KITTY

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

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

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

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

“Lucy’s not startin’?”

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

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

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Perfect.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sure that’ll—”

“Just get in the damn truck, Steve.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re late,” he said calmly.

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

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

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

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

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

The boys were… really good with their hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Damn…” he muttered.

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

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

“Nick?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steve shrugged. “Well—”

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

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

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

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

You were not okay with it.

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

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

For research. Right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Our truck’s right outside. Come on.”

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

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

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

Steve paused, glancing back at Fury with a sigh.

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

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

“Goddamnit,” he muttered.

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

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

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

“Sure there is,” Bucky interrupted.

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

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

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

And suddenly, the cab felt very, very warm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There we go.”

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

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

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

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

That did very little to calm you.

That was a safety hazard and straight up illegal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steve glared at him over your head.

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

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

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

“Buck,” Steve warned.

“What? I’m not doin’ anything.”

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

For fuck’s sake.

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

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

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

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

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

Farther to the left sat another structure.

A very, very small one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Steve.”

The other one, on the other hand…

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

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

Perfect.

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

You hesitated at the doorframe before stepping in after them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Very manly was the only way you could describe it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here we go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door shut softly behind you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… And somehow, far more domestic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky tilted his head. “Animals?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes went wide.

“Oh—wait, wait, wait!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just admirin’ the view.”

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

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

You had no idea you were being watched so closely.

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

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

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

Men you’d never meet in the city.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…We gotta get a grip,” he muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” Bucky hummed. “That’s all.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Right.” Bucky nodded. “Calmly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, don’t start.”

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

Steve turned the key, and still… nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One pair of eyes landed on you, then several.

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

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

And both of your boys noticed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t help but smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Protecting you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh my god, Bucky! You are trouble!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They ignored him again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuckin’ Barnes!” Mike wheezed.

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

“Knock ’em silly, Rogers!”

“Your punches are gettin’ sloppy, Barnes!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dave wiped his mouth. “Not even close.”

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

Oh.

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

“That’s it, Rogers!”

“Yeah! Show ’em!”

“Knock his teeth out!”

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

They weren’t losing.

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

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

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

“Kick his ass, Steve!”

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

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

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

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

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

And they looked good doing it.

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

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

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

“Alright! That’s enough!”

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

“I SAID THAT’S ENOUGH!”

The room finally fell quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you said sternly.

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

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

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

“It is,” you insisted.

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

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

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

“Inside. Now,” you ordered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” you whispered, softening your touch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“O…okay…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuuuuck, that’s it,” Bucky hissed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wasn’t just watching anymore.

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

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

… firmly pushed you down against Bucky’s cock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky finally snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“F-fuck, Steve!” you moaned.

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

“Fuck, too tight,” he hissed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Move aside, Steve.”

Bucky’s voice was like a whip crack.

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

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

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

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

“B-Buck—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

thank you for taking the time to read my work, and I hope you enjoyed!

You're good at detecting change. Especially in Nate Jacobs.

The first time you could confidently say you'd noticed a change in Nate Jacobs was when he went from thinking he was too cool for you whenever you knocked on his door and asked to play outside, to accepting when his mother pushed him because "she's a sweet girl and you shouldn't be cooped up in here all the time".

He had begrudgingly accepted, but when he realised that you were also being forced to knock on his door by your own mother, he chilled out pretty quickly. "My Dad's gonna come back from work and play catch with me, but I guess it'll be good to practice with you beforehand."

His Dad never actually played catch with him, so he eventually just ended up knocking on your door from then on.

The next time you'd noticed a change in Nate Jacobs was in the sixth grade. Until then, the two of you had been pretty close, and had created some kind of neighbourhood gang that consistently met to play street football. But in sixth grade, when he was eleven, suddenly, he was no longer interested in being part of any group. He'd been interested in keeping you away from them, for some reason. He'd darkened, is the only way you could explain it to your mother. He became dark, and you weren't sure why or how. He didn't like you coming over, either, and didn't like if you did that secret handshake thing you always did with his Dad. He didn't like you going over to other friends' houses, either — girl or boy, so you'd ruled out a crush — and he also didn't want you sitting with anyone else in class.

Naturally, you were forced to be closer.

The third time you'd noticed a change in Nate Jacobs was when he'd desperately clung onto you one night when he was fourteen, the summer before high school. It had been weeks since you'd spoken outside of school. At school, the dynamic hadn't shifted. He was still funny, charming, chill. But outside? Radio silence. Even on social media, the most you'd ever done was follow each other. No DMs, no reel-sending, nothing. So him sneaking into your room through your window at two a.m, the morning of his fourteenth birthday, was very startling.

After calming down from your initial shock, you'd asked him what he was doing there. He broke down.

You had nothing else you could do, but listen and stroke the back of his hair as you attempted to pick up whatever he was mumbling at your neck.

"What was actually on those tapes, Nate?", you'd asked, gently, trying to drown out the sound of your heartbeats syncing.

He pulled away from your neck, straining his head so he could glare down at you, brows furrowed. "What?"

"What was on the tapes that made you 'hate your Dad', like you just said?"

"Shut up."

"What? Nate, it's a simple ques—"

And that was when you'd noticed the fourth change in Nate Jacobs, because normally, he'd just punch at your shoulder and scoff, telling you to shut up. But instead, he kissed you.

You weren't new to affection from Nate. He was pretty lax with boundaries. He'd hug you, call you "baby" non-sarcastically, and even try helping you out with choices of clothing, sometimes, if you asked.

But he'd never kissed you.

You shoved him away by his chest, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "You stole my first kiss!"

He raised a brow, as if that was the last thing he'd expected you to say after something like that. "What?"

"You stole my first kiss! You didn't even ask!"

"Did you like it?"

"No."

He fought a smile. "Then shut the fuck up or I'll do it again."

"What happened to you? You're cursing and you're kissing and you're being weird!" It's like he was trying to speed-run childhood and become an adult overnight, and it was spooking the hell out of you, who was still reeling from the high of having an Instagram account.

He'd looked down at you, then, before tapping a finger on your nose. "Grow up, baby, okay? And shut the fuck up about my Dad's tapes or I'll do it again. I'll do a helluva lot worse."

The fifth change you'd noticed in Nate Jacobs came just a few weeks after that, in freshman year. Because he'd apparently started dating, now. You knew he'd had a thing for Sophie since she'd first joined your football-gang — he'd told you as much — but it was still weird to see the guy who, a week ago, was still secretly obsessed with Hot Wheels, cosplay some super-jacked hot guy.

You started ignoring him after that, and he hadn't cared.

The sixth and final change you'd noticed was in sophomore year, when he'd started dating Maddy Perez. After that, you'd stopped giving a shit, and he'd started giving way too many. At least he was super-jacked and hot, just like freshman-year him had pretended to be. And he made QB, which was good, you thought. Maybe? You didn't know what constituted as a good development in Nate Jacobs' life anymore, and you'd stopped caring.

But you can't quite do that right now, when there are innumerable changes that are left unaccounted for, that you're not sure how many trips down memory lane, and scrupulous analyses, would help you chart out. Because in theory, yes, you know that six years is a long time. Not in the grand scheme of things, but in the small scheme of interpersonal relationships, yes, it's a gargantuan amount of time.

And in theory, yes, you know what the difference between sympathy and empathy is.

But most importantly, in theory, yes, you know what second-hand embarrassment is. It's a term — also known as vicarious embarrassment — that refers to feeling mortified at someone else's humiliating predicament, even when it's got nothing to do with you.

But second-hand embarrassment has never slapped you in the face so hard as when you walked into Nate Jacobs' wedding to Cassie Howard. You hadn't really known much about Cassie during high school, only that she rolled with Maddy's crew, who was in an on-again, off-again thing with Nate. Her, you knew, for dance-planning reasons, even before knowing about Nate. But Cassie Howard is just, uh... kind of a blank, to you. You'd thought she was cute with McKay, who's... weirdly enough not present, which is interesting, considering Maddy is. For all the shit Nate used to talk about Cassie, calling her a community pussy, a slut, a bop, and kinda even shaming McKay for liking her? Him marrying her is just... hypocritical, to say the least.

But what's actually embarrassing is that they invited Maddy.

That's something else to unpack.

Maddy Perez is the first one to meet your gaze, and she, for all intents and purposes, looks like she's doing well. Of course, the whole my-ex-is-marrying-my-ex-best-friend thing aside, she looks great. Snatched. Awesome. She also smirks at you like you're both in on some kind of joke — the entire wedding — and it's taking everything she can not to burst out laughing. She hugs you and kisses your cheek.

"Hi, Maddy. How have you been?"

"Great. You?"

"Fine."

Small talk, pleasantries, the works. Just practice for the inevitably awkward moment where you'll have to address the bride and groom.

"So. This is, uh... somethin', right?", she asks, eyes moving around the room.

"Yeah. I mean, it's beautiful."

"So beautiful.", she agrees, before those eyes come right back to you.

The two of you laugh like you've just ding-dong-ditched someone.

"I missed the actual ring-switching."

"You didn't miss much. Don't worry. I've heard that they, uh... have a dance. Should be fun."

"Nate dancing?"

"Mm-hm. C'mon, let's get front-row seats."

Unfortunately, Maddy doesn't stay long enough to see it through. You stay long enough to wish you hadn't. You're not sure what's happened between sophomore year and now, but you hope his insurance has covered this clearly severe-head-trauma-induced behaviour.

You suddenly feel underdressed and overwhelmed, and you last felt that way during the Winter Formal of your junior year, where you'd had to console some girl called Natalie, who'd been abandoned by some jock she couldn't identify through her sobs. You've always had a striking suspicion that that had been the groom of tonight.

"Holy shit.", you mumble, slipping away from the throes of reunion with people you never actually fucked with — Jules Vaughn. Marsha Jacobs. — to lean against a far enough pillar so you can, at the very least, have a little sip of the mini-bottle of Absolut that you'd brought along just in case this wedding was... well... exactly like this.

It'd always been this way, now that you think about it. Nate simultaneously surprising the fuck outta you and also... not at all, and you clutching your head in absolute whiplash.

You're not sure why he's invited you — or if Cassie Howard had just looked up the class of 2019 and invited you — to this gaudy shitshow of a wedding, but if it's to rub it in your face that he's still everything he thinks he is, then you're just gonna take your ass back to New York and your 6-figure job and leave these pathetic assholes to their... whatever this was.

You take one more sip, ready to fucking leave until you hear voices right behind you, like a fucking movie or something. You're rooted to your hiding place like a fucking cartoon mouse.

"...I'm fucked, I'm burnin' through money right now, Fred."

Was that Nate?

"Can you fuckin' believe it? A flower, Fred."

Your life is clearly just one big experiment for the universe or something. You're a firm believer in shit happens for a reason, but... what the fuck could you do with this information? You're not Lexi Howard, you can't write a fuckin' play. Whoa. Wait. You might be able to. Maddy works in management or something, she told you. Hey. Business idea.

Whoever this Fred character is, though, he's clearly not buying it. Or, at least... is reluctant to. But you have this gnawing feeling that the Nate Jacobs you grew up with is buried inside this cheesy-dancing, kitschy-wedding version, and he's about to claw his way out of that suit.

"Say it with me. Say it with me. Fuck the flower."

As expected, Fred does. "Fuck that flower."

