maria 🌻

“You’re squirmy.” He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. “No one ever teach you to sit still?”

You stick your tongue out. “No one ever teach you to mind your own business?”

“Hard to mind my business when you’re movin’ all the cushions, doll-“

“Then go sit somewhere else, robot man.”

Bucky’s jaw twitches. “I’m not a robot.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m not-“

“You act like one.” You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like he’s fucking praying.

“I was here first.” He mutters. You don’t balk.

“Congratulations.”

You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-

Get a fucking grip.

“There’s a chair over there.” You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. “Go sit in it, if I’m so squirmy.”

Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab he’s got for you, you don’t want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movie—probably another one of Sam’s this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because there’s no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himself—and fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. You’re going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesn’t bother you.

You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.

It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Bucky’s fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like he’s thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.

“Everything okay?” You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.

That’s all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.

You’ll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, you’ll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. You’ll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesn’t get to know that.

As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. It’s all he spares you. And you’re not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didn’t notice you were there at all.

Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.

The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.

“You skipped the mission briefing.” Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.

Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.

You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.

“I was busy.”

“Too busy for your job?”

“It’s not my job-“

“Your name was on the roster.” Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.

“Have you been carrying that around all day?”

“That doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it really does-“

Bucky hisses your name. There’s a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“You need to be there, Steve was talkin’ about safety shit, and if you don’t know it you could get killed-“

“I know how mission briefing work, I’ve been here longer than you have-“

“Really? ‘Cause you don’t act like it-“

“I don’t act like it?” You snort. “Last I checked I’m ranked higher than you, Sargent.” You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. “Which is why I’m allowed to defer missions, and you’re not.”

Bucky blinks, recoiling slightly. “Defer? What, you-“

“I’m skipping.” You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. “And if I’m skipping, I don’t need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.

But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.

“Why’re you skipping.”

You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isn’t actually going to care about.

“I have a date.”

“A what.” It’s not a full reaction. He’s mostly staring at you like he didn’t understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.

“A date?” You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.

Bucky always brings everything out in you. It’s incredibly annoying.

“You know.” You push mockingly. “Where you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.”

“Robots flirt.” Bucky grunts, and you snort.

“Yeah, but they don’t have sex-“

The counter cracks. It’s loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like he’s just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.

“What’s-“

“Steve’s callin’ me.” He mutters, and you blink.

“No, he’s not-“

“Have fun.” Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. “On your human date.”

Then he’s gone.

And you’re left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where he’d vanished through the door. You don’t care about the date.

You just need to know what the fuck that was.

There’s a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. She’d picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Bucky—because you’ve never told her your secret, but you didn’t need to, she’s Natasha—but it wasn’t enough.

He didn’t have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didn’t spar. He didn’t push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all night—wrong smile, too—and then didn’t pay. Bucky would’ve paid.

You have no evidence of that. It’s just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when you’re at each other’s throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.

And there’s not a single point during the night, where you’re not thinking about him.

“We should do this again.” The Date—you’ve forgotten his name, and it’s certainly not a good time to ask—says at the end of the night.

You’re shivering. Bucky would’ve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks he’s getting a second date.

At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.

“Sure.” You smile, because even with superstrength, it’s easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. “Have a good night.”

He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.

The mission is over.

Two days early.

Your jaw tightens.

Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But you’ve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.

Something went wrong, and they have to come back.

You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. It’s mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. You’d skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasn’t anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe he’d thought they’d need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.

But they’re back early.

And if someone’s hurt, you could’ve stopped it. You could’ve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and that’s incredibly annoying. He’s going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and you’ll have earned it which isn’t going to help anything at all. 

You get back to the compound, and it’s not in lockdown. There aren’t med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that it’s already been cleared out. The jet isn’t being quarantined.

Maybe they really did just… Finish early.

You’re heading back to your room when you slam right into them.

Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.

“You need to go, Buck-“

“I’m fine-“

“No, you’re not. You can lie to the docs, don’t lie to me-“

“I ain’t lyin’, I’m fine-“

Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what they’re saying. You barrel straight into Bucky’s back.

He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.

His hand is hot.

Not sexy hot—although it’s also that—but literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.

He’s flushed. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out they’re almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.

“Hi.” You whisper.

His throat bobs. “You’re back.”

“I- I got the alert.” You glance over to Steve, who’s gone oddly pale. “Did the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasn’t there, right-“

“Yep!” Steve almost shouts, and you blink. “I mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?” Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder. “We were all good.”

Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.

“Let go.” Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.

He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.

“I was gonna.” He grumbles, and Steve sighs.

“I know, but-“ You get a weary look. Like Steve doesn’t want you to hear their conversation. “I think- You know what I think-“

“Steve-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.

He still hasn’t looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.

“I’m fine.” He says, low and under his breath. You’re rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. “It’s- I’m fine.”

Steve’s lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like he’s dragging himself away.

“How was your date?” He grunts.

“Bucky-“

“I’m just askin’ a question.” He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.

The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and it’s making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.

You hope he’d catch you, then fuck you until your can’t even walk.

Get a fucking grip.

“Bad.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. “He sucked.”

And that’s the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.

But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.

“We have debriefing!” Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s suit. “Bye!”

Before you can even register it, Steve’s dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.

Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.

Bucky’s only been acting stranger. You’d pretend it didn’t bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.

You walk through the compound, and he’s somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while you’re going through the mission files.

“What’re you doin’.” He grunts, and you sigh.

You’re not surprised he’s there. It’s the fifth time today that he’s snuck up on you.

“I’m going through the reports on the mission.” You drawl. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”

Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. It’s hard to pretend that you can’t feel his presence behind you. There’s heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent that’s filling the room. It’s making you a little dizzy. It’s all you can do, not to look back at him.

That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.

You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.

Mistake. Just like you’d thought, big mistake.

He looks even worse and better than you thought. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and they’re clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget you’re annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.

You somehow—just barely—fight it.

“Why can’t I access these files.”

Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. It’s hard to maintain your glare.

“Barnes-“

“You weren’t on the mission.” He mutters. “Not your files to see.”

You scowl. “I can access the files of every other mission I was on-“

“Steve should change that.”

God, you wish he wasn’t so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.

“I know something happened out there.” You hiss, sitting up a little taller. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ll figure it out.”

Bucky chuckles. It’s a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.

“Sure, doll. Have fun with that.”

You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think he’s going to pounce on you.

And then you blink, and he’s gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.

You wish that was the extent of it, but it’s barely the start. And it only gets worse.

Bucky doesn’t do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like he’s supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.

Instead, you find Bucky. 

He’s drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.

You sigh. You’re too tired to fight him.

“Can’t sleep?” You mumble.

He just nods.

You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.

“You want hot chocolate?”

A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.

And maybe it’s just that you’re really starting to worry, but you don’t bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.

His mouth falls open. He stares at you like he’s spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. He’s still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you don’t dare to push it.

Not when he’s looking at you like this. The way you’d always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.

“I’m watching Star Wars.” You mumble. “You wanna…”

You trail off, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.

But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. He’s breathing awfully shallow, but you’re a selfish coward that wants him close, so you don’t mention it.

You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesn’t even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. He’s not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasn’t said a word. You’re afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.

That he wants to be here.

Near you.

He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You don’t move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than you’ve ever seen. His fever isn’t breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.

Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.

It’s almost a moan.

You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You don’t know what’s going on with him, but this can’t be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. That’s not a part of him you get to have.

But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.

You feel almost sick.

It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When you’re free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You can’t really help it.

His fever is building again.

You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he can’t think you wouldn’t care enough to help.

When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.

You force yourself to go to bed. You’re not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.

If anything, you just pray he gets better. It’s hard to hide your undying care for him, when he’s in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that he’s hurting. ‘

But it is Bucky.

And he’s never going to make anything that easy.

You walk out of your room in the morning, and he’s right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like he’s trying to bite his own tongue off.

“Hi.” You say lamely.

He stumbles back like you punched him. “You- You’re-“

“Bucky, are you-“

“’M fine.” He says it mostly to himself again. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.

You’re not going to tell him, but you’re getting worried. This is the third morning in a row you’ve found him here. The first night you asked if he’d slept there, and he’d scowled and stomped away.

But from the look of him, you don’t think he’s been sleeping at all.

“Do you need something?” You ask. You sound soft, but you can’t help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. “I can call Steve-“

“Don’t get Steve.” He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. It’s the only way he’s been moving around you, lately. “I’m fine.”

You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like you’ve got a polarity field around you. Like he can’t even stand to breathe the same air.

And yet he’s here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.

“Bucky-“

“Don’t.” He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. “Just- Don’t.”

You swallow, and don’t give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks you’re going to catch him and drag him back. You won’t.

But you do go right to Steve.

“What happened on the mission.”

Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. You’re glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isn’t going to work on you here. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying anyway.

“Hey, um- Do you want a cookie-“

“Steven.” You hiss, and he swallows. “What happened.”

Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”’

“What do you mean you’re not supposed to tell me-“

“I mean I- I can.” He mutters. “But then Bucky will kill me. And I don’t want Bucky to kill me.”

You scowl. “Tough shit, because guess who’s going to kill you if you don’t tell me?”

Steve sighs. “Is it you?”

“Yep.”

He stares at his sandwich, like it’s somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it won’t. You have plenty of time.

“I’m really not supposed to tell you-“

“I really don’t care.”

“Well- You will.” Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.

You don’t have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. He’s basically asking for it right now.

“Steven, I swear to fucking God-“

“I can’t tell you.” He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.

“No, you just won’t tell me-“

“That’s not- I can’t, okay? Please stop asking me to-“

“Why, because Bucky doesn’t want you to?” You leer. “Because last I checked, you’re the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates he’s in danger so they can help-“

“That’s the problem!” Steve shouts, and you blink. “You- Look, you’re going to want to help, and I can’t let you.”

“You can’t let me help?” You echo, and Steve winces.

“I know how it sounds-“

“Do you? Because what I’m fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you won’t let me fucking help-“

“Why do you even want to help?” Steve fixes you with a pointed look. “All you ever do is complain about Bucky and how he’s annoying you. I would’ve thought you didn’t care.”

You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what he’s doing. Smug fucking asshole. 

“That won’t work on me.” You grunt, and he shrugs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Steve-“

“But,” he says causally. “If I did, I’d say that’s why I can’t tell you. And you know that.”

You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like you’re just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.

“I- I don’t-“ You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. It’s annoying. “It’s not- I’m just- Please.”

Your voice cracks suddenly. You’ve been losing more sleep over this than you’re ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with it—like the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick up—but that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. It’s making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.

“Bucky.” You say slowly. “Is- He’s not okay. I know he’s not okay.” You force yourself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Just- Lie to me and say he’s fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I can’t just-“

You don’t even know how to finish the sentence. There’s a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. You’re so worried. Worried this is something that’s going to kill him, and you’re going to lose him forever.

And there’s pity, in Steve’s gaze. It’s enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.

“Alright.” He murmurs. “But- You can’t tell him I told you.”

You nod quickly. “I’ll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.”

Steve sighs. “Okay. Okay.” He shakes his head. “It was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasn’t being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think it’s the serum, or just… Bucky. But he’s been controlling it better.” Steve grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not still knocked up with stuff.”

You nod slowly. That’s not that bad.

But Steve didn’t want you to know for a reason.

“What are the symptoms?”

Steve won’t meet your gaze. “Fever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased… libido.”

Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “What.”

“Hydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We don’t know why they were developing it, but- There’s no other name.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “The agent- His cell is disgusting.”

“But- Bucky-“

“I told you, he says he’s got it under control.” Steve shrugs, but doesn’t really sound like he’s convinced himself. “The agent has been, ah… begging for anyone. Bucky doesn’t have the same liberty with what will help. He says it’s going to pass, and he’ll be fine.”

“And will it?” You breathe. “Pass?”

Steve shrugs. “It did for the agent.”

“Before or after the mating?”

Steve’s silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-“

“I know that!” Steve snaps. “I know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.” He shakes his head. “He won’t take anyone. He’ll only- Well- You know.”

“I know? I don’t fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-“

Steve says your name plainly. You blink.

“What-“

“Nothing. Just- Why do you think he’s been lingering around you?”

You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.

“Steve-“

“I didn’t say anything-“

“Yes, you did-“

“Nope.”

You press your lips in a tight line. He can’t mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. “Bucky- He doesn’t- That’s not how he feels about me.”

Please don’t say it is. It’s not fair if you’re lying.

“Funny.” Steve shrugs. “He says the same thing about you.”

This is a bad idea.

Bucky hasn’t left his room in a day. You’d spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didn’t mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What you’d always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.

But it didn’t matter how you turned or picked at Steve’s words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you can’t even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you could’ve been actually kissing him. If Steve’s right, you’re going to kill Bucky.

After you fix this for him.

If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.

Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, you’re going to have to quit your job and change your name and  move to Indonesia.

But if he doesn’t turn you down…

You steel yourself and knock on Bucky’s door. It’s worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.

“Fuck off, Stevie-“

“I’m not Steve!” You call, and for a second there’s no response. 

Then there’s a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.

He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.

His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. He’s breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.

You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a plea or a prayer.

“You shouldn’t be here-“

“Steve said you need me.”

You stare at each other. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, you’ll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. You’ve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and you’re sure you’ll be able to fit right in over time, and if you don’t at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because it’s been almost two full minutes and he hasn’t said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-

“Steve shouldn’t have told you anything.” Bucky growls, and you swallow.

“I- I made him.”

He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. “Of course you did.”

“I was worried about you-“

“You don’t have to be, doll. I’m-“

“If you say I’m fine, I’m going to fucking punch you.”

Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.

“You’re sick.” You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.

“Maybe. But it’s not the kinda sick you can help with-“

“Steve says it’s the kind of sick only I can help with.”

He’s silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. It’s a warning. A plea.

“Don’t do this.” He mutters, fists balled at his side. “Not outta pity, not for me-“

“It’s not pity.” You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. “I want to help, Bucky. Let me help.”

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, you- You just- You don’t feel like that for me-“

“You don’t feel like that for me.” You breathe, and Bucky’s body locks up.

“Who says?”

“You’re an ass to me-“

“You’re an ass to me.”

“I don’t mean to be.” You whisper. “I- I don’t- I’m not good at… You know.”

Bucky’s throat bobs. He still doesn’t move.

“Me neither.”

You nod. “But…”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”

You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.

“Please ask me to help.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. “I- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-“

Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.

It’s not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. It’s rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.

Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way he’s almost eating your kisses. You’re standing nowhere near a wall, but he’s caged you all the same. There’s nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.

You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and it’s a little addictive. Even after you’re light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesn’t seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.

“You gotta be sure.” He murmurs against your skin. “Tell me you’re sure, doll, ‘cause- I don’t think I can go easy.”

And oh God, isn’t that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.

But he’s asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. He’s keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.

You didn’t know you could want him more.

“I- Oh-“ Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. “I’m sure, Bucky, I- I don’t want you to go easy.”

For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.

Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.

“You- You got no idea, do you?”

Your face falls to a pout. “I have a lot of ideas-“

“No, you don’t.” He drops his brow over yours. “You got no fuckin’ clue, what you do to me.”

And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. You’re already on unsteady legs. You never thought he’d catch you if you fell, but with the way Bucky’s looking at you right now, you think he’d dive off a cliff to be at your side.

“Bucky…” You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.

“You smell so good.” He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Taste better than I imagined.”

“You-“ You almost whimper, when he pulls away. “You imagined?”

He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. You’re already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesn’t stop kissing you so softly.

“Didn’t you?”

You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“Bet I imagined more.”

And you doubt that, but Bucky’s kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that you’d never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug you’d never even taken.

You’re certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than you’d let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way he’s holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like he’s trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.

“Got no idea what I’m gonna do to, either.” He rasps against your lips. “If you let me, doll… You shouldn’t- But-“ He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. “Fuck, I want you to.”

You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. He’d be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that you’ve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But you’re not sure if he’s going to believe them.

“Tell me.” You whisper. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”

Bucky pulls back, and you worry you’ve stepped on an invisible landmine. That you’re going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room you’ve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.

You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until you’re squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.

“I wanted you just like this.” He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and you’re not even kissing anymore. “Wanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetin’ and think about bending you over the table. You’d get under me on the training mats and I’d wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.”

He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and it’s almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.

“Would sit next to you on the plane and think about gettin’ on my knees.” He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. “Worshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makin’ you- Fuck- Call my name-“

Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You don’t think he can help it.

“Wanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.” He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. “You’d get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttin’ you over my knee or gettin’ you lying in my bed. I’d- I’d fuck you so nice, doll, I swear I’d be good, but- Fuuuck-“

He’s rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story he’s supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop him—never to stop him—but to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.

Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. He’s almost shaking. You think he’s trying not to fuck your hand.

You can’t have that.

“It’s okay.” You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. “I- I’ve thought about it too.”

Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.

“Wanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.”

You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Bucky’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.

“Wasn’t as big.” You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. “You’re so big, Bucky, I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”

He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. “Gonna- Fuck-“

You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. He’s almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.

“Gonna make it fit.” He hisses in your ear, and you hum.

“How?”

“Open you up.” He mutters, words slurred like he’s drunk. “Get you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-“

His dick is twitching, and you giggle. He’s working himself up.

“You think this is funny?” He rasps.

You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. “A little. You wanna make me cum but you won’t even touch me.”

He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.

“You- You’re a fuckin’ brat-“

“I’m helping you, Barnes.” You whisper in his ear.

He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. “Helpin’ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-“

Bucky’s whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.

There’s so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. You’ve never wanted anything more.

A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.

Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didn’t already wear him out.

“You okay?” You whisper, and he tenses.

Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.

Whatever he’d been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.

You can’t stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.

He’s bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and it’s barely been a minute, but he’s already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chest—all flushed skin and muscle—and realize he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.

“It won’t fit.” You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.

And Bucky’s smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. You’ve gotten exactly what you wanted.

“Gonna make it fit.” He growls.

You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You don’t even slam into his chest before he’s lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. It’s a distraction. You know that. You don’t really care, though, returning it in a second.

Bucky carries you like you’re a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second you’re fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.

“So soft.” He mutters. “All that bite, doll, but I knew you’d be so fuckin’ soft for me.”

You’d like to protest, and say that you’re not soft. But Bucky’s kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.

Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.

“You like that?” He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. “You like bein’ my sweet girl?”

You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You don’t know how he’s the one with a sound mind right now. You’re not under a sex drug.

You’re just under Bucky. Where it’s very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.

“Say it and I give you more.” He rasps. “Say you like it.”

And it’s a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But he’s poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.

So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.

Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.

“Look at you.” He mocks. “Beggin’ for me and then can’t even admit she likes it.”

You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.

“You like gettin’ tossed around, too?” He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. “I’ll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.”

He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.

“Already listen so well.” He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. “Just can admit you fuckin’ love it, do you? Can’t be a good girl and tell the truth.”

You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. It’s not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.

Permission to go further.

His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.

“Alright, babydoll.” He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Have it your way.”

In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like it’s paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before he’s grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.

A dazed part of your brain that doesn’t remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.

Then the first stroke of Bucky’s tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.

“Oh my-“ Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. “Oh my God-“

“Sensitive fuckin’ pussy.” Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. “Barely even touching it. Wonder if I-“

 His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You can’t see him. Can’t know if you’re doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.

Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.

“Look at you.” His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. “Bet I don’t even need to fuckin’ prep you. You’re so wet, you’d just…”

He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.

“Sweet.” Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. “So fuckin’ sweet.”

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Shhh.” He kisses right over your pussy. “Wanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckin’-“ He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. “Gotta taste-“

Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isn’t human.

He’s good at this. So good at this. It’s a little unfair. Your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like he’s a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.

Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. It’s a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.

You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. You’re so wet it’s almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum he’d gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.

“That’s right.” He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. “That’s it, baby, you’re already lettin’ go, aren’t you.”

You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.

“Aren’t you?”

“Ye- Yes.” You mumble. “’S good, Bucky- So good-“

“I know.” He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. “Fuck, baby, I know.”

You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. He’s lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.

“I- I’m gonna- Fuck- Bucky-“ You scratch at the sheets. “I’m gonna- Oh God-“

He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.

And Bucky doesn’t stop. You’re making a mess all over his face, and he’s rising up, but it’s just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesn’t even come up for air.

“Shit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-“

The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure that’s just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.

Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.

He’s jerking off while he eats you out.  He’s fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.

Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. He’s eating you out the same way he’s kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor that’s almost animalistic. You’re boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.

Then, suddenly, he’s gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.

“Smells good.” He rasps. “Gonna- Fuck-“

Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. There’s always just more of it, until you’re so marked up with him you’re sure you’ll never be able to wash it off.

You don’t want to.

With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you don’t think he does either.

“Shit.” He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. “Gotta- Flip for me, c’mon-“

Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles

“Good girl.” He coos.

You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you might’ve failed.

“Strangling my fingers, doll.” He teases, pulling them right out.

You whimper. You’re too wet and ready not to take something. It’s really not fair to make you wait.

“I know.” He kisses your brow, voice rough. “Trust me, I fuckin’ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-“ His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. “All yours.”

You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.

But you’re at an advantage.

Bucky’s hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like it’s an effort to speak. He’s still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.

You want him to give in.

So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.

Bucky growls again, and there’s no more teasing.

His mouth pushes over yours, and it’s not a loving kiss. It’s rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.

“Wanna be a brat.” He grunts. “Gonna get fucked like a brat.”

You almost beam. Yes, please.

Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesn’t waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. You’re so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesn’t mean your eyes don’t roll back.

He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. He’d prepared you too well. You’re more than ready within seconds.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. “Move.”

If he’d told you to wait, you wouldn’t have been surprised.

But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.

The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.

“The- There-“ You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. “Fuck, baby, right there-“

Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep you’re worried he’s going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.

He’s not even fucking you like a brat. He’s fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like you’re just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.

You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now you’re just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.

“Oh- Oooooh-“ You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. “Buuuucky-“

His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasn’t slowed or relented, but there’s a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.

That’s what he’d said he’d do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.

Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.

“Good girl.” He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.

He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.

“You fuckin’ like it, don’t you-“

“Love it.” You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. “Love you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-“

Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like you’re going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. You’ve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.

And he’s not even done.

The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Bucky’s ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before you’re being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.

You’re dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. You’re all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.

He hasn’t just ruined you. He’s pulled you apart a million times over, until you’re just a puddle that sings his name.

You don’t even fully realize he’s done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.

Then Bucky kisses you, and it’s slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but it’s lost the strained quality. He’s fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.

“So soft.” He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.

You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Jesus, doll. You’d think you were the one that got sex drugged.”

You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.

They’re blue again.

“You’re back?” You breathe, and Bucky grins.

He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.

“I’m back.”

 You’re ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You don’t think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.

You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. You’d never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think you’re some kind of freak for just saying you love him.

He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.

God, he’s so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now you’re never going to get to touch him again-

Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.

He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-

“Love you too.” He says against your lips. “Just- Uh- While we’re saying it.”

Oh.

Or that. That’s nice.

You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.

Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.

“You’re stayin’ the night, right?”

You almost snort. There’s no getting rid of you now. You’re going to stay forever, and as long as he’ll allow after that.

“Yeah. I’m staying.”

✦End note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

A/N: this is not the breeding kink one-shot I was talking about in the poll, but this was already finished and unfortunately yesterday something happened and I’m not in a good place rn mentally. hope you’ll enjoy🥛sorry but it’s not really edited.

Bucky shivers as the usual warm weight pressed against his side is missing. He lethargically extends his arm to bring your plush body back to his, yet his fingers only meet wrinkly, tepid sheets. His eyes fly open, only to find your side empty. 

It’s the middle of the night and your baby boy is sleeping soundly in the crib he assembled months ago, tucked close beside your bed. This allows Bucky to reach him the moment the faintest whimper slips from his lips—one of the many advantages of having enhanced senses. He can see the exhaustion pressing down on you, and still, you try to cram as many chores as possible into your schedule, nowadays reduced to feedings and diaper changes. But Bucky would do anything to make you feel like you’re keeping up.

These days your husband is always repeating the same thing: that he’ll handle the house, that you don’t need to push yourself like this. But you do anyway, unable to shake the guilt of leaving everything to him when he’s already the one waking in the night to take care of your son.

“I’m a super soldier, you pretty mama,” he promptly reminds you, his voice gentle against the bare skin of your shoulder. “Why would I leave this stuff to my beautiful wife when I don’t need that much rest in the first place?”

The ensuite is empty, which means you’re either in the kitchen pumping or the living room wide awake.

Bucky pushes himself up slowly, leaving the bedroom door open behind him—just in case. He could hear his son cry from miles away, but even the former Winter Soldier can’t quite shake the instinct to run to his son in case of potential danger.

The kitchen light catches his attention the moment he steps into the hallway, spilling across the floor in a warm glow. He follows it without thinking, but the sight that greets him makes him freeze on the doorway.

Bucky has always reserved particular attention to your chest since the first time you started fooling around while dating.

But this is different.

He never could have imagined that one day the mere sight of your nipples leaking milk would leave him stiff in his pants and drooling. That something as natural as your body providing for your child could feel so intimate. During your pregnancy, your breasts had grown fuller and heavier, often sore enough to make you whine in pain against his shoulder. More than once, you’d sighed in frustration at the milk that soaked through your bras, inconvenient and relentless.

