evergone

The two-tone ’78 Chevy sat wheezing on the shoulder, its hood punched open like a yawn in the late-afternoon heat. Beyond the ribbon of cracked asphalt, cane fields lay flat and humming, cicadas sawing at the silence. Bucky leaned both forearms on the grill, hair sticking to the sweat on his neck, and offered a lopsided grin that only made things worse.

“Relax, Stevie. Tank’s empty, not the end of the world.”

Steve slammed the driver’s door harder than he meant to; the truck shuddered like it might expire altogether. “Not the end of the world? We’re forty miles from a town anyone’s heard of, it’s a hundred degrees, we got eight dollars between us, and you didn’t think to check the gauge?”

Bucky shrugged, easy as a breeze. “Gauge is busted, remember? Besides, you were the one drivin’ last—”

“Because you were too busy sweet-talking that waitress to keep your eyes on the road.”

“Tyra?” Bucky’s smile widened. “She gave us pie for free.”

“Great. Maybe we can burn it for fuel.” Steve dragged a hand through his hair and squinted up the road; nothing but heat rippling off the tarmac. “We need a plan.”

“We got one,” Bucky said, straightening. He rapped the hood twice, like patting a tired mule. “We walk. Someone around here’s gotta sell gas. Maybe even trade a couple hours’ work for a full can.”

“Or they’ll run us off with an axe.” Steve’s voice softened despite himself; frustration never stuck to Bucky for long. “This was supposed to be different, Buck. Thought we’d find steady work in New Orleans—”

“And we did, for a minute. Things change.” Bucky’s gaze drifted past Steve to the hazy edge where pasture met cypress and moss. “Look, the road forks up ahead—left’s more fields, right’s water. Bayou country. People out here always need strong backs.” He slung their one duffel over his shoulder. “C’mon. Sun’s not gettin’ any kinder.”

Steve glanced at the truck and sighed. “You really think we’ll ‘figure it out’?”

“We always do.” Bucky’s grin turned conspiratorial, the one that had gotten them into brawls and out of worse. “Besides, you love savin’ my ass. Gives you purpose.”

“One of these days,” Steve muttered, though a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth, “your luck’s gonna run out.”

“Then I’ll borrow yours.” Bucky tipped an imaginary hat and started down the asphalt, boots crunching gravel. After a beat, Steve fell in beside him.

The sun slid lower, painting the sky blood-orange. Somewhere to the east, a smear of water reflected the light. The air smelled of cane juice and distant brackish rot.

Eventually dusk bled over the cane fields in long bruised stripes, the sky turning molasses-thick and purple. For close to an hour, the only sounds had been boot soles on gravel and Bucky’s running commentary; little jokes about gator crossings, predictions of cold beer “just past the next bend,” memories of music drifting out of French Quarter bars.

He talked as if words could keep the darkness from settling on their shoulders.

Steve let most of it wash past. Sweat glued the back of his shirt to his spine; the sun had scalded the bridge of his nose raw. Every mile without a plan felt heavier than the duffel bumping against his hip. When Bucky announced, for the fourth time, that “things always work out,” Steve only answered with a quiet grunt and kept walking.

Then the road took a shallow dip and opened onto a low rise of pasture, and there it was—a farmhouse half-hidden behind live oaks, porch lights already flickering on like fireflies. Off to the right, a tin-roofed barn crouched at the edge of a bayou inlet, its stilts mirrored in dark water. Smoke drifted from a chimney in a lazy ribbon; somewhere close, a cow lowed.

Bucky stopped dead and threw out an arm as if presenting a miracle. “Told you, pal. Luck’s a lady tonight.”

Steve studied the place; fencing mended in patches, tractor parked beneath a tarp, rows of tomatoes staked with twine. Not prosperous, but lived-in, cared for. “Or it’s someone’s home, and we’re about to get run off for trespassing.”

“Won’t know ’til we ask.” Bucky’s grin caught the last shred of light, turning his eyes almost silver. “Guy like you knocks on a door, says ‘Sir, evening, we’re lookin’ for some shelter for the night,’ who’s gonna say no?”

“Plenty of people,” Steve muttered, but the fight had drained out of his voice. He glanced back the way they’d come, miles of empty asphalt slowly disappearing into night, and exhaled. “All right. We try.”

They left the road, boots whispering through knee-high grass that smelled of sun-baked sugarcane and river mud. A chorus of frogs started up, rhythmic and lewd, as if cheering them on. When they reached the split-rail fence, Bucky vaulted it in one easy swing; Steve followed, slower, feeling the rail creak beneath his weight.

Closer now, Steve noticed the details Bucky’s optimism had missed; shutters needing paint, porch boards warping at the ends, the faint uneven beat of a generator somewhere out back. A place run by sweat and necessity, not spare cash.

Bucky rolled his shoulders like a man warming up for a dance. “Let me talk first. I’ll soften ’em up.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “And if sweet talk doesn’t cover room and board?”

“Then you flex those big-boy muscles and show ’em we’re worth feeding.” He winked.

Steve looked past him to the porch. A screen door stood ajar, warm lamplight spilling through, and inside he caught a glimpse of movement—someone crossing a threshold.

“Yeah,” Steve said finally. “Could be worse.”

Behind them the sun sank, and the bayou lapped soft against the stilts, as if tasting something new in the twilight air.

The screen door slapped once against its frame and stayed half-open, lamplight spilling across warped porch boards. A man stepped out. A raw-boned figure in dungarees and a sweat-stained work shirt, the brim of his straw hat casting his face in shadow. The pump shotgun balanced in the crook of his arm said everything his tight mouth didn’t.

Bucky lifted one hand, palm out, easy smile already in place. “Evenin’, sir. Hate to trouble you—”

“You’re already doin’ it,” the man cut in, voice dry as crushed shell. His eyes flicked from Bucky’s scuffed boots to the duffel on Steve’s shoulder, then back. “Road’s that way if you’re passin’ through.”

Bucky chuckled like they were all sharing a joke. “Wish we were. Truck ran dry few miles back. Just lookin’ for a spot of ground to lay our heads, maybe point us toward gas come mornin’.”

Mr. Moreau, Steve caught the stitched name on a feed-store cap hooked to a nail by the door, didn’t blink. “Folks who show up empty always want more’n a night’s sleep.”

“Not us,” Bucky said, still smooth but softer now, reading the room. “Couple hours on a cot, we’re golden.”

Steve stepped forward, wiping his palm on his jeans before offering it. “Sir, we don’t expect charity. We grew up working yards and warehouses in Brooklyn. Let us put in a day’s labour; repair fence, muck stalls, whatever needs doing, in exchange for a meal and a corner of your barn. Tomorrow we’ll walk to town, buy fuel, and be gone.”

The old man studied Steve’s hand like it might bite. Up close Steve could see the lines etched deep around his mouth, the cautious flare of his nostrils, the calculation behind the suspicion. When he finally spoke, he addressed Steve, not Bucky.

“You fix fence?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Know your way around a baler?”

“Can learn quick.”

Moreau’s gaze shifted to Bucky. “And you?”

Bucky’s grin turned boyish. “I swing a hammer straight and don’t complain about blisters.”

A long moment of silence stretched, filled only by the bayou’s night chorus and the low thrum of a diesel generator. Then Moreau nodded once, sharp. “Barn’s there.” He jerked his chin past a line of pecan trees toward the weather-silvered structure on stilts. “You’ll sleep in the loft—floor’s solid. I’ll send my girl with sheets, pillows and supper.”

He paused, shotgun still resting easy but present. “Sunup, you start mending the northeast fence line where the posts lean. No smoking, no liquor, no wandering past the pens after dark. Gators like the warm water.”

Steve’s shoulders loosened a fraction. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Bucky tipped two fingers from his brow. “Much obliged, Mr. Moreau.”

Steve offered his hand again; Mr. Moreau finally considered the gesture, then shook once. It was firm and testing. “Careful, bayou’s mean at night, and I ain’t friendlier.”

They watched him retreat across the porch, boards groaning under deliberate steps. Inside, a screen door banged and lamplight shifted, framing a second silhouette for half a heartbeat, before it disappeared deeper into the house.

As they crossed the yard the porch lights dimmed, leaving only moon-slivered clouds and the distant lantern glow of the barn.

Bucky exhaled a satisfied breath. “See? Luck.”

Steve shot him a side-eye that was half exhaustion, but reluctant amusement won out. “Your kind of luck usually gets me shot at.”

“Guy didn’t even chamber a round. We’re fine,” Bucky said, swinging the duffel like a lunch pail. “C’mon, punk. We got hay to fluff before the linens arrive. Wouldn’t want the lady of the house thinking we’re ungrateful.”

They crossed the yard toward the barn as cicadas struck up their night chorus, and behind them the bayou breathed thick water-scent into the dark.

The barn’s lower doors groaned shut behind them, sealing in the smell of hay dust, old saddle soap, and the faint sweetness of cane. A thick ladder hugged one beam; Bucky scrambled up first, boots thudding on the rungs. When he pushed through the loft hatch he let out a low whistle that echoed off the rafters.

“Well, hell—thought we’d be beddin’ down with the cows.”

Steve followed, palms rough against the rails. The space wasn’t the raw hayloft he’d pictured. Slanted cedar walls glowed amber in the lamplight, and a faded striped couch sat center stage, its cushions sun-soft. A trunk doubled as a coffee table; books leaned drunkenly on handmade shelves beside a beaten-brass telescope aimed through a cut-out window toward the purpling sky.

Bucky flopped onto the couch, springs sighing. “Damn. Better than half the motels we’ve stayed in.” He stretched, hands locked behind his head, boots still on. “Called it—Barnes luck.”

Steve shot him a look. “Boots off. Don’t wreck the place five minutes in.”

“Boots are fine.” Bucky toed one heel against the other anyway, dropping them beside the trunk. Then he tipped his head back, scanning rafters strung with paper stars and a single model airplane dangling by fishing line. “Knew Moreau wasn’t as mean as he let on.”

“Or this belongs to his daughter, and he’ll tan you for putting your filthy socks on her couch.” Steve drifted to the telescope, brushing a thumb over its brass barrel.

In the corner sat a small writing desk cluttered with jars of dried flowers, a stub of vanilla candle, and a horsehair brush still catching the lamplight in its bristles. Feminine touches, but nothing frilly enough to feel staged.

He glanced at Bucky, who had already settled deeper, arms splayed like a victorious cat. “We’ve got one night of goodwill, Buck. Tomorrow we work till our backs snap, and then we’re still broke. Gas isn’t growin’ in that south field.”

Bucky closed one eye, pretending to sight something on the ceiling. “You worry too loud. We fix the fence, maybe fix the truck while we’re at it—they toss us a few extra dollars, or a jerry can. Folks out here respect elbow grease.”

“Respect doesn’t fuel an engine.”

“Neither does frettin’. You’ll give yourself ulcers before thirty.” He rolled to his side, propping his head on a bent elbow. “Come on, take a seat. Feel this cushion. It’s practically luxury.”

Steve ignored the invitation and set his eye to the telescope. Through dusty glass he caught a sliver of bayou, water black and mirror still, framed by cypress knees. Fireflies sparked like stray embers above the reeds. Something about the view stirred a bone-deep ache for order he couldn’t name.

Behind him Bucky huffed. “You’re really gonna stand there brooding? You’ll ruin my mood, Rogers.”

“You have a mood?”

“Best mood this side of the South, if you’d let it breathe.” The couch creaked again; Bucky’s feet thumped the floor. “Fine. I’ll do a full inspection. Make sure no ghosts under the bed.” He padded toward a curtained alcove where a narrow mattress crouched beneath more quilts.

Steve lowered the telescope. “Careful.”

“Relax, I’m just checking.” Bucky flipped back the curtain, paused, then called over his shoulder, softer, “There’s a vase of fresh magnolias in here, Steve.”

Steve nodded once. “All the more reason to treat this place right.” He dragged fingers through hair damp with sweat and twilight humidity. “Tomorrow, we fence. After that, we find a way to buy gas.”

Bucky chuckled, but it came out tired. “Tomorrow, we survive. Tonight, we sleep on feather cushions like kings.”

A scrape sounded below, the barn’s side door opening. Lantern light bobbed on the ladder rungs. Steve stepped forward, heart ticking faster despite himself, as he caught the soft shuffle of feet heading toward the loft.

“Guess Mr. Moreau’s ‘girl’ brought supper,” Bucky murmured, straightening his shirt, suddenly attentive.

Steve’s pulse thudded, nerves tight for reasons he couldn’t quite blame on hunger. He smoothed his face into politeness.

“Remember,” he muttered, “boots off the furniture. And be respectful.”

Bucky grinned, eyes flicking to the ladder hatch where a warm glow now haloed the first edge of a tray. “No promises, pal.”

Boot-steps creaked up the ladder—slow, sure.You appeared in the hatch with twilight at your back, balancing a tin tray loaded with two enamel plates, a fat mason jar of water beaded with condensation, pillows and neatly folded sheets tucked beneath one arm.

“Evenin’, boys.”

Bucky was on his feet before the last syllable hit the rafters, grin flashing like he’d been rehearsing it. “Evenin’.” He slid a hand under the tray, thumb brushing the outside of your wrist as he relieved you of the weight. “Smells incredible. You must be the angel Mr Moreau mentioned. I’m James Bucky Barnes, and the tall, worried lookin’ fella is Steve Rogers.”

You arched a brow, amused, “Angel, huh?” The word tasted ironic coming from you, syrupy drawl cut with something sharper. “More like delivery girl. Pillow-fairy if you’re polite.”

You set the pillows on the couch arm, smoothed the patterned sheet across the cushions. Up close, sweat-shine on their skin smelled of road dust and cut cane.

Steve cleared his throat, polite even with his sleeves rolled and collar limp. “Thank you for supper… and the linens, ma’am. This your cookin’?”

“Jambalaya,” you hummed, rolling the word slow. “Daddy says it keeps visitors honest—pepper’ll burn lies off a tongue. Hope you’re hungry.”

Bucky inhaled over the plate, eyes closing like a man at church. “Starvin’, darlin’.” Then, glancing around the loft, “Guess this is your spot? Kinda figured we’d be burrowin’ into hay bales.”

Your shrug said maybe tomorrow. “Daddy doesn’t usually let strangers sleep on his land, much less up here.” You perched on the trunk, unbothered by their looming height. “Guess he saw somethin’ useful in you.”

Steve straightened, earnest. “We appreciate it. If you’d rather we sleep downstairs—”

“Relax, Captain Courtesy,” Bucky cut in, throwing him a side-eye. “We’ll keep our boots off the sofa, promise.” To you, softer, “You’re welcome to sit a spell, if you’re not busy. Share a plate. Tell us the house rules.”

The offer hung there with the dust motes, cicadas whirring through the slats, night air thick with sweetgrass and something darker underneath. You let it linger, watching how Steve’s jaw flexed when Bucky talked, how Bucky’s fingertips tapped the tray like he had more to say with them.

Finally you leaned back on your palms, eyes flicking from one to the other. “House rule’s simple; earn your keep. Fence line’s a mess, cows need milkin’, and Daddy hates slackers.” A slow smile uncurled. “But I might come up later, see if the telescope’s still pointed true.”

Bucky’s grin sharpened. “We’ll set it for the moon.”

You rose, brushing hay dust from your jeans. “Eat while it’s hot. I’ll fetch y’all at first light.” At the hatch you paused, tilting your head just enough that lamp-glow kissed the line of your neck. “Sweet dreams, city boys.”

Boot-steps receded, leaving the scent of spices and warm wood in your wake. Bucky let out a low whistle, passing Steve a plate. “Tell me again why you thought today was a bad day.”

Steve didn’t answer. He just watched the ladder, heart knocking once, twice—like somebody’d tapped a match to kindling he’d forgotten was there.

The wire rasped through worn leather gloves as Steve cinched a new section taut against the post.

Morning heat hadn’t hit full force yet; the light was soft, hazy, dust motes floating like lazy sparks each time the staple met wood. Across from him, Bucky should’ve been driving the next nail, but his hammer paused halfway, blue eyes angled toward the paddock.

You were out by the dairy pen, skirt hem stopping at mid-thigh, knees braced to the churn of a milk pail. Every now and then you tipped the tin to pour a pale ribbon into the waiting bucket, the motion flexing your thighs.

Bucky’s lips pulled into a slow grin. “Tell me that view doesn’t make fence-mending a religious experience.”

“Eyes on the post,” Steve muttered, tamping the staple flat. “We finish the south line before the sun’s overhead.”

“M’hands are workin’, my eyes are multitaskin’.” Bucky leaned, deliberately stretching the thick cotton of his vest. “Can you blame me? Those legs could power a tractor.”

Steve followed the angle of Bucky’s gaze despite himself—caught the way morning light traced the curve of your calf, the slip of skin above a worn boot. He cleared his throat and yanked the next length of wire. “Point is, don’t stare. It’s rude. And we told Mr Moreau we’d act right.”

“Act right?” Bucky’s laugh was a slow roll, low enough only Steve heard. “Saint Rogers over here pretending he didn’t spend the last five minutes studying her ass like it’s a map to salvation.”

Steve’s jaw ticked. “I was making sure she wasn’t lifting more than she should.”

“She’s strong. Didn’t you see her lop that bale? Girl could throw you through the barn door if she tried.” Bucky’s hammer finally met the post—thunk, thunk—driving the nail, though his gaze drifted again to the milking stall. “Bet she smells like vanilla and brown sugar up close.”

