Chapter 1: Darcy/Wanda ("You're pretty." -"You're drunk.")
Chapter Text
The party’s still going somewhere behind them, but the two of them are tucked out on the fire escape. One of Stark’s ridiculous penthouse towers, all glass and light pollution. The night is too bright to see stars. It smells like steel and cold pizza and Wanda’s perfume, which is heady and floral and completely unfair.
Darcy takes another sip from her cup, mostly for something to do with her hands. “You ever get sick of these things?”
Wanda glances over, dark eyes soft, lashes casting shadows. “The parties?”
“Yeah. The glitter, the music, the... gods with hammers.”
Wanda smiles faintly. “It helps, sometimes. To feel normal.”
Darcy’s pretty sure normal doesn’t usually involve high fashion and Mjolnir appearances, but she lets it go. She watches the way Wanda curls her fingers around the railing, neat and composed. Like she’s trying not to let herself drift.
“I like the quiet better,” Wanda says. “And people who say what they mean.”
Darcy laughs once, short and surprised. “Wow. Good luck finding that combo in this crowd.”
Wanda turns, slow and deliberate. Her bare shoulders gleam in the city light. “I found you.”
The words thud into Darcy like a stone into water. She blinks, shifts her weight, clutches her plastic cup like it’s a flotation device. “That’s dangerous talk, Maximoff.”
Wanda shrugs. “I’m a dangerous woman.”
There’s a pause. Not heavy, not sharp, just held.
“You’re pretty,” Darcy blurts.
She didn’t mean to say it. Well, she did, just not out loud. Or at a moment when Wanda is two feet away and looking at her like she already knew.
Wanda’s lashes lower. She doesn’t look away, but her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. “You’re drunk.”
Darcy starts to pull her hand back, the one still resting on the rail between them. But Wanda catches it—gently, deliberately. Her fingers are warm where they wrap around Darcy’s. She turns it over, brushes her thumb across the knuckles like she’s memorizing something.
Then - soft, reverent - she leans in and presses a kiss to them. It’s not a move. It’s not casual. It’s like something out of a dream.
Wanda lets go just as gently. “Say it again,” she murmurs, “when you mean it sober.”
She slips back inside, leaving Darcy breathless and tingling, with her hand still half-lifted in the air.
Chapter 2: Darcy/Steve ("If we weren’t in public right now I’d have my head between your legs.")
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
They're halfway through some gala Darcy never agreed to attend, all crystal chandeliers and hors d’oeuvres she can’t pronounce. She’s wearing heels she already regrets, and Steve - goddamn Steve - is wearing the hell out of a tailored navy suit.
The kind that pulls over his chest like sin and tradition made a pact.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs, low in her ear as they drift toward the bar.
“You wore that on purpose,” she says, eyes dragging down the V of his collar. “You’re trying to kill me.”
He grins. “Who, me?”
He orders for her without asking—he knows her drink—and places a warm palm on her lower back as they wait. His thumb traces slow, thoughtless circles, and it’s not fair, how casual he is. Like he doesn’t realize how wet she already is under this damn slip dress.
They take their drinks. Find a shadowy corner by the terrace doors.
His fingers brush the side of her thigh when she leans in to sip, letting her leg fall open a little. Just enough to let him know.
He stills.
Then he turns his head slightly, eyes flicking down and back up. There’s a twitch in his jaw. A pause in his breathing. And then, low and razor-sharp against the shell of her ear:
“If we weren’t in public right now, I’d have my head between your legs.”
Her stomach drops.
“Jesus,” she breathes, tightening her grip on her glass.
He’s close enough to kiss her throat, but doesn’t. Doesn’t need to. Just presses his hand flat against her hip, not quite high enough, not quite low enough.
“I’d spread you open right here,” he goes on, tone casual, cruel. “Sit you on the edge of the bar and fuck you with my mouth until you forgot your own name.”
She lets out a shaky breath, trying to focus on anything—anything—but the heat pooling in her core.
“Steve-”
“I’d take my time, too.” His voice dips darker. “Lap up every bit of you. Use my tongue, then my fingers. Thumb on your clit. Get you so close, over and over, you’d beg me to let you come.”
Her thighs clench.
“But we’re in public,” she whispers, biting the inside of her cheek.
“Mhm.” He smiles like it’s a secret. “So you’re gonna stand here, look pretty, and be a good girl while I talk you through it.”
“Fuck,” she whispers. “You are such an asshole.”
His hand slides down- finally - thumb pressing just below the hem of her dress.
“Feel what you’re doing to me?” he murmurs.
She can. His thigh brushes hers and it’s impossible to ignore how hard he is in his slacks.
“You could take me somewhere,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “We could sneak off.”
He shakes his head slowly. “No. Not yet. You’re going to stand here and squirm a little longer.”
She glares at him, skin prickling, thighs shaking. “You’re gonna pay for this later.”
“I’m counting on it,” he murmurs, brushing his lips just barely against her jaw. “I want you soaked for me by the time we leave. I want you so worked up you cry when I finally get my mouth on you.”
She’s never finished a drink so fast in her life.
Notes:
Chapter 3: Darcy/Steve + Scent Kink*
Chapter Text
Darcy spritzed her wrist and sniffed.
Nope. Still maybe too much amber.
She huffed and leaned over her lab bench, elbow-deep in notes and beakers, hoping to somehow nose-blind herself into certainty. Creating a custom perfume had seemed like a fun hobby—something tactile and grounding, something to distract her from the endless swirl of weird Avengers-adjacent politics. But now she couldn’t tell if it smelled right. Did it scream “science goddess” or “trying too hard”?
She was so deep in her own second-guessing that she didn’t notice him right away.
Steve stood just inside the open door of the lab, wide-eyed and visibly rattled.
“Uh,” she blinked. “Hey?”
He stared. “What… what is that?”
Darcy lifted the perfume vial. “This? It’s just a thing I made. Sorry—if it’s too strong, I’ll—”
He was already crossing the room, footsteps slow but deliberate, like he was fighting something primal. She watched, frozen, as his jaw clenched and his nostrils flared again.
“You made this?” he asked, voice hoarse. “It’s on you.”
She nodded, uneasy. “Yeah, I was just testing it out—”
And then Steve Rogers, Captain America, American apple pie in human form, dipped his head, grabbed her by the waist, and buried his face in the side of her neck with a choked-off groan.
Darcy squeaked. “Steve?!”
He jolted back like he’d been caught humping a couch.
“Fuck—sorry—I didn’t mean—Christ,” he stammered, backing up with both hands in the air. “I just—can I take you to coffee? Or dinner? Or—anything. I’ll stop. I’m so sorry.”
Her brain still hadn’t caught up. Her skin burned where his nose had been. Her thighs pressed together without permission.
“…Can I say yes and pretend none of that just happened?”
He blinked. “You’re not weirded out?”
“I’m turned on and weirded out,” she said honestly. “But mostly turned on.”
That was all it took. It happened all at once.
Steve surged forward, grabbed her by the waist again, and kissed her like he’d been starved for years. No hesitation. No restraint. His mouth was hot and open, his tongue sweeping in deep, hands dragging her flush against him like he couldn’t bear even a molecule of space between them.
She moaned into his mouth, arousal striking her like a fever. He was hard, thick and unrelenting behind the fly of his jeans, and it took only seconds for him to back her into the nearest counter.
“You smell like everything I’ve ever wanted,” he muttered against her skin. “I couldn’t fucking think straight.”
“Then stop thinking,” she whispered, and pulled his belt open.
He didn’t hesitate. He shoved her skirt up around her hips, dragged her panties down her thighs, and dropped to his knees like a religious obligation.
Darcy gasped as he hooked her leg over his shoulder. His breath was hot on her inner thigh.
“Steve—holy shit—”
“Let me have it,” he growled. “Let me taste what you smell like.”
And then his mouth was on her.
His tongue swept over her with obscene hunger, hot and greedy, like he needed to memorize every part of her with his mouth. He flattened his tongue and dragged, slow and heavy, then sucked her clit between his lips until she gasped and bucked and grabbed fistfuls of his hair.
She didn’t know when she started moaning his name. Didn’t care.
“Fuck—Steve—I’m gonna—”
“Come on me,” he panted, voice dark and ragged. “Come on my fucking tongue.”
She shattered. Her thighs shook. Her back arched off the lab counter as he groaned into her, tongue flicking relentless, hands anchoring her like he could keep the world from slipping out from under them both.
When she finally came down, panting and limp, he stood—eyes dark, lips wet, erection pressing against his boxers—and yanked his cock out like he couldn’t take another second.
“Please tell me you want more,” he said, already lining himself up.
She reached for him, voice wrecked. “Don’t make me beg.”
“You’re gonna anyway,” he growled, and pushed inside.
She screamed.
He was huge, thick, the stretch delicious and blinding. He barely gave her time to adjust before he was slamming into her, mouth latched to her neck again.
“Fuck—you feel so good—better than anything—”
“Steve—”
Her fingers clawed at his shoulders. Her legs wrapped tight around his waist. The countertop rattled under them, equipment threatening to crash to the floor, but she didn’t care. He was pounding into her like he meant to stay there.
He cursed into her mouth. Called her perfect. Made for me, so fucking sweet…
She came again with a strangled cry, and that did it. He followed her with a guttural noise that was almost a roar, spilling inside her in thick, pulsing waves, hips stuttering even as he kept thrusting through it.