And each time, Bucky had to suppress the instinct to clean you up. With his tongue.

He might be over a hundred years old, but he knows his way around the internet since the first time he grumpily announced he was going to look up what a creampie was, while you were in stitches on the couch. You still tried to warn him through your amusement, explaining that the internet is a treacherous place, one where everything should be taken with a healthy dose of skepticism.

The shame curling hot in his stomach is inevitable when he looks at your chest with his pants uncomfortably tight, but this fantasy only intensified with time, to the point where he feels like imploding at the slightest mention of you pumping.

Bucky gulps thickly, frowning in animosity at the two devices attached to your tits that peak out from your sports bra. He really wants to suckle on your nipples and feel your sweet milk bless his senses, however, despite all the years of dating and marriage, asking would probably feel like walking straight in front of a freight train running at full speed. 

His tongue unconsciously licks his lips as you pour some of the freshly pumped milk in a baby bottle, before going through the motions of setting the devices back in place. The wearable breast pumps had been his idea, actually, after months spent buried in books, articles, and a concerning amount of online forums for new moms. He read everything he could get his hands on, determined to make things easier for you. Multiple people praised these over traditional ones for their gentler suction and better angles, so one day Bucky’d shown up with his laptop open to the website of a famous online store specialized in hands-free pumps, already halfway through his research and entirely ready to start measuring your breasts.

Your chest aches more often than not nowadays. You hadn’t expected to produce this much milk, or how constant it would feel. Not just during the day, but at night too, when you find yourself half-asleep at the kitchen counter, filling bottle after bottle while your body begs you to lie down.

Bucky knows everything got more sensitive and swollen for you since you got pregnant, so he often finds himself wondering if he could make you come just by stimulating your tits alone. 

Shaking his head to calm himself down before entering the kitchen with a full hard-on, Bucky slowly approaches you, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. He doesn’t miss the way your body automatically relaxes under his touch.

“Was wondering where my beautiful wife went.” He whispers, resting his chin on your shoulder to eye the battlefield of spilled milk and paper towels. “How are you feeling, lovely?”  

“Tired.” You murmur around a yawn as your head falls back against his chest. “And aching.”

In this new position, his blue eyes can comfortably admire your cleavage. His stare on the plump skin of your chest spilling out from the tight sports bra is intense, though he clears his throat before his cock takes over his common sense and his teeth end up sinking in your tender flesh.

“Mmh… I can help, you know?” You glance back at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“No baby, you already do so much. Besides, these things are amazing! They do everything by themselves, I just have to empty them.” Bucky swallows, before gently turning you to face him.

“No, I meant—I want to help help you.” Your eyebrows raise, still not understanding.

“I want to taste it, doll.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your eyebrows shoot up stunned, before a small grin threatens to take over your lips.

“James Buchanan Barnes, you want to nurse on my breasts?” A pretty blush takes over the apples of his cheeks at your bluntness. Your husband has never looked so boyishly pretty before.

“Don’t say it like that.” His affronted voice wavers, pulling a chuckle out of you that makes your tits jiggle alluringly. His eyes promptly fall on them, before he flushes violently upon noticing you have caught him drooling red-handed.

“But that’s what you want, right Jamie?” You tilt your head teasingly, cradling his cheeks in your soft hands.

He nods expectantly, eyes sparkling despite the scorching embarrassment pooling into his belly.

“Okay, but let me remove these first.” His breath hitches at your nonchalant reaction. 

Your husband’s chest heaves in anticipation as he waits for the electric pumps to finish, unable to stay put behind you like an overhyped puppy waiting for his treat. Bucky knows you are taking your time in storing the milk away on purpose—it’s not your fault he gets so adorable whenever he loses grip on the composure he is so proud of.

When you are done, you barely have time to turn around before his strong arms pick you up to place your butt on the counter, so he can be closer to your chest. He kisses you desperately, kneading your waist and thighs until you are left warm and moaning.

Eventually his lips end up tracing a trail of wet kisses down your throat, finally allowing his nose to gently graze the skin of your breasts. He helps you remove your bra with shaky hands, gasping when your torso is finally bare for him to toy with.

“Look at you.” His large hands encompass the swell of your tits, gently kneading the flesh to not hurt you. Your quiet whimper stops him instantly, looking up at you to catch any sign of discomfort. But he only receives a weak nod, your hands desperately gripping his biceps as his fingers reprise their exploring. 

“They are so full, my love. I bet they hurt, right?” His eyes glass over, spellbound as the pads of his thumbs delicately circle both of your turgid nipples, drawing a few stray drops of milk. Bucky instantly brings the digits to his mouth, eyelids fluttering shut at the flavor blessing his taste buds.

“Fuck, you really are sweet everywhere, doll.” You shudder at his growled praise, your tired body extremely sensitive as his fingers keep stroking your nubs.

Your loud gasp is swallowed in the nick of time in fear of waking your son up, yet you stop yourself from flinching when Bucky’s lips finally engulf your right nipple. His mouth is hot and his tongue eager against the tender surface; you’ve always enjoyed the care and time he puts in worshipping your chest, but this time it feels completely different with the way his palms caress your tits, and his tongue patiently grazes your nipples with serenity written all over his features.

“Bucky—” You interrupt him as he starts sucking. It’s too soft, just like him, you think fondly. And it’s not that you don’t love it, but your milk will barely come out if he doesn’t get a little rougher.

“C’mon, honey, you can suck harder.” You encourage quietly, the only answer you get is him dazedly blinking up at you through his long, dark lashes. 

His hand fondles the breast his lips aren’t occupying, while his vibranium arm wraps around your back to bring you impossibly closer. Fingertips dig into your supple skin as he obeys, his eyes rolling back at milk finally filling his mouth. The gentle licks soon transform into harsher suckles, and one of your hands goes straight to your mouth with a resounding smack to stop a loud whine from potentially reaching your neighbors. 

Yes, it happened before. Too many times.

Bucky can smell your arousal, but his mind is clouded with his own pleasure to understand what’s happening around him.

He’s finally doing it, he’s drinking your milk directly from the source. This might potentially be the hottest thing you’ve ever done.

Well, apart from that time you fucked in one of the empty meeting rooms in his office. 

Now that Bucky thinks about it, you probably conceived your baby boy that time. He remembers too clearly how aroused the both of you were. His body was on fire that day, he felt like a fucking animal in heat trapped in a cage after he was urgently called by his secretary as he was slowly thrusting his cock into your half-asleep body that morning. And you… well, it was actually your idea to have sex there.

You showed up at his workplace, calling him Congressman with that whiny voice of yours, and claimed you needed to have his cock inside you so bad as you both stood in front of his two secretaries hurriedly fixing his schedule around you, since it was a well-known fact that Bucky would abandon anything if his wife needed him.

Then you dragged him in one of the empty rooms by his tie, and God, he still shivers at the memory of how you rode him on that damn chair, only wearing that stupid little sundress he bought you on his last work trip, just because it looked cute. And fuck, now it was hanging loosely from your waist as you moaned loud enough for his whole staff to hear when he finally came inside you, stuffing you with his cum as you cried and trembled around him, his cock refusing to soften so Bucky picked you up and brought you to the conference table to roughly thrust inside you, making you squirt all over his pants—

Yeah... that’s a story for another time. 

One of your hands cups the back of his head, slightly pulling at his hair as you lean forward with a whimper. 

“Jesus Christ.” Your man groans through a mouthful of you.

“Yeah? Is it good?” You tease, giggling at the eager nod he gives you. 

“So good, pretty girl.” He whines, pulling away from your nipple only to move onto the other. 

His tongue plays with the hard peak, moaning when a quiet whine falls from your lips. The lewd, wet sounds of his licking and sucking prompt you to wrap your thighs around his hips and push against him, your nails digging into the meat of his shoulders to try and find a crumb of stimulation against his belly for your pussy. It’s so messy your arousal soaks through your thin shorts, now sticking uncomfortably to your damp skin.

Despite Bucky being completely lost into his own bliss, he still finds the mental strength to tighten his hold around your waist to keep you still against the counter and enjoy his midnight snack peacefully. 

Your nipples are tender by now, abused and wet by one very hungry super soldier. Your head falls back unconsciously, a little embarrassed at the fact that you are probably ready to come and your pussy has been touched a total of zero times.

His large palm languidly slides down your thigh, until it cups your pussy, the vibrations of his low moan further stimulating your nub as your slick coats his fingers through the fabric. You urge him on, grinding onto the heel of his hand.

Two fingers finally travel under the waistband, the rough pads working over your clit, firm but not too fast, just how you like it.

Pleasure burns hotter and hotter with each press of his fingers against your nub, until they find your entrance, delicately rubbing over your folds and collecting your wetness before he nudges them in. Your jaw slackens around a silent moan as they stretch you out so deliciously, curling and rubbing that sweet spot that always makes you gush so prettily around him.

Bucky exhales sharply through his nose, still suckling on your nipples as your hole hungrily swallows his fingers. He is borderline dizzy from how good he feels with his fingers in your pussy and your milk down his throat.

“Feels good, doll?” The words are nothing short of a murmur against your skin. “She’s so needy for me, hm? Doesn’t wanna let go.”

Your cheeks are on fire, and he receives only a quick nod as an answer. The touch his lips leave across your chest burn, causing your lips to prettily open around a silent moan.

“Jamie, just like that, fuck—” You sigh blissed out, flinching when his thumb slowly goes back to toying with your puffy clit. Bucky didn’t realize how much he missed the way your core would turn all swollen with arousal.

“Missed this so much, missed you, honey.” A needy whimper claws out of his throat. “Talk to me, tell me what you wanna do to me.”

“Fucking hell,” he takes a deep breath, pressing soft pecks over your breasts. “Wanna fill you up, sweetheart. Can’t stop thinking about it, how gorgeous you looked all full with my baby.” His eyes briefly close in a futile attempt to ward off the painful throbbing of his cock pushing against his sweatpants.

You clamp around him, shivering when his other hand squeezes your hips.

“‘S all I can think about. Day and night.” He rambles brokenly. “So perfect, my perfect wife with her perfect pussy and her perfect tits—” His words dissolve into a low groan, still softly massaging your walls, the stretch so good it makes your legs tremble around his hips.

“Jamie, more.” You mewl, your hips twitching up helplessly. “Wanna feel you inside, need you to come over and over until it takes again. Jamie, pretty please?”

Bucky grits his teeth.

You can’t stay stuff like that, not when it’s only been two months. Not when he’s been desperate to see you round with his baby once more. Not when you are leaking milk from your breasts while begging for his cock.

“Can’t, babygirl.” He pants. You make your displeasure known loudly with a little wail, clinging tightly onto his shoulders.

“Please, Jamie.” Tears form at the corners of your eyes as your orgasm builds steadily in your belly.

“I know doll, I know. ‘M sorry, ‘m so sorry.”

Your body goes rigid for a second before turning pliant under his calloused hand abandoning your hips to properly take care of your swollen clit. Your pussy clenches, little squeaky moans slipping from your lips and muffled into his hair as you hug Bucky closer to your chest, sagging against him.

“Gonna make it up to you, baby, I swear.” He slurs out dizzily. “Wanna keep this pussy full and give my pretty wife all the babies she wants.”

“Jamie! Close—‘m so close, don’ stop.” He desperately focuses on matching the rhythm of his fingers thrusting inside with the ones rubbing your clit, savoring the eager twitches his cock gives at your pussy tightening.

Bucky then parts his lips, blindly mouthing at your skin until they finally latch onto your nipple once more, and start sucking like a wounded man seeing water after days spent under the scorching sun.

At the intense pressure around your sensitive nubs, the knot in your belly gets tighter and tighter. Your toes curl, and your orgasm finally hits you violently. You come with a gasp, the tension in your belly shattering all at once as your head falls back. Your chest pushes against his greedy mouth, flinching and panting as you find yourself stuck in a limbo of maddening pleasure with Bucky’s fingers still relentless on your pussy, even when small tears run down your cheeks.

And then, your husband grunts loudly, harshly exhaling against the fat of your chest. 

“Fucking—shit.” His mouth leaves your nipple with a wet pop, and his head slowly lifts up, leaving your wet nubs exposed to the cold air of the kitchen. You shiver at the change of temperature, slumping against his shoulders as you feel your tits tingle with overstimulation.

He is gentle in removing his fingers from your puffy core, finally embracing you as you mourn the loss. His chin lazily rests on the top of your head for a bit, small kisses swarming your glistening forehead in hopes of easing the trembling of your limbs.

That’s when you see it. Opening your eyes with effort, you are directly met with the sight of a huge stain right on Bucky’s crotch, the grey fabric of his sweatpants darker in that exact place. 

“Did you just come in your pants, baby?” You raise your head to look at him with a little grin.

Bucky’s already flushed cheeks flame up, and his eyes refuse to meet yours. Instead, he buries his face in the valley between your tits, hugging you tight. 

“Sorry.” He mumbles. “Are you okay? Does anything hurt? Was it good?”

“No need to be sorry.” You hum. “It was so hot, Jamie.” Sighing satisfied, your arms wrap around his neck to caress his hair. 

“I’ll help you from now on.” He adds solemnly, looking straight into your eyes. “After you pump out the milk for Bean, I get the last bits.” You can’t help but burst out laughing before pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“Alright, alright. But baby, you are at work until late in the afternoon.”

“Don’t care.” He grunts, nuzzling your neck like a cat in need of cuddles. “I’ll do it at night.” Your eyes widen, immediately protesting.

“Bucky, no. You already take care of Bean when he wakes up throughout the night, then wake up early to go to work… I won’t wake you up just to—to drink my milk.” Your cheeks heat up at the absurdity of your statement.

Bucky huffs, coming out of his hiding place with an offended wrinkle between his brows. 

“Doll,” he whines just like a kid trying to convince his mom to stay up later on a school day. His head falls back tiredly. “I’m a super soldier. The super soldier. I don’t need to rest.”

With a sigh you shake your head at his apparently innocent eyes, vaguely reminding you of Alpine when she’s trying to soften you up after pushing something off the table that probably ended up shattering on the floor. 

“Please, please, please!” He attacks you with kisses, delicately holding your pliant body in his arms as his lips travel from your face to the slope of your neck, and then back up again.

Your attempts at keeping your laugh down are awful, but you can’t help it when your husband is being this adorable. 

“Alright alright! Hey—okay stop, please stop! Stop!” Your lips press together to avoid releasing any loud noise that could potentially interrupt this rare, peaceful night.

Finally, Bucky relents, one hand cradling your cheek while the other massages your lower back with purpose.

“Promise?” His eyebrows raise expectantly and you just have to kiss him. 

“Yeah yeah, promise, you hungry super soldier.” 

“Good.” He mumbles against your mouth, following your lips for another kiss. “Now, let me properly take care of my wife.”

“What—Bucky!” You gasp as he picks you up, making his way towards the couch.

A devious grin blooms on his handsome face when you whimper at the way he deliberately moves your hips so your puffy folds brush against his imposing bulge with every step he takes. 

“Tell me sweet girl, since I can’t fill you up yet, where do you want it? Face or tits?”

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading! my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

Until you found yourself more and more endeared by a hundred-something year old super soldier, that turns out has as much self control as you do.

Which, since that night in his office (RIP your Deity wool skirt, he still owed you for that one), has been at an all time low. 

Bucky spoke from his side of the bed. The room was pitch black aside from your phone screen being on.

You sat with your back to the headboard, posture still annoyingly proper despite the fact that you were wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts, his arm around your waist as his face was nuzzled into your hip. 

You giggled softly. "You did." You spent a full four minutes untangling your hair before you crawled back into bed and Bucky fell asleep, this man needed to pay you in an endless supply of Kerastase Nutritive serum at this point. "I'm just answering some urgent emails."

He made a dissatisfied sound against your skin, pressing a lazy kiss to the curve of your hip. “They’re emails,” he grumbled. “S’not urgent.”

That earned a chuckle from you. "Mmmm, say that when you go in blind for your meeting tomorrow."

Your phone was carefully slipped off your hands by his flesh hand and tossed onto his nightstand, you let out a little "hey!" at the same time he sighed happily, turning back to you and hooking his arm around your legs, pulling you down to lay back down flush against the mattress. 

You landed with a soft huff, hair spilling across the pillow.

"Clearly didn't tire you enough." He tried for stern. Authoritative. The kind of tone he used in press conferences when he needed to shut down a room.

Unfortunately for him, the unmistakable evidence of his renewed interest brushing your leg ruined the performance.

You smirked at him, raising a brow. "I think you just want an excuse to fuck me again."

And as his hand sneaked under the blanket and pushed your panties down, his lips curved up in a smile that would be getting soaked in about thirty seconds. "I don't think I need an excuse."

"You're so full of yourself." You scoffed playfully. 

"Mmmhmm, you're about to be." Your phone lit up again on the nightstand and neither of you looked at it.

His mouth traced lower, his hand tightening at your waist as he drew another soft sound from you.

“You’re impossible,” you whispered.

The next day, you arrived at the federal building fifteen minutes early, hair sleek, makeup flawless, navy blazer sharp enough to cut glass. 

No one would look at you and guess you’d been pinned beneath a super soldier less than eight hours ago.

No one would guess you had two energy drinks this morning, since the Fucker in Charge decided to keep you up until 2:21am, wrapped around him like a vice. 

Not that you complained at the time, just wasn't ideal to be running on less than five hours of sleep in such an important meeting like this. 

Thankfully, it was all over zoom. 

Politicians from all over the country needed to come together, and it was easiest in a video call where they'd be able to talk endlessly about these issues in a three hour meeting. 

Bucky was, of course, dreading it.

“Morning,” he said, voice neutral — client-neutral. No warmth. No trace of the low murmur from last night.

“Congressman,” you replied just as evenly, handing him a slim folder outside his office by Lizbeth's desk. “Updated briefing notes. The veterans’ housing bill is going to dominate the first half. Senator Mitchell’s aide leaked the amendment language at six a.m.”

His eyes flicked to you — sharp, focused — and for a fraction of a second something softer passed through them. Gone just as quickly.

“You saw that already?”

“I don’t sleep much,” you said smoothly.

His lips twitched into a side smile, and he nodded towards his office, signaling for you to walk in. "Alright, let's get this show on the road." 

He walked in right after you, closing the doors as you set up his computer for him, sitting on the chair on the other side of his desk.

“Congressman Barnes,” Senator Alvarez greeted. “Glad you could make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Bucky replied evenly.

You watched him slip into it — the public version. Controlled cadence. Measured pauses. Shoulders squared just enough to project steadiness without aggression.

He sat in his office chair and you typed up notes. 

“You’re proposing reallocating defense surplus funds,” Mitchell pressed. “That’s going to draw scrutiny.”

“It should,” Bucky answered calmly. “Our veterans deserve scrutiny on where their resources go. That’s the point.”

You'd press the mute button when you had a talking point or a question that popped up that you needed him to say or ask, so you could strategize the next move, the next post, always thinking ahead. 

Speaking of head…

You behaved. You swear. Scout's Honor. Pinky promise.

For an hour and fifty-two minutes. 

You passed him a glass of water at minute thirty-seven when his jaw tightened. You angled the laptop slightly at minute sixty-four when the overhead light caught wrong on his face.

Professional.

At minute eighty-nine, Senator Alvarez started rambling about “optics in middle America,” and Bucky resisted the overwhelming urge to slam his forehead into the desk.

You muted him smoothly, finger pressing the button with the same calm efficiency you used to shut down hostile reporters.

“Ask something about interstate coordination,” you murmured, leaning toward him just enough that your voice wouldn’t carry. “Funding disparities between urban and rural states. Phrase it like you’re concerned about equity. They’ll argue for fifteen minutes.”

His eyes flicked to yours — assessing, confused. Why would you want this meeting lasting any longer than it absolutely should?

“Specific angle?” he asked quietly. Eyes moving from yours to where you started to unbutton your blouse behind the camera. 

Oh, that. 

“Frame it like you’re worried smaller states won’t be able to implement without federal oversight,” you said. “Alvarez will disagree on principle. Mitchell will counter with budget autonomy. They’ll spiral.”

His lips curved faintly as you dropped your shirt onto the chair you were sitting on. 

You reached forward and unmuted him.

“If we’re discussing implementation,” he began smoothly, posture straightening as he addressed the screen, “how are we ensuring smaller states aren’t disproportionately burdened without adequate federal oversight?”

Hook. Line. Sinker.

You didn’t even wait for the responses to start overlapping before you unhooked your bra and let it be by your blouse.

As Mitchell leaned forward and Alvarez cut in, you reached over and casually toggled his camera off.

“Apologies,” you said lightly toward the screen, your own voice carrying professionalism. “We’re having a minor bandwidth issue. The Congressman is still with you.”

They barely acknowledged it — too busy debating.

Perfect.

You stood slowly from your chair.

Bucky’s gaze tracked you immediately, though he didn't say anything as you held your finger to your lips, telling him to be quiet. 

You walked around the desk deliberately, heels silent on the office carpet. You could hear the senators talking over one another through his speakers, voices rising as predicted.

You stopped in front of him and his throat moved when he swallowed. “Bandwidth issue?” he repeated quietly, mic muted and eyebrow raised.

“Mmmhmm," you nodded. "Terrible connection,” you said sweetly.

You lowered yourself to kneel in front of him, bracing your hands on his thighs, movements unhurried. Controlled. Intentional.

His hands dropped from the armrests, hovering for a second before settling — disciplined, as if resisting the instinct to reach for you.

On the screen, Alvarez was mid-sentence. “…and that kind of federal overreach—". You glanced up at Bucky through your lashes, one brow lifting slightly.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound almost inaudible, scooting forward in his chair and spreading his thighs more to accomodate you in between them. 

You bit your lip as you reached for his belt, unbuckling it for him in giddy anticipation. He always got to have fun and tease you, and since this meeting was so unimportant to him yesterday, it should be equally as unimportant right now. 

That, and the fact that it was funny as hell to mess with him. And really fun to get payback later. 

You tugged his pants and boxers down at the same time, until they rested around his ankles, and there it was.

James Buchanan Barnes and the prettiest, heaviest, thickest cock you've ever seen in your life, all there for your taking. 

You reached up and tugged him by the tie, giving him a chaste kiss and letting go, almost as if you wanted to tease him and leave him wanting more, 

Once you settled back, you wrapped your hand around him, giving very tentative slow strokes. He let out something between a grunt and a whine, letting you know to "get on with it".

You leaned in and licked him from base to tip, wrapping your lips around the head and sucking him into your mouth, repeating the action a couple times until he was wet all around and could esily glide him in and out of your mouth all the way.

He hit the mute button, "That's it, baby. Get it all in your mouth." Then unmuted himself. A metal hand coming to gather your hair in a makeshift bun on the back of your head. 

Three senators talking over each other. One trying to cite precedent from 2008. Someone else pulling up a chart that absolutely did not prove their point. 

The audio lag made it worse, voices clipping and overlapping in a symphony of bureaucratic chaos.

Falling of deaf ears for Bucky, but not to you. 

You bobbed your head up and down his length, swirling your tongue around the head every time you got to the top, tasting the salty tang of him. 

You sighed in contentment as you closed your eyes, reveling in the taste of him, and in the reaction you were eliciting from him.

"You're topless in my office sucking my cock, what did you think my reaction would be? "No"?" You could almost hear how crass he'd make it sound li—

“Congressman Barnes, do you believe federal oversight should be conditional?” someone asked sharply.

You heard the, but Bucky clearly didn't, too lost in the thoughts of cumming all over your tits. "Congressman Barnes?"

You reached up with your other hand and pinched his thigh, not stopping the movements of your mouth, bringing Bucky out of his trance. "Ow! Yes, uh— conditional, no,” he replied. “Strategic, yes.”

He glared at you and you mentaly shrugged, and kept going. Mute. “You trying to kill me?” he murmured.

You leaned back slightly on your heels, expression innocent. “You zoned out,” you whispered, lips still close enough to him that every word had his cock twiching at the vibration. “That’s on you.” 

“You think this is funny?” he asked quietly.

“A little,” you admitted.

Unmute.

You had such a tight seal around him you were able to keep the wet noises to a minimum, the computer not ever picking it up. 

Every time you sped up, rolled his balls softly in your hand, and Bucky got close, you slowed down, keeping him right at the edge without being able to do much except just indulge in your teasing.

Unless, of course, he decided to stand up.

Which he did, catching you by surprise. Your eyes widened for a second at the sudden change.

You tried to pull your head back out of reflex, but his hand kept you in place as he shoved his cock deeper and deeper into your mouth, until your nose brushed the hair at the base. 

You groaned against him, something that could be translated into "okay, rude!" without any real bite to it. 

He muted himself again. "Think they're about almost done with that discussion, darling." He thrust into your mouth, feeling your throat close around him. "Don't have much time."

Your nails scratched at his thighs, your eyes watered, and you were sure your lip gloss was all over your chin, along with some drool and precum, but oh my God, did this man have your eyes rolling back at the feel of sucking his dick. 

Bucky grunted above you every time the head of his cock hit the back of your throat. 

His thrusts got faster, sloppier, and as you prepared yourself to have his cum flood your tastebuds, he pulled out. 

If he had no self control, the view of you pouting your swollen lips, all wet, because he took his cock out of your mouth would've been enough for him to bust a load all over your face.

