you just send him!?”

“Something honest!” I laugh, holding the phone high above my head as she climbs half over the couch, grabbing at my arm.

“Give it!”

“Absolutely not!”

“Bucky, I swear to God—”

“Sunshine, calm down,” I say, laughing so hard I can barely keep my grip. “If the guy’s got a sense of humor, he’ll like it.”

“If he doesn’t, he’ll run!” she yells, trying to snatch the phone again.

I twist out of reach, still grinning. “You asked me to message him. You didn’t specify what kind of message.”

“Yeah, I meant flirty, not FBI background check!”

The phone buzzes in my hand. We both freeze.

“Oh my God, he replied already,” she whispers.

I glance at the screen and raise an eyebrow. “He says, ‘LMAO fair enough. Should I bring references too?’”

She gapes at me. “He—he’s laughing?”

“Looks like it.” I hand her the phone, smirking.

She looks at the screen, then back at me, still half on the couch, hair a mess from trying to wrestle me for the phone. 

“I can’t believe this.”

“You’re welcome.”

She rolls her eyes but can’t hide her smile. “You’re lucky that actually worked.”

I grin, leaning back. “You love having me as your wingman.”

“Sure, sure,” she mutters, tapping out a follow-up reply.

But I can see the little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. And for some reason, it makes me want to throw that damn phone out the window.

× × × × 

YOU

You’re halfway through your break, sitting in the staff lounge with your scrubs half untucked and your hair trying to escape its ponytail, when your phone buzzes again.

Jacob from the app — aka the guy Bucky swiped and messaged like a lunatic FBI agent — sent another text.

Jacob: “So, just checking… does your roommate also do background checks for coffee orders or am I safe to ask you out now?”

You snort into your iced latte, thumbs flying.

YOU: “Depends. Do you have a criminal record or an emotional support fish?”

You grin. He’s funny. Normal-funny, not “laughs at his own reflection” funny. It’s weirdly refreshing.

“Someone’s smiling at their phone,” Mara sing-songs, sliding into the seat beside you. Her lab coat’s streaked with god-knows-what, her eyeliner’s immaculate, and she’s holding a sandwich that looks like a crime scene.

“Someone’s nosy,” you shoot back, but you’re still smiling.

Mara takes a bite, chewing lazily. “So. Naomi from Ortho was asking if your friend’s single.”

You blink. “Who?”

She swallows, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Avenger guy. Dark hair. Tall. Beefy as fuck.”

You blink again. “You mean James?”

“Mm-hm.”

You set your phone down with a thunk that echoes in the room. “He’s not looking for a relationship.”

Mara arches a perfectly shaped brow. “Oh?”

You wave your hands a little too fast. “I—I mean, that’s what I know. We live together, so… you know. I’d know. If he were. Looking. For something.”

Mara just stares at you over her sandwich, unimpressed.

You clear your throat. “He’s busy. Avengers stuff. Saving the world. Brooding. Whatever it is he does when he disappears for forty-eight hours and comes back smelling like gunpowder.”

“Right,” Mara says slowly. “Totally unavailable. Noted.”

You glare. “Don’t ‘noted’ me.”

“Relax.” She grins, leaning back. “You got so defensive I thought I accidentally accused you of dating him.”

You open your mouth, then close it, realizing you don’t have a single reasonable thing to say that doesn’t sound like a confession. 

“I’m not defensive.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I’m not!”

“Okay.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, groaning. “You’re the worst.”

“Maybe.” She smirks. “But I’m not the one pretending not to notice my hot roommate.”

“Can you not—” you start, but she’s already laughing, standing up to toss her wrapper.

Then, of course, she comes right back, leaning against the counter like she’s just thought of something earth-shattering. “Okay, but what about Captain America?”

You snort before you can stop yourself. “Steve? I have no idea. I think he’s just… happy living his life. Gardening, probably. Feeding birds. Retired in peace like a golden retriever in human form.”

Mara stares at you like you just said you sometimes have brunch with Zeus. 

“You’re literally friends with superheroes,” she says slowly. “How does that even happen? Do you guys have, like, a group chat? A secret handshake? Does Spider-Man bring snacks?”

You shrug, deadpan. “We’re superheroes too, if you think about it.”

She squints. “We’re ER doctors, not an Avenger.”

“Same thing,” you say, sipping your coffee. “We both run into explosions for free.”

Mara barks out a laugh, shaking her head. “Okay, fair. Except your explosions bleed on you and call you ‘sweetheart’ before passing out.”

“Exactly,” you say, pointing at her with your straw. “My villains are bacteria and people who Google their symptoms.”

She laughs again, loud enough that someone in the hall glances through the glass door. “God, you’re insane.”

You grin, finally relaxing back into your chair. “Yeah. But at least my superpower’s billable.”

“Touché,” she says, still chuckling as she heads out. “Just make sure your beefy roommate doesn’t get recruited by Ortho before you figure out your feelings.”

“I don’t have feelings!”

“Sure you don’t!” she calls.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face—but you’re still smiling when you pick your phone back up.

× × × × 

You’re almost through your shift, hunched over the doctor’s station with three open charts, a cup of coffee that tastes like water, and a blood panel that makes zero sense. 

The floor bustles with its usual brand of chaos — the shuffle of nurses, the distant beep of monitors, someone somewhere arguing with a vending machine.

Then the shouting starts.

You groan, already recognizing the voice before you even stand up.

Of course it’s him.

Frequent flyer. Diabetic. Chronic pain, chronic attitude. You could practically chart his temper without labs.

You turn down the hall, pulse ticking faster, and there he is — out of his bay again, standing too close to a grad nurse who looks about three seconds from tears.

“I said,” the man snaps, spittle flying, “I’m not letting anyone touch me until I get my pain meds. You people don’t listen!”

The nurse tries, voice shaking. “Sir, we can’t give you another dose yet—”

He cuts her off, loud and ugly. “Then get me someone who can, you fucking bitch!”

That does it.

“Hey!” you bark, stepping in between them. The man startles slightly — you’re smaller, sure, but right now you’ve got authority and enough exhaustion to weaponize.

“You don’t talk to her like that,” you snap, voice sharp enough to slice through the corridor noise. “We are trying to help you and you will treat us with respect. So here’s what’s going to happen—you’re going back into your room, you’re going to sit down, and you’re going to let us do our job.”

He stares at you, chest heaving, color rising in his face. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Your doctor,” you bite out. “And the next person you insult gets you escorted out by security.”

That flicker of fear in the nurse’s eyes? Gone. She steps back, safe behind you now.

But the guy takes a step forward. Too close. Too loud. “You can’t talk to me like that—”

“Then don’t try me,” you shoot back, heart pounding, every nerve wired tight.

He grits his teeth, hand twitching like he’s about to—

“Don’t,” you warn, but it’s too late.

His arm barely moves before another hand grabs it firmly, and twists it behind his back with just enough pressure to make him hiss.

“I think that’s enough,” a familiar voice says, low and calm, but edged with steel.

You blink.

“Steve,” you breathe.

Captain fucking America is standing behind your patient, grip locked around the guy’s arm like it’s nothing. He’s not even straining — just holding him firmly, posture relaxed but dangerous.

The man sputters, “What the—who the hell are you—”

Steve’s tone doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. It’s stern , measured, commanding. The kind of voice that makes people listen whether they want to or not.

“Sir,” he says, quiet but sharp as a whip. “You need to lower your voice, take a breath, and step back. Right now.”

The patient freezes, the authority in Steve’s voice cutting through his rage like a blade.

Steve continues, calm but unwavering. “These people are here to help you. They don’t owe you pain meds on demand, and they sure as hell don’t deserve your disrespect. You got a problem? You talk it out. You don’t raise a hand. You don’t raise your voice.”

It’s not loud, but it lands like thunder. The guy’s knees hit the edge of the bed before he even realizes he’s backing up. Steve releases him gently, steps aside, and nods to you.

“You okay?” he asks, and god help you, his voice softens when it’s directed at you.

You swallow, adrenaline still burning through your veins. “Yeah,” you manage, eyes flicking between him and the now very silent patient. “Fine.”

Steve looks to the nurse, nods once. “You alright?”

She nods quickly, wide-eyed.

Steve turns back to the patient. “Now you’re gonna stay in your bed, and you’re gonna let the staff do their jobs. Understood?”

The guy mumbles something that might be “yeah.”

“Good.”

Steve steps back, crosses his arms, and the hallway goes dead quiet. You can feel your pulse in your throat.

“Thanks,” you say finally, voice steadier than you expect. You blink up at him, still trying to catch your breath. “W–What are you doing here?”

He exhales through his nose, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck — that little tell he has when he’s trying to downplay something. 

“I was visiting one of the injured troopers from the highway incident,” he says simply. “Guy caught shrapnel in his shoulder. I just wanted to check in before heading home.”

You nod slowly. It makes sense. Of course it does. That’s exactly the kind of thing Steve Rogers would do — spend his free time checking on the people everyone else forgets about.

He glances around the hallway, still half-tense, like he’s ready to jump back in if the patient so much as sneezes wrong. 

“Heard the yelling on my way out,” he adds. “Didn’t expect to walk into round one of a battle.”

That earns him a short, disbelieving laugh from you. “Yeah, well… we don’t have shields here. Just paperwork and pure rage.”

He smiles faintly, the edge of concern still softening his voice. “You were like a firecracker.”

You shrug, adrenaline still ebbing from your veins. “Well, I have to be..”

× × × ×

STEVE

A Firecracker.

That’s what she is.

The guy had at least a hundred pounds on her, red in the face and ready to throw a tantrum, and she still stood her ground like she was carved from steel. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t back down. Just met him head-on, voice steady, eyes sharp.

And I—yeah. I might’ve seen red for a second.

One heartbeat I was at the end of the hall, telling myself to let the staff handle it, and the next I was behind the guy, my hand twisting his arm before I’d even thought it through. 

Years of instinct don’t die easy, I guess. Especially when it’s her on the other end of it.

Now the danger’s gone. Everything’s calm again. I should walk away. That’s what normal people do when the situation’s handled.

But my feet won’t move.

She’s talking to the nurse now, quiet and reassuring, the same way she was five minutes ago with the man screaming in her face. 

Only difference is the soft exhaustion bleeding into her voice. And she still smiles when she turns back to me.

Firecracker. I’d called her. It’s supposed to be a joke, but now it feels truer than anything I’ve said all day.

I don’t realize I’m still staring until she tilts her head. “You good?”

Her voice pulls me right out of it—gentle, curious, like she doesn’t know I’ve been standing here trying to remember how breathing works.

I blink, shake my head slightly, trying for a smile that doesn’t give too much away. 

“Yeah. Just… making sure you’re alright.”

She smirks, just a little. “I’m not the one who almost dislocated a guy’s arm.”

I huff out a laugh, scratching the back of my neck. “Old habits.”

“Right,” she says, that teasing spark in her eye. “You just happen to be around whenever someone’s being an ass.”

“Guess I’ve got a type,” I murmur before I can stop myself.

Her eyebrows lift. “Excuse me?”

“I mean—situations,” I recover, instantly regretting how warm my ears feel. “My type of situation.”

She laughs then—bright, effortless—and it hits me square in the chest. 

God, I missed that sound. 

“Go home, Rogers,” she says, shaking her head at me, amused. “Before you start rescuing more staff.”

“Yeah,” I say, but I don’t move right away.

Because for some reason, standing here with her, the chaos gone and the lights humming above us, feels steadier than anything else has in a long time.

I clear my throat, force a smile, and finally take a step back. “Night, doc.”

She gives me a little wave as she turns away. “Night, Captain.”

I should leave. Really, I should.

But then I take about three steps down the hall, and something in my chest tugs—hard. Like my body’s decided it’s done taking orders from my brain.

What are you doing, Rogers?

I stop. My palms are sweating. My heart’s beating way too fast for a guy who’s fought aliens and lived to tell about it. This should be easy, right? Words. Just words.

But suddenly it feels like I’m standing on the edge of something, and one step forward could change everything.

Still… I turn back.

She’s bent over the nurses’ station now, signing off charts, the light above her catching in her hair. There’s a tired slump in her shoulders that makes me want to tell her to sit down, take a breath, maybe laugh at something dumb. Maybe just—

“Hey,” I call before I lose my nerve. My voice comes out steadier than I expect.

She looks up, surprised. “Yeah?”

I scratch at the back of my neck, feeling about twelve years old. “When do you finish?”

She blinks, glancing at the digital clock on the wall. The red numbers glow back: 22:32.

“Uh…” she squints. “About thirty minutes. Why?”

I shrug like it’s nothing, even though my pulse is definitely doing push-ups. “Thought maybe we could grab dinner. Something that doesn’t come in a vending machine.”

Her brows lift, lips parting slightly. For a second, I think I’ve overstepped. Then her mouth curves into that slow, small smile that makes my brain short-circuit.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “That actually sounds really nice.”

I nod, trying not to look as relieved as I feel. “Alright. I’ll, uh… wait outside then.”