After hearing 'fuck that fucking flower' an unnecessary amount of times, you nearly snort and give away your position, because this Fred guy, who you've gathered is a major investor in whatever failing venture Nate's on even congratulated him. You've always known Nate was good at manipulation — you've seen it, firsthand — but he's still got it, and it's kinda impressive.

You hear a muttered 'Fuck.' and you wait for the receding footsteps. None come. You're not dumb enough to peer over the edge of the pillar and check, so you decide you're fine staying put and watching the birds in the trees fall and die because they don't have enough food, thanks to the copious amounts of flowers in this goddamn wedding.

The anticipated footsteps come closer, in fact, and you hope to god it's Ruby Bennett or even fucking BB. You decide it might be the latter, when you see some smoke from your peripheral, but it's your fault for assuming she's the only one in your past that smokes.

It's Nate.

It seems like it's something that he hasn't done in a long time, properly, like a guilty-pleasure relapse, so you try not to breathe too hard, but you're basically feet away. He doesn't turn to you immediately, and instead, lets the nicotine fill his lungs for one, fleeting, satisfying moment. Then, he turns to you. Nate Jacobs, in all his assholic entirety.

"Hey."

"Hey, beautiful ceremony."

"Thank you. Uh, for coming, as well."

It's awkward, formal, and exactly what the initial small talk with Maddy had prepped you for.

"You look good. It's... been a while.", is his next attempt at acting like six years haven't gone by since he's spoken to you.

"Thank you. It has."

"What are you doing now?"

"I'm based in New York."

He raises a brow in expectation, before laughing, gesturing for more. "And...? C'mon, you gotta give me more than that. Where's my little troublemaker gettin' her paychecks from?"

Wow, he's really pulling out all the stops to get you to smooth shit over with him, huh? "My little troublemaker"? Desperate attempt at nostalgia.

"I work in finance.", you reply, before rolling your eyes at his still-anticipating face. "Wall Street.", you relent.

He whistles, lowly, all teasing fading from his face. "Wall Street? Damn, what happened to 'I wanna be underworked and overpaid' and 'fuck capitalism' ?"

You chuckle, shaking your head politely at his offer of his cigarette. "I realised I like money. A lot of it."

"Welcome to the realm that the rest of us stay in. Reality. How's it feel?"

"You're talkin' about reality?", you scoff, rapping your nails against the pillar behind you. "This whole wedding's like a '70's fever-dream."

"You sayin' it's not good?"

"I'm saying it's not you."

He tilts his head at that for a moment, before shrugging. "Well, a lot's changed. Just like you.", he says, smiling a bit softer at the last part. "How long you in L.A for?"

"Uh, I fly out tomorrow night."

Then, it's back to watching the birds starve, but this time, with smoke clouding your view and Nate's breathing on your left.

It's nice. You two used to do this kinda stuff in middle school. Of course, not the substances, but you'd occasionally sneak out to watch his older brother play in the high school football matches in said brother's Jeep. As long as you promised not to get his tires fucked. You'd secretly wager your Halloween candy on how much he'd fuck up — Aaron played, but he was shit — in each game.

"Hey, uh...", he begins, scratching at the top of his nose in more awkwardness than discomfort. "You didn't happen to... hear any of that, back there, did you?"

"The toasts? Yeah, they— um, you know I respect your Mom, but that was just rude, what she said about Maddy when she was right fuckin' there, y'know?", you tell him, leaning your head against the pillar.

"Oh, yeah, no, I'll... that was way out of line, I thought so, too. I'll have a word with her, I was going to, anyway.", he assures, nodding. Then, he thumbs behind him. "But I meant, did you catch, like, any of the conversation with my friend Fred?"

Oh, shit. Fuck. "Parts.", you inform, bringing the bottle back up to your lips. "I was more focused on demolishing this.", you chuckle, breathily, nervously, before taking a sip.

"Right. Right." A pause. "You were the first one I wanted to call, you know? After Lexi's play."

You frown at that, and you lean on the railing in front of the pillar that makes this whole situation very claustrophobic, before focusing your eyes on the treeline. "Really? After the play in senior year? Why?"

"That — that was my lowest point. And the only person who had seen all of my other lowest points before that... was you."

"So... why didn't you?" It's stupid, and you don't really actually give a flying fuck. But still. Curiosity is humanity's curse.

"Cassie, she... she got jealous. Didn't want me calling other girls."

Is it too early to call bullshit? There's no way Cassie Howard knew you. Even you knowing Maddy was entirely unrelated to Nate, so this was just... absolutely implausible.

"So you made up for that dissonance by putting me on the guest list?"

He snorts, shaking his head as he leans his back against the railing so he could better look at you. "Kinda-sorta. It's working. I feel like we're eleven again."

Does he? You personally feel like this is some scripted personal hell of yours, but what do you know? Maybe you're abnormal, and this type of stuffiness is all the rage these days.

He scratches at his nose again. Is this one of his new tics? To your knowledge, when he was shifty or nervous, he'd scratch the back of his neck. Maybe he didn't think the neck-scratch was bougie enough. Another change.

"I missed you."

Okay, now you're convinced he's just trying to butter you up. "Yeah?"

"So much shit happened that you'd have loved. I stuck it to my Dad. Called him a faggot to his face."

"Then got him put in jail, amazing."

"Deserved it.", he retorts, before taking a longer drag of the cigarette, eyes up at the inky sky directly above him as he releases the smoke. "You're the one I wanted to call, during all of it. You're my day one, like it or not."

Not, you wanna say.

"Yeah, well.", is what you actually say.

"Thanks again for coming. My face lit up as soon as I saw you."

"No problem.", you say, patting his shoulder before moving back to the party — and the exit.

Like Fred, you add a "congratulations", before attempting to get the fuck outta there.

But then, he looks down, desperately trying to scramble up something to say, before his eyes trail from your shoes up to your face. "You're here tomorrow, right? You should come over for lunch."

"Uh..."

"Hey. It won't be as awkward as tonight, trust me."

Did he not just say Cassie was some jealous, overprotective bitch? Or were you tripping?

"I'll see."

He smiles, winking at you as he crushes the cigarette under his foot. "Can't wait. Here, take this.", he mutters, reaching for your phone so he could put his number into it and calling it, immediately after. "Fresh start, right?"

"Yep."

You leave without congratulating Cassie, too, because you're not sure what to say, seeing as she's practically making out with a bottle of wine.

Their threshold crossing would probably be very interesting.

You're desperately searching for your fucking room key when you hear the buzz of your phone on the bed. What now? You'll riot if it's work calling — you specifically took three days off because you knew this would be the fever dream it was, so you're well-within your rights to ignore it. But you figure it's probably just your mother checking to see if you're all packed and ready for the flight.

When you see Nate Jacobs pop up on your screen, you grimace involuntarily. Right. You'd hoped you could leave quietly before he remembered you had lunch plans, but he's clearly very much still into the whole reunion schtick.

You pick up. "Hello?"

"Hey, Y/N?"

"Uh huh. Who else would it be?"

"No, I just, uh... I... are you still coming over?"

"Yeah, about that, sorry, I... made plans to meet up with a friend before going to the airport, so—"

"Could you please cancel them?"

"What?"

"It's— it's, like, really urgent, like... trip-to-the-ER-urgent. Please?"

He's being scarily polite. Cordiality? Sure. Formality? Expected. Politeness? Concerning.

"I... don't know if I can—"

"Please. Please, okay? Please?"

He seems shaken. You decide maybe Cassie's beat his ass up for inviting you over because of her envious tendencies, and is probably forcing him to make this call so she could poison your food or something.

"Okay. Sure, I'll stop by."

When you reach the place, there's a car besides your cab, and Maddy Perez is sitting in it. Uh... okay? She gives you a sort of confused nod, before letting you stalk your way up to the front door. There, Cassie Howard — well, you suppose Jacobs, now — barrels past you with like, seven whole bags and a fur coat. She doesn't acknowledge you much. In fact, doesn't seem like she even knows who you are. Maybe she thinks you're the new help.

"Hello?", you call, like you're a cliche in a fucking horror movie.

"In here." A groan.

You reach the living room, and he's sitting there, foot propped up on the table, medicine around him, face all beat up, scars, and plasters, a split fucking lip, and even blood on his floors. "Oh, hey.", he grunts, attempting to shuffle up. He sits back down immediately, clearly fatigued.

"Holy shit! You weren't kidding when you said 'the ER'! What happened?", you hiss, rushing to his side as quickly as you could while avoiding the blood stains in the carpet.

"Um, Cassie found out."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up. Cassie hasn't known that you're in debt?"

"Is that really important right now? Point is : she found out."

"And beat you up?"

"No, my loan shark did. He took my big toe."

His who took his what now? Your eyes sprint down to his foot, where the toe's clearly been stitched back on and is now a revolting bluish purplish black.

"A loan shark?! Nate, are you insane? You're lucky to have your whole fuckin' foot! What were you thinking?"

"I... I know you're leaving tonight and that this was supposed to be a nice lunch, and I hate to be that guy, but..."

He better not be asking you to help tend to his wound now that Cassie's, to your knowledge, left him.

"Listen, I'm not... asking for handouts, I'm good for it, but I'm just... it's stressful, y'know? She can't— I can't let her... I don't want her to worry.", he mumbles, grimacing as he leans over to dab some of the ointment on his toe himself.

He hopes the sad-newlywed tone undercuts the fact that he currently feels two inches tall (and big).

"Nate, listen, I'm sorry you're going through this, and I wish you and your marriage all the best, but I really can't get caught up in this, okay? I won't tell anyone, but I'm sorry, I'm not gonna involve myself.", you manage to say, while reigning in your metaphorical hand from reaching into your metaphorical reserve of empathy, specially labelled Nate Jacobs.

"Please? Just a little bit. I'm good for it." No, he's not, and his 9/10 toes are proof.

"I'm sorry, Nate, I'm not giving you any fuckin' money."

That... comes out wrong. Too sharp. Too direct. Too harsh.

He blinks at you, still clutching at his head with one hand and wiping at his foot with the other. "Ouch. Okay."

"I meant that a loan would just... be temporary. It'll pacify Cassie and it'll shut up your shark for a little while."

"Naz."

"I don't give a fuck what his name is. Point is, you're not gonna be scot-free because I give you a couple hundred thou'. What you can do is go to the board of directors, convince them to help you out, especially with getting some lawyers, and then work your way up from there. Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"We good?"

"Do you... know any lawyers? Who could help me?"

You roll your head toward him, so you can see him with minimal effort. He's still audacious, that son of a bitch. "Lawyers? Yeah, but they're all corporate."

"Yeah, that's exactly who I need."

You shake your head, as gently as possible. "From what I gather, no, you need a finance lawyer with good enough knowledge in environmental law."

"No, no, I'm against environmental law. Fuck that flower."

"Yeah, for sure, but, like— it's gonna be much worse if something happens with that flower. Is yours a two-income household?"

"No." Right, your bad, it's barely a one-income household. Hell, it's barely a household.

"Right, well, I'm sure your Dad has shit saved up, he'll help you."

"My Dad? You— I know you missed a lot, but you were there when shit went down, weren't you? It's— out of the question."

Okay, you're not his fucking advisor, you're someone he barely wanted at his wedding, so you're not sure why he's arguing with you about this like you actually care that he's in crippling debt.

"Will you help? You're in finance. You could help me with the plea, y'know?"

"Uh... for sure." Least you can do.