He'd have to do that a different time, though. 

He pulled you up by the hand that was braced on his thigh, "I wasn't done…" You tried to protest.

Bucky chuckled, thanking the gods above you had a habit of locking the door when he had meetings like this, so no one would interrupt his train of though, a call, or anything… Governmental.

He kissed the pout off your lips, hands on your hips turning you in your axis, making you face his desk, bracing your hands on the mahogany wood as he kneeled down behind you, reaching up under your skirt to pull your panties down to your ankles.

His lips brushed your shoulder blade as he leaned over you, his tie ticking your back as it hung from his neck while his hands reached to pull your skirt up, not bothering with your stockings, which he though were kinda hot. "You know I love you, right?"

It was murmured onto skin and it made your heart swell, even in a moment like this. "Of course I do, Bucky," you chuckled adoringly, "why are yo— oh! my god—"

He pushed in all at once, holding back a loud groan while the air being knocked out of your lungs. You slapped a hand over your own mouth to try and prevent anymore noises from coming out. 

You heard Bucky click his tongue, the rustle of fabric, and in no time, he was stuffing the black tie that he was wearing into your mouth, something for you to bite on and groan into. 

He kept one hand over your mouth to make sure you wouldn't try to spit it out, even though he knew you wouldn't, as he started to move his hips. 

One thrust. 

Then another. 

Then he picked up a rhythm, the hand that was over your mouth falling to the back of your neck, following you down as you bent over completely until the cool wood was pressed against your bare breasts. 

As his hips picked up the pace, using his hold on you as leverage, you only hoped the squelch of his cock in your pussy would be muffled by the old structure of Capitol Hill.

Your cheek was heating up the wood under it, your breath fogging a little patch on the desk when it came out of your nose harshly.

He was trying really, really hard to not just rail into you and make the wet noises just louder and louder until everyone in the fucking building knew what you two were doing.

But he controlled himself, at least that much. 

Because time and time again, you reminded him that optics mattered if he wanted to make a difference through the legislative route. 

And if that meant he had to sway some voters through looking like he was an available bachelor, he's just have to keep quiet when he fucked you silly on his desk. 

He pushed his thrusts deeper, grinding his hips into yours when he bottomed out and rubbing the head of his cock over the spongy spot inside of you that had your knees buckling. 

As his hand sneaked from your shoulder down your body and to the front, to rub your clit, you moved your head, forehead now pressing against the wood as your eyes squeezed shut trying to focus on not being loud.

God, you loved when he gave you payback. 

“Congressman Barnes, we’d like your position on the amendment language,” a voice cuts through the speaker and brings both of you out of your haze for a second. 

Bucky slowed down with his hips, but not his fingers, using the hand that was on your hip to unmute himself. “Thank you, Senator,” he says evenly. “I think the concern we’re circling back to is implementation clarity.”

It’s absurd.

The way he can do that while your eyes are rolling back so far into your skull you could see your own optic chiasm. 

He pressed his fingers harder onto your clit, slower but deeper circles and your nails dug shapes into your palms. 

He muted himself again. "They're almost needing me again, baby, c'mon." His thrusts picked back up, both of you right on the edge. "I can feel y'squeezing me."

You whined behind the tie, his hand coming up to brush your hair over one shoulder and gently tilt your face to the side so he could lean over and let his lips brush your cheek.

"I can feel y'want to come on my cock, pretty girl." Kiss. "Be good." Another kiss to your jaw.

A few seconds of faster fingers and grinding of his hips was all you needed to let out a sound he'd understand as "oh my fuck!" behind the bunched up tie as you clamped down around him. 

You felt like you were levitating. All you could hear was blood rushing between your ears and muffled "fuck, fuck, fuck" from Bucky behind you as he chased his own high, thick ropes of cum filling your pussy until it started to drip out and onto the carpet.

Precisely why you never fucked in his office before, he always has too much. 

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

As you both caught your breaths, you spit the tie out. You nodded once. “Yeah.”

Bucky nodded against you, not even bothering to pull out before he unmuted himself again, catching the goodbyes and acknowledgements of the meeting. 

“And with that,” he said smoothly into the call, voice perfectly composed, “I think we’ve covered the key concerns.” He bit into your shoulder playfully knowing you'd supress a yelp, "Thank you, gentlemen."

💌 permanent freaks taglist: @chateaubarnes @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover @buckyfmd @starfire-irl @tw1sters @pinksplace @artficlly @daddysbitchybaby @globetrotter28 @epiphanyrogers @famoushoshi @avgdestitute @blobfishlol @buckysdecaflove

he’s the only one that lets you call him ‘frankie.’ from you it sounds endearing. from everyone else? childish.

the only person you’ve met from his work was mel in the aisle of the grocery store accidentally. you mentioned the hospital logo on her jacket and frank got an earful of how wonderful you were the next day, and now everyone in the er knows dr. langdon has a girlfriend — you’re kind of an enigma to his coworkers except for mel.

when he comes home from late shifts, you’re usually passed out on the couch with frank’s favorite show playing. he always carries you to bed matched with a half mumbled protest to talk about his day which ultimately ends in cuddling under a blanket.

he has the potential to get irritated fast at the darnest things, so you’ve found ways to manage that: quickly changing the subject, simple seduction, or tugging lightly on his hair which makes him forget about what made him so angry in the first place.

when you’re in angry, he lets you yell at him for as long as you need. he just sits there seeing the sun go down as you yell and then very calmly says, “you alright now, sweetheart?” when you’re done.

or he fucks the attitude out of you and is quite literally the definition of ‘missionary so we can keep arguing’.

he’s secretly writes poetry! though he does read it sometimes, the book you recommended gave him the courage to at least give it a try. he’ll sneak off into the bedroom when you go to shower with his journal and trusted pen and get to writing (mostly about you).

when he told you about his addiction, your reaction made him spiral more than robby’s. you found him one night mumbling to himself washing dishes.

“it doesn’t make any sense. how-? how can she-”

“hey, you okay?”

“fuck-" he mutters. “uh, yes. yeah.”

“you sure? seem a little-”

a rush of emotion rolls through him, “how can you not be angry? why are you staying? I don’t- I just don’t get it.”

“frank you made a mistake. a fucking huge one, but that doesn’t make you a bad person. or a bad doctor. you’re getting help and that’s all that matters.”

“really? you mean that?”

“of course i do.”

he hates that he works long hours, and often wonders what you’re doing and errands you’re running while he’s charting.

after a long shift he replies to every single one of your texts. doesn’t matter if afterwards he’s coming to see you, or crash on his couch when he gets home; every thread you send him is a priority because he knows how long you sit and wonder what beyond comprehensible nonsense he has to deal with today.

small but fast quips are his specialty.

“are you just gonna watch me clean or are you gonna help?”

“I’ll watch. I like the way your ass looks when you vacuum.”

“pervert.”

frank has a tendency to hold you in his sleep, always touching you somehow — an arm draped over your stomach, or resting on your waist or chest. his lips attached to your forehead or shoulder. he’ll deny any of it ever happens, claiming it’s one of your ‘sleep deprived conspiracy theories’ but his pink rosy cheeks when you bring it up say otherwise.

whenever you get into a rut, he’s always very gentle. he never pressures you into talking about it, but boy does he wear you down by checking in and supporting and loving you in any way he can. ‘are you feeling better today, baby?’, ‘have you gone on a walk? you like doing that.’ , ‘i made your favorite. in the fridge if you want any.’

he’ll leave little notes on the bedside table before he leaves for his shift, and due to his doctor handwriting, sometimes it takes you all day to figure out what the hell he wrote. it’s a small but fun little game to play throughout the day.

you: oh my god that word is best?

frankie 🩵🩺: 3 o’clock. Not bad

frankie 🩵🩺: BEST try yet honey

The emergency department was unusually quiet, the kind of quiet that made every sound feel louder than it should. Monitors still beep steadily, nurses still move with purpose, but the chaos had softened into something almost… breathable.

You’re off in South 15 with a patient who had come in complaining of some unusual dizziness, and a slight fever of 100.3°. You lean over the patient’s arm, tying off the tourniquet with practiced ease.

“Okay…” you whisper, voice calm and steady as you line up the butterfly needle, “a little pinch,”

Blood labs are a routine procedure in the emergency department. Predictable, safe, and within seconds, dark red is filling the vial.

Once you have two tubes filled up, you remove the needle and patch up the patient’s arm with some gauze and tape. You label the sample, double-checking the name and date like you always do, before looking up to your patient again with a friendly grin.

“I’ll run this upstairs,” you inform him with a nod, “we should have the results within the hour. If you need anything before then, just call for me.”

“Sure thing, doc.”

With that, you leave the room, tapping the vial lightly against your palm as you make your way to the elevator. The hallway lights buzz faintly as you walk, sneakers squeaking against linoleum floors.

The elevator ride to the lab is short and uneventful, as per usual. You hand off the sample, exchange a few words, and turn back toward the emergency department.

You hum softly to yourself on the elevator ride back down, watching the numbers go down while you think about little things. What you’re going to have for dinner tonight, what might happen in the next episode of that new show you’re watching. It’s quiet today, you had the time to think about domestic things like that, for once.

Soon enough, the elevator dings and the steel doors open. You step out and begin to make your way back to the hub to pick up your next case from Dana.

That’s when you see him.

Dr. Langdon stands at the far end of the corridor, leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed. He looks like he always does: composed, a little tired, and entirely too aware of your presence.

He always has this look in his eye when he finds you, like a sly fox that’s just waiting for his prey to walk into his trap… and here you are.

You try to not let him notice your steps slow, try to not let your composure falter, but it’s too late. Once your eyes meet his and get caught in that mist of cerulean, you’re done for. His trap.

Suddenly you can’t avoid him anymore.

“Doctor Langdon,” you greet professionally.

He nods politely, “doctor,”

He pushes off the wall and closes the distance between you in a few strides, keeping his arm crossed in front of him.

You should have kept walking.

Instead, you don’t.

He lowers his voice. “You’ve been avoiding me,”

“I’ve been working,” you reply coyly, keeping your voice even.

But your pulse had already picked up, betraying you almost immediately once in his proximity.

“Have you?” He tests, cocking his head slightly.

You don’t respond. Not at first, anyways. Just watch his face for a moment with your wide doe eyes, and that’s all he needs.

He reaches for your biceps. Not rough, not forceful, but certain, and almost eager. He’s quick to pull you into the nearest exam room, muting the outside world the second that the door clicks shut.

Then, he’s on you.

Lips crash together almost instantly, like there was some magnetic force pulling you towards him. He tastes like spearmint and sin, a flavor you can never get tired of.

You melt into him.

When he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth, you let out a soft moan against him, and he quickly ceases the opportunity to slide his tongue inside your hot mouth.

Tongues battle for dominance as your soft fingers reach up to cup his jaw, his anchored on your hips.

Then, you come back.

You’re at work, you’re married. This is wrong.

“This is a bad idea,” you pant between kisses.

“You always say that,” Langdon replies.

“And I’m always right.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, “you are.”

But neither of you let go.

How could you, when his strong hands are wrapping around the small of your back to pull you impossibly closer? When you can already feel his growing hard on beneath the rayon of his scrubs?

Then, he pushes into you again, closing the little space between you and the wall. He grinds against you once, twice just to let go of some of the pressure, yet still careful enough to not let you notice. But you do, of course you do, and your body, shaped like clay to please him, is already eager and begging for more.

He reaches for the tie of your scrubs, wasting no time pulling them lose and slipping a hand down into them, cupping your pussy with his palm and letting his calloused fingertips dance along the wet spot that’s already soaking through your panties. He hums with satisfaction.

“I bet you don’t get this wet for your husband, do you?” He growls lowly.

When you don’t respond, he leans in closer, lips ghosting over yours.

“Hmm?” He hums, and you can feel his hot breath on your skin.

You bite down on your lip to stifle another whimper as your heart throbs in your chest. His fingers continue their gentle, precise movements over clothed clit, giving you just enough to rile you up even more, and not nearly enough at the same time. A shiver racks through your core.

“Yeah, I know he doesn’t touch you like this,” he continues, “because it’s only been a few seconds and you’re already shaking.”

Your head lulls back at his words, pussy aching for his touch.

“Please,” you whisper, helplessly.

He looks up at you, “what was that?”

“Please…” you repeat, face flushing a deep crimson. “Please touch me.”

He hums approvingly, dipping his head down to place tender kisses to the exposed skin of your neck as he pushes your underwear to the side and plunges two thick fingers inside of you.

Your jaw falls slack with a sharp gasp, hand reaching up to grab his bicep, fingernails digging into the material of his shirt as you adjust to the stretch.

“That’s my girl…” he praises, a prideful smirk on his lips when he glances up to watch your face twist with pleasure.

Soft moans spill from your mouth as he works a gentle rhythm with his middle and index fingers, curling them carefully against that sensitive spot inside you before dragging them out and starting over again.

He keeps his steady pace until he has you dancing on your tiptoes, desperately trying to chase your release, but it’s just out of reach.

You’re a whining mess now, glassy eyes frenzied with lust as he keeps you teetering right on the edge of pleasure. He can play you like a piano, and you just make it so easy for him.

“Please,” you breathe, “please…”

“What now?” He sighs, mockingly, “you want me to fuck you?”

Your eyes shut tight when a spike of pleasure shoots through your core at his words, clenching your jaw to keep your composure.

“Mm-hmm,” you nod.

But he shakes his head. “No, let me hear you say it.”

You swallow your pride.

“Please fuck me,” you beg.

He has to bite his own lip to distract him from the aching in his trousers now, eyes looking you up and down, studying your writhing figure before he pulls his hand from your pants, dripping with your desperation.

“Alright,” he starts, voice low, “how about you bend over on the bed for me?”

You nod in response, eyebrows knit with pleasure. Langdon takes a step back from you, giving you the space to walk past him and position yourself on the hospital bed. He follows behind.

You arch your back, folding your arms on the mattress to cushion your head when you place it down. You glance over your shoulder, watching him, eyes blown wide with lust.

In one swift motion, he pulls your scrubs and panties down around your thighs, using his spare hand to push your top up further, just to get a look at that beautiful curve of your spine, and those two dimples above your ass that he loves so much.

Then, he reaches down to push his own pants down, letting them pool around his ankles. With his hand still coated in your wetness, he takes a moment to pump himself a couple times, lubing himself up real good before nudging the swollen tip against your cunt.

He’s slow with it at first, teasing like he always does. His cock plants a few kisses to your tight hole, enjoying taking his time with you before you grow desperate enough to try to push back on him, ever so slightly.

He tuts, “so eager…”

He slips it in, trying not to let his eyes roll back at the way you’re squeezing him so perfectly. He swallows back a low growl as you begin struggling underneath him.

“F-Fuck,” you gasp. “Frank—!”

“Shhh,” he soothes, rubbing his thumb against the soft skin of your ass.

A broad hand slides up your spine to push you back down to the mattress, and you let him mould you like putty.

He tries to hold back from his indulgences, tries to be slow with you and take you apart piece by piece, but he starts to lose himself, too. In seconds, his hips are snapping mercilessly against yours. Your fingers claw at the sheets of the perfectly made bed below you.

You bite your lip hard enough to draw blood, burying your head in the mattress to try to stifle your moans, but he can still hear them.

He doesn’t mind it, though. If it were up to him, he’d let you scream his name at the top of your lungs.

Hell, why would God give him ears if not to listen to you cry out for him?

With every withdrawal of his cock, your pussy is already sucking him back in. His tip kisses against your cervix with every thrust, and before long, your legs are starting to shake beneath you.

That’s when you hear it.

Footsteps in the hallway, voices on the other side of the door.

“Do we have the labs back for South 15 yet?”

Langdon’s thrusts slow, but they never stop. Instead, he just leans down over you and wraps his palm around your mouth, keeping it shut tight.

Your pussy tightens around him.

“Yeah, you like that?” He whispers in your ear. “You like getting fucked with people right outside the door, huh? What if someone walks in?”

You bow your head into your arms, stifling another lewd whine. As you shake in his grip.

“…or do you want them to?”

His words make your core burn. You can already feel the ever so familiar burn begins to twist inside of you. Completely blissed out in his grasp, you can’t do anything but sigh helplessly.

The doctors outside continue their conversation, “well, let me know if you see her.”

With that, the footsteps recede, and you can finally let out a relieved sigh. Your relaxation only lasts for a moment though, as Langdon wastes no time picking up the pace of his thrusts again.

Your eyes are rolling back, and it isn’t long until the heat coiling in your stomach starts sending lightning bolts through your body. Your muffled cries slip up a pitch higher, and he knows exactly what you need.

“O-Oh god— ’m close—“

He doesn’t even need you to say it, he can tell by the way you’re clamped down around him, milking the life from his cock.

“I know, baby,” he grunts, “I know…”

His words make you whimper as you begin to shake with anticipation. Your orgasm looms over you, seconds away.

“C’mon, just let go for me…”

Then, as if on command, your body crests over. Pleasure shoots to every corner of your body and Langdon can’t help but watch with awe as you twitch with the crashing waves of your orgasm, feeling your tight cunt spasm around him.

Suddenly, his hips stutter, foot planting down against the floor as he chases his own release, delivering each thrust now with a deep growl, gradually getting louder the closer he gets, practically using your swollen and spent body. In one quick motion, he pulls out, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing as he spills out over your back.

He jaw clenches tight as he swallows his own moans, head reeling.

With a few final strokes of his cock, he begins to relax as he starts to come down from his high. Both of you share deep pants as you catch your breath, muscles aching as you go still for a moment to take in the quiet afterglow.

Then, you’re back to reality.

You’re at work. In a dark room that is filled thick with the heat from your affair.

Your legs shake beneath you as Langdon wipes you down with a paper towel.

You stand, pulling up your pants and smoothing over your scrubs with your hands, carefully avoiding eye contact. You don’t know what will happen if you gall into that trap again.

This is always the worst part, when the guilt sets in and there’s nothing left to say.

The exam room is too small for the weight of everything you’re not saying.

“We can’t keep doing this.”

Langdon nods, but there’s no conviction in it. “I know.”

“You’re divorced, you get to walk away from things.” You sigh, “I don’t.”

“That’s not fair,” he replies, though gently. “You think any of this is easy for me?”

You don’t answer.

The words land heavier than anything else.

Neither of you say anything for a second.

“I should go.”

He looks away, biting back words he knows he cannot say.

“Yeah.” He murmurs.

Silence, again. Thicker this time.

The only sound is the quiet ticking of the wall clock, the sound of time passing.

With that, you turn on your heels, and head for the door.

The noise of the emergency department rushes back in. Voices, footsteps, the steady rhythm of buzzing machines.

You step out without looking back. Just like that, everything returns to routine.

You’re quick to push the quiet moment with Langdon to a dark corner in the back of your mind and focus on the tasks at hand.

You head back to the hub, checking the board for any updates or new cases to pick up.

Dana glances your way.

“We’ve been looking for you,” she notes.

“I just ran to the bathroom,” you smile surely, shrugging it off

The entrance doors slide open, and a familiar figure fades into the corner of your view. When you turn to look, your heart drops.

“H-Hi, honey!” You stammer.

Your husband walks in, holding up a takeout bag in his hand as he approaches you.

“Thought I’d bring you some lunch,” he explains.

Across the hub, Landon watches the board, trying not to let his gaze shift down to you but he can’t help it.

His arms cross in front of his chest as your husband lean in to place a kiss on your cheek. He watches your smile twitch with shame.

The sight makes his lips press into a thin line, jaw tight with envy.

It’s okay, though.

They never last long anyways.

after the serum, after the nightmares, after years of clawing his way back to something like a person… that instinct never left. it just changed.

now it curled low and hungry in his gut whenever you were involved.

it started small.

he’d come home from a mission at 3 a.m., exhausted and wired, and find you asleep in their bed wearing nothing but one of his old henleys. the hem had ridden up just enough to bare the soft curve of your ass and the shadowed line between your thighs. one leg kicked out from under the sheet, your pussy peeking out slightly, still a little puffy from the night before. he’d stand in the doorway for long minutes, barely breathing, cock thickening in his sweats as he memorized every inch—the faint red marks his stubble had left on your inner thigh, the way your folds glistened faintly even in sleep, the way your lips parted on a sleepy sigh.

he never woke you. not at first. just watched, hand pressing against the hard line of his dick while he imagined sliding his tongue through that slick heat again.

then one night you weren’t asleep.

you were on your back in the middle of their bed, legs splayed wide, two fingers buried knuckle-deep in your dripping cunt while you whispered his name like a prayer. the bedside lamp cast warm gold over your skin, highlighting the shiny mess coating your fingers and the inside of your thighs. bucky had slipped in silent as death, still dressed in his tac gear, and stopped dead just outside the bedroom door.

you hadn’t noticed him.

he stayed hidden, jaw tight, and watched you fuck yourself—slow at first, fingers curling lazily against that spongy spot inside you, then faster, hips rolling up to meet every thrust. your free hand pinched and rolled your nipple, tugging hard enough to make you gasp. little breathy moans spilled out every time your thumb brushed your swollen clit. your pussy made wet, obscene sounds around your fingers, slick dripping down to soak the sheets beneath your ass.

when you came, back arching clean off the mattress, thighs shaking violently, his name broke on your lips in a high, desperate cry. your cunt clenched visibly around your fingers, a fresh gush of wetness coating your hand.

bucky had to bite his knuckle bloody to keep from groaning out loud, his own cock leaking steadily into his underwear.

he waited until your breathing evened out, until you curled up satisfied and sleepy with your fingers still tucked loosely between your thighs, before he finally stepped inside. he stripped down in seconds, slid into bed behind you, and woke you with his mouth on your neck and his metal fingers sliding through all that warm, sticky mess to replace yours. you’d moaned sleepily and spread your legs wider without even opening your eyes.

after that, the game changed.

he started leaving the bedroom door cracked on purpose when he knew you were in the mood. he’d come home early from the gym or a briefing and hear the faint buzz of your vibrator or the slick, rhythmic sounds of your fingers working your pussy and instead of announcing himself, he’d lean against the wall just out of sight and listen. sometimes he’d pull his cock out and stroke himself slow and tight, matching your rhythm, thumb smearing the precum over the head while you fell apart with his name on your tongue.

he never let himself come. not until later—when he was buried balls-deep inside your still-fluttering cunt, fucking you slow and deep while you were oversensitive and dazed, growling filthy praise in your ear about how pretty you sounded when you thought you were alone, how your pussy clenched so greedily even after you’d already come.

one evening you caught him.

you’d been in the shower, glass door wide open because the steam made everything useless anyway. bucky had been on the couch pretending to read a mission report. the second he heard the water turn on he gave it five minutes, then padded silently down the hall.

you were facing the tiled wall, one hand braced, water cascading over the arch of your back and the round swell of your ass. your other hand was between your legs—two fingers pumping steadily into your soaked hole while your thumb rubbed tight circles over your clit. soft, breathy gasps echoed off the tiles with every thrust. your pussy lips were flushed dark and swollen, slick mixing with the shower water and dripping down your thighs.

bucky stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, eyes locked on every detail.

he didn’t hide this time.

when you turned your head and saw him there—fully dressed, dark eyes burning, the obvious bulge straining against his jeans—you startled, then smirked, slow and wicked.

“enjoying the show, sergeant?”

bucky’s voice came out rough and low. “always do, doll. keep going. don’t stop on my account.”

you didn’t. instead you leaned back against the cool tile, planted one foot on the built-in bench to spread yourself wider, and kept fucking your fingers deeper—eyes locked on his the whole time. he watched every second: the way your tits bounced lightly with each thrust, nipples tight and begging, the flush creeping down your chest and belly, the exact moment your thighs started to tremble and your pussy started making those wet, squelching sounds around your fingers.

when you came, you kept your gaze on his face, moaning his name loud and broken as your cunt pulsed and gushed, a visible spurt of your release mixing with the shower spray.

bucky was on you before the aftershocks even faded—clothes still on, water soaking through his shirt instantly as he dropped to his knees right there on the wet tile. he yanked your fingers out and replaced them with his tongue, licking broad and filthy through your folds, sucking your swollen clit hard while two metal fingers shoved back inside you, curling ruthlessly against your g-spot. he ate you through a second orgasm, then a third, until you were crying, legs buckling, slapping weakly at his shoulders because your clit was too sensitive and your pussy wouldn’t stop fluttering.

later, tangled in damp sheets with your body still twitching, you traced the line of his jaw with your fingertip.

“you like watching me,” you said softly. not a question.

he didn’t deny it. his metal hand slid down to cup your still-throbbing pussy possessively. “yeah. i do.”

“why?”

bucky stayed quiet for a long moment, fingers idly stroking through your slick folds, occasionally dipping just inside to feel you clench.