“Sure thing, Captain,” she teases, going back to her chart.

And when she looks down again, I allow myself one quick breath—half laugh, half disbelief.

Dinner. With her.

Guess courage isn’t always about charging into a fight. 

× × × ×

The first time I met her wasn’t anything cinematic. No slow-motion hair flips, no glowing light from the heavens—just me and Bucky, a couple of overgrown kids yelling at a console game.

He was beating me at basketball—barely—and halfway through a victory lap in our living room when the front door opened.

Keys hit the counter. Shoes kicked off. Then a voice—dry, sharp, exhausted in the kind of way that comes from saving lives for twelve hours straight.

“If either of you so much as breathe too loud, I’m committing a homicide.”

I looked over my shoulder. And there she was.

Hair messy, scrubs rumpled, circles under her eyes—and somehow she still looked like she could command an army. 

Bucky just grinned, didn’t even pause the game. “Rough shift, Sunshine?”

She didn’t answer. Just shot him a look that could’ve peeled paint, grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, and disappeared into her room. Door shut, silence followed.

I remember glancing at Bucky, one eyebrow raised. “She always like that?”

He’d chuckled. “Only when she hasn’t slept in forty-eight hours. Or eaten. Or dealt with idiots.” Then he’d unpaused the game like it was nothing.

That was it—my first impression. A hurricane in scrubs. The kind of person who carried too much of the world on her shoulders and still showed up the next day to do it again.

After that, I saw her more often. Passing through the kitchen in the mornings, hair damp from the shower, muttering about charting or coffee. She’d toss Bucky a sarcastic comment, roll her eyes at whatever dumb joke he made, and head out the door.

She always seemed busy. Always taken, too. There’d be flowers on the counter sometimes, or she’d be whispering into her phone with that small, secret smile people wear when they think they’re in love.

I never thought much of it. Not really my business.

But every so often, Bucky would mention whoever she was seeing at the time. Always in that brotherly, unimpressed way.

“The guy’s a finance bro.”

“This one tried to tell her ER work isn’t real medicine.”

“She deserves better.”

And I’d nod, because he was right. She did.

Then a few weeks back, over a beer at the Watchtower, Bucky just said it offhand, like commenting on the weather. 

“She’s single again.”

I’d tried to play it cool—“Oh yeah?”—but my brain immediately lit up like a switchboard. No reason for it. Just… curiosity. Concern, maybe.

That was all.

Except now I’m sitting outside the ER, waiting for her to finish her shift, and I can’t stop thinking about that first night she walked in—tired, snappy, real. The way she looked at Bucky, like he was both home and headache.

And I wonder what she’d look like now, walking out those hospital doors, not tired, not guarded.

Maybe smiling for me this time.

Her voice pulls me out of the memory before it drifts too far—back to that first day, to the sound of her keys hitting the counter.

Now she’s standing in front of me in clean clothes, hair down, the faintest hint of soap and hospital coffee clinging to her. She looks tired but lighter somehow.

“Good thing my date cancelled tonight,” she says, adjusting her bag strap with a small, crooked smile. “I would’ve felt so bad saying no to you.”

A date.

Right. Of course.

I manage a nod that feels a little too slow, a little too deliberate. 

“Yeah?” I say lightly, hoping it doesn’t sound like a question.

She hums, looking somewhere past me. “Yeah. He’s this vet I’ve been talking to—seems decent, you know? But… rain check, I guess.”

My stomach does something weird. Like my ribs forgot how to sit right.

She looks at me again, the smile returning, and for a second it feels stupid that I care. 

She’s allowed to go on dates. Hell, I wanted her to be happy.

“I didn’t bring my car, though,” she says, glancing toward the parking lot. “I was supposed to get picked up.”

I shake my head quickly, relieved to focus on something practical. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got my motorcycle.”

Her eyebrows shoot up, eyes sparking with something new—curiosity, maybe a little thrill. “You have a motorcycle too?”

That catches me off guard. “Too?” I echo, half laughing. “Why do you look so surprised?”

She shrugs, biting her lip like she’s fighting a smile. “I just didn’t picture you as a bike guy. You seem more… classic car.”

“I can drive both,” I say, grinning now. “One’s for Sunday drives. The other’s for when I need to clear my head.”

She laughs softly, tugging her jacket a little tighter around herself. “And which one am I getting tonight?”

“The one that goes fast,” I answer before I can stop myself.

Her brows lift—half challenge, half spark. “Dangerous.”

I smile, stepping just close enough to hold the door open for her. “You don’t strike me as someone who minds a little danger.”

And maybe I imagine it—but she glances up, eyes catching mine just long enough for the air to turn static before she looks away.

× × × × 

YOU

He rides a fucking bike!?

Of course he does. Of course Captain America owns a damn motorcycle like some kind of patriotic James Dean.

You follow him through the parking lot, trying to keep your jaw from dropping as he stops beside a black Yamaha.

The thing gleams under the streetlight, all chrome and muscle, and Steve looks way too comfortable standing next to it—like he was born to do slow-motion commercials for leather jackets.

He grabs a full face helmet off the handlebar and turns to you. “Here,” he says, offering it.

You blink at it. “You don’t have another one?”

He shakes his head, smiling faintly. “Just the one.”

You take it from him anyway, muttering, “Right. Guess I’ll just have to trust you.”

The second you slip it on, your brain short-circuits. It smells so manly. Like woody, clean soap, and whatever expensive shampoo smells like moral integrity.

You tug at the chin strap, voice muffled inside the helmet. “Okay, uh… how do I get on without dying?”

Steve chuckles, low and easy. “May I?”

Before you can ask what he means, his hands are already at your waist, lifting you—like you weigh nothing, like this is just another Tuesday for him.

“Whoa—oh my God!”

You practically squeak as he settles you onto the back seat, steadying you with one hand on your knee before stepping back.

“Comfy?” he asks, looking up at you with that infuriatingly calm grin.

You’re pretty sure your soul just left your body. “Y-yeah comfy,” you say, still gripping the sides of the seat for dear life.

He laughs, swings a leg over, and suddenly he’s right there in front of you—broad shoulders, warm leather jacket, scent of rain and aftershave hitting you like a truck.

He glances over his shoulder. “You might wanna hold on.”

“Where?” you blurt, instantly regretting it.

He pauses just long enough to glance back, eyes glinting under the parking lot lights. “Wherever you can, doc.”

You swear your pulse triples.

You grab onto him—his jacket, his torso, his everything—and mutter under your breath, “Oh my God, I’m gonna die happy.”

“Ready?” he calls over the rumble of the engine.

“No!” you yell back, gripping tighter.

He laughs, revs the bike, and takes off anyway and the moment he kicks the bike into gear, the world lurches forward and you gasp, holding on tighter.

The city blurs around you—streetlights streaking gold across the dark, the rush of wind clawing at your sleeves. Steve leans into a turn, smooth and practiced, the motion pulling you with him like you’re part of the same gravity.

You tighten your arms around his waist, locking yourself in like your life depends on it—which, to be fair, it kind of does. One hand grips your other forearm under his ribs, and you press in closer than you mean to.

You squeeze your eyes shut, mumbling, “Holy shit.”

He must hear you, because his voice floats back through the wind, faintly amused. “You doing okay back there?”

You peek one eye open. “No!”

He laughs and the sound vibrates through his back, deep and warm.

“Relax,” he calls, glancing at you in the side mirror. “You’re safe with me.”

Easy for him to say. You’re currently praying to every deity known to man while trying not to notice how solid he feels under your arms—or how divine he smells.

The bike slows a little as they leave the main road, weaving through quieter streets lined with trees. You tilt your head, confused.

“Where are we going?” you shout over the wind.

He doesn’t answer right away, just glances back long enough for you to see the small grin tug at his mouth. “You’ll see.”

Great. Mysterious and hot. Perfect.

When the motorcycle finally slows, your pulse hasn’t quite caught up with it. You lift your head from Steve’s back, blinking at the warm glow spilling from the windows of a quiet wine bar tucked between brick buildings. The air smells like rain and something roasted drifting out of a nearby café.

He kills the engine and glances over his shoulder, his voice softer now that the roar’s gone. “Here we are.”

You pull off the helmet, hair definitely not in a flattering state, and gape at the cozy little place. 

“Wait—you drove us to a wine bar?”

He nods, casual, like that’s a normal thing to do after fighting off villains and rescuing strangers. “Figured we both deserved something that doesn’t come in a paper cup.”

You’re halfway to saying you’re aware that drink driving is a crime, right? when the memory hits you—Bucky, offhand in the kitchen one night, casually telling you that the serum means they don’t get drunk unless the booze is brewed by gods themselves.

You shut your mouth, still holding the helmet, and give Steve a long, suspicious look. “Right. Forgot you people have cheat codes for livers.”

He chuckles, swinging a leg off the bike and holding out a hand to help you down. “One of the few perks.”

You take his hand, more out of necessity than grace—your legs are jelly, your heart’s still racing, and the ground feels suspiciously far away. He steadies you with that quiet strength that shouldn’t be this attractive.

“Next time,” you mutter, brushing your hair out of your face, “I’m calling shotgun in an Uber.”

He grins, locking the bike. “Then you’d miss the view.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying not to smile. “Is that your way of saying you drive like a maniac?”

“Only when someone’s hanging on for dear life,” he teases, opening the door for you.

You huff out a laugh and step inside, the low jazz and candlelight wrapping around you like a dare.

A wine bar. With Steve Rogers.

You’re either in a dream—or about to make the worst brilliant decision of your adult life.

× × × ×

Your cheeks hurt from laughing. Steve’s head is tipped back, his grin so wide it should be illegal, the little crinkle by his eyes doing something genuinely devastating to your pulse.

You lean back in your chair, breathless. “I swear,” you say, struggling to speak between giggles, “that cannot be a real story.”

Steve wipes at his eyes, still laughing. “I promise you it is. I had no idea the mannequin wasn’t real. Sam still brings it up.”

Your laugh bursts out again, loud and unfiltered. “You punched a mannequin because you thought it was a person?”

“It was dark,” Steve defends, straightening his shirt. “And the alarm went off. And it was—okay, in my defense, mannequins are creepy. Most people avoid them. I go on the offensive.”

You wheeze. “You assaulted a Target mannequin.”

“Stop saying ‘assaulted’ like it was a hate crime,” he groans, covering his face. “It was one punch.”

You lean in across the little marble table, eyes shining. “Did it at least fall dramatically?”

Steve gives you a look. “It flew like ten feet.”

Of course it did — you bend forward laughing, hand slapping the table, actual tears forming. Steve watches you, pretending to be annoyed, but his smile is unmistakable.

“And then the security feed got leaked to the team,” he finishes flatly.

“Oh no,” you gasp, barely keeping it together.

“You know,” he says once the laughter finally eases out, “you’re a lot… lighter outside the hospital.”

You raise a brow. “You calling me miserable at work?”

He lifts both hands. “Never. Terrifying, maybe. Efficient, definitely.”

You scoff, nudging his foot with yours under the table. He doesn’t move away.

If anything, you feel him shift a little closer.

“So I’m terrifying,” you repeat.

“At work,” he clarifies, grinning. “Right now? You’re just… you.”

Your face warms before you can stop it. You look down at your glass, then back at him.

You sip your wine to hide your grin, but you can feel his eyes on you—steady, amused, warm. There’s something about the way he looks at people when he’s listening. Like he’s giving you a hundred percent of his attention, like the rest of the world is just background noise.

“So,” he says eventually, swirling his glass though he’s barely touched it, “what’s your verdict? On this place.”

“Hmm.” You look around at the soft lighting, the quiet hum of music, the couples tucked in at small tables. “Nine out of ten. Points deducted because I can’t pronounce half the menu without summoning a demon.”

He chuckles. “Fair. I’ll give it ten. You look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

You glance up, startled—and instantly roll your eyes, trying to play it off. “Smooth, Rogers. Did you just rate the vibe based on my enjoyment?”

“Maybe,” he admits, shoulders lifting. “It’s a strong metric.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” you say, though you’re smiling.

He looks down into his glass, his voice a little quieter now, but still teasing. “Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop trying.”

You blink—because that could be flirting. Or maybe it’s just Steve being Steve—kind, easygoing, that steady tone that makes everyone feel seen. 

You decide to change the subject before your brain combusts. “So when you’re not saving the world or intimidating patients in the ER, what do you do for fun?”

He leans back in his chair, considering. “I still draw sometimes. And I run.” He pauses, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “I’m trying to cook more.”

You gasp dramatically. “Steve Rogers cooks? What’s next, telling me you make your own pasta?”

“I might,” he says, all faux seriousness.

You squint. “You’re lying.”

He grins, tipping his head closer, voice dropping just enough that it feels like a secret. “Maybe you’ll have to find out.”

Your brain short-circuits for half a second—because the look in his eyes? That’s not just friendly. That’s something deeper. Softer. Dangerous, if you’re not careful.