He smiles through severe pain, eyes twinkling in the light from the lamp directly next to his head — he's leaning, he can't sit up straight — before he speaks. "Thanks, troublemaker."

Dude. The buttering-up makes sense, suddenly.

Yet another instance of second-hand embarrassment slaps you on the face in the form of Nate's plea deal. He gets on his fucking knees, and you're not sure whether you should run up and yank him up, or just up and leave his unprofessional ass there. You do secret option number three, and wait for the whole debacle to be over.

Then comes the awkward car ride back.

"I shouldn't have done that."

You wait till he's switched lanes before responding. "No, you shouldn't have."

"Am I fucked?"

"Brutally."

"What do I do now?"

"Wait for the environmental lab results."

"Naz will kill me before they come. Please, Y/N, you gotta help me."

"I can connect you with one of my lawyer friends."

"Could you?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"Thank you so much."

"But I've only taken today off, so I'm on the next flight out."

He looks distraught at that. "But—"

"I'm sorry, Nate.", you tell him, thumb pressing down on the side button to silence the text from your boyfriend.

"No. You're not. You're gonna leave.", he mumbles, eyes darting from your phone screen back to the road.

"I kinda have to. Work. Employment. You know?"

"Right."

"Nate—"

"No, no, I get it, totally, I just— I'm scared, y'know?"

"I — yeah, I know.", you nod, watching him swerve to the other lane again, dangerously. "Hey, should I drive?"

"I mean, this Naz guy's crazy, y'know? He cut my fucking toe off, he threw my wife onto the floor and broke her nose— she was bleeding, y'know? And—"

The car skids, audibly, as he changes lanes again, on the fucking highway, and you decide maybe life is a little too precious for you to be sitting in the passenger seat of a car with a madman who's currently got nothing to lose at the wheel. "Nate.", you warn. "Nate, slow down."

"—And I've got nothing left to live for, and my wife left me, and I'm in debt, and I'd rather die with dignity than at the hands of Naz—"

"Whoa, Nate, slow down, we're practically flying.", you mutter, trying to keep your voice steady as your eyes keep running between the speedometer and him. "Nate."

"I just wanna..."

"NATE."

"It would be so easy to..."

"NATE!", you yell, manoeuvring the steering wheel by cementing your hands on his, like some kind of fucking action movie that can't afford CGI. You wince at the whizzing sounds of horns passing aggressively by you as you do so.

"I have no one. At all, who cares, and..."

"I'll stay! Nate, I'll stay! Just... DON'T be a fucking idiot!"

He breathes out a sigh of relief, then, like he'd been planning this shit, or counting on it. You briefly wonder if this is a grosser, larger-scale version of the manipulation he'd done on Fred during the wedding, but you chalk it up to suicidal ideation thanks to a hopeless predicament.

Nate slacks his neck, resting his forehead on your forearm that's on the steering wheel doing the driving he's meant to be doing. "This is why I love you.", he murmurs, voice muffled against your sleeve as he takes several deep, relieved, breaths.

You watch him gently swat your hand away before he takes safe control of the steering wheel again.

You don't wanna think about how he did the exact same thing after prom in senior year just to fuck with you and give you a half-assed apology for him being a full-assed prick.

Was all of this just a nostalgic kick for him?

Nate's hair has grown softer, you feel like. Maybe because his heart had grown harder over the years, and this was to make up for it? You don't know, and maybe it's just something in the water of this place, but compared to when he was fourteen, his hair's softer between your fingers.

He'd fallen asleep on you after chugging an entire bottle of wine, and you'd been pretty helpless after that.

"Thank you."

Your body tenses. Had he not been asleep? Was it fake? Was he trying to get your guard down? You're not sure why you're this suspicious of a man that had lost everything, but the man was Nate Jacobs, and you know him far better than he'd expect you to.

"It's no problem."

"No, seriously. Thank you.", he repeats, leaning up momentarily to kiss your cheek before laying back down. You smile politely, and you know he can feel it. He leans back up, kissing the corner of your mouth. "Seriously."

Before you can reply, his lips press against yours. You don't kiss back.

"You're married."

He laughs against your lips, sitting up and turning the lamp on behind you. "Am I? Where's my wife? See her anywhere?"

"Yeah, but—"

"She left me. Guess who didn't. You."

"Nate—"

"You and I were technically married before Cassie and I, if you think about it. You remember? We planned separate weddings but then merged them because of budgeting?"

"Budgeting.", you snort.

"I know, the irony is stabbing me. But seriously. Remember? Pizza party — Quatro Formaggi? You kept telling me to pronounce it like the Italians do."

You're not sure how he's got the audacity to use something you'd made up at twelve years old against you as an excuse for him to commit adultery with you now, like, a week after his wedding, but he's doing it.

You watch him sit up, and reach for the beer that you'd had to abandon when he collapsed on you, wine-drunk, ten minutes ago. "I'll tell you what.", he says, knuckles trailing up your arm to your cheek. "I'll pronounce it like the Italians do if you kiss me like the French do."

That was so disgustingly Nate to say.

"Nate."

He kisses you without asking, this time, which should be enough to raise a couple alarm bells in your head. But as with everything with Nate, they get drowned out by his capability of being so noxiously himself.

"Did I steal your first real kiss, again?"

He knows nothing about Mark and you. He doesn't know that Mark has an engagement ring in his closet that you found and kinda-sorta-maybe hid. He doesn't know that Mark and you live together. He doesn't know you've been together for a considerable three years.

"No."

"Did you like it?"

Fourteen-year-old you said no. It's a little harder for burnt-out, romantically-unsatisfied, twenty-four year old you to be that quick in denying that something was new, exciting, and exactly what you needed to get Mr. Bare-Minimum out of your system.

The silence is enough for Nate to grin, teeth glistening in the mixture of lamplight and moonlight. He looks angelic. "Trust me.", he says, thumb rubbing at your cheek, gaze roving over your eyes with adoration pooling into them like it'd been saved just for you.

And so you let him tilt your head with just one finger — because it was cooler, apparently? — so that he can prod even further, brushing your tongues together.

A spark.

You're not sure you've ever felt that kind of spark before — sorry, Mark — and it only grows when he yanks you onto his lap, after pulling down the zipper to your pants.

"Being a saint must be exhausting.", he murmurs, his breathing growing heavier and heavier so as to give him an excuse to steal oxygen from your mouth.

It gets messy fast. Not like it's not already messy, but that's just the morality of it. The mechanics of it is worse, because it's like someone else is puppeteering you and you're helpless to Nate's whims. He trails his hands up your bra? You help him by taking off your shirt. He gently drags your hand down to his belt? You help him by unbuckling it, letting him do absolutely fucking nothing except kiss your neck while you do. Is it weird you're more annoyed about the imbalance in division of work given than anything?

"What?", you ask, frowning slightly. What an odd thing to say.

"This Mark guy. Is it Mark Logan from high school?"

Had he read your notification in the car?

"What if it is?"

"Baby, I remember Mark Logan. He's the poster boy for puritan propaganda.", he tells you, laughing as he bites the end of your earring and tugs at it. "Hence : your saint-schtick must be exhausting."

"No, he's not."

"No? How many positions you guys do?"

"A lot."

He raises a brow, clearly fucking amused, before grazing his fingers over your bare shoulders so lightly that it tickles, almost. "Yeah, probably because none of them make you come. It's me, c'mon. You love him?"

"Yeah."

He nods, corners of his lips turning down as he shrugs, considering that answer. "Are you in love with him?"

You need to stop giving Nate these silences. He seems to misread them as invitations to fuck up your life.

"Let go."

"You're married."

"And you're half-naked on me. ", he whispers, before he kisses you once again. "Listen to me. Fuck that flower. Fuck him. And instead, fuck me."

"Yes, I know what I said, Mark, but—"

"You said it was a wedding. Even with fatigue, it shouldn't take more than three days."

"Mark, I'm sorry, just... please just cover for me. I don't do this often, tell them it's an emergency. It is, by the way. The groom had to go to the ER."

That's partially true. Sure, the groom had gone to the ER. And now he's home, stretching one foot to curl his toes (the foot that has all of them) into the leg of your pants to tug you closer.

"So let the bride take care of it."

"...She left him."

Nate does his best sullen jilted face.

"In one day?"

"I swear, I can't make this shit up."

"Sounds like you are."

"Mark, please."

"Okay, but... tell me the whole thing when you're back. Love you."

"Thank you. Love you too."

You hang up, clenching your jaw as you toss the phone onto the couch.

"'Love you'?"

"Shut up, Nate."

"You didn't tell me you were in love."

"Does that help you win your white fritillaries case and keep the rest of your toes?"

He grins, shrugging playfully. "Who knows? Might help me achieve self-actualization."

"It won't. Now. I have a friend Felix from Uni, but he's kind of a headcase."

"Oh, yeah, head—"

You roll your eyes, instead poring over the documents of his business ventures.

His hands land flatly onto the arms of the couch he's on. "Really, Mark from A.V club?"

"Really, Cassie from the SlutPages?"

He scoffs. Touche, he wants to say. Fuck off, is what he actually says.

"This Sun Settlers thing is... ambitious. When'd you start hemorrhaging money? Definitely not after the fritillary thing.", you ask, flitting through his plans.

"Before."

"How far before?"

"I, uh... had the plans but not the..."

"The intellect?"

"Easy.", he warns, before grinning at you. "Dating Mark Logan and you talk about intellect?"

"You're really chipper for someone one failed OnlyFans payment away from imminent death."

"I guess I'm just happy you're here. I trust you, you'll help me out of this."

You're a little rusty, so you can't quite identify if that's just a statement or if Old Nate, the one who manipulated grocery store owners into not asking for I.D back in high school, had resurfaced in his time of survival needs.

"I... I'm not sure I know how, Nate."

"What?" His face falls, and he moves to stand behind you, looking down at his documents in your hands as he rests his chin on your shoulder like this is some romantic card-reading and not his entire fucking life at stake. "Yes, you do. C'mon. You're a little troublemaker, you know how to get out of it, too, yeah?"

You've forgotten to let him know you fucking hate that fucking nickname. You always have. He'd seen you at Fezco's convenience store — about a month after his sophomore-year-lobotomy that led him to pretending you didn't exist — and dapping him up before he handed you a bottle of Bacardi. You'd shouldered right past him, but not fast enough to hear him say "...trouble". Now, you'd never figured out what the first part of that sentence had been. You'd assumed 'you're in trouble', or 'someone's in trouble', but then he'd started calling you "trouble", so you decided he'd said "you're becoming trouble", that day.

But then... at the wedding. He'd completely switched up. Troublemaker. The fuck did that come from? Had he just forgotten the nickname? Or did he mean something else?

No time to think about it.

"No, Nate, you don't get it. Loans sharks work by setting unnecessarily high interest rates. You needed money fast, he gave it to you, and now you need to give him, what, ten times what he gave you because you didn't even have a third of it when he asked you to pay him back the first time?", you ask, letting him turn you around before you thrust the paper into his chest.

He grabs it, scanning it like a sudden inheritance from a dead relative might make itself known on it. "You can't help me? At all?" Nate kisses the side of your cheek like he gets to.

Uh-uh. You shove him away, snatching the paper back. "What gives? What is this? Sleeping with me? Are you whoring yourself out so I get you out of this mess?"

"You know why I'm doing this."

"It's not the truth, Nate."