When he finally stopped, both of them breathless and wrecked, he slumped forward, forehead against hers.
They were still halfway clothed. Her leggings hung off one ankle. His jeans were around his thighs. They were going to have to bleach this countertop a couple times.
Darcy was the one who spoke first.
“So, uh. Still want to get that coffee?”
Steve smiled, and it was wrecked and beautiful.
“Only if you promise to wear that perfume again.”
Chapter 4: Yelena ("I have to believe death is the end. Because all that waits for me in the afterlife is a debt of sin I don’t think could ever be paid off.”)
Notes:
keeping in mind I was sent this prompt literally *years* before Thunderbolts* came out, but I'm making it set around that time anyway
Chapter Text
The sky over the compound is washed-out gray. Not quite night, not quite morning.
Bucky finds her sitting on the back steps, knees drawn up, a cigarette hanging from her fingers. She doesn’t look over when he approaches.
“You know those’ll kill you,” he says.
“Good,” Yelena replies. “I’m running out of ideas.”
He huffs and sits beside her. She doesn’t shift or make room. They’ve fought shoulder to shoulder enough times that proximity doesn’t feel like a question.
She offers the cigarette.
He shakes his head. “Quit.”
“Typical,” she mutters. “You and your heroic self-control.”
Bucky doesn’t answer. Neither of them is in the mood to pretend tonight.
They sit for a while. No words. Just the hum of the wind scraping the fences and the low thrum of power from somewhere deep in the compound.
Then she speaks.
“Do you think there’s anything after all this?”
He glances at her.
“After life,” she clarifies. “After we die.”
Bucky rests his elbows on his knees. “Used to think about it. Don’t anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Didn’t help.”
She nods. “I have to believe death is the end,” she says, voice quiet but steady. “Because all that waits for me in the afterlife is a debt of sin I don’t think could ever be paid off.”
The words fall flat into the dark. No drama, no ceremony. Just truth.
Bucky doesn’t look at her, but he’s listening.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “I know that feeling.”
Yelena stubs the cigarette out on the concrete. She doesn’t say anything right away.
“I thought killing Dreykov would fix something. Or at least balance the scale a little. But it didn’t. It just… ended a name. Not the weight.”
Bucky nods slowly.
“I tried making amends,” he says. “Names in a book. Faces I couldn’t forget. People I hurt. Some I never knew.”
“Did it help?”
He’s quiet.
“No,” he says finally. “But it made it harder to lie to myself.”
She watches him. “I used to think Natasha believed in redemption. She always talked like there was a way out. A clean slate.”
“She did,” Bucky says. “Or she wanted to.”
“I didn’t believe it then. I still don’t.”
He turns to her. “Then why are you here?”
She gives a half-shrug. “Because Val pays well. Because I don’t know how to live like a civilian. Because if someone has to pull the trigger, I’d rather it be me than someone who doesn’t care where the bullet lands.”
Bucky nods.
“That’s reason enough.”
A pause. Then she asks, “You ever wish you hadn’t survived?”
He exhales slowly. “Yeah. Plenty of times.”
Yelena pulls her knees closer.
“Same.”
It doesn’t hang between them like a threat. More like weather. Something you live through.
“People say it’s not our fault,” she says. “That we were controlled. Used.”
“We still did it,” Bucky says.
“Yeah.”
They let that sit.
Eventually she breaks the silence. “You think Natasha’s out there? Somewhere peaceful?”
“I hope so.”
“I don’t think she’d want to see me again.”
“She would.”
“You don’t know that.”
“She saw the worst in people and still stuck around,” Bucky says. “That’s who she was.”
Yelena’s jaw tightens. She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t argue again.
They sit in silence, long enough for the wind to pick up, cool against their faces.
“You sleep after missions?” she asks.
He shakes his head. “Not really.”
“Me neither. It’s like the noise doesn’t stop.”
“Nope.”
They both know it never really goes away.
“Sometimes I think I’m just running out the clock,” Yelena says. “Keeping busy until I finally stop breathing.”
Bucky tilts his head. “And if that happens tomorrow?”
“Then I hope it’s quick,” she says. “I don’t want to sit around waiting for judgment.”
He considers that. Then says, “Maybe there’s no judgment. Maybe it just ends.”
“That would be nice,” she mutters.
Bucky stands. His knees pop.
She glances up.
“You’re not the only one with blood on your hands,” he says. “You’re not alone in this.”
Yelena studies his face. It’s not sympathy. It’s not pity. It’s recognition.
She nods.
“Thanks.”
He heads inside without another word.
She stays a little longer, letting the cold settle in.
There’s no forgiveness coming. No cosmic balance. But maybe she doesn’t need it. Maybe all that matters is someone who understands. Someone who doesn’t flinch.
She lights another cigarette. Just one more. Then maybe she’ll sleep.
Maybe not.
Chapter 5: Darcy/Sam + ABO*
Chapter Text
Darcy didn’t mean to knock on Sam Wilson’s door. She meant to go back to her room, take a cold shower, and ride out the worst of it with some shred of dignity. She even made it as far as the hallway before another wave hit—molten and dizzying—and then suddenly she was standing in front of his room, her body betraying her good intentions.
She pressed her forehead to the door and knocked, twice. “Sam?”
There was a pause. Then the soft sound of footsteps inside. The door opened, and Sam filled the frame, tall and solid, bare-chested in a pair of grey sweats. He didn’t smile when he saw her. His nostrils flared, catching the change in her scent.
“Darcy,” he said, carefully. “You all right?”
“Not really,” she whispered, voice already hoarse. “It’s bad.”
She stepped closer without meaning to, drawn to him like gravity. He smelled like clean soap with the faint edge of something sharper—metal and spice, his arousal simmering just beneath restraint. The room behind him was dark and quiet and private, and her pulse beat hard in her throat.
“Did you take suppressants?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Didn’t work this time.”
He exhaled through his nose. “Fuck.”
Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her. Just looked at her, like holding himself back cost him something.
“You know what you’re asking me?” he said, voice low.
She nodded. Her body felt too hot, too empty. She stepped close enough to press her chest to his and lifted her mouth to his neck, brushing her lips just beneath his scent gland. “I want you.”
That broke him.
Sam lifted her like she weighed nothing, arms strong beneath her thighs. She wrapped herself around him instinctively, clinging to his shoulders as he kicked the door shut behind them. He carried her to the bed and laid her down gently… except the moment his mouth found hers, there was nothing gentle about it.
He kissed her like he’d been waiting a long time. Like he was starving for it. His mouth moved to her jaw, her throat, his hands pushing up her shirt, exploring every inch of heated skin. She gasped when he rocked against her, feeling how hard he already was through his sweats.
“Been trying so fucking hard not to think about this,” he muttered, kissing a path down her chest, dragging his tongue along her scent gland. “Then you show up smelling like that? You trying to ruin me?”
“Sam,” she whimpered. “Please.”
He growled, the sound low and rough in his throat, and pulled her shirt over her head. Her pants followed in a blur, tossed aside as he stripped her with a focused kind of reverence. He kissed her breasts, her hips, the insides of her thighs, then moved between her legs like he’d dreamed of it.
She cried out the moment his tongue met her. He licked into her with firm, greedy strokes, hands braced on her thighs to hold her open. She was already soaked, slick coating his chin as he groaned against her. He worked her with deliberate skill, dragging her toward the edge again and again until she was gasping, arching up into his mouth.
When he pulled back, she was flushed and panting, eyes wide and glazed.
“You’re dripping,” he said roughly. “You’re gonna take me so fucking well.”
He dropped his sweats, his cock heavy and hard, slicked at the tip. She stared, lips parted, but didn’t hesitate to reach for him. He caught her wrist.
“Not yet,” he said. “Let me take care of you.”
He pressed forward, one hand braced beside her head, the other guiding himself to her entrance. When he pushed in, she gasped—stretching wide around him, her body clenching down on him instinctively. He sank in slow, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt.
“Jesus,” he groaned. “You feel so fucking good.”
He gave her a moment to adjust, dropping his head to kiss her neck, whispering soft encouragements as she clenched around him. But her hips lifted, needy and impatient.
He snapped his hips forward.
She moaned- loud and unrestrained - and that was it.
He set a rhythm that was deep and purposeful, fucking her through the worst of it. His scent was everywhere, mixing with hers. She dragged her nails down his back, marking him, pulling him closer. His voice dropped to a growl as he fucked her harder, chasing the peak building between them both.
“Gonna knot you,” he gritted out. “You want that?”
“Yes,” she gasped. “Please, Sam—”
The pleasure cracked through her like a wave. She came with a cry, trembling under him as he thrust deeper, knot swelling, locking them together as he spilled into her—hot, thick pulses she felt with every breath.
They stilled, tangled together, his arms wrapped around her as he pressed his face into her neck. The room was silent except for their ragged breathing.
After a long moment, Sam kissed her shoulder.
“You still want me?” he asked, voice rough but soft.
Darcy turned her head and met his eyes.
“Always.”
Chapter 6: Darcy/Steve ("Shh! I'm hiding.")*
Chapter Text
Steve wasn’t sure what possessed him to open the supply cabinet.