You clear your throat, laugh a little too quickly. “Okay, calm down, Gordon Ramsay.”

He smiles, but there’s a flicker in it now.

“Relax, doc,” he says lightly. “Just dinner talk.”

You nod, staring into your wine like it might offer divine clarity. “Right. Dinner talk.”

But even as you laugh again, the air between you hums—unspoken, unhurried, electric. And for the first time all night, you realize you’ve stopped thinking about work. Or exhaustion. Or the man who cancelled your date.

You’re just here. With him.

× × × × 

BUCKY

The dishwasher clanks as I pull the last plate out, the faint steam curling up like a sigh. Midnight’s perched on the counter, tail flicking lazily, staring at me like he’s judging my stacking technique.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter, scratching under his chin. He leans into it, purring—traitorous little thing. “You’re just lucky she lets you on the counter.”

(Play Hotel by Montell Fish. Trust me.)

The apartment’s quiet otherwise. Warm, even. I like it that way after long days—no alarms, no comms, no shouting. Just the faint city noises outside.

Then the keypad beeps.

The lock clicks open, and I glance toward the door, already smiling without realizing it. She’s back. Late again, but that’s normal. 

I open my mouth—ready with the usual you forget to eat again? or you smell like the apocalypse, doc—but the words don’t make it out.

Because she’s not alone.

Steve steps in behind her.

For a second, my brain blanks. My best friend, standing in our apartment, laughing softly as she shrugs off her coat. 

They both look… different. Lighter. 

Her hair’s a little messy, cheeks warmed in a way that’s got nothing to do with exhaustion. 

And Steve—he’s got that small smile he gets when he’s trying not to give something away.

Something inside me just—shifts. Slow. Heavy. Like a drawer sliding open in the dark.

Midnight headbutts my hand, and I realize I’m still standing there, one hand tangled in his fur. I straighten, clear my throat, try to smooth the expression off my face before either of them can see it.

I rub a hand over my jaw, the rough drag of stubble grounding me. My teeth catch on the inside of my cheek, tongue pressing against the edge like I’m trying to bite back a thought.

“Hey,” I say, casual. Too casual. “Didn’t know you were out with company tonight.”

She grins, setting her bag down. “Yeah, Steve saved me from a diabetic Hulk in the ER, so I thought I’d join him for dinner.”

Steve chuckles quietly, eyes flicking between us. “Wasn’t that dramatic.”

I look at him, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t know what to say. My chest does this weird, tight thing—like I’m breathing around a bruise.

Because I’ve seen her come home tired, seen her laugh over bad movies, seen her fall asleep on this couch more times than I can count. 

But I’ve never seen her walk in looking like that.

Like she’d just had a great night.

And with Steve, of all people.

I force a grin. “Guess the old man’s still got moves, huh?”

“Hardly,” Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck. His ears tint red, and I catch it—that flicker of something in his eyes when he looks at her.

That’s when it hits me.

She laughs at something Steve says, head tilted, light catching the edge of her smile—and that’s it.

Oh.

I’ve seen her every damn day. I know her voice, her habits, her stupid coffee order. I know the way she talks in her sleep sometimes when she’s overtired, the way she hums without realizing it when she’s studying on the couch.

And somehow, I still missed this.

This thing between us I can suddenly feel like static in my bones.

Midnight meows, sharp and accusing, like he’s caught me thinking too loud.

I exhale slowly, set the plate down before I drop it, and look away. 

“Sounds fun,” I say, aiming for neutral.

But the air shifts again—barely noticeable, except it is. Steve must feel it too, because when I glance up, he’s already looking at me.

Not smiling this time. Just… looking.

And she’s right there between us, completely oblivious.

Her laughter fills the space while she blabber about something I don’t even hear anymore, but Steve and I? We’re caught in something else entirely. 

His shoulders straighten. Mine do too.

For a heartbeat, it’s like we’ve both forgotten how to breathe. The world’s gone silent except for the white noise.

Then she turns around, Steve finally looks away, but not before that flicker—curiosity, suspicion, something—crosses his face.

And yeah, maybe I started it. But now? Now I’m not sure which of us is supposed to end it.

You gave him permission.

That was the deal. Your body, his decision. Whenever he wanted it. No questions, no warnings. He could take you when he pleased, where he pleased, and you’d let him.

And Bucky?

He never forgets a promise.

You’re halfway through folding laundry in the bedroom when you hear the door click shut behind you. You don’t even have time to turn around before his arms wrap around your waist, and he’s nuzzling into the crook of your neck like he hasn’t seen you in days.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice low and heavy with need.

“I saw you two hours ago,” you say with a laugh, but your voice trails off as his hands slide up your stomach, fingers dragging under your shirt, slow and deliberate. Your nipples already hard, just with the feather like touch he's giving you. He grips your boobs, keeping rolling your nipples. Kneading them, he lick a long stripe on your neck. 

“That’s two hours too long.”

You gasp when his teeth graze your neck, his vibranium hand now pinning your hips to the dresser in front of you. His other hand slips beneath your waistband, fingers already finding you warm and wet. 

“Bucky…wait…”

He growls. “Uh-uh. You said I didn’t have to ask… and now i wanna taste your fuckin' cunt on my tongue. Are you gonna deny me this pleasure doll?”

And that’s all it takes. You let yourself fall into his arms more. Your legs go soft, body melting into his as he turns you around, one hand still between your legs, coaxing you open. He kisses you, like the world is ending. He then bite your lower lips, just slightly. He doesn’t bother undressing you fully, just shoves your shorts down and lifts your shirt sinking to his knees right there in front of you.

One lick and you’re gasping, bracing yourself on the dresser as his mouth devours you like a man starved.

“You taste so good,” he says, breath hot against your core. “Been thinking about this all day.”

You’re writhing now, hips twitching in his grip, but he doesn’t let up. He never does when he decides it’s time.

It’s dizzying, the control he holds over you. The way you let yourself be used, wanted, and how much you love it. You keep the left hand on the dresser, while your other hand goes down on his head. You grip his locks, tighten the hold on him.

He growls. “Keep holding, doll.”

And you do. The more you grip his hair, the more he devours you. You are sure to hear him moaning. 

“Come for me,” he commands, voice dark, fingers curling against your thighs as he keep fucking you with his mouth. “Now.”

And you do. Hard. Devastating, like an hurricane.

He catches every bit of it with his tongue, then rises to his feet, eyes glazed, lips wet, already unbuckling his belt.

“Turn around,” he says, kissing you. You can taste yourself on his tongue. 

You do.

“Bend over.”

You obey.

Your chest presses to the dresser, cheek against the cool wood as he guides his cock into you with one long thrust. You cry out, hands gripping the edge of the surface, and he groans behind you.

“God, you’re perfect like this.”

He doesn’t start slow. Doesn’t build up. He just takes you.

His cock pounds into you, thick and relentless, and all you can do is take it just like you said you would. His hands are bruising on your hips, his moans low and rough in your ear as he leans over you, fully pressing his body to yours. He grab your hair with his flesh hand, yanking it back. Your back now against his chest, feeling the hard muscles behind you. He moved suddenly his metal hand on your neck. His big and cold hand on your thin and hot neck. He applies the right pressure, like he did every time.

Your entire body tremble.

“You're fuckin' mine,” he growls. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you whimper.

“Say you love when I use you like this.”

“I love it…fuck….I love when you use me.”

His hand now slips between your legs again, rubbing tight circles over your clit. You’re close, too close, already trembling as he pushes you to the edge.

“You gonna come again?” He whispers. “Gonna soak my cock while I fill you up?”

“Would you let me, James?”

And then he's gone. Hearing your real name on your lips, while your body is trembling. While his massive cock is in you, pounding like a hammer, makes his losing it.

“Yeah, doll… I'll let you…” He roars in your ear. “Come for me.” He said tighten his hand, again, on your neck.

Your orgasm rips through you, and Bucky follows with a harsh groan, pumping you full as your body collapses beneath the weight of him.

He stays there for a moment, buried inside you, his arms wrapped around your waist like he’s holding something fragile.

You feel him kiss the back of your neck. Then proceeding down, to your spine. He licks a long stripe, almost moaning like he did when he was eating you moments ago. He traces it back with kisses. 

Then your shoulder.

Then your cheek.

“You okay?” He asks quietly, voice gentler now, soft with concern.

You nod, still breathless, boneless in his arms. “More than okay.”

He chuckles, pulling out carefully and helping you turn around, gathering you into his embrace.

“I’ll never get tired of this,” he murmurs.

You bury your face in his chest, smiling.

“Me too, Buck.” You say, kissing his sweaty chest. “Now If you let me… i was doing something…” You said smirking. 

He helps you get dressed again, and when you turn around to the laundry now messily on the dresser and the floor, he spank you lightly.

“God I love that ass.” He said, staring. “I'll come again later, doll. Be prepared.” He declares, while getting out of the bedroom. 

“You know where to find me, baby.”

He kisses you one last time, and then proceed to go out smiling like a child. 

You stare at the laundry. “Better be folding this…” You said to yourself. 

You smile, thinking on how Bucky will surprise you because you know he will. 

He always does.

You don’t even realize what he’s doing until he stops moving.

A moment ago, everything had been fire. Rough hands, breathless sounds, the world narrowed down to friction and heat. You’d been clinging to him like the world was ending, and maybe it was.

Every heartbeat louder, every breath shorter, every touch desperate and wild. That kind of passion leaves you dizzy, shaken. The kind that doesn’t just live in your body, but in the space between your ribs raw, aching, alive. You’d felt him everywhere, every word and breath and groan feeding something that burned too bright to last.

And then, he stopped.

You’re still straddling him on the couch, skin flushed, heart racing, the ghost of that chaos still pulsing through your veins. The sudden stillness hits like cold water startling, grounding, almost tender.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just breathes. Deep, steady. His hands, which had been gripping you so hard a moment ago, now rest softly against your hips, thumbs drawing lazy, comforting circles into your skin.

Your chest rises and falls, trying to catch up with the change in pace. Everything in you still trembles from the aftermath, but the tension in his body is gone. His muscles, once taut with restraint, are now relaxed beneath you. He’s calm, solid, unshakable and it pulls you in even deeper than the heat ever could. His cock is deep inside you, so thick and full it’s all you can focus on but instead of fucking you, Bucky’s just… holding you there.

Still. Breathing steady. Hands warm on your hips.

“Buck?” You ask, shifting slightly. The movement makes your walls flutter around him, and he groans.

“Don’t move, baby,” he says, voice ragged.

You blink, confused and aching.

“Why not?”

He grins up at you, all smug and infuriating.

“Because we’re feeling each other now.”

Your mouth drops open. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he says, leaning forward to kiss your throat. “You’re warm, and wet, and fucking perfect. I could sit like this forever.”

You make a sound between a whimper and a growl, burying your face in his neck. He’s not moving. Not an inch. He’s just there, so deep it feels like you’re fused together, like your body was made to hold him. The stretch is constant. Delicious. Maddening.

“This is torture,” you whisper.

“Nah,” he says softly. “This is heaven.”

You try to roll your hips, just a little enough to chase the edge that’s been building all day but his hands tighten, holding you in place.

“Behave,” he murmurs.

“You’re evil.”

“You love it.”

You do.

It’s not about the thrusts. Not about chasing release. It’s about the intimacy coming with this thick, slow ache that coils low in your belly every time you feel him twitch inside you. You’re so full. Every breath, every heartbeat reminds you of it.

“Bucky,” you whisper, desperate now. “Please…”

“Not yet,” he says, brushing your hair behind your ear. “I like you like this. All needy. All mine.”

His metal fingers stroke up and down your spine, soothing and possessive at once. You squirm, trying to stay still, but the pressure is too much. Your core pulses around him involuntarily, drawing another low groan from his chest.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Keep doing that and I will fuck you.”

You moan, burying your face in his shoulder.

“Maybe I want that.”

“I know you do,” he says, chuckling softly. “But I like making you wait.”

You’re trembling now. Every nerve feels alive, like your skin can’t quite contain what’s happening inside you. It’s not just the closeness, it’s him. The steady warmth of his chest pressed against yours, the solid weight of his arms around you, the slow rhythm of his breathing that somehow pulls your own into sync. Every inhale brushes your senses raw. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, feel the quiet strength in every line of him. He’s everywhere surrounding you, grounding you and it’s almost too much. Your heart flutters wildly, the beat catching on every breath. You can’t tell where your body ends and his begins; you’re too close, too tangled up in the gravity between you. His presence seeps into you, quiet but consuming, until you feel like you could live in this moment forever. The warmth, the safety, the unspoken promise of it.

Bucky’s hands move gently, up your back and down your sides, no rush or demand, just the kind of touch that says I’m here. You’re safe. His metal fingers are cool against your overheated skin, the contrast sending little sparks down your spine. You shiver, but it’s not from the cold; it’s from the overwhelming sense of him.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice rough with affection. “Breathe, doll.”