"I've— since we were eleven —"

"Shut up, Nate, FUCK! I've seen you do this exact shit to Maddy! Do you think I'm dumb, or someth—"

Nate doesn't seem to take that well. For someone in imminent mortal danger, he seems to still hold himself up on a pedestal. He shoves you right back, like you're both still nine and fighting over who gets to be striker and who has to be goalie. "You don't fucking LISTEN! Your problem has ALWAYS been that you don't fucking LISTEN!"

"Yeah? I LISTENED to you tell me your Dad's a fucking pedo! I LISTENED to you make YOUR shitty financial planning MY problem! I LISTENED to you insult my fiancee! When have I ever NOT listened to your bullshit, Nate, huh?!"

He laughs sardonically, gesturing wildly at you. "So this is about your dumbass fucking the only guy that'd look at you in high school? You know WHY?" It's hilarious how he only grasps onto the part that makes you sound stupid.

"Why WHAT?"

"Why he was the only guy in that entire school that asked you out? Hm? You think they didn't wanna fuck you till you were spent and knocked up? They DID. Guess why only Mark came up to you?", he yells.

You expect him to say something about Mark being a pussy with no self-awareness of the concept of leagues. But then, he says : "I told them they'd have no fucking dicks left if they tried to stick theirs in you."

It's crude, it's horrendous, and it's definitely the Nate you remember from high school. "What?"

"Mark was a little punk who I didn't think would be your type. Didn't look like a threat, so I left him be. Guess he's the fucking fritillary, except he's both endangered and invasive, huh?", he spits, moving back to you like nothing's ever happened. "So no, dumbass, I'm not whoring myself out, I'm living for high-school-me, who I think has been denied far too fucking much so far, huh?"

Realisation hits you harder than you want to hit him. You don't even want to think about the implications of Nate threatening guys to stay away from you while he was actively and publicly dating someone else. It's moot, it's manipulative, it's Nate.

Your eyes trace the lines between his ugly ass tiles while he busies himself with your hair, kissing your forehead. "I do like you. You know that. Been in love with you since we were eleven. And I'm falling back in now."

You're tired, seriously. "Stop bullshitting."

"I'm not, but it's okay, baby, it's fine.", he murmurs against the top of your hair, pulling you into his chest like you needed comforting. "Help me out, and I'll make sure there's no consequences for us."

"What 'us', Nate? We fucked once, we're not in some clandestine relationship, Jesus!"

"Yeah? Where was my phone when we fucked?"

You pause at that. The entire world stills. The air stops. The starving birds seem to drop. "What?"

"You handed it to me during, right?"

"Nate."

"I know for a fact that Mark's more loaded than the other idiots you were about to call up, right? I had to do this, baby."

"No, you didn't. I was helping you."

He squeezes you tighter.

"After you get me the money from Mark, I get to pay Naz back and you get to pay Mark back for taking so many years off your life.", he tells you, like he's reciting a nursery rhyme. "Or I send him the video I took from my phone."

And suddenly, it's all clear. He fucked you for blackmail. You can't pull away now, can you? You've fucked Nate Jacobs. You've fucked a married man. You're also helping financial fraud, infidelity, and if dumbassery was a charge, that as well.

"Say it with me. Fuck Mark. Fuck Naz. Fuck that fucking flower."

"Fuck off.", you reply, swatting his hand away as he tries to kiss you again. You don't think you have the strength or the energy for anything more than that. Maybe if you got a restraining order?

He smiles, shaking his head. "Close. We'll work on it. You'll be here the whole time, anyway. I'm sure Mark has no problem with that."

You take a couple steps back. You briefly wonder if he slept with you because Naz has eyes everywhere and some of the heat would be transferred onto you instead of him, because he's no longer looking like a victim of financial fraud and shitty fortune.

He's looking like a puppeteer. "So, I'll ask again. Can you help me?"

You try not to let your voice shake in pure rage. "I can try. Like, maybe talking to a couple buddies of mine that aren't out to cheat the fuck out of you?"

"You'd do that?"

"I— I'll try. I can't promise anything."

Nate's smile looks genuine, but you can't be sure. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"That's enough."

You're such an idiot. The wedding was an act, of course!

Whole time, Nate Jacobs was the exact same.

Maybe you're not as good at detecting changes in him as you'd thought.

note: this one’s been living in my head rent-free ever since i rewatched the movie. i swear i’m not like them (promise), but i love writing about fucked-up people. so i might keep this going. (if people like it) should i make a specific tag for it? (and reposted… the last one is shadowbanned.)

Introducing… Reader!Kathryn/Caroline Merteuil. You’re the sweetest girl at Stanford. Everyone says so. Because how could they not say that? You just have that face that people… People feel comfortable being with, the one people trust. That soft, approachable, pretty, not intimidating… God no! You don’t even have a resting bitch face, and not too sexy, just right. Your lips? Always glossed but not over-lined and not messy. Never messy. Your lashes curled, and you even have extensions, but not the kind that will cover your beautiful eyes. You have a smile on your whole face like you mean it. You practiced smiling perfectly so that people don’t know it’s fake. You smile and pretend you don’t know what they want from you.

You RSVP early, you make them feel special because, aw, you remembered! You send handwritten notes using an expensive pen and it shows how expensive it is. You bake when you’re stressed, of course, you know how to bake. Your mother made you take lessons for it to cure your boredom because she couldn’t give you attention. Making the actual shit from scratch and leaving extras in the kitchen like some fairy. You show up to worship on Sundays with a notebook in your designer bag and you make sure that your hair is fixed enough to show your face like you’re ready to listen, to repent, to believe.

You wear dresses that hug your curves and touch past your thighs. It looks sweet, but not slutty, never slutty… unless it’s for parties. But not much that your soul will show. You love that beige heels. Don’t start with pink nails… always your color. Not a single hair tie on your wrist, that looks cheap. You are not cheap. When you hug people, you mean it. Or do you? Maybe you are rolling your eyes behind their back when you hug them. When you speak, you’re careful. You don’t want the wrong people to hear you talking shit, right? You never drink too much. You don’t black out drunk like other girls. Pretty girls know how to handle their liquor, you always say. Never talk too loud. The whole world doesn’t need to hear your voice. Never post anything that could get you called out, or canceled. Your digital footprint is so squeaky clean, that it makes your stalkers angry when they can’t find anything about you.

You are, to put it simply, perfect.

And the thing about being perfect is? Everyone wants a piece of you.

They want to be you.

Or they want to be inside you.

Either works.

It’s not old news to you when you overheard that line because it happened more than once, blurt out like a joke but meant like a prayer.

“Dude, I’d sell a kidney to fuck her.”

“I wanna be her or be in her. I don’t even care which. Is that too lesbian to say?”

“She’s, like… wife material. Just look at her. But she’s also…? Kind of terrifying.”

You always play dumb. You love to make people think you’re some dumb girl. You just tilt your head. Blink at the words you are hearing. You give a sweet smile like you don’t know what they’re talking about. That’s part of it. That’s what makes it work because you act clueless.

You are the definition of classy. Elegant. Polished. That’s what they call you. The kind of girl their moms would trust because of how you present yourself and how your reputation reflects and their daughters side-eye in secret because your name has been brought up to compare to them when they do shit and their mother found out. They think you run your sorority because you're kind, you’re a leader, and you’re inspirational. Well…

They think your power comes from being likable. That’s adorable. So fucking cute.

It’s hidden behind the curtains how you move every piece like a chess. They don’t see the way how you play girls off each other while you hand them the tissues because they teared up. You knew they would cry because you made sure to hit the right spots. The way you just play dumb and act you like don’t see how those stupid frat boys humiliate themselves just to talk, sit, or get a piece of you. You will hear those girls change their tone when they asked how you do it, meaning, how you stay so nice, so cool, so together, and you just bat your lashes and smile like you are saying that it’s a secret, like it’s luck, like you didn’t a personal notes, journal, or board to plan every goddamn inch of it. Maybe people will tell you to have OCD when they discover how obsessed you are with details when you plan something.

Because being the perfect girl? That’s not luck.

It’s precision. It’s strategy. It’s control.

But hey, what they don’t know won’t hurt them. Like they don’t know that you blackmailed three girls off your rush list this rush season alone. It didn’t cause any scandal, not really. It didn’t happen accidentally. You pulled the trigger as if you already knew the weight of consequences, you don’t have consequences, only them because they fucked you up.

The first girl? She just happened to hook up with one of your girls' boyfriends. What a home wrecker. She’s sloppy, too sloppy. She left with hickeys and even got caught on someone’s finsta at 3AM in his hoodie, sneaking out of the house in Rowan Neighbourhood. Such a reckless girl. What's worse is you don’t enjoy it much because you don’t have to dig for that one. You just watched your sister cry in the bathroom stall and thought, what a shame that bitch did that to your girl. She would’ve looked cute in your color if she got accepted. But the betrayal? Off brand. You don’t need another stress. So you crossed her off the list with a note beside her name saying she’s a home wrecker bitch. Sent her that cute letter of yours saying that she’s “not the right fit.” Before you sent your sister’s cheating ex-boyfriend a screen recording of her DMing one of the frat pledges two nights later. You have to put a little extra touch.

Oh don’t get started with the second girl. It’s humiliating when you find out. She had an academic record from high school that looked clean, too good to be true. Your guts just told you something is wrong so you ran it through the software your ex-boyfriend built you to find dirt about someone. Cheating scandal. What in the hell? Almost expelled for buying an exam answer key from a user from Reddit. As usual, covered up. By who? Her parents. Use a donation move. Money is power. But you smiled when you found it. Nothing screams “walking scandal” like an academic shady record before you even step into college. Of course, you could be a little bit dramatic. You printed out the report you found and put it in her rush envelope with a sticky note, a pink one, saying, “Maybe next year.” You don’t want girls who cheat in your circle anyway.

Ah. The last one. Well, this is kind of funny and petty. She clumsily spilled a full glass of red wine on your white silk Valentino at a welcome dinner for the rush. You noticed the nervous hands. Shaking apology. Hm. You didn’t yell even yell, didn’t scream at her face even if you wanted to, didn’t even flinch. Just smiled with teeth… nodding before you said, “Don’t worry about it.” Then her name was gone off the list the moment the dinner was over. That dress was custom-made only for you. She was clumsy. It will be funny if it’s not on a special day or when you won’t get humiliated. It’s not that deep, you know that, but deep enough to be memorable, enough to remember the stains on your dress. People don’t like humiliation especially when you have an image in that place. If you let one girl get away with embarrassing you in public by just acknowledging and accepting her awful apology, the rest will start to think they can too. You can’t have that. Never.

You didn’t lie. Well, not that they can catch your lie, right? You didn’t threaten. Not in a way they can pick up that it’s a threat you are saying. You didn’t even raise your voice.

You just let them spiral on their own.

Stanford runs on the image. Reputation. Control. You don’t want to be a social suicide. Ew. You don’t just maintain yours, you crochet it little by little like a kid needs a hobby to focus on. Your hands are clean, it’s like you wear expensive princess gloves just not to let them get dirty. Your hands? They never touch anything directly. Everything goes through someone else because they are desperate to do your favors. You let everyone else dirty theirs trying to reach you.

Because you’re the girl everyone wants to be.

Or be inside.

Or both.

And they will never know how ugly it gets underneath.

Except him.

And when something calls for a messier touch?

You have Art.