He’d come back from the mop closet, fully expecting the room to be empty. Instead, he caught a flash of movement from the back corner, like a startled raccoon. And then—
“Shh,” Darcy said from inside the cupboard, eyes wide and dead serious. “I’m hiding.”
Steve blinked.
She was somehow folded up like a cat in a box, one leg wedged under her body, hoodie bunched up around her waist, exposing an indecent length of thigh. Her hair was a little wild, mascara slightly smudged. Mischief practically radiated off her.
“You’re hiding,” he repeated.
“From my bad decisions,” she said. “And possibly a man I ghosted. He’s doing life drawing in room 104 and I wasn’t emotionally ready for that.”
Steve braced one hand on the open cabinet door and tried not to look at her bare leg. He failed.
“You can’t be in here,” he said, voice a little too low.
“Why?” she asked innocently, stretching slightly. Her hoodie rode up just enough to show the curve of her hip where it met her waistband. “You got something better to do?”
Steve exhaled slowly. “Darcy.”
“What? It’s not like I’m naked.”
She wasn’t but she might as well have been, with the way her body filled the small space, warm and tempting and utterly unbothered. He was very aware of how close he was standing, of how much effort it was taking not to touch her.
“You’re gonna get me fired,” he muttered.
Darcy grinned. “You’d miss me.”
Somehow, that was it—the thing that tipped it.
He reached in and hauled her out by the wrist, gently but with intent. She yelped in surprise and stumbled forward, landing against his chest, palms flat against his shirt. The contact sent a jolt through them both.
“Steve—”
“You can’t keep flirting with me like this,” he said, breath warm against her cheek. “Not if you don’t mean it.”
She stared up at him, heartbeat thudding. “Who says I don’t mean it?”
He didn’t answer, just kissed her.
The kiss started fast—urgent, all teeth and tongue and months of tension snapping between them. His hands slid down to her waist, gripping tight, and she arched into him without thinking, pulling him closer by the front of his apron. Her back hit the wall of the studio, cool and solid behind her. His body pressed in against hers, broad and hot and overwhelming in the best way.
“You drive me crazy,” he murmured against her lips.
“Good,” she whispered back, nipping his bottom lip. “I’ve been trying.”
Steve’s hand slid up beneath her hoodie, fingers splayed across bare skin, slow and reverent. She gasped into his mouth when his thumb brushed the underside of her breast, just teasing. She shoved his apron aside, tugging at his shirt, frantic now, wanting more contact, more friction, more of him.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registered the risk—this was an art classroom, for God’s sake—but Steve’s mouth was on her neck, and he was grinding into her just enough to make her legs go weak.
“Tell me to stop,” he said against her throat, voice strained.
“Why would I do something stupid like that?”
He laughed, low and dark, and then he lifted her—just enough to guide her onto the edge of the supply table. She wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively, pulling him flush against her, and the friction made them both groan.
He kissed her like he was starving. Like he’d been thinking about this for a long, long time.
When he slid her panties to the side and dragged his fingers through the wet heat of her, slow and slick and knowing, she let her head fall back against the wall with a breathless, “Oh fuck, Steve—”
That was all the encouragement he needed.
He unzipped himself just enough, used his fingers to tease her open and dripping, then pushed in—slowly, carefully, groaning her name like it meant something holy.
It did. As much as this was wild and reckless and so inappropriate, it wasn’t just about getting off. It was about finally touching what he’d wanted, finally feeling her—hot and tight and perfect around him.
Darcy clutched at his shoulders, biting her lip to muffle the noises spilling out of her.
“Gonna have to be quiet,” he rasped into her ear, thrusting slow and deep. “Think you can do that for me?”
She nodded, eyes wide, but whimpered when he rolled his hips just right.
“Darcy.”
“I’ll try,” she gasped. “But you’re really—really not helping.”
He grinned against her neck, then did it again.
They moved together like that, desperate and quiet and far too familiar for two people pretending this wasn’t going to change everything. He fucked her like he already knew what she liked, like he’d imagined this a hundred different ways. Darcy let him, gave in to it completely, chasing every wave of pleasure like it was a dare.
When she came, her whole body tensed, jaw clamped shut to stifle the sound—but he felt it. He followed her over the edge with a groan into her skin, hips stuttering, breath catching in her hair.
For a moment, they stayed tangled, breathing and shaking.
Steve pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder, still buried deep inside her.
“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.
Darcy nodded. “Better than okay.”
He pulled back to look at her, flushed and fucked-out, and smiled, really smiled. The kind of smile that reached all the way to his eyes.
“So… what now?” she murmured, playing with the collar of his shirt.
“Well,” he said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I guess I’m in the cupboard with you now.”
Chapter 7: Darcy/Andy Barber (Lazy Sunday Morning)*
Notes:
years after first writing this pairing I still have not seen Defending Jacob lol
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The sunlight finds its way through the cracks in the blinds, casting soft gold over tangled sheets and bare skin. It’s not even nine, and the house is still, the world outside slow to stir. He’s already awake and has been for a while.
Andy lies on his side, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other stretched across the mattress, fingers grazing the curve of Darcy’s hip. She’s sprawled out beside him, one leg kicked over his, hair wild against his pillow, mouth slack in sleep. Peaceful. It’s the kind of peaceful he’s been chasing his whole life.
He shifts closer, letting his nose brush the back of her shoulder. She smells like shampoo, like skin, like sex. His hand smooths over her stomach, slow and unhurried, until his palm is resting just beneath her navel.
Darcy murmurs something, half asleep, and arches her back ever so slightly.
“You’re staring,” she mutters, voice rough with sleep.
“I am,” he says. “Can’t help it.”
“Pervert,” she smirks without opening her eyes, stretching like a cat.
Andy presses a kiss to her shoulder. “Guilty.”
She turns then, rolling onto her back, eyes fluttering open. Her gaze is soft, unreadable. She studies him for a moment, then reaches up to brush her fingers through his messy hair. “What time is it?”
He glances at the clock. “Early. Too early to do anything productive.”
“Perfect,” she says, tugging him down. “I hate being productive.”
Their mouths meet in a kiss that’s all slow burn, all warm tongues and sleepy mouths, no urgency — just heat simmering under the surface. He moves over her, propping himself on his elbows so he doesn’t crush her, but she tugs at him until his weight sinks into hers.
“Want you,” she whispers against his jaw. “Like this.”
His cock twitches, already half-hard, pressed against her thigh. “Yeah?”
“Mmhmm.” She licks into his mouth, hips tilting up just enough to tease. “You gonna give it to me, counselor?”
Andy groans. “Jesus, Darce—”
“I’m serious. Lazy morning. Slow and dirty. I want to feel every second of it.”
And fuck, if that doesn’t go straight to his blood.
He slides down her body, kissing a trail between her breasts, across her stomach. He doesn’t rush. Not today. The sheets rustle, her breathing deepens. When he reaches the soft heat between her legs, she’s already slick, already parting her thighs like it’s instinct.
He kisses the inside of her knee. “You always this wet first thing in the morning?”
“For you?” she grins sleepily. “Pretty much.”
Andy hums, ducking his head to taste her - long, slow licks, like he has all the time in the world. She gasps, one hand fisting the sheet, the other buried in his hair.
He doesn’t stop until her legs tremble, until she’s panting his name in that breathless, ragged voice that drives him mad.
When he finally slides back up her body, she’s flushed, glowing. “Come here,” she says, hooking a leg around his waist.
He lines himself up and pushes in slowly, groaning at the feel of her. She’s hot, tight, familiar. The kind of fit that ruins you for anyone else.
Darcy exhales, a long, low moan curling in her throat. “God, yes—”
They move together like they’ve done this a hundred lazy mornings before, like it’s the only way to start a Sunday. His thrusts are deep and slow, his mouth on her throat, her hands clawing at his back.
“Andy—” she gasps, arching under him. “Harder.”
“You sure?” he pants, voice low and tight.
She grabs his face, pulls him down to kiss her hard. “I said, harder.”
He gives it to her. Hips snapping now, but still steady, still deep. She meets him every time, fingers digging into his ass, chasing it with everything she has. And when she comes again, it’s with a cry muffled into his neck.
He follows not long after, gritting her name through his teeth, burying himself deep as he spills inside her.
They stay like that for a while. Sweaty, breathless, tangled in sheets and each other.
Eventually, Andy shifts, brushing damp hair from her forehead. “You okay?”
Darcy hums. “Better than okay. Sunday mornings should be illegal without you.”
He chuckles, kissing her brow. “I could be convinced to make this a weekly thing.”
“Bi-weekly,” she says sleepily. “And you’re on coffee duty.”
Andy smiles, pulling her close again. “Deal.”
Notes:
Chapter 8: Darcy/Steve + Darcy Rescues Steve*
Chapter Text
Darcy wasn’t supposed to be on this mission.
Hell, she wasn’t even supposed to be awake. But when the power surge hit, tripping half the Tower’s outdated alarms, it was her system that caught the anomaly. The signature was old—buried Hydra code layered into a stealth transmission. Most of the team was out. Natasha was in Prague. Sam was on a press tour. Bruce was elbows-deep in a gamma core project. And Steve—Steve had gone off-grid after a solo recon in upstate New York.
And now, he wasn’t responding.
