Apr 24
Garage bench press.
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Garage bench press.
Oh hello up there
Woman drops the bar on herself while bench pressing, and man kindly helps her out
Built Different
Beefy Bucky x Curvy You (a.k.a. Gym Shenanigans & Domestic Horniness)
It starts innocently enough.
You’re in the apartment’s tiny gym—just you, a Bluetooth speaker, and a chaotic mix of 2010s pop and villain-era Beyoncé. You’re not trying to impress anyone, just trying to see what you can do. A little cardio, some squats, and now you’re eyeing the bench press like it just insulted your mother.
You’ve never really used it before, but you’ve been feeling yourself lately. Maybe it's the new leggings. Maybe it’s all that man-handling Bucky’s been doing—carrying you around like you're made of clouds and cheesecake. Whatever it is, you're ready to throw some weight around.
You load up a modest amount—enough to challenge you without killing you—and settle onto the bench, music thumping in the background. Just as you grip the bar, the door opens behind you with a soft creak.
Enter: Sergeant James Buchanan “I’m Built Like a Damn Tank” Barnes.
He’s fresh out of the shower, hair still damp and curling slightly at the ends, gray tee clinging to his chest like it was painted on, and a look on his face that stops all motor functions.
You don’t see it, of course—you’re busy inhaling courage and trying not to drop the bar on your face.
But Bucky? Oh, Bucky sees everything.
He freezes just inside the doorway. His eyes rake over the sight of you on that bench, chest rising, arms tensing, the bar slowly lowering to your sternum with full, glorious determination. You push up again—straining just a little—and he watches your whole body flex.
And the sound that leaves him is not holy.
You rack the bar and glance up, startled. “Hey, didn’t know you were back—what?”
His face is unreadable. Dangerously blank.
“What?” you repeat, sitting up.
He steps closer like he’s been summoned. “Do that again.”
You blink. “The bench press?”
He nods once, deliberate. “Yeah. The little push. Just like that. Do it.”
You frown but humor him, lying back and pushing the bar up again. You hear a breath catch, and when you glance over—oh. His jaw is locked. There's a vein in his neck doing God’s work.
You rack the bar again. “Okay, you’re being weird. What’s going on?”
And then he says it. The sentence that launches a thousand filthy thoughts:
“You bench press now? You train now?” He tilts his head, eyes hungry. “You wanna get strong enough to toss me around?”
You choke. “Absolutely not.”
“You sure?” He’s stalking now, walking slow around the bench like a lion circling a steak. “’Cause I saw that bar move and I thought, damn, she’s gonna put me through a wall one day.”
You sit up, flustered. “You weigh 250 pounds, Bucky—”
“And you just lifted a third of that like it was nothing.”
“It was a struggle!”
He leans down, hand bracing the bench beside your thigh. “It was hot.”
Now you're trapped. Between a bench and a super soldier and the smug glint in his eye.
“I am not trying to dominate you,” you say flatly.
“You sure?” He kisses your cheek, then lower, lips brushing your jaw. “’Cause you could.”
“I’m not gonna—”
“You could. Just pick me up. Throw me on the bed. Manhandle me.”
You squint. “...Are you into that?”
He grins. “I’m into you.”
Your heart stutters. He always says things like that with absolute, terrifying sincerity. As if your stretch marks and sweat and dorky playlists are the most divine things on Earth.
Then he straightens up, offers a hand, and pulls you to your feet like you weigh absolutely nothing.
“C’mon,” he murmurs, tucking your hair behind your ear. “I’ll spot you on the next set. Then maybe you can, I dunno… bench me.”
You snort. “You want me to drop you and break my spine?”
He shrugs. “I’d cradle you the whole way down.”
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Bench press time 🖤