You do, slowly, the air trembling as it leaves you. He kisses your temple soft, steady and it’s enough to make your eyes sting. The chaos from before has melted into something gentler now, something that hums under your skin instead of burning through it. You can feel your heartbeat start to slow, still fast but less frantic, as if your body finally understands what he’s giving you. Not just passion, but peace. Not just heat, but home.

He looks at you, his blue eyes heavy and soft all at once, and whispers, “That’s it. Just stay with me.”

And you do trembling, aching, full of warmth and quiet wonder. The world has gone still around you, and in that stillness, all you can feel is him. And maybe that’s the point.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek. “So beautiful like this. You feel it, don’t you?”

You nod, breath catching.

“You love being full of me.”

“Yes,” you whisper, voice breaking. “God, yes.”

“Then just be mine, baby. Don’t fight it.”

And you stop completely. You let yourself sink into it; the stretch, the heat, the slow, pulsing pressure that keeps you right at the edge. His hands stroke your back, your thighs, his breath warm against your temple.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispers. “My perfect girl.”

Time becomes blurry. You don’t know how long you sit like that pressed chest-to-chest, wrapped around him, holding him deep where he belongs. It’s almost too much. Almost holy. Until he shifts beneath you.

“Okay,” he says roughly. “Now I’m gonna fuck you.”

And oh, do you feel it.

The first thrust punches the air from your lungs. It’s everything you’d been denied hard, slow, deep and you cry out as your orgasm hits almost instantly, clenching around him like your body’s been waiting for permission.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Take it. Take all of it.”

He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling, breathless, filled and claimed and ruined in the best way. You can feel him everywhere; in the way his hand cups the back of your neck, in the way his breath shudders against your ear. The connection isn’t just physical, it’s something deeper, something that hums beneath your skin like recognition. Like coming home.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, and his voice is rough with feeling. “I’ve got you.”

He holds you through it, the trembling, the quiet gasps, the way you go soft and boneless against him when it’s over. His hands never stop moving, steady and reassuring, drawing slow, grounding circles on your back as if he’s reminding you you’re safe.

“Easy,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “That’s it. I’ve got you.”

Your body is still trembling, but not from strain it's from the weight of what it means to be that close to someone. To be seen, known, and loved in a way that feels too big for words. When it’s finally quiet again, you rest your forehead against his and breathe him in. The air between you is warm, thick with something that feels like peace. You can’t find the words to say it, but you don’t have to. He smiles soft, tired, adoring and you know he understands. Because this, right here, isn’t about being claimed or undone. It’s about finding stillness in the storm, together.

“It was fine mom.” Yawning, your daughter stretches, hopping out of her seat and snapping the top of the laptop shut. “I have a project that I’m working on for English class with Emma. We were just talking on Skype, it’s due at the end of next week.”

“Isn’t Emma the one with the cute dad?” You smirk wiggling your eyebrows.

“Mooomm,” your daughter rolls her eyes. “I’m going to bed before this conversation gets any weirder.”

“Goodnight honey.” You call out as she heads up the stairs.

About an hour later, a steaming cup of tea in your hand, you grab the laptop off the island and head upstairs yourself. Shutting your bedroom door you set your tea on your nightstand, dropping the laptop on your bed while you go through your nighttime routine.

Settling back against your pillows sipping your tea you open your laptop, content with scrolling through the news in the dark while you unwind from your day. The screen opens, and you notice that your daughter forgot to log out from the video chat with Emma from earlier this evening. Dragging the cursor over to the “x,” you’re about to exit, but a movement catches your eye. “What is that?” You think to yourself.

The better question would have been who, as you see the figure of a man walk across the screen. Clad in only grey sweatpants set low on the hips, it seems the man on the screen was doing what you were doing not so long ago, getting ready to turn in for the night. Lights around the room go dark, and again the stranger pops up in the frame of the camera. Although it isn’t a stranger. As the person settles in on their bed, their face comes into focus on the laptop screen, the television in their room illuminating the features of their face.

It was Emma’s dad!

“I should log off...” your internal monologue is screaming, but you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from the screen. You always thought Emma’s dad was attractive, you would catch glimpses of him in the background during your daughter’s virtual class, and he was the talk of all of the single mom’s including yourself. However, this was the first time you have gotten to actually study him, and what a view he was blessing you with!

Your eyes roamed up his long legs, to his expansive chest littered with tattoos. You were never a huge fan of tattoos, maybe one or two, but he seemed to be completely covered, and it fit him perfectly. He definitely took care of himself, his abs and pecs were expertly defined, his body oozing with confident masculinity. Finally settling on his face, you were met with a square jaw decorated by a lush beard. You bet it was nice and soft, and you contemplated what it would be like to stroke it with your fingertips. From what you remember he had beautiful blue eyes, but now they looked a tad bit darker under the low light. Either way, there was no denying that Emma’s dad was hot.

Your eyes are glued to the screen as he runs a hand over his chest, down his abs, settling on top of his cock. You bite your lip as you watch him palm himself through his pants, eyes fluttering shut as he rubs the length of his shaft.

You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until you blow it out in a low huff as he slips his hands to the side of his sweats and pulls them down, releasing his cock. Springing free, the head of his cock slaps against his stomach with a small “thunk.”

He was big. Probably the biggest you have ever seen, and involuntarily your cunt clenches around nothing as your thoughts wander to what it would be like to have him filling you. Would you be able to take him? You would definitely be up for the challenge.

Your tongue slowly licks your lips as you watch his hand tease his head a few times before it slides all the way down to the base. His strokes were meticulous, as if he didn’t want to go too fast, but take his time and get lost in the moment. Reaching into his side table with his free hand he pulls out a small container of lube. Flicking the cap open, he squirts a generous amount onto himself while continuing his ministrations. You can hear the squelch of the lube with each pass of his hand, and you only wish that you can reach through the screen and offer him some assistance.

A moan passes from your lips and you quickly clamp your hand over your mouth. Searching the screen you frantically look in the corner to see that your mike is on and not muted. Fumbling with the mouse you quickly click over “microphone off”. Bringing your eyes back to the beautiful man on the bed, you study his face. “Is that a smirk? Shit! He didn’t hear you did he?”

You’re too far invested now at this point. A flood of arousal hits your panties, and you squeeze your thighs together to quell some of the ache, all the while keeping your eyes on the man on your screen. His pace quickens, his hand pumping up and down from his shaft to his head in a steady rhythm, giving his head a little twist before swiftly sliding his hand back down to the base. Dropping the lube on the mattress below, his other hand moves to cup his balls, massaging them between his fingers. You hear his grunts fill your ears through the speakers as he brings himself closer to his release.

His mouth pops open, and you can barely see a slight sheen of sweat on his brow. His grunts have turned into low moans, his hand moving intensely over his cock, and you can picture the throbbing in your mind as if it were in your own hand.

“Fuck… fuck!” He cries out, and his whole body tenses, his hips thrusting upward, and thick ropes of cum spurt out of his cock and onto his stomach and chest. Your mouth waters because at this point you would do almost anything to be allowed to lean over his body and clean his mess with your tongue.

You blink slowly, watching his chest rise and fall, and hear his breathing become even as he wills himself down from his high. Reaching for tissues on his side table he cleans himself off, tossing the used tissues on the floor below. Inching his sweats back up, in a swift motion he grabs his laptop, and you freeze. “Oh God…”

His voice is raspy, low, but with a hint of amusement.

However, some days it was too much. You strive to make everyone happy, and although deep down you know that you can’t please everyone, it still weighs heavily on your heart. Steve can see that when you walk through the door, your shoulders are drooping from the weight of your day.

You aren’t sad, but he can see the red rim around your eyes. Dried tears stain your face from where they fell in frustration, crying in private the only release you allowed yourself. Working with the public proved difficult at times, and knowing that you had to deal with demanding customers while still maintaining the smile on your face was overwhelming.

Steve comes up behind you, the tension that courses through your body evident. You shy away when he reaches out for you, not because you don’t want to see him, but because you’re so wound up you’re ready to snap. It’s not Steve’s fault you had a horrible day at work, and you don’t want to take it out on him.

He knows what you need, his hand wrapping around your neck, tilting upwards exposing your throat. He noses along your flesh, his hot breath fanning your face. He feels you sag against him, your body becoming pliant in his expert hands. He’s trained you well.

Steve guides you to the dining room table, kicking chairs out of the way to make room for the both of you. He gently bends you over the shiny oak, positioning you with your arms outstretched. “Keep those hands there for me. Can you do that sweetheart?”

You nod as Steve turns your head, pressing your cheek against the cool surface. He kisses the side of your face before covering your body with his, reveling in how small you feel against him. His bulge digs into your backside, and instinctively you push back into him. A firm hand on your lower back stops your movements. “Patience sweetheart.”

You shiver as Steve’s hands slide along your body appreciating every dip, dimple and curve. He dips down, tracing his fingers along the backs of your legs, watching you tremble at his touch. He finds the zipper at the back of your skirt, sliding it down before watching the fabric pool at your feet. He doesn’t need to tell you to step out of it, nor to spread your legs for him. You just do.

A sigh leaves your lips as Steve gives you a quick reward, his fingers working their way into your panties. Neither of you are surprised you’re drenched, his fingers sliding easily through your folds. He teases around your clit, and you shuffle, spreading your legs wider to give him better access. “So greedy sweetheart,” he chuckles as two fingers push into your cunt. “I’ll take care of you.”

Steve’s free hand rips the thin material, the remnants fluttering to the floor. Steve’s fingers press against your spongy spot, the overflow of slick dripping down your inner thighs. A quick whine erupts from your chest when Steve’s fingers leave you empty.

His hand smooths over your ass before Steve tenderly kisses each globe. Out of view he strips himself of his sweats and boxers, the faint sound of skin against skin filling your ears as his hand pumps over his shaft. You feel him at your entrance, and in one quick push he sheaths himself to the hilt. Softly pulling your hair to arch your back he starts to move, watching your face from the side contort in pleasure, your lips falling open with a silent “pop.”

Which is how you found yourself to be the centerpiece of the dinner table meant to celebrate the coming together of two crime households. What Steve planned could destroy months of peace talks, but he didn’t care.

He has you spread across the table, his beard scraping against your thighs as he laps at your nectar, savoring everything as you fill his mouth with your cream. Ransom strains against his restraints, his cock tented in his pants as he, and his entire family is forced to watch Steve feast on your flesh.

Sucking your clit into his mouth another soul shattering orgasm wrecks your body, and all you can do is center yourself by twisting your hands in Steve’s hair, holding his head to your core while he hums against your lips.

“That is how you eat pussy,” Steve’s beard is dripping with you, Ransom’s nostrils flaring as he inhales your scent. He watches stone faced when Steve flips you on your belly, your dress rucked up over your hips. “Hear that Drysdale?” He quips, his fingers coated in your slick when he inserts two fingers in your greedy hole. “That is how her cunt should sound when you do your job right.”

Freeing himself from the confines of his pants, Steve taps his leaking tip against your petals, sliding through and coating himself with your juice before sliding his fat cock inside your heat. He starts slow, hissing through his teeth when your walls clamp around him. “You’re missing out,” Steve huffs, watching himself get coated in white with each deep stroke. “This pussy is perfect.”

Wrapping his body over yours, he lifts your head by your hair, his nose tracing the shell of your ear. “Look at him sweetheart. Show him how good I’m making you feel.”

Locking eyes with Ransom, your cries echo off the hardwood as Steve fucks into you mercilessly, the fine china rattling on the the table every time his balls slap your ass.

“Come on sweetheart,” Steve grits, his breaths coming out in short huffs. “Come on my cock one more time. Show your worthless husband how a real man fucks his wife.”

Your vision goes white, an inhuman whine escapes from your soul as you fall apart one more time. Steve follows suit, stilling inside you as he pumps your cunt full of cum. He tenderly runs a hand down your back, singing your praises as you come back to reality.

Steve pulls himself from you, looking around the room silently commanding all eyes on him. “And then, because she was such a good girl for you,” he spreads your cheeks and watches his seed slowly start to spill from your spent pussy. “You take care of her and make sure she’s nice and clean before tucking her into bed.”

Steve drops to his knees, and you jolt when his tongue spears into you, sucking and licking his spunk from your cunt, ensuring he doesn’t spill a drop. When he’s finished, he stands over you, gently hooking a finger in your mouth. You stick out your tongue, welcoming the mixture of spend and spit swallowing greedily before Steve softly kisses your lips.

Slow cat licks over your clit make jolts of pleasurable pain course through you as Steve brings you down from another high. Your inner thighs are red, burning from where his beard rubs against your tender flesh.

Your breath hitches in your throat as Steve scrapes his beard over your mound and up your tummy. Making his way between your breasts and over your chin he takes your lips with his, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue.

“Steve.” You squeak, your voice a pathetic whimper. “Steve please, no more.”

Steve chuckles deeply as he gently swipes a wayward tear from your face. “Sweetheart, you should have thought of that before disobeying me.”

