Est relationship with Stucky, like cute little house in upstate, we no longer have some apartment in the city
The boys both itching, FERAL tbh for a child but can’t decide who should get reader pregnant first, and say the decision is hers, but she doesn’t wanna make the decision.
Eventually the guys just find her anywhere in the house they can, free use if you will 👀, but they got the weeks mixed up, thinking she’d already gotten her birth control removed and hasn’t yet, so the whole week reader just thinks the boys are a little extra horny and not actively trying for a baby already 🤣
The little house in upstate New York is everything the three of you once swore you’d never want.
Too quiet. Too slow. Too far from the city.
Now, it’s your favorite thing in the world.
Steve built the wraparound porch with his own hands that first summer after all of you moved in. Bucky planted a garden he pretends not to care about but glares at viciously anytime a rabbit gets near the tomatoes. You painted the kitchen cabinets sage green during a rainstorm while both of them hovered nearby pretending not to panic every time you climbed onto the counters.
It’s home.
And apparently—if the increasingly unhinged behavior of your husbands is anything to go by—they’ve decided it’s also the perfect place to raise a baby.
The problem is that both Steve and Bucky desperately want to be the one to get you pregnant first.
Which would honestly be less stressful if they weren’t both gigantic supersoldiers with the patience of horny medieval kings.
“You decide,” Steve had said one night while all three of you were tangled together in bed, his hand spread over your stomach beneath one of Bucky’s old shirts. “Whatever you want, sweetheart.”
“Yeah,” Bucky agreed immediately, though his eyes had gone dark with something possessive and aching. “Your choice, doll.”
Absolutely not.
Because how are you supposed to choose between them?
Steve, who kisses you like devotion itself. Steve, who already leaves little domestic notes around the house in that careful handwriting of his. Steve, who pauses outside baby aisles in stores without realizing he’s doing it.
And Bucky—
God.
Bucky who melts every time he sees neighborhood kids selling lemonade. Bucky who once spent an hour repairing a little girl’s bike chain at the farmers market. Bucky who cups your belly absentmindedly during movies like he’s imagining something there already.
You refuse to pick.
Which leads to the current situation.
Namely: chaos.
“Baby,” Steve says one morning while you’re trying to make coffee, broad chest pressed against your back as he kisses slowly down your neck. “You smell good.”
“It’s maple syrup.”
“Mhm,” he hums, unconcerned.
Bucky appears three seconds later wearing gray sweats and absolutely no shame. His hair is still messy from sleep, blue eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.
“Move,” he mutters to Steve.
“You move.”
You snort into your coffee mug as they immediately start bickering around you.
This has been happening for a week straight.
They keep cornering you all over the house with that same hungry energy simmering under their skin. Against the laundry room counter while the dryer runs. Bent over the kitchen island while dinner burns forgotten on the stove. Half asleep in the middle of the afternoon because Bucky decided seeing you in tiny sleep shorts was apparently enough to end civilization.
Not that you’re complaining.
Your husbands have always been affectionate, always touchy, but lately they’ve been downright feral.
Steve keeps staring at your stomach with blown pupils.
Bucky’s become obsessed with pulling you into his lap every chance he gets, murmuring soft filthy things into your skin about how pretty you’d look carrying one of their babies someday.
You just assume they’re going through another one of their mutually destructive horny phases.
Until Thursday night.
“You okay?” you laugh breathlessly as Steve all but carries you into the bedroom after dinner. “Jesus, both of you are acting insane this week.”
“Can’t help it,” Bucky says immediately.
He’s already kissing at your jaw while Steve crowds close behind you, huge hands sliding under your shirt.
There’s heat everywhere. Warm skin. Familiar hands. The low murmur of their voices surrounding you until your thoughts go soft around the edges.
“Need you,” Steve says against your mouth.
“Always need you,” Bucky corrects roughly.
You smile into the kiss, fingers curling into Steve’s shirt.
“Sweet talkers.”
Neither of them answer.
Instead, Steve glances over your shoulder toward Bucky with a strange look.
A look that says something.
Bucky freezes.
“…What?” you ask immediately.
“Nothing,” Steve says too fast.
Your eyes narrow.
“Steven.”
Bucky groans under his breath. “We might’ve made a mistake.”
“A mistake,” you repeat slowly.
Steve rubs the back of his neck, looking bizarrely guilty for a man built like Captain America.
“We thought this was the week.”
“The week for what?”
Silence.
Then Bucky says, very carefully, “Thought you got your birth control removed already.”
Your mouth falls open.
“What?”
Steve winces.
“We got the dates mixed up.”
You stare at both of them.
Then at the two supersoldiers currently looking at you like teenage boys caught sneaking in past curfew.
“…You thought you were actively trying to get me pregnant this whole week?”
Bucky actually has the audacity to look sheepish.
“We may have gotten a little excited.”
“A little—”
You break off with a disbelieving laugh.
“Oh my god.”
Suddenly the past seven days replay in horrifying clarity.
The possessiveness. The constant touching. The way Steve kept staring at your stomach like he was already planning nursery paint colors. The way Bucky nearly purred every time he kissed between your thighs.
“You idiots.”
Steve starts laughing first.
That deep warm laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes.
Bucky follows a second later, hiding his grin against your shoulder while you swat uselessly at his chest.
“You seriously didn’t notice?” he asks.
“No! I thought you two were just extra horny!”
“We were extra horny,” Steve admits.
“Very,” Bucky agrees.
You groan, covering your face with both hands while they crowd close around you again, impossibly affectionate.
“Okay,” Steve says softly, pulling your hands away. “In our defense…”
“There is no defense.”
“…we really want this.”
That knocks the teasing right out of you.
Because beneath the humor and the confusion and the disastrously mixed-up schedules, there’s something achingly sincere in both their expressions.
Hope.
Love.
A future.
Bucky brushes his knuckles along your cheek gently. “But no pressure, doll. We meant it before. Your choice.”
Steve nods immediately. “Always your choice.”
Your chest aches a little at that.
At these men. At this home. At the life all three of you built together after so much loss and loneliness and war.
You look between them before smiling slowly.
“Good,” you murmur. “Because I still refuse to choose who goes first.”
Bucky groans dramatically.
Steve laughs.
And then both of them are kissing you at the exact same time like they’ve already won anyway.
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(E-Rated but the smut is marked for easy skipping.)
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Chapter 62: To Feed a Fire
In this chapter: Things seem normal, until Sans finds Grillby's completely empty. The shopkeeper arrives to dispel any worries before they become too much and leads him to the Snowed Inn, where Grillby is staying, albeit worse for wear. Sans helps to care for the ailing flame and ends up highly flustered.