Your stepbrother, unfortunately. Stanford’s favorite golden boy. Tennis prodigy. He’s good to the point you will wish he would shove his racket inside you and rearrange your guts. Even he walks in soft clothes, all sweat and baby curls, and the kind of smile that every grandmother loves? Expect that people are giving him the fuck me eyes. But he’s yours. Not officially, not publicly. He’s yours in all the ways that count. He knows that too.

He follows you. Lapdog is the word you will describe him. Too eager to please you. Too desperate. You use that in your favor. You send him out like a dog in heat. He fucks who you tell him to fuck. Mostly the girls from your list. Sometimes the ones you hate. And he records them. What a sick fuck, people will say if they know it.

Not for blackmail. (Okay, sometimes for blackmail.)

You give him the name and a smile. Sometimes it’s just a text saying, “Kappa legacy. Show me if she moans loud enough compared to when she's talking shit about me.”

What’s good about him is he does. He always does.

The first time he sent you the video of the girl you asked him to ruin, the video was shaky, awful quality, and loud. You watched it once. Just once. That’s it. But you saved it.

Now there’s a folder named, “Summer files.” Lame folder name but with a history behind it. One summer when the first time he… yeah. But it’s password-protected. Only you and him have access.

You know that sometimes he fuck around in and out of campus not just for the blackmail anymore, just because. But mostly for you. For your eyes. For your enjoyment. Because he knows what it does to you. He finds it hot, and he gets off by it. Just because you like seeing it.

He’s aware you watch them at night. Your hand under your panties. Legs spread in your sheets, head thrown back while you’re flicking your pretty fingers with pink-colored nails over your clit as he fucks some girl in the recording with a camera angled just right. Sometimes, he looks straight into his phone when he’s inside them. It’s like he’s pretending it’s you. Like he’s thinking about you when he groans, low and pretty, when he holds back a whimper. His hand gripping their hip while they whine like they’re the lucky ones. Oh, they’re not. You enjoy watching those girls fall apart over someone you can control with your fingers around his throat and your voice in his ear.

But it’s not about them. It never is. And will never be.

You exactly get it. So much. You want the girls fucked up by him in a deeply perverted, obsessive, deranged way. Like the videos aren’t about the girls, not really. It’s more like the girls are just props for him to use while he lets her watch the position she wants to be in. Lucky them. And him? You want him sweaty and wrecked and yours, even when he’s inside someone else’s cunt.

She doesn’t cum despite him fucking other girls—she gets off on it. It’s fucked up way to get yourself to work. You can’t just fight your morals when you are watching your screen when he’s inside someone else, working her open, making her cry, and none of it means anything. Because it’s not about the girls. The girls are just there so she can watch him. Just wet holes, nothing more than meat to show off what you trained him to do. The way he fucks now? The way he groans? Chokes? Slams into them just right? That’s not natural. That’s how you like to be fucked by him. He’s just practicing it through other girls because you don’t let him do it in you.

That’s your voice in his head, your grip still ghosting his throat. He can still hear your words when he manages to get a little taste of you. He learned all that from you. And now he performs it like a dream, putting on a show for the only person who matters. You. It’s not arousing because he’s with someone else, it’s arousing because he’s still yours while doing it.

Every thrust is proof. Every moan is your reward. He could be inside a thousand different girls, and it wouldn’t matter, not as long as you’re the one watching. That’s what makes you come and shake until your thighs hurt. That’s what makes you pant and twitch and grind your slick fingers between your legs, gliding it between your slit while his voice cracks in the dark of your room while you are listening to him through the tapes he sent you. He’s fucking them, sure. But he’s doing it for you.

The fun part is when you watch them with him too, sometimes. Not always. In your room. On your laptop. He’s always fidgety when he’s watching it beside you like he’s anxious. His leg bounces like he’s gonna lose his mind because you are too close.

It’s quiet. The only thing you can hear is the sounds from your laptop. No touching. He’s so desperate to do it though. No talking. He doesn’t need it. Just you, legs crossed, eyes on the screen, biting your thumb like you’re bored. Some poor girl cries his name into the sheets like it’s a prayer while he’s thrusting deep inside her and pushing the girl’s head on the pillow. Mean.

You think he likes that? You think he likes being watched by you. No… scratch that, you know he does.

After all, he’s the only one who sees how dirty it all gets. How unhinged you can be.

You make the rules. He breaks them. For you. Always for you.

You tell yourself it’s about the power. The control. The game. But deep down, you know that’s a lie. It’s about him. It’s always been about him. The way his back flexes when he fucks. You can see the muscles and you just want to scratch that back. The way he grips their hips like he’s afraid they’ll float away. It made you think how he will hold your hips. Will he make it bruised so you will remember it? Will he hold it tight as he slams his cock deep into you so you won’t move around and he can fuck you the way he likes? The sweat on his neck, you want to lick that. The flush on his chest. The way his jaw clenches and his voice catches when he’s close. You know when he’s really close, when he’s orgasming for real. No fake grunts, not performance, but real, guttural, cracked-open moans that only you know how to read. You don’t even need sound anymore. You can see it all in his face.

You’ve watched the tapes. All of them. You don’t miss a video. It’s like when he put another video in the shared folder? You will quickly get notified. You have favorites that you watch more than once. (One of your favorite is when he fuck one girl from your sorority and he have the nerve to fuck her in your sheet) Some so many times you’ve memorized the order of his thrusts. And it’s not to study them. Not anymore. You study him. You know every vein on his cock, it’s disgusting the way you zoom it when you are watching the video. You know every freckle on his shoulders, every twitch of his fingers when he’s holding back. Every time he glances into the lens, you know exactly who he’s thinking about. It’s not her. It’s you.

He doesn’t touch the girls the way he touches you. They don’t get that treatment from him. But you do. You can tell when he’s faking it. When he’s fucking just because he’s trying to finish what she said to him, hips moving just enough to pass, eyes flat, mind somewhere else. The way he looks more on the camera. And you know exactly where that somewhere else is because that’s when you’ve been texting him. (He always message you when he’s going to start recording in his phone. You both don’t video call, no. He just records on his phone while you send them) During. Sometimes just one word at a time: slower. say her name. touch her throat. good boy. No emojis. No punctuation. You know he can see the messages in his notifications even though the sounds are silent. Just on vibrate. And he does it. Of course he does. Because he knows you’re watching.

When he nods, just barely, just enough to let you know he got the message although you don’t see it. You squeeze your thighs together and whimper without sound because you can only imagine what’s he’s doing with the girl. After all, he will only show the tapes after he fucked them.

The girls don’t matter. They never did. Why would they even matter to you? They’re faceless, replaceable , nothing but background noise to frame the real subject. He’s the center. The reason. Your brother. Your masterpiece.

Sometimes you come before he does when both of you watches it together. Bite the inside of your wrist just to stay quiet, panting into your sheets while he’s still pounding into someone else in the background of your laptop like it means something. And still, you keep watching. You like it too much. You don’t look away. You can’t. Just. Can’t. You don’t come for her. You don’t even come for you. You come for him. For the way his rhythm falls apart when he’s close. For the way he bites his lip like he’s trying to hold your name back. For the fantasy you’ve fed yourself so many times it feels like truth—that he’s not really fucking her at all. He’s fucking you, just through someone else’s body, just until you finally let him have the real thing.

You know he wants it. He yearns of it. Its’s too obvious anyway. You see it in how eager he is to please. To perform. Sometimes you just want to tease him about starting an OF because he basically has the talent for it. To be good for you. He thinks you’re the camera. But no. You’re the mirror. He’s always been looking into you.

And god, you love it. You love being the reason. The center of him being crazy. The god behind the curtain, legs sticky, heart steady, watching your perfect boy ruin someone else just to make you feel something. You’re not the audience. You’re the director. The producer. The pervert in the front row, getting off behind the curtain like it’s a private showing just for you. And you. do get off every time.

And the worst part? You don’t even feel guilty.

You feel alive.

And sometimes, only sometimes, you reward him.

Like the night he got that footage of the girl you couldn’t stand. You loved that one. He did a good job. She ended up whining and babbling through her orgasm like a dumb little puppy in his tape. You let him stay over that night. Pulled him into your bed. You didn’t say thank you, didn’t kiss him. You just tugged his shorts down and stroked his dick off while still watching the screen with you.

It’s filthy. Your hand is slick with his pre cum. So wet like a girl. Your eyes never leave the video. The girl crying. Him pounding her cunt from the back. You? Silent while rewarding him for a job well done.

You didn’t even look at his face until he came. You just run and circled your thumb on the slit of his tip while squeezing his cock. And him? He bit your neck a little too hard afterward. He even left a hickey, but you let him. He earned it.

He thinks he’s the corrupted one.

Thinks he’s the problem.

Thinks he’s dark for wanting you to see all of it. For wanting you to see him.

But that’s the joke.

He was already fucked before you. He’s already messed up. You know it. He knows it. You just made him honest about it. You made him embrace it around you. Taught him how to weaponize it. How to use it to his advantage. Put a mirror to his want and made him stare until he broke skin. It’s not sex. Not really. Just control. Yours. Always.

And maybe that’s why he comes to you that night like he’s got something to offer. (He always has, sometimes you just made hints feel he doesn’t) Like he’s got chips to play with when he’s already flat on the floor, bleeding out beneath your heel like a bunny that has been abandoned by his owner.

He leans in, smelling like cigarette smoke and some girl’s perfume he never even touched. Voice low like a secret, cigarette hanging loose between his fingers like a hedge in a fucking movie, and says, “About that little wager of yours?”

There’s that twitch in your smile. The one you trained to look polite. Your eyes twinkled. Curiosity sparkling. But you know. You fucking know, he’s already lost. He just doesn’t know it yet. He never does. And that’s the part that turns you on the most. Both of you like to play.

“Count me in,” he adds, with that cocky smirk that means he thinks he’s a game changer in this. Thinks he’s playing the game like you didn’t design the fucking whole thing, put the puzzles together, and made it possible to happen.

You don’t answer right away. You just hum while you trace the neck of your wineglass in a slow and lazy motion. You tilt your head like you’re thinking of continuing it or not. He stares. He always stares. You were made to be looked at.

“What are the terms?” he finally asks, and god, even his voice sounds fucked. Like it’s straining to stay casual. Like he’s grounding himself. Like it’s already halfway into a whimper. He always seems trying to hold back a moan when he’s around you is he not?

“If I win…” you start, and then you leave it. Just hang it in the air like a mystery. Heavy. Sticky. Sweet. Enough to tease him and you can already see it on his expression. The way his mouth parts a little and nods.

Then you finish it, “Then that hot little car of yours is mine.” Yeah, you know he loves it so much because it comes from his father.

He goes still, thinking, thinking, and thinking while jaw twitching, tongue pushing against his inside cheek like he’s trying to process it. Tries to act cool. Fails. You see it all, the flicker in his eyes, the pulse in his neck. You can see him getting worked up. Angry? Irritated.

“And if I win?” he manages, voices rough and deep.

You lean in like you’re gonna kiss him. Face inches close to him. But you don’t. You just stay close to him. You just breathe across his cheek and lean more so you can whisper in his ear, “I’ll give you what you’ve been obsessing about ever since our parents got married.”

And that? That’s the piece of chess you don’t say with a smirk. You say it flat. Mean. Nonchalant. Almost mocking. Like truth.

He stiffens, and you swear you can feel the temperature shift. Maybe he’s just turning you on.

“Be more specific,” he says, but it sounds like begging. He always begs.