Pushing himself to his feet Steve firmly grabs your hips and flips you from your back onto your knees. He pulls your legs apart, making room for himself before sliding onto his back. Positioning himself under your sopping cunt, he slides two fingers into your channel, immediately curling against your sweet spot. Kissing the heated skin of your thighs, he smirks as he hears you suck your breath between your teeth.

“You’re not going to be able to put your legs together without thinking of me for at least a week,” Steve laments before licking a stripe up your slit. He wraps his arm around your waist when you try and wiggle away, any touch overwhelming to your overworked and overly sensitive cunt.

Your chaotic personality and dry humor pulled him in like the ocean tide would pull a boat. Almost imperceptible, until you found yourself stranded in the middle of the ocean having sun poisoning-induced hallucinations.

It took him exactly 68 days of maladaptive daydreaming about ruining you in every humanly possible way, and some inhumanly ones, for his restrain to snap like a twig under the sheer strength of your gaze.

That night at the safe house after a particularly gnarly getaway, where you committed 3 traffic felonies and broke a few other trespassing laws, playing some stupid pop song on the radio like you were going to get your ears pierced at Claire's, not evading an actual gang.

When you closed the door behind you at the safe house, you were buzzing. Your pupils were dilated, you were shaking, and you bounced on your feet like Duracell contracted you to be their newest bunny.

"Did you see that, Buck?!" The faint light gleamed off of your eyes, smile so bright it made his chest hurt. "Oh my God, I feel high right now." The little giddiness in your voice made his cock join his heart in its aching for you. "They couldn't even—"

He didn't let you finish.

Well, he did. But not that sentence.

He grabbed your face and kissed you so hard you thought he'd leave fingertip shaped bruises on your cheeks. His tongue exploring the inside of your mouth and hands roaming over you, undressing in hurry and want, relishing in the taste of your moans spilling into his mouth like he'd never have the chance to again.

But he did. About 3 times that night.

You didn't mean for it to stay a secret. It started out that way because neither of you knew exactly what was gonna come out of it, at first it was all sneaking into each other's rooms late at night and leaving in the morning, teasing the hell out of him over the phone when he was away and paying for it when he got back, and defiling every surface of every safe house you stepped foot in.

But a few weeks into it, his heart ached to leave you every morning, and your chest felt hollowed out every time he was away on a mission without you.

“I know we said no labels or whatever, but… I like this.” He gestures between you, the table, this world you only step into once a week. “I like… bein’ here. With you. Not just the hotel. Not just—y’know.”

You know. Oh, you very much know.

“And I hate that I have to wait all goddamn week just to—” He stops, shakes his head. Starts again more carefully. “…Just to sit across from you and watch you steal my fries.”

Your lips part. You didn’t mean for it to hit this deep. You didn’t mean for your chest to ache with it.

“…Buck,” you say quietly.

His eyes flick up to yours, open, vulnerable, still a little scared.

“I just wanted you to know,” he finishes, voice low. “’Cause I think… Thursday’s startin’ to feel like the only time I can breathe.”

Then it stayed a secret because you didn't want prying eyes or nosy questions, you just wanted the weight of his body on top of yours to lull you to sleep every night.

Every Thursday when possible, though, you'd find yourselves in the same sort of situation: a reservation under an alias in an obscure little restaurant that didn't allow pictures, followed by a king-sized bedroom reserved at the nearest fancy hotel.

Your weekly getaway from the madness you liked to call the Avengers compound.

You slid into your usual booth at the back—a deep burgundy semicircle that practically swallows you both into privacy. Candlelight flickered faintly between you, reflecting in Bucky’s eyes as he leaned back, one arm stretched across the back of the booth, watching you like he’s checking in on his favorite sight.

You pretended you didn’t notice how his gaze softened the moment he saw you in something that wasn’t tactical gear. Deep, plunging neckline of your top is accompanied by no sleeves under your coat, a delicate leather belt with gold hardware holding the black miniskirt in place.

“You clean up nice, Sarge.” you murmured, unfolding your napkin over your lap.

He smirked slowly, eyes lingering over you just a second too long. “You say that every Thursday.”

“Yeah, well. I'm pleasantly surprised by the increasing levels of hot every week.”

His lips twitched—and for a moment it’s easy. Familiar. Thursday. It's like you don't have a super security compound to call home, or like aliens weren't the assignment four days ago.

The waiter comes and goes. You order something light. He orders steak, medium rare, because even off-duty he eats like a soldier who might deploy at any moment.

But there was something different that night. Because between bites, he keeps doing it.

Looking at you.

Not in the usual “I’m gonna wreck you the second we leave” way.

In a “I’m thinking about something dangerous” way. Dangerous could mean a lot of things, specially for superheroes. But the softness in his eyes told you that it was dangerous because it was fragile, precious, and way too normal.

You swore the restaurant’s lighting was designed specifically for him—warm and golden, catching on the scruff along his jaw and the silver of his dog tags tucked under an open henley collar. He didn’t even bother with a jacket tonight. Cocky bastard. He knows what he does to you.

Your knee bumped his under the table. Not an accident. Not even close.

The waiter appears just long enough for you to order another whiskey and a glass of red wine, then disappears into the shadows again.

Bucky settled back, one arm along the back of the booth, “New rule,” he said casually.

“Oh? We have rules now?”

“Just one. No teasing me when I’m away on missions unless you’re ready to deal with the consequences when I get back.”

You widen your eyes innocently. “Consequences? Sergeant Barnes, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You shifted and only slightly sat on your side facing him, one bare leg sliding over the other and crossing, your foot sliding the YSL hardware of your heels up and down his calf.

"I was merely being supportive and making sure a very highly estimated Avenger made it home safely."

He leans in, voice a sinful whisper, “You know what’s not supportive?”

“Mhm?” You bite your lower lip, gaze never straying away from his face.

“When you tell me on comms that you’re wearing those lace panties I like.”

“That was once.”

“Twice.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” You waved a hand in dismissal and grabbed your glass, sipping the wine.

He reaches for his whiskey, takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving you. “Let me guess. You’re wearin’ them now?”

You refuse to respond in words. Only humming in denial behind your glass before clicking your tongue behind your teeth. "None, actually."

He stills and the glass pauses halfway to the table. His gaze dropped—just for a split second—to where your legs met, even though your skirt left barely anything to imagination.

He swallows, thumb tapping once against the glass like he’s recalibrating. “Lemme get this straight,” he says slowly, quietly, eyes darkening, “you’ve been sittin’ across from me for—” he checks his watch, “—twenty-three minutes… with nothing on under that skirt?”

You take another sip, crossing your legs again—slowly, letting your knee brush deliberately higher up his thigh. “Technically it’s been longer. I didn’t wear any in the car either.”

“Jesus Christ…” He was leaning forward now, forearm braced on the table, staring at you like you’re the mission and he’s seconds from breaching.

His metal arm stays stretched along the booth behind you like it has been all night—casual, protective—but now his flesh hand slides under the tablecloth, rests on your knee.

“Thought you’d maintain professionalism, Sergeant,” you teased softly, eyes fluttering when his hand squeezes just slightly.

“Honey, I left professionalism back at the compound the second I smelled your perfume tonight.” His fingers drift higher. Inch by slow, agonizing inch.

You try to take another sip of wine, but your hand trembles just slightly. You hoped he wouldn’t notice.

But it's Bucky, he absolutely notices and hums to himself while you bite your lip with that horny look in your eyes that make your eyelids sit heavy like you could eat him alive. And he'd let you.

You feel his smirk against your ear before you hear it in his voice. “Nervous?”

“Hardly.” But it comes out breathier than intended.

He continues upward. Your pulse spikes. His fingertips stop just under the hem of your skirt, brushing the sensitive inside of your thigh. You grip the edge of the table with your free hand.

“You’re trembling,” he whispers, amused.

“There’s an air vent,” you lie. His fingers slip further beneath the hem, in the direction of where you wanted him the most.

“Oh yeah?” he hums. “Think this vent reaches between your thighs too?”

You nearly choke when his fingertips brush the bare, hot skin there. His breath hitches quietly—barely audible. If you didn’t know every sound he made, you might’ve missed it.

“You’re already so warm,” he notes, turning his head slightly so his lips ghost your cheek without touching. His fingers finally slide up and press gently—right there.

Your breath stops.

He smiles against your skin. “There she is.” Your nails dig into the table. “Think I can make you come before the waiter brings dessert?” he whispers silkily. You smile tightly at him through clenched teeth.

“I think you should try.”

He chuckled, low and almost mean, and pushed two fingers inside the wet slick he had been salivating after every time you were apart. James Buchanan Barnes is a loverboy at his core, and a menace who enjoys the process.

It's not like you could get caught and be arrested for public indecency at any second.

His fingers keep tracing delicate, lazy shapes just inside, making sure to keep his palm or any source of friction away from where you need him most until you’re squirming almost imperceptibly.

“Settle,” he murmurs in your ear, a quiet, firm command.

You freeze, thighs trembling slightly as you force yourself still. He rewards you with one slow, deliberate circle of his thumb right over your clit.

Your breath hitched audibly and he smirked. “Good girl.”

You tried not to whine. If you did, you know he’d make it worse. He’d stop. Or go even slower. You don’t know which was worse and you’re not sure which one you wanted more.

Minutes pass. Agonizing minutes.

Each pass of his fingers is maddeningly controlled—never too fast, never too direct. Each stroke tells you he knows your body better than anyone alive. He avoids giving you the rhythm you want, changing speed just before you can catch it.

You’re flushed now, half from the wine and mostly from him. Your thighs are tense, fighting the urge to grind subtly against his hand.

“Relax,” he murmurs, and his vibranium arm shifts behind your shoulders, holding you back into him protectively as if you’re not on the verge of shaking apart.

The waiter appears to bring your entrees and you hold back a whine when Bucky pulls his hand away from the heat between your legs.

You answer his polite “How are the first couple of bites?” with a steady, “Perfect, thank you.” and he walks away to attend to other tables.

Bucky, however, lets his fork rest steady on his plate, and barely lets you recover from the slick mess you're making on the back of your skirt before his fingers find you again. He chuckles into your hair, voice like hot honey. “You’re fuckin’ incredible.”

“You’re fucking evil,” you breathe, barely moving your lips.

“Maybe.” His pace increases—not by much, but enough that the twisting heat in your belly starts coiling faster.

“Buck—” you whisper, desperate.

“I know, baby.” He murmurs soothingly. “Almost there.”

But when your thighs start to tighten in anticipation—he stops. Completely. Your head snaps toward him in disbelief.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Keep your legs open.”

You do, because if you don’t, he’ll make you.

He clicks his tongue once in mock disappointment. “Oh, sweetheart,” he hums, withdrawing his hand completely and casually lifting it to his mouth. He sucks one glistening finger clean, eyes locked onto yours with sinful delight. “This is gonna be a long dinner for you.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears. Your body aches, throbbing with every second he refuses to touch you again.

“You’re shaking,” he says under his breath, amused.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

To say you didn't give a fuck about the chocolate lava cake was an understatement. You don’t remember how your back hit the hotel room door—only that Bucky barely got it shut before he had you pinned against it, one hand cupping your jaw and the other sliding under your skirt, shoving it up past your hips like he had something to prove to both of you.

But somewhere between your desperate gasps and his low moans, something shifts.

It happens quietly.

Accidentally.

You moved on top of him, breathless and messy, nails dragging down his chest. The rhythm was hot, frantic—but when he caught your hips and slowed you down, forcing you to roll instead of bounce, the tone shifted.

“Yeah,” he groans, guiding your hips, “ride me nice and slow—like we’ve got nowhere to be tomorrow.”

You blink—because that’s not how this usually goes.

He keeps going.

“Like we’re not being sent on calls at 3 a.m. to save the world,” he breathes, watching your face. “Like it’s a Saturday. Like we sleep in.”

You swallow hard. The thrusts get deeper. Less rushed. More… emotional.

“Maybe we don’t even live in New York,” you whisper, falling into it before you can stop yourself.

His grip tightens.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice softer, needier. “Where we livin’, baby?”

“Some small apartment in Chicago,” you gasp, leaning forward so your foreheads touch. “Or maybe a townhouse in Portland.”

He nodded slowly, grinding up into you. “Yeah. I like that. We don’t save the world. I work construction or some shit. Come home covered in sawdust.”

His hands on your hips tighten just a bit more tenderly, like he’s anchoring himself. Your fingers brush his chest and linger too long.

And then in the middle of your hips slapping down against his, his head falls back and he breathes, brokenly, “Fuck—I’d come home to you like this every night if I could.”

So you lean down, lips brushing his for a second before you bit his chin and let it go with a graze of your teeth, breath shaky. “Yeah? You’d come home dirty and throw me on the bed like this?”

He groaned—deep, guttural, hands squeezing your waist as you kept moving, feeling him get even harder inside of you if that was even possible.

His voice gets rougher. “Wouldn’t even make it to the bed. I’d fuck you on the kitchen counter while dinner burns on the stove.”