“For God’s sake—”

“You’re the one sniffing the air like a bloodhound.” Bucky shot him a sideways grin. “Relax your righteous feathers, punk. We fix the fence, we earn lunch, maybe catch her eye after chores. No harm in looking.”

Steve said nothing, but his ears burned hotter than the sun. The fence gave a satisfied hum under tension. Beyond it, you straightened, wiping the back of your wrist over your brow before hoisting the sloshing bucket to your hip. The movement pulled your skirt higher; both men went still, identical pulses jumping in their throats.

You glanced over, caught them, and offered a small smile before turning toward the barn.

Bucky’s voice dropped, sincere in spite of the teasing. “That smile’s an invitation, pal.”

Steve set his hammer on the top rail, exhaling hard. “It’s a warning.”

“Same thing, if you read it right.” Bucky twirled the hammer once, then thunked it into his belt. “Come on, we finish quick, we wash up, maybe wander by the paddock—”

Steve lifted the next coil of wire, but a reluctant curve tugged his mouth. “Finish quick and it better be neat. If her dad sees a sloppy fence, we’re gone before sunset.”

Bucky nailed the last staple with a flourish, dusted his palms, and followed Steve down the line.

The sun hung lazy-low, just warm enough to slick skin but not yet cruel. Fence posts were set, woodchips scattered like confetti around the chopping stump where Steve swung the maul in steady, clean arcs. A few yards off, Bucky rolled hay bales into neat ranks, muscles jumping under sweat-dark cotton.

Bootheels tapped along the packed lane. You appeared with a mason jar in each hand, glass sweating so hard it dripped onto your bare thighs. The hem of your skirt rode high; your cropped tank left a sliver of midriff glowing. You stopped at the paddock rail, hips cocked, watching them work like it was your own private picture show.

“Y’all look parched.”

Bucky straightened first, forearm wiping grit from his brow. One lazy grin and he was sauntering over to you. “Angel, you’re a vision.”

“Uh-huh.” You handed a glass to Steve, eyes glittering. “Don’t spill it.”

Steve set the maul aside, palms broad and pink from the handle. He accepted the lemonade with a murmured thanks—voice gone rough in a way that wasn’t from thirst alone. “Smells like lemons and cane sugar. You make it yourself?”

“Fresh this mornin’. Daddy swears by it.” You sipped from Bucky’s jar, lips glistening, then handed it to him. His gaze tracked the curve of your mouth like a compass needle. “Saw you two knockin’ that fence line out fast. Figured a reward was fair.”

Bucky tipped the drink, throat working. “Could use more rewards just like this.” His eyes drifted down, unapologetic. “Gotta say, the scenery makes hard labour downright spiritual.”

Steve cleared his throat, shooting Bucky a side-long glance that begged for decorum. He turned to you instead. “Is it just you and Mr. Moreau runnin’ all of this?”

“Daddy’s got three hands from town come by Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays.” You shrugged, playful. “So he was mighty generous lettin’ you bunk the loft—already plenty of help around here.”

“Generous man,” Bucky echoed, elbow nudging Steve. “Maybe we earn a longer stay. Few more fences need mendin’? Any chores need extra muscle?”

Steve flicked him a warning, but you only smiled, amused at the jockeying. “We’ll see what Daddy thinks.”

Bucky leaned on the rail, voice dropping. “What about what you think?”

“I think city boys burn quick in bayou heat,” you teased, running a finger along the condensation of Steve’s jar. “But if you don’t mind a little sweat, maybe stick around. Could be fun.”

Steve’s ears coloured; Bucky’s grin stretched wolf-wide.

You tapped the rim of Steve’s glass, then Bucky’s. “Finish up. Lunch at the house in twenty. Don’t keep me waitin’.”

With that you turned, skirt swishing just enough to make both men swallow. The backs of your thighs glowed in the noon light as you sauntered toward the barn, humming something slow and sweet.

Bucky watched every step. “One more day, Stevie. Let’s charm the old man, top off the tank, see where the night goes.”

Steve drained the lemonade, eyes still on your retreating sway. “We charm him by working, Buck. And by keeping our mouths clean.”

“Hands might not stay that way, though,” Bucky muttered, rolling his shoulders before grabbing another bale.

Steve hefted the maul again, but there was a new looseness in the set of his jaw, in the way he glanced toward the barn door you’d slipped through.

The dining room smelled of fried catfish and sweet corn fritters—hot oil, cracked pepper, a shimmer of cayenne that clung to the air like summer sweat. Cedar-plank walls held the noon light soft and amber; a battered ceiling fan turned slow overhead, pushing the warm scent around.

At the rough-hewn table sat Mr. Moreau, back straight, elbows planted wide like fence-posts. His gaze pinned both men while your small radio whispered an old Fats Domino tune from the sideboard.

You settled first, bare calf crossing over knee, skirt riding high so a ribbon of thigh caught the fan breeze. No fuss, no apology, just a lazy slide into the chair to the left of the old man. Bucky and Steve perched side by side on the long bench, shoulders too broad for the narrow space.

Mr. Moreau cleared his throat. “So.”

Bucky flashed an easy grin. “Sir, we wanted to thank you for lunch—and for the loft last night. Fence is tight, wood’s stacked, goats’re lookin’ downright smug. Thought maybe we could hang on a bit. Give you a few more solid days’ work.”

Steve nodded, posture crisp. “We don’t expect pay. Just room, board, maybe a little gas when all’s done.”

The old man’s eyes narrowed, slow as an eclipse. “Men who drift in askin’ favours are usually runnin’ from somethin’.”

Bucky’s grin softened, but didn’t falter. “Only thing we’re runnin’ from is bad luck and an empty tank.” He lifted a fried fillet in salute. “Figured we’d trade sweat for supper till fortune turns.”

Mr. Moreau grunted, slicing into cornbread. “Luck’s earned, not begged.”

Across the table, you leaned your chin into one hand, nails tracing idle circles on the lacquer. “Daddy.” The single word mild and amused. “Fence never looked that straight. Saved you two of the town boys this morning.”

Bucky shot you a grateful wink. Steve took a careful sip of sweet tea—eyes flicking from the old man to the curve of your mouth as you licked a crumb of batter from your bottom lip.

“Could use them on the west pasture, too,” you added, voice syrup-slow. “Boards are rotten through. And your back’s been talkin’.”

The old man’s jaw ticked, like admitting pain was heresy. “Mmph.”

You shrugged, turning your attention to the drifters. “Reckon they stay through the weekend, that job’s done.”

Bucky’s boot nudged Steve’s knee under the table. He straightened. “We’ll have that pasture tight by Sunday. After that, we’ll roll on, no trouble.”

Mr. Moreau studied them, then you. “Ain’t your habit takin’ strays, girl.”

You tucked a damp piece of hair behind your ear. “Maybe they’re useful strays.”

Bucky coughed a laugh; Steve nudged him this time—behave. But you’d already hooked a foot beneath Bucky’s boot-lace, giving it a slow teasing drag. His breath caught, just a fraction, before he masked it with another bite of fish.

Steve felt the shift, the invisible pull of your attention, and he flushed hotter than cayenne pepper. You shifted again, thigh brushing his denim under the table’s edge, bare skin against coarse cotton for half a heartbeat, then you broke contact, like a cat pretending no mischief at all.

Mr. Moreau missed all of it, “My daughter’s comfort counts first.”

Bucky leaned forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping to a respectful drawl. “Sir, we’d sooner limp to Baton Rouge barefoot than disrespect your home or your daughter.”

You tipped your glass, amber iced tea shining against your mouth. “Told you they got manners, Daddy.”

Steve cleared his throat, earnest. “Mr. Moreau, we may have never grown up around farms… but work here feels right. Let us finish what we started.”

Silence stretched, thick as cane syrup. A fly buzzed the rim of the pepper sauce; the fan creaked overhead. Your toes traced a line up the inside seam of Bucky’s jeans, making him swallow hard. Steve’s knee jostled under your hand, and his fork stalled halfway to his mouth.

Finally Mr. Moreau set down his cornbread. “Two more days. West pasture, chicken-wire pen, then you go. I’ll spare a gallon for your tank—no more.”

Relief flickered across Steve’s face. Bucky grinned outright. “Much obliged, sir.”

“See it done proper.” He pushed back from the table, chair legs scraping. “I got hogs to check.” Then he turned to Steve, stern but not unkind, “You strike me as a man who knows straight from crooked. Keep him,”—a nod at Bucky—“on the square.”

“Yes, sir.”

The old man left through the side door, screen slapping shut. The room exhaled, something easier curling in the hot air.

Bucky looked at you, mischief lighting every line of him. “Appreciate the save, darlin’. Didn’t think we’d pass inspection.”

You rose, gathering plates, the hem of your skirt lifting as you reached across Steve’s shoulder—letting him feel the soft brush of your hip before you eased away. “Didn’t do it for free. Fence straight Sunday means I pick my payment.”

Steve tried for steady. “And what payment is that?”

You stacked dishes on the sideboard, glancing back over your shoulder. “Surprise me.” Then, softer, to Bucky, “And y’all behave. Daddy’s got a rifle on the porch.”

Bucky’s grin widened. “Lucky for us I’m faster than buckshot.”

“We’ll see.” You disappeared through the kitchen arch, leaving the faint scent of honeysuckle lotion in your wake.

Bucky exhaled a slow whistle. “Think she likes us.”

Steve dragged a hand down his face. “She’s teasing, Buck.”

“Teasing’s just foreplay writ large.” He elbowed Steve, leaning in. “Did you feel her on your leg? Damn near thought my heart’d stop.”

Steve pushed his chair out, cheeks flushed. “Focus, please.”

Sun-bleached boards thudded under their boots as they stepped off the porch. The cicadas had switched to their slow, drowsy rhythm—a back-of-the-throat drone.

Steve kept his voice low but firm. “We’ve got a good thing here, Buck. Two days’ work, a gallon for the Chevy, and a place that doesn’t smell like diesel. Don’t screw it up.”

Bucky shot him a sideways look, half-smile already fading. “Why’s it always ‘don’t screw it up,’ Stevie? Maybe let a man enjoy the view.”

“We promised Mr Moreau we’d behave,” Steve’s glare held steady. “You act like you’ve never seen a pretty girl before.”

“I promised to respect his house. Didn’t promise to walk around blind.” Bucky kicked a pebble off the path, hands sliding into his back pockets. “Besides, she’s not just ‘a pretty girl.’ She’s—” He paused, searching for the right weight of the word. “—a woman. Curves like a prayer and a mouth that could talk the devil into church.”

Steve stopped, jaw tight. “You’re thinking with your dick.”

“Guilty as charged.” Bucky’s grin flickered, then fell when Steve didn’t soften. “Come on, I’m not gonna leap on her in broad daylight. I can look.”

“Looking becomes touching, and touching gets us tossed back on the road.” Steve’s shoulders slumped with the day’s work, but the edge in his voice stayed sharp. “I’m tired, Buck. One calm weekend—that’s all I’m asking.”

Bucky dragged a hand through sweat-stiff hair, irritation creeping in. “You ever get tired of being the saint? Ever just… feel something and want it?”

“I’m not dead.” Steve’s gaze drifted back toward the house where you were in, then snapped back. “I just know consequences.”

Silence yawned between them, warm and weighty. A dragonfly skated past, wings catching the sunlight.

Finally Bucky exhaled, palms up in surrender. “Fine. No dirty business. Cross my heart. Happy?”

“I’ll be happy when we’re rolling down the highway with a full tank.” Steve started walking again. “Fence first. Daydreams later.”

Bucky fell in beside him, muttering, “Still gonna daydream,” but the bite had gone out of his voice. He cast one last glance at the house, wondering if you were watching from a window, then squared his shoulders and matched Steve’s pace.

Night pressed soft against the loft, all damp cricket-song and the slow pump of the bayou. Bucky slept hard—one arm flung over his face, snore sawing in and out like a loose screen door. Steve lay staring at the beams, sweat cooling on his chest, counting every creak of the rafters until the numbers tangled.

Finally he slid upright, feet finding the quilt-cool boards. Maybe a glance through the telescope would bleed off the restlessness. Just stargazing, nothing more.

The brass tube stood ready at the cut-out window, still flecked with dust from the afternoon. Steve angled it toward the water first—silver ripple, cypress knees shining. Pretty, but the hush didn’t fill him. The lens drifted past the dark smear of the barn roof, climbed to the house on the slight rise. One window glowed warm at the top floor—the only light left awake.

Curiosity, he told himself. He dialed the focus with thumb and forefinger, glass settling on the open curtains.

You moved into frame like a slow exhale, backlit amber. Bare shoulders, skin glinting where the lamp touched. A thin bra—lace maybe, pale against the line of your ribs. Matching panties sat low on your hips, soft fabric hugging the curve he’d pretended not to follow all day.

Steve’s breath stalled. He should pivot away, point the scope at the moon. Instead he watched, heartbeat thudding dull over the swamp’s night chorus.

You worked lotion over your body, hands moving over your chest, throat lengthening with each drag. Heat pooled low in Steve’s stomach, spreading tight. His underwear grew snug; he shifted, ashamed and hungry all at once.

Then your hands slid behind your back. A tiny hitch of shoulders, a flick—straps loosened, the bra easing forward before you peeled it off, slow as a secret. Breasts cupped the lamplight, perfect weight swaying when you dropped the scrap of lace onto a chair.

Steve’s palm tightened on the telescope barrel. He wanted to look away, give you privacy, keep the promise he’d made to himself and to Bucky, but he couldn’t. Not while you turned, adjusting the lamp wick, the soft underside of your breast catching the glow. His breath fogged the eyepiece; he wiped it with a trembling thumb and stared harder, pulse hammering through every inch of him.

Below, Bucky’s snore cut off, shifted, resumed. Steve froze, spine prickling, but the other man didn’t stir. Only the wind moved, pushing thick bayou air over Steve’s damp skin, over the ache pressing urgent inside his shorts.

In the window you stretched, arms above your head, nipples tightening against the night chill. A small satisfied sigh seemed to carry across the dark, Steve almost felt it on his tongue.

“God,” he whispered, a prayer or a curse, he wasn’t sure.

You turned then, facing the glass fully, eyes half-lidded, unaware of the distant drifter watching like a sinner. Steve’s heartbeat slammed. One more second, he promised himself, just one—

A floorboard groaned behind him. He jerked away from the telescope, heat flushing his face even in the dark. Bucky muttered, rolled, settled again. Steve pressed knuckles to his mouth, breathing through the thunder in his chest.

He lay back down but sleep didn’t come. The image of you; smooth skin, bare and unhurried, glowed behind his eyes, bright as the wildfire heat pooling low, refusing to let him go.

A pulse of want rolled through Steve so sharp it bordered on pain. He imagined stepping into that warm-lit room, sliding behind you, palms cupping the soft weight he could only see now in glass and reflections—thumbs circling your nipples until your breath stuttered.

He could almost feel the heat of your skin against his tongue, taste salt and honeysuckle lotion as he mouthed the tip and heard you sigh his name. The thought hit low and thick, tugging at him until his boxer briefs felt two sizes too small.

He tried to drag the vision back to something polite, tried to picture himself knocking on the door, asking if you needed help with chores, but the reel kept slipping; his hands spreading over your hips, his mouth trailing down to suck at the lush underside fo your breast where the lamplight painted shadows.

He wanted to trace every curve, let you arch beneath the weight of his body, feel you shiver when his tongue flicked over pebbled skin. The wanting rode him hard, ruthless, until he clenched his fists against the quilt and swallowed a groan, knowing the taste of you would haunt his tongue long after dawn.

Crickets sang louder, the bayou hummed, and Steve counted the beats until dawn, pulse trapped in the fist of his own wanting.

The next day the sun was high but merciful, tucked behind a gauzy veil of clouds. Steve worked the auger alone, shoulders bunching with every crank. He’d barely spoken since dawn, jaw tight enough to creak.

Across the pasture, you crossed the grass with a slow swing in your hips, skirt flirting just above your knees. Bucky spotted you first; the post-hole digger hit the dirt with a muffled thud. His grin arrived a heartbeat later.

“Afternoon, darlin’. Come to supervise?”

You stopped beside him, fingers trailing the rail he’d just set. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you. Your friend over there”—you nodded toward Steve—“can hardly look me in the eye without blushin’.”

Bucky followed your gaze. Steve never looked up, but his strokes came faster, as if he felt the attention. “That’s Stevie for ya. Spends half his life polishing a halo no one asked him to wear.”

“And you?” Your tone dropped silk-low. “What do you polish, hotshot?”

“Depends who’s askin’.” He leaned on the fence, sweat darkening the vee of his T-shirt. “If he’s the saint, guess that makes me the sinner.”

You hummed approval, thumb idly circling the rough grain near his wrist. “Sinner’s a big word.”

“Earned it.” His gaze dragged the length of your legs, unapologetic. “Figure sin’s just pleasure folks’re too scared to call by its proper name.”

“That right?” You shifted closer, the scent of hay and skin mingling. “Tell me a sin, then. One you’d commit if no one was watchin’.”

Bucky’s smile dipped wicked. “Start with a kiss, slow and sweet, right where that pulse flickers.” He trailed a knuckle just shy of the soft hollow beneath your ear. “Maybe taste that sheen of sweat on your throat—follow it down, see where it gathers.”

Your breath caught, but you kept your poise, folding arms under your breasts so they lifted, tempting. “Bold talk for a man on probation.”

“Two days’ probation.” His eyes sparkled. “Could make ’em holy or make ’em worth repentin’.”

You glanced back at Steve; he’d stopped, one hand braced on the auger, head dipped like a man praying for composure. A smirk curved your mouth. “Your boy looks ready to burst.”

