hoe in the cold

you were completely content and satisfied with him, up until you were saved by spider-man.

it was late at night when you and frank were taking a walk after getting dinner in staten island. your hands were clinging to his bicep as you walked side by side, head resting against his arm as he held your purse.

the group of masked men came out of nowhere. one moment you were hanging off your boyfriends arm, and the next you were both being pulled to each other and shoved up against a wall.

frank hadn’t brought any weapons as per your request for a normal night, and he was now being restrained by three men as another two cornered you. you called out for him in a fearful cry, only to be met with a shove against the wall.

frank fought against the men to no avail, but everyone’s attention was drawn to the masked man who had jumped down beside you all.

you watched in surprise as spider-man made quick work of the five men ganging up on you and your boyfriend, hanging them on the wall with webs.

peter reached for you by your shoulders, checking you over for injuries. your eyes widened in awe, but you both jumped when frank grumbled from behind. “get your hands off my girl, spider-man.” he snapped.

peter quickly let go of you and backed away, lifting his hands in the air. “no worries, man. i was just checking she’s okay.” he reassured, to which you nodded as you hugged frank.

“‘m okay, are you?” you asked him, holding him tighter than you were before. he nodded while keeping an eye on peter.

“i’m fine, sweetheart. we’re going home now.” frank

from that day on, yours and franks lives, and relationship, changed.

you had become almost obsessed with spider-man. him and frank had formed some sort of alliance, and every time you saw him at the house, you got shy and blushed like a school girl with a crush.

it wasn’t often you got to be with people your own age, and you had grown an attachment to him even despite the mask. frank watched you two interact with his arms crossed and a grumble, never joining in on your conversations.

you loved to gush about spider-man to frank whenever you could. cuddling up with frank in bed, resting your head on his chest while you told him about how smart spider-man was. frank knew there was nothing you wanted more than to know who he really was and what he looked like.

and one unexpected night, it happened. he revealed his identity to you while you sat outside looking at the stars from a building he had swung you both onto.

you learned who peter parker was, and you admittedly fell in love. he was pretty, and looked exactly how you’d imagined. he looked as kind as he acted.

you felt guilty that you’d fallen for him when you had frank, because at the end of the day, you would still trade everything to keep frank with you for the rest of your life.

and frank knew that. he knew how much you loved him, and he knew how you had fallen for peter. he knew how important it was for you to know someone the same age as you.

so frank completely surprised you one night when you were utterly blissed out, in between your legs and eating you out with an overwhelming pace while peter was in the next room. you were struggling to keep your moans and whines in from how overwhelmed you were feeling.

you immediately jumped up when frank spoke. “will i invite peter in? you’re being so loud, he can definitely hear you. is that what you want?” he asked you, hands gripping your shaking thighs tightly.

you were caught off guard by his comment. your face felt even hotter than it was before. “he- that’s- frank we can’t do that! i-“ you stuttered, becoming an absolute mess at the thought.

frank saw how your pussy clenched tightly at the thought of peter seeing you like this, and even getting to touch you. he licked a slow stripe up your pussy while humming. “tell me, darling. do you want him or not?”

“frankie, i want you. i love you. i- i don’t want you to think i don’t!” you told him desperately, pushing his head out from your thighs so that he could crawl up to you and meet your face.

he pushed some hair out of your face with one of his large hands. “i know, baby. i love you too. and it’s okay if you like peter. he’s a good kid, and he’s your age. you couldn’t really avoid it.” he mumbled before pressing a wet kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“i want to see how much you squirm from peter watching. do you want him to see how much of a good girl you are? how well you take my cock?” frank mumbled against your ear, making you moan at the thought.

“bring him in frank, please. i’ll be good.” you whined, kissing him hungrily.

it had taken a few minutes to settle into the new setting. you were used to only having frank, you’d never had a third person involved during sex before.

peter sat beside you with curious wide eyes. his cock was hard and weeping as he watched how frank lined himself up with your soaked hole. your head was resting against peter’s shoulder as you tried to hide yourself from them both. you were the only one fully undressed and you felt completely exposed.

frank lifted his head up to see both you and peter blushing like two teenagers. he bit back a laugh at the sight. “go ahead, kid. kiss her. show her that you want her.” frank nodded to peter, to which his head shot up at the suggestion.

he hesitated for a few moments, meeting your lust filled eyes with his eager ones. you leaned up first, meeting his lips with a tentative kiss. the second your mouth reached his, peter immediately moved to kiss you deeper.

you gasped against his mouth as he reached to grope at your tits, back lifting off the mattress as frank pushed his thick tip inside of your throbbing cunt.

peter pulled at his own length as he felt you tense up, practically licking into your open mouth as you moaned.

frank slowly pushed himself the whole way in, stopping to rub your clit when you pushed against his chest with your hands from how full you were feeling.

you dropped your head against the pillow as frank began to pull out and thrust back into your pussy, the arousal dripping onto the sheets. you met peter’s eyes with a hazy look, reaching out to lazily stroke his cock as he bit back his own whimpers.

you didn’t expect peter to be as subby as he was. you had expected someone who took what he wanted while taking full control, but he seemed to be the opposite.

“feel’s so good.” you whimpered, rolling your hips against frank’s cock as he fucked you in a way that made you forget where you were.

“she’s so pretty, isn’t she? so pretty and obedient.” frank addressed peter, smirking at how peter was looking at you like you were the most amazing sight to ever been seen.

peter nodded as a moan escaped from his throat, your hand squeezing his thick length without even realising. “she’s so beautiful.” he breathed out in awe, dipping back down to kiss you messily again.

it didn’t take long for you to be squeezing against frank’s dick, a stream of mumbled pleas leaving from your lips as your second orgasm quickly washed over you.

“pleasepleaseplease, i need it so bad, please-“ you begged frank, tears falling from your eyes from the overwhelming bliss.

before either peter or frank could say anything, you came all over his length, soaking your thighs as frank’s hips stuttered, the tight pull of your cunt pulling him over the edge with you.

the sight of frank’s release leaking out of your cunt when he pulled out was enough to make peter cum. your pussy was still clenching as you whined, squeezing the base of peter’s cock as he spurted all over your hand.

you almost immediately fell asleep. you nestled your head against peter’s chest, squeezing your thighs together as frank tried to clean you up. he pried your legs open, cooing softly as you whimpered from the overstimulation.

by the time he has finished, you were asleep against peter. he was still out of breath and processing what had just happened.

“hey, kid.” frank said to peter, catching his attention. “she likes you a lot, but she’s mine, okay? she’s my girl.” he said slowly, making sure peter heard what he said. “i appreciate what you did for us in staten island, you saved her when i couldn’t. but just remember your place here.”

peter nodded frantically, not wanting to cross any boundaries at all. he was grateful he got to have what he did from you.

LA is not what you expected.

You thought it'd be much different—endless possibilities, and that effortless glow of the city that everyone seems to have in the Instagram stories.

Instead, it feels like a whirlwind that never seems to slow down.

Don't get it twisted—you love this life, you really do.

You love the rush of new songs hitting number one on the charts. You love when your phone explodes with messages from your manager Yelena that are just a string of fire emojis followed by "we're going platinum, babyyyyyy". You love the arenas full of people singing your words back to you. You love the sparkly outfits, the stage light, and the pride that comes with finally making it… it's everything you dreamed of.

But god, it's exhausting.

Your DMs are a war zone of thirst, hate, and brand deals. Everything you say or post has to be consulted with your PR team first. The paparazzi hide around every corner, everytime you step outside there's this weird pressure to look like a filtered version of yourself 24/7, even when you're just trying to buy matcha in sweatpants, and oversized hoodie.

There's eyes on you all the time, and everywhere you go.

But now, there's different set of eyes that pierces through you.

"You ready?" a familiar voice brings you back to reality from the mess that are your thoughts. Bucky's standing behind the mixing console with broad shoulders, separated by the plexiglass vocal booth window. His brown hair is freshly trimmed but still somehow manages to look soft, and a little fluffy. The sharp line of his jaw is tense with concentration, and those striking eyes—in probably the most beautiful shade of blue you've ever seen—are locked on you.

There were times when you used to be nervous around him. You still sometimes are, but it's different now. His bossy demeanor doesn't feel so scary anymore. There's something grouding about it actually.

"Yeah," you respond, a little unsure, but he just nods once, professional as always.

"Okay… we start in 3… 2… 1…"

The music begins to play through your headphones — synths layered under a more gentle beat that feels like it was made for the exact mood you've been carrying lately.

You close your eyes, letting the melody wrap around you as you start to sing. Your voice fills the booth, growing stronger with each line. The words Bucky wrote for you just a few weeks ago feel different sang out loud. They're strange, but you try to pour the emotions—both wonder and exhaustion—into the verse, swaying slightly as the song builds.

When it ends, and you ease into pre-chorus, you chance a glance trough the glass.

Bucky is leaning forward, one of his hands is adjusting a knob while the other is resting on the console. Those blue eyes flick up to meet yours for a brief second, and the corner of his mouth twitches in what might almost be approval. The edges of his face seem a fraction softer under the low studio lights, letting you breathe a little easier which is life changing when you try to hit the right note. Trust.

You're supposed to flow right into the chorus, but for some stupid reason, the words catch in your throat. Your voice fades out mid-line, and you stop completely.

Bucky pauses the track immediately, and the sudden silence rings in your headphones. He straightens up, brows furrowed.

"What's wrong?" he asks, looking down at the waveform on his screen for a moment before looking back at you. "That was perfect."

The dissapointment in his tone hits you harder than you could expect.

"I… I don't know," you admit, cheeks warming as you fidget with the edge of your sleeve. "I just don't feel it, Bucky."

Bucky exhales quietly. It's not quite a sigh, but still, it's enough to let you know you fucked up without saying it directly.

"I'm telling you it was good," he says, crossing his arms over his chest, and you can clearly hear that underlying impatience in his voice. "Let's try again," he orders, and hits the rewind, then play button on the console. The music surrounds you again, and Bucky leaves you no room for discussion.

The truth is, what Bucky wants, Bucky gets. It doesn't really matter that your singing doesn't feel right to you. He is the one to decide everything. You are only here—in this fancy ass studio, with your name starting to mean something in the industry—because of him.

It all started with the covers you used to post online—you in your bedroom, singing to simple acoustic versions of big songs with both video audio quality so bad it was embarrasing.

Bucky found one of them one night, months ago. He'd told you later that something in your delievery made him stop scrolling, and that he saw potential no one else had bothered to look for. Whatever that meant.

Within weeks, he was pulling all the strings he could—flying you out for meetings, getting you in front of the right people, and quietly taking care of the mountain of family debts that had been weighing on you for years. He didn't make a big show of it. He just… said he handled it because you needed it to move on. So he paid for what was needed to be paid, and cleared that path for you.

Now here you are—attached to him because it feels like the right thing to do after everything he's ever done for you, despite the fact that agreement you signed with his label was probably equivalent to a deal with the devil.

You have to admit though, Bucky himself is not so bad.

He's your boss, and owns the entire label you're signed under, yes. But besides that, he's also produces your songs and helps you write them.

And although you have to follow what he says, and do what he wants, it seems like he's the only person in this world beside Yelena that genuinely cares for you. He always makes sure you're well rested, even if that means rescheduling a session when he notices the exhaustion in your eyes. He tries to reassure you when the doubts creep in, offering quiet, gruff encouragement in that low voice of his, and "It's okay, I know you can do it" that somehow cuts throught the noise in your head.

Bucky somehow always seems to know what to say or do, and he is the only one who still makes you feel looked after.

Because of that, you two got pretty close… as some would say.

And maybe you're mistaken. Maybe that is just an another illusion in the world full of fame, and lies. Or maybe you just want someone to care because despite thousands of fans, you still feel very fucking lonely.

But then, Bucky wouldn't be doing all of this, right?

The thoughts swirl too heavily in your chest. Your voice catches again mid-line, weaker this time, and you stop singing completely, eyes squeezing shut.

Bucky stops the track right away.

"I'm sorry—" you apologize, voice small.

His gaze softens when he looks at you through the glass. "You have nothing to apologize for, doll."

You swallow hard. "I don't like how it sounds, Buck. How I sound… It's not like… me."

He watches you for a beat, then steps out from behind the console. A moment later he's opening the door to the vocal booth, and steps inside, making the room feel so much smaller with him in it.

"I told ya, it's good, though…" he says casually, as you try your best to not break down in front of him. "I think my opinion should matter to you."

"I know… I'm sorry."

He reaches out, and his hand gently rests on you arm, warm through the sleeve of your sweater.

"It's okay. Let's take a break, and start again, hm? Does that sound good?"

You nod, and that insufferable knot in your chest looses a little.

"Thanks," you whisper, and your eyes flick down to where his thumb is now brushing lazy circles against your sweater.

"You know…" he starts "We can always scrap what we have and start over… it would take more time, and I'd have to rewrite the lyrics probably , and—"

"No!" you cut him off quickly. Your uncertainty shifts into guilt.

The idea of wasting his time — his money, his effort — after everything he's done for you makes your stomach twist. No matter how much you hated the outcome, you would hate yourself more if you let that happen.

"I'll sing it… It's fine."

Bucky studies you for a second, those deep blue eyes search your face like he's trying to read everything you're not saying, The line of his jaw is relaxed now, not longer tense with that earlier impatience, which makes you feel more at peace.

"You sure," he asks? "We've got time, doll. Doesn't have to be today."

"I'm sure," you exclaim, trying to give him a reassuring smile.

The next afternoon, you're in the back of a sleek black Range Rover as the city's traffic crawls outside the tinted windows.

Yelena sits beside you with legs crossed, flipping trough her tablet, and checking a schedule that's somehow more packed than LA's streets. She'd been your manager since the very beginning — hired by no one other than Bucky, of course — but the two of you had clicked almost immediately.

Yelena was quite good at her job. In fact, she was probably one of the best in the business. She kept your calendar organized down to the minute, booked interviews months in advance, made sure you never missed a fitting, a rehearsal, or a meeting, and somehow always knew exactly what you were supposed to do before you did.

But she did far more than what was written in her job description.

She was fiercely protective of you.

Whether it meant shutting down reporters who asked questions that crossed the line, pulling you away from fans who refused to respect your boundaries, or making sure you actually ate something between back-to-back appearanes, Yelena always seemed to have one eye out on your career and the other on you. You'd lost count of how many times she'd marched into your dressing room with breakfast plate in one hand, and a coffee in the other, declaring that no interview was happening until you finished both.

She never tried to replace your family that you ended up leaving in search for a better life, nor did she pretended to be your friend but you'd earned each other's trust, and that means a lot, when everyone around is fake nice just to benefit from you.

"So," she says, swiping to the next page, completely in her element. "radio interview tomorrow morning, rehearsal in the evening, photoshoot got pushed to Thursday… which, honestly, saved everyone's ass because your stylist was about to have a breakdown. She was threatening to quit after yesterday…"

A smile tugs at your lips. "I think she says that every week."

"She does." Yelena nods, matter-of-factly. "But this time I think she actually meant it."

You let out a quiet hum in response, while your attentions drifts between her voice and the endless line of brake lights stretching ahead.

"…Then there's…" she continues, squinting at the screen. "Two press interviews, one magazine cover shoot… Another rehearsal right before an event with the Barnes Records executives Wednesday night…. Writing session with Bucky the next day… Then you've got—"

Your phone vibrates against your thigh, stealing your attention immediately.

You fish it out of the pocket of your jacket, and glance at the glowing screen.

Bucky | 1:41PM hey. here's the sample from our last session. let me know what you think. sample_1.mp3

Before you can stop yourself, a breathy ironic laugh escapes your lips, echoing in the car, which actually makes Yelena look away from her tablet.

"What was that?" she asks, both confused and concerned.

You quickly lock your phone, and toss it onto your lap as if she'd caught you doing something embarassing.

"Nothing," you respond, shaking your head dismissively, but that only makes her narrow her eyes at you.

"Mhm…"

"It was just Bucky," you explain, picking at a loose thread on the cuff of your jacket before speaking again. "He sent me the demo from yesterday's session."

"And?"

You lift your phone again, reading the message once more.

"Let me know what you think," you repeat, umable to hide sarcasm coating your voice, and another dry laugh slips out. "As if my opinion changes anything."

Yelena's brows knit together ever so slightly. "Did something happen yesterday?"

You hesitate for a moment, and the memory of your own voice carrying lyrics that suddently stopped feeling like yours comes back.

"I don't know," you admit quietly. "Something just felt… wrong." You lean your head back against the seat, watching skyscrapes dissapear behind the darkened glass. "I couldn't get into it."

"You've had off days before," Yelena says, nudging you on the shoulder, as if that was supposed to bring you some comfort.

"This wasn't that, Lena," you pause, searching for the right words. "It sounded good. At least that's what Bucky kept saying but I didn't believe him." You shrug helplessly, and your fingers start to absentmindedly trace the edge of your phone. "I stopped halfway through because I couldn't sing it anymore."

"And what did he say?"

You sigh, replaying the scene in your head.

"He rewound the track," you say at last. "We tried again. And again. Until I lied and finally said I like it" Your shoulders rise and drop again.

Yelena is quiet for a moment, and you don't even expect her to respond right away because that's the thing — even though Yelena may be your friend, she would never question Bucky, and his decisions.

That is exactly what kind of person Bucky is in this industry. No one would dare to say a bad word about him because that man had more connections than you could think of, which meant he could probably ruin your life by making just one call to the right person.

"So…" Yelena's watching you like she's trying to figure what to say without either judging you or defeding Bucky. "Are you going to listen to it?"

Your thumb hovers over the audio file, and the play button stares back at you. Eventually, you lock your phone again with a soft click.

"I already know what it sounds like."

"Come on, you haven't even played it!" she tries to encourage.

"I don't have to," you offer a tired smile that doesn't really reach your eyes. "If Bucky thinks it's good then it's enough…" The sentence feels heavier the second it leaves your mouth, and again, Yelena doesn't respond, although you can feel her eyes on you. Your own attention is fixed outside the window instead. The palms sway lazily against the perfect California sky, almost mocking how chaotic everything always feels beneath it.

Before she says anything, the car begins to slow. The soft hum of the engine changes as the driver turns into the entrance of your hotel. The tires roll over the smooth pavement leading toward the front door.

The concract pages lay open on the marble table in your hotel suite, and your fingers tremble slightly as you trace over the clauses you'd signed months ago.

Section 4.2. — Exclusivity

Artist agrees to grant Barnes Records exclusive worldwide rights to all sound recordings, performances, and related materials created during the term of this agreement. Artist shall not release, perform or distribute any musical content independently or through any third party without the prior written consent of Barnes Records.

Section 5.1 — Creative Control

Barnes Records shall have final approval over all recordings, songs selections, arrangements, mixes, and final masters. Artist's input shall be considered advisory only.

Section 7.3 — Promotional Obligations

Artist agrees to full compliance with all promotional, publicity, and appearance requirements as determined by Barnes Records, including but not limited to interviews, photoshoots, live performances, and social media activity.

Section 9.1 — Non-Compete

During the term and for twelve (12) months thereafter, Artist shall not engane in any conlicting musical or entertainment activities without express permission.

…Well, you're fucked.

You're staring at the piece of paper with tears in your eyes.

You should be grateful. People would kill to be in your spot, and you're probably being selfish. You should be kissing Bucky's feet for everything he did for you, and you know it.

Because what are you supposed to do? There is no fucking way you're escaping this agreement, so maybe it's time to make peace with it, and just listen to Bucky. Produce songs you hate, and be someone you're not.

You wipe at your eyes quickly, even though no one's here to see you fall apart. Maybe this is just what growing up in this industry looks like. Maybe the version of you that sang freely in your bedroom was never meant to survive here. Maybe the only way forward is to smile, nod, and let Bucky steer the wheel.

Your phone sits on the table beside the contract, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you pick it up, and open your messages with Bucky.

Your thumb hovers for a long moment before you start typing a message.

You | 3:08PM hey. actually i don't know if i love it. i'm sorry. i feel like i'm missing everything up lately.

You hit send before you can delete it, then immediately regret how vulnerable it sounds.

The typing bubbles appear almost right away.

Bucky | 3:09PM you're not messing anything up. come by the studio tomorrow morning if you want. we can talk it through. no pressure.

You let out a shaky breath, stare at his message, then finally respond.

You | 3:10PM I have an interview tomorrow morning… sorry…

And the reply comes faster than you'd expect.

Bucky | 3:10PM then maybe i'll come pick you up after? we'll get lunch together. you need time off too ;)

You read the message twice. A small flutter blooms in your chest.

On one hand, you're nervous to actually talk to him about the song. On the other hand… work aside, spending time with Bucky doesn't sound so bad. It probably shouldn't excite you as much as it does, but the idea brings you some comfort. After all, he is right — you do deserve some time off.

You | 3:11PM yeah! that sounds nice, actually. thank you.

The dressing room mirror is still lit up with those harsh light bulbs as you sit in front of it, catching your features to the point where it's almost blidning.

The inteview had gone well — at least according to everyone else, including Yelena who leans against the vanity beside you, arms crossed, looking pleased.

"You killed it," she says with a satisfied nod. "They loved the story about the upcoming album. And the way you teased them with the upcoming feature with Dazzler was perfect," she extends the word, making her russian accent slip out. "That's exactly what we needed for the promo. The clip is already getting traction online. We'll have the full segment up by tonight."

You manage a small smile, nodding along as you slip your jacket back on over the cute interview outfit.

"That's good."

"Ratings are going to be solid. A few more like this and we'll even have more buzz for the release. You should be proud of yourself." Yelena keeps talking.

You're just about to reply when there's a light knock on the dressing room door. It opens a second later, and Bucky steps inside.

He looks unfairly good for someone who probably woke up way too early just to spent the entire morning working in the studio. The black simple shirt he's wearing has some designer logo you can't really recognize because of the dark jacket atop of it. His hair looks much more styled today, and his steel eyes find you immediately, making the corner of his mouth lift.

"Hey," he says. His gaze flicks over you for a second. "You ready?"

You stand up, smoothing down your skirt, suddenly very aware of how your heart picks up at his presence.

Yelena glances between the two of you, one eyebrow raised slightly.

"Well…" she grabs her hoodie, and slings it over her arm, ready to slip out. "I guess my job's done for now. Gonna leave you two alone."

Before she can fully step out the door, Bucky stops her.

"How did the interview go?"

Yelena pauses in the doorway, flashing quick but confident smile, and you know he's not asking if it actually went well. He's asking if it's making good numbers, and if he's going to benefit from it.

"It went really well!" she answered charmingly, telling him the same thing she did to you.

Meanwhile you stand there quietly, watching Bucky's reaction.

He ends up giving a small nod that looks satisfied but not so surprised as if he excpected nothing less. Then he turns his head toward you. Your eyes lock instantly, and he smiles at you.

"Always knew my girl has it." he says casually, and the praise makes your knees feel a little weak. Heat rushes to your cheek and you have to look down for a second, biting the inside of your lip to keep from completely melting on the spot.

It's ridiculous how much those few words affect you. Especially after the spiral you had last evening, but coming from him, they feel like they matter more than anything else.

"Okay!…" Yelena nods, unsure what to say in such awkward position, then clears her throat. "Call me when you need something." She gives you both a goodbye smile and leaves, closing the door behind her.

You grab your purse, slinging it over your shoulder, and follow Bucky out.

The hallway is quiet as you walk side by side toward the back exit where his car is waiting. The black SUV with a driver inside is already idling. Bucky opens the door for you before sliding in after, settling beside you in the back seat.

The car pulls smoothly into traffic. You're both silent for a while, letting the hum of the engine take over the quiet.

Eventually, Bucky shifts slightly, turning his attention to you instad of the city outside.

"You still feel like you don't want to release that song?" he asks, picking up where yesterday's iMessage conversation left off.

You nod, cheeks burning with shame as you look down at your hands. "Yeah…"

"That's okay," he says without hesitation. "We can scrap it."

"I don't wanna cause you troubles," you murmur, hating how small your voice sounds compared to his.

Bucky chuckles softly. "You could never."

Unexpectedly, Bucky reaches over and places his hand on your thigh. His palm feels warm against your bare skin where your skirt had ridden up just a little when you sat down.

Your eyes drop instantly to the spot where his fingers rest, and your heart slams against your ribs while heat begins to pool low in your belly.

Bucky keeps looking ahead at the road like it's the most natural thing in the world when his thumb starts brushing slow absentminded strokes against your leg.

You press your lips together, trying to stay composed, but you're body's compeltely shut. Your thighs press closer instinctively, and you wonder if Bucky can notice.

It makes you so fucking horny it's ridiculous, and that makes you realize just how freaking busy you've been with your career lately.

There was no time to date. No time for anything, so no one touched you in months. You're fucking touch-starved, and here's the result: you squirming in your seat with ache between your legs caused by your boss. Great!

"You know…" Bucky starts talking again. "You've been doing great lately. Your latest single is still climbing in the charts… The interview today went well too according to Yelena…"

You try to listen, but his hand still caressing you is making it really difficult, sparking up your skin, and getting you desperately wet.

"I feel like you're really trying your best for my label. Am I right?" he asks, glancing over at you.

You nod quickly, suddenly more nervous under Bucky's gaze. "Yes— Of course, Bucky."

He just smiles, more to himself than to you, with a hint of mischief in it. Then he turns his head away, and you let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding until now.

The restaurant Bucky picked is one of those upscale places tucked away in a hidden corner of the city — all dim lightning, white table cloths and waiters who move with so much grace.

Of course he chose it. Another small irony. Even something as simple as where you eat lunch is under his control. Just like everything else.

You're both done eating now, plates cleared away, leaving just half-full glasses of water. The conversation has stayed light so far — safe territory. Bucky asked about the interview again, and you asked about a track he's been working on for another artist.

You can't help but wonder if he's this close with all the artists he works with but unfortunately, you can't ask him that.

Bucky leans back in his chair, looking relaxed. His jacket is off now, and his sleeves are rolled up, showing his muscular forearms. They look much better here, in the daylight than in the studio, and you probably shouldn't be glancing at them every few moments, but you do anyway. In the end, he's the one who made a mess out of you in the car. And this is just one of the consequences of it.

"You're getting better at all of this," he begins, picking up his glass. "The spotlight, the press… the performance of it." He pauses for a second to take a sip. "Doesn't mean you have to like every part of it, though."

The words hit a little too close. You trace the rim of your water glass with your fingertip, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Yeah… some parts are still harder than others."

Bucky lets out a low tsk. He draps one arm over the backrest, looking every bit the man who holds all the cards. The soft restaurant lightning catches the sharp line of his jaw, that now seems more tense than just minutes ago, and his blue eyes look even more intense asa he studies you across the table.

"You can't always get what you want," he says, voice calm and steady like he's stating a simple fact, which… he is, but you know damn well that this talk is definitely leading somewhere. "We all have to pay a price for our decisions. This is how this business works, doll."

You look up at him, a bit scared now where the hell this conversation is heading. You catch how his tone changed — more authoritative now.