Darcy didn’t hesitate. She commandeered Tony’s old stealth VTOL, the one he’d mothballed after the Iron Legion fell out of fashion. It took twenty-six minutes to get there. Twenty-six minutes of gripping the controls with white-knuckled panic and muttering, “Please don’t be dead,” under her breath.
The facility was small. Industrial. Cold. She landed in a clearing just beyond the main hangar and approached low, quiet. Security was light, which was either a trap or a sign they’d already gotten what they wanted from Steve.
She found him in a reinforced storage cell in the sublevel. Shirtless, slumped against the far wall, arms bound above his head, bruised and bleeding, but conscious.
“Darcy?” His voice cracked.
Her breath caught. “Jesus, Steve.”
He blinked slowly. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Yeah, well, neither should you, Captain Dumbass,” she said, voice shaking as she crossed the threshold and knelt beside him. “What the hell happened?”
“They ambushed me. Knockout gas.” He grimaced as she reached up to examine the cuffs. “I tried to signal, but I think they jammed—”
“Don’t talk. Just—shut up for a second.”
She bypassed the lock with a stolen keycard and a swift whack from a Hydra tablet she found on the way in. The cuffs disengaged with a hiss. Steve slumped forward and caught himself with a grunt, one hand landing against her thigh.
“Easy,” she said, steadying him. “You’re not dying on me today.”
He lifted his head slowly. Close like this, she could see every cut, every bruise. His eyes were still sharp, even glassy with pain. “You came for me.”
“Of course I did,” she said. “You think you get to be the white knight every time? Please. Sometimes the damsel saves the prince.”
A weak chuckle escaped him, half-laugh, half-groan. “I don’t think I’m wearing the right outfit for that.”
She glanced down, realizing just how close his hand still was to her inner thigh. And how naked he was from the waist up. And how, even bruised and sweating, Steve Rogers looked like a Greco-Roman god someone had forgotten to install a shirt on.
The adrenaline was still pumping through her. Sharp, cold. Her fingers trembled as she helped him to his feet.
“You good to walk?” she asked.
“Define ‘good.’”
“Okay, new plan—lean on me. You’re ridiculously heavy, but I’ll try not to complain.”
They limped down the hall together, him half-hunched over her shoulder, Darcy muttering sarcastic encouragement as they moved: “God, I hope you’re worth the herniated disc,” and “If I get court-martialed for this, I want a commemorative plaque.”
-
By the time they made it back to the VTOL, Steve’s grip on her had changed—less about balance now. His fingers were curled over her hip like he didn’t want to let go.
They made it airborne without incident. Once she’d activated autopilot, Darcy turned to check on him.
Steve had stripped off the tattered remnants of his uniform jacket and leaned back against the bench, head tipped up, eyes half-lidded. Still flushed. Still breathing too fast.
“Hey,” she said softly, crouching in front of him. “You okay?”
His eyes flicked open. “You came for me,” he repeated, lower now. Like it meant something more this time.
Darcy shrugged, trying to hide how much her heart was doing somersaults. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“It is, actually.” His voice was hoarse but sure. “I’ve always been the one showing up. The one pulling people out of wreckage. And you—Darcy, you—”
“I got lucky,” she cut in. “I was at the Tower. I had the logs. Anyone would’ve done the same.”
“No.” His fingers wrapped around her wrist. Gentle. Grounding. “Not anyone. You.”
She swallowed hard. There was heat in the air now, thicker than the recycled oxygen. A charged hum between them. She could feel it in the way his hand moved to cup her cheek. How his thumb brushed her skin like it had every right to linger.
“You’re not thinking straight,” she whispered.
“I’ve been thinking about this for months.”
The kiss was slower than she expected. Warm. Grateful. A thank-you sealed against her mouth, and then deeper, hotter, as he pulled her into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. She straddled him with a gasp, their bodies flush despite the bruises, despite the ache.
“Steve—”
“I’m fine,” he murmured, lips trailing down her throat. “Better than fine. God, Darcy.”
His hands slipped under her jacket, fingertips grazing the hem of her tank top.
“Are you seriously trying to undress me on a stolen quinjet?” she asked breathlessly.
“Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that’s happened in one,” he said, and tugged her shirt over her head.
She laughed—helpless, high-pitched—and then moaned as his mouth closed over her nipple. His tongue was soft, then sharp with suction, and her fingers dug into his shoulders automatically.
“You’re injured,” she managed.
“I heal fast.”
“And what if I ride you too hard?”
Steve looked up at her, pupils blown wide. “Try me.”
Her pants were off in seconds, tossed somewhere near the cockpit. He was already hard, already flushed and heavy against his thigh. She wrapped her hand around him, watching his breath hitch, the way his jaw clenched as her thumb brushed the head.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
“I thought you were the holy one.”
“Not around you.”
She sank down slow, inch by inch, both of them groaning at the stretch. Her nails raked his scalp as she adjusted, hips rocking forward until he was fully buried inside her.
“Fuck,” she gasped. “You feel—God, you feel stupid good.”
His hands were on her waist, guiding her, anchoring her. “Darcy—look at me.”
She did. And it hit her all at once—what she almost lost, what he almost was. The adrenaline was still fading, but the relief hadn’t.
He cupped the back of her neck and kissed her again—messy, desperate now. She rode him with increasing urgency, pace stuttering only when he bottomed out and she moaned loud enough to echo in the tiny cabin.
“You’re perfect,” he panted.
“You’re concussed.”
“Still true.”
When she came, it was sharp and sudden, pulsing around him as she bit his shoulder to muffle the cry. Steve followed a moment later, thrusting up hard as he spilled inside her, groaning her name like it was a prayer.
They stayed there, tangled together, long after the aftershocks faded.
-
Later, as they hovered in Tower airspace waiting for clearance, Darcy turned to him and said, “So, how are we explaining this to the others?”
Steve blinked at her, totally wrecked and still gorgeous. “We don’t?”
She snorted. “Yeah, okay. But if I get called into a team debrief and there’s a wet spot on my ass, I’m naming names.”
He smiled, soft and real. “Thanks for coming after me.”
She leaned over and kissed him one last time. “Next time you pull a solo op without backup, I’m bringing zip ties.”
His smile widened. “Promise?”
“Shut up, Captain Kink.”
They flew the rest of the way home in silence—content, glowing, and already pretending nothing had changed, even though everything had.
Chapter 9: Darcy/Steve (“We’re quite literally fugitives of the state.” - “So no pizza?”)
Chapter Text
They were halfway to nowhere, the quinjet running on fumes and resentment, when Darcy finally broke the silence.
“We’re quite literally fugitives of the state,” she said, squinting at the dashboard like maybe it would spit out coordinates to the nearest pizza place. “Like, officially. Not ‘oops, jaywalked’ fugitives. Hardcore, facial-recognition, NSA-frowns-at-your-whole-existence fugitives.”
Steve, still somehow managing to look noble despite the growing scruff and the stolen hoodie he’d pilfered from a gas station back in Delaware, didn’t look up. “That’s accurate.”
Darcy waited a beat. “So… no pizza?”
He exhaled slowly. “No pizza.”
“Well, that’s just great,” she muttered, slumping into the co-pilot’s seat and kicking her boots up on the dash in full violation of… whatever jet etiquette existed in the rogue Avengers handbook. “We saved your friends, narrowly escaped a floating hell-prison, and I can't even get a goddamn slice.”
Steve shot her a look. “You also broke about seventeen federal laws.”
“Eighteen,” she corrected. “But who’s counting?”
“I am.”
“Of course you are, Captain Moral Compass.”
He didn’t dignify that with a response. Darcy counted that as a win.
By the time they landed—somewhere in the Appalachians, where Clint had a guy with a cabin and an extremely loose definition of property rights—Darcy was cranky, under-caffeinated, and dangerously close to asking Steve if he ever relaxed or if his bones would crack from the sheer strain of upright virtue.
The cabin was small, drafty, and smelled faintly of raccoon. She dropped her bag by the door, turned, and found him already stacking firewood in the hearth like the apocalypse was nigh.
“Do you ever sit down?” she asked.
“I like being useful.”
Darcy rolled her eyes. “You know you’re allowed to have, like, downtime, right? Even fugitives get to veg out and watch crap TV.”
Steve stood, dusting off his hands. “There’s no TV.”
“Oh, my God.”
“I can play cards.”
“Oh, my God.”
He smirked—just barely—and Darcy hated how much warmth it sparked in her chest.
-
They didn’t talk much that night. She curled up on the musty couch with a blanket, scrolling through cached memes on her phone because the signal was nonexistent. Steve sat near the fire, sketching something in a beat-up notebook.
At one point, she caught him glancing over at her.
“What?” she asked, suspicious.
“Nothing.”
“You were staring.”
He looked back down. “Just wondering how you ended up in all this.”
Darcy chewed her lip. “I ask myself that every ten minutes.”
“You didn’t have to help us.”
She shrugged. “I like chaos. And, you know, Tony was being a dick.”
Steve looked up at that, surprised.
“You’re not the only one who notices,” she added, a little softer. “I knew what I was getting into.”
He nodded, slowly. “Still. Thank you.”
The room went quiet again, except for the low crackle of the fire.
-
They slept on opposite sides of the room—him on the floor, her on the couch, because of course he insisted. In the dark, Darcy found herself wide awake, her mind racing through everything that had happened in the last forty-eight hours. The prison break. The alarms. The ocean. The way Steve’s voice had cut through the chaos: Darcy, now.