“My boy’s got eyes.” Bucky lowered his voice. “Bet he’s thinkin’ the same dirty things. Just afraid to name ’em.” He leaned in until his lips almost grazed your ear. “Maybe we should show him sin ain’t so scary.”

Heat spiraled low in your belly at the promise. You slid a fingertip over the tops of Bucky’s work gloves, tracing the crease where leather met skin. “Maybe I like watching men wrestle temptation. Makes the reward sweeter when they finally give in.”

“Careful, angel. I’m a simple man once the rules come off.”

“So take ’em off,” you whispered, stepping back with a tease-slow smile. “When the work’s done.”

Your gaze drifted past the fenceline, toward the shimmer of water where the bayou curved like a dark ribbon through cane and cypress. Bucky’s eyes followed, hungry for whatever had your attention—even hungrier when they slid back to him.

“Pretty out there at night,” you murmured, thumb idly tracing the crease of his glove again. “Moon hangs low, fireflies float so thick it looks like somebody scattered diamonds over the water.”

“Sounds downright romantic,” he said, voice roughening on the word. His fingers twitched as if they’d rather close around your waist than the post-hole digger. “You a fan of romantic things, sweetheart?”

“Mm-hmm. When they’re done right.” You stepped just close enough that your skirt brushed his thigh, letting him feel the heat that lived in the inches between your thighs. “Question is—do you like romance, or are you all talk and no follow-through?”

“Oh, I follow through.” His grin tilted wicked. “Give me a porch swing, bit of night air, someone worth sittin’ close to? I’m a poet.”

“A poet?” You teased, but the word sparked a pleasant thrum low in your belly.

“Maybe more a—” His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lowered, lingered at the neckline of your tank. “—hands-on storyteller.”

“Then maybe I’ll tell Daddy I’m takin’ the skiff after supper.” Your voice stayed soft, but the promise in it was as thick as the noon heat. “Could show you that view once your better half’s asleep.”

His breath hitched. “And what view would that be?”

“The one where moonlight paints the bayou silver…” Your fingers ghosted up the inside of his bare forearm. “…and nobody’s around to see if I dip my toes into the water.”

He swallowed hard. “Could be dangerous out there.”

“Only if you scare easy.” Your lips curved. “You strike me as the kind that doesn’t.”

“Saint back there might beg to differ,” he said, jerking his chin toward Steve, who was still hammering like salvation depended on it.

“He’s busy saving souls. I’m busy tempting sinners.” You stepped back, leaving the faintest drag of your nails along his wrist before the distance sealed. “Finish your posts, handsome. Meet me by the dock after dark. We’ll see if romance fits you.”

Bucky’s voice was just a rasp now. “Yes, ma’am.”

You turned toward the barn, hips swaying like slow jazz. Behind you, the clink of wire and rasp of shovel sounded suddenly frantic—as if the devil himself told him every nail he sets is one minute closer to sin.

Across the pasture, Steve finally looked up, sweat-slick hair falling in his eyes. He watched Bucky watching you and couldn’t quite name the tightness curling in his gut; couldn’t decide if it was jealousy, dread, or something hotter than either.

The loft was heavy with darkness—rafters lost in shadow, only a ribbon of moonlight sneaking through the cut-out window. Steve rolled onto his back, blinked, and blinked again. The couch beside him should’ve been groaning under Bucky’s long sprawl, but the cushions sat empty, quilt folded neat as a flag.

“Damn it, Buck,” he muttered.

Boots in hand, he eased to the ladder, the barn’s hush broken only by the soft drip of night dew through the roof tin. Outside, the world glimmered silver—pasture brushed in moon-pale grass, house lights long since snuffed. Steve angled toward the porch first, nothing. He circled the truck, checked the tool shed, found only his own irritation sharpening.

Last option, water.

He followed the narrow path that cut between cane rows, the air warm and wet against his skin. Crickets chirred in lazy chirr-chirrs; now and then a bullfrog belched from some hidden hollow. The bayou opened ahead, black water reflecting slices of stars.

That’s when he heard it—soft at first, a breathy hum sliding into a low, bitten-off moan. Another, higher, drenched in pleasure and muffled by sleepy dark. Steve stopped dead. The sound floated from the dock where the skiff rocked, a rhythm that was distinctly human, distinctly intimate.

He swallowed, pulse thumping in his throat. A rustle followed, then a hushed male laugh—Bucky’s, unmistakable, husky with mischief. Another sigh answered him, velvet-sweet. Steve’s cheeks flamed; every warning he’d given rattled back in his skull.

He stepped closer, shoes silent on damp earth, but stayed behind the screen of cypress trunks. The voices blurred but the tone was clear—slow, wet kisses; a whispered “you like that, darlin’” that tightened his gut. Wood knocked softly, a back hitting the dock, maybe, then a tremor of breathy laughter, yours, sliding straight beneath Steve’s skin.

Steve’s boots sank into the soft mud as he edged forward, the cypress shadows cloaking him like a guilty secret. The air hung heavy, laced with the musky tang of the bayou and something sharper—sweat, skin, raw need.

His heart hammered against his ribs, each step pulling him deeper into the forbidden pull of those sounds; the slick glide of bodies, the creak of the dock under shifting weight, your gasps weaving through Bucky’s low, filthy murmurs.

He parted the low-hanging branches, breath held tight, and there it was—laid bare under the fractured moonlight. The old wooden dock stretched out over the inky water, a threadbare blanket rumpled beneath you, your body arched and exposed in stark naked glory.

Legs splayed wide, knees hooked over Bucky’s hips, you lay on your back, skin flushed and glistening, breasts heaving with every ragged inhale. Bucky loomed above you, just as bare, his muscled frame glistening with effort, driving into you with relentless force—like a piston hammering home, hips snapping forward in a brutal rhythm that made the skiff bob gently against the pilings.

“Goddamn, angel, you’re so fuckin’ tight,” Bucky rasped, voice gravel-rough and dripping with heat, his arm braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to spread you wider.

He plunged deep, cock thick and veined, disappearing into your slick folds with each savage thrust, the wet squelch of your cunt taking him echoing softly over the water.

You encouraged him, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails that made him hiss and buck harder.

“Yeah, just like that… fuck me deeper, honey, don’t stop,” you moaned, voice husky and demanding, hips rolling up to meet him, chasing the friction that had your toes curling against the blanket.

Steve’s gut twisted, a vicious knot of jealousy coiling tight. That smug son of a bitch—breaking their word, claiming you right here where anyone could stumble on it.

Part of him wanted to storm the dock, drag Bucky off you, demand answers—Why you? Why him? Why not…?

But his feet stayed rooted, eyes glued to the obscene union where Bucky’s cock stretched you wide, emerging slick and shining with your arousal before slamming back in, balls slapping heavy against your ass.

He couldn’t tear away. Watched, transfixed, as Bucky’s ass clenched with every drive—muscles bunching tight, flexing under the moonlight as he powered forward, burying himself to the hilt.

Your pussy lips clung to him on the outstroke, puffy and soaked, the connection a filthy, mesmerizing sight that sent heat surging through Steve’s veins. Jealousy warred with the fire building low in his belly, his cock swelling hard and insistent against his pants, throbbing with a need that shamed him even as it gripped him tighter.

Bucky leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss, tongue thrusting in time with his hips, while his hand slid between your bodies to circle your clit, making you arch and cry out into his mouth.

“Come on, pretty girl, squeeze me—milk this cock like you own it,” he grunted against your lips, pace turning frantic, the dock groaning under the onslaught.

You bucked beneath him, moans spilling free, body trembling on the edge, and Steve’s hand drifted unconsciously to his zipper, palm pressing against the rigid length straining there, breath coming in shallow pants as arousal drowned the anger, leaving only the pounding urge to watch you shatter.

His resolve cracked like dry earth under the relentless pull of what was unfolding before him. His hand trembled as it fumbled with his belt, the zipper rasping down too loud in the humid night, but the bayou swallowed the sound.

Shame burned hot in his chest, a sick twist of disgust at his own weakness—spying like some pervert, palming his aching cock free into the cool air. It sprang out, thick and heavy, veins pulsing with the blood roaring through him, pre-cum already beading at the tip as he wrapped his fingers around the shaft, stroking slow at first, then matching the brutal rhythm Bucky set.

Bucky shifted, his thrusts deepening, hips grinding forward with a force that buried him balls-deep, your slick walls clenching around his length in greedy pulls. Steve’s eyes locked on the way your body yielded, pussy stretched taut around Bucky’s girth, juices coating him shiny and wet with every withdraw.

He pumped his fist tighter, breath hitching, hating how the sight made his balls draw up, how the jealousy gnawed deeper when Bucky dipped his head to your chest.

Bucky’s mouth latched onto one breast, sucking hard on the swollen nipple, tongue lashing the peak while his teeth grazed just enough to make you whimper.

Your back bowed off the blanket, fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there, and Steve’s gut clenched like a fist—fuck, he wished that was him, his lips sealing over that pebbled flesh, tasting the salt of your skin, drawing those desperate sounds from your throat.

“Harder, handsome—suck ’em like you mean it,” you gasped, voice raw and pleading, and Steve’s strokes quickened, imagining those words spilling for him, your body writhing under his weight instead.

He leaned against the cypress trunk for support, the rough bark biting into his palm as he jerked himself off in frantic pulls, the wet schlick of his hand mirroring the obscene slap of Bucky’s hips against yours. Every encouragement you tossed out—“Yes, just like that, fill me up”—twisted the knife of envy, but he devoured them, pretending you meant him, that your heat was clenching around his cock, not Bucky’s.

Then it hit—you shattered with a loud, keening moan that sliced through the night, body convulsing as your orgasm ripped through you. Steve watched your pussy spasm, milking Bucky’s shaft in rhythmic squeezes, walls fluttering visibly around him.

Bucky groaned low and guttural, the sound vibrating from his chest as he felt it, your release soaking him further.

“Fuck—yeah, cum all over me, sweet thing,” he grunted, pace turning savage, hips pistoning faster, chasing his own edge with short, brutal drives that made your tits bounce and the dock shudder.

Steve’s vision blurred, the coil in his gut snapping as he stared at the frenzy—your nails digging into Bucky’s shoulders, his ass flexing with each punishing thrust, cock slamming home through your climax.

It was too much; his balls tightened, and he came with a stifled grunt, hot spurts erupting over his fist, splattering the mud at his feet. Ecstasy flooded him in white-hot waves, cock twitching in his grip, but as the peak crested, shame crashed down like a Louisiana storm—disgust churning in his veins, sticky and vile, for getting off to his best friend fucking, to you choosing Bucky’s roughness over whatever Steve might have offered.

Bucky kept going, mouth claiming yours in a sloppy, devouring kiss, tongues tangling as he rode out the aftershocks, hips still rolling deep.

Steve’s hand shook as he tucked himself away, cum-smeared fingers fumbling the zipper up, heart pounding with the need to vanish before the guilt swallowed him whole.

He backed away silent as a ghost, retreating into the cane rows, the sounds of your shared breaths fading behind him, leaving only the bitter ache of what he’d seen, and what he’d done, in the humid dark.

Morning sweated slowly into afternoon, the sun floating white-hot behind a gauze of haze. Down in the west pasture the fence line rattled beneath the steady thunk of a post-hole digger, but today its rhythm belonged to only one pair of hands.

Steve drove the iron blades into the soil again and again—shirt plastered to his back, jaw set so tight the tendon jumped. Every few minutes he straightened, wiped the grit from his palms, and turned the next section of wire without so much as a glance toward the barn.

Bucky tried talking first thing, an easy joke about cane toads croaking love songs, but Steve answered with a curt nod and buried himself in work. Now, hours later, Bucky was done pretending it didn’t sting. He stalked up the fenceline, boots crunching weeds, sweat glistening on his forearms.

“Alright, punk, what crawled up your ass?”

No answer. Steve slammed another staple home, muscles flexing under sunburned skin.

“Come on, Rogers. Usually I can’t shut you up about alignments and load-bearing angles. Now you’re growlin’ like a kicked dog.”

The hammer paused mid-swing. Steve’s eyes cut sideways, bruised with sleeplessness. “I’m working.”

“Yeah, and ignoring me like I shot your horse.”

“You’d have to own a gun first,” Steve muttered, turning away.

The hammer came down hard, bending the staple sideways. Steve cursed under his breath, pried it out, tried again. Bucky leaned on a fencepost, arms folded.

“You gonna keep this up all day?” he asked, softer now. “Or tell me what I did.”

Steve’s shoulders heaved once, twice. Finally he tossed the hammer into the grass and faced him. “I saw you.”

Bucky blinked. “Saw me what?”

“Last night.” The words grated out like gravel. “By the bayou. With her.”

Silence sucked the air from between them. A cicada screeched somewhere overhead; the wind died.

Bucky’s mouth opened, shut, then set in a thin line. “You spying on me now?”

“I came looking because your dumb ass snuck off.” Steve’s voice cracked with heat—not anger alone, but something raw beneath it. “We agreed, Buck. No screwin’ around with Mr Moreau’s girl.”

“She’s not a girl, Steve. She’s a woman. And she made the first move.”

Steve barked a humorless laugh. “So that clears your conscience? She offered, you took, and the rest of us be damned?”

Bucky pushed off the post, expression hardening. “Don’t pretend it’s about conscience. It’s about you bein’ jealous I got there first.”

Steve flinched as if struck. “You think this is a competition?”

“Isn’t it?” Bucky stepped closer, voice dropping. “I’m tired of tip-toeing around you so you can pretend you’re above wanting her.”

A flush crawled up Steve’s neck. “This isn’t about me. It’s about respect—”

“It’s about you not knowing what to do with what you feel,” Bucky shot back. “So you call me reckless to make yourself feel righteous.”

Steve’s fists clenched. “Reckless? You call sneaking out to fuck the farmer’s daughter on the dock responsible? You risked us getting thrown off the property.”

“Worth it,” Bucky said, and the word was all challenge, “I’m not ashamed of wanting her. She sure as hell wasn’t ashamed of wanting me.”

Steve’s breath hitched; the memory flashed—moonlight on skin, your voice breaking open. Shame burned inside him like lye. “We’re guests here,” he managed. “We owe Mr Moreau respect.”

“I didn’t touch her where he could see.”

“That’s not the point.” Steve turned away, picking up the wire as if work could armour him. “You never think past the next thrill. And I’m always the one patching whatever you tear up.”

“So patch this,” Bucky said, jaw tight. “Or admit the real reason you’re mad is because you wanted to be where I was.”

Colour surged up Steve’s throat. He took a half-step back, fists clenching, then exhaled hard. “You don’t know what I want.”

“You think I can’t see it? You stare at her like she’s Sunday salvation—then play saint when she looks back.” Bucky shook his head, frustration edging his tone. “I’m not sorry, Steve.”

Steve’s gaze flicked toward the house, shutters still closed and curtains fluttering soft. His jaw worked. “If you cared half as much about respect as you do about getting off—”

“Respect?” Bucky scoffed. “I asked her what she wanted. She said yes—loud enough the gators could hear.”

Steve’s eyes flashed, hurt bleeding through. “You don’t get it.”

“What I get is a partner who can’t decide if he’s my brother or my warden.” Bucky’s voice dropped, rough. “If you wanted her, you should’ve said so.”

Steve spun, eyes blazing. For a heartbeat words tangled unsaid—about loyalty, about how long he’d followed Bucky into trouble and how this, somehow, hurt worse than any fight in a back alley. Instead he grabbed the digger, drove it into the ground with a grunt.

“Go inside,” he muttered. “I’ll finish the line.”

Bucky took a step, but not back. His voice dropped to a thread. “You gonna tell her you watched?”

The tool froze mid-lift. Steve’s gaze snapped up, raw panic flickering before he masked it. “Don’t.”

Bucky’s anger faltered, replaced by something like wonder. “Jesus, you did more than watch, didn’t you?”

Steve’s face went white, then red. The digger slipped; he caught it, palms stinging. “Shut up.”

Bucky exhaled, disbelief softening into a rueful smile. “Saint Rogers,” he murmured. “Guess halos tarnish after all.”

Steve’s eyes glinted, hurt and humiliated. He dropped the tool, stepped past Bucky, shoulders stiff. “I’m done talking.”

“Steve—”

But Steve was already striding toward the cane rows, boots kicking dust, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. The sky boiled with late-day clouds, thunder rumbling somewhere distant. Bucky watched him go, chest tight with something that wasn’t victory at all.

The stall smelled of clean straw and warm horsehide, lantern light pooling soft over the cedar boards. Steve stood at the far end, shirt stuck to him, shoulders working a curry brush over the sorrel mare’s flank. The rhythm was steady, measured—every stroke a word he couldn’t speak.

You eased between the stalls, plate balanced on your palm, hips brushing the half-open doors as you passed. “Skipped lunch,” you said, “Figured a man could use somethin’ besides self-reproach for fuel.”

He turned, blue eyes wary until they landed on the sandwich, then gentled. “Ma’am, you didn’t have to—”

“Didn’t ask if I had to.” You held the plate until he took it, fingers grazing his knuckles, a quick spark you pretended not to notice. “Eat before you faint and scare my horses.”

Steve managed a crooked smile, sank onto an overturned feed bucket. The first bite broke the tension in his shoulders; you leaned against the stall door, arms folding under your breasts, watching him chew like it was the most interesting thing in Louisiana.

“You work too hard,” you said after a moment. “Makes me nervous—like I’ve gone and offended you.”

His gaze flicked up, guilt flashing. “You haven’t. I’m… just wired tight today.”