“spent a long time not feeling anything real. everything was orders, targets, pain. when i’m watching you… i feel it all. every gasp, every twitch of your hips, every time your pretty cunt drips because you’re thinking about me—it’s mine. i get to keep it. even when i’m not touching you, i’m still part of it.”

you kissed him slow and deep, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“so watch me whenever you want,” you whispered against his mouth, nipping his bottom lip. “but sometimes… i want you to let me watch you too.”

that was how the new rule started.

sometimes he’d come home and find you waiting on the bed wearing nothing but his dog tags, legs spread obscenely wide, three fingers buried in your soaked pussy while you told him exactly what filthy things you’d been thinking about—how you’d imagined his tongue, his cock, his metal hand choking you while he fucked you raw. he’d sit in the chair across the room, fully clothed, legs spread, and just watch—cock straining painfully against his zipper, hands gripping the armrests white-knuckled so he wouldn’t touch himself until you were begging, tears in your eyes, pussy visibly clenching around nothing.

other times he’d make you sit on the edge of the bed, knees wide, while he stood in front of you and stroked his thick cock slowly—fist tight, thumb swiping over the leaking head, veins standing out along the shaft. his eyes never left yours as he worked himself, low groans rumbling in his chest, until you were squirming and dripping onto the sheets just from watching, your own hand sneaking between your thighs until he growled at you to keep them still.

he loved both sides of it. loved the power of seeing you fall apart under his gaze alone. loved the raw vulnerability of letting your eyes devour him while he jerked off thinking about burying himself in your tight, greedy heat.

but his favorite moments were still the stolen ones—when you didn’t know he was there yet, when he could stand in the shadows and watch you chase your pleasure with his name on your lips, cock throbbing, already planning exactly how he was going to wreck you the second he stepped into the light.

because no matter how many times he watched you come, it was never enough.

you were his favorite thing to look at.

and he was never going to stop.

♡ please note! i am new to this format and am primarily used to posting on ao3, so if you see anything I forgot to mention and should include here, please ~kindly~ let me know for next time. thank you! x

*reader is mentioned to have hair that can be 'let down' and tucked behind ear in one (1) instance during the smut*

[ also, this has not been checked yet for mistakes. ]

It’s taken you three years to break your ‘no-dating-during-undergrad’ rule, and you’re already regretting it. 

It was a well thought out rule. The gap year you’d taken before college was stock full of poor decisions you probably wouldn’t make again, and while you don’t necessarily have regrets, you definitely came out of it with some things you didn’t want to experience again. 

The dating pool is, quite frankly, shit. Everyone wants to build-a-partner on swiping apps or have a mediocre one night stand and then sneak out before the sheets have gone cold. You’ve yet to encounter a man your age that hasn’t been horribly immature or blatantly antagonistic, and the older men you very briefly considered dating treated you like you were the one lacking maturity. 

That year had taught you a lot about wanting. But wanting fades, and you’d decided, moving forward, that casual flings weren’t really for you. 

Brendan seemed to understand all of that at first. A little too well, maybe. 

You thought that meant something, until you’d found out that the months you’d spent casually getting to know one another and building a connection was actually just the result of a bet to see how long it’d take you to put out. It feels like you’re in fucking high school all over again. 

You’re more mad about the fact that you couldn’t see it for yourself. Hurt, even—if you can let yourself admit to it. 

But now Brendan’s staring at you open-mouthed from his spot on the shitty sofa in his shittier frat house, surrounded by his friends and everyone else who knew and didn’t tell you before, and the drink you’d poured over his head is soaking into the material like watercolors. His face is ashen with disbelief, mouth wrenched open as he spits out liquid onto himself, fists clenched in festering anger. He looks like a child, which is fitting, really, for the way he acts. 

You’ve kept your head down for three years. You don’t like making scenes, but this helped a little. 

You storm out of the frat with your chin held high, distantly aware of the people recording on their phones. You hope it gets circulated online—Brendan deserves to be miserable and lonely until graduation, if not after that too. 

You just sort of wish you didn’t feel the same. 

“That was fucking awesome. God. I’ve never seen his face do that before. I’m saving this video. Can you set a video as a lockscreen?” 

You stifle a laugh into your textbook, lifting your neck up for the first time in an hour or so. Your eyes hurt from reading and typing on your computer screen beside you, and when you look up, most of the library occupants that’d been here when you first sat down have left. 

Except for Steve and Bucky, who’ve just arrived, seemingly, only to talk to you. 

You raise a brow at Bucky as he slumps into the seat across from you. “You really want Brendan’s face to be what you see every time you pick up your phone?” 

He grins. “If it’s you throwing a drink in it, hell yeah. S’good shit.” 

“He’s got a point,” Steve adds, leaning against your table with his arms crossed over his university sweatshirt. “I think there’s about half the campus that’s been dreaming about doing what you did to him. Worse, probably. It’s a collective catharsis.” 

“Look who’s taking an advanced English course,” Bucky reaches over to pinch him in the hip. Steve Steve swats him away, and Bucky looks back at you. “No, but. Seriously. People are being very supportive in the comments.” 

“Comments?” you groan, closing your textbook. 

“It is the twenty-first century,” Bucky reminds you. 

You chew at your lip, trying not to picture the worst. “Are there any bad ones?” 

Steve snorts as he helps you slide your laptop into your bag and then hefts it and your textbooks onto his shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Buck’s been on comment duty since it first went up, reporting anyone who’s being an ass.” 

“I am now responsible for several suspensions,” Bucky says proudly, standing from the table with a mock bow. 

“Thanks for defending my honor.” You pat his head a little condescendingly, but his smile is blinding enough to throw you off when he stands again and winks. 

“Anytime, sweetheart.” 

It’s dark outside the library when the three of you make it out to the courtyard, and you’re suddenly grateful they’d decided to show up. You hadn’t meant to stay so long, and while your campus isn’t necessarily scary, you don’t exactly relish walking alone at night. 

You fall into step between them on the sidewalk, Steve’s sweatshirt and Bucky’s dark tee grazing either of your arms. A few other lingering students glance your way from across the quad, and you straighten up, putting some distance in between the three of you. 

Steve and Bucky have a…reputation. And while you don’t care what they get up to in their personal time, you’d like to hold onto some semblance of your own reputation after all of this. 

But they were also the only ones here who were honest with you, so you can’t be too picky. You clear your throat, unsure if you’ve said it before now. 

“Hey, um. Thanks, again. For telling me about the bet in the first place.” 

“You don’t need to thank us for being halfway decent human beings,” Steve says. 

“Well. I wouldn’t go that far,” you tease, smiling. 

“You’re welcome, is what he meant to say,” Bucky rolls his eyes, nudging his shoulder with yours. “We’ve got your back.” 

“If I ever hear anyone in the girl’s bathroom making wagers about you guys, I’ll be sure to return the favor.” 

Steve looks adorably concerned. “Do they do that?” 

“Personally, I’d be happy to lend a hand to anyone looking to win a few bucks,” Bucky interjects. 

You raise a brow as you pass underneath a streetlight. “At the expense of your dignity?” 

“Not much there to begin with,” Steve mutters. Bucky reaches over you to shove him. 

“Punk.” He smiles at Steve fondly for a beat too long, then looks back to you. “So. What’s the plan now that dickwad is out of the picture?” 

“The plan?” you echo, shrugging. “Focus on school. Graduate. Get a job. Same as it was before him.”  

“That’s great, sweetheart. But I meant less academically and professionally and more… you know, romantically and such.”

“I’m not sure that really fits into it.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because it just doesn’t,” you tell him, slightly harsher than you mean to. Both of them back off a little as you turn toward your small apartment building, and you sigh, feeling guilty for taking it out on them when they’re trying to cheer you up. “Look. I tried it, okay? I tried back home, I tried here, I tried again, just now, even though I probably shouldn’t have. I just think I need to get my feet under me first before I try anything like that again.” 

“Because guys who are a few years older and have a job can’t also be assholes,” Bucky mutters. 

“Buck,” Steve admonishes. 

“I’m just saying—assholes are assholes. They can be any age, any place, any time. But that shouldn’t stop you from putting yourself out there because, against all odds, there are some of us who are, like. Halfway decent. And stuff.” 

You huff a laugh. “Strong argument.” 

“You know what I mean,” Bucky insists, uncharacteristically serious for a moment. “You deserve to be treated right, is all. And if you withdraw completely, you cut yourself off from the good stuff, too.” 

You glance at his expression, waiting for the crack, the joke, but it never comes. 

“I’ll keep that in mind, Bucky,” you agree gently. 

You pause at the door to your building, scanning yourself in and standing in the open space to keep it from closing on you. You take your bag back from Steve and hold your textbooks, and Bucky leans back against the railing on the steps, crossing his ankles. 

“Well. I’d say it definitely worked out for us, Stevie. We’re now friends with the coolest girl on campus.” 

You look at him. “Friends?” 

“She doesn’t have to be friends with us, Buck.” 

“No, but she should be. We come with perks.”

You freeze for a second, suddenly worried that their kindness has all been culminating into them hitting on you. But you relax slightly as he continues, counting on his fingers. 

“We’ll walk you home whenever you want. We always have snacks. And, uh. Steve will let you copy his work if you don’t feel like doing an assignment, probably.” He pauses, thinking hard, then breaking out into a cheesy smirk. “Also, free eye candy whenever you want it.” 

Steve sighs, heavily. “That’s a dollar in the jar.” 

“The jar,” you implore. 

“The Douchebag Jar,” Bucky clarifies. “Which I am so not contributing to for that, by the way.” 

“Oh, this is great,” you decide, ignoring him to turn to Steve. “Am I allowed to make him add to it, too?” 

Bucky scoffs. “Hey!” 

Steve shrugs. “Be my guest.” 

“Well I guess that’s a reason to keep you guys around,” you tease. “This’ll be fun.” 

Steve laughs, and Bucky sticks out an exaggerated lower lip, glaring at both of you. “This is so unfair. After everything I did for you in that comment section—” 

“Alright,” Steve huffs, reaching over to yank his sleeve, pushing him down the steps. He glances back at you. “We’ll let you get inside. And, seriously, we’re glad everything went okay with the Brendan situation.” 

“I mean it—lockscreen material!” Bucky says from the sidewalk. 

“Thanks,” you tell them earnestly. You offer a smile as Steve joins him and the begin to head back toward the dorms, watching them walk so close together that they nearly blend into one shadow. At the corner Bucky tosses up a wave, and then they’re gone. 

Sagging with the heaviness of your bag and books, you make sure the door’s security system activates and then drag yourself down the hall to the stairs. You pass a girl living on the floor above you on her way down. You used to make small talk with her in the hallways, but since the video, the conversation has significantly lessened, like she’s secretly afraid you’re going to toss a drink on her too. 

With a measured inhale and exhale, you make it to your apartment and let yourself inside, slumping your things to the small table in the foyer to deal with after you’ve gotten some sleep. You’ve been here for three years and not really made many friends, but this is by far the most alone you’ve felt since you got here. 

You’ve got Steve and Bucky, though, apparently. You don’t quite know how to feel about that accidental friendship yet, but it’s something. 

Right now, you’ll take it. 

You go home for spring break, avoiding all the festivities going on around campus. Brendan’s sure to be at all of them, and you’d like to save yourself the tension. 

You figure that by the time you get back to campus, Bucky and Steve will have mostly forgotten about you. They’d done you a favor, and you hadn’t offered to sleep with them for it. You’re not sure what else they could want from you. Especially not after a week full of opportunities for parties and booze and ill-advised sexual encounters. 

But your return only picks up right where you left off. The two of them begin showing up around you like stray dogs looking for a home, in the library, outside the lecture hall, the diner just off campus when you’re picking up food to-go. You want to be annoyed, and you’re still a little confused, but over time it gets easier just to accept the fact that you’ve befriended them. You might as well, you figure, since apparently this last year before graduation you’re doing all sorts of things that are outside of your comfort zone. 

Privately, you wait for the other shoe to drop. You know that their reputation isn’t unwarranted; you’ve been classmates with girls who’ve had no issue regaling in fine detail their nights of passion between both of them. None of the stories have ever been bad, certainly not like some other guys around campus, but those other ones have made you leery of men in general. Especially lately, it’s difficult to let down your guard. 

It doesn’t matter though, because they’re persistent. Steve is always quick to remind you that you don’t owe them anything, but you have genuinely come to enjoy the company sometimes. You’re so used to the sound of your own thoughts or your headphones that it was jarring, at first, having two people around you so often; Steve’s solid presence and Bucky’s perpetually running mouth. 

It’s been nice, is all. Not being alone. 

Even if you’re trying not to let yourself get used to it. 

The first time you realize you might’ve been wrong about them is when you’re hanging out at their dorm, take out boxes scattered around you on the floor and a shitty movie playing on Steve’s computer. 

You’ve all had a few drinks that Bucky bought from the gas station on the corner, and you picked up your favorite Chinese so that you could watch Steve’s cheeks go bright red with the seasonings. You’re already a little buzzed by the time you realize you’ve never seen Steve and Bucky drunk before, never overlapped at parties or events. 

They aren’t drunk but they’re headed that way, Bucky all giggles and Steve more loose lipped than you’ve ever seen him before. You’re pleased to find out that they aren’t aggressive or rude, still nice to you even with their inhibitions lowered. 

Lowered so much, in fact, that you’ve never seen them so touchy before. Not with you, but with each other. 

All three of you have been talking over the movie, sharing food cartons and passing beers back and forth, but any hopes you had on refocusing for the end of it are gone when you can’t stop watching them instead. 

Every few minutes Steve will lean over and say something in Bucky’s ear that makes him grin, crooked and private. You try to make yourself look away, back to your food or the movie, but they’re a little distracting. 

At some point, their hands meet in the middle where their thighs are pressed together, leaning back against Steve’s sofa. You watch Bucky’s pinky wrap around Steve’s and then retreat, teasing, before Steve does it back. A minute later, Steve feeds Bucky a bite of chicken using his own chopsticks. When sauce smears at the corner of his mouth, Steve licks his thumb and presses it to the spot, lingering there for a few seconds longer. 

Then, just as you’re about to look away, Bucky leans in to close the extra few inches and kisses him. 

It’s quick, sweet, and obviously not really meant for your viewing. You yank your eyes away from them, heart beating rapidly in your chest, and blink at your rice as you readjust your perception of them inside your head. 

You finish the last of the movie in silence, and by the time you’ve gathered enough courage to look back at them, everything looks relatively back to normal. 

Which you’re now realizing is something very different than what you thought. 

“So you two are…” you gesture between them, buzzed enough to bring it up but not enough to be eloquent about it, “...together.” 

A few feet away from you, Steve looks sheepish, and Bucky looks resigned. Something has hardened in his expression that you aren’t used to, defensive, almost, as he purses his lips and avoids your eye. 

“Yeah.” 

“Oh,” you say distantly. “I thought it was just, like—a thing you did to…” 

“To get girls into bed with us?” Bucky asks wryly, stabbing at his food. “Yeah. Most people think so.” 

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed,” you tell them gently, guilt killing the rest of your pleasant haze from the alcohol. 

“It’s not like we’re super public about it or anything,” Steve says, but even his smile is strained. “Don’t sweat it.” 

“Is the not-public on purpose, or…?” 

Bucky tosses up a shoulder. “Not really. People assume things. There’s a lot of people that wanna get in between us for a night or two. We just don’t really have that many friends. You know?” 

Yeah, you think. “I know what you mean.” 

Steve’s smile turns a little more genuine, and Bucky runs his eyes over your face for a minute, assessing. Eventually he relaxes, and you feel restless with the need to prove that you can be trusted with this. 

“You got any other movies saved?” 

Bucky announces that he’s choosing next, and you scoot a little closer to Steve on the rug, sharing fortune cookies between you. 

Your eyes stray to the infamous Douchebag Jar on the dresser, wishing you had a dollar to put in it yourself. 

Somehow, you get roped into attending another party—something else you’d sworn off for the rest of the semester. 

And it’s not even for any fun reason. You have a group assignment ready to submit that makes up nearly half your grade in this course, and one person hasn’t logged in to sign off, which is the final barrier to submission. 

You decide to cash in on your friendship perks that Bucky promised you before, enlisting him and Steve to accompany you to the party you know your groupmate will be at. The untouchable confidence you felt when you dumped your drink on him has dwindled into something sour now. Brendan might be an asshole, but he’s a frat asshole, and that means he’s got connections all over the place that you probably don’t know about. You’d pissed him off, and you don’t want him to retaliate somehow when you’re not expecting it. 

Things are fine for the first bit of the night. You show up with Bucky and Steve in tow and find yourself a relatively quiet corner, talking with Bucky while Steve goes to the kitchen to find drinks that haven’t been spiked or taste revolting. 

Eyes were on you the minute you stepped in, but upon closer inspection, you think maybe they’re just looking at Bucky. From this angle you both have a view of Steve over by the island, watching as a girl approaches him, lip caught between her teeth, a hand on the outside of his arm. You can’t even blame her. Steve looks as handsome as he ever does, like he was ripped straight from a vintage GAP men’s ad to be hung up on bedroom walls, and she’s really pretty. 

You wonder if she’s their type. Briefly you consider asking Bucky, but you think that might be rude. 

“Does that ever get old?” you ask him instead, nodding toward Steve. 

Bucky stares for a minute, watching Steve politely duck out from under the girl’s attention. “Yes and no. Always nice to be wanted, I guess.” 

He stops himself, and you tilt your head. “But…?” 

“But sometimes, y’know.” He sighs. “It’s hard not to wonder if it would even matter if I was there too or not.” 

You frown. “How so?” 

“‘Cause—well, you know what people say about us. Steve’s the relationship guy. The guy you date, ‘cause he brings flowers and he pulls out the chairs and he’s charming without even trying to be. Sometimes more so when he’s not trying to be.” Bucky glances down. “And I’m—I’m the reason we have the reputation we do.” 

“Bucky, that’s not true,” you tell him. 

“It is. I’m the one that likes the more social shit. Getting to know people. And, yeah, sometimes that means going home with ‘em if everybody’s feeling it.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I just—it was something we did a few times, the first couple years. And then, suddenly, it was just like we were only known for that. Which sucks, because Steve’s really fuckin’ smart, and he’s a great artist, and I think he’d get a lot more accolades if my name wasn’t always attached to him.” 

You study Bucky’s side profile, the curve of his shoulders and his hands stuffed into his pockets. It’s so easy to think of Bucky as confident with the way he presents himself, but you’re realizing now that he has a lot of the same insecurities that you do in relationships. It’s another thing that makes him feel more accessible to you, lowered from the isolated pedestal you’d put them both on before. 

“I can’t say I know what that feels like, because I don’t,” you tell him, your elbows touching. “But I have had the displeasure of suddenly being known for only one thing this year. And it does suck. And I don’t know about everybody else, but I’m really glad that you guys thought I was worth sticking around for long enough that I could get the chance to be proved wrong, too.”  You nudge him purposefully. “You guys are great, Bucky. Not just Steve. You balance each other, you know? And I’m—I’m just really glad I get to know you.” 

Feeling oddly vulnerable after your impromptu speech, you clear your throat, hoping that the flush on your cheeks isn’t terribly vulnerable—even though Bucky’s private smile tells you that it probably is. 

“We’re really glad to know you too, sweetheart,” he says. 

The two of you have drifted closer throughout your conversation as the party got louder, your sides fully pressed together and Bucky’s face inches from yours. You feel yourself heat further once you realize your proximity, and you immediately shove down the memories of thoughts you might’ve had about them once or twice before you became friends. 

Steve returns, saving you from breaking the tension yourself as he holds out a cup to you and Bucky with a smile. 

“Okay, I hope you like plain coke because it’s about the only thing here that I could guarantee was safe to drink. Unless you want questionably dated orange juice.” 

“I’ll take the coke,” you laugh. 

“Definitely same,” Bucky agrees. 

You cheers your plastic cups together and take a drink, scanning the small crowd in the house for your classmate and coming up unsuccessful. 

The house buzzes as even more people find their way in, your corner feeling a little crowded as others begin coming up every few minutes, saying hello to Steve and Bucky and catching up. Apparently they haven't been going to many parties lately, either. 

All of your earlier texts to your classmate have been left unread, but you check immediately when your phone finally buzzes with a response. You pull it out of your pocket while Steve chats with someone they know beside you, and Bucky peers over your shoulder. 

“That him?” 

“Yeah. He says he’s outside. I’ll meet him out there, make sure he signs, then we can go.” 

“I’ll go with you,” Bucky offers, pushing off the wall. 

“You go with Steve,” you insist, handing him your empty cup. “I’ll be fine. Seriously. Finish your conversation and then meet me out front.” 

He glances between you and Steve with a frown. “You sure?” 

“I’m sure.” 

Though he doesn’t seem pleased about it, you appreciate that Bucky lets you go without an argument. He slips into place at Steve’s side as you vacate the spot, and you head back toward the front lawn to get your digital signature. 

It’s humid out front, and you squint at the setting sun as you descend the front steps and move off to the side to wait. There’s groups of other students hanging around on the porch and the sidewalk, each of them glancing at you periodically. You cross your arms over your chest, forcing yourself to stand your ground despite the unwelcome attention. 

A minute turns into two, then five, and you find yourself wishing you had asked Bucky to come with you. You get out your phone again to text your classmate a series of question marks, and you get two words in response. 

Look up. 

You have about a split second to realize what’s happening before you look over your shoulder to find a group of Brendan’s friends huddled together on the third story balcony, a large bucket balanced on the railing. 

They shout something at you and then tilt the thing over, and suddenly you’re standing in the middle of the yard, drenched head to toe in something sticky and ice cold, frozen. 

You barely register voices coming out of the house, footsteps headed toward you. You cling to Steve as he strips off his jacket to cover you with, and when you peek out from under it, you see Bucky on the other end of the sidewalk gearing up to throw a punch at a guy who won’t delete the video. If you weren’t still partially in shock, it’d make you smile. 

He joins you soon enough, once Steve has quickly walked you to the other side of the fence and far away from the house and anyone who might still have a camera. 

“Hey. Let’s get out of here, huh?” Bucky asks, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and attempting to rub warmth back into your arm. Your teeth are chattering. 

“I—I didn’t get the signature—”

“Don’t worry about that,” Steve says. “I was the TA in that course last semester and I still talk to the professor. I’ll speak to him and explain. It’ll be fine.” 

Soaking wet and feeling horribly lost, you walk the same path to your apartment that you’ve taken with them countless times before. It’s not the first time you’ve felt grateful for them, but it is the first time you don’t really know what you would’ve done without them. 

So much for trying not to get attached. 

You let them spend the night. 

They find something to eat while you’re in the shower, and by the time you come out of your bathroom with wet hair and a fresh set of pajamas on, the food’s ready, there’s a sitcom playing on the television, and the way Bucky rushes to put his phone away tells you he’s been on very dutiful damage control again. 

You’re upset about what happened, but mostly tired at the moment, still too numb yet to cry or get angry. Steve tells you he’s emailed the professor as one episode rolls into another, the three of you sharing space on your small couch. 

The comfort is much needed. They don’t make you talk about it but they remind you they’re there in other ways; Steve’s arm along the back of the couch for you to lean against while he rubs your shoulder, Bucky’s fingers hooking onto yours on the cushion between both of your legs the same way he’d done with Steve on the floor of their dorm room weeks ago. Their quiet conversation amongst each other anchors you enough that you can’t get lost in a rabbit hole of bad thoughts, but they also don’t expect you to jump in and try to be happy at the moment. You aren’t sure you could anyway. 

It’s not a particularly high bar, but it does prove something important: Steve and Bucky have walked you home, seen you half drunk, been alone with you in their dorm and in your apartment, and now also when you’re emotionally vulnerable and looking for support. 

And not once have they acted like any of your exes. They haven’t used any of it against you or to manipulate you into something. 

“Will you stay?” you ask them between one episode and the next, the first words you’ve spoken since you got back. 

Even then, they say yes without strings. Steve takes your couch and Bucky curls up in the armchair by the window, both in relatively close distance to your bed that you probably could have all fit on, if you’d tried. 

You lay awake for long time that night, even when you can hear Steve snoring from the sofa and Bucky’s conked out against the side of the chair, cheek smushed against his arm. 

You’re not just attached, you realize quietly. You’re something a whole lot more than that. 

As graduation continues to get closer, so do the three of you. Maybe a little closer than you intended. 

Steve left some of his books at your place the night before and you told him you’d drop them by before your classes. So, for the record, you had warned him. 

Which is why you’re slightly surprised that it’s Bucky who swings open the dorm room door to greet you, his body blocking the view into the room. 

His body, which is lacking a shirt and very nearly lacking pants too, strapped low across his hips. He’s breathing heavily, face flushed, pupils dilated and fixed on you with a focus that’s so intense you have to keep yourself rooted to your spot. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he grins. “Those for Steve?” 

“Um. Yeah,” you say. “Is he—uh, here?” 

Bucky chuckles. “Oh, he’s here. He’s just…occupied. At the moment.” 

Your stomach drops in a split second, your confused smile going with it. You do take a step back then, holding out Steve’s things as a barrier between the two of you. 

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize you guys had someone over.” 

“What?” Bucky drops the smirk, stepping fully into the hallway with you. “There’s nobody else in there. Thought we covered that.” 

Now confused and embarrassed, you feel your face heat. “I—we did. I just figured, since you answered the door, and you said he was still—sorry,” you rush out. “I misunderstood.” 

Bucky stares at you for a second, and you desperately hope that you haven’t accidentally offended him again. Your reaction was more so rooted in your own feelings for them than anything about them, but you can’t exactly come out and say that right now. 

Without looking away from you, Bucky twists the doorknob behind him and leans back enough to call through the gap. 

“Stevie,” he says. “Make yourself decent.” 