Bucky continues without missing a beat, swirling the last bit of water in his glass before setting it down. "I have another deal for you. A friend of mine, she's a director. She needs a single for her upcoming movie. I already told her you'll do it."

Your mouth opens, and then closes again. Words fail you for a second.

Your schedule is already packed to the brim — interviews, photoshoots, rehearsals, studio time. You're barely keeping your head above water trying to finish your own album, and now this?

"But— my album," you start, voice coming out shakier than you wanted.

Bucky cuts you off smoothly, leaning forward slightly. "You scrapped a song, baby. You need to make up for it." His tone is somehow still gentle on the surface, although you know what's underneath. "I need my money back or we won't proceed with your album."

Your worries from yesterday come rushing back, even harder than before. Your thoughts spiral back to the conctract clauses, and the fear you're losing all the control. The words keep being stuck in your throat, so you just nod, deafeated.

"Okay," you whisper.

Bucky's expression softens with satisfaction. He reaches across the table and gently brushes his knuckles along your cheek. The touch is far too tender contrasted by what he just said.

"That's my girl,"

You almost choke on your own saliva, hearing that. You hate how fucking good his praise makes you feel, even now, with your stomach twisting, and your eyes stinging. It's pathethic, really. He just tightened the leash, and here you are, once again melting at his approval like some desperate idiot.

You wish your head wasn't such a mess of different thoughts. You wish that part of you — the one that felt genuinely grateful for everything Bucky had done for you — could stand up, and fight for herself, but there was no way you could bury that sentiment. You don't know why. You don't know why he is making you feel like this, and it's fucking annoying. You're nothing, but his fucking puppy, and while you hate it, why does it feel like that other part of you enjoys it?

"Fuck!" you're pacing back and forth in your hotel room, still in the clothes from lunch, frustration bubbling over the second Yelena walked in. "I can't make a song for that fucking movie, Yelena. I need my album to be finished by the end of summer. The promo is already out. I can't fucking reschedule it."

"Yeah. You can't," she says, sitting on the fotel with arms crossed. "The sales will go down, and Bucky will be even more pissed."

You drop face-first into onto the bed with a dramatic groan, burying your face in the pillow.

"Fuck! This is exactly what he wants, Lena. He'll then have another excuse to drag me into more projects."

Yelena sighs, standing up. and walking over to sit on the edge of the bed just to give your back a light, sympathetic pat.

"Listen… You'll make that song he asks for, and then we'll get you back to work on your album," she pauses, tilting her head. "What movie is it for again?"

You lift your head from the pillow. Strands of hair fall messily across your face as you push yourself up onto your elbows. Your voice comes out tired.

"I don't remember the title… Bucky mentioned it but I don't think I registered it. I think it's made by the same director who made Rendezvous, though…"

Yelena freezes the moment she hears it. Her eyes widen in disbelief, and she stands up, shaking her head, before dragging her hand slowly down her face.

""Oh. My. God…" she mutters, sounding genuinely horrified. "Please tell me you're joking…"

You blink at her, eyebrows lifting in confusion, heart already sinking at her reaction. "What?"

"The woman who produced it just had a whole ass cancel party on Twitter," she says, voice dropping.

"What?! Why?!"

"I don't even know. but there's crazy shit going on," Yelena sighs deeply, rubbing her temples as she starts pacing the same path you were earlier. "Jeez, your name is going to look so bad signed under her movie. You need to talk to Barnes."

"Me?!" you point at yourself, sitting up fully on the bed now. "You're my manager."

"Yeah but he doesn't fucking listen to me!" she throws her hands up. "You're his favorite. You need to talk him out of it… somehow."

You let out a short, disbelieving chuckle, and the sound escapes you before you can stop it. Your brain gets stuck on that one word Yelena said, looping over and over like a catchy hook. You sit up fully on the bed now, pulling your knees to your chest as you tilt your head at her.

"Favorite?" you ask, voice softer now. "What does that mean?"

Yelena's expression changes in an instant. Her eyes widen just a fraction when she realizes she said too much, and suddenly, she becomes very interested in smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles on her sleeve. She clears her throat, still avoiding your gaze.

"You know what it means, " she mutters, trying to play it casual but the slight flush on her cheeks gives her away.

"No, I don't" you insist, leaning forward a little.

Yelena lets out a long, defeated sigh, running her fingers through her perfectly styled hair, and messing it up slightly.

"Just convince him, please," she says, giving you a pleading look. "That'll save both of us a lot of work."

You stare at her for a second, then slowly nod.

"I'll see what I can do…"

You repeat before you can fully think those words through. Inside though, you're already overthinking it.

How the hell are you supposed to change his mind?

You know damn well, Bucky doesn't exactly do "no." Once he decides something, it's set in stone. Especially when it involves money or deals.

The idea of walking into his office or calling him up, and somehow talking him out of this movie single feels laughable.

You may be his favorite like Yelena said — whatever that meant — but that doesn't guarantee you anything.

You need a different approach, and you better find it quickly.

The next day, you're in the middle of dance rehearsal. The studio mirrors each of your movements, every turn and tired expression. Sweat sticks your tank top to your back as the choreographer counts out the last eight-count of the routine.

When she finally calls for a five minute break, you almost collapse against the barre. You have been practicing the choreography for your upcoming tour for a month now, making sure it's perfect in every detail but today? It definitely isn't.

You're not sure if it's from over exhaustion or your thoughts are still somewhere else, and that's why you cannot focus. Maybe you're trying to dance out your annoyance, and helplessness instead of actually doing your job.

You grab your water bottle, and take a long sip, letting the cold liquid soothe your dry throat. Your phone sits on the floor near your bag, and you reach for it with your other hand, just to see it's already lit up with some notifications.

Yelena | 2:11PM Did you talk to him?

Yelena | 2:11PM ??

Yelena | 2:12PM Pleaseeee tell me you at least texted him

You read the messages, then instantly lock your phone without answering.

Of course you haven't talked to him. You haven't even sent a single message asking if the two of you can meet because just the thought of opening your chat with Bucky and typing anything about the movie single makes you sick. Honestly, you have no idea how to deal with it.

You take another sip of water, when your phone buzzes, and the screen lights up again.

Yelena | 2:35PM well, he's going to be there at the event we're having today. maybe try your luck then! :D

Brilliant idea. There's no better circumstance than solving this in public at a packed industry event with cameras, and executives. Absolutely zero pressure!

You type your response fast.

You | 2:36PM you are out of your mind

The event is already in full swing by the time you arrive. The clink of champagne glasses fills the elegant space, followed by the low hum of charmistatic conversations. Investors, label executives, and other more unknown faces mingle around polished tables, and big windows covered by big curtains that are supposed make the place feel more private.

You're wearing a fancy dark dress that hugs your figure just right, making you look expensive and put-together even when you're a mess underneath.

Yelena stays close at your side. Her eyes scan the room like she's already mapping out every important person in here, then leans in slightly to your side, nudging you.

"You can at least try and be nice to him tonight," she whispers, and you glance at her, adjusting your dress by pulling it up at the bust.

"Play up to him?" your eyebrows lift, and you cannot help a little smirk that's forming in the corner of your mouth.

"Yeah," she says with a small shrug. "I mean… before you actually talk to him about the single. That doesn't sound like a bad plan, does it?"

She's right. It doesn't. You need to play it right, and today may be the first step.

You straighten your posture, and your gaze drifts across the room, searching for a familiar broad-shouldered figure with unforgettable eyes.

Yelena's hand lightly touches your arm as she nods toward the far side of the room.

"There he is."

You follow her line of sight, and spot him almost immediately. Bucky stands near one of the windows, deep in conversation with a small group of people.

From distance he looks completely at ease, one hand loosely holding a drink while the other rests in the pocket of his black suit.

Yelena starts walking towards them, dragging you along with her, and you follow a step behind, your heart already picking up its speed.

As you get closer, Bucky's attention shifts to you. His eyes flick over, and the second they land on you, they stay there, dragging down the length of your dress before coming back up to your face.

It's quick, and subtle enough that the others might not notice, but you do.

His eyes still don't leave you when Yelena greets the group with a bright, professional smile, already launching into polite introductions, and Bucky nods along, smiling at you, before cutting through the conversation.

"She looks gorgeous, doesn't she?" he says to the group, smooth and confident. "One of my greatest discoveries. Real presence on stage. You only come across such artists once in a while."

You force a soft but nervous chuckle as heat creeps up your neck, and others smile as well, nodding in agreement. His praise — again —does something to you, and just like always, you're not entirely sure how to take it.

So you just stand there, not sure how to react, what expression to wear, or whether you're supposed to say something or not.

You obviously know what he's doing — promoting you in front of his investors, polishing the story of his "greatest discovery" so they keep writing checks, and stay interested. Right now, you're just a shiny reminder of where their money is going which makes you feel like some animal in a zoo, while Bucky gets to show you off.

In the end, you stay quiet beside him, smiling carefully, and when eventually the conversation topic changes — someone brings up an upcoming festival and its sponsorship — the focus slowly moves away from you. The pressure eases just a little as the group starts talking among themselves again.

Bucky turns slightly toward you then, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes yours. His voice drops low, meant only for you.

"I meant what I said," he murmurs. "You look fabulous."

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. A real blush rises to your cheeks this time, much warmer and harder to hide, and for once the smile that follows it is genuine.

"Thank you. You don't look so bad yourself," you whisper back lightly.

That earns you a chuckle from Bucky, which seems to soften the sharp edges of his expression for a second. He turns a little more to your side, keeping his voice low so the others don't fully pull you back into their conversation yet.

"Long day?" he asks. "Yelena messaged me your rehearsal ran late."

You nod, careful to keep your tone warm, and easy, just like Yelena suggested — play nice, be pleasant, be nice to him.

"Yeah, it did," you reply with a small smile. "The choreography's coming together though. I'm just hoping my legs still work by the end of the week."

Bucky hums in amusement.

"You'll be fine. You always pull it off," there's confidence in the way he says it — more like it's a fact than a compliment. Then he tips his head slightly toward the group still talking nearby. "These people are already impressed. Just keep doing what you're doing."

You force yet another soft smile, trying to form another appropriate response but for a second you hesitate, then decide to push a little further — testing the waters, maybe even playing into whatever this thing between you is.

"You really think I'm worth all of this?" you ask, avoiding his gaze when the words leave your mouth.

Bucky lets out a short laugh, taken aback by the question like the idea of you doubting yourself is somehow ridiculous to him.

"You're serious?" he mutters, still smiling.

Before you can answer, your fingers brush against his as you both shift slightly. It's nothing more than just a light, accidental touch, but Bucky's eyes immediately drop to where your hands nearly meet.

It sends a shiver up your arm, and you instinctively pull your hand away — not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it did the opposite.

You pretend to fix the delicate bracelet on your other wrist, fingers fussing with the clasp even though it doesn't need adjusting.

Bucky watches you for a moment, then reaches out.

"Let me help you."

His hand is gentle as he takes yours. Warm fingers steady your wrist while he carefully tightens the clasp for you. Instead of letting go right away, his thumb brushes over the soft skin of your wrist in small circles.

The simple gesture is enough to make your breath catch. Heat blooms under your skin where he's touching you, and when you lift up your gaze from your hand, Bucky looks back up as well, still holding you.

"Answering your question…" he starts, ticking his jaw. "I think you're worth much more than that."

The next morning, you wake up to soft light filtering through the curtains, and a quiet ache behind your eyes.

You lie there for a long while, staring at the ceiling, genuinely not knowing what to think about yesterday.

You feel… wrong.

Not because of what happened, if anything, the opposite is true — just thinking about the way Bucky looked at you yesterday is enough to send you a flutter of butterflies through your stomach.

The problem is everything else, or more specifically — everything Yelena's said.

You roll onto your side, and pull the blanket higher, biting your lip as the thoughts in your head begin to overwhelm you again.

Maybe you should just sing that stupid single for Bucky like he asked.

Maybe Yelena is overreacting. Maybe the controversy will blow over. Maybe the easiest thing — the safest thing — is to stop fighting, and just do what he wants.

Especially because he can be so nice to you it hurts.

The idea settles uncomfortably in your mind, carrying equal parts resignation, and something that feels a little too much like wanting to please him.

You hate yourself for how mixed you feel.

You want more freedom — to make your own choices, write your own songs, and scrap them without guilt, to not feel like every decision has to go through him first.

But at the same time you cling to Bucky so tightly it's almost stupid. His approval still means too much, and his voice still settles something restless inside you.

Even now, lying alone in this expensive hotel bed, some pathethic part of you is still seeking his validation like it's the only thing that keeps you steady.

And the worst part is knowing just how deep that need goes.

Maybe it's not just a need. Maybe you actually feel something towards him.

Your thoughts drift further. You start wondering how he actually feels about you.

He can't be completely casual… not with the way he looks at you, not with the way he touches you like it's natural, and not with the way he says things that get stuck in your head.

If he does feel something… then he should understand. He should get where you're coming from.

If he cares about your career the way he claims to, then he shouldn't be pushing you into that single. He should see the risk. He should understand why you don't want it.

So maybe it's worth to at least discuss it with him.

You're sitting across from Bucky in his office. The afternoon light is diffused by the blinds, making the room look warmer, and much more comfortable.

Bucky's been talking to you for a few minutes now — details about the movie single, the timeline, the expected deadling, and something about the director's vision — but the words barely stick.

Your mind is too loud. Every sentence he says slides past you while your thoughts keep circling the same worried loop.

"… so if we lock the track by next week, we'll still have enough time for the mix, and—"

Bucky stops mid-sentence. His blue eyes narrow slightly as he studies you.

"Hello? You there with me?"

You blink, snapping back into the moment. "Yeah, sorry… I just…"

"Just what?"

Your fingers tighten in your lap. For a second you almost swallow the words, but they slip out anyway, hesitant.

"… Do you think being a part of this movie is a good idea, Buck?" The question is so quiet it's barely audible. You force yourself to keep going. "I've heard from Yelena that my name may not look best signed under that movie… because of the connections with the director."

Bucky shakes his head once — a short, annoyed motion — and leans back in his chair.

"Don't worry about it," he says flatly. "They pay a lot. That should be enough."

You shift in your seat, and you know you either say it all out now, or never.

"But— I don't know, Buck… I thought we could at least discuss it—"

He interrupts before you can finish, standing from his chair with a sharp push. He starts pacing through the length of the office, shaking his head again — this time in clear disbelief.

"Discuss it?" He repeats after you. "What do you want to discuss, huh?"

You swallow hard.

"I just wish I had more to say. That's all…" you pause, looking for the right words. "I wish I could write my own songs like other artists. Decide what I want to take a part in, and what not."

You can't look at him while you say it. Your head is low, and your gaze is fixed on your lap where you hold your hands, and nervously pick at your nails.

Bucky lets out a humorless chuckle.

"You gotta be kidding me…" his jaw clenches, and his gaze is almost piercing through you. "After everything I did for you?"

The words hit you harded than you expected. Your head snaps up immediately.

"No… No, no, Bucky… That's not what I meant." You stand up, and cross the room, moving closer to him, hands slightly raised like you're trying to calm down the storm before it starts. "I didn't mean it like that—"

He's still mad. The frustration hasn't left his face.

"Like what?" he snaps. "Like I didn't fucking create you?"

Your hands drop uselessly to your sides. The sting of his words settles deep in your chest, feeling like a thorn.

At first you just look at him, brows scrunching together as your face slowly turns into a pleading expression.

"I just thought I actually mean something to you," you manage to admit quietly.

Maybe it's stupid — standing right in front of him like this, voice small, eyes burning. Maybe it's even pathetic, but you cannot help it. Tears are already pricking at the corners of your eyes as you just stand there, feeling completely exposed, and helpless under the weight of everything that's just been said.

Bucky watches you for a moment, then sighs. His voice is lower now, softer. He steps closer, and places his hands on your shoulders, gently trying to get you to look up at him.

"You do mean something to me."

You let out a shaky exhale, and Bucky's right hand drifts to your face, wiping away a tear that managed slip out.

"But business is business, baby. You have to understand that."

That only makes you want to cry harder. What is that even supposed to mean? That you matter… but not enough? That he cares… just not when it comes to things that actually hurt?

You look up at him with glassy eyes, tears finally starting to spill over freely.

Bucky's expression softens further. His thumb brushes gently across your skin.

"I know you can handle it, honey…" he encourages, and a broken little sob escapes you.

"I'm tired, Bucky."

That's all it seems to take for Bucky to pull you in without another word. His strong arms wrap around you as you bury your face against his chest.

Fresh tears soak into the fabric of his shirt while he holds you there, one hand coming up to caress the back of your head, smoothing over your hair in slow, steady strokes.

"There… There..." he murmurs soothingly against the crown of your head.

You don't even realize how tightly you are clinging to him — fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like it's the only solid thing left to hold onto, and for the first time in what feels like forever, for once, you feel so fucking at peace.

And not because anything is easier. Not because the pressure of everything — the single, your album, or your entire career — is lifted, but because he's here, allowing your to fall apart against him.

You don't care if it's genuine. You don't want to think about it now, just enjoy this one moment, when you don't have to be the polished artist or the grateful discovery or the girl who always says yes.

"Shh… it's alright…" Bucky whispers, pressing a delicate kiss to the top of your head. His hand slides from your head to his jaw, and he tilts your face up toward his.

You try so hard to avoid his gaze, ashamed of yourself.

"I know it's hard," he says as his eyes search yours. "I know you've been stressing a lot lately..."

There's a pause before Bucky speaks again.

"Maybe I could take some of that stress off ya, hm?…"

Your eyebrows lift at that, finally meeting his eyes. At first you think you didn't hear him right, then you notice how his gaze drops to your mouth.

Bucky bites his lower lip softly, then looks back up at you, and the intent in his eyes is clear as a day.

Heat floods your cheeks as understanding hits. Your legs feel wobbly all of the sudden, and you can already feel yourself getting wet at the mere suggestion.

The truth is, you've been craving this more than you want to admit. You've been so lonely, drowning in schedules, and expectations that the idea of someone touching you feels almost desperate.

And it's not just anyone though. It's him.

You do want Bucky's hands on you. You want him to take you apart and put your back together, even if only for a little while.

You could only imagine how it feels like to be wanted, and worshipped like you matter beyond the songs and the stupid contract.

So you nod in response shakily, but Bucky only leans closer to the point where his lips brush against the shell of your ear.

"I wanna hear you say it, baby,"

You don't even try to hold it together. Tears are still wet on your cheeks as you look up at him.

"Please," your voice comes out cracking, and messy. "Please just fuck me, Bucky. I don't care anymore. I need it— I need you. Please, just— touch me…" you pause, sobbing. "Use me, I don't care, just please—"

The rest spills out of you in a broken, pathetic rush. You truly don't care if you look like some desperate whore as long as you get to have this.

Shame and need are tangled so tightly in your heart that you cannot tell then apart anymore, making you cry harder.

You try to say something more. Explain yourself maybe, but Bucky doesn't let you.

He shuts you up by crashing his mouth against yours in a hungry kiss, cutting the rest of your pleading. There is nothing gentle about it anymore — Bucky from just a few seconds ago seems to be gone, as your tongues meet almost instantly, teeth grazing while his hand slides into your hair to hold you in place as he deepens it.

You melt into him with a shaky sound, still tasting salt from your own tears.

Bucky walks you backwards until the edge of his desk hits the back of your thighs. In one smooth motion, he lift you up onto it, stepping between your legs as he never stops to kiss you like he's starving.

You feel him begin to rock against you. It's just a slow roll of his hips that's barely there but it presses the hard line of him right against your core, and the seperating you layers of clothes are not enough stop you from gasping into his mouth.

Bucky pulls back just enough to speak, but his lips are still brushing yours.

"Just like that," he murmurs. "Let me hear you, baby."

His hand drops to the waistband of yours pants. He pops the button open, drags the zipper down, and starts working them off your hips.

You lift up to help him, already so far gone it's embarrassing. You're so worked up you can barely think straight.

"Please, Buck…" you whine breathlessly as he tugs your pants the rest of the way down, and lets them drop to the floor.

"So fucking impatient," he mutters, eyes dragging down your body."Quit whining or I'll stuff that pretty mouth with my cock."

Before you can react, Bucky hooks his fingers into your panties, and yanks them roughly to the side. The cool air hits your bare, dripping cunt for half of a second, then his hand comes down in a sharp, stinging slap right against your soaked folds.

The sound is wet, and filthy. You jolt with a broken gasp, and thighs twitching around his hips as the heat of the slap blooms between your legs.

"You think you can always get what you want, don't you?" Bucky asks, voice rough.

Another slap lands harder against your pussy. You cry out this time, hips jerking.

"Please— Fuck!"

"Well that's not how things work," he continues, eyes locked on yours, carefully watching your reaction. "I've told you that before, remember? You are mine."

He raises his hand again, and slaps you one more time.

You jolt once more, and a broken sound rips out from your throat, but somehow your body reacts to it different than you'd expect. Your hips twitch towards his palm like you're chasing the next hit.

The stinging only makes the pulsing between your legs worse. Every slap seems to wind you up tighter instead of scaring you off. You're almost dizzy with how turned on it's making you, and some distant part of your brain can't believe you're actually into this.

You don't even realize when Bucky's hand move to the top you're wearing. He tugs it up, and over your head. The fabric catches for a second before he pulls it free, and tosses it aside.

His eyes drop to your chest, where your bra is, and Bucky stares at it like it offended him. Bucky's fingers are on you within seconds, touching, and grabbing your breasts through the material before the bra follows your top just as roughly — straps dragged down over your arms, until you're completely naked on his desk.

Then he's back between your thighs, gripping your hips as he starts humping against you again.

This time, there's nothing between you, and the hard bulge in his jeans. Your completely exposed, and obscurely wet slit drags against the rough fabric, leaving a dark, damp stain on the denim.

Bucky's so fucking hard it almost hurts to not feel him inside you just yet. You whimper, and your nails dig into his shoulders as you try to grind back against him.

Your hands slide down his chest, fingers already working at the edge of his T-shirt. You want to feel more of him — skin to skin, the warmth of his body pressed fully against yours.

But Bucky catches your wrists before you can get very far, pinning them lightly against the desk with a low warning sound.

"No," he mutters, jaw clenching slightly. "You don't get to decide. Is that still so hard for you to understand?"

You shake your head. Still, you manage to tug the fabric just enough to catch a glimpse of what's underneath — muscular, defined abs flexing as he keeps moving against you, and a trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.

The sight only leaves your hungrier. You try again, fingertips brushing over the warm skin of his stomach, but he doesn't let you go further, keeping full control.

Bucky had clearly had enough of you not listening.

With a low, frustrated sound he pushes you back so you're fully spread out on the desk. Your shoulders touch the cold surface, and your legs stay open around him. One of Bucky's hands presses lightly on your sternum to keep you there.

"Goddamn, you're so fucking stubborn…" he mutters under his nose, but loud enough for you to hear it.

He reaches down with his other hand, and finally unzips his pants. He shoves them, and his boxers down just far enough to free himself, and your breath catches at the sight.

He's thick — heavy, and flushed, and so big it makes your stomach flip. You almost drool looking at him, and your thighs tremble at the thought of feeling every inch of him stretching you.

Bucky gives himself one slow stroke as he looks down at you with dark eyes, pupils blown wide. He spreads the bead of precum over his length, then positions himself at your entrance.

The blunt head of his cock nudges against your soaked folds, and even the lightest touch is enough to make you whimper.

Bucky pushes inside you, but there's no slow stretch or careful adjustment. He drives forward in one hard thrust, and buries himself to the hilt, filling you so completely it punches the air out of you as your body is forced to take every thick inch at once.

The sudden fullness borders on too much. Your walls clench tight around him while he stays like that for a short moment, hips flush against yours.

He pulls almost all the way out, and slams back in, setting a rough, relentless pace that makes the desk creak beneath you.

You yelp at the first few thrusts, then the sound melts into loud helpless moans as he pounds into you. Every snap of his hips drives him impossibly deep, and you fucking love it.

Bucky looks completely lost in it. His jaw is tight, and his eyes are focused on the way your tits bounce with every move of his. His right hand is gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other stays planted on the desk beside your head for leverage.

"Didn't know you're such a slut," he rasps between thrusts. "Always playing so shy, but you're actually just a whore, hm?"

"Mghhhh—" is all you manage, and the sound is punched out of you on a particularly hard thrust.

Bucky lets out a breathless laugh.

"Oh yeah? Going dumb for that cock?" he smirks. "Can't form words now? You were so open for discussion just moments ago."

You just nod frantically, because he's right, and you can't deny it.

"’s good Buck—" you somehow moan out, although the rough pace has your thoughts scrambled.

His hand leaves your hip, and wraps around your throat instead. He doesn't squeeze it hard, but just rests his palm there while he keeps fucking into you without pausing for even a second.

Your eyes flutter shut from the intensity of it.

"Look at me," Bucky orders, and when you don't immediately obey, his fingers press tighter around your neck, making his message clear.

Your eyes snap open and lock with his.

"You're mine," he growls. "Fucking mine. I made you, and you're nothing without me. Do you understand that?"

"Yes! Yes, Bucky—!" Your hands clutch at his forearm, as he keeps you both filled and pinned.

The pressure builds fast. Heat coils tight, and low in your belly. Your walls start to flutter around him, and you realize that you're already right there, seconds from falling apart.

Bucky notices. His grip on your throat tightens just a fraction, as he leans closer.

"Don't you fucking dare come yet," he commands. "If you come before I say you can, I'll never fuck you again."

The threat sends a helpless shiver through you. Your eyes become glassy, as you try to force the building orgasm back down even as every roll of his hips may just sent you over the edge.

You try to focus, but your eyes drop down to the place where you're connected. You see how his cock is disappearing inside you, and the subtle bulge it creates low in your tummy every time he sinks all the way in.

The sight is almost too much. You cry out, not being able to hold it much longer.

"Bucky… I can't— I can't take it, I'm gonna—"

"You can," he growls, grabbing your face in his hand by the jaw, and squeezing it tightly.

You look completely fucked out like this — dazed like you're high on pure ecstasy, barely holding yourself together while you tether on the edge. Your lips are parted around soft, needy sounds, and it's so difficult for you to keep your eyes open.

"Please—" you beg, voice wrecked. "I'll be good, Buck… I promise you—"

Bucky laughs darkly, and the sound vibrates against your face, as he keeps fucking into you without mercy.

"Oh, I know you will."

Without warning, Bucky pulls out of you completely. The sudden emptiness makes you whine. You're confused, and your hips twitch back like they're trying to follow him.

Before you can even process the loss, he flips you over with firm hands. Your stomach hits the surface of the desk, and so does your face — checks pressed against the wood, as he plants one hand on the side of your head to keep you there.

Your hands scramble for purchase on the desk as Bucky kicks your legs apart just enough, then drives back into you, burying himself to the hilt again.