“Wired tight.” You tasted the words, slow. “Could loosen you, if you’d let me.”

He focused on the sandwich, and cleared his voice, despite colour creeping up his throat. “Wasn’t raised to pester a lady while I’m a guest under her roof.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “Feels more like you’re dodgin’ than mindin’ manners. You won’t hardly look at me unless I corner you.”

Steve set the plate on his thigh, thumb worrying the edge. “I—” He paused, swallowed. “You make it hard to keep my thoughts straight.”

“That so?” You pushed off the door, closed the distance until your boots touched his. Fingers slipped beneath the collar of his damp T-shirt, brushing the salty line of his neck. His breath caught hard.

“You ain’t doin’ anything wrong, sugar,” you whispered, letting your nails trace a half-moon before sliding away. “Least not with me.”

The mare huffed behind Steve, but neither of you moved. Your palm skimmed the line of his shoulder, slow and coaxing, to where the muscles knotted beneath damp cotton. “Tell me what’s eating you, pretty boy,” you murmured, thumb easing up the column of his throat to the sharp square of his jaw.

Steve’s lashes flickered. He tried to keep his eyes on the half-eaten sandwich, but the gentleness in your touch tugged his gaze up—and once he met your stare, whatever dam he’d built cracked. “I— last night,” he rasped, voice scraping raw. “I went looking for Bucky. I saw you two… by the bayou.”

Heat rushed to his cheeks. “I stayed. Watched. Should’ve turned around, but I—”

The confession spilled in a tumble of guilt and want. “I hated how jealous I felt. Hated that I couldn’t stop.”

“Oh, baby.” The words were a hush, almost a lullaby. You slid your fingers into the short hair at his nape and guided his head forward until his brow rested against the fine cotton of your shirt just above your navel. He inhaled, sun-warmed linen and honeysuckle, and shuddered.

“You didn’t do wrong by me,” you whispered, stroking the back of his neck. “Feelings aren’t sins.”

Steve’s hands hovered, uncertain, then settled at the backs of your thighs, big and tentative. You stroked his hair once more, let the silence breathe. Outside, the afternoon cicadas blurred into a single shimmering note.

“You can want something without tearing the roof down,” you said, voice low. “All that goodness in you doesn’t disappear ‘cause your body woke up.”

He nodded against you, and the movement, the trust in it, pulled a soft ache in your chest. You tilted his chin, thumb brushing the stubble-rough corner of his mouth. “Look at me, Steve.”

He did, eyes ocean-deep and storm-tossed at once. Your pulse skipped. “Let me show you it’s all right,” you breathed.

You bent, brushing your lips to his—a feather’s kiss, barely there. Steve’s exhale trembled, lashes falling shut as though the simplest touch was sacred. You tasted salt and sun and something sweeter before you lifted away a sliver. His eyes opened, dark with wanting, but he waited, polite even here, and that patience lit a spark low in your belly.

So you kissed him again, surer this time. The soft drag of mouths lingered, then opened; tongues met in a slow glide that tasted like a promise. Steve’s grip tightened at your thighs, thumbs sweeping small circles against your skin as though mapping sacred ground. You inched forward a fraction, pressing him back onto the overturned feed bucket; the move stole a breathy groan from him, swallowed into the kiss.

The stables seemed to narrow around you—lantern glow pooling honey-thick, dust motes floating like sparks in the slanted light. Somewhere a horse stamped, but the world had fallen to heat, straw, and the soft slick slide of lips.

You pulled back just enough to speak against his mouth. “Still feel like you’ve done wrong?”

His eyes opened; blue storm clearing to summer sky. He shook his head, a dazed smile ghosting. “Feel like I’m still figuring out what right feels like,” he murmured.

Your thumb traced the edge of his lower lip, swollen now, beautifully kiss-bitten. “Right’s easy,” you said. “It’s what makes you breathe easier, not harder.”

Steve’s gaze dipped to your mouth, then to the stretch of skin exposed where your shirt rode up. Courage flickered. One big hand slid higher, fingertips brushing the curve just beneath your hemline—a question more than a claim. You answered with a slow nod, lowering your weight a breath closer until his knuckles pressed warm between your ribs.

You slid the half-eaten sandwich and tin plate to the floor with one careless sweep, then eased a knee onto Steve’s lap, settling astride him. The overturned feed bucket creaked; Steve’s hands darted automatically to steady your hips, then froze as if he touched fire.

“Wait—” His voice was a husky scrape. “What about Bucky?”

You leaned in, thumbs brushing the fine blond stubble at his jaw. “Bucky’s not here, sugar.” Your hips sank a fraction, finding the thick shape straining beneath his work jeans. A tremor ripped through him; his eyelids fluttered.

“I can feel how bad you want it,” you murmured, amusement curling in the words like smoke. “Been feelin’ it since I met you. You think I didn’t notice?”

Heat bloomed crimson along Steve’s cheekbones. “I— I keep tryin’ to be respectful.”

“You are.” You cradled his face between your palms. It was steady and reassuring. “Respect doesn’t mean pretendin’ you don’t ache.”

His fingers finally unclenched, sliding up your thighs, rough thumbs stroking slow circles that raised gooseflesh. You rocked once, lazy and testing, and the low sound that spilled from his throat made the lantern sway on its hook.

“I want you too,” you confessed, voice just above a breath. “Want to hear you forget every polite word you know.”

Steve swallowed hard. “That might… take some coaxin’.”

You smiled, nose brushing his. “Lucky I have time.”

Storm-cloud light flickered through the high slats; somewhere beyond the stables a first fat drop of rain hit the tin roof with a hollow ping. You tilted his head back, claiming his mouth again—slow at first, letting him taste the yes in every slide of your tongue. His hands gripped your waist now, anchoring you as though the whole building could spin away.

“Tell me,” you whispered against his lips, “does this feel wrong?”

“No,” he exhaled, breath shivering through the single syllable.

“Then let it feel right.” Your fingers threaded into his hair, guiding him to the soft hollow of your throat. He pressed his mouth there, and the sharp sigh he let out bloomed heat low in your belly.

Rain pattered harder, drumming steady on the roof—cover for any sound you might choose to make. You rolled your hips once more; Steve answered instinctively with a slow lift of his own. The friction dragged a gasp from you both, tangled in the humid air.

You ground against him harder, hips circling with deliberate pressure, the denim barrier between you doing nothing to dull the rigid heat of his cock pressing up into your core. Steve’s mouth yielded under yours, the kiss turning rough—tongues clashing wet and urgent, his lips bruised from the depth of it. He looked utterly lost in it, eyes half-lidded and glassy, like a man three shots deep into whiskey, chasing the burn of your flavor.

Your teeth nipped his lower lip, drawing a ragged inhale from him as you murmured against the corner of his mouth, “That’s it. Touch me, honey. Feel how wet you’re makin’ me already.”

His palms hesitated for a split second, then surged upward, callused fingers digging into the swell of your ass, kneading the flesh through your skirt with a grip that bordered on desperate.

“Good boy,” you breathed, nipping his earlobe before sucking it between your teeth, the vibration of your praise humming into his skin, “pull me down harder. Make me ride that thick length of yours.”

Emboldened, Steve’s hands clenched tighter, yanking you flush against him with a low groan that rumbled from his chest. The force of it slammed your clit right over his bulge, friction sparking white-hot through your veins, your pussy throbbing with the need to be filled.

He bucked up to meet your rhythm, the overturned bucket groaning under the strain as you rutted rougher, denim grinding cotton in slick, heated drags that had slickness soaking through your panties.

Steve’s breaths came in hot pants against your neck, his confidence blooming like the storm outside—fingers spreading wide to cup your cheeks fully, thumbs pressing into the cleft, urging you to grind faster, deeper.

“God, you feel so good,” he rasped, voice thick and broken, finally shedding that polite shell as his hips rolled up hard, chasing the pressure building between you both.

The storm raged fiercer, rain lashing the roof like a thousand frantic fingers, drowning out the world beyond these weathered walls. Impatience clawed through you, a hot coil tightening low in your gut—you needed more than this teasing grind, needed him bare and buried deep.

With a frustrated sound against his lips, you lifted your hips just enough to break the contact, the sudden absence making your clit ache from the loss of friction.

Steve chased it instinctively, a desperate buck of his hips upward, his bulge straining toward you like it had a mind of its own.

“Easy, baby,” you soothed, voice a husky purr as you pressed a palm to his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heart beneath sweat-damp cotton. “I got you… gonna take care of that ache right now.” His eyes were wild, pupils blown dark with lust, but he stilled under your touch, breath ragged and waiting.

Your fingers fumbled hastily at his belt buckle, the metal clinking sharp in the humid air before you yanked the zipper down with a swift tug. Steve’s mouth never left your skin, latching onto the pulse point at your throat with hot, open-mouthed sucks that sent shivers racing down your spine—teeth grazing just enough to sting, tongue lapping greedily like he was starving for your taste.

His hands, bold now in their roaming, shoved up under your shirt, palms rough and seeking as they cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your hardening nipples through the thin lace of your bra. He squeezed , rolling the peaks until you arched into him with a sharp gasp, the dual assault of his mouth and hands making your cunt clench with raw need.

Diving into the open fly of his jeans, your hand slipped past the waistband of his boxers, fingers wrapping around the thick, velvety length of his cock. God, he was huge. Hot and heavy in your grip, the foreskin sliding smooth over the swollen head as you gave him a testing stroke.

Excitement surged through you, a fresh gush of wetness soaking your panties. “Fuck, Steve,” you breathed, as you pumped him slowly, feeling the way he throbbed and leaked pre-cum against your palm.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his blue eyes hazy and uncertain, searching your face for that green light—like a man on the edge, waiting for permission to shatter.

You smiled, thumbing over the flushed tip to smear his slickness down the shaft. “I love uncut men,” you murmured, low and filthy, watching heat flood his cheeks even as his cock twitched harder in your fist.

“Makes ’em feel so damn good… sensitive and real. Yours is perfect, honey. Thick and ready to stretch me wide.” Confident, you stroked him firmer, twisting your wrist at the base where veins pulsed hot under your fingers, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his chest.

You released him just long enough to hike up your skirt, bunching the fabric around your waist to expose the damp lace clinging to your thighs. Hooking your fingers into the crotch of your panties, you shoved them aside roughly, the cool air kissing your slick folds for a heartbeat before you positioned yourself above him.

His cock stood rigid, flushed and glistening from your touch, the head nudging insistently at your entrance as you hovered there, teasing the tip through your wetness—letting the anticipation build until his hands gripped your hips like iron, urging you down with a plea in his eyes.

Slowly you sank down onto his cock, the thick head parting your slick folds and stretching you inch by agonizing inch. A sharp hiss escaped your lips at the burn of it—uncut skin gliding smooth against your inner walls, every ridge and vein dragging delicious friction as you took him deeper.

You watched him like a predator savoring prey, drinking in the way his jaw clenched, brows furrowing in overwhelmed bliss, those blue eyes fluttering half-shut before snapping back to yours. The power of it surged through you, your pussy clenching around him just to feel him twitch inside, the sight of his restraint cracking making your clit throb with wicked satisfaction.

“That’s it,” you murmured, voice a sultry rasp laced with filth, leaning in close enough for your breath to ghost his ear. “Feel how wet I am for you? Squeezin’ this fat cock like it belongs in me. Tell me how it feels—c’mon, baby, use those words.”

Your hips settled fully, grinding in a lazy circle to seat him to the hilt, his balls pressed snug against your ass, but you held still for a beat, teasing him with the velvet grip of your heat. The rain might as well have been a memory; all you heard was his ragged breathing, the wet sounds of your bodies joined.

Slowly, you started to move—lifting just enough to let half his length slide free before easing back down, the drag pulling a low moan from your throat.

“Take what you want, sugar,” you encouraged, nails digging into his shoulders for leverage, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Grab my ass, my tits—fuck me like you’ve been dreamin’ about. I ain’t fragile; I want it rough, want you to ruin me with this thing.”

He answered in groans at first, deep and guttural, vibrating through his chest as his hips jerked up to meet your descent. “God... so tight,” he murmured, the words tumbling out low and broken, like they were dragged from some hidden place.

“Feels... too good... can’t—” Another thrust from below cut him off, his cock spearing deeper, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His hands roamed hungrily now, one sliding down to grip your thigh, the other tangling in your hair to pull you into a messy kiss, his tongue thrusting in time with his subtle bucks.

The pace quickened as impatience won out; you bounced a little harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing, your juices coating his shaft and dripping down to soak his jeans. Steve’s control frayed further; he shoved your tank top down with a rough yank, the fabric bunching at your waist and dragging your bra along with it.

Your breasts spilled free, heavy and bouncing with each rise, nipples peaked and begging for attention in the humid air. He stared for a split second, awe flickering in his lust-glazed eyes, before his hands were on them—palms cupping the soft weight, thumbs flicking over the sensitive tips.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, voice sweet and polite even in the haze, like a gentleman undone. “These... perfect. So full, so soft—wanna taste ’em, if that’s alright.”

The contrast hit you like lightning, his polite words amid the filth of what you were doing, making your core clench tighter around him. You arched into his touch, moaning as he leaned up to latch onto one nipple, sucking hard while you bounced faster, the dual sensations coiling that heat low and fierce.

The rhythm turned frantic as you picked up speed, hips slamming down harder onto Steve’s cock. Your ass slapped against his thighs, the wet smack mingling with the creak of hay beneath you and the thunder rumbling outside. He thrust up to meet you now, powerful bucks from below that jolted through your core, his body finally surrendering to the instinct you’d been coaxing out.

You reveled in it, a smile splitting your face as you caught him still fixated on your tits—bouncing wildly with each bounce, nipples grazing his chest when you leaned forward, flushed and heaving from the effort.

“Yeah, that’s it baby,” you murmured, voice breathy, threading your fingers through his hair to tug his head back just enough to force his eyes to yours.

“Fuck me back like you mean it—tell me, Stevie, you like poundin’ into me? Like how my pussy milks this cock?” Your words were a filthy prod, urging him past the groans into something more, wanting to hear that polite facade shatter completely.

He groaned louder, the sound raw and desperate, but he managed words this time, spilling them between gritted teeth as his mouth returned to your breast—sucking the peak hard, teeth grazing just enough to sting.

“Love it... shit, love how you take me,” he rasped, voice muffled against your skin, one hand squeezing your ass to pull you down firmer.

“These tits drivin’ me crazy, so damn perfect, bouncin’ like that. And you... tight, hot, beggin’ for it without sayin’ a word.” The sweetness laced his filth, his blue eyes locking on yours mid-thrust. It fueled you, that mix of gentlemanly sweetness and primal drive, making your walls flutter around his length as you rode him relentlessly.

Eventually, you reached between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen clit amid the slick mess where you joined. You rubbed in firm circles, the pressure building fast under your touch, chasing that edge while his cock stretched you full.

“Keep talkin’, sugar,” you gasped, bouncing even more furiously, the pace turning punishing, your juices soaking his balls with every slap. “Tell me what you like about me—my tight little cunt? How I ride you like I own this cock?”

Steve’s response was a guttural curse, his free hand joining yours briefly to press your fingers harder against your clit, like he couldn’t help but take over even there.

“Everything... your fire, the way you squeeze me—god,” he murmured, thrusting up with a force that nearly unseated you, his cock throbbing inside.

The words tipped you over; your orgasm crashed through like lightning, walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses around him, milking his shaft as waves of pleasure ripped cries from your throat. You shuddered through it, grinding down to ride out the bliss, clit pulsing under your touch while your body trembled atop him.

He followed seconds later, the vice of your release undoing him completely. “Shit—cummin’...”

Steve groaned, hips snapping up one last time, burying himself to the root as he erupted. Hot spurts flooded you, his cock jerking with each pulse, filling your spasming heat until it leaked out around him, mixing with your own wetness.

His hands gripped your hips bruisingly, holding you in place as he rode the high, face buried in the crook of your neck, breaths ragged against your skin. The stables seemed to spin for a moment, the rain’s roar returning as your pulses slowed, bodies slick and spent in the humid aftermath.

Steve stayed where he was, like he didn’t quite trust his own limbs yet—face pressed into the warm softness of your chest, breath still uneven against your skin. His hands hadn’t moved either, still anchored at your hips like if he let go too fast you might disappear on him.

You smoothed your fingers through his hair, slow and steady, easing him down from that sharp edge he’d been riding. “Easy, baby… breathe,” you murmured, voice soft, coaxing. “That’s it.”

He let out a shaky exhale, shoulders finally dropping a fraction. The tension in him didn’t vanish, but it softened, melted under your touch instead of snapping tight like it had all morning.

“I didn’t—” he started, then stopped, words catching somewhere between guilt and something softer. “I didn’t think I’d… be like that.”

You tipped his chin just enough to look at him, thumb brushing the flush still high on his cheek. “Like what?” you asked gently.

“Needy,” he admitted, quiet. “Rough. Thought I was better at keepin’ things… under control.”

You huffed a quiet little laugh, not mocking, just warm. “Control’s overrated.” Your hand drifted down his arm, tracing the muscle there, feeling the last little tremors still working through him. “Ain’t nothing wrong with wanting somebody. Ain’t nothing wrong with taking what’s given, either.”

His eyes searched yours, still unsure. “Even… like this?”

“Especially like this.” You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re a man, Steve. You feel things. You want things. That don’t make you bad.”

He swallowed, something easing in his expression, though a crease of doubt lingered. “Doesn’t feel like the way I was raised.”

“Maybe the way you were raised ain’t the only way to live.” Your fingers slid back into his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp, coaxing another quiet exhale from him. “You keep tryin’ to fit yourself into something too tight. No wonder you’re all wound up.”