You laugh. “In English…”

“I’ll fuck your brains out,” you smirk at him, almost testing him if he will quickly agree. He always does. Always. You feel like you wouldn’t be persuading him that much.

Silence. But not the empty kind. The kind that crackles. The kind that begs.

He doesn’t look at you. Not directly. Just somewhere near your mouth. “What makes you think I’d go for that bet?”

You shrug like it’s boring. Like it’s easy. He always agrees to the bet. Especially that price? She knows how badly he wants to fuck her in her pussy, deep, and her clenching him around his cock. She knows he dreamt of it.

“That’s a 1956 Jaguar roadster.” He huffs a laugh, but it sounds hollow. Like he’s already halfway to yes.

You tilt your head and say it. “Because I’m the only person you can’t have, and it kills you.”

That gets him. Gets him good. You watch it happen, his throat working around nothing, his fingers twitching, the way his knees shift like he wants to crawl under the table and beg. He masks it with a defensive “No way.”

But you lean back. Spread your legs just slightly beneath the table like it’s a reflex. Like you want him to look. Like you want him to lose. You even lift your skirt a little so he can see enough of your see-through panties that are hugging your cunt, which made your clit can’t breathe.

“You can put it anywhere.”

And that’s the fucking break. That’s when he snaps.

His mouth parts, eyes going blown black, and he breathes the words out like a fucking prayer.

“You got yourself a bet, baby.”

And just like that, you win again.

You don’t feel guilty. Not when you’re the one he wants. Not when every girl he touches is just a poor man’s version of you, so easy, so grateful, so forgettable. You don’t feel guilty because he’s the one sending you videos at 2 a.m., saying her name with your face in his head. Because he comes back to you every time, he always does even when he’s pretending not to. Even when he’s fucking someone else, he’s thinking of you.

You don’t feel guilty because you’re not the sidepiece, you’re the goddamn center of him. And you know it. You count on it. Let them call it twisted. Let them say it’s cruel. You don’t care. You’ve never cared. Because what you have is bigger than guilt, bigger than shame, it’s power, and it’s permanent. He’ll never shake you. Not when every orgasm is a confession. Not when every breakdown has your name buried in it. You don’t feel guilty. You just get horny and turned on.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

June 2014, Freshman Year.

Nate had been pretty fucking sure he'd ace the tryouts for the football team. He was good and everyone fucking knew it. Him. His dad. Now, the issue was that East Highland was pretty fucking strict on their rule about no freshmen on the team unless they were Tom fucking Brady.

So, yeah. Last thirty minutes before the tryouts, he might have had a tiny fucking panic attack in the boys' locker rooms, palms in his face, strands of hair spewing between his fingers, knee bouncing - the whole shebang. No biggie.

And, of course he was careful not to create a rep around school that he was a pussy, or whatever, because he knew that no one else was as dedicated as he was to football (well, except that sophomore, McKay, who was already a shoo-in, and wouldn't come because the whole sophomore class was on some field trip) and hence, he'd be alone thirty whole minutes before tryouts.

That being said, he hadn't really done a Doctor Strange and calculated all the possibilities for stupid ass shit that could happen, seeing as you walked the fuck in, pom-poms and all, aggressively tapping on your phone, the dial tone on speaker as you looked up at the ceiling in frustration. "Pick the fuck up, pick the fuck up.", you'd been muttering under your breath. Voicemail.

"FUCK!"

The clang echoed throughout the lockers, intertwined with your yell.

You'd kicked the goddamn lockers. Something Nate would have only expected of himself. He jumped, and you finally noticed him. "How long you been fucking sitting there, creep?"

"Creep? You're the bitch in the boys' locker rooms!"

"You gonna kick me out?"

Okay, he was close to hyperventilating, a smartass lippy girl was the last thing he needed right now.

Scoffing, shook his head. "No. Knock yourself out. Literally. Keel over and die and shut up."

You'd flipped him off, he knew that, but he couldn't care right now.

"Wait, I fucking know you. Homeroom with Smith.", you mumbled, offhandedly.

"Well, fucking ace for you, man. Could you shut the fuck up?!"

You did, and he looked up, half-expecting you to have been looking at him hurt or tearing up, but you were back on your phone. That's when he noticed you were fucking trembling. Your phone was this close to falling.

"Yo, you good?", he asked, more out of annoyance than concern, but hey. He was being nice.

"How about you shut the fuck up?!", you retorted, the dial tone buzzing throughout the desolate locker room once more.

And, uh, yup, those were tremors. You were basically short-circuiting. "Uh, you really gotta sit down or something, you're two seconds away from blacking out or falling over."

Huffing, you plopped down opposite him, setting your phone down so hard, it was a miracle it didn't crack. Your knee bounced just like his, and you chewed on the inside of your bottom lip.

Clearly, he had to be the chill one here. Ugh.

Willing himself to look out at the window, the sun, the brightness, the birds-singing and all that bullshit to calm him down, he cleared his throat. "Homeroom with Smith, huh?" His voice was way more unsure than he'd wanted it to be.

Your eyes slowly moved from the fluorescent lights above him to his face. You nodded. "Bumped into you first day of school. Embarassing as hell."

Weird, what girls remember. He's tripped on air some twenty times in one day and you don't see him sitting here ages later, mortified about it.

"It's chill. My name's Nate."

"I'm Y/N."

"Nice to meet you.", he said, leaning over and extending his arm with exaggerated grunts of pain to make you laugh and chill the fuck out, and you met him halfway. "Likewise."

"I'm trying out for the football team. Being a rebel and whatnot."

"Oh, same. Not- not the football team. Cheer team. They don't accept freshmen, either, but I've, like, won gymnastics awards, so.", you shrugged.

"That's cool. I've been this jacked since I was twelve, so.", he grinned, mirroring your shrug. "Plus, I love football."

"I love cheer."

He curled his bottom lip down in acknowledgement. "Chill."

"They've all been here for an hour, intimidation-stretching, or whatever."

He raised both eyebrows in sheer surprise at that, thumbing behind him at the door. "The girls?" An hour?

You nodded. "Yeah. They're bitches."

"The fuck's intimidation-stretching?"

"Y'know, showing off their moves while, like, maintaining intense-eye-contact. To psych you out, or whatever."

"Oh, is that why you're so pressed? You're psyched out?"

"No. But they were outright makin' fun of me. So."

"Why, 'cause you're a freshman? That's bullshit. I doubt they even know how to spell gymnastics. Most of 'em are probably repeating twelfth grade.", he scoffed.

You nodded, a small smile on your lips. "So, are they all excluding you, too, or...?", you asked, glancing around at the empty locker room.

"Boys and girls are different. Your competition's been there for an hour. Mine won't be here till half a minute before the actual fucking tryouts."

"Wouldn't that make you a shoo-in? More dedication?"

He shook his head, bringing his knee onto the bench next to him, turning over to fix the laces on his cleats. "Doesn't work like that."

"Should."

He shrugged. "Lots of 'shoulds', y'know. None of them actually ever happen."

"What, like world peace?"

"Yeah, nah, fuck world peace."

"Careful, the UN will put a hit on you."

"I'll bomb 'em."

You snorted. "Sick."

He didn't exactly know what kind of 'sick' you meant, but something told him it was the kind that proved you shared his humour, maybe a bit.

Your phone dinged. "Fuck. Hey, our tryouts start in five, so."

"Chill. Break a leg."

"What?"

"Y'know, like good luck."

"That's for actors and musicians and shit. You and I better hope we don't break a leg.", you replied, accepting his fist-bump.

"Do well, then. You will. Good luck."

"You, too!", you called. "Thanks!"

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, now he had to go back to calming himself down without the diversion task of calming someone else down, too. Great.

~~

"Holy shit, Nate, holy shit, holy shit, holy--", you yelled, scampering hurriedly down the bleachers as he sprinted to you, catching you as you reached the last step, spinning you around. "Holy shit!"

"I know, I know, right?! They just let me in!", he exclaimed, setting you down. Neither of you had any idea what the fuck had just happened (panic-attack-trauma-bonding), but he didn't fucking care, too fucking exhilarated from his achievement to even think.

"Just? Dude, you were fucking bomb out there! You were like, fuckin' whizzing on the field, man!", you declared, punching his chest.

"How'd yours go?", he asked, trying to catch his breath from both the tryouts and the rush to the bleachers.

You zipped open your duffle, and he peered over into it. A flash of aquamarine. A fucking cheer uniform. "Let's fucking go!", he cheered, dapping you up. "What happened to the intimidation-stretching bitches?"

Thumbing to the other side of the field, you shrugged. "I'm definitely getting cyberbullied or something." Holy shit, those were some pissed off juniors.

"Yeah? That's how you know you won.", he laughed, rapping his fingers on his helmet, his eyes darting from it to you. "So, we're officially the coolest fucking freshmen ever."

"Yeah, it's like, officially EH lore now, for real."

"I'll see you out on the field, then? Once the season starts, in August?", he asked, slinging his bag onto his shoulder as you did the same with yours.

"Yeah, for sure. See you around, man."

He held out his fist, grinning when it met your own. "See you around."

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

January 2016, last semester of Sophomore Year.

It was around this time that he'd met Maddy.

And he'd really fucking liked her.

His first ever girlfriend, and first ever love.

Or was she his first ever love? No, I mean, he loved her, but was she his first? Nah, you know what, no time for this bullcrap. You're not here for a psychoanalysis, no, you're here to watch his stupid decisions one by one by motherfucking one, like a cinema reel.

And sophomore year was one.

Look, he knew that to be a good boyfriend, kissing other girls was probably not a good idea. Loyalty and all that. It's the principle. But he couldn't just stop making out with you, I mean, you needed practice before going on your first date, and it's not like you could ask anyone else in this godforsaken school, now could you ( you didn't ask, but whatever. Irrelevant) ? No, he was the closest thing you had to a guy friend.

How'd it go, HC? Did you suck face?

No. He said he wants to go on a second date before all that.

He's a fairy.

What? Fuck you, man. Maybe he's just a gentleman.

Or maybe he just likes (gentle) men.

Put that wordplay into your English essays and maybe you'll beat me one day.

You bring up grades every time you lose an argument, it's fucking annoying.

Whatever, I got to get up and go to school tomorrow. Conduct cheer tryouts and whatever.

Night, HC.

Good night, QB.

See? It was actually weird how scared he was of Maddy finding his phone. Was it even flirting if he was just insulting you and letting you 'win' arguments half the time? No. It wasn't, so why was he worried Maddy might think it was? Maybe he was paranoid.

And yes, he could've just acquiesced once, instead of continuing to text you because he'd 'learnt a new move Maddy seemed to like', but it's the fucking considerate thing to do. What if the guy you were going out with whipped out some weird new thing with his tongue and you looked like an idiot? It's called friendship.

~~

"Oh, hey, I wanted to ask, you and Mads on or off again?", you asked, standing up to stretch, and then go on the same tour you always did around his room, when you were there for your blunt-sessions. His bedside, his dumbbells, his closet, his mirror, then back to him.

He scoffed as he lay down, patting the space next to him, that you thankfully filled. Gently stroking the hair on your forehead, he sighed, before taking a long drag of the joint. "Why? You need help? He's trying to take things to the next level or sm'n?"

"Yeah, but, like, Maddy's my friend now, you sure you can help me without it being weird?"

He didn't know why, but he didn't like the thought of his day-one calling someone else her friend. Rubbed him the wrong fucking way.