She rolled over. “Hey.”
A pause. “Yeah?”
“You’re not gonna, like… martyr yourself over this, right?”
He made a quiet noise—half chuckle, half sigh. “Trying not to.”
“Good. 'Cause if you die for one of your ideals, I swear I’ll resurrect you just to kick your ass.”
Another pause. Then: “Noted.”
She hesitated. “You scared the shit out of me.”
A longer pause. Then his voice, quiet but firm. “You scared me too. Back at the Raft. When I couldn’t find you.”
Darcy swallowed. “Guess we’re even.”
“Guess so.”
-
They didn’t kiss until the third hideout—three states later, colder now, lonelier, with less firewood and fewer reasons not to. It happened outside, under a too-clear sky, her breath visible in the air.
He reached for her hand without thinking. She let him.
“I don’t know what we are,” she said.
“I think about you more than I should,” he said, blunt and sincere and way too Steve about it.
Darcy rolled her eyes, but her voice was gentler when she said, “That’s not a great line.”
“It’s not a line.”
She looked at him, eyes narrowed. “No pizza. No internet. And now you’re telling me you like me?”
Steve smiled faintly. “I do.”
She huffed. “You better mean that, Rogers. Because I gave up thin crust for this life.”
“I mean it.”
Darcy looked away for a beat, then back. “Okay. Fine. But next time we risk life and limb for someone else’s freedom? You owe me pepperoni.”
Chapter 10: Darcy/Bucky + Thirst Traps*
Chapter Text
Bucky Barnes had seen war, blood, the end of the world.
But nothing rattled him quite like opening Instagram at the gym and seeing Darcy Lewis, poolside, tits up, sunglasses on, captioned: “Hydration is important. 💦”
He stared. Swiped, blinked. Stared again.
Another post. Closer this time — thighs on display, glistening with sunscreen, hand resting just below her hip. The corner of her bikini bottom tugged down just enough to make him feel like the floor was giving out beneath him.
And she tagged him.
Not directly. Not obviously. Just a “@buckybarnesfanclub” tag on the lounger in the background, like she hadn’t absolutely meant to murder him on a Tuesday.
His phone buzzed before he could even finish rage-scrolling.
Darcy:
You good, soldier?
Too subtle? 😇
He hissed in a breath. Typed one word.
Bucky:
Cute.
A pause. Then:
Darcy:
Only cute?
Damn. I’ll take another one.
Bucky:
You keep this up, I’m gonna take something else.
Darcy:
👀
Bucky:
Your swimsuit. Off. With my teeth.
Darcy didn’t reply. At least not with words.
Instead, a photo appeared in his messages. Not posted. Not filtered. Just Darcy in her bathroom mirror, the bikini top pulled down just enough to show the curve of her breast.
He was already halfway out the door.
By the time he got to her apartment, she’d changed into a robe. Barely. He knocked once and she opened it like she’d been waiting on him all damn day.
“Hey, Buck,” she said innocently.
“Take it off.”
“Rude,” she said, sash loosening. “No ‘hello’? No drink offer? What would Steve say?”
He took a step forward, vibranium hand braced on the doorframe. “Steve would say you’re a brat.”
“And you?”
He leaned in. “I say you’re dying for it.”
Darcy grinned. “Got me there.”
The robe hit the floor. His mouth hit her throat.
He bent her over the kitchen counter without ceremony, fingers slipping between her thighs, finding her soaked and aching and already breathless from the promise alone. She tried to make some snarky comment — probably about soldiers obeying orders — but it came out as a moan instead.
“You don’t get to tease me all damn week,” he growled, “and then act surprised when I fuck you like this.”
Darcy braced herself against the marble, head tipping back. “Like what?”
He slammed into her, hard and deep. She gasped.
“Like this,” he said, punctuating it with another thrust.
She came twice before he even let himself finish. Then he pulled out, kissed the back of her neck, and whispered, “Next time you tag me, make sure you clear your schedule.”
Darcy, still panting, looked over her shoulder and smirked. “Next time I’ll make it a video.”
He groaned. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“You love it.”
He did. God help him, he really did.
Chapter 11: Darcy/Steve/Bucky + Saturday Plans*
Chapter Text
It started with a lazy question over coffee.
“Got any Saturday plans?” Darcy asked, curled on the couch in Steve’s shirt and no underwear, nursing her second mug like it was the only thing tethering her to consciousness. Her legs were bare, folded beneath her, her hair a mess of loose curls still damp from the shower. She didn’t mean anything by it—just filling the space while Bucky sharpened a knife in the kitchen, and Steve leaned against the counter, sipping his own mug.
But something passed between them. A look. A pause. And then Bucky smiled—sharp and crooked—and said, “Yeah. We do.”
Which is how she ended up here. Face down on Steve’s kitchen table, cheek pressed to the cool wood, arms bound at the wrists with Steve’s leather belt. Her skin was already flushed, her thighs slick with need, and her mouth was open in a soft, desperate pant.
“You knew what that tone would get you,” Bucky muttered behind her. He was crouched low, spreading her apart with rough, greedy hands, licking his lips like he was about to ruin a meal. “You ask us questions like that, you’re begging for it.”
Darcy whimpered, pushing her hips back, just enough to feel the hot weight of him pressed against the crease of her ass.
Steve was in front of her, kneeling, one hand braced against the small of her back to keep her steady, the other stroking along her jaw. His touch was gentle. Reverent. But his voice was low, edged with heat.
“Tell me what you want, sweetheart.”
She blinked up at him, lips parted, every nerve strung tight. “Want you. Want both of you.”
Bucky laughed. “Yeah, she’s ready.”
She gasped when he spit—wet and heavy—straight onto her cunt, his fingers chasing it a second later, rubbing the mess into her, spreading her open with two thick digits before pushing them inside with no warning.
Darcy cried out, her knees shaking.
“Fucking soaked,” Bucky muttered, curling his fingers. “Didn’t even touch her proper yet and she’s dripping. Feel that, Steve?”
Steve didn’t reply. He was watching her, studying every little twitch of her expression, the way her body arched up toward sensation. When he finally spoke, it was soft. Dangerous.
“You ready to be split open?”
She nodded—quick, frantic.
“Words,” Bucky snapped. His vibranium hand came up to slap her ass, not hard enough to bruise but loud enough to make her jolt.
“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, please—fuck me.”
That was all they needed.
Steve stood and kissed her shoulder, slow and careful, while Bucky stepped back just long enough to line himself up behind her. The sound of a belt unbuckling filled the room, followed by the heavy clink of his zipper. Her mouth fell open in anticipation.
Then Bucky was there—gripping her hips, thick cock sliding through the slick mess between her thighs. Teasing her, dragging over her clit, before he pressed in slow and deep, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt.
Darcy moaned, long and low, her fingers flexing uselessly behind her back.
“That’s it,” Bucky grit out.
Steve’s hand came up to cup her chin, turning her face toward him. “You’re beautiful like this,” he murmured. “So good for us. Always so fucking good.”
She whimpered at the praise, even as Bucky started to move—long, deep strokes that made her body rock forward with each thrust. Her cheek dragged against the table. Her eyes watered from the stretch.
“Ready for more?” Steve asked, brushing his thumb across her lips.
She nodded, gasping. “Yes—yes, I want you too, please—”
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, already undoing his pants. “We’re gonna take such good care of you.”
She couldn’t see what he was doing—but she felt it. The slow, slick pressure against her ass, the obscene stretch of one finger, then two, while Bucky fucked her steadily from behind.
Between them, she was shaking.
Bucky had never been one for patience, not when it came to her. He kept his grip steady at her hips, thumbs pressing just above the curve of her ass as he rocked into her, deep and deliberate. The table creaked beneath them. Darcy’s breath caught on every thrust, jaw slack, hair falling over her face in damp curls.
Steve stayed close. He stroked gentle fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her flushed cheeks.
“You’re doing so good, Darce,” he murmured, low and warm. “That feel nice, honey?”
She nodded helplessly, voice caught in her throat. “So good. S-so full already.”
Darcy whimpered, her body trembling with need. Bucky’s cock dragged against every nerve inside her, thick and unrelenting, but it wasn’t enough. Not yet. She could feel Steve’s hand between her thighs, not touching—just hovering—waiting.
“Think she’s ready for both?” Bucky asked, glancing up at Steve with a grin.
Steve leaned in and kissed her temple. “She’s more than ready.”
Darcy let out a soft, wrecked sound when Steve’s fingers slipped down between her cheeks. He took his time, coaxing her open, slicking her up with practised care. It wasn’t their first time like this—she’d asked for it again after the first—and he knew just how to make her feel safe and wanted. Cherished, even with her face pressed to a kitchen table and her hands bound behind her back.
“You still okay, sweetheart?” he asked, rubbing slow circles into the base of her spine.
“Yes,” she breathed, panting into the wood. “God, yes. Please—please, Steve—”
“Shh, I’ve got you.” He pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder, then lined himself up behind her.
The pressure was slow. Measured. His cock thick and hot as he pushed in beside Bucky’s, stretching her wide. Her mouth fell open, no sound coming out—just a ragged, stunned breath.