His grip on your hips loosened, hands shifting instead to rest like he was finally allowing himself to just be there with you instead of bracing for what came next.

“You didn’t look like you thought it was wrong,” you added, a teasing lilt slipping back into your tone, eyes flicking to his mouth. “Not when you took me like a rowdy bull.”

A faint, embarrassed smile tugged at his lips. “No… guess I didn’t.”

“There you go.” You nudged his nose with yours, playful now. “Honest for once.”

He let out a soft breath that almost sounded like a laugh, the sound low and a little disbelieving, like he wasn’t used to feeling this light after something that intense.

Outside, the rain had started to ease—softening from a roar to a steady patter. Inside the stall, the air stayed thick and warm, the kind that made it easy to linger. Steve shifted slightly beneath you, one hand coming up to your back, resting there more confidently now.

“Thank you,” he said, quieter this time.

You tilted your head, studying him for a beat, then smiled. “Don’t start getting all polite on me again,” you warned lightly. “We just fixed that problem.”

That earned a small huff from him, the ghost of his usual composure returning, but looser now, less rigid. Your fingers traced idly along his shoulder again, slow, absentminded, like you had all the time in the world.

“Better?” you asked, softer.

Steve nodded, eyes lingering on your face—then dipping, just briefly, before coming back up. There was still heat there, still want, but now it sat easier on him. Less like something to fight. More like something he was starting to understand.

“Yeah,” he said. “Better.”

Rain sheeted against the loft’s tin roof hard enough to rattle the rafters, a steady percussion that should’ve lulled tired muscles to sleep.

Instead, Steve lay flat on the thin mattress pulled beside the couch, eyes fixed on the low slope of the ceiling where moon-gray water stains mapped the wood. The darkness felt thick, scented with damp hay and the copper tang of dying storm, but it was the silence between the two men that really pressed on his ribs.

Across the narrow space Bucky shifted, springs creaking under the old couch cushions. Not asleep. Steve could tell from the rhythm of his breathing; too shallow.

They’d worked the afternoon in tense near-silence, traded a few practical words over supper, then climbed to the loft when Mr. Moreau doused the lanterns downstairs. Since then… nothing.

Steve’s guilt gnawed as loud as the rain. All the righteous bullshit he’d thrown at Bucky that morning felt paper-thin now, ripped by the memory of your thighs bracketing his hips, the slick pull of your body around him. He’d sinned in the very place he’d condemned… maybe deeper. Bucky had broken a promise, sure, but Steve had broken it twice. First by watching, then by taking.

If he spoke first, will it sound like confession or a challenge? He imagined Bucky’s face if he admitted what happened in the stables—those bright blue eyes narrowing, that crooked grin folding into something sharp and hurt. Bucky was reckless, yes, but he was proud; jealousy cut him close to the bone. Steve couldn’t blame him. He felt the same knife when he’d watched Bucky with you, a sick cocktail of envy and desire he still tasted on the back of his tongue.

A board popped in the loft floor; Steve flinched. Bucky exhaled, a quick huff that could’ve been a sigh… or a laugh, it was hard to tell.

“Storm’s loud tonight,” Bucky muttered into the dark.

Steve swallowed. “Yeah.”

Another beat. Rain drummed harder, then softened in waves. Steve could picture the bayou swelling, black water rising under the dock where everything had changed. He tried not to think about how your moans had sounded layered over the water, how his own had answered hours later in a dusty stable.

“You finish that west line tomorrow,” Bucky said finally, voice low, almost casual. “We’ll have Moreau paid up.”

“Almost done,” Steve answered. He wet his lips, searching for something, anything really, to ease the weight in the room. The apology caught behind his teeth.

Bucky shifted again, the couch springs squealed. “Punk, you gonna stew all night?”

Steve closed his eyes. I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to lie either.

Outside, lightning flashed white through the high window slats, illuminating dust motes and the curve of the telescope aimed at dripping darkness. The quick burst etched Bucky’s silhouette; hands behind his head, stare fixed on the rafters, then vanished.

Steve drew a breath, let it out slow. “We should get some sleep,” he managed. “Finish early.”

Bucky’s chuckle was soft, humorless. “Sure.” A pause. “Night, Stevie.”

“Night, Buck.”

The rain settled into a gentle hiss, but sleep stayed distant. Steve lay listening to the space between heartbeats, wondering how long secrets could hang in rafters before they dripped down like stormwater, soaking everything beneath.

Dawn slipped through the loft slats in gauzy stripes, lighting dust motes and the tired curve of two backs turned on one another. Steve sat on the edge of his mattress, boots half-laced, guilt thrumming like an ache in his teeth. Across the aisle, Bucky tugged yesterday’s shirt over his head, humming nothing in particular, almost normal again after a night of storm-soaked silence.

Steve cleared his throat. “Mornin’, Buck.”

Bucky flicked him a sideways grin. “Look who’s talkin’ to me.”

Steve managed a huff of a laugh, tension easing a notch. “Didn’t mean to be a bear yesterday.”

“Figured you were just hungry.” Bucky stretched, joints popping. “Or constipated.”

“Yeah. Something like that.” Steve stood, wiped his palms on his thighs. “Listen—there’s somethin’ I gotta say before we head out.”

Bucky’s brows lifted, but the grin stayed. “Alright, preacher. Floor’s yours.”

For a heartbeat Steve couldn’t find air; the loft felt too small for the words. He ran a hand through his hair, stared at the warped floorboard between them. “Yesterday… after the rain started… I was in the stables.” He forced his gaze up, blue meeting blue. “She came by to give me some lunch and— and things got… outta hand.”

The smile died on Bucky’s mouth, shoulders stiffening under crumpled cotton. “Outta hand how?”

Steve swallowed. “We— I—” The confession lodged, then fell. “I slept with her.”

Silence crashed heavier than the storm. Bucky’s jaw ticked once, twice… his eyes flared a darker shade. “You mean right after you tore me a new one for fucking her?”

Steve winced. “Yeah.”

Bucky laughed. It was short, sharp and no humour in it. “That’s rich, Stevie. Real righteous.”

“I know it’s hypocritical,” Steve said, voice clipped. “But it happened.”

“‘Just respect Mr. Moreau,’” Bucky mocked, pitching his voice higher. “‘We’re guests, Buck.’ Then you go and fuck his daughter in the hay like a damn barn animal.”

“Wasn’t like that.” Heat licked up Steve’s neck. “It wasn’t planned. We—talked, and—”

“And you forgot all about your sermon.” Bucky crossed his arms, biceps bulging. “Tell me, did you watch yourself grunt and moan the way you watched me?”

Steve’s cheeks flamed. “Don’t make this dirtier than it is.”

“Dirtier? Brother, the mud’s already up to our knees.” Bucky stepped closer, anger bright and brittle. “You wouldn’t even let me feel good of what I had with her. Now you want me to swallow this and play nice?”

“I’m not askin’ for forgiveness.” Steve’s voice rose. “But you deserved the truth.”

“Truth is you’re jealous as hell and didn’t want to admit it,” Bucky shot back. “So you took your turn and still wanna be the saint.”

Steve’s fists clenched. “You think this feels right to me? I don’t think I can even look her father in the eye.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll choke on that guilt.” Bucky pivoted, pacing a tight line, boots thumping. He stopped, spun. “Fine. Let’s skip the guilt. Let’s ask her straight out who she wants. Winner keeps the girl, loser keeps their mouth shut.”

“That’s childish,” Steve snapped.

“Better than self-righteous,” Bucky muttered.

They stared each other down, breath quickening with a frustration edged in something hotter. Outside the loft, a rooster crowed. The tension held, buzzing like a live wire between their chests.

Steve exhaled first, the fight draining to weary honesty. “We can’t turn her into a prize, Buck. That ain’t right, and you know it.”

Bucky’s shoulders sagged, but the jealousy still smouldered in his eyes. “Then what? We keep sneakin’ behind each other until Mr. Moreau shoots one of us?”

“I don’t know.” Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “But we finish that fence today. After that—figure it out with her, together. No more secrets.”

Bucky studied him, jaw working. Finally he nodded stiffly. “Finish the fence,” he echoed. “Then we talk.”

The afternoon never quite decided if it was rain or sleet; it just hurled water sideways until the posts sagged in the muck and both men were soaked to the bone. By the time they slogged back to the barn, the sky looked like a dull bruise and the west line was still three rails short. No one said it, but they were glad for the excuse to quit early.

Up in the loft, Steve kicked off his mud-caked boots and dropped onto the couch, hair plastered to his forehead. Bucky lingered at the hatch, stripping and changing out of his drenched shirt, drops tapping the floorboards. He found a rag, swiped at his face, then tossed the cloth aside.

Tense didn’t begin to cover it. They moved around each other the way soldiers do when the truce is thin—careful, eyes sliding away after the briefest glance. Steve rummaged for dry socks, Bucky fished for a cigarette he never lit. Rain pattered on the roof, steady as a clock.

The ladder creaked.

You appeared with a bundle of quilts over one arm, hair damp, skin glowing from kitchen heat. “Thought y’all could use somethin’ dry,” you said, voice gentle, eyes flicking from Steve’s rigid shoulders to Bucky’s tight jaw.

Neither man answered right off, and the hush sharpened until even the rain felt awkward. You crossed to the couch, shaking out a faded patchwork, the cotton smelling of starch and chamomile. Steve took it with a muttered thanks, knuckles brushing yours; his gaze skittered away before it could catch.

“Fence fight back?” you teased, hoping to coax a smile. It earned only a grunt from Bucky and a shrug from Steve.

You laid another quilt over the couch arm, slower this time—testing the air, feeling the edge in it. “Storm’s supposed to clear by dawn,” you offered, smoothing a corner that didn’t need smoothing. “Plenty of time to finish tomorrow before ya’ll leave.”

Still the silence. Bucky’s cigarette twirled restlessly between his fingers; Steve’s fingers dug into quilt batting like he might wring the tension out of the fabric.

You straightened, eyes narrowing just a touch. “The weather ain’t the only thing foul up here,” you said softly, but there was firmness under the honey. “Y’all gonna tell me what’s crawled between you, or am I supposed to guess?”

Neither answered, but their gazes finally met. It was brief, charged… and you felt the spark skip the space between them like summer lightning.

Bucky broke first, voice rough. “Y’know what this is, sweetheart? A game. You’ve been playin’ us—fuckin’ us both and watchin’ which dog growls louder.”

You propped a hip against the couch arm, arms loose across your chest, unbothered. “Playin’? Honey, I just like good company. Can’t a girl enjoy both flavors without pickin’ a favourite?”

Steve’s tone came gentler but no less raw. “Why, though? If you care for either of us, why throw a match on gasoline?”

“Why not?” You lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug. “World’s big enough for more than one kind of want. I didn’t hear either of you complainin’ at the time.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “’Cause I thought it meant somethin’—til I find out you rode him next like a county fair row-pony.”

You arched a brow. “Meanin’ like you cared about Stevie’s feelin’s when you waited ‘til he was dead asleep to slide into my bayou and make me holler? Glass houses, James.”

The barb hit; he flinched, fingers whitening around the cigarette he still hadn’t lit. Steve opened his mouth, a protest half-formed, and you cut him a sidelong glance. “And you—moral high ground looked real pretty till you let me grind it to dust in the hay. Hypocrite suits you about as tight as those jeans did yesterday.”

Colour scorched Steve’s ears. “I won’t deny it,” he said quietly. “I was jealous. Still am.”

“Same,” Bucky snapped, softer now, wounded pride bleeding through. “Feels like we’re bein’ measured for sport.”

You blew out a breath, voice dropping to something low, coaxing. “I’m measurin’ the way I measure ripe peaches—by taste, not by pit. Didn’t reckon either one of you wanted claim-stakes hammered down.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, restless. “Can’t keep splittin the difference. Not without someone gettin’ cut.”

You let a slow breath roll out, smoothing the air like a hand over rumpled sheets.

“Alright—enough chest-thumping,” you murmured, voice a lazy drawl meant to soothe. You pivoted first to Bucky, stepping in just close enough that the lantern light caught the silver flecks in his eyes.

“Y’know what I like about you, Bucky?” Your fingers brushed the inside of his forearm—just a ghost of touch, but it made his shoulders ease a notch. “It’s that wildfire charm. You see somethin’ you want, and you grab it like life’s too short for second thoughts. Had me tremblin’ on that dock, remember? You move like you own the night, and for a minute I believed you did.”

A faint, reluctant grin tugged at the corner of his mouth despite the hurt still smouldering there.

Then you turned to Steve, reaching to smooth a wet lock from his forehead. “And you? Gentleman on the surface, but lord—the heat underneath once you let it out.” Your hand slid to cup his jaw; Steve leaned into it without meaning to, “You made me feel wanted in every sweet, filthy way a woman craves. Like I was worth every ounce of that control you dropped.”

Their gazes flicked to each other, some of the sharpness dulling with your words.

“You boys’ve been best friends forever, ain’t that right?” you asked, stepping back so you could see them both. “Shared bruises, shared bottles… but you never learned to share a woman?”

Bucky’s brows knitted. “Ain’t exactly the way we were taught.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting to Bucky, then you. “Not sure how that even works.”

“Works however we want it to,” you said with a shrug. “Could be one night. Could be more. Only rule is nobody’s feelings get shoved in a dark corner.”

They traded another look. This one was longer, uncertainty warring with curiosity. Rain pinged softly on the roof, a gentler rhythm now, like the storm itself was catching its breath.

You smiled. “Me? I’d rather see the two of you side-by-side than at each other’s throats. Twice the fun, half the guilt.”

Silence hovered, but the tension had shifted, no longer a taut wire ready to snap, more a low hum in the rafters. Bucky wet his lips, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth. Steve exhaled, shoulders softening, as if the idea wasn’t as impossible as it had sounded a minute ago.

Lantern-light flickered across the loft as you stepped between them, storm-tamed curls brushing Steve’s cheek. One hand found the back of his neck, guiding him down; your mouth covered his in a slow, coaxing seal. At first he held himself still, surprised, then his hands rose, steadying at your waist while he answered, tongue sweeping to taste the invitation you offered. The kiss went deep, unhurried, a warm pull that drew a hum from somewhere low in his chest.

Across the narrow space Bucky watched, arms folded but jaw tight, jealousy flashing bright before he masked it. You felt the weight of his stare; when you finally let Steve breathe you kept your gaze on those blue eyes gone hazy, then pivoted without missing a beat.

Your free hand snagged the front of Bucky’s T-shirt, knuckles brushing the hard plane beneath, and you tugged him forward.

“C’mere, hotshot,” you whispered.

He came, like the magnet he’d always been, meeting your mouth with none of Steve’s hesitation. The kiss landed hungry, teeth grazing, his hand sliding to cup the side of your throat. Where Steve’s earlier sweetness lingered, Bucky’s heat sparked bright, and you let both flavors mingle on your tongue a heartbeat longer than strictly fair.

When you broke away the air felt thicker, three sets of breaths stirring the dust motes. Your lips, plush now and tingling, curved into a satisfied smile.

“See?” you murmured, voice lazy as molasses. “Turns out sharing ain’t so hard.”

Steve stood rooted, wide eyes flicking from your mouth to Bucky’s. Bucky’s stare, darker now, drifted to Steve, sharp edge softened by the flush riding both their cheeks. Rain pattered gentle drums on the roof above, the storm’s worst anger spent, leaving only a hush that felt charged rather than tense.

“You pull us in opposite directions long enough,” Bucky said, half-grin creeping back, “might find we land in the same place.”

“Wouldn’t that be a sight,” you answered, giving his shirt a playful tug before smoothing the crumpled cotton flat. You turned, letting your knuckles brush Steve’s knuckles—an invitation to stay right where he was. “The three of us could keep warmer than any blanket in this loft.”

Neither man moved to argue. Steve’s throat bobbed, eyes searching Bucky’s. Bucky’s shoulders shifted, like he was trying on the feel of standing this close without bristling. A tentative thread of curiosity stretched between them stronger than the jealousy that had ruled the morning.

You stepped back just far enough to see them both, palms open. “Fence can wait,” you said. “Weather looks set to keep us indoors.” Outside, thunder rumbled a soft bass note, agreeing.

The air in the loft hung heavy, thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and the raw edge of anticipation. You stood between them, Bucky and Steve, their breaths syncing in ragged pulls, eyes locked on you like you’d become the only fixed point in the dim lantern glow.

Your fingers hooked under the hem of your damp shirt, the fabric clinging to your skin from the earlier drizzle. You peeled it up slowly letting the cool air kiss your ribs before it whispered over the swell of your breasts still trapped in lace. Their gazes followed every inch, darkening as you tossed the shirt aside onto the couch.

Then came the bra—clips snapping free with a flick, straps sliding down your shoulders. Your breasts spilled out, full and heavy, nipples tightening into stiff peaks under the weight of their stares. Bucky’s tongue darted over his lips, a low sound rumbling in his throat, while Steve’s jaw clenched, his eyes dropping straight to the soft curves, tracing the way they rose with each breath you took.

Not done yet. Your hands moved to the button of your jeans, popping it open with a soft click that echoed in the charged quiet. The zipper rasped down, and you shoved the denim over your hips, hooking your thumbs into your panties and dragging them along for the ride. They pooled at your ankles, and you kicked them free, standing bare before them—skin flushed, thighs slick with the ache building between them.

Bucky’s breath hitched, his cock straining visibly against his jeans, and Steve shifted, a flush creeping up his neck as he drank in the sight of your naked body, every curve and shadow laid out like an offering.