"Uh huh." He waved you off, putting it out. "It's cool. We're on a break, anyway. Okay, so second base.", he said, clapping his palms together as he sat up, gazing down at you, softly pushing you to lay back down. "Usually, he'll do a little something like - move your hair to the side for me, yeah, there we go - something like this...", he murmured, his lips dancing gently across your jugular vein before he seamlessly began lowering them to your clavicle. "And he'll probably get a little bit of this action.", he added, his hand fondling your breast over your clothes. "He might unclasp your bra if he's feeling confident, but that's more third base stuff, so I wouldn't worry about it."

"What if he does, though?"

"You can say 'stop'. As long as he isn't a rapist creep, then you're solid."

"He isn't. He's really nice."

"Ew, bro, are you blushing?", he mock-gagged, tossing a pillow at your face and sitting back on his heels as he lit up another doobie.

"Look, he's really nice, like, gentleman-type. I'm just grateful my first-ever boyfriend isn't a total dickwad."

He leaned over and nudged your foot with his elbow, watching you chuckle from the opposite edge of the bed. "No, seriously, why not just become official, if you're fine letting him feel you up? Is he someone super ugly? Like, social-suicide-level-ugly? Come on, who is it?"

"Shut up, I'm not telling you."

"Wow, okay, yeah, no, for sure. Not like I've been your best fucking friend since freshman fucking year.", he scoffed, doing his best to look hurt as he reached for his phone.

"Hey, hey, that's not fair!"

His phone buzzed. "Yo, that's probably Maddy, you should--"

"Don't change the fucking subject."

His phone rang, this time.

"Did your voice just go deeper?", you giggled, after he was done. Yeah, the weed was definitely hitting you like a freight train. He wasn't too far behind.

"Oh, fuck off.", he snorted, tossing another pillow at you.

And that was pretty much it. You never spoke of it again.

In fact, weirdly, you never spoke again, for rest of the year.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

June 2016, First Semester of Junior Year.

There comes a time in every girl's life where the guys in her life just do a full 180 and become absolute dicks in every sense of the word. They ghost you, or they bully you, or they start being overtly sexist around and to you. Now, the issue was that Nate was really fucking classy about it. So he wasn't uncouth or rude or anything, but the texts stopped.

With him now being official with Maddy, it had seemed the best way to ease his own conscience and make sure both of you had a smooth junior and senior year.

Now, the two of you had never been all BFF-goals during the first two years of school, aside from the sporadic text message you'd exchanged off the field. So, no, you didn't really care that the texts stopped - hell, you barely noticed. You had your own shit going on. Mutinies in the squad, favoritism from Coach to you, rumours of favoritism from you - the head cheer - to certain members, it was all confusion.

And, to top it all off, first home game of the season? You got sick.

A little rundown of EH football tradition. Home games are the best. Home games mean pep rallies. Pep rallies mean running through the cafeteria, jumping on tables while the cheerleaders hype them up. Slight problem. Nate had been under the impression that cheering couldn't happen without the head cheer.

Again, you couldn't particularly call him a friend in public because you'd get branded a slut quicker than you could shake your little pom-poms and if he called you a friend, he'd 100% lose face in front of the whole school quicker than he'd usurped the previous team captain in his freshman fucking year.

That being said, he wasn't one for unfairness.

And that's why he frowned when Coach asked him why in the hell he was getting his lunch instead of huddling up with the team for the pep rally. "Isn't that tomorrow?"

"When the hell did I tell you it was tomorrow, son, huh?"

"The head cheer's not here."

"So? Her deputy's there. What do I care if she isn't here? Go on, get."

Sure, games happen without the captain of the team, but they're usually crappy, and Coaches tend to postpone them. He'd figured that would be the same for a cheer squad, but apparently you being sick hadn't meant shit to the rest of your "team"?!

He thought that was bullshit, honestly. It was probably Christmas morning for the people you'd beat out and then graciously allowed into the squad this year. And then, Nate did something real fuckin' stupid. He listened to himself.

And somehow, his thoughts had led him to the grave conclusion that they'd been behind your sick leave of absence that day. Coughing on you or something, how should he know, he wasn't a fucking doctor.

And so, yeah, he may have tripped the bitches - whosever face he remembered, at least - who'd made fun of you and then somehow induced your illness, in the middle of the cafeteria.

"What the fuck, Jacobs?!"

"What? That shit was an accident! Like we don't have it worse out on the field. Suck it up, cheer, honestly."

Yeah, he'd gotten benched from that weekend's home game. Not for long, though, the team was dying without him, so Coach pulled him in barely two plays after benching him, which was fucking great.

What wasn't fucking great was that now Coach - and subsequently, the rest of the team - knew that he cared about who the fuck you were. None of the other guys here even knew there was a head cheer, much less who she was and why she was absent.

And now, you were unnecessarily on every one of his teammate's radars. The EH football team operated on a if-she-fucked-one-of-us-we're-all-her-type-basis.

What's worse, no one even told you about what Nate had done.

So, to recap, you didn't know why you were suddenly getting attention from the football team, and you also didn't know why Nate was suddenly watching you in the hallways, scrutinizing every interaction of yours.

You didn't know anything.

You were going into this blindfolded.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

December 2016, Last Semester of Junior Year

"Yo, HC!"

No fucking way!

Your head whipped around, and he was there, grinning, all teeth and chewing gum with his arms out wide as if you were supposed to jump into them. Hopping off the bus-stand-bench, you jogged over to him (not jumped, jogged), dropping your bags before he wrapped his arm around your shoulder so he could scratch his knuckles on your scalp.

He practically squeezed you, spinning you around the same way as the bleachers after your joint-crowning as the coolest fucking freshmen ever. "It's been, like, decades !"

"What are you doing here?"

"Maddy wanted me to pick her up - she had to stay after-school for something, I dunno - but she changed her mind last minute, she's going home with Cassie. So I'm just here. Walkin' around. Lookin' for the coolest junior HC in EH lore."

You laughed, and he squinted up at the sky, then down at his watch. "You need a ride? A real fucking ride, not some ten year old's wet dream of a joyride.", he scoffed, glaring at the bus-stand.

'Ride' being code for either E or blow.

You were wiped. Cheer tryouts take a lot out of you, especially when it's hot as fuck and some extremely untalented people start beef with you because they think you've rejected them just to be a bitch. Since morning, you've been sitting with Coach, working through batch after batch. And the new kids - they were the fucking worst.

And so, yeah, you abandoned your stupid ass bus ticket to go do weed with the QB of the team you cheered for.

Who wouldn't?

~~

"So why did Maddy just ditch you?"

"She didn't ditch me.", he reminded, watching you take a long drag of the blunt from his peripheral. "She said she forgot she had a sleepover at Cassie's."

"Yeah, I figured she might wanna celebrate with her, first.", you muttered, offhandedly. Nate almost screamed.

"Celebrate what?" As far as he knew, it was nowhere close to either Maddy's or Cassie's birthday.

"She didn't text you yet?", you asked, sitting up and resting your elbows on your knees.

"About what?"

"She made the cheer squad today. They both did."

He had to sit up for that one. "She tried out for the cheer squad?"

He vividly remembered telling her not to. He didn't like extraneous variables, and you and her being in close proximity definitely was one.

"She made the cheer squad."

"You approved it? What, as, like, a favour to me, or some shit?"

You snorted, leaning over to place the blunt on his lips which he took a drag of, before tapping your nose and taking the whole thing from you. He was gonna need a couple more puffs, that was for sure. "I approved it because she's really fucking good."

"Uh huh."

"I'm serious."

"Yeah?", he grumbled, blowing a bubble with his gum before chewing it again.

"She didn't tell you she was trying out? Fuck, maybe she wanted it to be a surprise, and I fucked it up."

"No, she's just a bitch when she wants to be."

"Lay off her, man, you know she's too good for you."

He really couldn't argue with that. But he'd sure as fuck try. "In what way? We're soulmates or whatever."

"Aren't soulmates supposed to give you peace?"

He scoffed, rolling his eyes as he flicked your forehead. "How's it going with you and fairy-guy?"

"Good, weirdly. He's sweet. And that wasn't a line, he really did want to get to know me before any of the first base stuff."

"So you're, like, you guys are a thing now?", he asked, smoke enveloping his view of the ceiling.

"Why's your room so boring, bro? Like, it's... it's all one colour."

"Uh, no, there's grey, there's white, there's black.", he retorted, clearing his throat as he crossed his legs, watching you run your finger over his dumbbells. "No, seriously, you guys fucked yet?"

"Nate!"

"What?", he chuckled, shrugging as he grunted, getting up to kneel on the bed. "I'm just saying. On-and-off be damned. You can't just stop at second base. You gotta let him in you."

"You're gross.", you muttered, moving to his closet before he stopped you. "Gross? Gross?", he scoffed, grabbing your arm and pulling you to kneel on the bed with him. "You're a prude. I bet you don't even know how it works.", he said, blowing some smoke - and some wisps of your hair away - at your face.

"I do, too, know how it works."

"Sure, the mechanics. What goes where. But if I asked you how it felt?"

"I know how it feels."

"I swear to god, man, you're gonna start listing off the hormones involved in sex and I'm going to get a fucking aneurysm.", he replied, brushing the hair he'd just blown out of place back into place.

"Fine, then you tell me how it feels. Mister-Seventeen-Year-Old-Sex-Expert--"

If there was a camera like in The Office, he'd have smirked into it. It's funny you thought you would get to finish that sentence with how fucking blitzed he was. Naïve, more like.

"Maddy really fucking loved this one.", he groaned against your lips, sitting back on the bed and bringing you down on top of him. "You should try it with fairy-guy."

"Which one?"

"The thing I'm about to do with my tongue. Just wait."

See, tiny problem. He'd been so focused on actually getting you to agree to make out with him for the first time in a fucking long time (so much for ignoring you out of guilt) that he hadn't exactly thought of what 'new thing' he was going to show you when he did.

"Hey! Whoa!"

"What? This is still second base!", he murmured, his lips now on your collarbone, his hand gently unclasping your bra.

"I thought third base was, like, French-kissing."

"Any kind of kissing is first base. God, I have so much to teach you, young Padawan."

His phone buzzed. Ugh. "Yo, Nate, that's probably Maddy, you should-- Nate. Come on. We're high.", you reminded, and he nearly fucking hit you, rolling his eyes as he watched you get off his lap and hand him his phone.

"What, Maddy? Uh-huh, yeah, I know, I heard. I bumped into Y/N, and she told me. Yeah. We're gonna talk about this shit later. Yeah, I'm real fucking happy for you, did you forget what we talked about? I said don't try out for- yeah? Then why the fuck--? No, no, don't make this into some feminist issue-- right, okay, listen, I'm out right now, I'll call you later."

He sighed as he set his phone down and looked at you, a fucking vision. Yeah, probably not the best idea, fucking you right now.

He had to do that fully conscious.

"Who is fairy-guy? You realise he's basically your Maddy, right? On-and-off, pushing you to your fucking limit?"

You rolled your eyes, flipping him off as you stretched.

"Come on. Who am I gonna tell?"

"Everyone!"

He guffawed, rolling his eyes and pressing his lips to your temple as he busied his fingers with your hair again. "C'mon."

"You're not gonna tell anyone, alright?"

"Cross my heart."

"Say the next part."