There’s a muffled answer on the other side and then some shuffling, and after a tense minute between you and Bucky in the hall, Steve stumbles to the door just as half-dressed and obviously mid-coital as Bucky had been. With glassy eyes and hair sticking up randomly, he knuckles at his eye. 

“My stuff,” Steve says in belated acknowledgement when he sees you, offering you a small, breathless smile. “Thanks for bringing it by. I really appreciate it.” 

“Move over,” Bucky grunts. 

Him and Steve step back into the room, and Bucky holds the door open wide, waving you in. You hesitate for a second in the hallway before tentatively stepping forward, and he shuts it again behind you. He’s letting you see for yourself, you realize. 

And, sure enough, the room is empty except for them. The sheets on the bed in the corner are all rucked up and half coming off the side, morning light spilling onto it from the window above the headboard. Steve’s desk, doubling as a nightstand, has a bottle of lube balanced on the edge of it, still open. 

You turn slowly so you’re looking at them again, trying to come up with a way to apologize without giving yourself away. Bucky beats you to the punch. 

“We haven’t brought anyone else here this semester,” he says deliberately, holding your eye. “You understand?” 

So, before they told you about Brendan. Before you in general. The heat on your face feels like it spreads throughout your body, and you nod. 

“Good,” Bucky says. “And just for the record, you’re welcome here anytime, no matter what we’re doing. You’re not interrupting anything we wouldn’t be okay with you interrupting.” 

You glance at Steve for his reaction, but he seems to be in agreement. He steps up beside Bucky, bending to lean a dimpled cheek against Bucky’s shoulder atop his crossed arms, and smiles at you. 

“Think you’re gonna be late, honey,” he says. 

“Oh, shit,” you curse. “Yeah. I am, probably. Here,” you hand him his things clumsily, stepping forward into their space to trade it off. 

You plan to take a quick step back but Bucky catches your arm before you can. Steve drops the books on the sofa and turns back to you too, and you’re promptly pulled into a three way hug, your face against their bare chests. 

They’ve been more physical with you since staying over at your apartment, less hesitant to put a hand on your back or grab your hand or pull you into hugs like this one. 

Usually they’re wearing clothes, though. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, hugging them back. You feel Steve’s mouth against the top of your head. 

“Don’t be. We’ll see you after class, huh?” 

You nod, and Steve returns to the bed as Bucky walks you back into the hallway. His words from before still ring in your head about people’s assumptions, and even though Steve was alright with it, you feel like you owe Bucky another apology. 

“I really am sorry, Bucky. I honestly didn’t mean it the way that it came out.” 

“I know what you meant,” Bucky says, stepping closer, “because I would’ve done the same thing if Steve and I came over and I thought you had someone else inside.” 

You swallow. “I haven’t—with anyone else, either.” 

Bucky didn’t ask, and you aren’t really sure why you offered. It feels like you’re talking about the same things but you can’t be sure, and that’s scary enough to hesitate. 

But Bucky gives you another long look, his head tilted as he drinks you in, and then he nods as if pleased by your answer. Stepping away from you feels like a loss, your limbs thrumming with how close you’d been. 

“Good.” He smiles, then, and nods toward the exit. “Get to class. We’ll see you for lunch, okay?” 

Still reeling, you follow his direction, nearly jogging as you try to make it to your morning lecture. 

You get there, barely, but it’s no real use anyway. 

All you can think about is what Steve and Bucky had been up to before you got there and—hopefully, maybe—what they’d finished after you left. 

After that, it’s difficult to ignore the mounting tension between you. And with the dwindling time left before you leave campus, you’re antsy. 

You’ve come to appreciate Steve and Bucky as genuine friends. What if you try to make it more than it is and you don’t click the same way in that setting, and then things are weird between you until graduation? What if you’d somehow misunderstood their intentions and they actually don’t want you like that anyway? 

You’re pretty sure that last one isn’t the case. But you don’t really want to lose the one friendship you might manage to take out of college because of your libido. 

It’s hard not to want more though when they give you just about everything you wanted and never got in your past relationships. You meet Bucky’s sister too when she visits for Steve’s birthday in July, and the three of you stumble your way through a very awkward explanation when you try to convince her that you aren’t, in fact, a part of their relationship and none of you have any real evidence against it. 

Except for the sex. You are very much aware of the sex that is not being had in this situation. 

Ultimately, it doesn’t take much to shift things into place. 

You had dinner with them at a bar off campus, something a little nicer than the ones here, and none of you had been ready to part ways when you got back. Back at your place you change into something comfier while Bucky kicks off his boots and Steve sheds his jacket, the three of you spreading out in your space like you’ve been doing it forever. 

Steve sits at your dining table, bent over a sketchbook he’d pulled from his bag. Bucky is fiddling with the bluetooth speaker that you broke last year and haven’t been able to fix, his tongue stuck between his lips as he pokes and prods, and you’re on the couch, scrolling through your playlists in hopes that he can get it up and running. There’s a lingering energy in all of you tonight that your typical movie marathon doesn’t seem like it would satiate. 

The top you’d worn to the bar is a button down, soft enough that you’d left it on when you got home even though you changed your pants. You have to roll up the sleeves as you watch Bucky work, hotter outside and a different heat here in your apartment, your body keenly aware of where Steve and Bucky are inside of it. 

The apartment. Not you, unfortunately. 

With your hair let down and the makeup you’d put on this morning mostly smudged off now from laughing at dinner, you’re an odd mix between pleasantly relaxed and impatient for more. 

“Aha,” Bucky cheers, pressing a button on the speaker. The traitorous thing that hadn’t worked when you did that gives a happy beep at Bucky’s touch, the lights on the front blinking to show that it’s ready to pair. He grins at you, lethal with his dark brown hair and the deep green of his sweatshirt, and holds out a hand for your phone. “You picked a song yet?” 

You give it over, shuffling one of your most recent playlists when you couldn’t decide on anything else, and Bucky pairs it with the bluetooth. Soon enough there’s quiet music playing throughout your living room, and you realize how much you’ve missed having it to fill the silence. 

Finished with the speaker, Bucky leaves it on the windowsill and crosses over to you, shoving the coffee table out of the way as he goes. He extends a palm. “Come on.” 

“Where are we going?” 

He drags you up from the sofa and to the center of the room, now an empty space, hands on either side of your waist. 

“We’re going right here,” he says. “There was nowhere to dance in the bar.” 

“I think there was, actually,” you point out. 

Bucky gives you a flat look. “If I just wanted to grab onto your hips and hump you from behind for a few minutes, I’d prefer it not be in public, sweetheart.” 

You stutter a laugh, allowing him to pull you close. One of his hands on the center of your back, the other holding yours against his chest underneath his collarbone. It puts his nose at your hair and yours near his neck, close enough to smell the cologne he’d put on this morning as he sways the two of you back and forth. 

“I should probably tell you that I’m not very good at dancing,” you admit. 

“Seems like you’re doin’ just fine to me,” he says. “Stevie? Thoughts?” 

Steve grunts from the dining table. “Busy. Keep dancing” 

The two of you turn in a slow circle, and when you begin to face him, you realize that Steve is drawing you and Bucky. You’re pretty sure he’d been working on something else before, but now his eyes keep flicking up to you every few seconds, tracing curves and hard edges, the line where you and Bucky meet in the middle and your shuffling feet as you try to stay off Bucky’s toes. 

One song bleeds into another on the speaker, and you tilt your head enough to rest it opposite your hand on Bucky’s chest. You feel his sigh as much as you hear it, his pulse steady under your cheek. 

“Been a long time since I’ve gotten to do this,” he tells you. 

“It’s nice,” you agree. “I don’t think I’ve actually ever danced with anyone before this.” 

Bucky pulls away from you only enough to guide you into a small spin, then tugs you right back with a wink. “You’re a natural.” 

You’d enjoyed the momentary distraction of learning something new, but by the time the third song comes to a close, all you can think about is how close the two of you are. 

You keep picturing the way he’d looked in the hallway in the dorms that day, flushed and sweaty and yet still in control. Letting you into their space, proving to you that there was no one else. You’d been embarrassed in the moment, but every time you’ve thought of it afterward you get distracted wondering what might’ve happened if you hadn’t had class, if you’d stayed, if you’d joined them in bed and finished what they’d started with each other before you got there. You wonder now if Bucky can feel your pulse picking up underneath his hands. 

The sun is setting outside the windows and you can feel it through the cracked blinds, humid and inescapable. When you tilt your head up, you’re close enough to Bucky’s face to see the beginnings of sweat on his temples. 

“S’warm,” you murmur, worried he might let go of you if you’re too loud. His mouth curves up at the corner, making a show of feeling your forehead before moving down to your cheek. 

“You are, yeah,” he confirms, swiping a thumb over the collar of your shirt. “Maybe we should lose a few layers.” 

You swallow. “I’m, um. I’m not wearing anything underneath.” 

It’s meant to be more of a reason you can’t take it off than an attempt at flirting, but Bucky is visibly affected, inhaling sharply through his nose as his eyes run over your face. The hand on your lower back spreads out and tugs, pressing you tight against his chest. 

It makes you stumble, catching yourself with a grip on his arm and a surprised noise. The shirt isn’t particularly thick, and neither is the lace bra you’re wearing underneath it. It doesn’t have any padding in it so every bit of your breasts go firmly against the heat of Bucky’s chest, with nowhere to hide and no place to conceal the hardened points of your nipples through the lace. 

With an extremely measured exhale, the hand Bucky has on your cheek spares a thumb to trace over the outline of your lips. When you don’t pull away, Bucky leans in. 

“You been wantin’ this as much as we have?” 

You nod, breathless. Relieved. “Longer, probably.” 

“Wanna bet?” Bucky cocks a brow, then winces. “Ah, fuck. Sorry. Bad choice of words.” 

Your laugh is quiet, but it makes Bucky smile. Your fingers spread out on his chest, smoothing over his shoulder and up to his neck, grazing his hair that’s close to touching his shoulders now. 

“And if I was feeling lucky?” 

“I would say,” Bucky proposes faux thoughtfully, slipping both arms around your waist and lowering his voice to a whisper, “that there’s a damn near guarantee we could make Steve awful jealous right now.” 

You fight a smile. “I think I like those odds.” 

Bucky leans in closer, until the ends of your noses are touching. Everything about him is warm, his scent familiar and inviting, his arms easy to lean into. His eyes flick down to your mouth and back up again, and you tilt your chin for him without having to ask. 

Bucky could probably tease you all night long, but if he wants you, he’s going to have to be the one to make the first move. 

He doesn’t leave you waiting for long. His own face turns, just enough to catch your lips with his. A brief graze at first, and then more firmly. It’s been months now since you’ve kissed somebody, and you always forget how much you enjoy it. And the fact that it’s Bucky is just a really, really nice plus. 

You lean into his weight as you abandon any former semblance of dancing altogether, standing still and sliding your hand fully up into his hair. He hardly parts from you enough to breath but neither of you seem to care, and for a few seconds, everything else falls away. 

Everything except for Steve, that is; you can hear the soft scratch of his pencil stop as it hits the sketchbook and rolls off somewhere on the table, the thump of his feet on your floor, the added body heat at your back when he steps into your space. 

It’s the only thing that makes you pull away from Bucky, twisting so you can make sure that, despite all the signals, he’s still alright with this happening. 

He assuages your worries nearly immediately, turning you in Bucky’s arms so that he can take your face in his hands and taste you for himself. It’s surreal, having this in real life and not only in your head, and you cling to the front of Steve’s shirt like you had Bucky’s, caught between them both. 

“What do you want?” Steve asks you, dropping his hands to hold yours, rubbing circles into your wrists in between your bodies. 

“Anything you want,” Bucky agrees, pressing against your back. 

You glance over toward your bed and ask them, for a second time, “Stay?” 

Steve grins and you feel Bucky’s relieved exhale as his chest caves behind you. He bends to kiss your shoulder, and Steve slips his fingers through yours. 

“Lead the way, sweetheart.” 

It’s not as weird having Bucky and Steve in your bed as you thought it might be. 

They’ve already been everywhere else in your apartment anyway, and it’s almost weirder that they haven’t been in it yet in some capacity or another. You’re glad to be rectifying that now. 

You go down easily when Bucky lays you back on the end of the mattress, reluctant to part from your mouth. He does eventually though, if only to peel off his sweatshirt and leave him in a thin t-shirt, and Steve steps up in his absence to kiss you some more. 

“How many times have you touched yourself, right here, thinking about us?” Bucky asks, grinning above you. 

“Dollar in the jar,” you tell him. 

He doesn’t even try to make a joke. “Dead serious, sweetheart.” 

You look to Steve for support, but he only chews at his lip, sheepish. “I’m kind of curious too.” 

Rolling your eyes, you kick Bucky in the hip with your leg.  “Surprised your egos fit through the doorway.” 

He catches your calf in his hand before you can draw it back to the bed and you watch, propped up on your elbows, as he rubs the skin there up and up and up. He kneels on the mattress beside you, fingers grazing your shin, the sensitive inside of your knee. 

“You tellin’ me we’re wrong?” he asks. “That you’ve never once thought about us when you were in here, came home after seein’ us and needed some relief? Never slipped your fingers between these thighs and wished it was ours instead?” 

He bends to attach his mouth to the side of your neck, and your head rolls to the side to allow him access even as you keep stubbornly quiet. 

“Never imagined what it’d be like if we were there with you, huh? One on either side, keepin’ you warm. Makin’ you squirm.” His fingers trail up higher, just barely grazing the line of your shorts before pulling away. “Makin’ you beg.” 

“Bucky,” you gasp. 

He smiles like you’ve just proved his point, but schools it quickly to sit back on his knees with a shrug as Steve takes a seat by your ankles. 

“‘Cause if you had pictured us, I was gonna offer to make your dreams come true. But I can’t really do that if you didn’t have ‘em in the first place, so—” 

“I did,” you relent, too keyed up to deny it. “I—I thought about you. Both of you.” 

Steve’s eyes light up at your admission, his own touch slipping around your ankle, rubbing. “Yeah?” he asks. 

“Yeah.” 

“Tell us about it?” Bucky prompts. “We’ll do whatever you want.” 

You’re not sure you have a place to start. You’ve pictured this happening in a variety of different ways, none of them given to you quite so easily, and the unexpected power placed into your hands is something you aren’t sure you know how to hold just yet.  

Steve ducks down to press his lips against your knee, then moves to pull his own shirt over his head. Bucky, seemingly sensing your dilemma, moves to sit behind you. He leans back against the headboard, slipping his hands underneath your arms to drag you back against his chest to watch Steve. 

“How ‘bout we start with just one, hm? That make it easier?” He rubs your arms. “Why don’t you tell Stevie what you like about him?” 

The man himself is shuffling at the end of your bed, his chest bare but his hands twitching like he still wants to shove them into the pockets of his jeans. You reach a hand out, and he comes closer, kneeling on the end of the mattress. 

“Your hands,” you say first. 

“They’re nice, aren’t they?” Bucky agrees. Your answer earns you Bucky’s hands slipping over your shoulders and down to the buttons of your shirt, flicking open one and then two. “Could probably hold these real good, one in either hand.” 

He grips both of your breasts in his palms in display, and you bite back a gasp as you push up against him. 

But just as easy as he’d moved toward them, he moves away. Casually, he runs a finger over the next button. 

“What else?” 

“You’re nice to me,” you tell Steve, whose smile softens a little at your words. 

Bucky eases another button from its pocket. “That turns you on, sweetheart? His manners?” 

“You care,” you rephrase, staring at Steve until he meets your eye despite the spreading flush on his cheeks. “You ask how my day was and actually care about the answer. Offer to help me carry things when I overcommit on accident. You check in on me if you know I’m having a hard time, and you always make sure I’m comfortable and feel safe.” 

“Anyone would have done those things,” Steve argues. 

“No,” you insist, “they wouldn’t. They haven’t.” 

Unable to fight you on that, Steve can only look at you, surprised and quiet. 

“Also, you have nice shoulders.” 

That earns you a laugh, Steve’s aforementioned shoulders shaking with it as he sits fully on his bent legs on your bed. “Thanks, honey.” 

Sitting up, you part from the warmth of Bucky’s chest behind you so that you can turn around and face him. He doesn’t stop you as you settle on his lap, just settles one hand on your hip and the other on one of your thighs as you get comfortable. He’s gone quiet, and you don’t like it. 

“And you…” you trail off, using your hand to make him look at you. 

“Not quite as polite as Stevie is,” he says with a subdued smile. 

“Maybe, but that’s not what I like about you anyway,” you tell him easily. “If you were polite, you wouldn’t have monitored the comments on that video. Or punched someone in the face to defend my honor. Or marched up to me in the library all those months ago to let me know that my boyfriend was betting on my virtue, despite the fact that we were practically strangers before that.” You raise your brows when he opens his mouth. “And don’t tell me anyone would have done that, because almost everybody knew, and they didn’t say a word.” 

He rolls his eyes, but you can tell that at least some part of what you said has settled him a little. “Yeah, alright.” 

“You’re honest. That means a lot to somebody who’s been lied to before.” 

“Well, shit,” he murmurs softly, looking at you. “Here I was thinking it was my rugged handsomeness that hooked you in, but—” 

You lean forward and kiss him again, and he abandons his train of thought to kiss you back. You can’t resist grinning when you pull back, thumbing at the dimple in his chin. 

“You are pretty handsome.” 

The room goes quiet, all three of you smiling to yourselves. Even when you look to the side, Steve’s just watching the two of you, a fond expression on his face. 

“I went off topic. Sorry,” you apologize. “Did I ruin the mood?” 

“You’re half naked in Bucky’s lap,” Steve says pragmatically. “I’m not sure anything could ruin the mood for me right now.” 

As if being reminded of the fact himself, Bucky’s eyes take a detour from yours, trailing down the front of your open shirt and lace bra and back up again as he draws in a slow breath. His fingers twitch on either side of your hips. 

“Steve,” Bucky says, still looking at you. “Gimme your hands.” 

Without question, Steve’s hands—the ones you said you’d liked so much just a few minutes ago—appear, one on either side of you at Bucky’s disposal, palm up. You watch as Bucky’s own hands curl around his wrists and tug, making Steve kneel behind you, his warmth obvious even through the thin layers. 

Bucky presses Steve’s palms flat against your ribs, letting you feel the weight and shape. He moves them slowly up, still watching your face, until Steve’s cupping the underside of your breasts. Both of them can feel the hitch in your breathing, but you can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed. 

From the look on his face, Bucky knows exactly what he’s doing to you. 

Finally, just when you’re about to pester him about it, Bucky slides Steve’s palms up the last couple of inches to mold over the shape of your breasts fully. The three of you exhale a variety of different noises—you, a gasp, Steve’s stuttered moan, Bucky groaning low in his throat, eyes half-lidded as he watches Steve learn your shape. 

You sway a little, off balance, but Steve’s right there behind you to rest against. Leaning back into him pushes your chest up and forward, further into his eager hands, and he squeezes briefly, enough to pull a surprised noise from you again. 

“So soft,” Steve murmurs, dipping forward to nose at the side of your neck. His thumbs sweep over the line dividing flesh from lace underneath your shirt, slow and steady until he can find the hard peak of your nipple under the material. You whimper, your hips restless against Bucky’s underneath you. 

“Look at that,” Bucky says, tucking your hair behind your ear. “See what happens when you tell us what you want?” 

His hands slip down to grip your waist more firmly, hauling you up against him closer until the bulge of his hardening cock sits snug in the split of your legs. You’re separated by his jeans and your underwear, but the heat, the shape, the feeling—it’s already so good. 

“We thought about you too,” Steve admits, breathing harder against your neck as he slips two fingers beneath the fabric of your bra to press against your nipples with nothing in between. 

It takes a moment for the words to catch up with you. You lift your head from his shoulder. “Really?” 

“Fuck. Yeah.” 

“Steve,” Bucky warns. His cheeks are the slightest bit more flushed, and you wonder, briefly, what could have been so depraved that even Bucky would be blushing. 

You desperately want to know. 

“You’re so—we didn’t think you’d ever want this. But we’d talk about it. Sometimes.” 

“‘Sometimes’ as in over brunch,” you question breathlessly, slipping a hand back to slide it into Steve’s hair, “or sometimes like that day at your—?” 

“Both,” Steve moans when you pull. “Definitely both.” 

You turn your chin enough that Steve can kiss you over your shoulder, his other hand yanking Bucky forward against your chest. One of Steve’s hands leaves you as his tongue teases the corner of your mouth, and you hum into his mouth when Bucky’s teeth graze the spot Steve’s wandering fingers just vacated. 

Kissing Steve is warm and intense, slicker than you thought it’d be. Something about Steve made you think his kisses might be chaste and just as polite as the rest of him, but he holds the back of your neck and gets as close to you as possible, sharing air and cradling your lower lip with his own with a focus so heavy it makes you a little dizzy. 

Which isn’t to say that Bucky isn’t doing his best to distract you anyway; his arms have wrapped fully around your waist now to hold you against his chest, his mouth mapping out the path of skin between your breasts with aching intent. Every few seconds you feel his teeth, nipping and teasing, but it’s hardly enough. You put a hand to the back of his neck and press until he commits, mouthing at you in wet trails and sinking his teeth and tongue into your skin enough that it’ll leave a mark or two behind. 

It’s more sensitive the closer he gets to your nipples, the skin thinner and easier to bruise. But he hears your muffled noises against Steve’s mouth for what they are, easing up on you as he takes one in his mouth before swiping a tender thumb over the blooming marks to solidify them. 

“Can I taste you?” Steve pants against your lips, pulling back. “Please. Been thinkin’ about it, what you taste like—” 

“He’s real good with his tongue, sweetheart,” Bucky rasps in addition, as if you need any more convincing. 

No sooner have you nodded do you find yourself plucked off of Bucky’s lap and laid on your back on the mattress, and the loss of solid heat between your legs feels like an ache. You reach for Bucky, kissing him messily as he flicks open the last of the buttons on your shirt and Steve eases your underwear down and off your legs. It feels jarring, a little, until Bucky leans up to strip his own shirt off, and you see Steve losing his pants in the corner of your hazy vision as Bucky leans in to kiss you again. 

He does it differently than Steve does, rougher, less composed. The same flash of teeth you’d felt against your breasts is the one you feel now against your lips, and he likes kissing you nice and long and deep and then pulling back, watching you chase him for more. You’ll make some sort of joke about that cocky grin, some time when you aren’t otherwise occupied. 

Steve’s hands slide up the outside of your legs, over the tops of your thighs, running up and down to the inside of your knees and back up again. You’re ticklish there, and you shiver when his mouth follows closely behind, the bed creaking as he settles in the space you’ve made for him between. 

“So fuckin’ wet,” Steve marvels distantly, and the thickness of his voice draws you back into the moment. You break from Bucky’s mouth with a gasp and a string of spit still connecting you, and Bucky thumbs it away as you glance down between your legs at where Steve is openly staring at you. His eyes flick up to your face for a second, a spark of something mischievous in his gaze. “Bet you’re soft here too.” 

Without further ado he lowers his mouth to your cunt, and you groan, dropping your head backward into the quick reflex of Bucky’s hand that cradles it. 

“Don’t be afraid to tell him what you like,” Bucky murmurs against your jaw. “He takes orders like a champ.” 

You file that away to be explored later. The affect it has on you is obvious—to Steve, at least—who moans against you when your cunt bears down around the wet heat of his tongue. You slide a hand down to slip it into Steve’s hair and against his scalp, but don’t direct him otherwise. 

“Don’t know what feels good. Haven’t done this part much.” 

At your admission, Steve slips his arms underneath your thighs, pulls your legs over his shoulders, makes a noise that you can feel. He laps at you without shame, but you can feel that focus in every movement; the angle of his sharp jaw, the suction in his cheeks, each measured exhale that makes you shiver before he settles his mouth over the bump of your clit and sucks, then goes back to flicking his tongue. 

It’s true, nonetheless—none of your previous partners have bothered much with eating you out, and if they had, it was always a couple minute precursor to penetrative sex and nothing more. And that was usually just to get you wet enough, which…is not looking like it’s going to be much of an issue here. 

Steve’s eyes flick up to you again, finding yours atop the rolling wave of your stomach as you try and fail not to grind your hips up against his mouth. He holds your gaze as he rubs one warm fingertip through your excitement and then hovers it above your entrance, thoroughly prepared by his tongue, and you nod. 

His tongue makes wide, firm circles against your clit as the digit sinks into you. Not quick, not rough, slow enough that you feel every aching inch of it until there isn’t anymore to go. You whimper, pushing against him for more, but it’s Bucky that answers. 

His hand wraps loosely around your throat to get your attention, fingers on your neck and thumb pressed to your chin to tilt it back. He’s been watching you while Steve takes you apart, quieter than you typically know him to be, but the heaviness in his eyes tells you it’s arousal and not anything bad that’s got his tongue tied. 

The thumb on your chin raises by an inch, pressing down on the thickest part of your lower lip. You open for him, eager for whatever you’ll be given, but he doesn’t kiss you. 

Instead, as Steve eases a second finger in underneath the relentless roll of his tongue, Bucky hovers above you, purses his lips, and spits, slow, into your open mouth. 