“Who wants to touch first?” you purred, voice husky, letting the words drip like honey over the tension.

It took barely a second—Bucky, of course, moving like he’d been coiled for it. His hand shot out, fingers tangling in your hair to yank your head back, crashing his mouth against yours. His tongue plunged deep, fucking into your throat with a possessive thrust that made your knees weak, tasting of salt and coffee and that unashamed want.

He hauled you flush against him, your bare tits mashing into the rough cotton of his shirt, nipples dragging against the fabric as his free arm banded around your waist, grinding his hard length into your belly through his clothes.

You melted into the kiss, moaning around his invading tongue, but then—hands. Warm, callused palms sliding onto your waist from behind, tentative at first, then firmer as Steve pressed his body against your back. His chest was a solid wall of heat, his cock throbbing hot against the cleft of your ass even through his jeans.

Those hands trailed up, slow and careful, cupping your breasts with a gentleness that contrasted Bucky’s roughness—thumbs brushing the undersides before squeezing soft, kneading the flesh until your nipples ached under the pressure.

A shiver raced down your spine as his mouth found your throat, lips parting to suckle the pulse there, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks straight to your clit.

Bucky didn’t let up, his kiss turning sloppier, wetter, tongue battling yours while Steve’s breaths fanned hot against your neck, his squeezes growing bolder, rolling your breasts in his palms like he couldn’t get enough of the weight, the give.

The kiss with Bucky lingered like a brand, his tongue retreating with a final, teasing swipe that left your lips swollen and slick. You twisted in his grip, turning your head to capture Steve’s mouth instead, and he met you halfway—eager, almost desperate, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that stole your breath.

His tongue delved deep, exploring with a fervor that matched the way his hands still cradled your tits, thumbs circling your hardened nipples until they throbbed under his touch.

Bucky didn’t yield an inch, his mouth shifting to the curve of your neck, hot and insistent, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin as he sucked a mark into place. One of his hands slid down, palming the swell of your ass with a firm squeeze, fingers digging in to guide your hips forward. You ground against him instinctively, feeling the rigid bulge of his cock press into your belly through the denim, thick and insistent, pulsing with every roll of your body.

Steve’s kiss deepened in response, turning rougher, his free hand tangling in your hair to angle your head just right, devouring your mouth like he needed to erase Bucky’s taste.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Bucky rasped against your throat, his voice a gravelly vibration that sent shivers racing down your spine, his breath fanning over the damp spot he’d left behind.

You hummed into Steve’s kiss, the sound vibrating between your pressed lips.

Steve broke the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, whispering hot against your ear, “You’re perfect... so soft, so sweet,” his affirmations spilling out like confessions, voice thick with awe and need as he nuzzled into your shoulder.

You pushed at their chests, firm but playful, breaking their hold. “I want both of ya’ll to eat my pussy,” you said, eyes flicking between them as you backed toward the small mattress piled with worn blankets on the loft floor.

You sank down onto the makeshift bed, the rough weave scratching your bare skin just enough to heighten the thrill. Spreading your legs wide, you exposed yourself fully—the swollen folds of your cunt glistening with arousal, clit peeking out begging for attention.

Bucky and Steve froze mid-step, their eyes locking onto the sight between your thighs, breaths catching in unison. Bucky’s jaw went slack, that smirk faltering into raw want, while Steve’s flush deepened, his cock tenting his jeans obscenely as he swallowed hard.

Then, like a dam breaking, they lunged,both scrambling forward in a tangle of limbs, shoulders bumping as they vied for position.

“Move over, punk,” Bucky murmured, shoving at Steve’s arm, trying to wedge in closer.

Steve pushed back, his voice a strained mutter, “There’s room—back off a sec.” They bickered like that, half-hearted jabs and elbows, but neither stopped advancing, knees hitting the mattress as they crowded between your open legs.

Their argument dissolved into action, mouths descending on your pussy in a frenzy of heat and hunger. Bucky got there first, his tongue lapping broad and flat up your slit, collecting your wetness with a groan that rumbled against your sensitive flesh. Steve wasn’t far behind, angling in from the side to suckle at your inner thigh before dragging his lips to your clit, enveloping it in wet suction that made your hips buck.

They jostled for space, Bucky’s shoulder knocking Steve’s as he delved deeper, tongue fucking into your entrance with sloppy thrusts, while Steve latched onto your nub, flicking it relentlessly with the tip of his tongue.

The dual assault overwhelmed you—Bucky’s mouth devouring your hole, slurping noisily at the gush of arousal leaking out, his stubble scraping your thighs raw; Steve’s lips sealed around your clit, sucking hard enough to pull whimpers from your throat, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady.

“Taste so fuckin’ sweet,” Bucky mumbled between licks, the words vibrating into you, while Steve hummed agreement, his tongue circling faster, teeth grazing just enough to teeter on the edge of pain.

Their mouths battled over your dripping cunt like starving men, tongues and lips a chaotic symphony of slick heat that had you mesmerized. You watched through half-lidded eyes, pulse hammering in your ears, the way Bucky’s tongue plunged deep into your hole, fucking in and out with obscene wet sounds, only for Steve to shove in closer, latching onto your clit with a fierce suck that made your toes curl.

Their faces were inches apart, cheeks brushing, breaths mingling hot and ragged, and fuck, the sight of it twisted something filthy in your gut. You imagined it—their tongues slipping free from you, tangling together in a messy, saliva-slick kiss, tasting you on each other, and the thought alone shoved you toward the edge.

“God, yes—right there,” you gasped, hips grinding up into their faces, fingers yanking at their hair to hold them in place.

Bucky groaned low, the vibration humming straight through your core, “You like watchin’ us fight over this pretty pussy, huh?” Steve mumbled something incoherent against your thigh, too lost in the feast to form words, but his tongue flicked faster, relentless.

It hit you like a storm surge, that orgasm sneaking up fast and brutal—your walls clenching on nothing, release gushing out in hot waves that soaked their chins. You cried out, back arching off the mattress, thighs quaking as pleasure ripped through you. Bucky and Steve didn’t pull back; if anything, they dove deeper.

“So damn good,” Steve finally rasped, voice muffled as he licked a stripe up your seam, sharing the taste with a quick, accidental brush of his tongue against Bucky’s.

The intensity bordered on too much, sparks of overstimulation prickling like needles as their mouths kept working, tongues still probing and sucking without mercy. “Wait—fuck, too much,” you panted, hands flying to their heads, trying to shove them away, but your pushes were weak, body still humming from the high.

They lingered a second longer, reluctant, before Bucky’s eyes flashed with that predatory glint. In a blur, he shouldered Steve aside, “My turn, Stevie”—the bigger man stumbling back on his knees, jeans strained tight over his erection.

Bucky didn’t waste a beat, fingers fumbling with his belt, the clink of metal echoing in the loft as he yanked it open. His jeans shoved down just enough, his cock sprang free—thick, veined, the flushed head already leaking pre-cum, curving up with a slight leftward tilt.

He gripped the base, stroking once, twice, before dragging the length through your soaked folds, coating himself in your release. The friction teased your entrance, bumping your clit with each pass, and you bit your lip, doing nothing to stop him—hell, you spread your legs wider, inviting the invasion.

“Yeah, just like that,” Bucky muttered, voice rough as gravel, lining up and sinking in slow, inch by torturous inch, your pussy stretching around his girth with a burn that blurred into bliss.

He bottomed out with a guttural groan, balls slapping against your ass as he started thrusting—deep, claiming strokes that rocked your body against the mattress. “Still so tight... takin’ me so good,” he grunted, hands pinning your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, the wet slap of skin filling the air, mingling with the rain’s fury outside.

You took it, moaning with each plunge, walls fluttering around him, but your gaze flicked to Steve, who knelt there looking adrift—lips shiny with your juices, chest heaving, cock throbbing untouched in his pants, a mix of uncertainty and need in his blue eyes.

“Aw, c’mere, sugar,” you cooed softly, voice breathy from Bucky’s relentless pace, reaching out a hand to beckon him closer. He hesitated for a split second, then crawled forward, drawn like a moth to flame.

You pulled him down, crashing your lips to his in a messy kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. Bucky’s thrusts didn’t falter, each one jolting you into Steve’s mouth, making the kiss deeper, hungrier. “Mmm, don’t look so lost,” you murmured against Steve’s lips, nipping at his bottom one before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “I want you in my mouth—wanna taste that big cock of yours while he fucks me.”

Steve’s breath hitched, a flush creeping up his neck, but he nodded, fumbling with his zipper as Bucky chuckled, hips snapping harder. “You heard her, pal. Feed her that dick.”

Steve’s fingers trembled on his zipper, the metallic rasp cutting through the humid air as he finally freed himself—his cock springing out, thick and heavy, the head already flushed and glistening with pre-cum. You watched for a beat, heat pooling fresh in your belly, but then impulse hit like lightning. With a hum, you planted your hands on Bucky’s chest and shoved hard. He blinked up at you, confusion flashing in those blue eyes as his cock slipped free from your clenching heat with a wet pop, leaving you achingly empty for just a second.

“What the—” Bucky started, but you didn’t let him finish, pushing him sideways until he toppled onto his back, jeans still bunched around his thighs, legs splayed. The mattress creaked under his weight, and before he could protest, you swung a leg over him, straddling his hips. His dick slapped against your inner thigh, hot and insistent, as you gripped it at the base and sank down in one fluid motion, taking him balls-deep with a satisfied moan.

“Fuck yeah, angel,” Bucky rasped, hands flying to your waist, thumbs digging into your skin as he bucked up once, testing. “Ride me like one of them horses out in the pasture—hard and wild.” His voice was all gravel and hunger, that smirk creeping back as he watched you take control.

You laughed breathlessly, rolling your hips in a slow grind before lifting up and slamming down, “You’ve got a real dirty mouth on you, handsome,” you teased, picking up the pace, bouncing steadily now, the rough denim of his jeans scraping deliciously against your thighs with each drop. The friction added a bite to the bliss, making you hiss through your teeth.

Bucky groaned, head tipping back against the mattress, but his eyes stayed locked on you. “Shit, just like that. Tighter, darlin’, squeeze me.”

Your gaze shifted to Steve, who hovered there, cock in hand, looking equal parts left out and starved. You flashed him a soft, encouraging smile, slowing your rhythm just enough to beckon him with a crook of your finger. “C’mon, honey. I want you right here.”

He swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing, but he shuffled closer on his knees, positioning himself near Bucky’s head, close enough that the scent of his arousal mixed with the musk of sweat and rain-soaked hay.

You leaned forward without missing a beat, your breasts swaying with the motion, and wrapped your lips around the tip of Steve’s cock. He was pretty—long and girthy, the foreskin peeling back as you sucked gently, tongue swirling over the sensitive head to taste the salty bead of pre-cum. “Mmm,” you hummed around him, the vibration pulling a choked gasp from his throat.

Steve’s hand tangled in your hair, not pushing, just holding on as you licked a broad stripe up the underside, tracing the thick vein before taking him deeper, cheeks hollowing with the suction.

“God, your mouth... feels so damn good, beautiful,” he murmured, voice rough and genuine, hips twitching forward instinctively.

Bucky’s thrusts didn’t let up—he drove into you from below, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until it pebbled hard under his touch.

“Look at you, takin’ us both like a champ,” he panted, pinching lightly, sending sparks straight to your core.

But then his rhythm faltered for a split second, eyes darting sideways as your head bobbed right next to his face, the wet sounds of your sucking filling his ears. Steve’s cock glistened with your saliva, inches from Bucky’s cheek, and you caught the way Bucky’s gaze lingered, a flicker of something strange and curious in his expression.

“Hey, eyes on me,” you pulled off Steve with a pop, grinning down at Bucky as you clenched around him on purpose, making him curse under his breath. “Or you wanna join in? Taste him too?”

Bucky chuckled hesitantly, squeezing your other breast in retaliation. “Temptin’, but I’m good buried in this pussy for now.” He bucked harder, the scrape of denim biting into your skin again, urging you back to work.

You obliged, moaning around Steve’s length as you took him to the back of your throat, nose brushing the unkept hair at his base. Steve’s free hand braced on Bucky’s shoulder for balance, the accidental touch making both men tense, breaths syncing in the charged air.

“Fuck, I’m not gonna last,” Steve warned, fingers tightening in your hair, but you just hummed encouragement, riding Bucky faster.

Bucky’s eyes gaze flicked back up, locking onto the way your lips stretched around Steve’s throbbing dick, slurping and sucking with greedy abandon. Steve’s face was a mask of pure ecstasy; eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted in a silent groan, and Bucky couldn’t resist. “Hey, punk, she’s got you leakin’ like a damn faucet.”

Steve’s breath hitched, his hand flexing in your hair, but he shot Bucky a glare through half-lidded eyes. “Shut it, Buck,feels too good to argue.”

You hummed around Steve’s length, the vibration making him buck forward, your free hand cupping his heavy balls, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling them tighten as he teetered on the edge.

Bucky hummed, spreading your ass cheeks wider, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to where his cock pistoned in and out. “Nah, saint, you’re blushin’ like a virgin. Gonna blow already?”

“Screw you,” Steve panted, but there was no heat in it, just desperate need as his cock twitched against your tongue. You could feel him swelling, the salty pulse of pre-cum flooding your mouth, he was seconds from exploding.

But you weren’t ready to let him go over yet. With a deliberate pop, you pulled off, your hand still stroking his slick shaft lazily, denying him that final push. Steve’s eyes flew open, pained and pleading, his chest heaving as he stared down at you.

“Please... don’t stop,” he begged, voice cracking, hips jerking futilely into your grip.

You paused your bounces on Bucky, clenching around him to keep him buried deep but holding still, the ache of denial making your thighs quiver. Leaning up slightly, you cupped Steve’s jaw with your free hand, thumb tracing his lower lip as you met his gaze softly. “Shh, pretty boy. I want you to finish inside me… fill me up proper. Not like this.”

Bucky stilled beneath you, his hands loosening on your ass just a fraction, brows knitting in confusion as he glanced between you and Steve. “You kickin’ me out now?”

Steve mirrored the look, his cock bobbing neglected in the air, still rock-hard and dripping. “But... Buck’s already...”

You grinned, sweet and reassuring, “Fellas, I’ve got room for two. Plenty of space in me.”

Your words hung in the humid air like a challenge, that smile still playing on your lips as you picked up the pace, bouncing with renewed vigor, your ass slapping against his thighs, the wet sounds of your pussy devouring him echoing in the dim loft.

Steve shifted behind you, his uncertainty clear in the way his hands trembled slightly on your waist. He was rock-hard, tip leaking and flushed, but his mind raced ahead—assuming you meant something else entirely. With a hesitant nudge, he pressed the head of his cock against your ass, the pressure firm but tentative, like he was testing uncharted waters.

A soft laugh bubbled out of you, light and teasing, cutting through the tension as you twisted your head to glance back at him. “Oh sweetheart, that’s not quite what I had in mind.”

Steve froze, cheeks burning even in the low light, his cock twitching against your skin. “I... thought... shit, sorry. You said—”

Before he could finish fumbling, you reached back with one arm, your fingers wrapping around his thick shaft—hot and pulsing in your palm. You stroked him once, firmly, drawing a sharp hiss from his lips, then guided him downward, angling him right toward your soaked entrance where Bucky was already buried deep.

The tip brushed against your folds, slick with your arousal and Bucky’s pre-cum, nudging insistently at the stretched opening.

Steve’s eyes widened, confusion etching deeper lines on his face as he stared down at the impossible sight. “Wait, but... how the hell—?”

You paused your grinding just enough to lean forward, bracing one hand on Bucky’s chest, nails digging into his skin for leverage. “There’s enough room in this greedy little pussy, honey. Stretch me wide, fill me up until I can’t think straight.”

Your words were a sultry command, eyes fluttering half-shut in anticipation, but you shot Steve a reassuring wink over your shoulder.

Bucky’s head snapped up, his blue eyes meeting Steve’s in a shared look of stunned disbelief. “You serious, darlin’? Both of us... in there? Shit, that’s—”

“Insane,” Steve finished, voice hoarse, but his hips inched forward anyway, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance alongside Bucky’s girth. They exchanged another glance; uncertain, a flicker of worry in Bucky’s eyes and Steve’s furrowed brow. This wasn’t some quick tumble; it was pushing boundaries they’d never imagined.

“Yeah, insane,” Bucky echoed, but his voice dropped an octave, laced with a sliver of excitement as he held still inside you, letting you feel the throb of him. “You sure you can take it, angel?”

“Mm, more than sure,” you murmured, rocking your hips experimentally, which only wedged Steve’s tip a fraction deeper, the dual pressure making your breath catch. “Come on, Stevie—push. I want to feel you both sliding in, rubbing against each other in me.”

Steve swallowed hard, resolve flickering to life in his gaze as he nodded, hands steadying on your hips. “Alright... alright, if that’s what you want, sweetheart.” He started pushing in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, the stretch burning sweet and intense as your walls accommodated him.

You breathed in deep, eyes squeezing shut, a shudder rippling through you as you balanced on Bucky’s chest—fingers splaying wide over his pounding heart, grounding yourself in the heat of his skin.

Bucky groaned low, his cock twitching inside you as he felt Steve’s length pressing in against him.

Steve’s breath stuttered, his forehead beading with sweat as he sank deeper, the sensation overwhelming—your pussy clenching around them both, hot and velvety, while Bucky’s cock pulsed right against his own. “It’s—tight as hell. You okay?”