He thrusts up suddenly, hard. “Fuck—Bucky!”

He grips your jaw and makes you look at him. “You’d leave me little notes on the fridge before you go on early runs. Tellin’ me to eat breakfast. Like a fuckin’ wife.”

Your breath stutters, something sharp and warm in your chest. You whimper, hips stuttering for a second at the idea of wearing a ring that signifies his last name.

He doesn’t miss it.

“Oh, you like that?” he whispers darkly, sitting up so your chests press together, still inside you. “You wanna wear my ring, honey? Want the whole damn world to know you’re mine?”

You shudder, nails clawing his back. “Yes…”

He thrusts up hard. “Say it clearer.”

“I want it,” you breathe, trembling. “Want your ring.”

He kisses you like it hurts. Like he’s drowning and you're the only breath of oxygen his lungs would ever recognize while fully submerged.

Maybe that’s why he suddenly grips your waist and flips you onto your back with a rough, almost desperate exhale—like he needs to bury himself deeper in this illusion before it slips away.

He settles between your legs, pushing back in with a guttural groan, forehead pressed to yours.

“And maybe…” his voice drops further, wrecked and reverent, “…maybe one night I wouldn’t pull out.”

Your breath stutters—eyes fluttering open to meet his. The air crackles. He watches your reaction like a predator watching prey tremble.

“Maybe I’d just stay inside you,” he murmurs against your lips, thrusts deep enough to make the headboard creak softly. “Fill you up… right there in our shitty little apartment.”

A weak sound escapes you.

“You’d yell at me in the morning,” he murmurs, kissing you slow and deep, “say we weren’t trying. That we weren’t ready. But I’d look at you in one of my old shirts, barefoot in the kitchen makin’ pancakes… and I’d want it all over again.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him down as you arch into him.

He groans into your neck. “Wouldn’t let you outta bed that weekend. I’d keep fuckin’ you full of me… hopin’ it’d take. Hopin’ I get to walk by you in the mirror and see your belly round with my kid.”

You gasp his name like wishing on a star.

He thrusts deeper—slower—like he’s savoring the image burned into his mind.

“Imagine it,” he whispers, voice shaking with how bad he wants it—even if he pretends it’s still just talk. “You, pregnant with my baby. Nothin’ else in the world but us. No Hydra. No missions. Just… you carryin’ something I gave you. Somethin’ ours.”

You nearly sob at how intensely it hits you.

His forehead presses to yours as his voice falls to a wrecked whisper. “Tell me you’d want it.”

“I’d want it,” you breathe, almost crying. “Bucky, I want it so bad.”

He groans—filthy, tortured, adoring—as he thrusts harder now, chasing something that feels far bigger than pleasure. And that’s how you fall apart beneath him—his whispered fantasies of a quiet life, a warm bed, and a round belly turning into the dirtiest, most intimate thing anyone has ever given you.

Life, however, doesn’t care about what happened in that hotel bed.

It throws missions at both of you like grenades.

First, he gets deployed with Sam to Europe for weeks, chasing arms dealers who won’t stay in one place. You get stuck in Southeast Asia with Nat and Wanda for a hostage op that turns into a two-week storm of adrenaline and zero sleep.

Time differences ruined your ability to talk. Sometimes you'd send a three-word text. Sometimes he likes it six hours later. Sometimes he sends a picture of a shitty cup of coffee with a single: miss yours.

Back on base, you miss him in hallways by hours. He leaves briefing rooms five minutes before you enter them. If you're off, he's not, and vice versa.

A racy picture here, a breathless phone call there, and neither of you being left alone for the same 10 minutes to do anything about it.

Until it marks almost two months since the night at the hotel.

Your body was sore, all you wanted was to wash your hair, get a face mark on, and sleep in your fuzzy robe until about 11pm when he'd sneak into your room. But as you walked through the compound, your phone pinged.

From: Buck 📍 43.7126° N, 110.6751° W

Your stomach lurched in your tummy, and you felt a surge of warmth spread over you as you bit your lip, grinning at the screen. Your footsteps got quicker on the way to your room, an everything shower and barely any packing in your mind.

Seconds later, your phone buzzes again.

From: Buck I need you.

On the other side of the compound, Bucky tightens the straps on his duffel slung across his back. There is not a sleeping bag, tent, hiking boot, or single piece of wilderness survival gear in sight. He was wearing jeans and a henley he fucks in—not fishes in.

“Where you off to, Tin Man?” He didn't have to turn around to know it was Sam, accompanied by Steve, approaching his bike.

“Camping. Out of state. Off-grid a couple days.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you camp?”

Bucky smirks. “Since now.”

Steve blinked slowly, knowing there’s more to this but being too emotionally mature or exhausted to pry. “You got gear?”

Bucky slides on his helmet like the question doesn’t exist. “I’ve survived worse without a tent.”

He revs the engine and leaves before anyone can point out that two shirts and a half-empty Dopp kit don’t equal “camping.”

Your hair is styled. You’re moisturizing. Your bag is small enough to pass as a purse. Inside? A toothbrush, skincare, three pairs of lingerie, and zero hoodies, shirt, thermal leggings, hiking socks, or flannel.

You were walking down the hall to the elevator, an SUV with seat warmers waiting for you in the garage when you heard Nat's voice from behind you. "I'd ask you what's all that but its... not much."

"Heading out for the weekend.”

“Where?”

You keep your tone fluffy. “Camping. In Wyoming. With… college friends.”

Nat blinks. Once. Twice.

Her gaze slides from your perfectly blow-dried hair… to your freshly glossed lips… to the very much not outdoorsy clothes you’re wearing and the perfume that would definitely attract bears.

"Camping?"

“Yeah. Gonna… sit by a lake. Look at trees. Bond with nature. Be one with dirt.”

She’s silent for a full ten seconds. Then… she smiles. She lets you go with no fuss, immediately marching towards the kitchen like she's mid op.

“They’re going camping.”

Sam looks up. “Who is?” Nat folds her hands on the table. Smiles like the cat that ate the canary.

“Your favorite brooding senior citizen and our little chaos gremlin.”

“Barnes does not strike me as a s’mores guy unless s’mores is a sex position.” Joaquin piped up from a mouthful of Nerd Clusters.

Steve exhales. “They have been… weird lately.”

Sam leans back, dramatic gasp loading. “They’re sneakin’ off to a love shack.”

“In the woods. They will return pregnant or emotionally damaged.” Yelena seems more excited about the first one.

Joaquin chuckled. “Or both.”

Snow crunched under your tires as you pulled onto the secluded dirt road. Pines rise on either side like silent sentries. The sun is dipping low, staining the Wyoming sky a molten gold that glows against the frost. Your stomach tightens as the cabin comes into view—secluded, quiet, the lake beyond it frozen still as glass.

And then there’s him.

Bucky Barnes stands outside like he’s been waiting forever—leaning casually against his bike parked near the porch, breath fogging the air in slow, steady clouds. His henley stretches obscenely over his chest and arms, leather jacket hanging open like he’s daring the cold to challenge him. His jeans hug his thighs in a way that should be illegal.

He looks like 225 pounds of pure, coiled heat.

You step out of the car, shoes meeting the crunchy top layer of snow. The cold air bites your cheeks, makes your breath visible. He straightens from the bike, eyes fixed on you—calm, certain, but dark with something that’s been starving for weeks.

Every step toward one another is soaked in tension. You meet about halfway.

You drop your bag dramatically at his feet. It’s small. Embarrassingly small. More purse than luggage, really.

His gaze flicks to it, then to you—brow arching, equal parts question and disbelief. “That’s it?” he asks quietly, voice deep and scratchy with restrained amusement.

You meet his eyes head-on and smirk. “That’s all I packed.”

A slow grin curves along his mouth. He nods once—like he’s both amused and dangerously pleased.

Then, before you can blink, he grabs the bag with one hand and hooks the other behind your knees, hauling you clean over his shoulder in one effortless motion.

You squeal his name, half laughing, half breathless.

Your view was upside-down: him holding your bag in his metal hand, your ass supported easily by his other arm, boots swinging as he walks toward the cabin door with confidence that says he already knows exactly what’s about to happen once you’re inside.

The cold air bites at your thighs through the hem of your dress, but his grip is hot enough to make up for it.

Bucky walks into the cabin and your lungs fill with the scent of wood burning, wine, and that amber resin that only comes from blankets that have been stored for a while.

He sets you down with the utmost care in the world, and you take in the effort he put into this weekend already. The fireplace was lit, throw blankets on the fur rug like a love-nest, and next to it, a wooden coffee table with two wine glasses already resting on it.

You raise a brow slowly, smirking. “Wow. This some kind of plan, Bucky? Get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?”

Bucky just snorts, stepping forward with that lazy swagger that says he’s already got you right where he wants you.

“Take advantage of you?” he echoes, amused. “Sweetheart, you climb me like a tree when you’re sober. When you’re drunk, you’re like a damn jaguar in heat.”

You gape, offended and amused at the same time. 

He nods once, dead serious. “A horny jaguar that thinks humping me is a personality trait.”

“Excuse me?” you sputter, crossing your arms even as heat crawls up your neck.

His lips twitch. “You know how many times I’ve woken up on a mission night to you half-asleep grinding on my thigh like you were tryin’ to assert dominance?”

You refuse to confirm or deny, rolling your eyes as you mutter, “Maybe you shouldn’t sleep so close.”

He tilted his head in that same infuriating way whenever he was right. “Maybe you shouldn’t sleep so needy.”

“Maybe you should—”

You don’t finish the sentence, because he’s already ducking his head to pepper slow, teasing kisses along the side of your neck. He lingers at that spot just under your ear, humming with satisfaction when your breath hitches.

“C’mere,” he says, voice dropping an octave as he steps backward toward the rug by the fire and lowers himself down, back pressed against the couch. He tugs you gently forward until you’re standing between his legs.

He guides you onto his lap effortlessly, hands sliding to your hips as you straddle him, your knees sinking into the thick fur while your body settles against his chest like it remembers the place.

Bucky pushed a strand of hair behind your ear and held your face in both hands, looking into your eyes like he was deciphering the hieroglyphs needed to read your soul.

Like he hadn't unraveled every secret you had and kept them in a drawer in his room, tucked with changes of underwear and a pair of soft shorts, along with a shirt you definitely stole from him.

He kisses you like you’re a memory he’s been clinging to for eight goddamn weeks—urgent, deep, almost grateful. His hands grip your thighs, anchoring you, as your fingers tangle in his hair and tug.

You press into him instinctively, your hips rolling once out of sheer muscle memory.

He groans into your mouth. “There she is,” he mutters, breath rough, lips brushing yours. “My little jaguar.”

You gasp a breathless laugh, "Shut up." That turns into a quiet moan into his mouth as his hands press your hips forward again, encouraging the friction you didn’t even realize you were fully chasing until now.

The friction starts slow, guided by his grip and your desperation. You’re both still half-dressed, clothes scraping together, breaths getting messier as the pressure builds and the world narrows to heat, motion, and the soft crackle of the fire.

Your hands move slowly to the hem of his shirt, fingers tracing his skin first—softly—before pushing it up. His hands leave your body just long enough to let you pull the fabric over his head, exposing his torso. Warm and taut, all muscle and some scarring, the hair on his chest tickling under your fingertips.

When he pulls your sweater and dress over your head in one motion, he does it carefully— like he’s unwrapping something he missed holding.

You watch him watching you, that intensity making your stomach twist in ways entirely unrelated to the heat between your thighs. You don’t feel bared — you feel seen.

His eyes linger over your white lace lingerie — one of the three you packed just for him. “…You wore this for me?”

You smirk, though your hum comes out softer than planned. Nodding and biting your lip, already leaning in for another kiss. When his hands grip your ass, yours fumble with the button and zipper of his jeans, pushing your hand past the hem of his underwear and stroking his cock inside of his jeans.

“See?” he rasps, voice cracked with need. “Didn’t even take a full minute before you went straight for it.”

You grind down against him deliberately. “You complaining?”

You stroke him again, slow, teasing, just to hear that sound again. His eyes flutter half-lidded as he exhales like he’s been waiting two months just to feel your hand on him again.

“Fuck,” he mutters, jaw tight. “You have any idea how bad I’ve needed this?”

Your pulse kicks at that. “Oh yeah?”

He nods slowly, gaze fixed on your lips. “Been thinkin’ about you touchin’ me like this every damn night. Hands under my clothes, whisperin’ in my ear while you use me how you want.”

You swallow, heat flaring hot in your chest.

You’re stroking him just enough to make him need more, watching his jaw clench like he’s trying not to lose it too fast. His grip on your hips turns almost bruising.

“Fuck—” he mutters, eyes squeezing shut for one second as your thumb drags along his waistband, tempting. “You really think I’m just gonna let you sit here and torture me?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re handling it just fine.”

His eyes snap open—dark, glassy, amused.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low and ruined, “I’ve been handling it for eight goddamn weeks.”