The new angle is much deeper, and overwhelming which makes you cry out, and Bucky starts fucking you in earnest. You're able to feel his balls slap against you, then a smack lands across your ass. The stinging blooms hot under his palm, leaving a red mark, and making your entire body flinch.

You're a mess beneath Bucky. Drool starts to slip from the corner of your mouth as your eyes go unfocused. Your body is already spent, trembling, and oversensitive, barely able to keep up.

Your current form seems to satisfy Bucky enough. He leans over, pressing his chest to your back.

"Go on. Come for me"

Fucking finally.

Your orgasm crashes through you so intensely it almost whites out your visison. A high-pitched moan leaves your throat as your whole body seizes around Bucky. Your walls clench while wave after wave of pleasure rips through you.

It's the best thing you've ever felt. It's more satisfying, and consuming than anything before, and it leaves you shaking, and gasping against the desk while Bucky keeps fucking you through it.

The way you clamp down around him is enough to push him over the edge too.

He drives into you one last time, and stays buried deep. A guttural groan rips from his chest as he comes.

You feel every hot pulse of him spilling inside you. Thick ropes of cum flood your cunt, and proceed to fill you up. The sensation makes another weak shiver roll through your spent body, as something primal, and satisfying settles in your chest at the feeling of being bred by him. You're more than happy to take everything he gives you, and keep it deep inside.

Bucky stays pressed against you for a moment longer, breathing hard, while his release slowly starts to leak out around his cock.

"Knew you'd come around."

.ᐟ extra sophie: if you got here, thank you so much for reading the fic! to be fair, the dynamics between reader, and Bucky in this fic were so fun to explore, and I hope I got to express well enough what I had in my mind, so let me know your thoughts about them!! and if you want to find out what drama is hiding behind the director, and the movie production, i'm more than happy to encourage you to read @iamthatonefangirl's upcoming fic "mean girls" which expands the plot of this silly little universe we created together <3

💌taglist: @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @flockoff-featherface @unificsation @firingstars @earthsmightiestbenders @its-in-the-woods @winterdecember18 @houseofhyde @blowingbarnes @tw1sters @pinksplace @itsjustemilygrace @akiyhara @angryoilslick516 @jai200700 @phantom-wolf-girl @shackoflove @buckybuckybuckysstuff @smorgaswhored @justwantsomeplums @norucking @g0reboy666 @midnightramyeoncravings

You let your head fall back against the pillow, your eyes already drifting closed as sleep begins to pull you back under again. It's only then, just as you're comfortable, that the next sound tears through your bedroom.

Your bedroom window, old and creaky, is slid open. The curtains stir as something, a big something, slips past them. There are no footsteps or creaks of the floorboards to prove it happens, just the rustle of the curtains as more breeze flies through.

"...P–Peter."

The name slips from your mouth before your mind has even fully caught up. It has to be him, he's the only person reckless enough to slip in at three in the morning, and the only one who would consider your fourteenth story window as a perfectly reasonable front door, despite having a key.

There's no response, so you reach for the lamp. A soft, yellow glow fills the bedroom, your eyes taking another second to adjust before immediately settling on the wall.

Peter's halfway up your bedroom wall, crouched close to the ceiling with his weight resting on his feet. He has one hand on the opposite wall, as if he needs it to keep him balanced.

He's still not turned to look at you, opting to watch the city through the gap the wind creates in the curtains. One shoulder in his suit has been ripped almost clean off, exposing bruised skin beneath streaks of drying blood. There's more dried blood along the side of his face, disappearing beneath his jaw and into the collar of his suit. Fresh crimson still trickles from a cut above his eyebrow, his curls clinging damply to his forehead.

You chew your bottom lip as you take him in. It's become the norm for him to crawl through your window at night after patrol, but never this late and never looking this banged up. Dating Spider-Man has its perks but now it brings you an uncomfortable swirl in your stomach.

"Pete?"

When he finally looks over to you, the breath in your throat catches. His eyes, usually so soft and brown when they look at you, are gone, replaced by darkness. You blink a few times, as if that will reset your sight and give you something more familiar.

It doesn't and your brow furrows. You've spent enough time looking into Peter's eyes to know every shade of brown that they could be in a different light. This wasn't that. The colour has been swallowed whole, replaced by a black glossy enough to catch the light from your bedside lamp.

Over time, you've learnt to just roll with the things that happen to and around Peter. Now, for the first time really, he's beaten, he's bloody, his eyes are pitch black, and he just stares at you.

It's probably one of the most unsettling things you've ever seen, which makes it deeply irritating that your first coherent thought is still 'God, he's attractive'.

"That's... new," you finally say.

His head tilts ever so slightly, the movement smooth enough that it reminds you he isn't entirely human, as if him clinging on your wall without a regard for gravity wasn't reminder enough.

"What happened, handsome?" You ask softly.

One corner of his mouth twitches at the nickname, it's barely a smile, but it's enough to loosen the knot that has been tightening in your chest from since you turned the light on.

"Suit yourself," you say.

The silence feels wrong on him. Usually, Peter feels silence the way other people breathe. He apologises, makes terrible jokes, and talks himself into circles until you have to interrupt him just to get a word in. Even after the worst patrols, he somehow finds the energy to ramble on about the criminal who threw a microwave at him or complain about New York's pigeons' vendetta against him.

Tonight, he just watches you. His gaze follows you as you kneel beside the bed and pull out the first-aid kit you stashed there for times like this. It tracks the movement of your hands while you sort through gauze and antiseptic, placing them on the bed.

"Come here."

This, he obeys immediately. Usually there's some sort of protest, "I'm fine." "You don't need to fuss." "It's not even my blood."

But today, he walks down the wall, each step carrying him lower until both feet settle quietly onto the carpet. He walks the short distance over to you, stopping close enough that you can smell the rain and city dust beneath the metallic tang of blood.

There's tiny cuts scattered across his jaw, already looking like they're healing. "You really got beat up, huh?"

He nods in response.

"The other guy look worse than you?"

Another nod.

"Good."

It's your turn to watch him, your eyes trailing down from where his hair is still damp to the way his muscles bulge out of his suit. A hum of approval slips past your lips, and the corner of Peter's mouth lifts again.

"Missed you." His voice is rough, quieter than usual, as though he hasn't spoken in hours. Knowing Peter, that is unlikely.

"I missed you too." You reach for the antiseptic. "Suit off, sit down."

It's a routine you've done time and time again. He's out of the suit in no time, then on your bed in only his boxers. His chest and stomach is no better than his face, scrapes and bruises littered across him.

You kneel between his open legs, soaking a cotton pad with antiseptic before lifting it towards the cut above his eyebrow. "This is going to sting."

Normally, he'd flinch before you'd enough touched him, already complaining about your bedside manner despite being the one who'd shown up at your window and begging you to take care of him with those puppy-dog eyes.

But, the antiseptic touches raw skin without so much as a wince or bad joke about how it hurts worse than anything he fought as an Avenger.

The furrow in your brow deepens for the second time today as you carefully clean his face. "Peter."

His black eyes flick briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. "What?"

"You've been staring at me for the past... I don't know. Like five minutes."

"I know." Is his simple response.

There's something in his voice that somehow manages to sound not quite like Peter but also entirely like Peter at the same time. A hint of brown peaks through his eyes as you study him.

You find yourself looking away first, pretending to concentrate on cleaning the cut along his jaw even though you've already wiped it clean.

When your thumb accidentally brushes against the corner of his mouth, any hint of brown disappears, replaced by pitch black again as there's a faint hitch in his breath.

The effects of his reaction rolls through your body in a way that you're not sure you can admit out loud. Although he doesn't show it, he's probably in pain, and the worry you'd had initially is very quickly being replaced by a burning desire.

"I think we're done."

You stand to throw the used cotton aside. The moment you try to leave, warm fingers close around your wrist. It's not tight enough to bruise, but it's enough to stop you in your tracks, to stop you from even thinking of pulling away.

The tug on your arm is done with hardly any force at all, but it still has you tumbling forward. Your hands land on his shoulders to steady yourself, and he lets go of your wrist only to settle one hand against your waist.

Lifting you with ease, he puts you on his lap.

For a brief second, he looks almost puzzled by the contact, as though some part of him is only catching up to what the rest of him decided several seconds ago.

As your fingers trace down the lines of his chest, over the faint bruising, his eyes drop to your chest, watching how your chest begins to rise and fall faster as your heart thuds in your chest.

His nipples are already erect, so perky and tempting and you can't help but slide your thumbs over them. It's as if the touch sparks something within him, his hands tighten on your waist, drawing you closer until there's barely any space between your bodies.

The streets of New York sound even more distant as the sounds of ragged breathing fills the room, it's all consuming and desire pools in your stomach without even being touched.

"Pete," you moan, and the restraint snaps.

Peter's hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you down to crash his lips to yours. It's not really a kiss, it's too messy and too desperate, and he groans in your mouth as your teeth accidentally catch the cut on his lip. Still, he doesn't pull away. In fact, he craves more.

His hands run over your back and then down to cup your ass, tilting your hips forward in an attempt to press you harder against him. He hums quietly against your mouth, the sound vibrating somewhere deep in his chest.

Somehow, he calms down enough that his lips move against yours in a way more resembling real kiss, his tongue sliding over yours. The motion has heat prickling under your skin and a throb blooming between your thighs. Your nails scratch at his back, adding to the collection of marks there.

Without breaking the kiss, Peter eases you both backwards. You barely notice you're being moved until you suddenly feel him, all of him, press against you. He arranges you so he's flat on his back, your knees on either side of his hips.

The thin fabric of your panties is damp in a way that you're sure he can feel through his boxers. He's done nothing so far to warrant that.

"Fuck," you groan against his mouth as you shift against him. The friction sending little sparks of pleasure through you, but not enough to satisfy the ache.

He pulls back just enough to look up at you. You could always tell what he was thinking through his eyes, but they're still black, probably darker than before if that's possible. But, the expression on his face gives you all the reassurances that his eyes can't.

"My senses are going crazy." It's the first sentence that was more than two words he's pulled together all night, so you sit up straight, looking down at him. He closes his eyes, drawing in a deep and ragged breath. "Fu-. You smell so..."

The praise went straight to your core, more wetness dampening your panties and Peter whimpered.

He didn't open his eyes immediately, taking another long, shuddering breath of air as if your scene was an intoxicant he couldn't get enough of.

Shifting in his lap, you grind down against him with as much pressure as you could manage. His hands on your hips twitched, his fingers digging into your skin with enough pressure that you knew it would bruise tomorrow. Good.

His eyes lock on to yours, the void in his gaze terrifying in a way that only made you ache more. "I can hear your blood rushing. I can feel... no, I can smell how warm and wet you are."

Leaning forward, you drag your chest against his bare skin until your noses almost brush.

"So, then you know I'm ready for you." You kissed the bottom of his jaw, where a bruise has formed. "I'm begging for it." Another kiss and shift against him. His full body tremors underneath you. "I need you."

Before you can blink, his hand flies up to wrap around the back of your neck, and then the room spins. Peter's over you in an instant, pressing his erection against your core.

There's a wet patch on his boxers where his precum has pooled and each roll of his hips coats his boxers as it glides over your damp panties.

"Fuck... Pete."

Your nails find their way to his back again, leaving him with marks that you know he'll appreciate in the mirror in the morning.

Peter whimpers, hair flopping over his face and eyes half-lidded as he moves faster against you. You reach up, thumb flicking over his nipples in time with his grinds against you. Electricity runs through his veins at every wipe.

"I-I'm not- I'm close already," he stutters, his dick twitching in his boxers.

"But I want you inside of me," you all but whined.

"Okay, yes."

If you weren't as aroused as you are now, you would have laughed at the unnecessary acrobatics as he jumps back to pull your panties off in one swoop. The cold air hits your soaked folds, and his throat bobs as he watches the way it glistens in the light.

"Hurry up," you begged, legs closing slightly. It was a silly thing to feel so self-conscious in front of the man who's been between your legs more times than you could count, but he's also not seen you this desperate before.

He stands to pull his boxers down, a soft moan escaping his lips as the fabric catches on his sensitive tip. He turns to look at you as you swallow hard. His dick is beautiful, slightly curved and thick in a way that fills you up completely every time. It's flushed a pretty pink at the tip. Your tongue moves in your throat, craving the feeling of how heavy it would feel on you.

Settling between your legs again, Peter spreads your legs wide. He rubs the tip of his length through your slick folds, his precum and your arousal mixing. He uses the tip to circle your clit with extra pressure, and you cannot help the grind of your hips.

Peter taps his dick on your clit once, then once again, running it through your folds again.

Your hands hook under the backs of your thighs, pulling them to your chest and exposing yourself to him. "Peter, please."

"I'm sorry, baby," he coos.

Just the tip is eased past your hole, and it's enough for your mouth to go slack, eyes rolling back as the stretch burns so well. He continues to push in slowly, face scrunched as your walls wrap around him like a specialised glove.

Every ridge, every vein, and every pulse drags hits against the walls of your pussy. He fills you up completely, thick and veiny, and neither of you move for a moment, too lost in the feeling.

"Won't last long," he grits out.

Sweat already beads at his forehead. Sex with Peter is usually a stamina war, he goes rounds and rounds before even tiring. But whatever's happened to him has heightened his senses in a way that he cannot yet control, the feelings overwhelming him to the point of almost overstimulation.

"That's okay, take what you need."

He begins to move, pulling out so just the tip is left in before pushing back forward. He finds the right angle immediately, hitting against your spot and making your toes curl.

Without missing a thrust, Peter grabs hold of your ankles, using them to spread your legs further. The new angle has you both sighing, moans mixing in the room with the sounds of his skin clapping against yours.

"Feels s'good, s'tight," he groans. "Touch... self."

Three of your fingers immediately find your clit, circling with the pressure that you know you like. It only takes a few tightly pressured circles for the first waves of your orgasm to shake through your body.

Peter watches your body arch as your orgasm hits you in full force. You clench around him and that combined with the pure ecstasy on your face has him burying himself deep inside of you, giving you a few more frantic thrusts before he's whimpering and groaning, his nerve endings going haywire.

Seconds later, he's shooting hot, ropey cum into you. He falls forward but keeps his body hovering over yours. Your hands cup his cheeks, pressing kisses to his face as you both come down from your highs. He mumbles praises to you between kisses, making your heart squeeze.

"Feeling better, Pete?" You ask.

"Yeah, thanks to you," he sighs. He sits back on his heels, still buried inside of you.

As you watch him, his eyes slowly clear of the black, his soft brown eyes finding yours.

“ What are you doing here ? I thought you had an event at noon . “ You inquired. Two fingers held the cotton pad you were using to rub off the heavy make up you wore for today’s filming . Vanessa had been fond of make over, looking good, neat, presentable . . But that funky make up you was forced to use to look decent on screen always bothered you more than the creepy men you had to film with from time to time . 

“ I still do .” From the mirror you watched him rise from his seat with a grunt . He strode his way , wrist twirling the brown liquor sitting at the bottom of its glass . “ Told them to go fuck themselve . I’m not a fucking preacher .”

“ Oh .” Was all that exited your lips . Many religious associations had been built off from normal people, choosing supes as the faces of many . Of course, the skilled PR team engaged by Vought America thought it was a good idea, and pressed many supes into accepting even though many of them didn’t care as much about God as they pretended to . Ben wasn’t a pretender . This was useful in many ways but so bad in so many others . 

You could feel him stand tall behind you thus even with the wedged sandals in your feet . 

“ Smell good, babydoll.” 

“ I smell like a kid who played too much in the mud .” Vanessa easily brushed off the compliment . Who knew pretending to have sex and enjoying it could be more exhausting than the real thing ? “

A hand grasped your hip and soon enough his lips met the behind of your ear where he pressed a kiss. “ Forgot you were a fucking slut .” He huffed and released your hip to roughly get a hold of your tits . A hum escaped from your lips, your hands reached for his, helping him to feel your breast through the layers of fabric .

“ I don’t really have sex with them . It’s choreographed , it’s more . . aesthetically pleasing . We actually have standards to respect-”

“ Same shit as a stag . Shit gets it done because you’re cock hungry . Hm ? “ He sets down his glass and forces you to look up at him . His grip tightens slightly where he holds her under your jaw . His hand squeezed your tit hard and you let out a small whimper that made him smile and he bowed over to press a kiss to your mouth . It wasn’t soft , sophisticated . It was rather messy ; his mouth swallowed yours and his tongue found itself entangled with a confusing and sloppy dance you weren't one to ever refuse . It turned you on , your cunt throbbed furiously in the panties that soon clung to your lips due to the wetness already soaking the lace . When he parted away he gave you an abrupt jolt as he released you free from his grasp . The voluminous lashes battled at him through the looking glass and you dramatically fanned yourself with your hand .

“ Jesus, I’m already hot. You aren’t helping.”

“ Stop fucking whining.” He spits harshly and you're quick to give him a tap on the arm while he settles next to you and examines the make up scattered across the vanity with indifference. He doesn’t look at you but he knows you’s still looking at him as if he’s a fucking puzzle.

“ Why are you here ?  I’ve had a busy day . I just wanna go home . ”

“ I can call someone and ask them to drive us to your place .” He said it so casually you almost thought he had already done it before . With other girls . Your eyes followed every move of his .

“ No . I’m good .” You turned around and grabbed the hem of your dress to pull it over your head _ while also making sure your slicked back hair stayed impeccable- and threw it over the back of the chair. His eyes immediately went to your butt , his tongue darted out to swipe the alcohol from his bottom lip . “ You’re gonna walk home ? ”

“ I have my own chauffeur and I bet he’s as impatient as me to drop me home so he can go about his evening . “ Ben admired both your backside and the bit of attitude you were giving him . Women would throw themselves at him , eyefucking or sweet talking him into falling in his favor which always worked because he liked being liked . He was a fucking national treasure . Whenever you refused him , that made him hard . Painfully hard . He lifted a brow at the sight of you stepping into a yellow dress . Your hands went behind your back and You managed to zip it up. You flipped your ponytail in place and faced your counterpart again .

“ I don’t like that dress on you.” He comments . 

“ I . . . don’t really want you to like it ? ” 

Like the spoiled kid he secretly was, he rolled his eyes and walked to you . 

“ When will your movie even come out anyway ?” He asks and you blinks a few times.

“ Oh , somewhere about November .” Ben huffed and quietly walked towards the exit without adding anything else .

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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!

One second you were minding your business, enjoying what was left of your coffee and your relatively peaceful morning, and the next Nick Fury was informing you that you would be spending the foreseeable future pretending to be happily married to Steve Rogers.

"You're going." Fury didn't even break stride. He rolled his eye and kept walking down the hallway toward the conference room, clearly done entertaining your complaints before you'd even finished making them, with you hot on his heel. 

Your footsteps echoed in the wide hallway as you walked backwards, facing Fury. "Can't I marry someone else for this?" You pondered. "What about Barnes?"

Fury stopped so suddenly you nearly tripped. "You want to pretend to be married to Barnes?"

You opened your mouth, immediately closed it, thought for a second and shrugged, squeezing your eyes shut. "That's not the point."

"That's what I thought."

The polished floors reflected the overhead lights as the two of you moved through the hallway. “Nat, maybe? Some of those married dudes would eat up girl-on-girl and spill the beans right away. Mission would be so quick!”

Fury walked with the patience of a man who'd dealt with far worse than you. The fact that he hadn't strangled you after years of working together was honestly kind of impressive, a little endearing almost.

Both of you quickly arrived at the conference room door, Fury stopping with his hand on the handle, turning his face to you and letting our a frustrated sigh. "Do you like working here?"

You rolled your eyes, "Yes, sir." What kind of question was that?

"And what's your title?" His brow quirked up.

A confused look plastered all over your face. "Agent."

He leaned down to talk to you closer, almost like explaining rules to a petulant child, "Then be an agent." and proceeded to push the door open and hold it for you, giving you full view of Steve Rogers sitting at the head of the table with a sour expression on his face, just as displeased to have to pretend to love you for the mission. 

The training room should've been empty half an hour ago, and technically, everyone was done for the day. 

It should’ve been quiet—mats wiped down, lights dimmed, everyone gone for the night.

Instead, the air was thick.

Heavy with sweat, heat, and something sharp enough to make the back of your neck prickle. The entire team and a couple recruits were watching you.

Well, you and Steve. 

At first not openly—no one was stupid enough to make it obvious—but they lingered. Leaned against walls, sat on benches, hovered just close enough to pretend they had somewhere else to be.

It started as any other training session did, you rotated partners, almost like shark bait: in and out, partner after partner cycling through you while you stayed planted on the mat, pushing your stamina, your endurance, your patience.

Until you ended up on the other side of the mat from Steve. 

Barefoot, sleeves rolled, skin already lightly sheened with the littlest bit of sweat that somehow made him look betterinstead of worse—which was deeply, personally offensive.

Here's the thing: he was a super soldier. He had endless stamina, super strength, reflexes that outmatched 99% of the population, and he had it all with perfect blond hair and barely breaking a sweat on his sculpted body.

It infuriated the hell out of you. 

He blocked every kick, every punch, and when he didn't he wasn't even phased. 

It made you go harder, to the point where you found yourselves now: almost trying to hurt each other. 

By then, no one was even preteding to be occupied by anything else, shamelessly staring at the two of you at the center of the mat like Oppenheimer waiting for a bomb to go off. 

Steve had stopped treating you with the same careful restraint he used with newer recruits. He'd throw you harder into the mats, knock the wind from your lungs, shove you back with enough force to remind you exactly how much stronger he was, and you'd borderline play dirty.

Every hit had a little more weight behind it. Neither willing to back down. Neither willing to lose.

Sam was sitting backwards in a chair, chin propped on his arms, watching like he had front row seats to the best show of his life; Natasha looked delighted; Bucky looked concerned, brows drawn, arms crossed tight over his chest, like he was trying to decide whether to step in or let you both learn your lesson the hard way.

Steve stood opposite of you, his feet staggered and his arms up, making a "come at me" motion with his fingers. His hair was slightly mussed, a damp strand falling forward over his forehead.

"Come to daddy."

The entire room held their breaths, and you saw red. 

In hindsight, you should've planned a better move than to just charge at him, the strength in your muscles and bones not being able to match his. You should've thought of something tactical, something smart. 

But also… you fucking hated his guts. 

Which is exactly how you ended up with your cheek and stomach pressed to the sweaty mat, with Steve's whole weight on your back, your wrists pinned between the two of you and his right arm laced under yours and up your back, hand holding your neck down. 

His hands caught you mid-motion, grip iron-tight as he twisted, using your momentum against you with terrifying ease, his grip locking your body in place, the angle just shy of painful.

"You need to work on your psyche. Mind over matter." His stupid voice right in your ear made goosebumps bloom up your spine, so you did what any reasonable person would do.

You flexed the knee that was between his spread legs hard enough that you hit him square in the balls, giving you the out you needed. 

You straightened on your feet, pushing damp hair back from your face, a breathless, borderline feral grin breaking across your lips as he winced on the mat in pain. 

"Who's your daddy now?" 

Your breathless laughter was cut short, Fury's booming voice breaking through any pain or enjoyment present in the room. "You do know domestic violence is not part of your cover story, no?"

Both of your heads whipped in the direction of his voice. 

He continued to walk in your direction, dropping two folders in front of your feet, and Steve, who was still kneeling down on the mat. "Shower this off. You leave in the morning, lovebirds."

The neighborhood looked like the kind of place where people complained to the HOA because their neighbor's hydrangeas were the wrong shade of blue.

Every lawn was trimmed within an inch of its life, sharp lines cutting through impossibly green grass like someone came out with a ruler every morning. 

The mailboxes all matched—sleek, black, expensive-looking—and every driveway held something polished and obscene:luxury SUV or a car that definitely cost more than your first apartment.

The houses themselves were enormous. White trim, brick facades, wraparound porches, massive windows that left little room for privacy on a street that looked like it loved to mind every business but its own. 

You sat in the passenger seat while Steve drove to your home, the undercover file open across your lap like a book while your bare feet rested on the dash. 

Because annyong Steve was free, and your favorite past time. "No feet on the dash."

You turned a page, ignoring him. "They're staying." You read more of the file. "It's more comfortable that way." Your light blue summer dress was bunched up higher across your thighs, and he did a double take before taking a right turn to your house block.

He sighed. "If we crash—"

"Just look at the road instead of me and we'll be fine." That made him shift in the driver's seat, straightening his posture and looking ahead, his Adam's apple bobbing in annoyance.

What irritated Steve about you was the fact that these comebacks never even seemed to make sense or be thought of, it just rolled off your tongue, almost just for the plot. And you didn't even care. 

He didn't even know why you hated him so much in the first place, but he reciprocated the feeling as soon as he saw how insubordinate and bratty you were. 

Steve sighed the long suffering sigh of a man questioning every life decision that had brought him to this moment. "You're impossible." Muttered under his breath. 

"You're a Senior Project Manager at your own company, honey!" Fake admiration and praise filled your voice. "Oh, you proposed quick! Only a year after our first date." You turned to him, your first real smile plastered on your face. "You're so down bad."

The car came to a stop in your driveway, and Steve turned it off, unclipping his seatbelt. "Put your shoes on, we're here and I feel eyes already." 

"Bossy." You muttered, doing exactly as he said. As you got out of the car, your voice went up an octave, carrying through the humid summer weather. 

“Ready, honey?” you asked, slipping the word out effortlessly, like you’d been saying it for years.

He opened the front door for you, making sure whoever was watching heard him just as well, possessive in a way that made your breath hitch before you could stop it.

“After you, sweetheart.”

You'd barely had enough time to figure out which bedroom closet was yours before the doorbell rang.

ding-dong. ding-dong.

You froze in the middle of the bedroom, one hand still gripping a hanger, Steve somewhere down the hall filling a modified cabinet with all sorts of concealed weapons.

You dropped the hanger onto the bed without another thought, smoothing your hands down your dress as you moved. Steve stepped out of the kitchen at the same time, wiping his hands on a dish towel like he’d been doing something domestic instead of checking sightlines and exits.

Ben and Julie Poindexter stood in your porch like they had been plucked straight out of a catalog. They were ones you hoped to make the acquaintance of quickly, as he was the right hand of the big druglord you and Steve were tasked with making an airtight case on.

Years of field work had taught you that monsters were rarely obvious, still, some primitive part of your brain always expected criminals to look like criminals.

Instead, Ben Poindexter looked like somebody who coached Little League and had multiple PTA moms undoing extra buttons in their cardigans to get his attention. Beside him, Julie beamed, already leaning slightly forward like she couldn’t wait to know everything about you.

“Oh my goodness,” she breathed, eyes lighting up. “You must be the Adlers!” You felt Steve shift beside you, his hand coming to rest warm on your back with an ease that shouldn't be there in the best of actors. 

He smiled, and it was a good one. The kind that made people relax immediately. The kind that five years ago made you—

“Guilty,” he said easily. “Frank.” Right. Frank Adler. 

He extended his hand and Ben took it immediately, introducing you then. “I’m Dex,” the shorter blond said in return, just as easy. “This is my wife, Julie.”