You nodded, biting your lip to stifle a whimper, the fullness bordering on too much but tipping straight into ecstasy. “Keep goin’... just like that. Oh, fuck. Yeah, both of you, right there.”

The stretch was exquisite agony, your body locked in place between them, every nerve ending firing as Bucky and Steve filled you to the brink—two thick cocks wedged deep in your pussy, pulsing hot and insistent against each other through your slick walls.

You could barely shift, let alone move, the overwhelming fullness pinning you like a vice, your thighs quivering from the strain. A hazy fog clouded your mind, cockdrunk and drifting in the haze of sensation, every shallow breath pulling a whimper from your lips.

“F-Fellas,” you gasped, voice slurred with lust, fingers clutching at Bucky’s shoulders for any semblance of control. “I... I can’t—move for me. You gotta fuck me like this.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, a feral glint cutting through the sweat beading on his brow. He nodded once, rough and sure, his hands clamping harder on your hips. “Yeah? You want us to use you, sweet thing? Pound this greedy little hole till she breaks?” His voice was gravel, hips shifting first—tentative at the start, pulling back an inch before slamming upward, the drag of his shaft grinding against Steve’s in the tight confines of your cunt.

Steve mirrored him a beat later, hesitant but hungry, his broad chest heaving as he withdrew slightly, then thrust in—the dual motion sending sparks exploding behind your eyes. “God, it’s... too much,” he groaned, voice cracking on the edge of a moan, his cock sliding against Bucky’s.

They found a rhythm, tentative thrusts syncing into something primal, back and forth like a seesaw of pure heat—Bucky pushing deep as Steve eased out, then reversing, their groans mingling with the wet slap of skin and the creak of the mattress beneath.

You were their plaything now, jolted between them like a ragdoll, body bouncing on the wave of their cocks, the pressure building in your core until it bordered on delirium. Lost in the rhythm, Bucky’s hand snaked up your back, fingers tangling in your hair to yank you down, crashing his mouth against yours in a bruising kiss—tongue plunging deep, tasting the salt of your shared sweat, devouring you like he owned every gasp. You melted into it, moaning into his mouth as their cocks speared you harder.

But Steve wasn’t going to be left out anymore. As Bucky released you, Steve’s strong arm hooked around your waist, pulling you upright with a possessive tug, his free hand cupping your jaw to turn your face to him. As he sealed his lips over yours—kissing you slower but no less fierce, tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, drawing out a needy whine as his hips snapped forward, grinding deeper alongside Bucky.

Your mind spun, pleasure dazing you into a stupor, words tumbling out in a breathless haze. “Kiss... kiss each other.”

Bucky faltered for a split second, his blue eyes flicking up to Steve’s, surprise flashing before lust swallowed it whole. “What—darlin’, you—”

You didn’t let him finish, one hand snaking behind Steve’s head, fingers threading through his damp hair and pushing down firmly, guiding him toward Bucky’s waiting mouth. “C’mon, hotshot, kiss your golden boy for me.”

Bucky’s breath hitched, resistance crumbling under the weight of your words and the relentless pump of his hips. They kept moving, cocks buried to the hilt, sliding in tandem as their faces drew closer—lips brushing tentative at first, then crashing together in a passionate lock. Bucky’s tongue darted out, claiming Steve’s mouth with the same hunger he fucked you with, a muffled groan escaping them both as the kiss deepened.

You watched, transfixed, the sight of their mouths fusing; tongues tangling, breaths mingling, pushing you over the edge. The coil in your belly snapped, orgasm ripping through you like lightning, your pussy spasming wildly around them both, walls fluttering and squeezing in rhythmic pulses.

“Fuck—yes, oh god, I’m cumming!” you cried, body arching as waves of ecstasy crashed over you, soaking their cocks in your release.

Their kiss broke on a shared gasp, Bucky pulling back first, eyes wide and wild as he felt the vice-like grip of your climax. “Fuck—baby, you’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight,” Bucky grunted, voice strained, his grip bruising your hips as he drove up into the slick chaos of your pussy, feeling the hot flood of your release coat him. “Gonna make me—”

Steve beat him to it, a choked groan tearing from his throat as his body seized. “Oh shit—can’t hold—”

His cock throbbed wildly inside you, swelling against Bucky’s before unleashing thick ropes of cum, pulsing deep and flooding your core. The warmth spread instantly, mixing with your own juices, the sensation of his load spilling out around their joined shafts pushing Bucky right to the brink.

That was it—the wet heat of Steve’s release seeping through your walls, drenching Bucky’s cock in the messy proof of his friend’s orgasm. Bucky’s eyes squeezed shut, a guttural moan ripping free as he slammed home one last time. His shaft jerked violently, erupting in heavy spurts, pumping load after load into you until it overflowed, the combined seed sloshing with every twitch.

They emptied everything, cocks twitching with brutal oversensitivity, veins pulsing against your fluttering insides. You shuddered between them, body limp and quaking, every nerve raw from the overload.

Bucky’s hands roamed your sweat-slick skin—tracing the curve of your spine, cupping your ass, kneading your thighs—as if grounding himself in the aftermath, his breaths coming in harsh pants against your ear. “Easy, angel... we got you,” he murmured, voice hoarse, fingers digging in just enough to soothe the lingering ache.

Steve, still buried deep, pressed his lips to the pulse at your neck, kissing softly at first, then with more urgency, tongue flicking out to taste the salt on your skin. “So good... you feel so good, sweetheart,” he whispered, nuzzling closer, his chest heaving against your back as he fought to steady the tremors racking his frame.

Steve was the first to stir, reluctance clear in the way his hands lingered on your waist. With a careful shift, he eased back, his softening cock slipping free with a lewd, wet pop. The rush hit immediately—a gush of warmth spilling from you, their mingled cum trickling down in thick rivulets, soaking the denim of Bucky’s jeans beneath.

“Ah—sorry,” Steve muttered, flushed and spent, collapsing onto the mattress beside Bucky, his arm draping loosely over his eyes as if to block out the intensity.

You let out a shaky breath, muscles protesting as you lifted yourself off Bucky next, the drag of his cock pulling a sharp whine from your throat. More seed followed, sliding hot and sticky down your thighs, pooling where you’d been joined. Bucky hissed through his teeth, hips bucking involuntarily at the loss.

“Fuckin’ hell—that’s... messy,” he rasped, a low chuckle rumbling out despite the sensitivity, his hand coming up to swipe at the spill on his jeans.

Exhausted, you collapsed between them, body sinking into the rumpled sheets, limbs twitching with aftershocks. Silence fell, broken only by the trio of heaving breaths syncing in the humid loft air, thick with the musk of heat and raw sex, undercut by the distant patter of rain on the roof and the faint, the sweet trace of your honeysuckle lotion clinging to sweat-damp skin.

Then Bucky’s voice cut through the hush, like he was trying to toss a joke over something that felt too big to stare at.

“Well… guess we learned how to share after all.”

You let out a small huff that might’ve been a laugh if you’d had more air in your lungs, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Your body still felt like it was humming—too warm, too wrung-out, like you’d been shaken up and put back together wrong in the best way.

Steve made a sound that could’ve been a chuckle, “S’pose that’s one way to put it,” he murmured.

Above your head, Steve turned his head towards Bucky. That familiar, easy glance they’d shared a thousand times in their lives, the one that always said you good? and yeah, I’m good, the one that had carried them through worse than a Louisiana storm. Only now it didn’t land the same.

Because now “you good?” had more weight.

Steve’s eyes flicked to Bucky’s mouth, just a fraction too long, and something tightened in his chest, warm and confusing. A flash of it, all over again, the wet press of tongues, the wrongness-turned-rightness of it, the way it had sparked through the whole loft like lightning.

The two of them had spent their whole lives calling it brotherhood because that word was safe. Best friends. End of the line. A story you could tell people without watching them look too closely.

But you had made them look too closely.

Bucky broke eye contact first, like he felt the heat of the thought and didn’t want to stand in it, his gaze dropping to you like he needed somewhere safer to look. His hand came up, fingers warm and careful at your throat, thumb resting at your pulse like he could feel your heartbeat still stuttering there. He tilted your face toward him with a gentleness that didn’t match his normal charm at all.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmured, and there was no swagger in it, no performance. “One hell of a woman.”

“Not so bad yourself, handsome,” you breathed back, a lazy little smile tugging at your mouth.

He kissed you, slow and lingering, like he was claiming the moment for himself. You let him. Let him have the softness. Let him taste the last traces of you on your own lips without making it a fight.

And you felt Steve’s attention sharpen across your skin.

At first it was just presence. Then it became something else, that ugly twist of jealousy rising in him again, quick and hot, like he’d hated it earlier and still couldn’t stop it now.

Only this time it wasn’t simple.

It wasn’t just Bucky’s kissing you and I’m not.

It was tangled up with the memory of Bucky’s mouth against his, with the fact Steve had felt it… felt how it changed the air, how it changed the shape of his chest when he thought about it too long. It was the unsettling realization that what he wanted wasn’t cleanly separated into categories anymore.

He didn’t want to name that.

So he did what Steve always did when he didn’t want to name something, he acted.

His hand came up, palm warm against your cheek, and he guided your face toward him with a firmness that bordered on petulant—like he couldn’t stand being left out even for a breath anymore.

“Hey,” he muttered, as if the word could justify what he was about to take.

Then he kissed you.

Deeper than Bucky had, because Steve kissed like he was trying to anchor himself, like if he could taste you hard enough, he could drown out every complicated thought trying to rise. His mouth was hot and sure, tongue slipping in with a confidence he hadn’t carried before the stables, before the loft, before you pulled all the polite restraint out of him and taught him what he looked like without it.

You hummed into the kiss, letting it be messy, letting him be greedy.

Bucky watched, jaw tightening, though not angry exactly, not anymore. Just… lit up. Like he didn’t know where to put his hands, his pride, his hunger. Like the sight of Steve taking something he wanted did something ugly and thrilling to him at the same time.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, eyes heavy. Your voice came out soft and unhurried like you weren’t about to let either of them pretend this was simple.

“You boys keep lookin’ at each other like you don’t know what you’re seein’,” you murmured, eyes flicking between them. “Ain’t like you didn’t already cross the line.”

Steve’s throat bobbed. His gaze cut away for half a second, reflex and denial, then returned.

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “She’s got a point, punk.”

Steve shot him a look. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m not startin’,” Bucky said, almost too calm. “I’m just… takin’ inventory.”

That made Steve’s brow furrow, something wary and pulled-tight in his expression.

You shifted between them, the movement small but enough to draw both their eyes, enough to remind them you were still the center of gravity here, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

Steve felt it in the quiet seconds after, watching you push yourself upright, stretching like a cat that’d just had its fill. The lamp on the little trunk threw a golden wash over you, catching the curve of your shoulder, the soft hollow at your throat, the confidence in the way you didn’t rush to cover yourself.

And in his head, Steve hated how perfectly Bucky’s pet name fit you now. Angel.

He had always thought angels were meant to guide you back toward the straight path. You were the opposite kind. The kind that smiled sweetly and led you off the road on purpose, deeper into the dark, deeper into want, like sin wasn’t something to fear but something to finally stop lying about.

He should’ve hated that.

Instead it felt… like relief.

It felt like coming home to a part of himself he’d kept locked up tight, because being Steve Rogers meant being good, meant being steady, meant being the one who held the line. Out here… on this farm, in this heat, with your hands on him and your mouth on his—he didn’t have to perform holiness. He could just be a man. Hungry, human and wanted.

And Bucky, reckless, charming and always halfway out the door, had been tempted into stillness for once. Steve could see it. Even now, with Bucky sprawled beside him, breathing slower, eyes heavy, there was a calm in him that didn’t usually last longer than a cigarette.

You’d done that. To both of them.

Then you spoke again, and the words hit like cold water.

“Shame you boys’ll be leavin’ tomorrow.”

You said it so goddamn easy. Like you were talking about weather. Like you hadn’t just cracked something open between them that didn’t fit back the same way.

The warmth in the loft went cold.

Steve’s throat tightened. He glanced at Bucky without meaning to, like he needed confirmation he hadn’t imagined the sting. Bucky’s face had gone still, brows drawn together, mouth set in a line that looked almost… hurt. Just that faint pout of a man who didn’t like realizing he’d started wanting something he couldn’t have.

Steve recognized the expression because it was sitting on his own face too.

Leaving had always been the plan. Finish the fence. Get the gas. Roll out. Keep moving. That was Bucky’s rhythm. That was the only rhythm Steve had been able to follow for months without losing him.

But now, hearing you say it out loud, Steve felt something stubborn rise up in him. Possessive in a quiet way. Not of you exactly… though that was in it. Of the whole thing. The strange little pocket of peace this place had offered. The way his shoulders had stopped riding his ears. The way he’d slept deeper here, even on a hayloft mattress.

He could feel that same resistance in Bucky, of all people.

Steve swallowed, voice coming out quieter than he meant. “Who says we have to leave tomorrow?”

“My daddy’s got you on a job. Fence gets finished, you take your gas, you go,” you said. “That was the arrangement.”

Bucky shifted beside you, shoulder tightening. “Arrangements can change,” he muttered, rougher than necessary.

Steve’s eyes snapped to him, surprised by how fast the words came out of Bucky’s mouth. Bucky didn’t meet his gaze. He stared at the sheets instead, jaw working like he was annoyed at himself for saying anything at all.

Steve felt a tug in his chest.

You tilted your head, studying them both. “Y’all don’t like bein’ told when to leave, huh,” you murmured, almost amused. “Thought drifters lived for the road.”

Bucky’s laugh came out flat. “Usually.”

Steve looked at you, really looked, and he didn’t like what he saw. You didn’t look afraid of losing them. You looked like you knew exactly what it did to men to feel wanted, then be reminded it had an end date.

Steve’s voice dropped, honest without meaning to be. “This place… it’s been good for us.”

Bucky’s fingers flexed against the quilt. “Don’t start getting sentimental,” he muttered, but there was no bite in it. Only discomfort.

Steve glanced at him again, then back at you. “If we asked, again, would your father consider letting us stay a few more days?”

The question hung in the air, heavier than the rain outside. Bucky finally looked up, and for a second their eyes met again.

You let the silence sit just long enough for it to sting. The lamp warmed your skin into gold again, turning you soft around the edges, almost holy if a person didn’t look too closely. But Steve knew better now. Bucky did too.

Two grown men were lying on either side of you like you were the altar and they were the ones who’d come to kneel.

Your mouth curved. “I’ll talk to Daddy,” you said, voice lazy, sweet as iced tea. “If he’s in a good mood.”

Bucky’s brows lifted, hope and irritation tangled. “And what puts him in a good mood?”

You hummed, rolling a shoulder in a shrug that made Steve’s throat go dry. “Could be the fence looks right. Could be he slept decent. Could be the Lord whispers in his ear.” Your eyes flicked to Steve. “Could be the sun decides to shine.”

Steve felt his chest tighten on a rough breath. He didn’t know whether to laugh or grit his teeth.

Bucky shifted beside you, restless. “So we’re just… waitin’ on weather?”

“Mm-hmm.” You let your lashes lower. “Seems y’all are good at waitin’ when you want somethin’ bad enough.”

Steve had been stuck his whole life being the good one, the noble one, and you’d given him freedom not to be. Bucky had waited his whole life for something to matter enough to make him stay. And now here they were, both acting like it was anything but your hand on the leash.

You didn’t even have to tug it.

You simply settled back down between them, shoulder brushing Steve’s arm, thigh sliding against Bucky’s, casual contact that made both men go quiet. You fit there too easily, like you belonged in the seam between them.

You lay between them like a secret, like a blessing, like a sin dressed up in honeysuckle and honeyed words.

Angel, Steve thought again—then corrected himself. No. Not an angel. A temptation that looked like one.

Your hand drifted lazily up Steve’s chest, fingers splaying over his heartbeat as if counting it. Your other hand found Bucky’s wrist on your waist, thumb stroking once, absentminded.

You sighed, content, as if the question of tomorrow didn’t matter nearly as much as the fact that tonight was still yours.

“If the morning’s kind,” you murmured, voice soft as prayer, “maybe I’ll keep you boys a little longer.”

And you didn’t say anything else. You didn’t promise, didn’t explain, didn’t give them the comfort of certainty. You just settled deeper between them, warm and wicked and impossibly at ease, like the devil himself could’ve learned a thing or two from you about patience.

And outside, rain kept whispering its steady sermon against the roof.

a/n | hope ya'll enjoyed my freakiness, tell me what you think, also im thing abt starting a fresh new taglist, so let me know. and i had to a lotttt of research, so i hope my potrayal of New Orleans, Louisianna is the tiniest bit accurate. the title is based on the movie Wild Things, obviously this fic has no relation, except for the very heated sex and erotica

also the barn loft was based on my man, Clark Kent's favourite spot

You’re tipsy—not drunk, but inebriated enough to be inclined to poor decision-making—and therein the trouble lies. It’s thanks to the half-empty bottle of tequila that has been the lynchpin to several victims now, all claimed by the vicious cycle the five of you are happily subjecting yourselves to. 

“Okay,” Beatriz says your name from the beanbag in Tora’s room, mayhaps slurring a syllable, “You’re up next. Truth or dare?” 

“I thought you said I couldn’t pick any more ‘truths,’” You say, frowning as though this is a trick. Beatriz snaps her fingers at you, grateful for your foolish honesty, and offers a bleary, maybe mildly cross-eyed grin. 

“Right,” she says, “I almost forgot.” 

“No more shots,” Tora pleads from where she leans an elbow on her plush bed, “I don’t want to have to deep-clean the shag rug again.” 