"Jeez- cross my heart and hope to die. You want a pinky promise next?"

"Yeah, actually. We're keeping it low-key, and I can't have you spreading it all around."

Huffing magnanimously, he gripped your pinky with his, both of you kissing your own fists as you did. "Alright. This guy better be the Pope or some shit."

"It's Christopher McKay."

If he hadn't already been sitting down, he'd have fainted. "What the fuck?! McKay!?"

"Yeah, why? You regret the whole fairy-guy comment now, don't you?"

"I mean, he isn't a fairy, definitely not. But, y'know, I- nah, never mind. Whatever. Good for you guys.", he muttered, pulling your face into his chest as he squeezed you tighter.

Okay, maybe that was the tiniest bit manipulative. No one gives a shit, shut up. Three, two, one...

"But what?"

There it is. He smiled against the top of your hair.

"But nothing. He's my homie. I can't fuck this up for him."

"And what? I'm not?", you asked, pulling away from his chest. "Tell me!" He had to hold your wrists together to make sure you didn't accidentally uppercut him.

"It's just... y'know, he's like, nice and all.", he cleared his throat. He was such an asshole. He shouldn't be talking his friend down. Fuck! "The nice guys are usually the fake ones. The ones that only want one thing."

"You're telling me McKay's like that?"

"I mean, he could've changed, but that's... we can't judge people on their worst mistakes."

He was going to hell.

You shifted, biting your lip unsurely as you sat up to put out the blunt, and then stared at his wall in thought, your arms around your knees.

"What? You're giving him the benefit of doubt?"

You shrugged. "I don't--"

"Wow. Right. Noted. Okay."

Shaking your head, you sat up, looking down at him. "Don't do that."

"Do what?", he grumbled.

"Take everything so personal."

"How else am I fucking supposed to take it when you're basically choosing McKay's words over mine?"

"One year, man, a whole year, and he hasn't done anything--"

"Three years, and I haven't done anything to hurt you!"

You went silent at that, and he shuffled up onto his elbows, moving some hair to nestle behind your ear. "Have I?"

Please don't bring up the ghosting, please don't bring up the ghosting.

"Well... no."

"You need to talk about this shit beforehand, man. Maddy and I did."

"Right, like your relationship isn't the 10th circle."

"I know you and I know him. Who's better to mediate? Next time we're all together, we'll talk this shit out, okay?"

Shut up, alright? Maybe he's changed. Maybe he really wanted to fix you and McKay up!

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

January 2017, New Year's, last semester of Junior Year.

The door slammed, and you flinched, closing your eyes momentarily.

"Yo, you wanna explain that shit out there?"

"What?"

"He just fucking kissed you."

"That's what boyfriends do. Go do some of that with Maddy, your relationship issues will be solved."

"I'm just saying, maybe you should hold off on the PDA until you sort shit out between yourself. Isn't that why I'm here? Ignoring the fact you didn't even trust me enough to tell me McKay was fairy-guy!"

"And how does Maddy feel about that? Does she even know?"

"Like McKay knows we're friends?"

"Yeah, he does! I got nothing to hide!"

Silence. Then, "That's why he glared at me when he kissed you."

"He didn't do shit, you're delusional! Alright?! Not every fucking thing is about you! It's always about you! God, you don't deserve her, you know?"

"You shut the fuck up about Maddy and me, okay?!", he cried, taking a swig from his bottle before placing it with a clink on the counter.

He was growing louder and coming closer. Oh, this absolute brotard!

"Then you shut the fuck up about McKay and me!"

He glared at you for a minute. "You're pissing me off! Fuck! You've been doing this shit all season, I came to this stupid fucking party to chill out, and here you are, messing with me again!"

"How the fuck am I messing with you, fucktard?! We haven't even spoken in--"

"You know, you're really fucking with me right now?! Really fucking getting on my last goddamn nerve!", he continued, jaw clenched as his fingers grabbed your jaw, digging into your cheeks.

"You're gonna have to leave me the fuck alone, from now, okay?!"

"And what's with unfollowing me? What- loyalty to your boyfriend? What the fuck's that bullshit about?!", he scoffed, ignoring you completely, blatantly. "After everything I've done for you?!"

"Like what?! Teaching me how to kiss?! Huh? Or feeling me up and pretending like that was you helping me?"

Oh, fuck. McKay had been telling you the same shit about Nate as Nate had about McKay. Fair. Karma.

"Hey, fuck you, that was me helping you! You think I'd want to feel you up, huh? Or fuck you?!", he screamed, and you were pretty sure with how hard his thumbs were pressing, you'd wake up with dimples the next morning.

"Yeah, actually! I think you're a fucking creep, yeah, I think you'd want to, 100%!"

His glare shifted almost imperceptibly from your eyes, pooled with rage and a mild hint of fear, to your lips, and before you noticed it, he'd already come crashing down on them.

One thing was clear from the kiss. Nate Jacobs no longer thought you were a good friend. In fact, he probably fucking hated you. This was a hate-kiss, and usually, they're far, far better than the ones given by people who you love (and who love you).

It was now your turn to grip his jaw, and you had to pry him off you. You glared at him for a moment, breathless and pissed, before you shook your head. "Get your shit together, Jacobs! I really like McKay."

He nodded, earnestly. "And I really love Maddy."

And then he was on you again, hands unsure where the fuck to go, but sure that they had to hold you right fucking there. So one of them was on your shoulder, grip so tight you'd be close to buckling if the other one hadn't been on your rear, gluing you to him.

"Yeah, Maddy! She's one of my best friends!", you yelled, and he shrugged.

"McKay's one of my best friends."

Simple as that. You had no fucking idea what that was supposed to prove, or state, but there he was, on your lips again, yanking you back against him as his fingers groped for the doorknob behind him.

Click.

No fucking way this piece-of-shit-disgrace-to-humanity thought you were gonna fuck him in a party bathroom.

"I don't think so!", you scoffed, shoving him away. "Fuck off, Nate, seriously! You have got to stop drinking, man."

"Would you break up with McKay if I broke up with Maddy?"

"Huh- what, no!"

"If I promised to love and cherish you and all that bullshit, would you?"

"Are you jealous?"

It's a quiet question, because raising your voice when asking him something that accusatory is a death sentence. You're lucky you stepped back, because he'd have lunged at you, right then, right there.

"Of what? Fucking you? You and McKay? No, you pansies deserve each other!"

"Could you put that shit down, for fuck's sake?!", you screamed, and he nodded, taking the last swig before throwing it on the floor, where it rattled weakly by your feet. "Alright, listen, you're switching up on me, Nate, real fast, and it's confusing. You wanna love and cherish me one second, and I'm a pansy the next?"

"Listen, I'm hammered, yeah? Don't- don't put too much stock into what I say."

Was he... was he trembling?

"Okay. You wanna… you want some space, to like, recover? Can I go?"

"Could you not?"

Fuck. You'd hoped he'd kick you out.

"Please?"

"Yeah, okay, okay, chill, I'll stick around."

"Thank you." Ew, that was so foreign out of his mouth, you had to do a double-take.

And then he did something devastatingly worse than kissing you. He hugged you, the same way he'd hugged you when you two were fourteen and coming fresh off the accomplishment of breaking East Highland's no-freshman-on-any-team-rule. His nose in your hair, his arms around your back, your hands in the back of his hair. Yeah, it was an extremely cheap replica of that moment. No bleachers, a goddamn party bathroom.

He breathed against your ear, the rate of it increasing as he tugged you closer, doing his best to merge himself to you. "You're gonna have to stop being nice to me, or I'm going to leave my girlfriend for you." It came out as a whisper, an afterthought, an uncertainty.

You snorted, stroking the hair at his nape once more. "Yeah, sure, I'll just be a cunt."

"You can't do that, either. You seen me and Maddy? Pisses me off. And anger just turns me on, clearly. "

"Indifference, then? That's what you want from me?"

"I just want you to be there, okay?"

"What, like a backup? You and Maddy are on a break, and you get to stick your tongue in my throat?"

"You'd keep me in check, y'know?", he grumbled, kissing your cheek in the most genuinely friendly way possible. "I wouldn't go around fucking random whores."

"Only you, Nate, could justify this shit."

"Come on, HC, you know you love me."

You did not love Nate. You just couldn't love him when he was here so pathetically, clinging onto you like he'd made nothing but a series of mistakes in his whole life, and you were the only thing that wasn't one of them.

"You need me to help you sober up? I could get you water. Bread, to soak up the liquor."

"I just need you."

Great, he was being cute, now. Fucking ace.

Ugh. What a disgusting thing to say. After ghosting you, acting like he was better than you?

But then, he was muttering things that, if you'd heard them right, almost sounded like he was saying he'd missed you, and you weren't so sure.

"Hey, whoa, Nate--"

And then you felt like a cunt, because his face looked like the first time you'd seen him. In fact, it was exactly the same as the first time you'd seen him. Jesus. He wasn't panic-attacking on you, was he? He trembled once more, and then you realised, yes, he was.

Not just on you.

About you.

Which was just fucking great.

"Homeroom with Smith, huh?", you mumbled against his temple.

He nodded. "I bumped into you. Embarrassing as hell."

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

September 2018, Senior Year.

By your senior year, McKay had moved on to college (and Cassie Howard), and you were actually kind of enjoying life. Sure, the odd jock who thought you'd fucked both Nate and McKay asked you out, but hey. You were still free to say no. What could he do? Blackmail you with nudes you'd never given out, or sex tapes you'd never filmed?

"Thank you, girl, fuck!", squealed Taylor, a freshman (who, like you, had also won gymnastics awards, making you feel a very fucking full-circle, Disney-movie-type-feeling) hugging you as tight as possible without you ending up asphyxiated. "I didn't think I'd make it!"

"You're really fucking good, freshie, c'mon. You'd have made it, either way. Welcome to the squad.", you laughed, handing her the cheer uniform.

"I'm gonna look so fucking sexy in this."

"Yeah, you probably will, yeah.", you nodded, chuckling as she waved.

Your cheer coach high-fived you as you shut the gymnasium doors and took down the sign for 'Cheer Tryouts'. "So, we got, what, three new girls? That's good. Great, even."

"Whoa, no, we got two. Taylor Kingsley and Carmen Adams, this year."

"Oh. We need one more. The formation we have planned for this year needs an overall even number."

"Wildcard? Call one of the graduated cheerleaders? Someone from, uh, Chris McKay's batch, maybe?"

"Could work.", she muttered, thoughtfully. "I'll see if we can change it up or add an extra base or flyer in the middle or something. We'll get back to you. Stay online, okay?"

"Yes, Coach."

You slung your bag onto your shoulders as you trudged out to the bus-stand in front of the school. The late, 4-O'clock- sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the nostalgic feeling that comes with being a senior was ringing through you.

And you should have just gone straight home from there. But, uh. Something came up.

Long time, HC. How you been?

Yeah, good, QB. You?

I'm fine. 🍃? My place in 5?

Fuck. First thing this guy texts you in a whole two academic years and it's asking you to get wasted. Fucking hell. It was so unbelievably Nate, you had to laugh.

Can't in 5. Maybe in 10. Need to get home and change.

Bet. See you.

Did you even really wanna go was the question. You were wiped, once again. You'd had back-to-back double gym in the morning, then two pop quizzes and then cheer practice, then you and Coach had to conduct cheer tryouts.

Wait, did you just give yourself reasons to go get high with your day-one? Yeah. Fuck.