“Hi,” you said, stepping forward like you hadn’t been mentally preparing to dismantle her entire social circle for intel. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

She lit up.

“Oh, you are just adorable,” she gushed, reaching out to squeeze your arm like you were already best friends. “We saw the moving truck this morning and I told Ben, I said, ‘We have to go introduce ourselves before everyone else gets to them first.’”

You faked confusion. "Ben…?"

He chuckled lightly in response. "That's me, I… uh… Ben's really only for her and my parents. Friends call me Dex."

You smiled back in understanding. “We appreciate that,” he said smoothly. “It’s been a bit of a whirlwind getting settled.”

“So,” Dex cut in, tone casual but eyes observant, “what brings you two here?” There it was. The first test.

You felt Steve’s thumb twitch slightly against your back. A cue , or maybe just instinct. “Work, mostly,” he said, not missing a beat. “I just transferred to oversee a new branch out here.”

Julie gasped softly. “Oh! That’s right, you’re the project manager, right? We heard something about that—”

Of course they did.

You tilted your head toward Steve, letting your smile soften just a touch as you looked at him. Pride, affection… Just enough to sell it.

“He won’t say it, but he’s very good at what he does.” You interjected, turning your sweet smile to your nosy neighbors again. 

His hand pressed a little more firmly into your back before easing again. “Someone has to pay the bills,” he joked lightly, glancing down at you.

"It's a 50/50 relationship," you shot back, nudging his side with your elbow just enough to look playful. "You earn money, and I look pretty in the things it buys." Your hand reached up to scratch the freshly shaven skin of his chin.

“Wow,” Julie breathed, practically vibrating with delight. “You two are so cute.”

You laughed, soft, a little embarassed… and completely fake. Dex watched that exchange carefully. His smile stayed in place, but his eyes sharpened just a fraction.

“New couples usually take a while to settle in around here,” he said, tone still easy. “But I think you two will fit right in.”

“Well,” you said lightly, leaning just a little closer into Steve without thinking about it, “we’re counting on our neighbors to help with that.”

Julie clasped her hands together. “Oh, you have to come to dinner this weekend! Everyone’s going to be there—it’s kind of our thing.”

“We’d love to,” Steve said, lightly nodding.

Both of them smiled in satisfaction, briefly saying their goodbyes and we'll let you get settled. As they started to step back, Julie waved enthusiastically. “Welcome to the neighborhood!”

Integration happened faster and easier than either of you expected. Almost like… bait. 

It started with waves.

Small, polite acknowledgments from across driveways—neighbors watering already-perfect lawns, women in linen sets pausing mid-walk with their equally curated dogs. At first it was just smiles, quick introductions repeated twice because no one actually listened the first time, or maybe they expected you to slip up. 

Names, occupations, how long you planned to stay.

Somehow, without either of you saying much at all, your lives had already been filled in for you. Steve—Frank—was “the project manager from the city.” You were “so sweet” and “adjusting beautifully.”

It was unsettling.

Steve got pulled in first.

Dex made it look casual—leaning over the fence one late afternoon while Steve pretended to struggle with a hose attachment he absolutely knew how to fix.

“Couple of us head out to the club on Saturdays,” Dex had said, like it wasn’t a test. Like it wasn’t an invitation into something much bigger. “You golf?”

Steve had shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel like the answer didn’t matter. “Enough not to embarrass myself.”

Dex chuckled. “Good. Fisk hates losing.”

That was how Steve Rogers found himself in pressed polos and quiet greens, standing under the sun with a man who ran half the city from behind clean hands and cleaner money.

Wilson Fisk didn’t look like a monster either. They never did.

From the sidelines, it would’ve looked normal—three men talking shop, trading easy laughs, the soft crack of a golf ball slicing through the air.

But Steve came home with tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before, and eyes that thought too much.

You were integrated differently. Faster, deeper in a sense. If you wanna know a man, you need to know the woman in his life first. Julie took one look at you and decided you were hers.

Brunch turned into wine nights, which turned into yoga classes and impromptu shopping trips where you learned which women talked too much, which ones listened too closely, and which ones pretended not to notice everything while noticing everything.

You laughed when you were supposed to, touched arms at the right moments, let yourself be pulled into conversations about renovations and charity events and who was “having trouble in their marriage” this week.

You played the part. Perfectly.

But you also listened. And Julie talked, about Dex, about their marriage, about his schedule, the men he worked with, his "job".

About Fisk in a careful, vague way that told you she knew just enough to be useful and not enough to be dangerous.

Inside the house, however, nothing really changed. You were in bliss whenever Steve was anywhere outside of the five thousand square feet of the house. And in hell when you could hear his footsteps through the hallways. 

“Why are your shoes in the middle of the hallway?” “Because I took them off.”

“You put a gun in the cereal cabinet.” “It was concealed.”

And yet, somewhere in between the arguing and the slammed cabinets and the pointed silences, you moved around each other.

Steve adjusted the cuff of his polo as he stepped out onto the green, the sun warm against the back of his neck, the grass trimmed so perfectly it almost didn’t look real. Somewhere in the distance, a fountain trickled softly—controlled, decorative, intentional.

Everything here was curated, including the people. Dex stood a few feet ahead, already mid-conversation with a Fisk, Steve immediately recognizing his big frame.

“Frank,” Dex called easily, turning just enough to wave him over. “Glad you made it.” 

Steve walked up at an even pace, shoulders loose, posture relaxed, every movement deliberate in its lack of tension. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Dex clapped his hands lightly. “Let’s see if you actually know how to swing that thing.”

The game itself was uneventful on the surface, small talk, a couple of drinks over a few holes, business talk, the kind of conversation that never said anything directly but still managed to reveal everything if you knew how to listen.

Steve pretending to be worse than Fisk at golf remembering what Dex said about him not liking losing. 

Well, who does? He thought.

He missed a shot he could’ve made here and there, fake grimace on his face to help sell the lie, burrow himself deeper in the web.

Dex talked the most—easy laughter, casual stories, the kind of man who filled silence before it could become uncomfortable.

Fisk didn’t, he was quieter, more measured. Almost amused. 

By the ninth hole, Steve could feel the shift, the attention settling more fully onto him. He was past the evaluation phase and onto something else. 

Fisk set his club aside after a clean shot, stepping back as one of the attendants moved to retrieve it. He didn’t look at Steve immediately, instead adjusting his cufflinks with slow, precise movements.

“Beautiful house you’ve got,” Fisk said finally.

Steve shrugged lightly, taking a swing of his beer. “Got lucky to swoop in right when it went on the market.”

Fisk hummed. “I find luck tends to favor the well-prepared.” Steve didn’t respond, Fisk’s gaze lifted then. “You and your wife settling in well?”

For some reason, hearing such a dangerous man mention you made him uneasy. And it shouldn't, because he hated you. Steve forced his expression to remain easy. “Yeah. She likes it here.” He paused for a second. “She’s… adjusting.”

Fisk’s lips curved slightly. “Is she?” Steve’s grip on the club in his hand tightened just a fraction.

Dex shifted beside them, glancing between the two, something quieter settling over his usual ease.

“You know,” Fisk continued, tone almost conversational, “I take a great interest in the people who choose to live in the neighborhood.”

Steve tilted his head slightly. “Seems like a lot of effort.”

Fisk chuckled softly. “It is if you don't have the… resources.”

Steve didn’t like the way he said that, didn’t like the weight behind it.

The back nine loosened things.

Or at least, that’s what it looked like.

Dex got louder, a little more relaxed with each hole, his posture easing into something casual as the game stretched on. Drinks appeared somewhere around the seventh—cold, expensive, handed off by staff who moved like ghosts—and by the tenth, the conversation had shifted.

Way less about business. 

Dex snorted at something one of the other men—some hedge fund name Steve hadn’t bothered to remember—had said, shaking his head as he lined up his shot.

“I’m telling you,” the man continued, grinning like he thought he was hilarious, “if you’re doing it right, she’s not walking straight the next morning.”

One of the others chimed in with something worse, cruder. The kind of joke that got easy agreement and knowing looks passed around like currency.

Steve didn’t react, just stood there, one hand resting loosely on his club, gaze fixed somewhere out over the green like he wasn’t listening.

“C’mon, Adler,” Dex called, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “You’ve been real quiet over there.”

Steve glanced over, trying to seem unbothered. Like he didn't want to roll his eyes at everything coming out of that prick's mouth. “Just listening.”

“That’s not how this works,” the hedge fund guy said with a smirk. “You gotta contribute. You’re married, right?”

“Familiarity,” Fisk continued, almost thoughtfully, like he was discussing market trends instead of people, “breeds a certain ease.”

“Guess some guys are just more private.” Steve chimed, moving as to redirect the conversation, walking a couple steps to the next hole. "I don’t feel the need to talk about my wife like that."

Silence fell upon the group for a second, Dex interjected to change the subject quickly, but the way Fisk looked at Steve the rest of the time made he hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Steve unlocked the kitchen door, toeing his shoes off as soon as he stepped inside. The house was clean, marble countertops reflecting the golden light coming through the curtains.

A candle burned on the center island that made the house smell like a bouquet of fresh flowers, blooming in deepest winter.

The door clocked shit behind him with a soft, controlled click, as he called out "Babe?" while letting his keys rattle against the marble.

He stepped further into the kitchen, eyes sweeping automatically—back door locked, blinds angled just enough, nothing out of place. The cabinet he’d modified earlier sat closed, unassuming, hiding everything it needed to.

He called out for you again, "Sweetheart?", feet padding into the house and when he got to the bottom of the stairs, he heard the shower running on. 

Steve's mind kept replaying the interactions he'd had that day, how Fisk seemed to have too much knowledge of his dynamic with you to not have—

Of course.

A man like Fisk wouldn't just intentionally have a blind side. 

The motherfucker had surveillance on your house. 

In your house. 

The sound got clearer and clearer as he moved up the stairs. The hallway stretched ahead, quiet and sun-dimmed, and then right outside of the bathroom door, steam curling underneath it. Steve paused just outside it, his hand hovering near the frame, his head tilting slightly as he listened.

You were humming, soft and absentminded.

Like you weren’t in the middle of a mission that had just taken a very sharp turn.

He exhaled softly through his nose, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching briefly on the tension sitting heavy there.

He should wait, he knew he should. Whatever he had to say could wait ten minutes.

Five.

Hell, two.

But the words Fisk had said—had implied—sat in his chest like a weight that refused to settle. So if Fisk had creepily put surveillance in your home like Steve was 98% sure he had, you were gonna have to roll with the punches.

Steam hit him immediately, warm and thick, fogging the edges of his vision for half a second before it cleared. 

Stripping his shirt, kicking off the rest of his clothes in a blur of motion that would’ve felt ridiculous under any other circumstance.

He walked into the shower, watching you let the water trickle over you, over your face, your neck, your chest, and he thanked every God he could think of that his body was cooperating and he did not have more than a half-hard on right then and there.

Which meant that you finished rinsing your shampoo off and opened your eyes to find a very, very naked Steve Rogers encapsulated by the shower stall glass around you. 

With you.

All naked, and very wet, and very naked, and—

"Ahh!" You shrieked in surprise, stumbling back half a step, water splashing over him as your hands came up instinctively. "What the f—" Steve put his index finger on his lips with one hand, the other motioning to his ear and out.

We're being listened to.

"Honey," You immediately switched into your undercover tone, "you scared the crap out of me!"

Steve stepped closer, couldn't risk his voice being any louder than absolutely necessary to get you the information right then and there. 

His frame in comparison to yours felt even bigger now, steam curling around him like vines. You'd blame the way your nipples hardened at the sight on the water. 

“Fisk,” he whispered, barely audible over the spray. “He knows something’s off. Pretty sure we’re wired. The house is.”

Your breath hitched.

Absolutely having nothing to do with the fact that you were trying very hard not to stare at his— "Where?"

"Everywhere." He confirmed. 

Water ran down both of you in steady streams, heat curling between your bodies, steam thickening the air until everything felt too close.

“Well,” you murmured, louder now, just enough for anyone listening to catch it, your tone dipping into something softer, more playful, “next time, maybe knock?”

Steve huffed out a quiet breath that could almost pass for a laugh, his forehead dipping closer to yours, but not touching, droplets of water falling from his hair onto you.

“Didn’t think you’d mind.” One of your hands braced lightly against his chest, the other gripping his arm as if for balance.

Your hand slid up to the nape of his neck, pulling the hair there enough to make him hiss. “Oh, I mind,” you said lightly, your fingers threading just a little deeper into the short hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You were pretty good at… faking it. 

Night settled over the house smoothly, the sun bleeding into deep indigo slowly and surely until stars littered the sky and you all you could hear was the fair sound of nature beyond the glass.

The neighborhood dimmed in stages—porch lights flicking on one by one, warm squares of yellow glowing through wide, uncovered windows. Somewhere down the street, laughter carried faintly. A dog barked once, then twice, then went quiet again.

As your brain processed the information Steve had given you, you moved through the motions anyway. 

Teeth brushed. Face washed. Lights turned off and on in the right order. The kind of routine that would look normal from the outside, mundane and unremarkable to anyone paying attention.

The thought sat in the back of your mind, somewhat panicked and loud, but also a constant, steady pressure. 

You dried your hands slowly on a towel, eyes flicking briefly to the mirror. Your reflection stared back—hair dried and silky, skin still warm from the shower, expression carefully neutral.

Steve stood near the dresser, back half-turned to you, pulling a t-shirt over his head. The fabric stretched sinf— normallyacross his shoulders before falling into place, softening the sharp lines of him into something more… domestic.

You watched him through the mirror without meaning to, picking up a book, turning on his bedside lamp, and crawling under the covers of your bed, letting the light comforter rest on his legs and hips while he flipped through the pages with his back resting against his pillows and the headboard.

You bit your lip, thoughts blooming fast and messy under your skull, and flicked the lights in the bathroom off, walking towards your side of the bed. 

Your short camisole shifted through the air as you moved, light and soft, brushing against your thighs. Steve's eyes immediately clocking your bare legs before he forced them onto the words in front of him. 

You laid onto your side and closed the distance between you in one smooth motion, your body fitting against his side like that's where it was always supposed to be. 

Your arm slid across his waist, your cheek pressed lightly against the plane of his pecs, and you felt the very warm, solid, real muscle of him under your face go completely still. 

Not in any subtle way, you could feel the exact moment his brain short-circuited.

He turned his face just enough to look down and meet your gaze. His expression screamed an unfiltered "what the hell?"while yours softly said "we have to sell it."

He shifted, turning just enough so he wasn’t facing away from you anymore, his arm coming up—hesitant for half a second—before settling around you, his hand resting on your forearm, thumb tracing soothing patterns on the soft, moisturized skin. 

As you laid there, the cogs in your brain turned. You bit the inside of your cheek lightly, the more he believes it, the quicker we get out. 

You moved forward, your hand pressed against his chest, using him for leverage as you pushed yourself up, swinging one leg over his hips in a smooth, deliberate motion until you were straddling him.

The poor book slid uselessly to rest on the mattress on the other side of his body. You nuzzled your face into his neck, pretending to pepper kisses on the skin there, and Steve stiffened up.

His hands instinctively came up, not grabbing or even stopping you, just hovering at your waist like he didn’t know where they were allowed to go.

Your mouth lingered by his pulse point just long enough to make it convincing before you spoke, your breath hot against his skin. "Play along." You whispered.

You felt the tension in him—every muscle coiled, controlled, restrained in a way that had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the position you’d just put him in.

“Sweetheart,” he said, louder now, his tone shifting seamlessly, to something warmer, rougher, like it belonged to someone else. “You trying to kill me?”

From the outside, it sounded like a joke. A husband amused by his wife.

You tilted your head, letting your lips ghost just below his ear. “You just been working so much lately,” you murmured, just loud enough to carry.

His grip on you flexed, and he leaned into it. 

“I know, baby, I know,” he said, voice dropping, threading something you hadn’t heard from him since he had your face pressed into a sparring mat through it as his hands settled more firmly at your hips, anchoring you there. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Your stomach flipped, shameful heat pooling low in your core even though you tried to ignore it and call it by a different name. 

His fingers pressed just slightly, grounding, guiding, selling the illusion with an ease that made your pulse stutter.

Steve moved, fast as always, one second you were on top of him, the next your back hit the mattress, making it dip hard beneath you as he flipped you with practiced ease, your breath catching as his weight settled above you, caging you in without quite touching.

His face dipped toward yours, close enough that your noses almost brushed.

“What you’re doing,” he murmured against your ear, his breath warm, controlled, “is reckless.”

Your fingers curled slightly into his shirt, heart beating too fast, and you tilted your head just enough to whisper back, your tone soft and teasing, so low he almost didn't hear it. “So is getting caught.”

You tilted your neck up, and your lips connected with his.

It had been weeks of little pecks, prim and proper kisses in front of your neighbors, just enough to sell it on the outside. 

Holding his face in your hands and actually kissing Steve Rogers felt like a completely different experience. 

His tongue licked into your mouth with an intention you never really expected from Steve. Specially a Steve that was faking it. Your hands roamed the plane of his shoulders, trying to make it seem like the actual rustling of sheets one would expect of a couple who was going to—

He should really take this shirt off. 

And so your hands went to the hem of his white cotton shirt, pulling it up. Steve reluctantly let you take it off of him, leaving him only in the grey boxers that let you see he wasn't faking that much. 

"Oh my God," You whispered. "Are you serious?" That was more of a hiss. Was he seriously getting hard right now?

"I know," He whispered back, annoyed, frustrated, "I know. Just shut up about it."

Oh.

He wanted you to shut up about it. He wanted you to—

The petty part of your brain took over, and before you couldn't think of a less reckless thing to do, you squeezed your legs tighter around him, bringing his bulge flush against your clothed pussy. 

"O-oh—" Steve was surprised, not about the pettiness, but at the action itself. You bit your lip, almost proud of yourself, and tilted your hips up.

That earned you a scolding look. 

"Mmm," you breathed, just loud enough to carry, your voice shifting instantly to a soft, breathy, higher pitched version of yourself. "Fuck, baby, right there."

Steve's ears were ringing. Mostly because he didn't know what to do with his hard cock rubbing up and down against you. “Relax,” you murmured against his jaw, barely moving your lips. “You sound like you’re filing paperwork.”

He huffed softly, turning it into something that passed. “Maybe I like paperwork,” he muttered.

You scoffed. “You do not.”

“You don’t know that.” He whined softly against you. 

"You need to actually move your hips, Steve. Video needs to look like you're fucking your wife." You whispered in his ear. 

It's not like he couldn't feel how wet you were, slick pressing through the cotton of your panties and onto his underwear, darkening a spot there. 

“You’re unbelievable,” he breathed low, close to your ear.

“Say it louder,” you shot back quietly.

“You’re unbelievable,” he repeated, louder, tone shifting, like it meant something entirely different now.

Your heels dug into his ass cheeks, pulling him closer and closer to you, and closer and closer to the edge. 

You could feel the length of him twitch with each pass of his hips, and you pictured the leaking head of him making a mess out of the inside of his boxers, precum slicking him all over. 

“Okay—” he muttered quickly under his breath, breaking the moment before it could stretch too far. “We need a time frame. We can’t just—keep going forever.”

“Two minutes,” you whispered. “Make it believable.”

“Two minutes?” he echoed, actually offended. “That’s insulting.”

The thought of it sent heat down your core. His face was buried in your neck, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as your hands threaded through his hair. "Talk about me." Another perfectly placed thrust that nudged your clit. "'bout how I feel."

Steve grinded his teeth like he was fighting a mental battle between letting himself be consumed by this moment, and being proper. 

You nudged him again with your heel. 

"Nice and tight, sweetheart." He let his voice carry, surprisingly unwavering for how close he was. "Never get enough of your pussy."

What in the fuckity fuck?

Steve?

He almost said your name, your very real name, too lost in himself, letting his rhythm build up much too realistically, his thrusts deeper, the bulge now rubbing and nudging your clothed entrance as well. 

Your could hear the sound of wet fabric shifting, your panties getting caught and letting one lip slip out of safety and closer to Steve's leaking cock. 

"Frank," You said loudly, trying to catch his attention without success. "Frank." You tried again, more stern, being met with the same squeezed-shut eyes you tried to get an answer from. You dropped your voice low, hushed like a secret. "Steve."

That made him open his eyes, powder blue irises staring at you as his thursts hit a spot that had him moaning, stuttering over his own breath.

And spilling all inside his boxers, looking right into your eyes. 

His hips stuttered, almost as if his body wanted to milk itself dry, and his breathing slowed. 

You were speechless, big wide eyes looking up at him, genuinely not knowing what to say.

Both of you stared at each other in shock, horror, confusion as to why it felt so good to do that without someone who managed to get under your skin without even trying. 

You stayed like that until you felt the warm trickle of his seed seep through the cotton of his boxers and onto the front of your panties.

Steve dropped back to his side of the bed, and both of you avoided each other's gaze, just staring at the ceiling. 

"Are we—"

“…go to sleep,” you muttered.

Whatever Fisk needed proof of, seemingly he got it, since both you and Steve got invited the the biggest 4th of July bash of the neighborhood. 

Right at the belly of the beast. 

The whole backyard looked like something out of a magazine. 

String lights draped across the perimeter, glowing warm against the deep navy of the night sky, fireworks already starting to crackle faintly in the distance. 

The lawn stretched wide and immaculate, dotted with clusters of people holding drinks in delicate glasses, laughter spilling easily between them like nothing in the world could touch this place.

It was loud, busy, perfect, and underneath it all— wrong.

Steve had light wash jeans and a light blue polo on, you had a strapless summer dress and one of his linen shirts on, the shirt unbuttoned to give the air of a casual outing. 

You stood near one of the long tables, fingers loosely wrapped around a Moscow Mule you hadn’t touched, your eyes scanning without looking like you were scanning. Steve was across the yard, pulled into a circle of men near the grill, one of them mid-story, the others laughing at something you couldn’t quite hear from this distance.

And there she was.

Blonde, tall, and much too interested in your— Steve.

Her hand landed on his arm like she’d been waiting for an excuse, your eyes narrowed at her as you shoved a piece of salami and cheese into your mouth.

“That's Sharon.” Julie’s voice chimed in beside you, far too cheerful for how observant she actually was. “She's new. Came to stay with her aunt a bit, they live a few strees back. Divorced. Which means she’s—”

“—looking,” you finished lightly, before finally taking a sip of your drink like you hadn’t already clocked every detail.

Julie laughed. “Exactly.”

Your eyes flicked back to Steve. He hadn’t moved away, hadn’t stepped back, hadn’t even noticed.

Of course he hadn’t.

He was listening—really listening—to whatever the man next to him was saying, nodding slightly, relaxed in that effortless way that made people lean in closer without thinking about it.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, lowering her voice just enough to feel conspiratorial. “If he's anything like Dex, he's clueless. They don’t even realize when they’re being flirted with.”

You hummed softly. "He is clueless, alright."

“He’s very charming,” Julie added, watching you now instead of them. “Frank, I mean.”

Your lips curved. “He has his moments.”

Julie giggled, and you finished downing your drink, making your way to him, wrapping a hand around his perfectly sculped bicep and turning on your smile to the sweetest setting possible. 

His body reacted immediately, adjusting to your touch like it always belonged there. His gaze dropped to you, surprise flickering for half a second before smoothing into something softer.

“Hey,” he said, one hand coming up to rest at your hip without thinking about it.

“Hi,” you replied, tilting your head up toward him, your smile warm in a way that felt almost too real. “Sorry,” you said sweetly, not sounding sorry at all. “Am I interrupting?”

She blinked, then smiled tightly back at you. “Not at all.” Steve’s hand pressed slightly into your hip, a silent question that you answered it by leaning just a fraction closer into him.

“We were just talking about the neighborhood,” she continued.

“Were you?” you asked, your tone light, but your grip on Steve tightening just enough to be felt.

“Oh—yes,” she said, glancing briefly at him. “Frank was just telling us about his work.”

“Mm,” you hummed, eyes flicking up to his. “He works too much.”

Steve’s brows lifted slightly. “Oh, I do?”

“You do,” you said simply, sighing longingly, your fingers sliding absently against his side like it was second nature. “I barely see you anymore.”

Sharon laughed softly. “That’s a shame.” Steve lifted the beer up to his lips and took a swing.

“It is,” you agreed, smiling again. “But I make sure he makes up for it.”

Steve choked on his drink. Actually choked. Coughed once, quickly covering it with a laugh that didn’t quite hide the surprise.

His hand flexed at your hip. “Yeah,” he said, voice dropping just slightly as he looked down at you, something new threading through it. “I do.”

For a moment it didn't feel like pretending, but it also didn't feel real. It felt like a limbo much too similar to five years ago, when he first recruited you into SHIELD by accident. 

FIVE YEARS EARLIER

Colombia had been too hot. The humid, muggy weather made your skin sticky, a sheen coat of sweat all over your arms and legs, even though you were only wearing a white tanktop and a flowy, maxi floral skirt. 

Music was bleeding from open windows, people crowding narrow streets, making it the kind of place where mistakes didn’t just cost you the mission.

They cost you everything.

You’d been handling it just fine, up until you weren’t. The intel had been wrong. Or incomplete. Or leaked.

You didn’t know which yet—only that the second you stepped into that dim, crowded cantina, something in your gut twisted. Too many eyes, too many men pretending to drink, too many sharp ears and even sharper looks. 

You were planning an exit strategy, a way to get out of here with as few scratches and as many of these men killed. Mid counting how many thing you could use as a weapon, in walked a picture perfect specimen. 

Muscles everywhere, blond hair lightened even more by the sun, the faintest sunburn across his nose and cheeks making his blue eyes stand out more. 

You turned slightly, lifting your drink to your lips like you were just another woman trying to cool off, not someone seconds away from deciding how many people she might have to kill.

He clocked the men immediately. 

And then he clocked you. His broad frame faked a smile at you and stepped quickly to stand beside you at the bar, hand resting on your hip.

“Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, pretending to try to get the bartender's attention.

“Don’t what?” you shot back just as quietly, adjusting your sunglasses on your head like you were annoyed at them and happy to see him, not seconds away from being cornered.

“They’re looking for someone,” he said.

“I know.” A beat where he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“They’re closing exits.”

And you responded through gritted teeth and a smile. “I noticed.” You let your body rest closer to his, feeling the heat radiating off of him.

Outside, thunder and lightning started, and a summer storm came pouring down. 

“Babe,” you said, loud enough to carry, tilting your head up at him like you were teasing. “You said one drink.”

He leaned into you, his hand sliding from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer in a way that felt practiced.

“Yeah?” he shot back easily. “Thought you wanted to see more of the place.”

“Oh, I do,” you laughed lightly, fingers curling into his shirt. “Just… from inside a bedroom window right now." You leaned in closer, lowering your voice just enough to make it look intimate, like you were sharing something private instead of tracking his every movement.

“Relax your shoulders,” you murmured.