“Well, that wasn’t their fault,” Booster advocates on your defense from where he is lying horizontal on said shag rug, “It was Ted who tossed their cookies last time.” 

“And I paid for the dry cleaning bill, didn’t I?” Ted asks hotly in his own defense, leaning on the cowprint stool in the corner of Tora’s room. He would look like a nobly suffering cowpoke if it wasn’t for the bright ruddy color of his cheeks—even then, he seems the ever-suffering martyr. 

“Yeah, you did,” Tora nods, a disjointed movement, “But none of us are going to be able to roll it up if it happens again.” 

“Says you,” you reply with more confidence than you actually have, “I can stand up if I want to. Behold—”

At this, you amble from where you sit on the other corner of the shag rug, your fingers scrabbling on the wall. You have to use your other free hand to keep your crop top from riding up high enough to give everyone a show they didn’t ask for VIP access to. But stand you do, all under ten seconds, which, given the crowd you associate with, is an impressive feat by comparison. 

Beatriz and Booster, who was watching upside-down from where he lies, both give you lukewarm applause as you cast out a wide hand to demonstrate your capability. Ted gives you a half-hearted thumbs up while Tora casts a glance that demonstrates abject suspicion at the extent of your true capabilities. 

“Ta-da,” you emphasize with a toothy grin to your audience. “How’d I do?” 

“Are you going to be able to get up again if you sit down?” Beatriz asks as you tug down the hem of your shorts. 

“Sure I can,” you reply smoothly, famous last words. “Now hit me with your best shot.” 

Beatriz puts her index finger over her mouth, thinking for a tense, anxious second while you wait. The smile that flashes over her face can only be described as diabolical, before she looks directly at you. 

“Fine,” she says with a degree of ominous finality, “I dare you to go steal Guy’s lantern out of his room.” 

“That’s a crazy idea,” Ted leaps in before the idea can even marinate. “He’ll kill them.” 

Beatriz whips her head around, ready to stand on business for her proposal. “He might kill you, Ted—they’re—”—At this, she proffers a pointed, determined finger in your direction—“—A different story.” 

“Yeah? How’s that work?” Booster asks with a disbelieving grin, like he knows something you don’t. Beatriz shoots him a warning look that prompts him to assume careful, reticent neutrality. 

“Because he just won’t,” Beatriz hotly retorts, “I know he won’t. He might get angry, but he won’t actually do anything, even if he catches them.” 

“I mean, she’s not wrong,” Tora says, as you frown in confusion, because statements are starting to be thrown a little too fast for you to keep up, “But I don’t know if that means that they should do it—”

”—And just because you ‘know’ is enough of a valid reason?" Ted asks, squinting through his disbelief at the questionable soundness of Beatriz’ argument. “I mean, it’s Guy we’re talking about—”

“—Is he even on Earth right now?” Booster shrugs, playing both sides for all its worth. “Maybe the lantern is in the room.” 

“But he needs it to recharge, doesn’t he?” Tora chimes in again. “And I think I saw him this morning.” 

“That was this morning, it’s two in the next morning—”—Ted gapes at the cat clock on the wall, the twitching pendulum of the tail a hypnotizing metronome—“—Oh my God, it’s two in the morning—”

”—This doesn’t matter!” Beatriz snaps. “All that matters is what they’re cool with—I didn’t ask you if you wanted to go and grab Guy’s lantern, Ted—”

”I don’t mind,” you say, from where you’re leaning on the wall, watching the verbal fracas devolve. “I’ll go do it.” 

At this, everyone turns to look at you, having realized that the subject of conversation has borne witness to the devolution of it. You admire the varying degrees of concern, confusion and excitement that the four of them bear. 

“Are you sure?” Ted asks, casting a last shot in the dark for your safety; Beatriz gives him a cutting glower for being the resident killjoy. You shrug again. 

“Sure—but I don’t think I’m going to find it. Have you seen the inside of Guy’s room?” You return. 

“Have you?” Booster asks, cocking his head up to you. You feel like you’re missing something in the way that Beatriz sends a significant smirk to Tora, but you’re not deciphering that anytime soon. 

“Yeah, I borrowed a sweater off of him once.” You reply casually, as though this is common knowledge. Based on the bewildered look on Ted’s face, the way Booster’s face goes blank again, it must not be. 

“Place is kinda messy.” You add on, as though this is a qualifying statement for what you just said. 

“‘Kinda’ is a nice way of saying it,” Tora whispers conspiratorially and Beatriz chuckles lowly. 

“So are you gonna do it?” Beatriz asks, looking at you with an intensity that she’s borne the entire game, honed to a razor-point now that she stares down the barrel at you. 

“Yeah,” you reassure her, trying to keep your heart from beating out of your chest, “I’ll be right back.” 

Right back, it turns out, is a massive overstatement. When you are actually mobile and out the door—granted, everyone walked you to the door and waved you off as though you were departing on the Titanic for the New World—you make a few realizations. One, now that no one is supporting you in your endeavors, watching worriedly as you depart, you don’t feel as brave as you did. Second, have no idea how you’re going to nab this lantern from Guy’s room. 

Granted, you’ve seen his room before—that was no lie. But the last time you were there, you were focused on other aspects of the room than trying to spot where the lantern was. Even now, you thickly swallow thinking of what you’re going to do when you get there. 

But eyes on the prize—you’re a JLI member, after all. Overcoming obstacles in the pursuit of the greater good is part of the job—greater good being stealing fellow members’ possessions—and you continue your trek. 

It comes up sooner than you expected, with another sinking realization—the door is closed, and from the darkness of the hallway, you can see soft light bleeding out from the bottom of the frame. Shadows move from within, disrupting the quiet uniformity of it—he’s there. 

You hesitate at the end of the hall, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you consider your options. Maybe you could throw an object that would clank loudly to make him go run out and look? 

You realize how stupid of an idea that would be the second it manifests—he might not even go to look, knowing him. Fake a JLI distress call? Maybe—again, you’re stuck with the fact he might ignore it if the whim so suits him. You’re caught in a terrible moment of indecision, before it dawns on you. 

Guy’s a human being. He can be reasoned with, bartered with. You can exchange goods for services—a meal bought, a monitor duty shift taken. And then you don’t have to go through the task of rummaging through all of his shit under a time crunch. 

You could, even though it’s morally wrong, lie to the rest of the group in your possible thievery. And who would sell you out? Guy? The very person that you have made this devil’s pact with? No way. 

Yes—knocking will be the best possible option here. And so, you cycle a deep breath through yourself, square your shoulders, and walk the green mile to his door. The sound of someone whistling cheerily off-tune grows louder as you close the distance, raising your hand to rap a knuckle on the door.

The whistling abruptly stops the second that you knock, one-two-three times, and you can hear the tread of deliberate steps before the knob turns and reveals—

“Hey, Guy,” you say, blinking at the light that washes over you, adjusting from the darkness you’ve been residing in, “You busy right now?” 

You realize as you blink away the spots that are dancing in your vision, that Guy is not busy. But he is certainly in the stage of transitioning from one activity to another. The activity in question being changing from his gym clothes to his civvies. As in—Guy is currently shirtless. 

And since you have not had the mental time to prepare for this state of undress, your eyes freely roam. Over the muscular plane of his chest, the taut curl of his biceps, and the span of his shoulders as he shrugs out of his flimsy tank top. 

“Nah,” he says, which makes you refocus back up to his face, which is watching you carefully, “Whatcha want, honey?” 

You remember the purpose of your visit at this late night hour, and take a quick breath before you lean in to whisper conspiratorially to him; a corner of his mouth turns up at the theatrics you’re engaging in.

“I’m playing truth or dare right now, Guy.” 

“Yeah?” He cocks up an eyebrow, assessing your outfit before he returns his eyes back to yours. “So whatcha doin’ here?” 

“They told me to go over to your room for my dare.” You reply honestly, feeling your eyes drift downwards—and then back up as you remember what you’re here for. The lantern, the lantern, the lantern—

“Are you drunk?” Guy asks, and there’s a mix of confusion and amusement on your behalf. You watch the bend of his arm as he tosses the tank top into a bin far-off in the corner of the room that, as far as you can tell, is virtually unchanged from the last time you saw it. 

“I’m tipsy,” you correct him. “I could walk in a straight line if you wanted me to.” 

“Uh-huh,” he says dubiously, crossing his arms over each other, giving you a chance to admire the fine layer of hair on his pecs. “So you gonna do it?” 

“Nope.” You reply cheerily. “Uh, can I come in and sit down?” 

“Why not?” He asks, maybe a tad eagerly. As if he can tell his assistance is needed, he reaches a hand out to wrap around your shoulder—you try your best not to instinctively melt into his grasp as he guides you to the bed. 

“Watch the mess.” He roughly instructs you, the heat of his body pressing against your side as you travel together. 

It’s a bit of a journey, avoiding a stray pair of pants here, a dirty magazine there, but you eventually make it to his bed, which thankfully has a fresh blanket thrown somewhat evenly over its surface. He seats you there before going to a dresser pushed up against the wall to search for a shirt. 

“So why the fuck’re you over here?” Guy asks, cocking a wary look at you as you lean back on your elbows on the bed.  

“Okay, so we’re all playing,” you explain, staring at the ceiling and thus missing the way that Guy sets a long look upon your prone form, “And they say I’ve done truths too many times. So now Beatriz says I have to do a dare.” 

“So what’s it gotta do with me?” He asks, fishing out a suitable black shirt. 

“Well, here’s the thing—”—At this, you look away from the light fixture to him, from where he watches you—“—They want me to steal your lantern.” 

At this, you cast a wayward, surveying glance around the room, as if it’ll magically manifest for your benefit—no such luck. You hear a crude laugh from the corner where the resident Green Lantern is pulling his shirt over his head. 

“Good luck with that shit,” he says, tugging the shirt over his stomach, giving you one final mouthwatering glimpse, “Unless you wanna fight for it.” 

There’s a menacing glint in his eyes, to which you shake your head, already aware of the outcome. 

“No way, Guy. You’ll have me pinned down in like, five seconds.” You roll your eyes at the ridiculousness of this proposal. He walks the distance to his bed, within arm’s reach, appraising you with a smirk. 

“Mmmm—I don’t know,” he disagrees. “That don’t sound too bad to me.” 

“Yeah, yeah, sure it does—”—you wave a hand disbelievingly—“—But that's besides the point. You’re here, so I can’t really steal it, can I? So I figured I would just ask for it, if that’s okay with you.”

At this, you look up at him and try your best, innocently convincing face. He scoffs through his teeth at this concept. 

“You just wanna get my permission to grab my shit offa me?” He asks, unconvinced by your argument—time for you to offer your counter to him. 

“If that’s okay with you,” you repeat, leaning on one elbow to emphasize with your other hand—you don’t catch how he watches you adjust on his bed to do so, set in pleading your case, “I’ll lie and say I stole it and make me sound way cooler than it actually was. And then I’ll bring it back—and I’ll pay you back.” 

“Yeah?” He asks, his voice going low and curious in his inquiry. “How’re you gonna pay me back, honey?” 

This is an excellent question that stymies you for a moment, before you remember your previously considered options. “Uh—I dunno. What do you want? I could get you lunch or I could take a monitor duty shift or—something.” 

You think of the time that’s elapsed since you set off on your mission—they must be wondering where you are now. “But we gotta hurry—they’re gonna think I passed out or something on the way over here.”

Guy is surprisingly silent for once, inspecting you for something beyond your comprehension. Then, he sits next to you on the bed, the mattress dipping with the extra weight that joins you. You’re prompted to push yourself back up to a sitting position so that you can better barter with him. 

But the entire time, he keeps his eyes squared upon you, not uttering a single word. You would be worried, if it wasn’t for the fact that so much was riding on this trade deal. 

When he speaks, his voice is layered with something ambiguous. “I got a good idea how you can pay me back.”  

“Yeah? What’s that, Guy?” You ask, leaning in to hear his terms and conditions. At this, the smirk returns to his face, slick and slow.   

“You want the lantern—”—At this, he raises his hand that bears the ring, crooking his index finger in to beckon you close—“—I want a kiss.”  

“Oh.” You say, looking at him, feeling like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

“Oh?” He asks, and there’s a semi-offended glare that crosses his face. “Thought you wanted this shit.” 

“No—not that.” You say, holding up a hand to correct yourself. “I mean, you want to kiss me?” 

“Why the fuck not?” He asks immediately, a grin quick to replace the anger. “You want it, dontcha?” 

“I mean, yeah.” You reply. “But I mean—”—you lean closer to him, so that the two of you are just a breath away from each other—“—I kinda like you, Guy.” 

“Think I don’t know that?” He asks with a crooked smirk. “So what the fuck’s stoppin’ you, then?” 

“You want our first kiss to be because of truth or dare?” You ask him, cocking a brow at this.

“I think the sooner you get it outta your system,” Guy returns back, “The sooner you can get back to your little game with ‘em.” 

He leans in, close enough to seal the deal. “And then the sooner you can get back here and we can actually get to the fun shit.” 

“You make it sound like you’re doing me a favor,” you grumble back good-naturedly. But your defenses are already weakening, crumbling in the face of his good argument, a throbbing pulse awakening in your core. 

“‘Cause I am, baby,” he gloats, “Now come here.” 

Guy’s wide palm cups your cheek, uncharacteristically tender as you look up at him, breath caught in your throat, the weight of a thousand unspoken words passing between the two of you. You run your tongue over your lips as he catches the movement with the slow track of his eyes, admiring every detail. 

When he presses his mouth against yours, it's firm but persistent, and demanding. His teeth graze against your lip and you gasp, giving him the opportunity for further access, his tongue rasping against yours, needy, hungry for more of you. 

You don’t know how you end up pinned down under him, your legs wrapped around the width of his hips, but you don’t question it, nor when he pins your wrists under each of his broad palms, surveying his conquest. You feel like every nerve of yours is on fire, the heat of being so vulnerable, but being so into it threatens to consume every inch of you. He whistles appreciatively at the sight, his eyes running over you as he commits it to memory. 

“God, so fuckin’ hot,” Guy growls, and leans over you, pressing his weight on you—you sigh but it’s punctuated into a whimper as he finds the crook of your neck and sucks on the tender skin hard. You writhe under him, but it’s no use—he’s got you pinned, and you can feel the scrape of his tongue as it laves against your neck, determined to leave a mark. 

When he pulls away, you feel like you’re punch-drunk, the fight leaching out of you as he admires what you’re certain is a weltering bruise. 

“Looks good on you,” he comments coarsely, a possessive smile on his face. “Lemme see what else I can do.” 

He moves your wrists so that he can pin them down with one hand—it’s big enough that it’s no difficult task for him—and then with the other, rucks up your shirt. There’s a dangerous chuckle from him as he sees the way your bare nipples react to being exposed to the cold air, before he gives one of them an experimental pinch—you yelp. 

He groans in the back of his throat, pleased at the noise. 

“Guy,” you beg, squirming under his hold, under his determined gaze, “You’re killing me.” 

“Oh, wouldn’t want that, would we?” He’s mock-sympathetic, relishing the control he’s got over you, the neediness in your voice. 

“So whatcha want me to do?” He asks, waiting as if it’s on your behalf when it’s just prolonging your torture—he rolls your nipple between his fingers to make you gasp aloud. 

“Anything,” you plead. 

“Yeah?” He grins, which grows wider when you nod frantically, desperately—for him. 

“If that’s whatcha want,” he’s smug in victory, and the ring glows as he releases your wrists—but you still can’t move them. You crane your neck to see that there’s a foreign, alien type of manacle around your wrists—the cold metal of the construct feels so real, but you can’t focus on that. Especially not when you the warm, wet heat of his tongue on your nipple interrupts your thoughts. 

You cry out, a moan of pleasure as he takes it entirely into his mouth, the flat of his tongue running over it. His hands, rough and large and warm slide down your sides, holding you steady as you grind into him. 

“Oh my God—”—you gasp as he continues to suck on your nipple, arching your back as you feel the scrape of teeth. “Guy—” 

He chuckles, the vibration going straight to your core, and you whimper again—hell of a trade for this—

“Oh my God!” You say, stiffening immediately, and it’s the difference in inflection this time—from pleasure to panic—that makes him pause in his progress. You look to see those hands working on the hem of the shorts that hang low on your hips, stopping for the moment. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks, looking at you with a degree of disgruntled concern. 

“The game—”—you’re breathless, flustered—“—They’ve gotta be wondering where I am by now.” 

“I think they know where you are, honey,” he says dryly, “Now why dontcha let me get you outta all these clothes?” 

“I just—”—you pause dead in your tracks. “Wait, you actually want to—?” 

“Yeah, dumbass,” Guy grins, “I’ve been tryin’ to get in your pants for the past year and a fuckin’ half. Didn’t think—”—at this, he pulls more insistently at the top of your shorts, drawing them even lower—“You’d fall into my fuckin’ lap just like this.”

His hands find the junction of your waist and squeeze for good measure, making you exhale a slow, shaky breath. There’s nothing but a set determination in his eyes, the want of a man starved as his eyes drink in the sight happily trapped under him.

Come on, I’ve been waiting for you to catch up—his eyes say. And you’re not the type to keep someone on the hook for too long, after all.

“Oh. Okay.” You grin, shaky as you reassess a few things—but eager to get the show back on the road. “Come here, then.” 

“That’s more like it,” he smirks. 

You figure if anything, as you feel the heat of his breath ghost down your stomach and continue lower, and lower still—the two of you can both bring the lantern to the group tomorrow.

You, as of right now, have much more pressing concerns to worry about.