You shudder, clenching down hard against Steve’s fingers as you’re pushed even closer to your first orgasm of the night. Bucky sees it all—watches your eyes roll backward before the flutter closed, lets you squeeze the outside of his wrist against your throat, doesn’t look away for a moment as you close your mouth to swallow what he gave you and then open again so he can check. 

“Fuck,” he curses, drawing the word out long and pressing it into your tongue as he drops down to kiss you. It’s overwhelming, the thrust of Bucky’s tongue similar to the motion of Steve’s fingers inside you; it’s so deliciously close to what you’d pictured all the times you’d thought about this alone in bed. 

Just that the real thing is better. 

Your hand finds the side of Bucky’s face as you kiss, and you find your nails dragging across the roughness of his facial hair. It’s somewhere between stubble and a beard and you like the in between, can’t help thinking about the marks it’d make if he took Steve’s place between your legs right now. 

“I like this,” you tell him, rubbing your hand over it. “Liked it both ways, but it looks good grown out.” 

“Both ways?” Bucky lifts a brow. “You knew about us before this year?” 

Steve tilts his hand, curves his two fingers up into you to find your spot, shoves his tongue in the space left over. You shiver, your brain-to-mouth filter momentarily offline. 

“In the stands. Football game. Freshman year. You always had crowds around you.” 

“No shit,” Bucky breathes, chuckling as he smears a kiss against your cheek. “Can’t believe we wasted so much fuckin’ time.” 

You pull his mouth back to yours, one hand in his hair and the other digging your nails into Steve’s arm that’s been spread over your stomach to keep you from bucking away from him too far. His jaw must be aching by now, you think; your other partners certainly would have complained by now that you hadn’t come yet. 

Before you can start feeling guilty and trying to make yourself, Bucky pulls you back with a hand on your face. “Hey. You wanna come like this?” 

Your lower lip disappears behind your front teeth, still tasting of Bucky. If you say yes, there’s a chance it’s a means to an end—you get off, then they get off, and then it’s over. You want this to last as long as possible. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Let me rephrase, then,” Bucky says, catching the lobe of your ear between his teeth. “If Steve makes you come now with his mouth, can you do it again for me afterward?” 

“Yes,” you nod frantically. “Yes. Please.” 

Bucky grins. “Atta girl.” 

With a clear goal in mind, Bucky slips rough fingertips down the front of your body, between the valley of your breasts and down your quivering abdomen, past your hips until he reaches where Steve’s head is settled in between your shaking thighs. He goes even further then, using two digits to spread you apart nice and wide, the way Steve can’t while he’s holding your waist and fucking you on his fingers. 

The position means that there’s nowhere left to hide now, no reprieve from the sensation of Steve’s tongue. It’s warm and wet and unyielding, sucking and flicking and drawing your clit to full attention for him. With toys or fingers it might be too much sensation to really feel good, but the pressure of his mouth is just right. 

You cling onto Bucky’s arm and Steve’s hand as you begin to tense up, the coil in your stomach tightening. You like this part, this little plateau before the plunge, and it’s been so long—if ever—since you’ve actually gotten to experience it at the hands of someone else and not just your own. 

If you could talk, you’d say right there or don’t stop or I’m close, but your breath is getting stuck in pants and hiccups, your hips twitching, out of your control. You feel molten underneath both of their gazes, anticipating your release but not rushing you toward it. 

You let your eyes close, welcome the sudden press of Bucky’s fingers against your mouth and Steve’s hand to keep you grounded, and let everything else fall away for a minute. 

The orgasm doesn’t take you by surprise. It builds, slowly and then in quicker increments, until it takes you over. Your mouth wrenches open noiselessly, eyes wet with overwhelmed tears, and all of you tenses tight before rapidly unraveling between the fixed points that Steve and Bucky make around you. 

It keeps going, Steve’s mouth and fingers insistent as he works you through it. Noise fades back in as the ringing in your ears adjusts, Steve’s moans as you get him wet with your release, Bucky’s rough, raspy whispers of praise against your hair, your own shameless whines and squeaks as you ride it out completely. 

Eventually, when you’re spent, you collapse back against the pillow Bucky put under your head and blink idly at the ceiling. You feel cold between your legs when Steve pulls away, your cunt pulsing, displeased at the sudden emptiness. 

It’s worth it—if only because you get to lie back and catch your breath while Bucky drags Steve in by the neck and ravages his mouth with his tongue, tasting him. Tasting you. 

Their hands are all over each other in a way that betrays the fact that they’ve been in a much longer relationship, aware of each other’s limits and weak spots. Steve groans when Bucky yanks his head backward and sinks his teeth against his neck, smearing you even further across Steve’s skin, leaving visible wetness behind. You watch, half surprised and still valiantly turned on, when his palm smacks the side of Steve’s ass and squeezes before he pulls away. 

Both of them are hard, Bucky’s bulge significant underneath his boxers and Steve’s briefs rucked dangerously low against his hips, enough to see the hair around the base of his cock. He must’ve been grinding against the bed. You push your thighs together again with a whimper at the thought. 

The noise draws Steve’s attention, and he crawls back on top of you, turning your bent legs to the side but keeping your back against the sheets as he kisses you. Soft, slow, more like what you thought he’d be like in the first place. 

“Was that good?” Steve asks you.  

“So good,” you agree with a smile, pushing a hand through his hair. “Thank you.” 

“Both of you are too polite,” Bucky sighs. “What am I gonna do with you two?” 

Steve slants his eyes from you over to Bucky, sly. “Something with your dick, preferably.” 

You choke at his forwardness; you’ve never known Steve to be that bold. Bucky laughs at your expression, and Steve seems unabashed. 

“You ain’t heard nothin’ yet, sweetheart,” Bucky tells you. “Just wait ‘til I’m fuckin’ him through the mattress. He gets real filthy, then.” 

“Fuck,” you exhale. Your filter’s still not totally back. 

Biting down on a smile, Bucky leans in to look up at Steve with you, appraising. “He does make quite the picture like that. But maybe…” he turns, talking right into your ear. “Maybe you take him first, huh? Been so patient, both of you—you want that?” 

You nod. “Yes. Yeah.” 

“Then, after he’s finished, when you’re all shaky and sensitive—it’ll be my turn. Roll you over. Slip into you, nice and easy. Fuck you deep enough that you can feel me right here,” Bucky continues, reaching down between you and Steve to press a palm against the cradle of skin between your hips. 

“Bucky,” you moan. “Yes. Please. All of it.” 

Lazily, Bucky rolls his head to look up at Steve. “Stevie?” 

“You gotta fuckin’ ask?” he mutters to a laughing Bucky. You raise a brow, and he shifts his gaze to you, smiling crookedly. “When I said we’d talked about this, I meant in detail.” 

You laugh with them, which is something else that hasn’t happened during sex with anyone else. It feels good. You feel good. Your body is loose from your first orgasm and you’re comfortable enough with Steve and Bucky that you don’t feel like you have to put on a show or hold a certain position. Which is good, because they seem to be developing a habit of arranging you however they like. 

Like you’re a delicate addition to the well oiled machine of their relationship, Steve wraps his arms around your thighs again and pulls you down to the center of the mattress, and Bucky locates one of their wallets from the floor to grab a condom. The thoughtfulness makes you momentarily emotional, one less thing you have to think or worry about. 

The condoms in their wallets that, you’re realizing right now, are probably more so for them to have sex with each other than they are to hook up with girls like you initially thought. You’re glad to understand better, now. 

While Bucky’s up he grabs a water from your fridge and pops the cap, drains a good third and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before tossing it to Steve. He does the same, then leans down to hold it against your lips while Bucky fixes the pillows behind you. It’s oddly intimate, given everything you’ve already done, and you flush with heat at the unexpected gesture. 

The boxers come off, Steve’s and then Bucky’s. You drink them in with a stare that’s only partially intentional, your mouth dry despite the water, suddenly glad that Steve had opened you up on his fingers in addition to his mouth. It’s been a while, and they’re both fairly well endowed. 

It’d be the perfect place to make a crude joke at your expression, but it never comes. Steve leans in, fingers brushing your cheek. “You okay? We can do something else, if you want.” 

“Or stop, if you’re tired,” Bucky adds. 

True to your word, care and honesty really do seem to be what gets you going these days. 

You shake your head, pulling your legs apart and Steve in between them as you lay back with Bucky’s thigh as a pillow. The condom sits idly on the bedspread to the side, and you pick it up and hand it to him in invitation. 

With a smile and a final press of his lips to your forehead, Steve kneels up between your legs and rips it open, rolling it onto himself. He takes a few measured breaths as he looks at you, working his fist over the length of his cock in three slow pumps before he relents and braces on his knees. 

Steve’s broad all over, and he spreads you wide without even meaning to. The span of his thighs and hips pushes your legs open enough that when he leans forward on top of you his dick is already straining where it wants to go, and you hiss when it bumps against your still-sensitive clit, shivering. 

He grips it and swipes it through your wetness, letting it rest against you so you can feel the weight and shape of it before anything else happens. He’s warm, velvet hot against you, and you’re so wet that you can feel it on the sheets underneath you. Open from the orgasm and Steve’s fingers too, you think he should be able to slide in fairly easily. 

You hook a leg over Steve’s hip as he leans forward further, the head of his cock pushing barely inside of you. Both of you moan, and Bucky lets you squeeze his hand as hard as you want in open anticipation. 

Holding himself there, Steve gives a few slow thrusts against you. Shallow and brief, working himself in just slightly more each time. His thoughtfulness is a tease without meaning to be, making you clench down around nothing each time he withdraws. 

Then, on a particular forward thrust, his cock sinks in a little deeper. He holds himself still, then repeats it all again. By the time he’s halfway inside of you you’re both holding your breath, sweat beading on Steve’s hairline, his grip tight enough to leave marks on your hip. 

“Shit. Bucky. I’m—” Steve curses, squeezing his eyes shut as he pauses, shivering. 

“Get it together, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, pushing some of his hair back from his face. “Promised her a good time, did we not? You gonna deliver?” 

Steve nods quickly, but the muscles in his neck and shoulders are pulled taut as he swallows audibly. “She’s—tight, Bucky. Fuck.” 

“You would know, since you just had your fingers inside her, big guy.” Bucky flashes you a grin. “Sorry. Steve gets a little stupid about good pussy.” 

“Liar,” Steve manages, breathless. “Never had one like this before.” 

“Had what?” Bucky taunts him. “She’s got a name, don’t she?” 

Being with them is apparently unlocking various new kinks for you. You feel suspended, weightless, anchored only by the thick pressure of Steve’s cock stretching you open, the biggest you’ve ever taken. You couldn’t form words if you tried. 

“Your—” Steve chokes, trailing off. He grits his teeth, forces his eyes open and looks straight into yours as he slides the rest of the way inside of you. “Fuck. Your cunt. This tight little fuckin’ cunt.” 

You cry out, arms shooting up and sideways to grip onto whatever you can to steady yourself. It doesn’t hurt, though you’re sure to be sore later. But you’ve never taken anyone this big before and it’s different in a way you hadn’t thought to expect. 

You can feel him, hot inside of your body. Every inch of you is aware of it too, making room, adjusting, overwhelmed. You struggle to get air in for a moment but keep a shaky hand pressed to Steve’s side so he doesn’t pull out, trying to catch your breath. 

Steve noses at your cheek. “That okay? S’it—?” 

“Yeah,” you manage, blinking rapidly to clear your vision. “Deep. It’s—so full.” 

Tender as anything, Bucky wipes at your cheeks to catch the tears you hadn’t managed to hide and strokes over your flushed skin with his thumb. “He’s big, isn’t he? Knows how to use it, too.” 

He turns his attention to Steve, sinking fingers into your hair and settling up against your scalp, holding you steady. Sparks dance along your nerve endings at the promise of it, and you can’t help bearing down, drawing Steve further into you in anticipation. 

“Show her, Steve.” 

Steve shifts, bracing his palms on the bed in preparation obediently, but he pauses to kiss you again first, each one sweeter than the last. 

“Tell me if it’s too much, ‘kay?” 

With your approval, he widens his stance by your shoulders, bends his knees to push yours apart a little further, and braces himself to draw backward. 

It’s slow—achingly so, at first, but necessary to get you used to him. He pulls back only halfway before pushing back in, working out of you the same way he’d worked himself in. Your wetness makes it all perfectly audible, the obscene slick noises echoing in all three of your ears each time he shifts. 

You wrap a hand around his bicep, feeling the movement of the muscles underneath, and squeeze to let him know you can take a little more. His thrusts deepen, pulling nearly all the way back out of you before returning this time. It exaggerates the length of his cock, makes every drag of it feel even deeper, every brief moment of emptiness like a loss. 

The three of you are quiet as he works up to a rhythm, entranced by the sight and sound and feeling of him taking you for the first time. You’re struck by a moment of disbelief at how unlikely this had seemed to you before; a fantasy you’d never actually get to have. 

But you do, and it’s better than you imagined, and you’re not planning to waste it thinking of past hypotheticals. 

You clench around Steve again, wiggling your hips, and he seems to get the message. With a quick readjustment of his grip on your hips, he kneels up and drags you with him, laying your ass against the slope of his thick, tensed thighs. It rushes blood to your head that’s still on flatter ground against Bucky’s leg and you gasp, feeling exposed and split open as your legs fall further apart to accommodate him. 

Steve fucks you deep and the right amount of rough, a divot between his eyebrows that tells you it must be feeling good for him too. He’s glistening with sweat now, bare chest and muscles on display, and it’s hard not to feel self conscious around the two of them. But he’s making you feel good enough that it’s easier to let go, and if that didn’t do the trick, Bucky bending over you to kiss you again surely does. 

Watching the two of you kiss makes Steve quicken his pace again. He grunts with each thrust of his hips, your wetness spreading all over his lap and the inside of your thighs and making a mess. When he thumbs over your clit you cry out into Bucky’s mouth, your body suddenly beginning to strive for release again. 

“Fuck,” Steve pants, the circles of his thumb rough with the pace of his thrusts. “Baby. Want—I want you to come with me. Can you?” 

“Nightstand,” you gasp to Bucky on autopilot. “Top drawer.” 

He goes without question, stretching himself out so that he doesn’t have to move you to get to the nightstand. The drawer opens and things rattle to your left as Steve lowers your body back flat to the sheets and begins fucking you in sharp thrusts aimed right at your spot. It’s so good but you need just a little bit more, just—

“Fuckin’ hell,” you hear Bucky groan as he finds your vibrator and frees it from its not-so-secret hiding spot. You’ve resorted to it more often than not lately, the idea of a quick and efficient release more enticing than a slow workup if you’re tired or stressed. “How many times’ this thing heard our names, huh?” 

You don’t give him the answer to that, because it’s mortifying. Instead, you say, “Second button. Hold it down, then press it twice.” 

Seconds later, you hear it buzz to life. Even the sound of it seems to push you closer, the sensation so closely linked to release in your mind that you’re aching for it. Steve’s thumbs are digging into your hips, Bucky’s skin hot beneath your cheek, your body rising to meet each one of Steve’s movements. You’re so overwhelmed you feel like you might cry again—the really good kind of tears. 

And then Bucky presses the vibrator against your clit. 

You do cry, then, and yell something you’ll probably find embarrassing later on. But Bucky knows what you need, doesn’t let you wiggle away from it. There’s nowhere for you to go, even, not when Steve’s cock is buried so deeply inside of you. 

And it is deep; he’s not pulling out as much anymore, holding you still, fucking into in long, punctuated thrusts, never once leaving you empty. He grinds into you in a concentrated effort now that the vibrator’s on you, careful not to knock it off. 

“You gonna come for me?” he grunts to you, disheveled in a way so unlike Steve that it threatens to unravel you. His perfectly styled hair is in ruins lying across his forehead from you and Bucky’s fingers, scratch marks across his chest, a red flush working its way down from there with his restraint. His want. 

You nod, trying and failing to form the words. Bucky, as if reading your mind, kicks the vibrator up just one more notch and presses. 

“Oh, fuck,” Steve shudders, fucking you harder. “M’not—not gonna last. God, you—you’re squeezing me so fuckin’ tight, baby.” 

“Yeah? Is he right, sweetheart? You feelin’ real good? I got this in the right place?” Bucky asks above you. 

You nod, blurry with tears and pleasure. “Don’t—don’t stop.” 

“Nobody’s stoppin’, honey. Promise. Not ‘til you come for us again.” 

You don’t wait for a command or a cue, can’t even wait to make sure that Steve’s there with you before you go tumbling over the edge again. The orgasms with the vibrator are sharper and more sudden, rolling over you in waves. You say their names this time, repeating them as you whimper and squirm between the onslaught of Steve’s cock and the toy, caught in an endless loop of pleasure. 

This one doesn’t last as long, but you’re slower to come back from it. Once your body stops rolling with the last dredges of your orgasm, you feel little things—Steve’s tight grip around your waist, his teeth in your shoulder, the added weight and wetness between your legs as he fucks himself through his own orgasm into the condom. Bucky’s hands still in your hair, his voice praising both of you, the fixed points at the edges of his smile. 

You stay like that for seconds, minutes, you aren’t sure, basking in the aftermath of it. It’d been unexpectedly intense, and you’re once again glad that this is them and not anybody else, content to let yourself float in it for a minute before you have to be coherent again. 

Steve eases off of you slowly, carefully, mindful of your sensitive and spent body as he pulls up and out of you. The emptiness this time around feels more severe, and you’re embarrassed at the noise you make and the fact that Steve has to reach down and curl three fingers back into you until it feels like less of a loss. 

You aren’t certain how long it’s like that—Bucky stroking over your arms, your legs, your thighs, Steve’s fingers gently fucking into you without purpose until your body is more okay with letting him go. Even then there’s a smoothness to it all, a system with you in the center. 

Steve gets up to toss the condom and grab another water while Bucky pushes the last of the other one to your lips and helps you finish it. Awareness begins to trickle in again, your muscles a little sore and the wet spot on the bed less than ideal underneath you, but Bucky remains a solid, sturdy weight at your side. 

Bucky, who’s still achingly hard against his own hip and hasn’t made a single move to do anything about it. He could’ve fucked your mouth while Steve was fucking you, could have gotten himself off with his own hand and come on your chest. It’s not like you would have said no. 

But he hadn’t done any of that, because you had a plan, and because he’s more polite than any of you give him credit for apparently. 

Roll you over. Slip into you, nice and easy. Fuck you deep enough that you can feel me right here. 

Lazily, you roll off of Bucky’s thigh and into a dry spot on the sheets, laying your cheek against the pillow to look up at him. He really is handsome, his hair and his face and his body and his heart, and you want him just as badly as you wanted Steve. You still do, if he’ll have you. 

You reach blindly across the bed to grab his hand and tug. He leans on an elbow beside you obligingly, running a hand up your spine. When you make another noise, he finally undoes the clasp that’d been barely holding your bra still on you all night, and the straps fall open, baring your back to him fully. 

“You wanna sleep, sweetheart?” 

You shake your head, fumbling for his wallet on the corner of the nightstand. You’re still shaking a little but you manage it, flipping one side open and pulling another condom out with two of your fingers to hand back to him. 

With the audacity to look surprised, Bucky glances at you, wide eyed. He leans closer, stroking a hand down the back of your head. “Still want me?” 

You nod against the pillow, slipping one of your arms beneath your head. “Just—slow.” 

“‘Course,” Bucky agrees. 

He arranges you so you don’t have to move anymore, letting your head stay comfortable while he nudges your hips up onto a pillow and into place for him. You’re already wet and open and ready for him and you hope the thought is as exciting to him as it is to you, that he’s been waiting for this as much as you have. 

Distantly, you register movement. The condom being ripped open, footsteps returning, soft voices, the bed creaking under new weight. With anyone else, you would’ve had to be on high alert. Wouldn’t have trusted them to be so vulnerable with. You’re not scared with Steve and Bucky. 

As if proving the point, your body opens for him easily when he presses inside. You’d liked seeing Steve face to face but this way everything is so much tighter, warmer, softer around the edges, every inch of Bucky’s body pressed against yours keeping you anchored to the bed. He’s not as long as Steve but he makes up for it in thickness, the weight of him filling you like pressing on a lovebite you don’t want to fade. 

He pauses for a minute when he’s settled to the hilt, just holding you. Your breathing syncs, heart rates much calmer now, and you welcome him in so much that you think you could nearly fall asleep if he held still long enough. 

And then he moves. 

An arm tucked underneath your shoulders and another keeping a forearm pressed into the pillow beside your head for leverage, Bucky doesn’t bother with the rough fucking Steve had given you. He hardly pulls out much at all. Instead, he grinds into you in steep, slow circles, making sure that neither of you miss any fleeting detail. It’s the most quiet you think he’s ever been around you before, both of you listening, moving, communicating with each other in a way you haven’t before. 

The angle is so different than being on your back. The times you’ve been on your front before were all hands and knees, nothing like this; not the intimate press of a warm chest to your bare shoulder blades, not an open palm against the thud of your heartbeat, not with anyone close enough to feel the reactions of what they were doing to your body. 

It builds quickly this time, and without any conscious effort. You lean gratefully into Steve’s fingers when they move your hair from your face, but otherwise, you’re overwhelmed by nothing but Bucky. He’s thorough and attentive, seemingly conscious of the same approaching crescendo as you are. You can believe it, after making him wait all night. 

Bucky moves your hair from your shoulders too, kisses the curve of your neck, your shoulder, the first notches of your spine. The hand on your chest rises briefly to hold your throat again, keeping you steady as he rocks into you over and over again. 

There’s a subtle tremble in the strength he uses to hold himself above you, a few last strings that need cutting. He’s still taking care of you. 

The pillow propping your hips up gives enough room to reach underneath and touch yourself, but it’s not your hand that you want there. 

Lifting your tired limbs, you shift your arm until you can wrap your fingers around Bucky’s wrist that’s around your chest. You drag it down between your hips and push it where you need it, Bucky’s rough fingers finding your throbbing clit with ease. 

Relief rolls over you at the intensity of it. You don’t have much energy except to tilt your hips back and try to move them back and forth between Bucky’s cock and his fingers, but it’s enough. 

The angle’s better and Bucky slides into you even deeper, his helpless groans matching pitch with your frantic whimpers. It’s not going to take much this time, not with so much build up, and when you feel Bucky’s thighs begin to shake around yours where he’d shoved one up at to the side, you tighten around him, the contractions of your muscles drawing your own orgasm to the surface. 

Bucky takes your jaw in his hand as you come one last time, his fingers spreading out over your face to hold you while he fucks you through his simultaneous release. It’s the least intense one of the night but your tired body feels every ebb and flow of it, clutching onto every part of Bucky you can with how much it rocks you, makes you feel vulnerable. 

He keeps you steady through it, boxed in in his arms just like when you were dancing earlier. Even when you’re both finally through the aftershocks he stays there inside of you, lips pressed against your shoulder, hand tucked underneath your cheek. 

He leans up just enough to press a kiss there too when he eventually lifts himself off of you, and you can feel Steve at the ready with a cool rag to wipe you down. It’s not as good as a shower would be but there’s no way you have the energy for that right now. You appreciate the change in temperature and the gentle treatment as your body winds down from the rush of endorphins you’d flooded it with, and when you’re mostly clean, Steve helps you sit up and slip on Bucky’s shirt while Bucky strips the sheets and tosses a clean blanket over the mattress. 

You settle in between both of them, already nearly asleep when you curl against Bucky’s front and feel Steve slip an arm around you from behind. Bucky’s the last one to talk, thick with sleep and something else you can’t name just yet. 

“Thank you, sweet girl.” 

You press an open mouthed kiss against his chest in response. You’d missed his voice. 

Brendan (and the rest of the campus, for that matter), are all shocked to find out that the school’s biggest brat and its equally notorious playboys are all in a relationship. Even more so when it lasts through another semester and after graduation, too. 

You’re not, though. They’d been wrong about all three of you, so it makes sense they’d be wrong about this too. You’ve stopped caring so much about proving people wrong, especially when you have so many other things to put your focus toward. 

Nudging open the door of your apartment with your shoe, you let yourself inside and set the last moving box down by the dining room table. You smile at the sketchbook that’s been left out, a rough drawing of Bucky on one side, you on the other. 

“Okay, I think that’s everything,” Bucky announces, falling back onto your couch. 

“Until we have to move everything up another floor next week,” Steve reminds him, gulping down water from your sink. Bucky groans. 

“Don’t fuckin’ remind me.” He tosses an arm over his eyes dramatically. “You sure we can’t just live here, sweetheart?” 

“Yes,” you answer immediately. “The size of your unit is practically double mine. If anything, I would be moving in with you.” 

Peeling his arm away, Bucky gives you a mischievous grin. “Now there’s an idea.” 

You laugh, walking over to him. “Easy, tiger. One thing at a time.” 

“Oh? S’that the plan now?” 

You settle on his lap, both of you sweaty from moving their boxes to your place temporarily. The window Steve cracked isn’t doing much in the way of cooling you down, but you sort of like the way Bucky’s hands feel like brands on your hips. 

“No plans. We’re going with the flow, remember?” 

“Ah, that’s right.” He nods, thumbing at your lip. “Does the flow entail us takin’ a break so I can get this mouth on me again?” 

“Horny jar,” you say at the same time as Steve, both of you grinning at Bucky’s groan. 

“I’m not using that damn jar anytime I want my girl,” Bucky complains. “I’d be broke.” 