And before you can get another word out, he moves.

His hands lock under your thighs, and in one fast, fluid motion, he shifts up onto his knees and throws you back onto the thick fur rug beneath you with a soft thud and a breathless squeal from your lips.

You blink up at him, caught between laughing and panting.

He hovers over you now, hair falling slightly into his face, breathing heavy, jeans still half open, your dress gone, lace soft against the rug.

His metal hand braced beside your head. His flesh one sliding slowly up your bare thigh, deliberate. He’s looking at you like something he’s been hunting and cherishing in equal measure.

His lips ghost your jaw.

“I pictured your face,” he goes on, slow, steady, voice a hot whisper. “Right when you’re about to get loud. When you’re trying so hard to hold it in for me but you just… can’t.”

You clutch at his henley, pulling him closer.

“You think I didn’t go crazy picturing this lace?” he teases hungrily, gaze dropping to what you’re wearing. “Knew it’d look good stretched over you while you beg me to touch you.”

Your back arches involuntarily.

“I missed you talking like this,” you whisper quickly—too honest, too needy.

He grins against your skin, breathing hard now. You whimper quietly as his fingers trace closer—waiting, teasing.

“And I missed watching you fall apart,” he breathes. “I missed making your eyes roll back. I missed you diggin’ your nails into my shoulders. I missed fuckin’ you so good you forget your own name until all you remember is mine.”

His mouth drags heat along your collarbone, your chest, lower still, as his hands coax your thighs further apart with gentle but unyielding pressure.

He looks up once, taking in your face right before he drives you up the wall, and then he lowers himself fully between your thighs, settling there like he plans to stay until he pulls every remembered sound from your throat—slow, steady, incredibly focused. Lace long forgotten in a pile of clothing that wouldn’t touch your body for 48 hours at least.

Your back arches at the first real contact, breath hitching as your grip in his hair tightens when he licks a strip up your slit and circles your clit with his tongue.

"F-fuck, baby..."

He hummed in quiet satisfaction against you, like he was tasting something he’d been dying without, and nuzzled his face further into you, lapping your juices up and down while his nose bumped your clit.

He breathes out a quiet, low laugh — pleased, intimate. “There we go. Look at you… can’t stay still, can you?” His voice is low, not mocking — proud.

“Bucky—” your voice catches when his tongue finds rhythm again, slow and focused.

“Say my name again,” he murmurs, eyes darting up to catch your expression. His voice is steady, coaxing. “C’mon, doll. Let me hear how bad you missed me.”

And you do. Because there's no nosy super spies listening in the vents, and no training sessions, briefings, or meetings to pull this thirsty man away from the oasis between your legs.

“There you go…” he whispers, closing his eyes for a second like he feels it as deeply as you do. “God, I missed how pretty you sound.”

“Please don’t stop,” you gasp, chest rising and falling faster. “Don’t stop—I’ve needed you so bad.”

His tongue roughens against you, responding to your voice as much as your body.

“You always know exactly how to—” Your breath breaks on a wavering sound when he thrusts his tongue in. “God, Bucky… you’re the only one who knows how to make it feel like this.”

His tongue works faster and his lips wrap around your clit, sucking the nerves and sending you into orbit. Your hips raised off the rug while your legs clamped around his head, big hands holding you down through your orgasm, working you through it.

You’re still shaking slightly, body flushed and oversensitized, yet aching in a new, overwhelming way that has nothing to do with just physical need.

So you reach for him.

You cup his face with both hands and pull him down into a kiss that’s not frantic — but full. Deep. His hand finds your hip, thumb stroking gently as if grounding himself in the reality of you.

When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his, breathing unevenly. “Bucky…” you whisper, voice soft but trembling with urgency.

He hums in response, thumb sweeping slowly along your cheekbone, waiting for whatever you need to say next.

“I need you,” you breathe — and the tone in your voice leaves nothing to interpretation. It comes out broken and wanting. “I need you inside me. Right now.”

Your hand gripped the length of him and lined him up with your pussy, neither of you breaking eye contact as he pushed the thick head in, not rushing but not giving you time to adjust either.

“Holy shit…” he mutters, eyes screwed shut for one second as he breathes through it. “I swear… you get tighter every time I’m away.”

Your lips part on a broken sound, heat flooding your chest. You roll your hips impatiently, needing more. “Bucky—”

“You feel that?” he murmurs against your cheek, voice thick and filthy. “That’s how tight you're choking me right now and I’m not even all the way in. You gonna let me all the way, baby? Gonna take all of me?”

“Y-yes,” you whisper, breath shaking. “Please.”

He laughs low — smug and a little breathless. “Begging already? Didn’t even give you the good part yet.”

“You’re such an ass—”

“Yeah, but you still want it,” he interrupts, kissing you hard — messy, teeth and tongue and desperation — before pulling back just enough to watch your face as he sinks in deeper, slow and deliberate. You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.

He groans loud, head tipping back as he mutters, “Fuck. That’s it. Take me… just like that. Wanted this so bad it hurt.”

Your fingers scramble at his back, trying to hold onto something solid as your rhythm falls apart under him. “Harder,” you whisper — it sounds more like a plea than a demand.

He exhales sharply through his nose, satisfied. “Fuck, I love when you beg.”

“I’m not—” you try, but the protest cuts off when he does exactly what you asked. Your head tilts back, lips parted as an uncontrolled sound tears free.

“Mhm,” he hums, smug. “Yeah, you are.” He leans in close again, breath hot against your jaw. “Look at me,” he murmurs, voice wrecked.

You force your eyes open — and the second your glazed eyes lock with his, something shifts. You see how undone he is too — chest heaving, jaw slack, pupils blown wide with hunger and love tangled up together.

You feel a tremor ripple through you, and he sees it instantly. “There it is,” he rasps, grin gone now, replaced by raw intensity. “Feel it hittin’ you? Feel how good I’m making you feel?”

You nod, whimpering, fingers clawing at his shoulders.

“That’s right,” he whispers, voice gravel. “Only me. Nobody else gets to pull those sounds out of you.”

“Bucky—” his name leaves you like a prayer and a warning and something close to worship.

He kissed you hard, swallowing your breath. “I got you. Let go.”

His hand finds yours, fingers interlacing against the rug as you move together, breathless, desperate, claimed.

He finds a rhythm that's nothing like before—harder, faster, wrecked—and suddenly you’re not thinking in words or even sounds, just reactions.

“Fuck—”

“Yeah?” he pants, voice nearly a growl now, hips moving rougher, chasing something even he can’t hide from anymore. “Say my name—say it—”

“Bucky—oh God—”

“Louder,” he breathes, losing all rhythm for a second as you clench around him. “Let me fucking hear you—”

“I can’t—I—I—”

“Yes, you can,” he insists, voice wrecked, raw. His hand slides to your jaw, holding your face toward him. His eyes are wild now. 

You meet his gaze—and the look on his face destroys you. His jaw is clenched, sweat dampening his temple, lips parted as he gives in to instinct. He looks desperate. Gone. Like if you asked him to die for you right now, he’d say yes.

“I’m close,” you admit in a broken whisper. “Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—” You choke on a sobbing moan. “Harder—please—”

That word unravels him.

“Fuck—oh my God—you’re killing me,” he curses, slamming his forehead against yours, movements turning almost frantic, chasing the edge with you. “Come on, baby—give it to me—give it—come with me—”

"Bucky— oh God, please, please, please cum in me."

He cums first—just a moment, a hitched breath, a curse hissed against your neck that sounds like your name torn in half—and the heat of him spilling inside of you is all it takes for your world to snap, heat flooding through you like freefall.

He stays inside you. He doesn’t move away. He just breathes there, face buried in your neck as you both try to remember how lungs are supposed to work.

You made it to bed after a couple glasses of wine, a grilled cheese, and teasing him some more, falling asleep on your stomach with him draped over you like the worlds warmest — and oldest — weighted blanket.

Whatever dream you were having, Bucky woke up to your ass rubbing against him like you were short on rent. He was still a little sensitive from the road you just had right before bed, and the clock on the nightstand on your side showed something along the lines of 2:43am.

He felt himself get hard and your body rubbed harder against him if that was even possible. He groaned quietly, and his hand went under the covers to find your bare pussy drooling, absolutely crying for him.

"Bucky..." The little breathless whimper you let out told him you were crying for him too.

He bit his lip and didn't have much ceremony. You were so wet anyway he'd probably slide right in. He pushed his boxers down, and up sprang his leaking cock.

He turned on his side, almost draped all the way over you, aligned himself, and pushed in.

The first thing you become aware of is the weight.

Heavy, solid, familiar — draped over your back like he promised he always would be. Bucky sleeps like a furnace, arm slung around your waist, leg hooked lazily over yours like he’s making sure you can’t vanish in the night.

You were dreaming something warm… fuzzy… something with his voice in your ear.

You breathed his name again, groggy and fluttering, barely louder than when you were fully asleep. “Bucky…?”

His breath catches like a snapped wire, hips momentarily freezing against you. For a second you think he’s going to stop. Then his forehead presses into your shoulder and he lets out a groan that sounds like a confession.

“Fuck—sorry—’m trying—trying to be good,” he mutters, voice thick, wrecked from sleep and need. “Woke up with you grinding against me—couldn’t stop thinking about…” His breath stutters as his hips twitch again helplessly. “...about how wet you get when I wake you like this.”

A memory echoes in your mind—your voice from weeks ago, breathless, whispering in the dark with saliva and cum dripping down your chin after he thoroughly bruised the back of your throat.

If you ever wake up like that again… you don’t have to wait for me to wake up.

“Bucky,” you murmur, fully awake now, voice softer but lower. You shift back into him, deliberately this time. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

There's a soft schlick schlick schlick of his body driving itself into you that drives you crazy. It's muffled by the comforter like its dirty, naughty, something you shouldn't be doing.

Something hushed and feral and needy that is required to happen, otherwise you feel like you're gonna explode.

“Don’t hold back,” you whisper, voice trembling with something hungry. “Please.”

A low sound escapes him — half relief, half feral praise. “Yeah?” he breathes, moving again, more certain now. “You want it this bad, huh? Needed me even in your sleep?”

You bite back a soft whimper as your body reacts, your thighs pressing together instinctively even though his hand is between them. Every roll of his hips sends heat curling up your spine.

He hears the broken sound you make when you try to steady your breathing.

And that’s it. His restraint snaps.

His mouth crashes against your shoulder, open, desperate, needy, teeth scraping lightly as he moans into your skin.

“That’s it… fuck, that’s it. Push back on me, c’mon,” he urges, tone filthy, forehead pressing to your neck as his rhythm builds. “Grind on me, baby, just like you were when you were out.”

You follow instinct, rocking your hips back into him, dizzy with how much you suddenly need this, need him. The friction is rough and perfect and not nearly enough — but his voice makes it feel like everything.

“That’s my girl,” he growls. “Rubbin’ that perfect little ass on me like you’re starving for it. You tryin’ to make me lose my mind first thing in the morning?”

You gasp into the pillow, fingers gripping the sheet. “I—God—I missed you,” you breathe, shaky. “Missed how you make me feel—needed this—”

“That’s right,” he whispers, voice thick, rhythm steady and possessive, every grind punctuated by a breathy curse.

You’re nearly sobbing now, hips moving helplessly in sync with his. “Bucky… I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he pants. “Do it for me—come on, pretty girl, let me feel it.”

You break.

The pleasure comes in waves that steal your breath, your sound, everything but his name. You’re trembling, clutching the sheets like they’re the only thing anchoring you. His arm wraps around you, holding you firmly against him as you shake, riding it out. He breathes through a deep groan into your shoulder, almost like your release drags him to the edge too, but he doesn’t let go—he just clings harder.

“Well damn,” he whispers after a few long, quiet seconds, still pressed tight against you. You're pliant and hazy, boneless against him. “That’s my good girl.”

Your breath is still uneven, but your eyes are heavy again. He kisses a slow, almost apologetic line along your shoulder blade.

“You okay?” he asks softly. You hum something that sounds like yes, still catching your breath.

He shifts just enough to pull the blanket up over both of you, but not an inch further. His hold doesn’t loosen, his arm tightens around your waist, like he’s anchoring himself there.

“Gonna stay here,” he mutters into your hair, voice thick and low. “Don’t want to leave you. Not even to move.”

You’re too tired to fully answer, but you thread your fingers through his where his hand rests on your stomach, lacing them together. He lets out a shaky, content exhale.

One last soft kiss to the back of your shoulder.

“Go back to sleep, baby. I’ll be right here.”

And he was.

Pressed close, breathing warm and steady against your neck, wrapped around you like a shield. You fell asleep again with a weak smile and his weight still holding you down in the safest way you’ve ever known.

A few hours later, you woke up sore. The sky was still a deep indigo outside, the sort of dark that doesn't feel terrifying, just comforting. Like the world was standing still just for a few moments, just for you.