Bucky let out a string of soft curses, one hand moving up to brace against the small of her back. “Jesus, she’s tight.”
Steve exhaled through his nose, jaw tight with control. “She’s perfect.”
Together, they moved. Shifting in sync, one thrusting while the other held steady, then swapping, keeping her pinned and filled and trembling. Darcy was speechless, every nerve lit up like a live wire. It was overwhelming—but not too much.
Never too much. Every stroke was a reminder that she was theirs, held between them like something precious.
“Look at you,” Bucky murmured, his voice softer now, his thumb stroking little circles just above where they were joined. “Takin’ both of us so well.”
Steve leaned forward, his chest pressed to her back, his hand finding hers where it was still tied. “So proud of you,” he whispered, kissing her temple again. “So damn proud.”
Darcy gasped, her whole body shaking as the pleasure crested, blinding and hot and deep. Her orgasm crashed over her without warning, stealing her voice, stealing the air from her lungs.
Steve groaned at the way she clenched down on them. “That’s it, baby. Let go.”
Bucky wasn’t far behind. He buried his face against her shoulder, biting back a moan as he came, his hips jerking erratically against her. Steve followed seconds later, gritting his teeth, groaning her name into her skin as he spilled deep inside her.
For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen was heavy breathing. Sweat-slick skin. The creak of the old wooden table as they slowly came down from the high together.
Bucky was the first to move. He slipped out of her with a soft, reverent groan, pressing a kiss between her shoulder blades.
Steve untied her wrists gently, massaging her hands to ease the stiffness. “Still with us?”
Darcy nodded, dazed and smiling, her cheek still pressed to the table. “Best Saturday ever.”
Bucky chuckled, pulling her into his arms as Steve helped them both onto the couch. “We haven’t even gotten to lunch yet.”
Chapter 12: Darcy/Bucky ("I really want to kiss you right now." - "Then do it.")
Chapter Text
Darcy was still talking. She’d been talking since they got back, filling the silence of her apartment with every stray thought in her head—complaints about the heating, questions about how many knives a man actually needed to carry, a rant about the absurdity of bad Wi-Fi in the 21st century.
Bucky sat on the edge of her couch, elbows on his knees, letting the words wash over him. She didn’t realize it, but she was keeping him anchored. Every syllable pulled him further from the fog of adrenaline and blood and memory.
“…and don’t even get me started on the fact that Pop-Tarts are technically ravioli—”
“Darcy.”
His voice cut through her chatter like the clean crack of ice. She blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
Bucky’s gaze lifted to hers, steady, sharp in the way it always was when he’d already made a decision. His hand flexed against his thigh. He didn’t fidget often anymore, but he couldn’t seem to help it now.
“I really want to kiss you right now.”
The words hung in the space between them, fragile and heavy at the same time. Darcy’s mouth fell open, a thousand possible jokes crowding her tongue. None made it past her lips.
For once, she was speechless.
Bucky tilted his head, something like a smile ghosting at the corner of his mouth. Not mocking—just patient, almost hopeful. “Say something before I regret it.”
She swallowed, throat suddenly dry. Her heart thumped so hard she was half-sure he could hear it. “You—you can’t just drop that on a girl after a near-death mission and a Pop-Tart debate.”
His smile widened, slow and crooked. “I just did.”
Darcy exhaled a shaky laugh, nerves and adrenaline tangling in her chest. “Well, Barnes, what are you waiting for?”
He didn’t. One moment there was space between them, and the next his hand was cradling her jaw, his mouth covering hers. The kiss was firm but not rushed, careful in a way that made her knees weak.
Darcy melted into it, her hands bunching in his shirt, pulling him closer. For all his strength, he let her set the pace, following her lead as if afraid to push too far.
When they finally broke apart, she was breathless, grinning like an idiot. “That was—wow. Ten out of ten. Highly recommend.”
Bucky huffed a laugh against her forehead, pressing another brief kiss there before leaning back. “Glad you approve.”
Chapter 13: Darcy/Wanda + coffee shop/tarot reader AU*
Chapter Text
The little brass bell over Wanda’s shop door jangled hard enough to rattle the glass. Darcy stumbled inside, apron still tied crooked around her waist, hair pulled back in a frazzled knot. She looked like she’d run straight from her espresso machine to the door without stopping for air.
“Men are canceled,” she announced, not bothering with a greeting. Her voice carried over the rows of candles and shelves lined with crystal clusters. “Like—completely. Done. Deleted from the app. The patriarchy is officially revoked of dating privileges.”
From behind the counter, Wanda raised an elegant brow. She was arranging bundles of sage, her fingers moving with unhurried grace, like she’d been expecting Darcy’s outburst all along. “Good evening to you too,” she said lightly, slipping the twine knot tight.
Darcy dropped into the nearest chair with a groan. “Sorry. Hi. I just—ugh. I swear, if one more dude tells me he’s ‘afraid of commitment’ but then moves in with his Xbox six days later—” She broke off, gesturing vaguely. “I’m tapping out. Officially retiring from the hetero rodeo.”
The corner of Wanda’s mouth quirked. She crossed the shop, the hem of her wine-red dress whispering against her knees, and settled across from Darcy at the little round table draped in embroidered cloth. A deck of tarot cards sat in the center, waiting.
“No more men?” Wanda echoed, tilting her head. “That’s very decisive of you.”
Darcy threw up her hands. “No more men. Ever. They’ve had their chance. I’m done. Toast. Stick a fork in me, etcetera.”
Wanda hummed thoughtfully, fingers brushing over the back of the tarot deck. “Well,” she said, eyes glinting, “the cards might say otherwise. Would you like me to check?”
Darcy laughed—loud, a little incredulous. “Are you seriously trying to fortune-tell me out of my vow of celibacy?”
“Not celibacy,” Wanda corrected smoothly. She drew the deck into her hands, shuffling with practiced flicks. “Just… new directions. Different possibilities. You swore off men, yes—but you didn’t swear off love.”
Darcy blinked at her, pulse kicking up unexpectedly at the way Wanda’s voice wrapped around the word love. “You mean like… dogs? Cats? I could totally be one of those people who takes their iguana everywhere.”
Wanda smiled, slow and amused, and placed the deck between them. “Pick a card, Darcy. Let’s see what the universe thinks you should try next.”
Darcy hesitated, her hand hovering over the deck. She knew she wasn’t supposed to take any of this seriously—it was candles and incense and vibes, right? But then again, Wanda Maximoff had a way of making even the kitschy feel profound.
They’d known each other for almost a year now, since Darcy signed the lease for the coffee shop next door. At first, it was just neighborly hellos in the mornings, Darcy unlocking the espresso machine while Wanda swept her stoop, both of them bundled against the cold. But soon it turned into little rituals: Wanda bringing over lavender tea when Darcy was jittery from too much caffeine, Darcy slipping a croissant into a paper bag for Wanda whenever she caught her lingering by the pastry case.
They weren’t exactly best friends—Darcy didn’t even know the full story of Wanda’s accent, or why she sometimes looked so sad when the shop was quiet—but they’d built a kind of easy shorthand. Enough that Darcy felt comfortable barging in like this, still dusted with coffee grounds, ranting about her love life.
And Wanda, for her part, never looked annoyed. She always listened like Darcy’s chaos was… entertaining. Endearing, even.
Now, across the table, Wanda’s green eyes sparkled in the lamplight as she nudged the deck closer. “Go on,” she murmured. “Pick one. Humor me.”
Darcy sighed, rolling her eyes for effect, but reached out anyway. Her fingers hovered, then tapped one of the cards near the center. Wanda slid it free with careful precision, turning it over between them.
The artwork gleamed under the lamp: two figures reaching toward each other, an angel poised above them. The Lovers.
Darcy snorted. “Of course. Very funny, universe. Real original.”
But Wanda only smiled, soft and sly, like she’d been waiting for exactly this. She leaned her elbow against the table and rested her chin in her palm, watching Darcy’s reaction. “You asked for no more men,” she said, her voice low and even. “And the cards listened. They are suggesting… another path.”
Darcy narrowed her eyes. “Another path as in…?”
“As in,” Wanda’s lips curved, “perhaps your future isn’t with men at all.”
The words landed heavier than Darcy expected, making her chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the incense smoke curling in the air. “Wait—are you saying the cards want me to start dating women? That’s your psychic hot take?”
“Not women.” Wanda’s gaze held steady. “A woman.”
The air between them seemed to shift. Darcy laughed, too loudly, too quick, and looked down at the card. “Well, uh. That’s—good to know. Guess I’ll, um, update my Tinder settings.”
Wanda reached out and brushed her fingertip over the edge of the card, so close to Darcy’s hand it made her skin prickle. “Or,” she said gently, “you could let me take you to dinner. Consider it… part of the reading.”
Darcy’s head jerked up, eyes wide. “Wait. Are you asking me out under the guise of fortune-telling right now?”
Wanda’s smile deepened, equal parts mystery and challenge. “Maybe,” she said. “Do you want me to be?”
Darcy blinked at her, then barked out a laugh, shoving a hand through her hair. “Wow. Okay. You’re really committing to the bit. Do you just… hit on all your customers this way? ‘Your aura says you should totally buy me dinner’?”
Wanda tilted her head, unfazed. “Only the ones who swear off men loudly enough to shake the windows.”