He huffed softly—almost a laugh, almost something else—and adjusted just slightly, his grip tightening at your lower back like he was settling into the role instead of fighting it.

A beat passed between you—quick, sharp, charged—and then he leaned in closer, his mouth ghosting just along your temple.

“Storm’s our out,” he whispered. “We gotta go.”

“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his shirt, turning your body into his as thunder cracked loud enough to rattle the windows. “I am not ruining my hair for this.”

“Tragic,” he murmured, letting you pull him toward the back hallway.

The rain hit hard the second you stepped out of the main room—heavy, sudden, loud enough to drown out most of the noise behind you. The narrow corridor smelled like damp wood and cheap liquor, dimly lit and barely used.

Perfect.

Your hand stayed fisted in his shirt as you stumbled slightly—just enough to sell it—as he caught you, his arm tightening instinctively around your waist.

“Careful, sweetheart.” he said, louder now, for anyone who might still be listening. “You’re gonna slip.”

The back door burst open under his hand.

Rain poured down in sheets, warm and relentless, soaking the edges of your skirt instantly as you both stepped out into the alley behind the cantina.

Steve looked around to make sure no one followed, he kept you closer than necessary as you moved, your bodies angled into each other like you were shielding yourselves from the storm instead of disappearing into it.

One block, then another, until you were far away and safe in the back alley of the Sofitel. Your clothes were soaked, as were his, your shirt basically see through, you kept moving, pulling him down the short hallway and into the first unlocked door you found—some storage room or unused guest space, it didn’t matter.

The door shut behind you with a soft click. Steve walked in last, and you didn't put distance between you two, though right now looking at him through wet lashes you wish you did.

His eyes reflected the gloomy sky outside, his lips were pink and plump, and you felt yourself being drawn closer and closer to him, as did he. 

The storm outside cracked again, lightning flashing briefly through the thin curtains, illuminating the space in stark white for half a second, loud thunder taking you out of your trance, Steve jerking away like he was burned. 

"I, uh… I think we lost them." Your voice was shaky and unsure. 

“Not bad,” he added, quieter now, his eyes flicking over your face like he was reassessing something.

You scoffed lightly. “High praise.”

PRESENT

“Fireworks are about to start,” someone called from across the yard.

And just like that, the moment broke, and your attentions turned to the mission at hand: while everyone is distracted, get into Fisk's office and copy all of his intel. 

Steve leaned down slightly as people shifted away in the direction of the fireworks, his lips brushing near your ear, voice low. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Am I?” you murmured back, sly smirk playing on your lips.

“A little.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "You should go for the office. I'll keep watch."

Steve looked at you like he wanted to say something, but nodded and snuck away, your eyes immediately making sure all persons of interest were accounted for and not in the office. 

The party swelled around you.

Fireworks cracked overhead in bursts of red and gold, laughter spilling across Fisk’s perfectly manicured lawn, glasses clinking, music humming low beneath it all.

Steve had been gone for about five minutes when you noticed Dex was gone mid conversation with Claire and her husband Matthew. You saw the little flop of blonde hair make its way into the house and your blood ran cold. 

Steve.

“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you said lightly, lifting your empty glass as proof, bee-lining up the stairs on the porch and to the kitchen. 

You moved like you weren’t tracking footsteps that weren’t yours, counting seconds, mapping distance in your head.

You slipped inside through the side door, heels soft against polished floors, your breath steady even as your pulse kicked harder.

You moved faster, turning the corner just in time to see the office door slightly ajar, light spilling out onto the hallway, and footsteps approaching from the opposite direction.

You pushed the door open and slipped inside, Steve standing by the big mahogany table with a thumbdrive pluggesd into the desktop, downloading everything.

“What—”

“Dex,” you cut him off, already crossing the room. “Coming.” His expression shifted instantly, worry, anxiety, combat. 

A shadow passed the crack of the door and you closed the distance between you, pushing yourself to sit on top of the table and pulled Steve to stand between your legs. Your hands grabbed his shirt, yanking him down toward you hard enough to make him stumble.

He exhaled harshly the second your lips touched, tasting the vanilla macadamia flavor of your lipgloss. Your tongue licked into his mouth and one of his hands found the plane of your back, the other bracing against the desk behind you as he backed you further into it, the impact soft but enough to sell it.

“Mm—” you exhaled softly, the sound slipping out before you could stop it.

Your fingers thread through his hair as you sighed against him, losing yourself in the cedarwood of his cologne, the taste of beer on his tongue, and— 

The door creaked open lgithly with someone's breathy "oh." coming through at the sight.

You didn't pull away, didn't even flinch. If anything, you leaned in more, your body pressing fully into his, your mouth lingering just long enough to make the moment undeniable.

You heard a the sound of someone clearing their throat, and that made both of you break apart. Your lips brushed his once more before you turned your head, like you’d just noticed her. “Oh—” you said, a little breathless, but smiling.

“Sharon,” your eyes widened slightly when you looked behind you, a flush creeping into your expression like you’d been caught.

Her gaze drifted from his hands on you to the hem of your summer dress, pulled up and draped high on your thighs, then up to your hands in his hair and Steve's face — his expression a mix of very confused, flustered, and fucked out. 

Steve cleared his throat, stepping back just slightly, like he was trying to recover something that had already slipped.

“We were just—”

“—busy,” you finished easily, sliding off the desk but not moving far from him.

“…right,” she said after a second, her lips pressing into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Well, enjoy the, uh… the party."

You stifled a laugh, biting your lip, as she walked away leaving the door open behind her. You hopped off the desk as Steve got his brain working again. 

“What the hell was that?” His voice cut through it, low and sharp.

You shrugged. "Saved your ass, you're welcome." You smoothed the hem of your dress against your thighs and walked around the desk, making your way out the door as Steve hushedly called out for you, swiming the thumb drive into his pocket before following you out of the house. 

Your heels hit the pavement in sharp, even beats, your jaw locked, your eyes fixed straight ahead like if you didn’t look back, he wouldn’t follow.

Fuck him and his long legs that caught up to you as soon as you reached your lawn. 

You stormed into your kitchen, pushing the door closed quicky to slam it behind you, but making it hit Steve on the shoulder as he crowded the space behind you. “Hey—” he pushed still, stepping closer. “No, seriously. What was that?”

You still gave him nothing, your jaw tightened. You stood with your back to the kitchen island, fingers gripping the marble, biting your own cheek. Your gaze stayed anywhere but him.

“That wasn’t about getting caught,” he said. “You knew she—” Then it seemed to dawn on him.  “You kissed me to make her jealous.” His voice was incredulous, almost like he solved a decade long mystery right then and there. "You were jealous."

You scoffed, still not meeting his eye. "Jealous? Over you? Plea—"

He crowded you even more now, bending down to look for your gaze and force you to meet his, sly smile playing on his lips. "You were jealous."

You huffed, finally looking into his eyes, sunlight playing on his face making the blue just a tad lighter. Steve had his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, almost waiting for a response from you. 

For what it felt like a second and a day all at once, your brain went numb. 

And then your hands were on each side of his face, bringing his lips to crash into yours. 

Steve's lips were warm against your mouth in the same way they were minutes ago. He stepped forward, towering over you making you tilt your head up to keep the kiss going, his hands grabbing your hips as he pressed you against the counter. 

He licked into your mouth and your hands fell to the nape of his neck, his shoulders, and finally his arms.

Steve leaned over, pushing you back further, until you had no more oxygen to burn in your lungs and you broke the kiss, making him kiss your jaw, below your ear, and down your neck. "You had no reason to be jealous, you know."

He grinded his hips against yours, letting you feel the length of him hardening by the minute. "'M not jealous." You felt underwater, dizzy, borderline having fuzzies in your vision. 

Steve chuckled against your neck, the warm breath making shivers run down your spine, his hands dropping to graze outside of your thighs. "Mmhmm." His right hand brushed over your thigh and made it way to your core, tickling the skin of your inner thigh. 

His fingers quickly found the wet spot on the front of your underwear, kissing his way back towards your lips. When he pressed deep circled into it, he felt you sigh into his mouth.

"Steve… People might see…"

"Don't care" he pressed his fingers harder, until your hips were bucking to get more friction, and you were whining against him. Words came muffled against your mouth. "Not jealous, huh? Didn't want me a single bit, right?"

You scoffed despite youself, "You're the one that came into your pants the other day." 

That did it. 

Skin to skin. His rough fingers sliding through your soaked slit, dragging your arousal across your folds, teasing you right at the entrance. You broke off mid-sentence, a soft whimper catching in your throat.

His thumb easily found your clit, and one of your hands squeezed around his bicep while the other pulled at the hair at the nape of his neck, your moans getting breathier and breathier by the minute.

His fingers thrusted in and out of you bringing you to an edge so close you could taste it, letting out little pants by the crook of his neck, inflating Steve's ego, making more blood rush south. "Wanna try that again?"

He curled them just right, your slick coating his knuckles as your hips twitched against his hand.

Your head fell back, lips parting on a desperate moan. "N-not jealous…" through gritted teeth, making him click his tongue. 

"Suit yourself." And just like that, his fingers were gone, slick mess on your thighs and an unsatisfied beast inside of you.

"Steve, what the—"

He pulled away the slightest bit and bent down, lacing his arm around your legs and throwing you over his shoulder, walking away in the direction of the stairs.

Steve nudged your bedroom door open once you got upstairs and flopped you down on the bed, making you bounce on the mattress.

He hovered over you, settling between your legs and rubbing the heat of him against you, while one if his hands snuck to the back of your dress and pulled the zipper down. He pulled the clothing item down your body as he kissed the same path, and soon you were only in his shirt and a thong.

Your legs opened to accommodate him further, thighs falling to your sides, and he slotted himself chest to mattress, lips barely an inch away from your pussy. Steve kissed your inner thigh once, then again, and your fingers threaded through his hair. 

"She's wetter than that night," He spoke softly, but his voice had a dark tone to it, blue eyes staring up at you. "Can't blame me from coming in my boxers when," and a bite to your flesh. "you were grinding a wet spot onto me, honey."

Fuck him and that nickname. 

His middle finger came to curl beyond the hem, pulling the sticky wet fabric down your thighs, and both of his thumbs spread your lips, watching your hole clench around nothing. 

His gaze once again reached yours, almost asking for permission. 

You didn't seem to be able to find it in you to say anything, not a single word but a quiet "Please." leaving your lips. 

The second his tongue touched your slit, you were all the way back in that mission in Colombia. Wet, horny, and almost begging him.

At the first taste of you, one would think Steve got possessed, quickly settling further into the mattress and wrapping his arms around your thighs, holding them open. "F-fuck, Steve—"

He groaned against you, the vibration going through you like electricity through water. His tongue traced your entrance, nose nudging your clit, and your back arched off the bed slightly, pushing your hips closer to his face.

Steve's fingers pressed against the tops of your thighs with bruising strength, not that you minded. 

Not at all. 

He licked zigzag patterens up and down your slit, and then would circle your clit with his tongue, sucking the nerves into his mouth and flicking it. "O-oh my God."

He chuckled into you, "Stop squirming." 

Like you could help it. Like it was your damn fault he let Sharon touch him and flirt with him and all but forced you to make sure everyone bought this sham of a marriage. 

"Easier— fuck me, easier said than done, Rogers." Your nails scratched deeper into his scalp.

Steve angled his head differently so he could tense his tongue and fuck you while his thumb moved from your thigh to rub quick circles onto your clit. 

Your thighs closed around his head, eyes squeezing shut as you heard him breathe heavy against you. Steve's other hand landed on your breast, kneading the skin there, pinching and pulling a nipple drawing a mewl out of you. 

"Steve, Steve, I'm— fuck, I'm gonna—"

You really shouldn't have told him, though he'd know you were close judging by the little flutters of your walls around his tongue. 

He pulled away harshly, chin slick and lips swollen, his hair a mess from you running your fingers through it. 

He stood by the foot of the bed, stripping down to nothing watching your dumbfounded fucked out expression. Your hair was matted, your nipples were hard, and there was a wet spot on the white comforter under you. 

In front of you, though, stood 230lbs of pure, unadultered, perfectly sculped by God, blond 100% American Prime Steve Rogers. 

Standing naked, tall, thick and proud.

And hard.

Your mouth salivated at the sight, looking at the leaking head of him appear and disappear inside his fist with each slick stroke he gave himself. Steve caught your ankle with his other hand, and pulled you to the edge of the bed, your toes touching the soft carpet of the bedroom.

He turned you around, fingers gripping the linen of his shirt you had on, dragging it down your arms but not over your wrists, twisting the fabric around his own fist. 

And just like that, you were face and shoulders down on the mattress with your wrists tied behind you, feeling him rub the head of his cock up and down your puffy slit, coating himself in your wetness. 

Steve heard a muffled whine from you, any words being impacted by the fabric of the bedding, "What was that, sweetheart?" He leaned over you, the tip of him notching just a smidge further. 

You turned your head to the side. "Steve, please…"

He clicked his tongue again. "No, you didn't want me, remember? Think I shouldn't even be doing this to you."

He motioned to pull out and you whined louder. "She— she was all o-over you…" Tears pricked your eyes from the pressure in your chest, from the ache between your legs, from the desperation of being kept at the edge. 

“Steve, please put it in…”

"Yeah?" He gave you the cue to keep going, pushing in unbearably slow and barely any. 

You nodded against the mattress. "Pissed me off." You gulped. "Please, please don't leave me like this…"

"All you had to do was stop being such a brat about it."

And then he thrust in enough to knock the air out of your lungs. The squelch of his cock pushing into you was obscene. And in your mind every inch he pushed after that thrust had one though going through your head:

There's more?!

"Oh God…"

That made Steve chuckle. "Just me, baby."

"Is— is it all in?" Your voice trembled, and if you had a mirror you'd see Steve's evil smirk as he dragged your wrists down to where your bodies connected, arching your back and hurting you with the stretch, only to wrap your delicate hands around what was left of him.

"Barely half." He grunted.

You whimpered, both in fear and anticipation, and Steve took the queue to push the rest of the way through, until your hand was flat on his pelvis, and then he let you rest against the mattress again. 

"So fucking good." He gave a couple tentative thrusts. "Can feel you gripping me like you don't wanna let me go."

You moaned at the feel of him hitting that sweet spot inside of you, making your eyes roll. "So— hah! Good, Steve…"

After he felt your pussy get used to the size of him, that when he really stopped playing nice. 

You could feel every ridge of him, every vein, the length of him pulsing and pulsing inside of you, throbbing against the spongy spot that made you see stars.

“Steve, please, please let me—“

Another harsh thrust interrupted you. “Tell me the truth then.”

You whimpered. The bastard was really going to make you admit it.

As you tried to think through it, brainless as you were, he slowed down, and down, until you could feel the pulse of his cock inside of you just as he could feel your walls flutter around him.

You whimpered, cheeks blushing at the thought. “I was jealous! I was jealous, okay?!” You pushed your hips into him, chasing friction harder, deeper.

“She thought she could have you and— and—“ He picked up the pace, your brain mush as your neck strained to keep your voice from being muffled. “And you’re my— Oh— oh my God!”

“Yeah?” Steve leaned over you, fingers finding your clit with ease. “I’m your what?”

You could cry. You could cry right no— oh you had tears streaming from your eyes onto the bedding. “Steve…”

His eyes rolled to the back of his head.

“That’s right, I’m your Steve.” His fingers picked up speed as did his hips, lips kissing your shoulder blade. “Come for me, pretty girl. Come all over my cock.”

“Mmmmngghhh—“ your vision went white, your body clenching tight around him and pulsing, as your moans got drowned out outside by the fireworks still going.

Steve slammed his hips deeper into you, to the point of almost painful, muttering curse words in sequence of “fuck, fuck, fuck.” until you felt him spill thick ropes of cum inside of you, filling you up until it dripped onto the floor.

As you both caught your breaths, you heard the wet schlick of him pulling out, dropping himself on the bed with a bounce.

After a minute, you spoke. "There's gonna be so much paperwork to explain all this..."

He looked at an imaginary watch on his wrist, turning to you with that boyish smile of his, sheen coat of sweat on his chest and hairline. “Got time for a couple more rounds before all that. You tapped out?”

You smirked at him, using your arms to push yourself up, hands on his chest for leverage as you straddled him, slick pussy on top of his hardening cock.

“I could do this all day, Cap.”

final thoughts: this started as me and Maddie just thirsting over the shower scene, and then... yeah... heh

Sam blinked. “Yes?”

“You know, the part where he’s–” You pointed at Steve without even looking at him, because it felt like pointing at a monument. “–Captain America.”

Steve’s ears turned pink. Of course they did.

Sam lifted his hands. “I’m aware.”

“So walk me through this,” you pressed, leaning in. “Walk me through how this is supposed to work in a world where everyone and their grandma recognizes his face.”

“It’s a cover,” Sam insisted. “Not a red-carpet announcement.”

You let out a laugh that had no humor in it. “A cover. Right. Because nothing says ‘low profile’ like Captain America suddenly having a wife.”

Steve cleared his throat, very quietly. “It doesn’t have to be–”

“No,” you cut in, because if you gave him room, he would try to smooth it over, and you were not in the mood to be smoothed. “No, Steve. We’re not doing this thing where we pretend it makes sense just because Sam said it with confidence.”

Sam’s smile widened, annoying and victorious. “Confidence is important.”

“It’s implacably stupid,” you snapped, and you didn’t even feel bad about it. “It’s the kind of stupid that only sounds brilliant if you say it fast and then leave the room before anyone can argue.”

Bucky, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, made a noise that might have been a laugh if he’d ever allowed himself joy. Natasha’s eyes flicked to you, sharp with interest – like she was watching a fire catch.

Sam pointed a finger at you like you were the one being unreasonable. “Okay, hear me out.”

“No.”

“Just–”

“No.”

Steve shifted again, his gaze fixed somewhere near the schematics, like the diagram might save him. “It’s… not the worst idea.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Don’t.”

His mouth shut. The pink in his cheeks got worse.

Sam seized the opening like a man starving. “Thank you! It’s not the worst idea.”

You looked between them – Sam with his smug optimism, Steve with his painfully earnest discomfort – and felt a headache blooming behind your eyes.

“You’re telling me,” you said slowly, “that we’re going to walk into a place crawling with people who have televisions and internet access, and our plan is… what. Hope nobody says, Hey, isn’t that Captain America? and then immediately follows it with, Wait, why is he wearing a wedding ring?”

Sam tilted his head. “People will assume he has a life.”

“Steve doesn’t have a life,” you said flatly, then immediately regretted the words when Steve’s expression flickered – something quick and wounded that he covered before it could fully exist.

You exhaled, rubbing your forehead. “Okay. That came out wrong.”

Steve shook his head once, small. “No, you’re… you’re not wrong.”

That was worse.

You straightened, forcing yourself back into the argument because it was easier than looking at the way his hands were folded so tightly in front of him.

“It’s not believable,” you said, more controlled now. “It’s not clean. It’s not anything. It’s a neon sign. People don’t look too hard at married people? They look at him.”

Sam leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes bright. “That’s exactly why it works.”

You stared at him.

Sam smiled like he’d been waiting for this moment. “They’ll look at him and stop thinking. They’ll fill in the gaps themselves. Captain America is married? Sure. Why not. It’s not like the tabloids haven’t tried to marry him off a hundred times.”

Natasha made a thoughtful sound. “He’s not wrong.”

You turned to her. “Don’t you start.”

Natasha’s mouth curved. “I’m not starting. I’m observing.”

Bucky hummed. “It’s gonna be funny.”

You glared at him. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I’ve had a hard life,” he deadpanned. “Let me have this.”

Steve finally lifted his eyes to you. And there it was again – that quiet steadiness that made you feel seen in the most inconvenient way.

“I’ll do whatever makes the mission safer,” he said, simple as that. “If it’s a bad idea, we’ll find another cover. We don’t have to force it.”

Sam pointed at him again, triumphant. “Look at that. Team player. America’s husband.”

“Sam,” Steve warned, but it had no bite. It never did.

You pushed your chair back with a scrape that sounded louder than it should have in the sterile briefing room.

“It’s stupid,” you repeated, because you needed them to understand that you meant it with your whole chest. “It’s stupid and I’m not backing down. There are a dozen other covers we can use. Hell – put a fake mustache on him. That would be less recognizable.”

Sam’s grin widened to something almost affectionate. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“I will end you,” you said, without missing a beat.

Natasha’s eyes gleamed. “Please do it quietly. Some of us are trying to work.”

Steve’s lips twitched, traitorous. He looked away quickly, like smiling at you was a secret he couldn’t afford.

That – that was the problem.

Not the ring. Not the paperwork. Not the logistics.

The problem was that this ridiculous idea had already started to pull at something that had been tight and controlled between you and Steve for months. A thread you both pretended wasn’t there. A tension you both filed away under not now and not allowed and don’t even think about it.

And Sam, in all his “brilliant” stupidity, had just yanked on it with both hands.

“We’re not actually married,” you said, pointing at Steve again like it would somehow anchor reality.

Steve nodded, earnest. “I know.”

“And we’re not going to act like we are,” you added, sharper. “We’re going to act like… like two people who–”

Sam cut in immediately, delighted. “Like two people who love each other.”

You made a sound of pure, visceral disgust. “Absolutely not.”

Steve’s breath caught – so soft you almost missed it – and his eyes flicked to yours.

For a second, the room faded. The table. The files. The mission.

Just his gaze. Just the way it held too much.

Then he blinked, and it was gone, tucked back behind the shield he wore even when the shield wasn’t in his hands.

Sam clapped his hands together. “Great! So we agree.”

“We do not–” you started.

“–agree,” Sam finished, completely ignoring you. “Rings, names, backstory. We’ll workshop it. Steve, you’re gonna have to get used to saying ‘my wife’ without looking like you’re about to apologize.”

Steve’s face went red so fast it was almost impressive.

You threw your hands up. “This is incredibly stupid.”

Sam beamed. “See? You’re already saying it like it’s a catchphrase.”

You glared at him so hard it should’ve set him on fire.

Steve shifted beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, and his voice dropped just for you – low, quiet, sincere.

“We can still say no,” he murmured. “If you want. I’ll back you.”

You should’ve said yes.

You should’ve grabbed onto that lifeline and dragged yourself out of this before it became something you couldn’t control.

Instead you looked at him – at the honesty in his eyes, at the way he offered you safety even when it meant making himself uncomfortable – and something in your chest went soft in the worst possible way.

And Sam, watching the two of you with the satisfied patience of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, just smiled wider.

“Come on,” he said, already gathering the folders. “It’s gonna be fine. Everybody loves a wedding story.”

You muttered, under your breath, “I hate you.”

Sam didn’t even pretend to be offended.

“I know,” he said cheerfully. “Now pick a date. Nothing says ‘committed’ like a date.”

Steve made a strangled sound.

And you realized, with dawning horror, that this mission wasn’t going to be dangerous because of the target.

It was going to be dangerous because of the lie.

By the time you reached the apartment, you already hated everything about Sam’s “brilliant” plan.

It wasn’t a safehouse in the usual sense – not a bunker, not a sterile S.H.I.E.L.D. box with reinforced doors and cameras in the vents. It was an ordinary unit in an ordinary building with beige walls and a lobby that smelled faintly of old mail and someone’s reheated pasta.

Normal.

That was the point.

You went up the stairs with your duffel biting into your shoulder, Steve a step behind you with his own bag like he wasn’t Steve Rogers, like he was just another man moving in with his wife.

The thought made your jaw tighten.

Inside, the apartment was… decent. Small, clean, staged. The kind of space someone had rented out furnished and forgotten about. A neutral sofa, a little kitchen, a table with two chairs. A framed print of something abstract on the wall that looked like it had been chosen specifically because it meant nothing.

You dropped your bag by the entryway and did a quick scan out of habit – sightlines, exits, hiding spots, anything that could turn into a problem.

Then you walked toward the bedroom, pushed the door open, and…

Of course.

One bed.

One, single, wide bed that took up most of the room like it had been placed there to make a point. Crisp white sheets. Two pillows. A faint scent of detergent and that slightly too-sweet air freshener smell that every “temporary” apartment seemed to have.

You stood there for a second, staring at it like it might multiply if you glared hard enough.

Behind you, Steve halted in the doorway. You didn’t have to look at him to know he’d clocked the same thing.

Silence stretched.

You exhaled slowly, turning on your heel. “I’ll take the couch.”

Steve’s head lifted, as if he was going to argue – and of course he was. Because Steve would rather sleep on broken glass than let someone else be uncomfortable.

“I can–” he started.

“You can take the bed,” you cut in before he could do the whole gentle martyr routine. “This isn’t a debate, Steve.”

His brows drew together. “It’s not fair.”

“It’s a mattress,” you said, grabbing one of the throw blankets from the sofa like you’d already decided. “I’ll survive.”

He opened his mouth again…

And the doorbell rang.

Sharp. Immediate. Like the universe had impeccable comedic timing.

You froze.

Steve’s entire posture changed in an instant – from awkward and domestic to alert and ready, the kind of switch that always made you remember he was built for war even when he was holding grocery bags.

You moved toward the door without thinking, peeking through the peephole.

A couple stood in the hallway: middle-aged, friendly faces, the kind of people who waved at neighbors and remembered birthdays. The woman held a small plate covered in foil. The man wore a baseball cap and a curious smile.

Neighbors.

Great.

You pulled the door open and forced your expression into something approachable.

“Hi,” you said, brightening your voice just a touch. “Can I help you?”

The woman’s face lit up. “Oh! Hi. We’re so sorry to bother you, we just– we saw someone moving in and thought we’d come say welcome. I’m Linda. This is my husband, Mark. We’re right across the hall.”

You smiled, polite. “That’s really nice, thank you.”

Before you could add anything else, Steve stepped up behind you.

And then it happened so smoothly you almost didn’t register it until you felt it.

His arm came around your shoulders – warm, solid, familiar – pulling you in just enough to make it natural. Not possessive. Not dramatic. Just… intimate, in that casual way couples were intimate without thinking about it.

Like he’d done it a thousand times.

Your body reacted before your brain caught up: a stiff little jolt in your spine, your breath catching in the back of your throat.

Steve didn’t hesitate.

“Hi,” he said, easy, friendly, utterly un-Captain-America in the best way. “I’m Steve. Thanks for coming by.”

Then, without even looking down, he tipped his head toward you and added, voice softening just a fraction, “Honey, do we still have those waters in the fridge?”

Honey.

The word landed like a hand on your pulse.

Not because it was loud.

Because it was right – in the worst possible way. Like his mouth had shaped it naturally. Like it belonged there. Like you belonged there.

You felt the neighbors’ eyes flicker between the two of you with immediate approval, the way people did when they sensed something familiar and comfortable.

Linda beamed. “Oh my God, you two are adorable.”

Mark nodded, grinning. “Yeah. Welcome to the building.”

You forced a laugh that sounded a little too high in your own ears. “Thanks.”

Steve’s thumb shifted against your shoulder, a tiny squeeze – a silent play along.

Your brain finally caught up enough to do its job.