“Yeah, but we’d have rent covered for the first, like, three months at least,” Steve reasons. 

Tossing an arm over the back of the couch to flip him the middle finger, Bucky uses his other hand to curve around your neck and pull you down to his mouth. He kisses you deep, slow, as lazy as the heat in the apartment, and your sore muscles go slack against him. 

“Maybe we can take a little break before trying to organize everything,” you tell him. 

With a cheer, Bucky lifts you clean off the couch and sets you on the ground, spinning you in his arms. “Fuck yeah. You have the best ideas. I love you.” 

He kisses you again, but both of you pause when you realize what he just said. You glance from Bucky to Steve, who’s already looking over at you from the kitchen, equally frozen. 

“Uh,” Bucky says. “Hey, so. I love you?” 

Your mouth splits into a slow grin when he doesn’t retract it but tells you again, and you laugh as you lean up to kiss him again. 

“I love you too.” 

His arms slip around your waist, keeping your mouths together as he walks you back toward your bed. You can hear Steve clearing your pathway, then finally feel him against you once you hit the mattress. 

“I guess Buck beat me to it,” he smiles, “but I love you, too.” 

“Well, I love you…three?” you ask, giddy as you pull him down against you. 

“So much love,” Steve murmurs against your mouth. “Does this mean we have to start a love jar now?” 

“Nah,” Bucky insists, stripping out of his shirt. “We’d lose count.” 

The three of you collapse into a pile in the center of your mattress in a happy heap, all smiles and wandering hands, and you think, as Steve peels his borrowed boxers down your legs with your shorts, that this is the best you’ve ever felt in a relationship in your life. 

When you feel safe enough, you’ve discovered, you kind of like not having a plan. 

They settle in around you easily, slotting into place, and stay.

.

.

.

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.”

In a last ditch effort to save the marriage instead of fully separating, they got drunk, trying to find the spark that brought them together senior year at Columbia again, and... Jamie came to be.

The now eight month old boy was the light of Steve's life. Named after his best friend, who he thought couldn't be anymore smug about it, Steve loved being a dad. He loved showing his kid how things in the world work for the first time, even if Peggy would dismiss it with a simple "he's not gonna remember this, darling".

The thing is, Steve was a good man.

Which was why it was so hard to come to terms with the fact that whenever his eyes weren't fixated on you, his mind would be imagining all kinds of things that included your perfect existence.

He was sure you came into his life to test him. Test his discipline, his will. Test the strength of the vows he exchanged with Peggy years ago, which now were not strong at all.

It started simple, harmless almost.

He'd see you when he was out for a run early mornings, usually doing yoga in the sunroom of your parents house, the one you moved into after college while you saved up to buy a condo in the city.

At first, he'd avoid his gaze, tell himself this is not how a married man behaves.

Then he'd find excuses.

They started to replace the sidewalk on a patch at the end of his run, so he'd have to stop halfway, and come back the same way, just in time to see you on the elliptical that faced the window, and the beads of sweat dripping down your chest between your breasts in that skimpy sports bra.

He was running more often, while Peggy had Jamie and was adamant on sleep training him. Steve couldn't bear to listen to her let him cry it out.

One scorching day he came back from a run, sweat darkening his grey tank top, checked the mailbox on his way in, grabbed a couple packages that we're sitting on the doorstep and bee-lined to the cupboard to grab himself a glass for ice water.

He really needed to like treadmills more, at least then he'd have his water bottle next to him.

As he gulped the last few sips of the cup, he went on about his day, waiting for his heart rate to come down a bit, waiting to stop sweating enough for a shower to be productive.

He went through the mail, threw the junk mail out, put the things needing attention in a neat pile on the kitchen isle to take care of later.

Then, came the packages.

Mindlessly opening them, a couple were things he'd got for a new little greenhouse project, different things to keep bugs away from the out of season flowers he was trying to grow, then an Amazon package had some new pacifiers for Jamie, and when he got to the last one, Steve choked on his own saliva.

The tiniest thongs, all sorts of colors, themes, just... there.

A pale pink lacy one, another light pink with mesh on the front and cherries embroidered in it, some black ones, white ones with pretty little blue flowers on them, and even a crotchless one.

The tissue paper crinkled as he went through the box more and more.

Was Peggy planning something? These aren't even her sty—

His thoughts got cut short by the doorbell, and he put the box back on the counter.

He wiped his palms on his hands and crossed the kitchen and living room, and when he opened the door, there you were. 

In your little yoga wrap top, and leggings, looking like you just got demolished by the elliptical in the best way. 

“Hi, Mr. Rogers,” you said, all breathy and sweet, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I think a package of mine might’ve been delivered here? FedEx picture looked like your porch.”

Steve stared at you. Just for a second too long, he was dumbfounded. What were you— oh. Oh. 

The Victoria's Secret box wasn't his wife's. It was yours. He just went through his neighbor's thong shipment like a fucking creep. 

Your cheeks were a little flushed from the heat, there was a bead of sweat on your temple, and you looked so young, standing there in the bright morning light, all bright eyes and no idea how hard his heart was pounding.

"Mr. Rogers?" You pulled him out of his trance and he almost wished you didn't. The inside of his head was less tempting than whatever could happen with you this close to him, even with his wife in the nursery with his kid.

"Uh, yeah—I, uh—hang on.”

He turned around to get the box, deliver his guilt to you wrapped in pretty lace and pink tissue paper. You shamelessly dragged you eyes over him. The sheen coat of swet on his arms, the damp hair on the nape of his neck, the way his shirt was sweaty enough your pervy little brain wanted to suck on it until it was dry. 

Meanwhile, he was cringing at the thought of delivering you the box. He couldn't even pretend he didn't go through it. If it was any other type of merch it would be fine, but it was lingerie, and it was you, and now he'd have to physically stop himself from picturing you in them. 

Should he apologize? Say he opened it on accident? Say he thought it was Peggy’s? Say nothing?

“Here,” he said, avoiding your eyes. “Sorry—I didn’t check the name before opening.” You took it with both hands, your fingers brushing his.

You took one look at the box and shrugged. “That’s okay,” you said, meeting his eyes now. "Just regular underwear. Everyone wear 'em, right?" A playful chuckle left your lips and a light went off in the back of his mind. 

So this was just your everyday? You were walking around smelling like roses and waffle cones, looking teh way you did, and under all of that, some sort of skimpy thong?

Steve’s brain short-circuited.

You turned, walked away down the driveway with a little sway in your hips, and Steve stood there like an idiot, still half-hard, with guilt bubbling like acid in his throat.

He let the door click closed behind you, his forehead touching the cool wood while he tried to pull himself together. He pushed away from the door with a dissatisfied goran, barely there, ready to shower the afternoon off.

When he turned around, Peggy stood there, at the bottom of the stairs, holding an obviously freshly up from a nap Jamie. 

She had one of his old college tees on, worn soft from years of sleep and laundry. Jamie was gnawing on the corner of a stuffed giraffe, looking around with wide curious eyes.

“Who was at the door?” Her voice was light, worriless. Just making conversation after a well deserved Saturday nap.

“Uh… just a delivery mix-up. One of the neighbors.” Steve tried to keep his voice even, indifferent. 

Jamie babbled something unintelligible, and Peggy kissed the top of his head before heading into the kitchen.

"You'd think a delivery company would check an address more closely." She chuckled. 

Steve gave her a nervous chuckle back and followed her to the kitchen. Jamie cooed at him, wanting to speak so bad but not quite having the words for it yet. 

A few days later, Steve thought to himself, get a grip. 

This isn't how a married man behaved, he reminded his stupid brain, and his even stupider cock, this isn't how a married man behaves towards a girl half his age and not his wife.

So he went on a run earlier. Not too much, just about an hour.

The air wasn't as warm now, he has to run a little harder to get the same sweat going, but the fair noise of the critckets through his earbuds soothed him. Mixed with the deep indigo of the sky lightening by the hour, it was like the world slowed down for a moment.

And it came to a full stop when he was at the end of his run, almost to his house, passing yours, and the lights in your room were on, your curtains being forgotten wide open and inviting the wandering eyes of a guilty ridden new father next door. 

Lit from the side by the soft, amber glow of a lamp—skin flushed, still dewy from a shower, he saw you drop your towel, and walk around your room looking for things. Just a little thong stretched across your hips, your body relaxed, soft, beautiful in a way that felt dangerously intimate.

That was enought to stop him dead in his tracks. You gathered your hair up into a loose, careless bun, strands falling free at your temples, at the nape of your neck. The kind of messiness that made him ache with the sudden, visceral urge to reach out—to tangle his fist in it, to pull, to put you exactly where he wanted you.

He wathed you pump lotion into your hands and rub it all over your chest, your breats, shoulders, and all the way down your legs, turning around to look at yourself in the mirror and put some on your ass too. 

He wondered if that's what smelled like vanilla and roses and a dissoluting marriage.

He should have looked away. He knew that. The thought barely registered anymore, drowned out by the way your nipples were visibly tight, pebbled, the way his body reacted instantly, predictably, traitorously. His cock stirred in his shorts, heavy and insistent, and shame flooded him right alongside desire.

And then you looked.

Straight.

At. 

Him. 

There was no confusion in your expression. No panic, no scramble for the curtain, just recognition.

He was already blushing from the run, the heat of his blood pumping faster to move his muscles, but the way you grinned and waved your fingers instead of looking ashamed had him turning a whole new shade. 

He held your gaze for a few seconds, enough to get his cock to stir in his pants, until the light on the house next door came on. His house.

He saw you quickly draw the curtains closed, and he sheepishly made his way in the door and up to his shower. 

Steve had just finished changing Jamie’s diaper when Peggy appeared in the doorway, arms crossed gently, that familiar half-smile on her face.

“We’re going out tonight.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Dinner. Just us. I made a reservation at that place on Monroe. The one with the garden patio you like.”

He scooped Jamie into his arms and straightened. “Peg, I don’t think we—”

“We need this, Steve.” Her voice stayed calm. Measured. “It’s been a while since we did anything just the two of us. You said you wanted to try.”

His jaw flexed. Guilt already tightening in his throat.

“There’s no one to watch Jamie.”

“Already handled. I asked the girl next door. She’s got babysitting experience—says she used to nanny when she was in school. And she’s always been so sweet when I’ve run into her with him.”

Peggy stepped closer, brushing her hand over Jamie’s head, then turning to the pile of onesies to her left. 

“She offered to babysit,” she said casually, while folding Jamie’s tiny laundry into perfect stacks. “She’s got experience, and she’s so sweet with him. Honestly, I think he lights up more for her than he does for your mom.”

The second he agreed without putting up much more of a fight, he knew he stepped into a trap of his own making. 

“What time?” he asked, voice barely steady.

“Seven-thirty.” Peggy kissed his cheek. “She’ll come by a little after seven.” He forced a tight smile. Nodded. Said nothing as Peggy walked off to pack the diaper bag just in case.

He stared down at Jamie, who was blinking up at him with the easy, gummy innocence of a baby who didn’t know his father was a fucking mess.

The hours that followed crawled. 

He was sure she knew of all of it. But what all of it was there to know? Nothing had, or would, happened. The only proof of his existing temptation was the throughts swimming in the groves of his brain, and he kept those under lock and key at the bottom of the article ocean. 

Steve couldn't focus. He kept wiping the counters even though they were clean. Rearranging mail that didn’t need touching. Every sound from outside made his heart stutter.

At 7:04, the doorbell rang its usual tone, and he answered the door, Peggy still upstairs finishing getting ready, and Jamie on his play pad in the living room. 

He was met with the sight of you in the plainest clothes he's ever seen, black leggings that hugged your lower body just right, a white tank top, and an oat-colored cashmere wrap sweater over top, holding a tote bag and a warm smile that made his stomach flip.

“Hi, Mr. Rogers,” you said brightly. “I brought some books and little toys. Hope that’s okay.”

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “That’s… yeah. Thanks for doing this.”

“Happy to help,” you chirped, stepping past him, your shoulder brushing his arm, pretending the sight of him in a dark dress shirt and his beard looking like he just trimmed it, and hair pushed back didn't make your knees weak.

Peggy appeared just behind him, purse in hand, perfume light and citrusy and familiar.

“Thank you again for doing this,” she said warmly. “He just needs his bottle around 8, he might fuss a little, but he’s been good all day.” She gestured to the living room, making sure she had the right belongings in her purse. 

“He’s an angel,” you replied, reaching for Jamie, watching him extend his arms to you like it was second nature. “We're gonna have a good time, aren't we, sweet boy?” Jamie cooed and curled into your chest like he’d belonged there all along.

He wanted to stay. Wanted to sit too close on the couch. Watch you bat your lashes while pretending to focus on cartoons. He wanted to watch your hands move, wanted to feel the weight of your gaze, wanted to see if you’d say something—anything—about that morning. About the window. The wave.

But instead, he took Peggy’s hand. Walked out the front door.

And wondered if hell felt exactly like this.

The restaurant was beautiful. Romantic, even. Everything Peggy said it would be.

Flickering candles. String lights woven through ivy. That faint, expensive smell of rosemary and wine and fresh bread. Soft music and even softer chatter all around them.

Peggy was saying something about a new gallery opening. Or maybe it was her Pilates instructor. Steve wasn’t listening. He was trying.

Really, he was.

He nodded at all the right moments, let out soft mhm’s and chuckled where appropriate. But every time he blinked, it wasn’t her voice he heard. It was yours.

He took a sip of his wine and Peggy sighed, noticing the distance, the distraction behind his expression. “I brought the monitor,” she said, proud. “See? We can still relax. Nothing to worry about.”

She turned the small screen to him, low volume to not disturb anyone else as the waiter refilled their waters. And there was Jamie. 

Sitting up in the crib, like he just woke up from what should've been an entire night's sleep, whimpering softly like he was about to start fussing. Little mouth twisted in that almost-cry, fists rubbing at his eyes.

You came into frame like something out of a dream—hair tied up, neckline of your soft cardigan slipping just slightly off your shoulder. Your hands moved with such careful affection. No tension. No rush.

“Hey, hey… sweetheart, what’s the matter?” you whispered gently. “Oh, bubba, you had a bad dream?” you cooed, scooping him up into your arms. “I’m right here. You’re okay. You’re okay, honey.”

Jamie’s cries softened the second his cheek hit your shoulder and you swayed back and forth, his tiny little fists quickly finding the cashmere fabric you wore and clutching it. 

“You just missed some snuggles, huh? It’s okay. I get it. Me too sometimes.”

His eyes stayed glued to the screen, chest tight. Something heavy pressed behind his ribs as he watched you whisper something to Jamie. 

Your hand curled around his foot, absently rubbing over the little sock, and Steve didn’t even realize his jaw was clenched until his teeth ached.

Because Peggy—Peggy, whom he loved, or used to, or wanted to love again—never touched Jamie like that. She never murmured soft things for no reason. Never stroked his cheek or held him just because. 

She followed the schedule. Let him cry it out. Laughed when Steve said he wanted to rock him longer. She mothered, but she didn’t nurture.

“See? Nothing to worry about.”

The house was dark when they got home. Just the warm, amber glow of the hallway lamp spilling faint light across the hardwood floors.

Peggy slipped in ahead of him, kicking off her heels with a little sigh. “God, I forgot what it feels like to eat without a bib being thrown at me.”

Steve chuckled lightly as he put the keys in the key bowl by the door, both of them walking towards the living room where you were, watching the sizzle of the TV light washing both your face and Jamie's back in all kinds of colors.

You were curled up on the couch, socked feet planted in front of you so your legs could be flexed, Jamie fast asleep on your chest while one of your hands lightly grazed your nails over his back. 

His cheek was pressed right above your heart, his little hand fisted in the fabric of your top, thumb resting in his mouth. You had a cheek flush with the top of his head, enjoying whatever movie you had put on.

“Sorry,” you whispered, a little sheepish when you saw both of them. “He's just so cute, I didn’t want to move him too soon. I kinda… love baby cuddles.” 

Peggy smiled, already walking over. “Oh, no worries, honey. Thank you so much for staying late. You’ve been such a help.” She reached down, carefully gathering Jamie from your arms.

Jamie stirred a little, let out a sigh, and curled right back into her like a habit.

You stood, smoothing your top, brushing invisible wrinkles from your leggings. “He’s so sweet,” you said softly. “You’ve got such a good baby.”

"He's all Steve's personality." Peggy turned around and, already halfway up the stairs with Jamie cradled in her arms, called over her shoulder, “I’ll go lay him down. Be right back.”

Silence fell between you two, and it didn't take long for you to turn to Steve, who as now looking everywhere except you.

“You guys have a good night?” He blinked, swallowed hard.

“Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse. “Yeah, it was nice.”

“That restaurant’s supposed to be amazing.” You shifted on the balls of your feet, eyes raking over him, and finally stopping at his, holding his gaze like both of you knew what unspoken words wanted to be said. He just nodded, not trusting his mouth to say anything. “I’ll, um—I should go.”

“Right,” he said, but didn’t move. You gave him one last smile, then stepped past him, grabbing your bag from the side table. “Night, Mr. Rogers.”

And with a soft click of the front door, you were gone. 

Gone from his house, but not from his thoughts.

He didn't see you for the whole weekend. 

You spent it in the city with your best friend, something about watching Hamilton, having rooftop cocktails, and dancing until your feet hurt. 

He heard you come back the same night Peggy left for her monthly girls' dinner, which consisted of wine, fine dining, and their own version of a book club in someone's house after. 

He watched the shadow of the leaves outside on his ceiling, almost staring a hole into the floral texture he let Peggy so carefully pick. It was 1:32am. 

He knew it becuase he looked at that clock probably four times in the last thirty seconds, hoping it would say it was four hours later so he could wake up and get his day started.

He tried closing his eyes, letting his mind wander into more peaceful scenarios, a quiet day at home, drinking tea, snow outside and just watching some random show while the fireplace ran. 

Except you also quickly intruded into those thoughts. 

And before he realized, he was imagining forcing your back into the plush cushions of his couch as he buried his face between your legs, lapping up between your folds like he'd never get the chance to again. 

His hand palmed himself through his grey sweats as he imagined your moans, getting more and more high pitched by the minute, as he drove you closer and closer to the ed—

Ring! Ring! Ring!

He heard the soft ringtone and vibration of his phone on the nightstand, groaning in disapproval, thinking it was Peggy calling to tell him she was on her way home and talk through her drive. It made her feel safer, but also right now it definitely made his frustrated he couldn't take care of himself. 

He turned on his side, picking up the phone without paying much attention. "Hello?" 

His voice was dripping with annoyance, a feeling he tried to keep at bay when talking to the woman he was supposed to be trying to have a happy marriage with. 

“Hey, Mr. Rogers. Sorry—it’s late, I know.” Your voice came through the speaker and he actually closed and opened his eyes a couple times thinking he was dreaming. 

"Is everything okay?" He cleared his throat when his voice failed him for a beat. 

"I keep hearing this noice outside my window, can you see anything from yours? Maybe a branch or something?"

It was pathetic how he did whatever your sweet voice told him to. Like a sailor to a siren, luring him to his own demise. 

He threw the covers off of himself, the shuffle being audible on your end of the line, and as soon as he stopped in front of his big bedroom windows that faced the side windows of your room, there you were.

Your bed faced the glass, soft glow coming from your barthoom light being on and the street lights coming in, and your frame was spread on the bed like you wanted to invite the Devil through the gates of Heaven yourself. 

The gates of Heaven, in this metaphor, being your spread thighs, pussy only covered by the white cotton of your thong, getting more sheer by the second, the more you touched yourself, rubbing two fingers up and down, making the fabric dance over your slit. 

Steve could hear your shaky little breaths through the phone, no point in trying to keep your voice level now. "What the fuck are you doing?"

He watched you shuffle a little, trying to angle your body in a way that you could steal glances at him if you contorted your neck enough. "I missed you the other night."

You let out a shaky breath when your hand finally dared to go under the fabric, touching the wet heat of your slit, dragging your fingers up and down.

Steve was speechless. What in the actual fuck was he to do?

"I'm married." He didn't know if he was trying to reason with you or himself. Either way, there was no talking sense into this situation. 

You gave a dismissive huff, reacing down to pull the thong off and throw it somewhere across the room, spreading your thighs wider. "I don't think either of us cares about that right now."

Steve’s free hand braced on the windowsill. The other still held the phone to his ear like it might collapse otherwise. “You shouldn't be doing this,” he rasped. That just made you chuckle. 

"Oh? You're gonna talk me through what I should be doing?" You bit your lip at the thought. 

Steve groaned. "You should be hanging out with people your age, not—"

"Not my obscenely hot neighbor?"

"Married neighbor."

You sighed. "You keep saying that like you're trying to convince yourself you're not enjoying this… a pretty young thing just wanting you." You heard him breat heavily, like he was absorbing the truth in your words. 

"C'mon, Steve. Let— fuck," you inserted your middle finger into yourself, a moan breaking your sentence in half. "Let your hand wander… just… touch yourself, don't make me do it alone." 

As if he needed anymore guilt to eat him alive. 

Steve’s hips shifted forward without thinking, his breath coming heavier. His cock pressed hard against the front of his sweatpants, throbbing with every shallow inhale.

You moved a little faster now, fingers slick, lips parted, and he could see the exact second your brows pulled together, your thighs tensed, and your chest heaved.

"Please, Steve…"

He shoved his sweats down just enough, cock springing free at full attention, getting redder with want, a hiss of relief leaving his lips as he wrapped his hand around himself, pumping slowly.

"God, I bet you'd feel so good —" You kept going, making him dizzy with your words, to the point where he forgot the circumstances for a moment. "I'd keep you warm, Steve, wouldn't be able to pry me off of you."

"Wouldn't want you to —" He spit in his hand, the filthy sound coming into your ears and shooting straight into your core. "Would keep you filled up, always, sweetheart."

You whined. "Want you to, oh God, Steve—ah!"

"You're close, aren't you?" He taunted, stroking himself faster. You nodded as if he could ssee you, and then realized he couldn't.

"Yeah, yeah, yes—"

Breathy and shaky and out of your mind was how you came around your fingers, imagining they were his, as he choked on his own spit across the way, watching you pump your pussy until he came on his hand, ragged breaths coming through the phone. 

You wanted to giggle to yourself, but settled for a quick "Good night, Mr. Rogers." and left him, quite literally, standing with his dick in his hands. 

Somehow, the next day brought more shame along the sunlight. 

Steve didn't know what had possessed him to cross the line. A look here and there, he had convinced himself, was fine. People looked, you could admit someone was objectively attractive without being attracted to them. 

Jerking off on the phone with your hot, younger neighbor while watching her finger herself thinking of you? 

There was no mental gymnastics that could morally justify that.

He commanded himself to keep his head screwed on straight, better and tighter than before. So he started the day gardening.

And since God hates Steve Rogers, He made you be at your parent's pool, in a nice little bikini, getting eaten by the warm sunshine like Steve wanted to devour you. 

You looked at him from a distance first. The hose is coiled around his forearm, the water spraying in slow arcs across the flower beds. You let your eyes shamelessly linger on his arms, the beads of sweat around his neck, his hair, his beard… You gave his groin all the attention it seemed to want from behind your sunglasses. 

And then, like the living divine punishment you were, you decided to get up from the tanning chair and approach him, slinging your arms over the fence and looking around him aove your sunglasses. 

“Morning, Mr. Rogers.”

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” he says quietly, not taking his eyes from the roses he was trying to keep alive in the summer heat. 

Maybe you loved playing with him a little too much. “Doing what?”

“This.” He nods toward the street, toward the sidewalk, toward you. “Flirting. Teasing. Whatever game this is.” His voice was hushed, rightfully so. 

You raise a brow. Innocent. “I’m not playing anything.” Then your voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "And I think we're way past flirting… don't you?"

“You are. You have been for weeks.”

You tilted your head, looking for him to meet your gaze. "You're gonna tell me you didn't like it? I thought it was pretty clear when guys did."

You were going to be his demise. He was sure of it. Just might as well get the shovel and start digging the six feet he'd need so Peggy could bury his ass.

“You should be going after guys your age,” he says suddenly. Quiet. Bitter. “Not married men twice your age with babies at home.”

You chuckled, turning your gaze to the street and back at him. "Boys my age are boring."

“You think I don’t lie awake every night wishing I could stop thinking about you?” He finally gave into admitting it, hoping the pathetic confession would make you want to at least help a man keep his dignity. 

He was about to keep going with his rant, when he saw you look over your shoulder and wave. "Oh! Hi, Mrs. Rogers!" You gave her a beaming smile, like you weren't trying to tangle her husband in your vines. 

Steve stiffened. Turned his head just in time to see Peggy walking across the yard with a tote bag in one hand and Jamie bouncing on her hip, dressed in a little onesie with stars on it.

“These flowers are so pretty,” you chirped, stepping back toward the fence line like you hadn’t just told Steve he was unraveling under your fingertips. “Did you plant these? They’re gorgeous.”

Peggy beamed. “I did, yes! But Steve keeps them alive. I just pick the colors.”

Jamie clapped softly, and you waved at him. “Hey, cutie.”

Peggy stepped closer, shifting Jamie to her other hip, and smiled wide at you. “Hey, we’re doing a little thing for the Fourth—just some food, neighbors, maybe sparklers in the driveway. You should come.”