You turned, whining at the loss of him, just to be met with the most beautiful sleeping face you've ever seen.

He always sleeps deeper after he’s completely spent. You know that. You also know he fades into that soft, vulnerable state only you get to see—jaw unclenched, lips parted, lashes dark against his cheeks, chest rising steady and warm under your ear.

And you love him so much in this quiet, unguarded moment… you almost want to cry.

Bucky's breaths came out in soft puffs out of his mouth, his conscience somewhere in a dream land far away. Your gaze dropped to his neck, a couple marks on there left by your teeth, but they'd fade before any questioning eyes back at the compound could ask any questions.

His chest was uncovered by the thick blanket, the quilt only covering up to his waist, and the unmistakable tent under it grabbing your attention immediately.

It would be so mean of you to not give him a hand... or a mouth.

Your fingers slide slowly down his stomach, barely brushing along defined muscle. He shifts slightly in his sleep, a soft breath escaping him. The kind that sounds like the beginning of a moan. So you slip under the blankets. Settle between his thighs. And lower your mouth to him.

He stiffens almost immediately, hips twitching subconsciously, a groan rumbling low in his chest as his hand spasms against the sheet. You keep going, slow and controlled, every motion soaked in a mix of reverence and filth.

“Jesus…” His voice is sleep-rough when it finally breaks out of him. His hips jerk once, a shocked gasp leaving him as his hand drops into your hair on instinct. “Oh my—baby—fuck, are you—”

You hummed around him in response, not stopping.

“Holy—shit—” His head falls back on the pillow, voice cracking, breath stuttering as consciousness snaps fully into place. “You—you waking me up like this?”

You squeeze his thigh gently in affirmation.

He lets out a helpless, needy groan, chest heaving as he pushes up on his elbows to watch you under the blanket.

“Look at you,” he pants, voice completely wrecked already. “So hungry you couldn’t even wait for me to wake up properly.”

You don’t stop. You can’t stop. The sounds he’s making are addicting—sharp intakes of air, shaky groans, words turning to curses. He drops one hand over his face like he can’t take it, then moves it to your hair again, fingers curling as his breathing gets frantic.

“Shit—slow down or I’m—I’m not gonna last,” he warns, but his hips are already moving, rolling unconsciously into your rhythm.

You grip his hip to steady him—not to stop him.

He gets the message. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice dropping dangerously low. “You wanna make me lose it in your mouth, huh?”

You hum again, hot and breathy.

He laughs once, broken and disbelieving. “God, I’m so fucked for you.”

His breathing turns ragged. His grip in your hair tightens. His voice goes soft and frantic. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—please, don’t stop—”

You don’t.

He swears louder, hips snapping once as he loses the battle for control entirely. “That’s it—oh God, baby—fuck—“

And then he comes apart with a groan so raw it shoots straight through you, his head tossing back, chest arching, thighs trembling as he curses your name like it breaks him.

You stay with him through it, easing him down gently with soft breath and steady hands until he collapses back onto the mattress, breathing like he ran miles.

“Holy shit,” he exhales shakily, dragging a hand over his face. He sounds totally, helplessly gone.

You crawl up his body, settling on laying completely on top of him with your hands under your chin and on his chest, still warm with aftershocks. He wraps his arms around you immediately, dragging you in and holding you there like you belong pressed against his heart.

When he catches your mouth in a kiss, he groans softly into it.

When you pull away, both of you were smiling like this was it. Like being tangled in a blanket in the middle of nowhere was what you were put on this earth to do.

You got up to make breakfast, or whatever you could call waffles and fruit and a snack here and there. And when Bucky found himself leaning on the doorway, looking at you humming the same tune from that first night he wondered if this was always where he was supposed to be.

If he was meant to fall from that train to do more than assassinations and intel, if he was meant to do more than keep Steve alive long enough to save the world a couple of times.

If he was meant to be tortured and picked apart for 70 years just to find himself wrapped in a sheet watching you steal chocolate chips from the brownie recipe you were making, moving around the kitchen enough that he saw when you winced the slightest bit when you leaned down.

He could accept that, if it meant he could have you.

“Okay, they look like bad cubism work, but i tried to make smiley faces with the chocolate chips and i think it could’ve been way worse.” Yeah, he was never letting you go.

The rest of the day unfolds like time has been loosened around the edges.

It starts with what was supposed to be breakfast dishes. You’re laughing while rinsing out a bowl when Bucky crowds you against the counter, kisses turning needy fast. One moment you’re teasing him for burning waffles, the next you’re bent over the counter with his breath hot against your ear and his hands firm around your hips, both of you too lost in each other to care about anything else.

A couple of hours later, you both manage to put on clothes long enough to walk into the nearby woods. The air is crisp, pine-scented, grounding. Your fingers stay laced with his the entire time. He doesn’t talk much — just keeps looking at you like the sunlight was invented specifically to bounce off your smile.

The shower afterward is meant to be recovery. It isn’t. He pins you lightly against the tiles, kissing the water from your lips and laughing when you nearly melt into the stream just from his hands on your waist.

After dinner, a very nice marry-me chicken recipe Bucky had to watch multiple TikToks of to master, you found yourself in the bedroom, with tear stained cheeks, sticky, marked thighs hanging spread off the bed, with a super soldier standing naked in between them.

The lights were all off aside from the gleaming firelight coming from the living room, barely making through the ajar door, moonlight catching on the wet tears on your cheek and the spit gleaming on your lips from having him in your mouth not too long ago.

Not many people would call Bucky a sap, but if they knew how his heart cracked open every time you looked at him like this, they might.

His hand came to cradle your face, and you nuzzled into it, looking at him with such sheer and unadulterated adoration in your eyes, it felt like you wanted him to pull you apart thread by thread just so he could be the one to stitch you back together.

A thumb traced the wetness on your lips and you engulfed it in between the plush flesh, earning a groan from deep inside of his chest. When you hummed around his digit, the vibration went straight to his cock, twitching in muscle memory.

“M’girl looks like she was made to be fucked open for me.” He moved his hand and grabbed your jaw, still sticky with saliva, a silent demand for you to open your mouth, which you gladly complied, sticking out your tongue.

The hot, wet feeling of his spit landing on your tastebuds came not long after, and you swallowed with a smirk.

Bucky pushed you down the bed with his body, tongue demanding against yours, while his hands gripped your thighs to scoot you up. He ground his hips against yours, coating him in more of your slick, before pushing in.

You gasped against his mouth, and he leaned down just slightly to get his arms under your legs and throw it over his shoulders, leaning in to press your knees out and as close to your chest as physically possible.

"Oh, God, Bucky..." Your eyes rolled back. "Fuck. You’re… you’re so big,” you breathe, voice shaky as your thighs tense reflexively, body already bracing around him even before anything more happens. “Always feels… like too much.”

He gives a quiet, devastatingly confident hum, like your overwhelmed confession is the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.

“Yeah?” His voice is low, warm, full of pride. “That right, baby?” His thumb strokes the inside of your leg in a slow, grounding sweep. “Thought you liked me being too much.”

Your breath catches when he presses his weight down just enough to make you feel it everywhere, the pressure firm and consuming. You whimper and nod, head tipping back against the pillow as your fingers curl around his arm.

“I do,” you whisper, nearly gasping, your voice cracking under the strain of how full his presence makes you feel. “Feels like you’re—stretching me out… every time.”

Your legs tremble in his grasp, but he holds them steady, firm but careful, folding you deeper into the bed, a breathy cry slips out when the pressure increases, not painful—just intense. Deep. Inescapable.

“Bucky—” it spills out in a shaken whisper, your chest rising in quick, unsteady pulls of air. “Feels like you’re… everywhere. I can’t—I can’t breathe when you’re this deep.”

His head dips, eyes locked on yours as his breathing grows heavier. “Yes, you can.” he says gently, firmly, "You love feeling this full. Admit it.”

You’re stuttering, already arching into him even as overwhelmed tears prick at your eyes. “I do,” you gasp. “God, I do—it’s so much—”

And he makes it be even more with a thumb on your clit as he drives into you like he wants the only thing inside of your veins to be him. He feels you clench so tight around him you swear your insides are embossed with the veins of his cock.

You come gasping his name with your bottom lip between his teeth, his cum leaking out of your thoroughly spent cunt.

"Mmm, I love you." It's said in a haze, with the room spinning around your lightheadedness, but he knows it doesn't make it any less true.

You woke up with his arm is still wrapped around your waist, hand spread low over your stomach like a claim he made in his sleep. His chest was pressed against your back, slow breaths brushing the nape of your neck. He didn’t move far — if he moved at all. It’s like even in dreams, he held on.

You shifted slightly and realized your body was sore in a way that felt like remembering. He was already hard against you, silent and steady, like his body woke up wanting before his mind did.

He made a quiet sound in his sleep when you curled back into him instinctively. When you rolled your hips just a little — not even on purpose — his breath stuttered.

“Don’t start somethin’ y'can’t finish,” he murmured, voice deep, rough with sleep.

“I’m not starting anything,” you whispered, but your voice gives you away.

His hand tightened on your waist. “Uh-huh.” Silence stretches — soft, warm, waiting.

“I don't wanna leave today,” you said eventually, voice quiet.

He exhaled slowly into your shoulder, like the thought physically ached. “I know. Let's not move. Not yet.”

He shifted behind you, pressing in closer, and you felt it — the way he wanted you, slow and unhurried, like he had all morning to remind you your body is his favorite place to be in.

When he moved inside of you, it was gentle at first — lazy, testing, his lips brushing your shoulder. You breathed out shakily, already melting, already arching back into him.

“Still sore?” he asked quietly against your skin, smug in a way that only an utterly in love James Barnes could be.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Still want you.”

He groaned low, like that undoes something in him. He kept you on your side, drawn tight against his chest, his hand guiding your thigh to hook over his. The movement was slow, intimate — more about closeness than urgency. His breathing deepened behind you; you could feel each exhale between your shoulder and your neck.

There wasn't rush, no frantic pace this time. Just heavy warmth, quiet praise, his lips brushing your ear while your fingers clutch at his forearm and soft sounds slip from your throat.

It’s a claiming that feels less like breaking and more like sealing something in place. By the time you both went still again, breath uneven, bodies pressed close under the covers, neither of you spoke. Not right away.

He stays inside the circle of your body like he belongs there — not rushing to pull away, not shifting to leave. Like maybe, just maybe, if he doesn’t move, morning won’t happen.

Eventually, in a low voice that sounded almost reluctant, he murmured, “We should start getting ready in a few.”

You hummed, not agreeing. He pressed one last kiss to your shoulder, lingering there before adding, “Five more minutes.”

You don’t tell him you’re giving him ten.

You don’t make it very far once you’re out of the bedroom.

He had you on the couch next — laughter dissolving into breathy moans as he pulls you onto all fours and sinks into a rhythm that leaves you pressed against worn cushions, his voice low and praising in your ear as the old cabin furniture creaks beneath you, feeling him etch his name in every corner of your soul so good that you had to bite down on the couch cushions to not be too loud, a feat you were much too accustomed to in the confined of both of your rooms.

The drive back was colder than the drive to. Maybe because the heat of anticipation wasn't there anymore, and you were getting back to sneaking around and your sacred Thursdays.

You took a longer route, to pretend you had to wait at the airport. By the time you reached the garage, you saw his bike parked right next to your spot.

The common room was occupied by Nat, Steve, Yelena, and the redhead's eyes traced an invisible string between you and Bucky.

"So.. How was camping?"

"Good." Neither of you meant to respond at the same time.

"Too cold?"

"Warm in the morning, cold at ni-" You glared at him like he was solely to blame for you two absolutely getting caught red handed and sore right then and there.

Natasha smirked. "Welcome back, not-so-stelthy super spies."

At first, no one wants to assume anything when the noise starts. It’s 3:24 A.M. Maybe someone’s just doing an aggressive nighttime workout. Pushing a dresser around. Wrestling a demon. Practicing taekwondo on the wall.

But then the bedframe starts slamming rhythmically against the wall like it’s trying to communicate in Morse code.

And someone gasps way too high-pitched and breathless for this to be cardio-related.

Sam wakes up and pads down to the kitchen to find that he's been the last one to be pulled from his REM sleep by a horny centenarian and his insatiable, inappropriately young girlfriend.

Steve has his head in his hands like he's trying to muffle his ears, forehead resting on the cool table.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

They could hear Bucky's low "Sweetheart, fuck— keep—" followed by a grunt. And what sounded like some hard object dropping to the floor.

Yelena looked at the ceiling in horror when they heard your muffled whines, "Bucky—oh God!" pleading him not to stop.

Sam climbed on a countertop and got his mouth close to the vents. “WE KNOW IT’S BUCKY, WE KNOW, PLEASE.”

And in the symphony of your moans and his grunts, Natasha just piped up from behind her coffee mug. "Does anyone miss when they were sneaking around?"

Every single person in that room raised their hands.

a/n: this was fun to write, can you tell I went home last night and cracked my husband like a woman possessed?