You leaned into him, just slightly. Let your shoulders relax. Let your body lie as convincingly as your mouth was about to.

“Sorry,” you said, aiming for warm. “We just got in and we’re still… unpacking.”

Linda lifted the plate. “We brought you something. Banana bread. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s fresh.”

“That’s so kind,” you said, accepting it with both hands. The foil was still warm.

Steve’s arm didn’t move.

His presence at your side was steady, reassuring, and suddenly far too distracting.

Linda’s gaze dropped – naturally – to your hand. To the ring.

And then to Steve’s.

Her smile widened like you’d just confirmed something she wanted to believe. “Newlyweds?”

Oh, for the love of–

You felt Steve’s breath change. Not a flinch, exactly. Just a fractional pause, like even he hadn’t anticipated the direct hit.

But he recovered instantly.

“Yeah,” Steve said, gentle, almost shy. “Pretty recently.”

Your stomach flipped.

Linda clasped her hands together. “That is wonderful! Congratulations!”

Mark chuckled. “You picked a good building, man. Quiet. Safe.”

Steve nodded. “That was the idea.”

You kept smiling, kept your face smooth, kept the lie sitting on your tongue like it hadn’t just scorched your throat.

“Thank you,” you managed. “We’re… we’re happy to be here.”

Linda’s eyes softened in that way women’s eyes softened when they thought they were looking at something sweet. “Well, if you need anything – sugar, flour, a screwdriver, someone to take a package – you just knock.”

“We will,” Steve promised. “Thank you. Really.”

They said their goodbyes after another minute, still smiling, still satisfied.

You kept waving until the elevator swallowed them.

The second the door clicked shut, you exhaled so hard it felt like you’d been holding your breath for hours.

Steve’s arm fell away immediately, like he’d been burned.

The warmth it left behind on your skin was almost worse.

You turned slowly, banana bread still in your hands like evidence.

Steve stood a few feet away, eyes on the floor for a beat, then up to you – apologetic already forming on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he started.

You held up a hand. “Don’t.”

His brows knit. “I just– it was automatic. I thought–”

“I know,” you said, because you did. That was the problem. It had been automatic. Instinctive. Like his body knew the role.

Like he’d wanted to play it.

You set the plate on the counter a little too carefully.

Then you looked back at him, trying for exasperation and landing on something softer you didn’t want.

“Honey?” you repeated, dryly.

Steve’s face went red in a way that would’ve been funny if it didn’t make your chest ache.

“I panicked,” he admitted.

“You panicked and your brain decided ‘honey’ was the best option.”

Steve’s mouth opened, then closed. “I–”

You shook your head, letting out a small, incredulous laugh. “This is going to be a long few days.”

His gaze flicked to the bedroom door behind you.

Then to the couch.

Then back to you, like he wanted to say something responsible and didn’t know where to put it.

You could see the thought forming – the inevitable argument about who slept where, about propriety, about comfort, about what you were “supposed” to do.

And then, like the universe wasn’t done tormenting you, you heard footsteps in the hall again. Another door opening. A murmur of voices.

Other neighbors.

More eyes.

More “welcome” smiles.

More rings to notice.

Steve’s shoulders squared subtly, the way they did when he stepped into a role.

When he looked at you this time, there was an apology in his eyes – and something else, too.

Something you didn’t let yourself name.

“Okay,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “Ground rules.”

Steve blinked. “Ground rules?”

“You do not call me honey,” you said firmly.

His lips twitched, helpless. “What about–”

“No.”

“Amazing,” he murmured, like he couldn’t help it. “Because I was going to suggest we–”

The doorbell rang again.

You both froze.

Steve’s gaze slid to yours, and for half a second, you saw it: the way he was already bracing to put his arm around you again.

The way you were already bracing to let him.

You swallowed, stepped toward the door, and forced your best smile back into place.

Behind you, Steve moved closer – close enough to feel.

Close enough to make the lie believable.

And you hated how easily your body adjusted to it.

By the end of the first day, you hated two things with equal intensity.

Sam’s smugness.

And how quickly your body learned the rhythm of the lie.

Because outside the apartment, Steve didn’t just play along. He inhabited it like he’d been born knowing how.

It started small – almost reasonable.

A “honey” murmured at the corner store when you reached for the wrong brand of coffee filters. A “darling” said with a soft laugh as he held the door open for you, palm resting at the small of your back like it belonged there.

The first few times, it made your spine go rigid.

Not because it was inappropriate – you’d done worse covers than this – but because it was Steve. Because his voice did something unfair to those words, like he meant them even when he absolutely couldn’t.

And the worst part was that it worked.

The cashier looked at you and didn’t see an Avenger and an agent. She saw a couple. A man with a patient smile, a woman rolling her eyes affectionately, two people bickering gently over which cereal was “actually edible.” She saw normal.

The building’s doorman learned your faces. The elderly lady on the second floor smiled at you like you were her favorite kind of story. The guy with the dog stopped giving Steve the suspicious once-over after the second day, because Steve had started crouching down to scratch the dog’s ears like he didn’t have a single dangerous thought in his head.

And you…

You held his hand.

Not dramatically. Not with some performative squeeze meant for an audience. Just… naturally.

Because it was easier.

Because it was safer.

Because once you’d done it once, your fingers started reaching for his the next time without you even thinking about it.

Two days.

Two days and your body began to anticipate the warmth of his palm before your brain could remember why it was a bad idea.

You ran the perimeter as if you were just stretching your legs after unpacking, strolling past the same coffee shop twice, ducking into a small bookstore, lingering at the window of a florist for no reason other than to look like you had time.

Steve walked beside you like he belonged there.

Sometimes his arm would slide around your shoulders with that same easy familiarity, tugging you in against his side when you crossed a street. Sometimes his hand would settle at your waist when you paused near a storefront, a light pressure that felt like an anchor.

He said your name less.

He said darling or honey more.

And each time he did, it got… easier.

Less jarring.

Less like a performance.

More like a habit.

You told yourself it was because repetition made anything feel normal. That this was just conditioning. That if you repeated a lie often enough, it stopped feeling like a lie.

It was a comforting thought.

It was also a dangerous one.

By the second night, you’d stopped flinching when he touched you.

By the second night, you’d stopped fighting the instinct to lean into him.

By the second night, you’d caught yourself laughing at something he said while his arm was around you – and you’d forgotten, for half a second, that anyone was watching.

You’d forgotten the mission.

You’d forgotten you weren’t supposed to let this seep under your skin.

That was what terrified you.

The third morning should have been routine.

The apartment was quiet in that early way, the kind of quiet that felt domestic whether you wanted it to or not. Pale light spilled through the blinds. The building’s pipes hissed somewhere in the walls. The scent of coffee hung in the air, warm and grounding.

You were sitting at the small table with your laptop open, hair still messy, one knee tucked up under you. A map and a list of names were spread out beside the keyboard, the practical skeleton of the operation laid bare.

Steve moved around the kitchen with a kind of careful ease you didn’t know he had – barefoot, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from the shower. He’d taken the couch the first night. You’d argued. He’d insisted. You’d rolled your eyes and let him, because it was easier than acknowledging how the idea of sharing the bed made your pulse do stupid things.

He’d taken the couch the second night too.

You’d told yourself that proved you were both being professional.

You were still telling yourself that when he approached with a mug in each hand.

He set one down in front of you – black, two sugars, exactly how you took it – like he’d been doing it for years instead of… forty-eight hours.

Then he tilted his head, mouth curving, voice soft with that morning warmth that made you want to throw something at him.

“Here you go, darling.”

You froze with your fingers hovering over the keyboard.

It wasn’t the word.

It was the way it came with no hesitation at all. No performative wink. No glance toward a window to check who might hear.

Just… natural.

Intimate.

Like you were alone and it was real.

You looked up slowly.

Steve was still smiling, but there was a question in his eyes too – like he wasn’t sure why you’d stopped moving. Like he was just… existing in the habit you’d both built.

Your gaze flicked to the coffee. To the mug. To his hands, big and steady and careful not to spill.

Then back to his face.

“You’re getting comfortable,” you said, suspicion sharpening your tone on purpose, because if you didn’t make it a joke, it would turn into something else.

Steve blinked. “What?”

You nudged the mug slightly, as if moving it could shove the moment back into place. “With the… pet names.”

His mouth opened like he was going to deny it. Then he seemed to think better of it.

A faint flush crept up his neck.

“I thought–” he started, then stopped, because whatever excuse he had didn’t sound convincing even in his own head.

You leaned back in your chair, lifting an eyebrow.

And then you let it land exactly where it needed to.

“Do I need to remind you we’re not actually married?”

For half a second, Steve just stared at you.

Like the words had yanked him out of a daydream.

Like you’d pulled a thread and something inside him had gone tight.

His gaze dropped to your hand – to the ring that still sat there, simple and cruel – and his jaw worked once, as if he was swallowing something he hadn’t meant to taste.

Then he looked up again, and the softness in his expression didn’t disappear.

It just changed.

“I remember,” he said quietly.

There was no defensiveness in it.

No embarrassment.

Just… truth.

And for a moment, the apartment felt too small. The air too warm. The coffee too rich in your throat.

Because he wasn’t arguing.

He wasn’t correcting you.

He was simply acknowledging the line you’d drawn – and the fact that he’d stepped close enough to it to make you nervous.

You forced a small, dry smile, because you needed control back in your hands.

“Good.”

Steve’s eyes held yours, steady and too honest for seven in the morning.

“I’m not doing it to–” he began, and stopped again, like he was choosing his words with care. “It’s… habit. Like you said.”

“Right,” you agreed quickly. “A habit.”

He nodded once, but his voice was lower when he added, almost like he couldn’t help himself–

“It’s easy.”

You didn’t breathe for a second.

Easy.

Like it didn’t cost you anything.

Like it didn’t twist something in your chest every time he called you darling.

Like it didn’t make your skin remember his hand around your shoulders before you’d even stepped outside.

You looked away first, because if you didn’t, you were going to let him see too much.

You reached for the mug, wrapping your hands around the heat like it was something solid to hold onto.

“Let’s just… keep it outside,” you said, casual on purpose. “In here, we can be normal.”

Steve’s lips quirked faintly. “Normal.”

You shot him a look over the rim of your coffee. “You know what I mean.”

His smile softened – gentle, almost fond.

And that was the real problem.

Because you were starting to recognize that look.

Not from missions.

From moments.

“I do,” he said. “I’ll– I’ll be careful.”

Careful.

You nodded, taking a sip, letting the bitterness ground you.

Then the quiet stretched, filled with the small sounds of morning – the building settling, the distant hum of traffic, the faint clink of Steve setting his own mug down.

You told yourself you’d put the line back where it belonged.

That you’d reminded him.

That you’d reminded yourself.

But when you stood a few minutes later to grab the printed file from the counter, Steve shifted to make room for you in the narrow space.

And as you passed him, he murmured, almost too soft to hear, “Sorry, honey.”

The word curled around you like smoke.

You stopped for half a beat.

Steve went still too, like he realized what he’d done at the exact same time you did.

Then you exhaled slowly, not turning around.

“This is going to be a long mission,” you muttered.

Behind you, you heard the smallest sound – not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.

And Steve, voice warm with something dangerously close to amusement, answered anyway.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

The invite had come through one of the informants like it was nothing.

A “small get-together.” A “few people.” A “chance to be seen.”

Which, translated into your world, meant: a room full of eyes you couldn’t afford to trigger.

It wasn’t black-tie. No glittering ballroom, no orchestra, no photographers. But it was still the kind of evening where people noticed details. Where you couldn’t show up in tactical gear and a hoodie without sticking out like a warning sign.

So you made an effort.

Steve did too.

That was part of the problem.

He’d swapped his usual mission-friendly layers for something softer, cleaner. Dark jeans, a button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, the collar open just enough to look relaxed. His hair was still Steve-hair – stubborn and slightly unruly – but he’d tamed it a little, like he’d actually stood in front of a mirror and tried.

You hated how unfair it was.

How one small shift made him look less like Captain America and more like… a man.

A man you had to pretend was yours.

You chose something simple. Nothing that screamed date night, nothing that made you feel like you were trying too hard. Just a dress that hit your knees and a jacket you could move in, your hair pinned back enough to keep it out of your face. You’d checked the seams, the pockets, the way the fabric fell – because even when you were dressed like a civilian, you still thought like a soldier.

In the hallway mirror, you’d both looked almost… believable.

Steve had glanced at you, then away, like looking too long would be a mistake.

“Ready?” he’d asked.

You’d swallowed. “Yeah.”

And then you’d stepped into the lie together.

The party was in someone’s apartment a few blocks away – bigger than yours, warmer, louder. The kind of place where furniture got pushed back to make room for bodies and music and laughter. Someone had lit too many candles. Someone had put together a playlist that tried hard to be cool.

There were drinks on every surface.

There were clusters of people talking with their whole hands. Couples leaning close. Friends laughing too loudly. A dog weaving between legs like it owned the place.

Normal.

That was the point.

You and Steve slipped into it like you belonged there.

He rested a hand at your back when you moved through the crowd. You smiled at strangers. You laughed at jokes you barely heard. You nodded along to conversations about work and rent and the building’s plumbing like you weren’t mentally mapping exits.

You played your role.

He played his.

And together, you were… seamless.

A couple.

A unit.

Steve’s “honey” came out at the right moments – just loud enough for other people to register, just casual enough to feel real. He introduced you with an arm around your waist. He let people assume things about you without correcting them.

And the room accepted it.

The dangerous part was that you started to accept it too.

You should have paced your drinking. You knew that. You always knew that. But the atmosphere was easy, and the conversation was harmless, and it felt good – too good – to let your shoulders loosen for once.

Someone handed you a glass of something citrusy and sweet. Then another.

Steve didn’t say anything at first. He watched, as he always did – quiet, protective, letting you make your own choices.

But at some point, you realized his hand had moved from your waist to your hip, firmer now. A silent reminder. A steadying weight.

When you glanced up at him, you found his eyes already on you.

Careful.

A little concerned.

A little… something else, maybe.

“You okay?” he murmured, close to your ear so no one else could hear.

You smiled, too bright. “I’m fine.”

Steve’s thumb pressed once into your hip. “You’re flushed.”

“It’s warm in here.”

His gaze dipped to your mouth. Came back up.

“You’ve had a few.”

“Captain,” you teased, leaning in just enough to make it look affectionate, “are you monitoring my alcohol intake?”

His mouth twitched. “Someone has to.”

You laughed – real, this time – and Steve’s expression softened like that sound had hit him somewhere tender.

It made your stomach flip in a way you didn’t have permission to feel.

So you drank again, because it was easier than thinking about it.

You left at the right time.

Before anyone got too drunk to keep their stories straight. Before the noise turned sloppy. Before you started forgetting why you were there.

Steve guided you out with a hand on your back and a polite smile, thanking the host, waving to people you’d spoken to for exactly twelve minutes and would never see again.

Outside, the air was colder, cleaner. The night pressed against your skin like a reset.

You inhaled too deeply and swayed just slightly.

Steve’s hand immediately tightened on your arm.

“Easy,” he said, voice low.

“I’m fine,” you repeated, stubborn.

“I know,” he replied, and there was something in his tone – patient, affectionate, impossibly gentle – that made you look at him.

Really look.

Streetlight pooled gold on his hair. On the line of his jaw. On the collar of his shirt, open at the throat like he wasn’t wearing armor for once.

His face was relaxed from the social performance, but his eyes were still sharp, still tracking, still Steve.

Only now, with the alcohol warm in your blood, you couldn’t keep your mind on the mission.

You saw the way he’d smiled at the dog. The way he’d said your name like it mattered. The way his hand had stayed on you the entire night, not for show, but because he didn’t seem to want to let go.

And something in your chest went strangely quiet.

When you reached your building, you fumbled slightly with the keys.

Steve took them from your hand without a word, unlocked the door, held it open. His shoulder brushed yours as you stepped inside.

You were too aware of that brush.

Too aware of him.

The elevator ride was short and silent.

In your apartment, the familiar blandness hit you – neutral walls, neutral furniture, neutral space that was supposed to be a base and not a home.

Steve set the keys down, loosened his shoulders, exhaled like he’d been carrying the night for both of you.

You turned to face him.

The room was dim. Just the kitchen light, soft and yellow, catching the edges of his features.

You stared.

Not like you normally did, quick and pragmatic, checking for tension, scanning for stress.

Different.

Longer.

Like you were seeing him as something other than a teammate, other than a symbol, other than a role.

Steve noticed.

Of course he did.

His gaze flicked to your eyes and held, suddenly still. Something changed in his posture – not alarm, not defense.

Awareness.

A careful kind of attention that made your skin prickle.

“Hey,” you said, and it came out quieter than you meant it to. Almost tender.

Steve didn’t answer right away. His throat worked once, like he was swallowing.

He took a step closer.

Not enough to crowd you.

Just enough that you could feel the heat of him.

And when he spoke, his voice was low – roughened by restraint, by the whole night of playing husband, by the way you were looking at him now.

“Do you know how hard I’m trying not to kiss you right now?”

The sentence hit you like a shove.

Not because you hadn’t felt the tension.

But because he said it like it was the truth. Like he couldn’t carry it alone anymore.

Your breath caught, your pulse spiking under your skin.

“Steve…” you whispered, and you didn’t know if it was a warning or a plea.

His eyes dropped to your mouth again, just for a second – like he was measuring the distance. Like he was imagining it. Like he was fighting himself with everything he had.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t touch you.

He just stood there, hands loose at his sides, looking at you like he was asking permission without daring to ask.

The alcohol in your blood made you brave in the worst way.

Or honest.

You took a small step forward, closing the space he refused to close.

And you tilted your head, voice soft, almost teasing – but your eyes were serious.

“Then don’t look at me like that,” you said.

Steve’s breath stuttered.

His jaw clenched.

“We’re not supposed to do this,” he murmured, like the words cost him.

You could almost hear the mission between you. The rules. The consequences.

You could almost hear Sam’s laugh if he knew.

And still – you didn’t move away.

Instead, you lifted your hand, not touching him yet, just hovering near his chest, feeling the heat radiating off him.

“Steve,” you said again, quieter. “You’ve been calling me honey all week.”

His eyes flicked up, sharp with something raw. “That was for the cover.”

“And what about the way you held me tonight?” you asked, too softly. “Was that for the neighbors too?”

Steve’s throat bobbed. His voice came out even lower.

“Stop,” he warned – not harsh, not angry. Just desperate.

“Why?” you whispered.

Because he was losing, and you could see it.

Because you were losing too.

He swallowed, eyes burning into yours like he was trying to memorize you before he did something he couldn’t take back.

“Because if you keep talking,” he said, “I’m not going to be able to stop myself.”

The air between you tightened.

Your smile trembled at the edges, not quite playful anymore.

“Then stop trying,” you breathed.

And that was the moment.

The exact moment when Steve’s restraint cracked – not into violence, not into recklessness.

Into want.

His hand lifted, finally, and hovered by your cheek like he was still giving you a chance to back away.

His voice was barely a whisper.

“Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

You just leaned in.

Steve kissed you.

It wasn’t careful, not this time – not the gentle, testing press that left room for doubt. This was heat and momentum, the kind of kiss that swallowed the air between you like it had been starving for it.

His hand found your jaw, thumb braced beneath your ear, and you felt the tremor he tried to hide. Like even now, even with his mouth on yours, some part of him was still fighting – counting consequences, holding the line by sheer force of will.

You made a small sound against his lips, and it was like the last thread snapped.

Steve pulled you closer, chest to chest, the slide of fabric and warmth and breath. Your fingers fisted in his shirt, dragging him in because you couldn’t do anything else. Because you didn’t want to.

You broke apart only to breathe, foreheads nearly touching, mouths still brushing – stolen seconds, stolen air.

His eyes stayed on you, dark and wrecked with restraint.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he breathed, the words catching between your mouths like a prayer he didn’t believe in anymore.

You almost laughed. Almost.

Instead you kissed him again, and the sound he made was all frustration and surrender.

He moved you without thinking – one step, then another – until your back hit the wall. Not hard. Not violent. Just decisive, like his body knew exactly where it wanted you. Like he needed something solid behind you to stop himself from falling.

His hands came up, sliding into your hair, fingers spreading at the base of your skull to hold you steady, to keep your face exactly where he wanted it. The tenderness of it should have felt contradictory with the hunger of the kiss, but it didn’t.

It felt like Steve.

Like devotion, even when it was dangerous.

Your breath hitched as he kissed you again, deeper, slower, like he was learning the shape of your mouth by force. Your hands slid up his sides, gripping him like you could anchor yourself to him and keep the whole world from tilting.

Between two kisses, you felt his forehead brush yours.

“We really–” he started, voice ragged. “We–”

You cut him off by pulling him back in, your mouth demanding his until the thought evaporated.

He kissed you like he was trying to convince himself. Like he was trying to forget. Like he was trying to remember, all at once.

When you finally managed to speak – when your lips parted just enough to let words slip out – you were still pinned there, still held in place by his hands in your hair, his body a shield in front of you.

“Then stop kissing me like that,” you whispered, breathless and accusing and not meaning it at all.

Steve stilled for the smallest second.

His eyes flicked over your face – your mouth, your eyes, the way your hands were still gripping him like you were afraid he’d disappear.

His thumbs pressed gently against your scalp, grounding, reverent.

And then he leaned in again, lips brushing yours like he couldn’t help it.

“I can’t,” he murmured.

The admission hit harder than any of the kisses.

Because it wasn’t an excuse.

It was surrender.

You swallowed, your pulse a loud, reckless thing in your throat. Your fingers slid up, catching at his collar, tugging him down again. You wanted to taste the truth of what he’d just said until it stopped making you feel like you might break.

Steve’s breath shuddered against your mouth.

His hands held your head carefully as he kissed you – like he was afraid of hurting you, like he was afraid you might change your mind, like he needed you to stay right there because if you moved away he’d come apart.

You felt the restraint in him anyway, under the hunger. The way he kept stopping himself from crowding you too hard, the way his hips stayed just far enough back, the way he kept his hands only where they could steady you.

Like he was drawing the line with shaking hands.

Like he didn’t trust himself not to cross it.

You pulled back a fraction, just enough to look at him.

Steve’s eyes were blown wide with want, his breathing uneven, his mouth swollen from kissing you like he’d forgotten how to do anything else.

He looked… undone.

And still, even like this, there was a question in him. A need to be sure.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered again, voice breaking at the edges, as if saying it cost him.

Your chest rose and fell too fast.

You could feel the mission hovering in the air like a ghost. The rules. The rings. The thin walls. Tomorrow.

But Steve was here, in front of you, holding your head like you were precious, kissing you like he couldn’t survive without it.

You lifted your hand, sliding your fingers along his jaw, feeling the roughness of stubble there.

“No,” you breathed. “Don’t.”

The sound he made was almost a groan – caught in his throat, swallowed by the next kiss as he pressed his mouth to yours again like you’d just given him permission to breathe.

His lips moved to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your jaw – slower now, reverent in a way that made your skin prickle. He lingered like he was trying to map you. Like he was trying to memorize the places that made you go still.

You tilted your head back instinctively, giving him more.

Steve paused, his forehead resting against yours again, his hands still in your hair, holding you there.

“You’re sure?” he asked, quiet and wrecked.

Your answer came without hesitation, even if your brain was still screaming about consequences.

“Yes.”

Steve closed his eyes like that single word had finally broken him.

Then he kissed you again – deep, aching, unhurried – and his lips pressed harder against yours in the dim light of the kitchen, his strong hands tangled in your hair, tilting your head just right to deepen the kiss.

His fingers threaded through the strands with a firm grip, holding you steady as your tongues met in a slow, heated dance that sent sparks racing through your body. Each swirl and flick left you both gasping for air, breaths mingling in short, ragged bursts between the press of mouths.

Your arms slid up around his broad neck, pulling him closer, fingers digging into the muscles at the base of his skull. He responded instantly, his large hands dropping to your thighs, gripping the soft flesh there with effortless strength. In one fluid motion, he hoisted you up as if you were weightless, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The cool edge of the kitchen counter brushed your back for a split second before he spun you both, pinning you firmly against the wall with his solid frame.

The impact jolted a soft moan from your lips into his mouth, and he swallowed it greedily, his kisses turning fiercer, more demanding.

His body trapped yours there, hips grinding subtly against you, the hard line of his cock already straining through his pants against your core. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the way his chest heaved with every breath, matching the wild thrum of your pulse.

For what felt like an eternity but was probably only moments, you lost yourselves in that wall-bound embrace–lips bruising, tongues battling, hands roaming just enough to tease without mercy.

But soon, the thin barriers of fabric became unbearable, a frustrating veil between skin and skin. Your fingers clawed at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward to expose the chiseled planes of his abs, while his palms slid under your dress and went up your body, calloused thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, making your nipples harden instantly under the touch.

He broke the kiss just long enough to growl low in his throat, eyes dark with hunger as they locked onto yours. “Doll,” he murmured, the word rough and intimate, before his mouth claimed yours again. One hand stayed firm on your thigh, keeping you elevated, while the other pushed your dress higher, fingers tracing the edge of your panties, dipping just beneath to feel the damp heat waiting for him.

Steve's hips rolled forward in a deliberate grind, the rigid length of his cock pressing insistently against the damp fabric of your panties, sending jolts of friction straight to your core. Each subtle thrust built a mounting ache between your thighs, his body heat seeping through the layers as he trapped you more firmly against the wall.

His mouth left yours with a wet pop, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. He nipped there lightly, then sucked harder, marking you with a blooming heat that made your pulse thunder in your veins.

His lips wandered lower, brushing over the exposed curve of your collarbone, then dipping toward the swell of your breasts where your dress had ridden up. The fabric bunched awkwardly, but he didn't care – he kissed and licked at whatever skin he could reach, his breath fanning across your chest in ragged exhales.

One hand kneaded your thigh, fingers digging into the muscle to hold you steady as his hips kept that torturous rhythm, rubbing his erection along your slit through the barriers, teasing your clit with every pass.

Your fingers twisted deeper into his hair, clutching the thick strands like a lifeline, pulling him closer as if the touch alone could ground you amid the whirlwind of sensation. The pull elicited a low groan from him, vibrating against your skin, and he rewarded you by sucking a spot just above your pulse point, his tongue swirling to soothe the sting.

Your body arched into him instinctively, breasts pressing against his chest, nipples pebbling painfully against the confines of your bra, begging for more direct attention.

He shifted slightly, his free hand sliding up your side to cup one breast fully, thumb circling the hardened peak through the thin material. The pressure was exquisite, bordering on rough, and you gasped, your grip in his hair tightening enough to make him hiss in pleasure.

“God, sweetheart,” he rasped against your throat, voice thick with need, before his mouth returned to yours in a brief, devouring clash – tongues tangling fiercely while his grinding grew more urgent, the seam of his pants dragging over your soaked folds.

“Steve,” you panted, the word escaping in a breathless rush as he pulled back from the kiss just enough to draw in air, his lips hovering inches from yours, swollen and glistening.