Darcy groaned and dropped her face into her hands. “God, you heard that? I knew I should’ve workshopped my dramatic exit speech.”
“Oh, I heard it.” Wanda leaned closer, her voice warm with amusement. “Half the block heard it. Very powerful energy. Very final.”
Darcy peeked at her through her fingers. “You’re mocking me.”
“I’m encouraging you.” Wanda tapped the Lovers card again, her nails painted the same deep red as her dress. “The universe is clearly trying to help you move on. Maybe even… pointing you toward someone specific.”
Darcy let her hands fall with a sigh, slouching back in the chair. “Wow, real subtle. Next you’re gonna tell me the crystals ship us.”
“They do,” Wanda said matter-of-factly, with zero hesitation. “Especially the rose quartz.”
That earned another laugh out of Darcy, sharp but genuine this time. “Okay, fine. Points for commitment. But if this is your sneaky way of asking me out, you could just… y’know, ask me out. Normal style. Without props.”
Wanda smiled like a cat who’d already gotten exactly what she wanted. “But where’s the fun in that?”
“You’re gay?” Darcy asked, squinting at her like she was trying to solve a math problem.
Wanda’s smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Not strictly speaking,” she said, her tone lilting, careful. “I’ve loved men before. But I don’t… limit myself.” Her gaze lingered on Darcy, steady and just a little too direct. “Why would I, when the world offers so many possibilities?”
Darcy blinked, taken aback by both the honesty and the delivery. “Huh.” She sat back, arms folding, though the corners of her lips threatened to twitch. “So basically, you’re saying you’re the Swiss Army knife of dating.”
That made Wanda laugh, soft and warm. “If that helps you understand it, sure.”
Darcy pointed a finger at her, still smirking. “Dangerous woman. Very dangerous. One minute I’m ranting about terrible boyfriends, the next you’re telling me the tarot says I should date my hot witchy neighbor.”
“Psychic,” Wanda corrected, her grin turning sly. “And yes. That’s exactly what the tarot says.”
Wanda tilted her head, eyes narrowing just slightly, like she was studying Darcy the same way she might study the spread of cards. “You’re smiling,” she pointed out softly.
Darcy immediately straightened in her chair. “I am not.”
“You are,” Wanda insisted, a little spark of triumph in her voice. “You think it’s funny, but you like it. The idea.”
Darcy scoffed, flapping a hand. “Oh please. You’re reading into my face now like it’s another card in your deck.”
“Maybe.” Wanda leaned in just enough that the scent of her perfume—warm, floral, faintly spicy—curled into the air between them. “But I’m very good at readings, Darcy. And right now I see a woman who swore off men… but hasn’t sworn off being kissed.”
Darcy’s laugh caught in her throat. She fumbled for her coffee-stained apron strings, tugging at them like they’d suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world. “Wow. Bold. Do you just—drop that line on all your neighbors, or am I special?”
“Very special,” Wanda murmured, tilting her head the other way now, as though closing in.
Darcy blinked at her, pulse tripping over itself. “Special, huh? Is that what the crystals told you, or are you just making it up as you go?”
“Does it matter?” Wanda asked, her voice quieter now. Her head tilted again, deliberate, her hair slipping over one shoulder as she leaned just slightly closer across the table.
Darcy froze, realizing exactly how little space there was between them. The Lovers card still sat on the table, its painted figures mirroring the way Wanda’s gaze locked onto hers.
Her throat went dry. “Um. Just so we’re clear,” she said, fighting for nonchalance, “are you about to—like—psychically kiss me, or…?”
“Not psychically,” Wanda murmured, lips curving. Her face was so close now that Darcy could feel the warmth of her breath. “Unless you want me to.”
Darcy’s laugh came out shaky, half a protest, half a dare. “You’re—unreal. You know that, right?”
“Then stop me,” Wanda whispered.
Darcy didn’t move. She just sat there, caught between laughter and the dizzy thrill of it, as Wanda leaned in until there was barely a heartbeat of air left between their mouths—close enough for the promise, not yet the kiss.
Darcy didn’t stop her. Couldn’t. The second Wanda’s lips touched hers, every smart-ass comment Darcy had queued up short-circuited.
It wasn’t dramatic—no fireworks, no swelling soundtrack—just warm, soft, shockingly gentle. But Darcy still felt her knees go wobbly, even though she was sitting down. She made a tiny, startled sound against Wanda’s mouth, and Wanda smiled into the kiss like she’d been expecting it.
Darcy pulled back half an inch, eyes wide. “Wow. Okay. You actually did it.”
“You sound surprised,” Wanda teased, tilting her head.
“I just—I didn’t think my evening was gonna include—” Darcy broke off when Wanda leaned in again, stealing another kiss. This one lingered, Wanda’s tongue teasing at her lower lip until Darcy gasped and laughed at the same time.
Somehow Darcy’s hands found Wanda’s waist, tugging her closer. Wanda let herself be pulled, sliding into Darcy’s lap like she’d planned it. The motion made Darcy’s breath hitch and her laugh turn shaky.
“Wow,” Darcy said again, voice a little higher now. “You really don’t waste time, do you?”
“Why would I?” Wanda murmured, kissing her again. Her hand slipped under the hem of Darcy’s apron, palm warm against her stomach, fingers trailing lower.
Darcy’s laugh cracked into a gasp. “Oh my god—are we seriously—right here? In your crystal emporium?”
“Yes,” Wanda said simply, her grin wicked as her fingers dipped beneath the waistband of Darcy’s jeans.
Darcy squeaked, grabbing Wanda’s wrist for half a second before letting go just as fast, shoulders shaking with laughter. “You’re ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.”
“You’re wet,” Wanda countered softly, pressing her fingers more firmly against her.
Darcy let out a helpless, breathless laugh. “Okay, fine. Point for the psychic.”
And then she was kissing Wanda back, messy and eager, her own hand sliding up Wanda’s thigh under that wine-red dress.
For one dizzy second, Darcy almost pulled back—just to get her bearings, just to process that this was really happening. She’d joked, she’d flirted with women before, sure, but this? Wanda in her lap, dress hitched, both of them laughing into each other’s mouths while their hands moved lower—this was sex. With a woman.
It was shockingly… easy.
Darcy had always figured if it ever happened, it would feel complicated, like a whole different skillset she’d have to fumble her way through. But it wasn’t like that at all. It was instinct. Wanda kissed her and Darcy kissed back, Wanda touched her and Darcy wanted to touch right back, like she’d been waiting for permission she didn’t even know she needed.
Somewhere in the blur of it, Darcy thought—Wow. Men really had me convinced they were the default. But this feels so natural it’s almost embarrassing I didn’t try it sooner.
The thought made her snort against Wanda’s lips, which turned into a little laugh she couldn’t swallow down.
Wanda pulled back just enough to smirk at her. “What’s funny?”
Darcy shook her head, still breathless, eyes wide with a mix of nerves and wonder. “Nothing. Just… I can’t believe how much I like this.”
Darcy swallowed hard, still grinning like she couldn’t help herself. “Okay, no, you know what? I am gonna say it out loud.”
Wanda raised a brow, amused. “Say what?”
“That I cannot believe how much I like this,” Darcy blurted, words tumbling over each other in a rush. “Like, I’ve never—never done this before, and it’s not awkward at all, it’s not confusing, it’s just—” She broke off with a helpless laugh, cheeks flushed. “It’s really, really good. Like maybe I should’ve been doing this the whole time instead of wasting years on emotionally constipated dudes named Kyle.”
Wanda’s smile turned warm, indulgent. She brushed her fingers across Darcy’s cheek, tilting her face back into another kiss. “Good,” she murmured against her mouth. “I like hearing that.”
Darcy laughed again, breathless, her forehead resting against Wanda’s. “You’re seriously going to ruin me for straight relationships forever, aren’t you?”
“Not ruin,” Wanda whispered, lips ghosting over hers. “Just… show you something better.”
Wanda kissed her again, slow and coaxing, while her hand slid back down, undoing the button of Darcy’s jeans with an ease that made Darcy gasp.
“Whoa, okay,” Darcy breathed, squirming, but she didn’t stop her. In fact, she wriggled her hips like she was helping. “You really are committed to customer service, huh?”
“Always,” Wanda murmured, slipping her hand inside, finding Darcy hot and wet.
Darcy’s laugh stuttered into a moan. “Oh my god. Okay. Yeah. Yeah, that’s—wow.” Her head fell back against the chair, eyes squeezing shut, half laughing at herself for how fast her body responded. “This is—seriously, I thought there’d be, like, a learning curve!”
“There isn’t,” Wanda said, voice low and pleased. She kissed along Darcy’s jaw as her fingers worked her, slow at first, then deeper, more deliberate.
Darcy bucked up against her hand, grabbing Wanda’s waist under the dress, tugging her closer until her own fingers slid up between Wanda’s thighs. The silky heat there made her gasp again, this time from pure wonder. “Ohhh, hello. Okay. Yeah. Yeah, I get it now.”
Wanda’s laugh broke on a soft moan when Darcy pressed her fingers higher. “Quick learner,” she whispered, rocking down against Darcy’s hand even as she curled her own fingers inside her.
Darcy could barely breathe, the two of them tangled together on the chair, every sound turning half giggle, half desperate gasp. “We’re—God, we’re really doing this, huh?”