Fuck me and all my life, was what Steve thought. 

“Oh!” You put a hand to your chest. “Really?”

“Of course. Bring a friend if you want. We’ll have a kiddie pool and a grill and probably too much potato salad.”

“That sounds so fun,” you said sweetly. “Thank you. I’d love to come.” You nodded. 

Peggy turned to Steve then, completely unaware of the tension vibrating off his skin.

“Babe, can you grab the sunscreen from the patio table? I left it when I brought Jamie’s snack out.”

Steve nodded mutely and stepped away without a word, fingers twitching at his sides. When he got inside he watched you two through the window, watched Peggy get Jamie closer to you and the little boy beam at you, and he wondered just how he was supposed to get out of this. 

It was the hottest day of the year, like the sun and warmth Gods were shining upon all the little kids who wanted to play in the water all day.

And like the Devil himself wanted to drag Steve Rogers down by the balls. 

Plastic chairs scattered across driveways. Coolers open. Kids shrieking over bubbles and popsicles. The scent of grill smoke hung in the air with fireworks anticipation, and patriotic bunting flapped lazily on every porch.

Little by little, everyone arrived. And with each clink of the backyard fence, Steve caught himself looking towards the sound to see if it was you. 

Exactly twenty-three minutes into the party, it was.

You had a flowery sundress on, red roses in the print contrasting with the white background. The sleeves were short, barely there, white lace straps, really. And it had a white lace trim to the sweetheart neckline. 

To anyone else, you waved at him like you'd wave to Mr. Pierce down the street, or Stark Sr on the house next to his. 

To him, he knew you were looking at him like you wanted to unhinge your jaw and swallow him whole. 

He manned the grill with such precision one would think he was trying to cook the burgers by staring them into broiling. 

You said hi to Peggy. Hugged her. Kissed Jamie’s cheek and cooed at him like you were made for it.

And Steve knew, in the marrow of his bones, that if he didn’t get himself under control, someone was gonna notice how tense he was. How the veins in his forearms were flexing under the weight of a thousand unsaid things. How his eyes lingered too long on your collarbones, your thighs, the slight sway of your hips when you laughed at something Peter Parker said across the lawn.

Steve hated how easy it was for Peter to make you laugh. And he hated that he hated it. 

He dropped another patty on the grill, the sizzle matching what his brain sounded like ringing between his ears, trying to be distracted by anything and everything that didn't smell like roses, didn't smile like an angel, and didn't sound like the Devil.

You came up behind him slow. Soft. So that no one noticed. Not Peggy chatting at the lemonade table, not Stark keeping score on the cornhole game, not Peter pretending he wasn’t watching.

“Mr. Rogers,” you murmured, the title curling at the edges like sin, “Can you make me a rare one with double cheese?”

You stepped in closer—too close for propriety, not close enough to look suspicious. Just enough to press the lightest drag of your fingers along his lower back, right above the waistband of those godforsaken powder blue shorts. 

Your nails trailed up his spine like you had every right to be there. Like your touch was casual.

You leaned in like you were checking the condiments. Your voice was so low only he could hear it. "I like mine a little more raw."

“You don't know when to fucking stop, do you?” You didn’t pull back. Instead, you picked up a paper plate from the stack and traced your thumb over the rim.

“I figured I’d get the good cut, since you’re the one handling all the meat.” That got him. He inhaled visibly and before he could say something back, your demeanor changed, and he heard someone call out your name from the other side of the party. 

A couple hours later, between watermelon margaritas and little mini quiche, Steve saw red. 

Peter was too touchy, too eager, too young for you. You'd eat him alive. There's no way he could handle you in the way you deserved. 

Everyone was still having fun, mingling at the party, and Steve, disastrouns bull-in-a-china-shop-Steve, bumped into Peter while he was carrying a bag of charcoal for more grilling, making the red liquid from Peter's glass splash all over your pretty dress. 

Peggy wasted no time, getting you a cloth and a handy tide pen, pointing you to the washroom way down the hall inside, tucked around the living room and the stairs that led to their room upstairs. 

Your footsteps were quick, not wanting to stain the fabric you knew would be a pain to clean, and as you waited for the sink water to warm up a little to make your cleaning easier, you admired your own reflection. 

Seconds later, the doorknob rattled, and you turned around.

The door opened quickly, and closed just as fast. Slow enough that Steve's big frame was now occupying the small washroom facing the mirror, your backside now pressed to the marble counter as you braced your hands on it.

Steve stood there for a second, dressed in the blue shorts and white tank top, blue eyes burning through you like he could see through skin and bone straight to the part of you that was waiting for this.

If you were Superman, you'd be able to see the cogs turning inside his skull, almost like he was trying to talk himself down of whatever he came here to do.

There was still time to turn back.

Pretend he didn't know you were in here, wrong door, let out an apology and move on with his life. His jaw flexed like he’d bitten the inside of his cheek to keep quiet, and he ran a hand through his hair like he didn’t know what else to do with it.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” you murmured, even as your fingers smoothed over your neckline. “Someone could see.”

His eyes dropped to your hands. “Don’t,” he said roughly. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Your lashes fluttered with mock innocence, tilting your face. “Fix my dress? The fabric is delicate, y'know.”

"I'm not talking about that and you know it." He paused, just to see if you'd admit it. Admit you were evil and horrible and living to ruin his life. When you didn't, he kept going."

'You think this is funny? Flirting with Parker, prancing around like that, like he has a chance, in front of—”

“I think you told me to hang out with people my age.”

The audible sound of air fuming out of his nostrils was enough to make heat travel down to your core. You could feel his restraint looser and looser by the second, you were almost there. Almost getting what you wanted. 

"You’re staring," you said lightly, fingers drifting down the cleavage of your dress as if tempting him to tear at the lace trim. "I thought it was the young guys who were supposed to have trouble keeping their eyes up."

Steve blinked, as if coming out of a fog, finally realizing just how close he had gotten to you, almost flush with you, as your eyes looked up at him with innocence that was surely long gone from your mind. 

Your breath mingled with his. He could feel it, light and teasing and so damn warm. You raised your hand to graze your fingertips on the side of his wrist, gauging how far he'd let you go.

Once you were met with no resistence, you grabbed his hand, your gaze never leaving his face while he didn't know if he should look at your clevage, your lips, or your eyes. You brought his hand under your dress, his thick fingers making contact with the wettening cotton, making you let out a shaky breath. 

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” you murmur, searching his eyes for any sort of feeling but haze. I mean, it’s polite to check on your neighbors, right?”

His lack of response was even more inviting. Like he was some helpless fool walking into a trap, only to realize he wanted to be caught.

"Doesn't it feel good? Mmm?" You tilted your head the other way. "Feeling someone who actually wants you?" 

“It must be so exhausting,” you whispered, “pretending like you don’t think about it. Like you don’t wonder.”

And that's when his control fully snapped. 

His right hand came up to grab your face, squishing your cheeks together, while his left kept its place between your thighs, his trance broken now. 

"Shut the fuck up." Steve spoke through gritted teeth but being more mad at himself for not pulling away than anything else. 

"C'mon, Steve—" Your voice was arrogant even thought you looked downright silly with your cheeks like that, and he finally looked you in the eyes. 

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says. “And you know damn well I’m the one paying for it.” He held you gaze for a second, and the rotten part of him took over. 

His index and middle fingers, previously still, moved in tight, slow circles around your clothed clit, making you let out a low chuckle against his mouth. You watched the shift in his eyes—that flicker of something hot, dangerous, uncontrollable—and you knew you had him.

“This what Peter does to you?”

A sharp little whimper escapes your throat.

“No?” His voice is cruel now. Mocking. “Then why are you dripping like this, sweetheart?”

He presses just a little harder through the cotton, dragging two fingers along your slit, slow and mean, until your knees start to buckle.

“Careful,” he murmured. “Wouldn’t want the neighbors to see what a filthy little thing you are. Can’t even make it through a block party without begging for attention.”

You tried to snap back—something snarky, something bratty, but he took his hand away, and put it back on the inside of your panties, the feeling of the pads of his fingers through your folds enough to shut you up instantly.

“Go ahead,” he whispers, eyes blazing. “Say something smart now.”

He slipped two fingers past the fabric, found your bare, swollen folds, and you went limp with a soft, broken sound. He held your face in place, watching every single twitch and tremble like he was memorizing it.

“God, you’re so desperate,” he groaned. “You want everyone to see what I do to you? Is that it? Want me to fuck you through your pretty little sundress while Peggy serves talks about cocktails twenty feet away?”

You whimpered, shaking your head even as you grind down on his hand.

“No?” He laughed, dark and malicious. “Then why aren’t you stopping me?”

“That’s what I thought,” he whispered. “My good girl’s all mouth until someone makes her use it.”

You were trembling, trying to breathe. Not even bothering to hide how hard you were clenching around his fingers, how badly you wanted him to give in, pull his hand out and unzip his jeans and just ruin you right there against sink.

You shake your head, gasping.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “Knew you were walking around this party leaking for me.”

You try to answer—try to say something—but his grip on your face wasn't giving up, and the slow pump of his fingers grazer the sweet spot inside of you was agonizing.

“Bet you were hoping I’d see you with him,” he sneers. “Bet you wanted to make me jealous.”

You nod, and that’s all it takes.

“So fuckin’ needy,” he breathed, lips just a smidge shy of being against yours. “So wet for your neighbor. For a marriedman. You know how sick that makes you, baby?”

You choke on a moan.

“Use your words.”

“I don’t care,” you whisper, brows furrowed, sweat forming on your hairline from the sheer effort of staying as quiet as possible. “I don’t fucking care, Steve—please—”

That breaks something in him, and he finally kisses you, tasting the strawberry flavor of your lipgloss, little specks all over his lips.

His tongue explored your mouth, not even making ceremony of the fact that he was comandeering you as a whole.

He pulled his fingers out, and presses harder, teasing circles over your clit with one hand while the other slips behind you to cup your ass, grinding you down on his fingers shamelessly.

“You wanna come right here, whil'e they're all out there?” he hisses. “While Peter waits for you inside, wondering where you went?”

You nod frantically, and he chuckles darkly—mean, condescending, filthy.

“Yeah, of course you do. My filthy little girl just can’t help it, can she?” He leaned in, breath hot against your ear.

“Come for me,” he growls. “Be a good girl and come just like this, too desperate to wait for my cock.”

Your mouth falls open in a silent cry as your whole body spasms, hips stuttering, thighs trembling, eyes rolling back as slick coated down his fingers and your own inner thighs.

Steve watched.

He watched like he was starving.

And then—slowly, deliberately—he brought his glistening fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean. One. By. One.

He straightened your dress with infuriating care. Smoothed the fabric over your hips like nothing happened, slipped out without raising suspicion and left you to look at your wrecked reflection in the mirror of his house.

The fireworks were long over.

Peggy had been asleep for hours, curled up with a sleep mask and earplugs while Steve wandered back outside to finish putting away the chairs and rinsing out the pool house. The air still smelled like charcoal and chlorine and jasmine—the last ghost of a summer night that didn’t know how to quit.

He was halfway through folding up the last tablecloth when he heard it: soft footsteps on concrete. A shuffle behind him that was barely there.

When he turned, there you were.

Barefoot with your hair tied up, lips shiny with reapplied gloss. Wearing the same little sundress from earlier, only now it’s loose and rumpled, slipping off one shoulder like you couldn’t quite decide if you were getting ready for bed or not.

“Forgot my sunglasses,” you say, but your eyes are fixed on him, not looking anywhere else.

Steve straightens slowly, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, trying not to show the way his pulse kicked up.

“They’re on the counter by the grill,” he says, gesturing toward the pool house. “Probably with the other stuff people left behind.”

You walked past him without another word, your shoulder brushing his arm.

The pool house was dark, except for the amber glow of the overhead string lights Steve hung last summer. You stepped inside like you own the place, lean over and easily find the sunglasses in their little makeshift "lost and found" bin, dress riding up just enough to show the backs of your thighs.

Steve lingered at the door, watching, wanting.

“Find ’em yet?”

You glanced back at him over your shoulder. “Not yet. But I’m sure they’re in here somewhere.” You were 100% lying and he knew it.

It’s quiet again. The kind of quiet that buzzes with everything unspoken.

Then you straighten, slowly, holding your sunglasses, and turn to face him—closer now than before. Too close. Steve can see the shine on your collarbone, the little mark he left on your inner thigh with his knuckles, the hint of lace peeking out beneath your hem.

“Thanks for keeping an eye on them,” you murmur. “You always watch so carefully.”

Something in his face flickers. He knows he should leave, knows he should walk further from the line he crossed earlier, but now that he has, he couldn't bring himself to care.

He couldn't not wonder if you tasted as sweet from the source as you did on his fingers. Couldn't stop imagining your moans if he had his cock in you, since you lost your mind over only his fingers earlier.

He's painfully aware he should bring the trash inside, and go sleep in bed next to his wife.

Instead, he let the door swing shut behind him. He stared at you. Your face, your mouth, your eyes.

“What are you doing?”

You tilt your head slightly. “You tell me.”

There’s a long pause. Steve breathes out slowly, like he’s holding back the last thread of the rope he's gonna hang his sins with.

He doesn't answer.

“It’s okay, Steve,” you whisper. “You don’t have to be good right now.” His hand caught your wrist and he leaned in.

His mouth crashed into yours, swallowing the smug smile that adorned your face, his hands grabbing at your body like he could anchor himself to your skin. You gasped softly into him when he pressed you flush against him, and you could feel his hard-on through his shorts.

He fisted the back of your hair and tilted your head until you gasped again. “You knew what you were doing,” he hissed. “Wearing that little sundress, letting him follow you around like a damn puppy—”

“I only ever wanted you to see,” you interrupted, voice shaking as he backed you against the little sofa in the corner. “You were the only one I was trying to make jealous. I didn’t even like him like that—I never wanted anyone else.”

It unravels something in him.

Steve narrowed his eyes and turned you around, pressing you down into the cushions. The gold of the lights inside mixed with the lights reflecting off the pool made it dirtier and more secret in his mind.

As if pulling your hips up and flipping your dress up to rip your thong down your leg wasn't dirty enough.

He slid two fingers between your folds, taking way too much time for someone who was sneaking around, and saw your cunt clench around nothing at the feeling

“Soaked,” he growled. “You were like this when I had you at the party, weren’t you?”

You whined, hips rolling back into his hand, and that’s all the answer he needed. His fingers breached your opening from behind, curling towards him and rubbing the pads of his fingers over the spot that had shivers running up and down your spine.

He draped himself over you, other hand curling around your jaw pressing hard, your eyes fluttered open, glazed over, pupils blown to hell.

“Say it,” he whispered right in your ear. “Say who you were wet for. Who you wanted.”

“Y-you—”

He pushed his fingers in deeper, curling just right, making you try, and fail, to hold back a whine.

“That’s right. You wanted me. Not Peter. You wanted a man to ruin you.”

He gets you right at the edge, where he can feel your body trying to pull him in closer, throb around him, and pulls his hand out.

You were so dazed you barely let out a little hum of a question before your ears picked up on the shuffle of a zipper, the drag of clothes down his legs, and finally, the squelch of him running the head of his cock up and down your soaking pussy.

You’re half draped over the pool house couch, dress bunched at your waist, panties pulled to the side while Steve fucks you with his hand like he hates you for it. Like he hates how badly he wants you.

"Steve—"

"You wanted it, huh, sweetheart?" He pushed, not even inside, just dull pressure. "Wanted to make me jealous?" The hand that was previously fingering you is stroking his cock, and the one on your face moved to tangle into your hair, making you arch your back more and tilt your head towards him.

"Then take it."

He pushed inside you in one slow, hard thrust.

You sobbed at the feel of him finally buried inside to the hilt, feeling him twitch at the sound that left your mouth.

“Tight little cunt,” he groaned into your shoulder. “Fuck—of course you feel like this” You moaned, high-pitched and desperate.

“Too loud,” he warned, hand coming to press hard against your mouth. “Wanna wake Peggy? Huh? Wanna get caught getting split open by your married neighbor?”

You choked on a sound behind his palm—half cry, half yes. He pounded into you harder, jaw clenched, breathing ragged right at the junction between your neck and your shoulder.

“Spent so long— fuck, imagining what you'd feel like,” he muttered suddenly, angry. “Fucking tease.” You pressed your hips back into him harder, his other hand tugging a nipple, then the other, absolutely trying to drive you insane.

How the fuck did Peggy let this man leave the bed? At all?

One of your hands reached back to tug at his hair, nails scraping his scalp, and his kept wondering, until it found your clit. And God, did he.

"Gonna come— fuck, inside—"

You nodded behind his hand, your own coming to pull it off of your mouth as you whispered as best as you could. "Please, Steve, cum— cum in me, fill— oh God— fill me up."

It doesn't take much longer of your dirty talk and his body for both of you to see starts blooming behind your eyelids, his sweaty body draping over yours as you both caught your breaths, his cick throbbing inside of you while he shot ropes of while along your walls.

It was never supposed to go past that. Not in his head anyway. 

Steve couldn't erase the sound of your moans, the vibration of your whines, or the sight of you dripping with his cum from his mind even if he tried. 

So it quickly morphed from a one time bad decision into a pattern. A need. A terrible, addictive rhythm. 

He was always the first to step back after—voice rough with guilt, muttering something about how it couldn’t keep happening. 

But then came the next excuse. Another late walk. Another locked door. Another night when Peggy was out with friends or upstairs asleep and he found himself drifting toward you like gravity had chosen sides.

And the worst part? You were kind, warm. You made him feel wanted. You were good with Jamie. You folded Peggy’s dish towels after book club and helped her clean up. You looked like innocence wrapped in summer dresses and vanilla lotion—but when you looked at him, Steve felt anything but pure.

Steve adjusted the cuffs of his button-down, the soft click of the watch clasp echoing faintly in the quiet of the house. Jamie was already asleep, and Peggy sat on the couch, flipping through her latest book club pick, legs curled under her and a glass of wine half-full on the end table.

He stood near the hallway mirror, pretending to check his reflection one last time, even though his mind was far from the dinner he claimed he had. The silence stretched, thick with something unspoken, until finally, he cleared his throat.

“I’m heading into the city tonight,” he said, straightening the collar unnecessarily. “Couple people from work—there’s a dinner. Could be good for networking.”

Peggy looked up, her expression unreadable. “On a weeknight?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. Short notice. You know how Stark gets when he wants to talk shop over steak and scotch.”

She let out a quiet laugh, amused but distracted. “Well, try not to get too drunk. You still have to take Jamie to swim class tomorrow.”

He gave a tight smile, grateful she didn’t ask more. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Except "work dinner in the city" was actually driving you to Cipriani for a nice, candle lit dinner away from everyone else. 

The radio buzzed softly, some easy classic rock playing low, and you shifted in your seat, getting already a little impatient on the drive over when he looked that handsome and so close to you. 

“Steve?” Your voice was soft, syrupy. He hummed a little in acknowledgment, eyes on the road. You leaned in, hand resting lightly on his thigh. “You’re tense.”

“I’m driving,” he said matter-of-factly, confused with your sentence, but you didn’t miss the way his fingers tightened on the wheel.

“Mhm.” You let your hand slide up just a little higher, almost unbothered, thumb stroking the inseam of his pants. “Just wanna help you relax…”

“Sweetheart,” he warned. But his voice cracked halfway through your name.

You grinned. “C’mon, what’s the worst that could happen? I’ve got two hands and a very soft mouth.”

He shot you a look. Dangerous. Heated. “You trying to get us killed?”

“I trust you to keep your hands on the wheel,” you said sweetly, already toying with the button of his pants. “But I am gonna need you to pull over soon if you want me to take care of that properly.”

He groaned, head thumping back against the headrest briefly. “Jesus Christ.”

You giggled, fingertips brushing over the growing bulge beneath the zipper. “That’s not who you’re gonna be thanking in a minute.”

And just like that, the turn signal clicked. The SUV veered off the main road and into the shadowed entrance of a secluded overlook. Trees above, stars flickering like witnesses, and your name already forming rough in the back of his throat.

The velvet booths at Cipriani glowed under golden lighting, the hum of polite conversation and clinking glassware wrapping around the two of you like static.

You looked too pretty for your own good. That dress should’ve been illegal—silky, deep navy, spaghetti straps, something about the way it hugged your body made Steve’s pulse throb.

You leaned forward, arms folding delicately on the table. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m thinking,” he muttered, eyes on your collarbone. “About how I’m gonna keep my hands off you for another forty-five minutes.”

You grinned, biting the inside of your cheek. "You had me like, not even an hour ago—"

"That doesn't count." He interrupted you playfully, "And if I remember correctly, I was the one that had the most fun in that."

Ah, yes, road head usually only has one beneficiary. You shrugged. "I still like it."

Steve raised his brows, and the waiter arrived, taking your orders. You watched the way Steve’s voice dropped an octave when he said “thank you,” the way he held your gaze across the table like the two of you were in on a private joke no one else could hear.

After the waiter left, you chirped up again, “You’re still hard, aren’t you?”

Steve narrowed his eyes slightly. “Keep your voice down.”

You giggled behind your glass, sipping your wine. “I think you like this,” you murmured. “Lying to your wife. Sneaking around. Getting off with someone who actually wants to be seen with you in public.”

His nostrils flared. His jaw ticked. “Careful,” he said roughly. “You won’t make it to dessert.”

You smiled like you weren’t even slightly afraid of that. And beneath the table, your foot slowly slid up the inside of his calf.

It's exactly shit like this that made you be bent in half in his backseat somewhere along the backroads on the way back, panties somewhere unknown inside the car, legs over his arms until your feet touched the car ceiling, and his cock drilling into you like he wanted it to take. 

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” His voice was low, dark. Rough with restraint. “You get off on making me lose my mind, don’t you?”

You only smiled, biting your lip—barely, wickedly—nodding and tilting your hips up in response.

Later that month, he told Peggy it was a work trip. Just a quick overnight conference two towns over, some panels, a couple meetings—nothing she needed to worry about. He kissed her on the cheek, slung his bag over his shoulder, and drove off with the windows down. 

But the real destination was the little bed and breakfast tucked off the highway, where no one knew your names. And where you were already waiting for him wearing nothing but a smile.

That weekend was unhinged. No hiding. No pretending. No risk of being overheard except by the wind through the trees and the nosy old couple in the room next door. You got to be loud—really loud—and he let you.

Hands all over you like he’d been starving for weeks, grunting in your ear as you clawed at his shoulders and moaned his name without apology. You didn’t need to pretend you were just neighbors. 

Didn’t need to worry about muffling the headboard or shoving panties into the glovebox or slipping out the back door. You were his, fully and openly, for forty-two stolen hours. 

And God help him—he wasn’t sure he could go back to pretending after that.

Steve, however, should be careful what he wished for.

Two days after he came back, to be exact, Steve was working from home, in between meetings all day.

Peggy took the SUV to run errands and take some time for herself, a facial, a massage, and unexpectedly, getting pulled over. 

The sun was starting to dip behind the trees as Peggy merged onto the main road out of the neighborhood, humming absently to the radio while the SUV rolled through the quiet, late-summer traffic.

She didn’t even notice the patrol car behind her until the lights flashed.

“Damn it,” she muttered, glancing in the rearview. She pulled over, flicking on her hazard lights and turning down the radio.

The officer approached on the driver’s side, polite and calm. “Evening, ma’am. Just a heads-up—your left brake light’s out. Thought you should know before dark.”

She let out a breath, already reaching for the glove compartment. “Oh—thanks for letting me know. Let me just grab the registration.”

The latch stuck a little. Steve always said he’d fix it. She jiggled it loose with a soft grunt, and it popped open—sending a few old napkins fluttering out, the registration half-tucked beneath a folded flyer from Jamie’s swim class.

And then she saw them.

A delicate tangle of blush-pink lace.

At first, she didn’t register what she was looking at. Her brain processed the color, the texture, the vaguely familiar shape. She blinked. Tilted her head.

Then her fingers reached for it before she could even think better of it.

Her stomach turned over—first in confusion, then in something sharper. Something hot and cold at the same time, crawling up the back of her neck like an insect made of betrayal.

She gave the papers to the officer, and as he made sure it was all up to date on her end, she sat there, completely still, the car quiet around her except for the gentle hum of the A/C.

She stared down at the scrap of lace in her hand, trying to rationalize it.

When she saw the reflection of the officer coming back, she quickly put the lace in her purse, smiled at the man, and drove off towards home. 

By the time she got back, Steve was out on a run. 

She waited patiently by the kitchen isle, the panties neatly folded on the cool marble, and as she looked at the minutes go by on the clock by the stovetop, she realized both her and Steve had been trying to ressucitate something that had been dead long ago.

She didn't feel hurt, sad, or mad.

Peggy was relieved. 

And when she heard the front door open, heard the creak of his spine as he exhaled from the run, and saw him come in, sweaty, and ready to gulp down a gallon of water, she didn't even feel the fire in the pit of her stomach that she used to years ago.

“Hey,” he said, breath still a little ragged, getting a glass and then water from the fridge. “Did you get the—”

He stopped as his eyes moved to the counter. To the panties. Then slowly, up to her.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t raise her voice. She just cocked her head slightly, one brow lifting, “You forgot to clean out your glove box.”

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