"Yeah?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest into yours, eyes dark and locked on you with an intensity that made your stomach flip.

"Bedroom. Now. Need you inside me." The demand tumbled out, raw and urgent, your body thrumming with the ache he'd built, every nerve screaming for more.

A deep growl tore from his throat, primal and possessive, as his arms tightened around you.

He glanced down to ensure your legs were locked around his waist, your fingers still buried in his hair, and then he moved – super soldier speed turning the world into a blur. In less than fifteen seconds, the cool tile of the kitchen floor gave way to the plush carpet of the bedroom, the dim lamp casting golden shadows across the king-sized bed.

He lowered you onto the mattress with controlled strength, his body following yours down until he hovered above, caging you in with his broad frame. The weight of him pressed you into the soft sheets, his hips settling between your thighs, that hard cock still straining against his pants and nudging insistently at your core.

Without pause, his mouth crashed back onto yours, kissing you like a man deprived of his fix – desperate, devouring laps of his tongue against yours, teeth nipping at your lower lip to draw out a whimper.

His lips trailed fire along your jaw, then down to the curve of your neck, sucking and licking at the tender skin there.

"Bet you taste as sweet as honey," he whispered hotly against your pulse, his breath fanning over the damp marks he'd already left, one hand sliding up to tangle in your hair and tilt your head for better access. The words sent a shiver racing down your spine, your hips bucking up to grind against him in response.

"But need to be in your pussy now," he added, the confession rough and edged with hunger, his free hand yanking at the hem of your dress to shove it higher, fingers hooking into the waistband of your soaked panties and tugging them aside.

You arched beneath him, legs spreading wider to accommodate his bulk, the friction of his clothed erection dragging over your bare folds making you gasp into his mouth. He groaned at the feel of your wetness coating him through the fabric, his hips thrusting forward in a sharp snap that had the head of his cock pressing right against your entrance, teasing without entering.

His mouth returned to your neck, biting down gently as he rocked against you, building that slick heat until you were writhing, nails scraping down his back under his shirt, desperate for him to follow through on that promise.

Your hands fumbled with the buttons of Steve's shirt, fingers trembling from the heat coursing through you, while his strong palms worked at the zipper of your dress, yanking it down with impatient tugs. Fabric whispered against skin as it peeled away – his shirt tossed aside to reveal the sculpted planes of his chest, muscles rippling under your touch; your dress shoved up and off, leaving you in just your damp panties, which he stripped next, the cool air hitting your exposed folds like a shock.

He shed his pants in a swift motion, kicking them off, his thick cock springing free, heavy and veined, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. You reached for him, wrapping your hand around the base, stroking once, twice, feeling him throb in your grip, but he captured your wrist gently, guiding you back to the bed.

Naked now, skin flushed and slick with sweat, you collided again in a frenzy of kisses – lips crashing, tongues tangling in wet, open-mouthed exploration.

He positioned himself between your spread thighs, one hand bracing beside your head, the other gripping his shaft as he dragged the swollen head of his cock through your slick folds. The first slide coated him in your arousal, his length gliding easily now, lubricated by the evidence of your need.

You moaned into his mouth, the sound muffled as his glans nudged your entrance, parting your lips just enough to tease penetration before pulling back, only to repeat the motion – rubbing up to circle your clit with deliberate pressure.

Each pass sent sparks exploding behind your eyelids, your hips jerking up to chase the friction, a sharp gasp escaping when the broad tip bumped your sensitive nub, nearly slipping inside but holding back at the last second.

“Oh fuck,” you whimpered, the pleasure coiling tighter in your core, your walls clenching around nothing, desperate for him to fill you.

He groaned low, his breath ragged against your cheek, hips rolling in a slow, torturous rhythm that had his cockhead kissing your clit again and again, dipping shallowly at your opening each time, stretching you fractionally before retreating, building the ache until you were dripping onto the sheets.

Your teeth grazed his lower lip in a playful bite, nipping just hard enough to draw a hiss from him, and you pulled back slightly, eyes locking with his heated gaze.

“Want you to take me from behind,” you moaned, the words laced with urgency, your voice husky from the moans he'd already pulled from you.

He panted, chest heaving, his cock twitching against your thigh as he processed your plea.

“You want that?” he rasped, voice thick with desire, one hand sliding down to squeeze your hip possessively.

You nodded fervently, biting your lip as another wave of need washed over you.

“You want me on top of you?”

“God yes. Want to feel you everywhere,” you confessed, arching into him, your breasts pressing against his chest, nipples pebbling from the contact.

“Okay. Okay baby, let's do this,” he murmured, his tone rough with promise.

With gentle but firm hands, he rolled you over, helping you shift onto your stomach, your cheek pressing into the pillow as you stretched out fully on the bed. Your legs parted instinctively, ass lifting just enough to present yourself to him, the cool air kissing your exposed pussy.

Steve settled behind you, his thighs bracketing yours, the heat of his body blanketing your back as his cock rested heavy along the cleft of your ass, still slick from your arousal. His hands roamed your sides, thumbs tracing the curve of your waist before one slid up to cup your breast, pinching the nipple lightly, while the other gripped your hip, positioning you just right.

Steve lowered his body over yours, the solid heat of his chest pressing against your back as he aligned himself fully behind you. One strong arm braced beside your head, muscles flexing to hold most of his weight off you, while his other hand wrapped around the base of his cock, the thick shaft sliding down from the cleft of your ass to nudge insistently at your slick folds.

He dragged the swollen head through your wetness once more, parting your lips before pressing forward, the tip breaching your entrance with a slow, deliberate push.

The stretch hit you immediately, his girth forcing your walls to yield as the head popped inside, filling you just enough to steal the air from your lungs. Your breath hitched sharply, a gasp escaping as your body tensed around the intrusion, the sensation bordering on overwhelming.

“God, you're big,” you murmured, eyes fluttering shut, lashes brushing your cheeks while you focused on the burn of accommodation, your inner muscles clenching involuntarily around him.

His hand released his cock, leaving it buried to the tip as he reached for yours, fingers seeking and finding your own splayed on the sheets. He laced them together tightly, his grip firm and reassuring, palm rough against your softer skin.

Leaning down, Steve's lips found the curve of your shoulder, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the slope, then trailing up to the sensitive skin at the nape of your neck. His breath fanned hot there, stirring the fine hairs as he nuzzled closer, teeth grazing lightly before soothing with his tongue.

“Breathe for me, doll,” he whispered against your skin, voice low and gravelly, laced with restraint as he held himself still, letting you adjust.

“Let me in. Let me make you feel good.”

You drew in a shaky inhale, the air filling your lungs as you relaxed fractionally, your free hand clutching the pillow beneath your cheek.

The fullness at your core pulsed with each heartbeat, a mix of ache and promise, your arousal easing the way as he began to inch deeper, the veined length of him sliding past your gripping entrance. His hips rocked gently, feeding more of his cock inside with controlled thrusts, the friction igniting sparks along your nerves.

Steve's mouth continued its worship on your back, kissing the knobs of your spine, sucking lightly at the juncture of neck and shoulder, marking you with faint red blooms that would linger as reminders of this moment. Your joined hands squeezed, anchoring you both as he sank further, the weight of him grounding you in the building pleasure, your moans mingling with his soft grunts of effort and desire.

Steve pushed forward with a steady roll of his hips, the remaining length of his thick cock sinking deep into your pussy until his pelvis pressed flush against your ass, his balls nestling heavy against your clit.

The full invasion stretched you wide, every inch of him buried to the hilt, filling you so completely that your walls fluttered around the pulsing heat of him, a deep ache blooming into exquisite pressure that radiated through your core.

He stilled there, his breath ragged against the back of your neck, giving you those precious seconds to adjust to the overwhelming girth splitting you open, your body trembling as it accommodated the sheer size of him, slick arousal coating his shaft and easing the burn into a throbbing need.

His lips brushed your ear, voice dropping to a husky growl as he murmured filthy words against your skin, each one sending fresh sparks of heat coiling in your belly.

“Fuck, doll, your pussy's gripping me so tight, like it never wants to let go,” he rasped, the obscenity vibrating through you, making your inner muscles clench involuntarily around his buried cock, squeezing him in rhythmic pulses that drew a low groan from his throat.

“Gonna ruin this perfect little hole for anyone else– make it mine, all mine.” The dirty promises ignited your arousal further, your hips twitching back instinctively, chasing the fullness as wetness seeped around where he filled you.

“Move, please,” you begged, the words spilling out in a breathless plea, your fingers tightening around his in a desperate squeeze, nails digging into his knuckles as you held on, the interlaced grip your lifeline amid the intensity. The ache inside you demanded friction now, your body craving the slide and drag that would turn the stretch into shattering pleasure.

Steve obliged with a slow, experimental thrust, pulling back just enough to feel your pussy cling to his retreating length before driving forward again, the motion deliberate and controlled, his cock plunging deep once more with a wet, obscene sound.

The sudden glide hit every sensitive spot inside you, the head nudging against that hidden bundle of nerves, and a sharp wave of ecstasy ripped through you, forcing a high, mewling cry from your lips – almost a whimper, raw and unrestrained, your back arching as stars burst behind your closed eyelids.

“You like that?” he murmured into the hollow of your ear, his free hand sliding up your side to cup your breast, thumb circling the hardened nipple as he held himself deep again, the question laced with dark amusement and hunger, his hot breath teasing the shell of your ear while he waited for your response, his cock twitching inside you in anticipation.

“Yes,” you panted, the word escaping in a ragged breath that caught in your throat, your body still reeling from that first thrust.

“Feels – oh! Feels so good, Steve!”

The pleasure crashed over you in waves, your skin prickling with goosebumps as shivers raced down your spine, every nerve ending alight from the way his cock filled you so utterly, the stretch turning into a delicious burn that made your toes curl against the sheets.

Steve's mouth found your shoulders again, his lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the slope of your skin, trailing up to your neck where he nipped gently with his teeth. His free hand gathered the strands of your hair, pushing them aside with a tender sweep to clear the path for his kisses, his breath warm and uneven against your damp flesh as he savored the taste of you, the salt of your sweat mingling with the faint scent of your arousal.

He established a steady rhythm then, his hips snapping forward in measured strokes, pulling his thick cock almost all the way out – enough to let your pussy walls drag along the veined length, clinging desperately – before slamming back in with a forceful push that buried him to the root, his pelvis slapping against your ass with a sharp, wet smack.

Each thrust drove deeper, the head of his cock grinding against your inner walls, hitting that spot inside you that sent jolts of ecstasy sparking through your core, your juices slicking the way and easing the glide while your body adjusted to the relentless pace.

“Been wanting to– ah, fuck,” he groaned, the words breaking off into a guttural moan when your pussy clenched around him again, the involuntary spasm milking his shaft in tight, fluttering squeezes that made his control waver, his fingers tightening in yours as he fought to keep the rhythm.

The sound of his voice, raw and strained, only heightened your own building tension, your hips rocking back to meet his thrusts, chasing the friction that had you gasping.

“God, do that again, baby, please?” he begged, his tone laced with desperate hunger, the plea vibrating against your ear as he leaned over you, his chest brushing your back, the heat of his body enveloping yours like a blanket of fire.

This time, you did it on purpose, focusing on the muscles inside you and contracting them deliberately around his buried cock, squeezing him in a slow, pulsing grip that rippled from base to tip, feeling every ridge and vein throb in response as you held him tight, your arousal dripping down your thighs from the effort.

“Oh, you feel like heaven, doll,” he rasped, the praise spilling out in a low rumble that made your heart stutter, his thrusts picking up speed now, pounding into you with more urgency, the bed creaking under the force as his balls slapped rhythmically against your clit, building the pressure toward an inevitable peak. His hand released your hair to slide down your side, gripping your hip to angle you better, pulling you back onto him with each drive, the interlaced fingers still locked as he anchored you both in the storm of sensation.

Steve's lips returned to your neck, pressing fervent kisses along the sensitive curve where your pulse hammered wildly, his tongue flicking out to taste the sheen of sweat there as he sucked lightly, drawing a fresh wave of heat through your veins. The sensation sent sparks racing down your spine, amplifying the building pressure in your core, your body arching instinctively into him.

You moaned deeply, the sound raw and unrestrained, vibrating from your chest as your fingers clenched tighter around his, nails digging into the back of his hand in a desperate grip, seeking an anchor amid the overwhelming tide of pleasure that threatened to sweep you under.

“Steve,” you gasped out, the warning laced with urgency, your voice breaking on his name as the first tremors of your climax coiled tight in your belly, your pussy fluttering erratically around his plunging cock, the walls gripping him in spasmodic pulses that made your thighs quake.

“I’m– Steve– Gonna–”

“I know, honey,"“he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and ragged as he maintained that relentless rhythm, his hips driving forward with unyielding force, each thrust burying his thick length deeper, the slick sounds of your joined bodies filling the room like a primal symphony.

He didn't falter, didn't slow, instead pushing you closer to the edge with every measured snap of his pelvis against your ass.

“Can feel your pussy squeezing me,” he growled low, the words vibrating through you as his free hand dug into your hip, holding you steady for his assault, his cock stretching you wide with every withdrawal and re-entry, the veined shaft dragging along your inner walls and sending jolts of electricity straight to your clit.

He delivered another powerful thrust then, the head of his cock slamming against that sweet spot deep inside, grinding insistently as his balls slapped wetly against your swollen folds, the impact ripping a cry from your lips.

“God,” he groaned, the exclamation torn from him in a guttural burst, his body tensing above yours as your contractions intensified, milking his dick in rhythmic squeezes that had him shuddering, his control fraying at the edges.

“You gonna drive me crazy. Your cunt feels too fucking good.”

The words, filthy and possessive, tipped you over the brink.

Your orgasm crashed through you like a storm, your pussy clamping down hard around his cock in vise-like waves, convulsing as ecstasy ripped through every nerve, your vision blurring with stars while your body convulsed beneath him. Juices gushed from you, soaking his shaft and dripping down your thighs, your moans turning into breathless sobs of release as the pleasure peaked, leaving you trembling and spent, your inner muscles still twitching in aftershocks.

Steve followed moments later, unable to hold back against the vise of your climax. With a final, deep thrust that seated him fully inside you, he came undone, his cock pulsing as hot spurts of cum flooded your depths, painting your walls with his seed in thick ropes.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, groaning your name like a prayer, his body jerking with each release until he was utterly drained, collapsing partially over you while still lodged deep, both of you panting in the hazy aftermath, the air thick with the scent of sex and satisfaction.

Before his full weight could pin you down in the languid haze of release, Steve shifted with deliberate care, rolling onto his side and easing his spent cock from your pussy in a slow, slick withdrawal that left you feeling achingly empty, a warm trickle of his cum seeping from your folds to dampen the sheets beneath you.

The sensation drew a soft whimper from your lips, your inner walls fluttering in protest at the loss, still sensitive and pulsing from the intensity of your shared climax.

He gathered you close without hesitation, his strong arms wrapping around your trembling form, pulling your sweat-slicked body flush against his chest where his heart thundered steadily, a rhythmic counterpoint to your own ragged breaths.

One hand splayed possessively across the small of your back, fingers tracing lazy circles over your skin, while the other cradled the nape of your neck, tilting your face up to meet his gaze – those blue eyes softened now, filled with a tender affection that contrasted the raw hunger of moments before.

His lips found yours in a gentle kiss, unhurried and deep, his mouth moving with a reverence that spoke of more than just the physical sating; his tongue brushed yours lightly, tasting the salt of your shared exertion, as he poured quiet reassurance into the connection.

You melted into him, your hands sliding up his broad shoulders to tangle in the damp strands of his hair, returning the kiss with equal softness, the world narrowing to the warmth of his embrace and the subtle press of his body against yours, bodies entwined in the quiet aftermath of passion.

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the thin spill of streetlight through the blinds and the soft glow from the hallway you’d forgotten to turn off. The air still felt warm, heavy with the aftermath – quiet in that particular way a room became when it had held too much breath.

You lay tangled together on the bed, bare skin against bare skin, the sheets kicked into a messy heap around your legs. Steve’s mouth was still on yours – slower now, unhurried, like he was making sure you were still here. Like he was learning you in a language that didn’t require urgency.

His hand traced the line of your jaw, knuckles brushing your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest tighten. When you sighed against his lips, he kissed you back, softening into it until the kiss became less about hunger and more about… staying.

Eventually, you pulled away just enough to breathe.

Steve followed, his forehead resting against yours, his thumb still stroking your cheek in an absent, reverent motion.

“Hi,” you whispered, because your brain had decided that was the only safe word in existence right now.

Steve’s answering smile was small, almost shy. “Hi.”

Your laugh came out quiet, shaky around the edges. You tucked yourself closer, as if proximity could make the world stop moving. Steve’s arm tightened around you, pulling you in until you were pressed against his chest, your ear over his heartbeat – steady now, slower than before.

You listened to it for a few seconds, letting it ground you.

Then reality, rude and persistent, slipped back into the room.

You shifted slightly, drawing back just enough to see his face in the low light. “We should talk,” you murmured.

Steve’s eyes opened fully. A flicker of seriousness crossed his features – immediate, attentive, the soldier in him snapping back into place.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Okay.”

Your fingers traced idly over his shoulder, a nervous habit. “We… can’t let this screw up the mission.”

“We won’t,” Steve promised at once, firm. “I won’t let it.”

It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t a denial of what had happened. It was a vow, plain and simple.

You nodded, swallowing. “And when we go back to the base…”

Steve’s jaw tightened. You could see him thinking – logistics, fallout, consequences. Who would notice. Who would talk. How it would change the way people looked at you. At him.

“How do we handle it?” you asked softly.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. He just watched you, eyes moving over your face like he was trying to hold onto every detail.

Then his voice dropped even lower, a whisper meant only for you.

“Honestly?”

“Yeah.”

Steve exhaled, slow. “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked away for half a second, because the words hit too close to what you’d been trying not to want for too long. Then you looked back at him, the truth already climbing out of you like it had been waiting for permission.

“It’s been months,” you admitted, barely audible. “Months since I stopped wanting to be… just your colleague. Or just your friend.”

Steve’s expression softened in a way that made your stomach flip. Like he’d been holding the same confession between his teeth, afraid it would cut someone if he let it go.

His hand slid up to cup your cheek again, thumb brushing beneath your eye with impossible gentleness.

“I’ve always wanted more,” he said, voice rough. “From the moment we–” He hesitated, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to say it. “From the moment our eyes met the first time.”

You stared at him, stunned by how simple he made it sound. How true.

“How long ago was that?” you whispered, half a joke, half a plea.

Steve’s mouth curved faintly. “Long enough.”

Your laugh was breathless. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know,” he murmured, and the way he said it was fond. Warm. Like he’d finally stopped fighting the idea of being happy for five seconds.

Silence settled between you again – thick, intimate. Steve’s thumb kept stroking your cheek like he couldn’t stop, like touching you was an instinct now.

You laced your fingers with his, pressing your palm to the mattress beside your head.

“Okay,” you said softly, as if naming it could make it real without breaking it. “We finish the mission.”

Steve nodded once. “We finish the mission.”

“And when we go back,” you continued, voice steadier, “we don’t hide it.”

His gaze sharpened, searching you. “Are you sure?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

A beat of silence.

Then Steve’s face changed – something like relief sliding through him so visibly it almost hurt to witness. As if he’d been bracing for you to take it back.

He leaned in and kissed you again, not hungry this time. Just grateful. Just certain.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Okay,” he whispered. “No hiding.”

You let out a slow breath. Your heart felt too full, too loud.

“And if anyone has a problem,” you added, because you couldn’t help yourself, “they can–”

Steve’s smile flickered, amused despite himself. “They won’t.”

You huffed softly. “You say that, but…”

The image hit you then – Sam’s face when he found out. The grin. The commentary. The insufferable victory lap.

A smile tugged at your mouth before you could stop it.

“Sam is going to be unbearable,” you said, voice warm with resignation.

Steve’s eyes crinkled at the corners, his thumb still tracing your cheek like he’d never get tired of it. “Yeah.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling. “I’m already regretting telling him later.”

Steve’s hand drifted down, the back of his knuckles brushing your skin as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His gaze stayed locked on yours, steady and tender.

Then, in a low murmur – half promise, half threat – he said, “I’ll make him pay during training.”

Your laugh came out quiet, bright in the darkness.

“Please do,” you whispered.

Steve kissed the corner of your mouth, lingering there as if he didn’t want to move away.

And for the first time since the mission began, the lie felt less like a trap and more like the strange, accidental path that had finally led you somewhere honest.

taglist: @mrsevans90 | @blobfishlol | @phoenix-in-writing | @sassandscribbles | @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog | @pattiemac1 | @fantasyfootballchampion | @theoryxwaller + @elixirfromthestars for the event

The dream of becoming a lawyer had started when you were young. It hadn't started glamorously, no single defining moment, no courtroom drama that changed everything. Although you really did have a knack for binge-watching shows like How to Get Away with Murder and Suits. But the real want had started with the slow, accumulating understanding that the world was not fair, and that fairness was something you had to build rather than wait for, and that the people who built it tended to know the rules better than everyone else. You had decided, young and furious, that you were going to know the rules.

Now, years later, it finally felt within reach.

Last summer you had taken the LSAT. When the score came back — 176 — you had screamed so loudly your roommate came running from the other room convinced something had happened. Something had happened. Everything had happened. Applying to Harvard had been a no-brainer after that, the natural conclusion of four years of work that had never once felt like anything other than work. To say it had all been a dream would be a lie. You had earned every grade, every internship, every recommendation letter. Every achievement had come attached to long nights and sacrificed weekends and more cups of coffee than you were prepared to account for.

Still, every now and then, you allowed yourself a moment to appreciate how far you had come.

Then you remembered the Harvard interview scheduled in just a few weeks, and the knot in your stomach returned immediately. It lived there, that knot had been living there for months, through the application and the waiting and the acceptance, through every good thing that should have dissolved it and didn't. You had stopped expecting it to go away. You had just learned to work around it.

What if you stumbled over your words? What if they asked something you couldn't answer? What if four years of work came down to one bad afternoon?

Which was exactly why Professor Whitaker's announcement nearly made you lose your mind.

The second she wrote Semester Project across the whiteboard, a collective groan spread through the lecture hall. Over the next month, students would work in pairs to complete a research project on the evolution of constitutional rights in the United States , a project worth a significant portion of the final grade.

At any other point in your college career, that would have been merely annoying.

Right now it felt catastrophic.

You could not afford for your GPA to slip. Not when Harvard was finally within reach. Not when everything you had worked for was balanced on the edge of these last few months. And that meant you absolutely could not get stuck with a partner who didn't care like a jock who only cared about a sport, someone who would contribute three bullet points to a shared document at the eleventh hour and disappear for six weeks while your entire future quietly collapsed.

The thought alone made you grimace.

So as Professor Whitaker reached for her roster and began assigning partners, you found yourself doing something you almost never did.

Praying.

"The class will be sorted according to performance on the most recent exam," Professor Whitaker announced, scanning the room over her glasses. "That way the workload stays balanced and the pairing is fair for everyone."

A few students groaned.

You sat a little straighter.

Actually, that wasn't terrible. At least now there was a reasonable chance your partner wouldn't be dead weight. You had carried enough dead weight in your academic career to last a lifetime and you were done with it.

Professor Whitaker called your name first. You looked up from your notebook on instinct, even though she already knew exactly where you were. You hated change. You liked knowing where everything was. You liked routines, systems, the quiet reliability of things being where you left them.

More importantly, you liked being good at things.

Which was why hearing that your partner would be someone on your level was oddly comforting. Most of your life had been spent balancing on a very thin line between confidence and crippling self-doubt. On good days, you knew you were intelligent. On bad days, you were convinced everyone else was smarter and better than you. The trick was not letting either version get too loud.

Professor Whitaker glanced down at her roster.

The next five seconds would remain engraved in your frontal lobe for at least thirty years.

"Dean DiLaurentis."

Silence.

Jesus H. Christ.

Your head snapped up. Not because you needed to find him. You already knew exactly where he was sitting. You always knew where he was sitting, a fact you had never examined too closely and were not going to start examining now.

Middle of the sixth row. Today he was wearing a green cardigan over a white t-shirt, looking far too comfortable for someone who had just become the source of your newest academic crisis. He was mid-conversation with Beau Maxwell when his name was called, laughing at something, completely unaware that your entire carefully managed semester had just been handed to him without his consent or yours.

Dean turned around.

Then he smiled.

That smile. The one that belonged on toothpaste advertisements and nowhere else, the smile of someone who had never once in his life worried about whether he was welcome somewhere. It was the kind of smile that assumed the answer before the question had been asked, and it had always, privately, made you want to argue with it.

His eyes found yours immediately.

The realization landed half a second later, oh, you're my partner, and his grin widened, and then, because apparently the universe had a sense of humor that you had never personally found funny:

He winked.

He actually winked.

You stared back at him with the expression of someone who had just been personally wronged by the laws of probability.

You knew Dean. Not personally, god forbid. But you knew of him, the way everyone knew of him. Hockey player. Trust fund. Chronic flirt. The kind of person who walked into a room and somehow became the room. Loud and charming and surrounded by people at all times, the social gravity of someone who had never once had to earn a seat at the table.

Meanwhile, you considered making eye contact with strangers a form of cardio.

This could not be right. There had to be a mistake. How could Dean DiLaurentis possibly have a grade comparable to yours?

You spent your Friday nights in the library. You color-coded your notes by subject, by date, by relevance. You had cried over constitutional law, like actual tears, in the bathroom of the third floor study room, alone at eleven pm because that was what it cost and you had paid it without complaint.

Dean spent his weekends at hockey games and parties.

The math simply wasn't mathing.

Unless.

Oh.

Oh, god.

He was sleeping with the TA.

That had to be it. Everything suddenly made horrifying, perfect sense. The TA was a graduate student from somewhere in the Midwest who had spoken to you exactly three times all semester, and every single interaction had felt like she was being held at gunpoint. If Dean was somehow managing to maintain a functional relationship with her —

Honestly? He deserved the extra credit for that alone.

Three months earlier, it had started.

Professor Whitaker had a specific way of running discussion that you had privately categorized as controlled chaos. She threw a question into the room and stepped back and let whoever was going to talk, talk, with the quiet authority of someone who already knew what she thought and was waiting to see if anyone else did. The lecture hall always felt different during these sessions. Bigger somehow, the overhead lights slightly too bright, the charged quality of a room full of people deciding whether to say the thing they were thinking.

You almost always said the thing you were thinking.

Today the question was about Shelley v. Kraemer.

You had opinions about Shelley v. Kraemer.

"The court got it right," you said, when Whitaker's gaze landed on you. "State enforcement of a racially restrictive covenant is state action. The fourteenth amendment doesn't care that the covenant itself was private — the moment a court steps in to enforce it, the state is complicit. You can't separate the two."

Whitaker nodded — the small, noncommittal nod that meant continue or let someone else.

"I'd push back on that a little."

You turned.