“Yes,” Wanda moaned, her forehead dropping to Darcy’s shoulder as they moved against each other. “Yes.”
Darcy’s laugh came out shaky, high-pitched, punctuated by another moan. “Holy shit, I—Wanda, I’m—”
Her words tumbled into broken noises as Wanda’s fingers coaxed her over the edge, her whole body jolting with release. The sound she made was half a laugh, half a cry, muffled against Wanda’s hair.
Wanda wasn’t far behind, Darcy’s hand pressed firm and eager between her thighs until she shuddered, moaning low into Darcy’s neck, her laugh trembling right through it.
For a long moment they stayed tangled there, both of them breathless, giggling at how ridiculous and incredible it all was.
Darcy finally managed, between gulps of air: “Okay. Okay. Forget the crystals. You don’t even need them—you just won the argument by default.”
Wanda lifted her head, still flushed, and kissed her one more time. “Good,” she whispered. “Because I wasn’t joking.”
Chapter 14: Darcy/Steve + Darcy's TikTok*
Chapter Text
Steve didn’t mean to open TikTok.
He was just trying to check the news on his phone. But somehow, between a group chat notification from Sam and a calendar reminder to pick up groceries, he’d tapped the wrong app. And once the video started playing, it was over.
Darcy.
In a black satin dress that hugged her in all the right places, every curve on display. The caption read: “For the girls with hips and thighs and soft bellies — you’re the whole damn meal.”
The dress shimmered as she twirled, biting her lip and laughing into the camera, confident and radiant and so fucking sexy that Steve just—froze. He stared, wide-eyed and very, very still, as if moving might make it worse.
Or better.
She turned in the video, showing off the dip of her back, the round of her ass, that proud little smile that made his stomach twist. A second video auto-played: Darcy in a crop top and leggings, facing the camera and murmuring: “He better like some softness. If you want bones, go to a graveyard.”
Steve choked on his own spit and threw the phone face-down on the counter like it might catch fire.
She found him in the kitchen twenty minutes later, still red in the face, sipping water and pretending to scroll through something totally unrelated. She raised an eyebrow as she leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, smirking like she already knew.
“Hey, Cap.”
He looked up. “Hey.”
“Everything okay?”
“Fine. Great. Yep.” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence.
Darcy padded into the kitchen, bare feet silent against the tile. She was wearing that same crop top from the video. The one that clung to her soft stomach and lifted just enough to show the curve of her underboob.
“I posted a new TikTok today,” she said lightly, reaching past him for the cookie jar.
Steve coughed. “I noticed.”
“Oh?” she said, sweet and slow. “You follow me?”
“No. I mean, yes, but—I didn’t mean to—Sam sent me a thing and I opened the app and—”
“Uh huh.”
She took a bite of the cookie and chewed slowly, watching his face. “So?”
“So what?”
“Did you like it?” she teased. “The dress? The hips? The thighs?”
Steve’s ears went bright pink. “Darcy.”
“I saw your face, big guy.” She stepped closer. “You looked like you’d seen God. Or maybe just someone who makes you think very dirty thoughts.”
His breath hitched. She was so close now, her body brushing against his, and he couldn’t help it — his hands found her waist, fingers curling just under the hem of her shirt.
“You’re not… wrong,” he murmured.
She smiled like a cat who got the cream. “Want me to model it for you again?”
“I’m not sure I’d survive it.”
Darcy leaned in until her lips just brushed his ear. “I’ll go slow.”
The dress lay discarded across the back of the couch within minutes. She rode him with lazy confidence, every roll of her hips purposeful, hands on his chest, her voice a breathy murmur in the dim light: “This what you wanted, Stevie? Hips, thighs, all for you?”
He could barely speak. Just nod and grip her harder and moan her name like a prayer.
When she came with a soft cry, body trembling, he kissed her like he was drowning — grateful, reverent, ruined.
And when she finally collapsed against his chest, breathless and glowing, she whispered, “Next time you want to see the dress, just ask.”
He groaned. “I’m never opening TikTok again.”
Chapter 15: Darcy/Steve (“Were you just masturbating?” -“U-uh..no, I was just..” “Want some help?”)*
Chapter Text
Darcy froze like she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Or more accurately, down the front of her leggings.
She sat upright on the couch, cheeks flaming, the blanket she’d hastily yanked over herself doing absolutely nothing to hide the guilty gleam in her eyes or the way her chest rose and fell in shallow little breaths. Steve Rogers stood in the doorway holding two mugs, one brow arched in amusement, eyes trained on her flushed face.
“Were you just masturbating?”
Darcy gave a very unconvincing laugh. “W-what? No. I was just…uh…” Her voice trailed off as she looked down at herself. One of her knees was still bent, foot braced on the edge of the couch. The telltale outline of her vibrator was still visible beneath the throw blanket, tucked between her thighs.
Steve's mouth curled. “Just what?”
She swallowed. “Just… meditating.”
“Right,” he said, deadpan. “Looked like it.”
He set both mugs on the side table and walked closer, slow and deliberate. She sank further back into the couch cushion like it might swallow her whole.
“You know,” he said, voice low and teasing, “if you wanted some help…”
Darcy blinked. “Help?”
Steve leaned over her, bracing one hand on the back of the couch. “Yeah. Help. Unless you really want to finish meditating all by yourself.”
She didn’t push him away when his mouth caught hers in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and heat. Didn’t stop him when he slipped his hand beneath the blanket, nudging the vibrator aside and finding her already wet and aching for more. She whimpered into his mouth as he slid two fingers inside her like he’d been waiting for permission, like he’d been dying for this moment.
“Jesus,” he breathed against her jaw, “you were already so close, weren’t you?”
Darcy moaned, hips grinding down. “You’re such a smug asshole.”
He grinned. “You love it.”
“I do.”
His fingers curled, slow and deep, and her head tipped back with a gasp. She barely noticed when he reached down and guided her legs around his waist, tugging her further up the couch until her hips met his, the outline of his hard cock pressing insistently against her through his sweats.
“I’ve thought about this,” Steve murmured. “Coming in and finding you like that. Touching yourself. Needing me.”
“You’re such a perv,” she gasped, laughing breathlessly.
“Only for you, sweetheart.”
He kissed her again as his fingers sped up, relentless and sure. She came with a cry muffled into his mouth, thighs trembling, body arching into him like he was the only thing tethering her to the earth.
When she finally caught her breath, she looked up at him through half-lidded eyes and whispered, “Now take your pants off, Captain.”
He chuckled low in his throat. “Yes, ma’am.”
Chapter 16: Darcy/Steve + Avengers Game Night*
Chapter Text
“Game night” at the Tower had started as a harmless way to bond. Poker. Uno. Even charades. But then Tony got bored, Natasha got sneaky, and someone (Darcy) brought out a suspiciously handmade Jenga tower with tiny Sharpie scrawlings on each block.
“Truth or Dare Jenga,” she’d said, grinning like a menace. “Pick your poison, Cap.”
Steve, of course, had groaned. “This feels like a setup.”
It was.
By the third round, Thor had already streaked across the hallway, Clint had confessed to a deeply embarrassing high school phase involving eyeliner, and Sam had been dared to kiss Bucky, who only grunted but didn’t dodge.
Then it was Steve’s turn. He pulled a block. Read it. Blinked.
Darcy leaned in. “Well?”
His voice was tight. “Says…‘Whisper your dirtiest fantasy to the person to your left.’”
All heads turned. Darcy was to his left.
She grinned slowly. “You gonna make me blush, Cap?”
He hesitated for half a second. Then he leaned in, one hand braced beside her thigh, mouth brushing the shell of her ear.
Her smirk faltered. Her breath caught.
Whatever he said was too quiet for the rest of the team to hear—but not too quiet for her to feel. Her pupils dilated. She blinked at him once. Twice.
And then Natasha, bless her, clapped her hands and said, “Game’s over. Steve wins. Everyone get out.”
-
Ten minutes later, her back hit the wall of his room.
“Say it again,” she panted, pulling at his belt. “What you whispered.”
He kissed down her neck, voice gravel and fire. “Told you I’ve been thinking about bending you over the table. During game night. Making you watch the Jenga pieces fall while I fuck you from behind.”
“God.” She yanked his shirt over his head. “You dirty old man.”
“You started it.”
He lifted her effortlessly, her thighs wrapping around his waist, her soaked underwear dragging against his abs. She gasped as he ground against her, dragging his cock over her slick heat.
“Thought about this every time you leaned over that board,” he murmured, dragging her t-shirt over her head. “Every time you laughed, bit your lip, fucked with me on purpose.”
“Maybe I wanted to see if Captain America could lose his cool.”
He lined up and pushed inside in one long, unbearable stroke.
“Oh,” she gasped, clutching his shoulders.
“Hope you like the answer.”
She didn’t remember the walk to the bed. One second she was pinned against the door, the next she was face-down on the mattress, one hand twisted in the sheets, the other braced as he slammed into her from behind.
“Still think I’m the one who lost control?” he rasped, his hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise.
She moaned incoherently.
He slapped her ass, just once. “Use your words.”
“Yes—fuck—yes, you win.”
He stilled inside her. Leaned down to murmur against her ear, hot and low.
“Not yet, sweetheart.”
And then he really started to move.
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