Dean had his pen between two fingers, not quite raised, the posture of someone making a point rather than asking permission. He was looking at Whitaker, not at you, which was somehow more irritating than if he had been looking at you directly. Like the argument was with the room rather than with you specifically. Like you were incidental.

"The ruling is right," he said, "but the reasoning has a ceiling. If state enforcement equals state action, you've created a framework that depends entirely on whether someone decides to litigate. The protection isn't structural, it's reactive. It only exists if someone can afford to fight for it."

The room was quiet for a moment.

You became aware, distantly, that your jaw had tightened.

"That's not a flaw in the ruling," you said. "That's a flaw in the system the ruling exists inside of."

"Sure." Dean looked at you then, for the first time. His eyes were steady, interested in a way that wasn't performative. "But you're writing a decision, not a philosophy paper. The decision has to function in the system it's handed to."

"So your position is that the court should have ruled differently because the system might not implement it correctly."

"My position is that a protection that requires money and access to activate isn't really a protection." He said it evenly, without heat. "I thought that would be something you'd agree with."

The last sentence landed differently than the rest.

Not unkind. Not pointed exactly. Just specific, in a way that implied he had thought about what you would and wouldn't agree with, which was a thing he should not have been thinking about. Which meant he had been paying attention quietly and consistently.

Whitaker moved on.

You looked back at your notes and wrote nothing for the remainder of class. Outside the lecture hall windows the sky was the flat white of a November afternoon, and you sat with the particular discomfort of someone who had just been surprised by a person they had already decided to understand.

That was when it had started. Which meant that three months later, sitting in the lecture hall watching him smile at you like you were a problem he was looking forward to solving, you did not have the excuse of not knowing better.

The lecture hall emptied in a slow, shuffling wave that you had no patience for.

You were already packing your bag when you heard him.

"So." Dean dropped into the empty seat beside yours with the casual confidence of someone who had never once been unwelcome anywhere. He turned to face you, one arm resting on the back of the chair, bringing with him the faint smell of something clean, something woody, or the cold outside air. "Partners."

"Observant," you said, without looking up from your notebook.

He made a small sound, not quite a laugh, not quite not one. You could feel him watching you with that specific brand of unhurried attention that probably worked on most people and was currently working on you in ways you were categorically refusing to acknowledge.

"We should exchange numbers," he said. "Figure out when we can meet."

"I have time Thursday afternoon." You zipped your bag closed. "After three."

"Thursday I've got practice until five." He pulled out his phone, apparently unbothered. "What about evenings?"

"Tuesdays and Thursdays I tutor until nine." You finally looked at him. "Weekends I pick up extra sessions when I can."

Something shifted in his expression, brief, almost imperceptible. Not pity. Something more like recalibration, the specific adjustment of someone updating a model they had been working from.

You watched him process it and kept your face completely neutral, the way you always did when people did the math on your schedule and realized there was no give in it, no free afternoon that existed just for the sake of existing. You didn't need him to feel bad about it. You just needed him to understand that his time was not the only time being managed here.

"Okay," Dean said, and to his credit, he didn't make it weird. "Wednesday? I'm free after two."

"I have a session at two."

"After three, then."

You considered this. "Three. Library. Third floor."

"Done." He held out his hand for your phone with the easy expectation of someone who had never once been told no and somehow, inexplicably, made that feel more like charm than arrogance.

You looked at his hand for exactly one beat longer than necessary.

Then you unlocked your phone and placed it in his palm, your fingers brushing his warm hand briefly.

"Don't put anything weird in my contacts," you said.

Dean smiled and typed with the focused, two-thumbed efficiency of someone taking the instruction very seriously.

He handed it back.

You looked down.

Dean DiLaurentis 🏒 (ur partner deal with it)

You stared at it for a long moment.

"Truly," you said, "a legal mind."

He laughed then , a real one, surprised out of him, and stood to leave, shouldering his bag. He paused at the end of the row and looked back at you with the expression of someone who was about to say something and had decided against it.

"Wednesday, then."

"Wednesday," you confirmed, already looking back at your notes.

You did not watch him go.

You listened to his footsteps until you couldn't anymore and then looked back at your notebook and found the page completely blank.

By the time Wednesday rolled around, you had done the mental gymnastics of calculating exactly how much this project was going to cost you. Not much, you had decided. You were already at maximum stress capacity between the Harvard interview and the end of semester closing in, so there was simply no room left for anything Dean DiLaurentis-related to take up residence.

This was the conclusion you had reached.

You woke up early anyway, restless, and got ready with the focused efficiency of someone who was absolutely not anxious about a study session. In the kitchen, Elisa was at the stove, hair still in a braid from the night before, doing something that smelled like butter and brown sugar.

"Morning, sugar plum." She turned and pointed her spatula in your direction. "Do you want to have breakfast with me?"

Elisa was the easiest person you had ever lived with, which was not something you said lightly. You had moved into her house sophomore year knowing no one and she had made you feel like you had been there the whole time. Wednesdays were her day off no classes, no obligations, and she spent them cooking elaborate things and playing at domesticity in a way that you found deeply comforting. She called them the Tradwife Wednesdays, in a joking manner.

"I can't, I have a class I can't miss." You grabbed your bag from the hook by the door. "Sorry."

"That's okay." She stirred something. "Are you coming back for lunch? I'm trying a new caesar salad recipe I found on TikTok. Caesar 2.0."

"I can't do lunch either. I have a study session at noon."

"Bring your partner. We can all have caesar salad 2.0."

"My partner is —" you paused, already regretting what you were about to say — "Dean DiLaurentis."

Elisa put down the spatula.

"Shut up."

"I'm not going to —"

"No way. You hate him."

"I don't hate him."

"Despise, then."

"Not even that." You pulled on your jacket. "I don't care about him at all. He just exists in the same world as me."

"Sure," Elisa said, in the tone she used when she was humoring you. She picked up the spatula again. "Ask him if he remembers our little trip in the Mystery Machine."

"Goodbye, Elisa."

"Caesar salad is on the table if you change your —"

You closed the door.

session one

He was already there when you arrived.

That was the first thing that threw you off, small and inconvenient, the kind of detail that shouldn't matter and did anyway. Dean DiLaurentis, sitting at the table you had specifically chosen because it was tucked into the back corner of the third floor, away from foot traffic and group study noise and every possible social distraction. You had chosen it because it was your table, the one you came to when you needed to actually work, claimed over three years of afternoons and late nights. The carpet near the window had a worn patch from your chair. You knew which overhead light buzzed slightly and had learned to tune it out.

He was sitting in your chair.

He had a coffee on each side of the table.

Two coffees.

You stopped.

"I didn't know your order," he said, not looking up. "So I got you black. You seem like a black coffee person."

You were a black coffee person.

You sat down without commenting on it and pulled out your laptop.

"I started an outline," Dean said. "Sent it to your email."

You opened it without responding. It was actually structured. Clean headers, logical progression. You stared at it for a moment longer than you intended, turning it over, looking for the flaw. There wasn't one.

"You cited Marbury v. Madison in the intro," you said.

"It's foundational."

"It's also the first thing every professor expects to see. It makes us look like we opened the textbook once and called it a day."

He looked up then. "So where would you put it?"

"Section three. After we've established the framework."

Dean looked at the outline. Then back at you. "...Yeah, okay."

You pulled it up on your own screen and started restructuring. He watched for a second, then turned back to his own laptop without making it a thing, and something about that: the absence of wounded ego, the lack of argument, the simple yeah, okay, was quietly unexpected.

You worked in silence for a while. A real silence, the functional kind, punctuated only by typing and the occasional ambient noise of the floor around you, someone whispering two tables over, the elevator arriving and departing, the hush of a library in the afternoon when the day outside has gone grey.

At some point he shifted in his seat and his foot knocked against yours under the table. He pulled it back immediately, said a distracted sorry without looking up, and kept typing.

You looked back at your screen.

Ten minutes later it happened again his foot finding yours under the table, settling against it with the absent, unthinking quality of someone who wasn't paying attention to their own body. This time he didn't notice. Or didn't move. You couldn't tell which.

You didn't move either.

You looked at your screen and read the same sentence four times and told yourself it was nothing, the table was small, it meant nothing at all.

His ankle was warm against yours for the rest of the session.

An hour passed, and then another. The coffee went cold. The light through the window shifted from afternoon grey to early evening grey, and you were deep enough in the due process section that you had stopped noticing either.

"Take a break," Dean said, without looking up.

"I don't need a break."

"You've reread that page four times."

You looked up. He was still looking at his notes, which meant he had been paying attention to you without appearing to pay attention to you, which was somehow worse than if he had just been watching you openly.

You closed the case study.

"Fine," you said. "Break."

Dean leaned back in his chair all the way back, with the easy, unhurried comfort of someone who had never had to fight for a seat at any table he wanted to sit at. You had noticed that about him early, the specific posture of someone for whom things had always been available, every room an environment that had been pre-adjusted to suit him. It was the kind of thing that was difficult not to notice when you had spent your entire life doing the opposite.

"You know," you said, mostly because the silence was starting to feel companionable in a way you weren't ready for, "you hooked up with a friend of mine once."

Dean looked up. Something shifted in his expression mild interest, maybe the faintest trace of wariness. "Oh really."

"Daphne."

A pause. He turned the name over, and you watched the moment he didn't find it.

"I don't remember," he said.

"She was dressed as Daphne for Halloween. You were, surprisingly, dressed as Fred."

Something cleared in his expression. "Halloween two years ago?"

"That would be the one."

He considered this with the equanimity of someone who had made peace with a certain kind of personal history. "Can I ask why you're bringing this up?"

"No particular reason." You picked up your cold coffee. "Can you even remember her name?"

"I just said I couldn't."

"Right." You set the coffee back down. "Well. For the record."

Dean looked at you for a moment with the expression you were already starting to recognize the one that meant he was deciding whether to say the thing he was thinking. He usually said it.

"You know," he said, "you hooked up with a friend of mine too."

You kept your expression very neutral. "Did I."

"Garrett."

"We made out at a party freshman year," you said, with the patience of someone correcting a factual error. "Did he tell you we hooked up?"

"He didn't say anything." Dean's mouth curved slightly. "I saw you two leaving and made an assumption."

"A wrong one."

"Clearly." He tilted his head. "So. Has Daphne said anything? About her experience."

You considered the question with the gravity it deserved.

"She tried to tell me," you said. "I didn't want to hear it."

"So she didn't give a great review."

"Ravishing," you said pleasantly. "It almost made me want to sleep with you too." You paused. "But then I remembered I have something called self-respect."

Dean laughed a real one, sudden and unguarded. It was, you noted with some irritation, a genuinely good laugh. Warm and surprised, the laugh of someone who had not seen it coming and was delighted by that fact. The kind of laugh that made you want to have caused it again.

"That's funny," he said.

"I know."

He was still smiling when he looked back down at his notes. You looked back at your case study. The library settled back into its particular silence the low buzz of the overhead light, the distant elevator, thirty people pretending they weren't exhausted but something had shifted in the quality of it. Imperceptibly, the way temperature changes in a room before anyone acknowledges it's warmer.

You didn't say anything about it.

Neither did he.

Twenty minutes later he slid his notes across the table, pointing out something you had missed without making it feel like a correction. You leaned in to look without thinking about leaning in and then you were close, closer than you had been all session, his shoulder warm against yours, and you could see the slight curl of his handwriting on the page and the way his finger traced the line he was pointing to, and you became aware very suddenly of his hands. How big they were. How deliberate.

You had not thought about his hands before. Or you had thought about them in passing and moved on. But up close, right now, pointing at a citation on a page they were careful and unhurried, the kind that did things with attention.

You looked at the citation.

"You're right," you said. "Good catch."

He glanced at you sideways, briefly, with that expression.

You both looked back at the page.

Neither of you moved away.

It was near the end of the session when it happened. You were flagging sources, half your attention on the screen, the room around you reduced to the low hum of concentration, when Dean said, mostly to himself, still reading:

"You always sit in the same seat."

You glanced up. "What?"

He seemed to catch himself, just barely, a slight tensing around his jaw. "In Whitaker's class. Third row, right side, second from the aisle. Every lecture."

The air shifted in a way that was difficult to name. Outside the library window the sky had gone fully dark, the glass reflecting the room back at you, two people at a table, closer than they had been three hours ago, the space between them negotiated down to nothing without either of them signing off on it.

"I like consistency," you said, after a beat.

"Yeah." He looked back at his screen. Something in his jaw had gone slightly careful. "I know."

I know.

Two words. Completely neutral on the surface and yet carrying the specific weight of something that had not been meant to be said out loud. Not an admission exactly. More like a door opened a half-inch before he caught it and eased it shut , slowly enough that you both knew it had moved.

You looked at him for a moment.

He did not look back up.

"We should finish the first amendment section," you said.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Probably."

You both looked at your screens.

Neither of you said anything else about it.

You packed up at eight-fifteen, twenty minutes later than planned. The third floor was empty by then, the overhead lights on their late setting. You walked to the elevator in a silence that had become, somewhere in the last six hours, a different kind of silence entirely, not neutral, not loaded, just inhabited.

In the elevator he stood beside you with his shoulder against yours, the same way it had been at the table, and neither of you shifted. The floor numbers climbed down. You looked straight ahead.

His ankle had been warm against yours for three hours and you had not moved away once.

You filed that under the place where you kept everything you weren't ready to examine yet.

session two

The second study session had started with considerably less hostility than the first, which you were choosing not to read into.

It was late afternoon again, the library emptying out around you as people made the reasonable decision to leave, and you and Dean had been working for three hours straight with the focused efficiency of two people who were both too competitive to be the first to suggest stopping. The case briefs were spread across the table in a system that was half yours and half his and somehow, irritatingly, better than either would have been alone. Your color-coded tabs and his margin notes. Your precision and his instinct for where an argument wanted to go.

You had noticed that yesterday too. Filed it away.

What you had not filed away or had tried to and failed was the moment an hour into the session when he had reached across you to grab a case brief from your side of the table without asking, and his arm had crossed in front of you close enough that you felt the warmth of it before it was gone. He hadn't noticed. He had grabbed the brief and gone back to his side of the table and kept reading, completely unaware.

You had read the same paragraph for twelve minutes after that.

"Okay," Dean said, dropping his pen and leaning back. "Break."

"We just had a break."

"That was an hour ago."

You looked at the time. It had been an hour and twenty minutes, which meant you had lost track of time, which meant you had been absorbed enough in the work — in the conversation around the work, the back and forth of it, the way he argued a point and actually listened when you argued back — that the time had disappeared without asking permission.

You put your pen down.

"Fine," you said. "Break."

Dean stretched his arms above his head with the unselfconscious ease of someone completely comfortable in his own body, the cardigan riding up slightly, a sliver of skin at his waist, the line of his shoulders, the way his head fell back for a moment, which you observed in a purely detached and analytical capacity and then looked at the ceiling.

"So," he said. "Harvard Law."

"What about it."

"That's the goal?"

"That's the goal," you confirmed.

He nodded slowly, with an expression that was hard to read. Then, in a voice of complete casual confidence: "What, like it's hard?"

You turned to look at him.

He was already smiling.

"That's the second time today," you said, "that you have made a Legally Blonde reference."

"Is it?"

"You quoted it earlier when I said the admissions rate was three percent."

"I don't remember that."

"Dean."

"It's a great film."

You looked at him for a moment. "Is it your favorite movie?"

"Top two," he said, without hesitation. "Just after Top Gun."

You stared at him. Dean DiLaurentis. Hockey player, pre-law, top of the class, sitting in the library surrounded by case briefs, whose top two films were Legally Blonde and Top Gun.

"God," you said.

He laughed. "What?"

"Nothing." You picked up your pen. "It explains a lot actually."

"Does it."

"The confidence," you said, gesturing vaguely at him. "The hair. The complete inability to walk into a room without knowing exactly how you're going to be received." You paused. "You've watched both of those films a concerning number of times, haven't you."

Dean pointed at you. "Elle Woods and Pete Mitchell are two of the most —"

"Please don't finish that sentence."

"— compelling character studies in the history of American cinema."

You laughed and put your head down on the table.

His laugh was warm and close and you could feel it more than hear it, and when you looked up he was leaning on his elbow facing you — close, comfortable in the way he had gotten over the past two sessions, close enough that you could see the specific color of his eyes in the library light, and the way they crinkled at the corners when he was actually amused rather than performing it. The late afternoon light was doing something completely unreasonable to his face — the angles of it, the warmth of it, and you looked back at your notes with the focused energy of someone making a deliberate choice.

"Back to work," you said.

"Back to work," he agreed.

But he was still smiling when he turned back to his notes, and you were very carefully not smiling, and the library was quiet around you in that way it had been yesterday, warmer than it should have been, the silence between you easier than it had any right to be.

Top two, you thought, against your will. Just after Top Gun.

God help you.

You made it another forty minutes before it went sideways.

It started, as these things often did, over something small.

Dean wanted to include a law review article you thought was analytically weak. You had said so. He had disagreed. It had escalated with the particular efficiency of two people who were very good at arguing and had been carefully not arguing for weeks, the pressure of it finding the first available exit.

"It's not a weak source," Dean said, for the second time. "You just don't like the conclusion."

"I don't like the conclusion because the methodology doesn't support it. There's a difference."

"You've said that. You haven't explained it."

"I sent you three paragraphs —"

"You sent me three paragraphs about why you were right," he said. "That's not the same thing."

You looked up from your laptop. He was looking back at you with the expression that meant he was done being patient, and something about that, the specific quality of it, the fact that he was allowed to be done being patient when you had been managing your frustration for weeks —

"You know what, it doesn't matter," you said. "Include it. It's fine."

"Don't do that."

"Do what."

"Shut down and say it's fine when it's not fine." He closed his laptop halfway. "If you have a problem with the source, say it."

"I have a problem with a lot of things," you said, and it came out with an edge you hadn't entirely intended. "I have a problem with the fact that I have no idea how much of this grade I'm actually carrying."

The air in the room changed entirely. The low buzz of the overhead light was suddenly very audible.

Dean went very still. "What does that mean."

It means I've been doing this alone my whole life and I don't know how to stop assuming I'm about to have to do it again. That was what it meant. That was not what came out.

"It means," you said, and your voice was measured in the way it got when you were saying something you couldn't take back, "that I don't actually know how you scored high enough on that exam to get paired with me."

Silence.

Dean looked at you. Something moved behind his eyes, not hurt exactly. The thing that came just before.

"Say what you mean," he said quietly.

And because you were frustrated and tired and the Harvard interview was in two weeks and you had been holding this assumption for long enough that it had started to feel like fact —

"I thought maybe you were sleeping with the TA."

The silence that followed was a different kind entirely. Heavy and still, the kind that has a shape.

Dean sat back. He looked at you for a long moment with an expression you had never seen on him before — not the easy charm, not the careful attention, not the almost-smile. Something stripped of all of that, all the way down.

"I got a ninety-four on that exam," he said. "I got a ninety-four because I studied for it. I study for all of them." A pause. Each word placed with precision. "I know you think I'm here because of my last name or my hockey stats or whoever you've decided I'm sleeping with. I know that's easier than just —" he stopped. Exhaled slowly. "I've been doing the work. I've been here every session. I don't know what else you want from me."

You opened your mouth.

"And the TA," he said, " she has a girlfriend. So."

He opened his laptop again. The sound of it was very loud in the quiet room.

You looked at your screen. The cursor blinked in the document you had been sharing for two weeks, both your names in the top corner. You were acutely, uncomfortably aware of the specific kind of wrong you had just been.

Not about the source.

About him.

"Dean —"

"First amendment section," he said. Not cold. Not cruel. Just done. "Let's just finish."

You looked at him for a moment.

"Yeah," you said quietly. "Okay."

The Legally Blonde conversation felt like it had happened in a different library entirely.

Top two, he had said, and laughed, and looked at you like you were something worth looking at.

You stared at the cursor and said nothing else.

Neither did he.

session three

The third session was on a Tuesday.

You knew because Tuesdays you tutored until nine, which meant you had come straight from the library's second floor where you had spent an hour and a half walking a freshman through the commerce clause, and you were tired in the specific way of someone who had been performing competence for other people all day and had very little left over for themselves.

You had also been thinking about what you said for five days straight.

Not continuously. Like something that sits in the back of your mind and surfaces at inconvenient moments — in the shower, between tutoring sessions, at two in the morning when you should have been sleeping and instead were staring at the ceiling cataloguing every assumption you had ever made about Dean DiLaurentis and finding most of them wanting. I thought maybe you were sleeping with the TA. The words had a particular quality in retrospect, the quality of something that could not be unsaid, that existed now in the permanent record of things he knew about you.

You pushed open the door to the third floor reading room and told yourself you were fine.

Dean was already there.

Of course he was. He was always already there, with his laptop open and his notes spread out in the handwriting you had become, against your will, familiar with, slightly left-leaning, inconsistent spacing, somehow completely legible. He looked up when you came in. The room smelled like old paper and the particular warmth of a space that had been occupied for a while, and the overhead light buzzed its familiar note.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," you said back.

You sat down. Not beside him, you took the chair across the table, the one you had started in, back when the table felt like a neutral territory that required a border. You pulled out your laptop and opened the shared document and did not look at him.

He did not comment on the seating arrangement.

That was somehow worse than if he had.

You worked. The session had the functional efficiency of two people who were both too professional to let personal things affect the work, which meant the work was fine and everything around it was not. He passed you sources without commentary. You flagged edits without explanation. The back and forth that had become almost conversational — the small arguments, the digressions, the way he said okay when you made a point he couldn't refute — was gone.

The overhead light buzzed. Someone turned a page three tables over.

Around the forty-minute mark he said, "the due process section needs another source."

"I know," you said. "I'm looking."

"I found one this morning. Sent it to your email."

"I haven't checked yet."

"It's good."

"Okay."

Silence.

You checked your email. The source was good. You added it to the document without saying so and heard, very faintly, the sound of him exhaling.

An hour passed like that.

You had just pulled up a new case brief when Dean leaned back in his chair and said, to no one in particular, "I don't actually care about the TA."

You looked up.

He was looking at the ceiling, not at you, with the expression of someone who had decided to say a thing and was committed to the delivery. "I just want you to know that. In case it was still sitting there."

Outside the library window, the campus was dark and wet with recent rain, the paths lit amber under the streetlights.

"It was sitting there," you admitted.

"Yeah." He brought his gaze down to his notes. "I figured."

"Dean —"

"You don't have to." He said it simply, without edge. "I'm fine. I just didn't want it to be weird for the rest of the semester."

"It's already a little weird," you said.

"I know."

Another silence — but this one had more air in it, the quality of a silence that had been cleared rather than accumulated.

"I'm going to apologize properly," you said. "I just haven't figured out how yet."

Dean was quiet for a moment. Then, very carefully, not quite a smile: "Does it involve food."

You said nothing.

"It does," he said. "Okay."

"Back to work," you said.

"Back to work."

You heard her before you saw her.

The click of heels on library floor that had nothing to do with studying, moving with the purposeful energy of someone who had a destination and knew exactly what they wanted when they got there. You didn't look up. You were in the middle of a paragraph and you had a system and you were not going to lose your place.

The heels stopped at your table.

"Hey." Not directed at you. You turned a page. "I've been looking for you."

"Hey." Dean's voice, easy and careful. "Didn't know you were on campus today."

"I wasn't. Now I am." A pause with a specific texture. "Come outside for like five minutes."

"I can't right now, we're working."

We. You noted the word and kept reading.

"Five minutes," she said again. "It's not a big deal."

"I know it's not. I just can't right now."

You turned another page. The paragraph was about tort law and you had read the same sentence three times and retained nothing.

"Dean —"

"Seriously." His voice was still easy but there was something underneath it now, something with weight. "I'll text you later, okay?"

A silence. The kind that meant she was deciding something.

"Who even is she?" The question was directed at you. You looked up for the first time, because that was directed at you, and you had opinions about being spoken about in the third person by someone standing four feet away.

The girl was pretty in the specific, polished way of someone who had never had to try very hard at it. She was looking at you with an expression that was more curious than hostile, which somehow made it worse.

"His project partner," you said pleasantly. "We have a deadline."

"It's literally five minutes —"

"We're aware of how long five minutes is," you said, in the tone you had been practicing for courtrooms. "He said he'll text you. The reading room is a shared space and we're trying to work, so." You smiled. "Thank you."

The girl looked at you. Looked at Dean. Looked back at you with an expression that had shifted into something more speculative, something that said she understood more than you had intended to reveal.

Then she left.

The heels clicked back across the library floor and faded, and the room settled back into its particular silence, and you looked back at your notes with the focused energy of someone who had not just done what they had just done.

From across the table, nothing.

You turned a page.

More nothing.

You looked up.

Dean was looking at his notes with the carefully neutral expression of someone using every available resource not to smile.

"What," you said.

"Nothing."

"Say whatever you're going to say."

"I'm not going to say anything."

"Dean."

"I'm just —" He pressed his mouth closed. The not-smile was winning. "Thank you for your help."

"I didn't do it for you," you said immediately. "She was interrupting. It was annoying."

"Completely understandable."

"I would have done the same for anyone."

"Of course."

"It had nothing to do with —" You stopped. "We have three more pages to get through."

"We do," Dean agreed, in the voice of someone being very, very agreeable.

You looked back at your notes.

I would have done the same for anyone.

You were a pre-law student. You were supposed to be good at arguments.

That one had convinced neither of you.

You packed up at nine-fifteen, later than planned, and Dean walked out with you the way he had started doing without either of you deciding he would.

"She's no one," Dean said, when the elevator arrived. Not defensive. Just offered.

You stepped inside. "You don't have to explain yourself to me."

"I know." The doors closed. "I wanted to anyway."

You looked at the floor number climbing. He looked straight ahead. The elevator was small and you were standing close , his arm against yours, the cedar smell of him in the enclosed space, and something about the cleared air of the session, the I'm going to apologize properly, the we he had said without thinking, settled between you like something that had decided to stay.

The doors opened.

"Wednesday," you said.

"Wednesday," he confirmed.

You walked out into the night and did not look back.

You were going to need a very good cake.

session four

It was week four of the project, and Dean had gone back to sitting beside you, in the most inconspicuous way possible.

It had been gradual and deniable at every individual step. First the chair had been angled slightly toward yours. Then it had migrated. Now your thighs brushed every time either of you shifted, and you were acutely, unhelpfully aware of the warmth of his forearm against yours, the cedar-and-cold-air smell of him that you had catalogued in the first session and had been trying unsuccessfully to un-catalogue since.

Things had been a little strange since the fight.

The fight you had caused. With assumptions you had made. About a TA who, it turned out, had a girlfriend.

You had settled, eventually, on cake — specifically the lemon cake Elisa had made that morning, wrapped in foil and sitting on the table between your laptops like a small citrus-scented olive branch, which Dean had looked at when you arrived and had not yet commented on.

You had not told him it was Elisa's. You were not going to examine why.

"So," you started.

Dean looked up from his laptop.

"I would like to apologize."