Steve’s trying to go for a run. He really is.
But Bucky’s sorting his planting paraphernalia at the dining table, his coffee half-forgotten near his elbow: empty food cartons he’s washed and collected carefully for months to wait for the right time, the flat little bags of seed with overly saturated photos of vegetables and flowers printed on them. He’s making notes in his gardening notebook as he goes through what he has, his small, almost printed-looking handwriting slowly spreading out across the neat planting schedule.
Steve’s been watching the progress as he prepares for going out: he loves to see Bucky like this, surrounded by his yet unborn garden. Once all the little cans and tins and cartons are filled with soil and sprouting seedlings, Steve will help Bucky carry them up in the greenhouse, where they will all be carefully arranged according to another plan in Bucky’s notebook.
Bucky remembers the coffee, takes a swig, makes a face like it’s gone cold and he wasn’t expecting it. Steve wants to kiss that appalled mouth; wants to put his thumb over the little wrinkle on Bucky’s forehead, formed by intense concentration and liquid betrayal, and smooth it out.
It’s taken Steve twelve minutes to tie his shoes, because he can’t keep his eyes off Bucky. A regular Friday, there.
“Aw shit,” Bucky mutters as he checks the backs of the seed packages, raising his voice. “Honey?”
“Yeah?” Steve finishes tying his shoes and goes to him, ready to help. He has to waddle on his heels to reach the dining table, because Bucky’s very particular about their nice rugs and wearing shoes indoors. He detours by the coffee maker and brings the jug, just in case.
“Could you run by Whole Foods for me? I need a new bag of this.” Bucky thrusts one of the seed packets at him. It looks, well, like a tomato, just slightly differently shaped than the five other tomato seed packets on the table.
“Sure,” Steve says as he pours fresh coffee on top of the sad remnants in Bucky’s mug. “Are you in a hurry? I can go to the store first and get it for you, if you want.”
“No, it can wait. Thanks for the coffee.” Bucky tips his head back for a kiss, and Steve’s more than happy to comply. Bucky’s been up for an hour after his nap, but he still smells like their shared bed, sleep-soft and warm. “That one is expired. I’m gonna plant it anyway, but I need another one in case it doesn’t germinate. And bring dessert.”
“Seeds, dessert, got it.” Steve kisses Bucky again, swipes an errant dark curl back from his forehead. “I’ll be back in about an hour.”
“Safe run,” Bucky says, smiling, and immediately sinks right back into garden planning.
It takes Steve seven more minutes to put his windbreaker on.
When Steve barrels into the Gowanus Whole Foods an hour later, still going at a speed unsuitable for indoor spaces, he nearly knocks down the flimsy display of seeds, right there in the foyer. At least it’s conveniently located—Steve hates Whole Foods mostly for the fact that it seems fucking impossible to find anything specific there. Sure, he will find organic pitahayas and cruelty-free olive oil just fine, but that doesn’t help when all he wants is baking powder or a small can of coke.
It takes him a moment to find the correct variety. Who knew there were so fucking many different tomato varities with increasingly stupid names—Big Beef, Fabulous, Gremlin, Mountain Magic. He spends nearly two minutes trying to look like he’s not laughing himself silly in the Whole Foods foyer over a tomato called Big Daddy.
The one Bucky ordered him to find looks almost dull compared to some of the tomato photos, but Steve pulls it from the rack dutifully. After a beat he grabs the Big Daddy tomato, too. Who cares if Bucky doesn’t want to actually plant it—Steve will get a few good jokes out of it, at least.
When he gets back, Bucky’s standing at the kitchen sink, busy at work. There are already rows of tins lined up on the old tray Bucky uses exclusively for his seedlings, and Bucky has dirt on his cheek. He’s braided his hair out of the way, and he’s wearing a knitted sweater and the cute little apron Steve bought for him when they first built the greenhouse. The apron strings have been crossed behind his back and tied at the front, and somehow that’s the most endearing thing Steve has seen in his whole life.
Steve wants to eat him up.
“Hey,” Bucky says, turning his head with a smile as Steve drapes himself over his back, sweaty workout clothes and all, but doesn’t stop working. He feels so nice under Steve’s hands, the sharp angles of his body softened by the thick sweater and the apron. “Did you have a nice run?”
“Mmrrhhm,” Steve rumbles in response, already half-drunk on Bucky’s everything: the slight dampness of his hair from his morning shower, that streak of dirt on his cheekbone, how he’s flushed from the planting and his warm clothes. “I brought you something.”
He manages to detach himself long enough to dig out his loot. The tiramisu gets put in the fridge, and then he’s pressing up against Bucky again, offering the seed packets. Bucky puts down the garden shovel, pulls off his gardening gloves that Steve also finds adorable, and takes both of them.
“I thought I asked only for--” Bucky trails off at the sight of Big Daddy. “Steve.”
The big, ugly laugh Steve’s been holding all the way from Whole Foods escapes, and he has to hook his chin over Bucky’s shoulder to get himself in control. “Sweetheart, look at them. I couldn’t resist.”
“I am looking,” Bucky says, but he’s laughing too, jiggling with it in Steve’s arms. “Jesus Christ, they look obscene. Holding them will be like trying to hold your balls in one hand.”
“Just saying,” Bucky titters, turning his face to kiss Steve’s nose. “You’re my favorite beefsteak.”
Steve can’t help his dumb grin at the gesture, and he squeezes Bucky a little tighter. “You’ll plant them?”
“How can I not?” Bucky puts the packets in his little bin full of unused seeds. “Every house needs a big daddy in one shape or another, even the greenhouse.”
“Uh-huh.” Steve noses the curve of Bucky’s jaw, his hands migrating downwards and starting to slowly work on the apron ties. All the talk about his balls is going, well, into his balls, and Bucky looks so cute in his apron.
“You’re handsy,” Bucky says, but makes no move to stop Steve as he pulls the strings free and sneaks a hand under Bucky’s sweater to find just warm skin underneath. “I’m working.”
"I can't help it," Steve says, nuzzling Bucky’s damp braid, hands roaming. He squeezes Bucky’s ass surreptitiously with one hand, rucking the sweater up to reach Bucky’s tits with the other. "You just look so adorable."
"You're the only person I've ever met who gets horny over something cute," Bucky says, but he puts down the seed bin and leans back into Steve, pushing his chest out for Steve to grope.
Steve’s already more than half-mast in his sweats: funnily enough, touching Bucky is often a better trigger for his dick to salute the flag than touching himself would be. He cups a pec in his hand, smiling smugly at the gasp it draws from Bucky. “I get horny over you, you just happen to be cute. Win-win.”
“I’m swooning.” Bucky’s tone is dry, but he’s dimpling in a way that means he really is a little swooned by Steve’s stupid, from-the-heart flirting.
They fucked just a few hours ago: Steve’s mouth and dick did such a thorough job on Bucky that it effectively sent him down for a thirty-minute nap. That means Bucky should still be a little loose, and Steve grinds his hard dick against the swell of Bucky’s ass, very keen to see if his hunch is true.
“Steve, my planting,” Bucky complains one more time, but it’s just for show, because he curves his back and pushes his ass out.
“Let me slip it to you?” Steve asks, pressing kisses on the exposed column of Bucky’s neck. “I’ll make it good for you, sweetheart, I promise.”
“You horny bastard.” Bucky leans against the counter and bends over, letting Steve push his leggings down. There are still bruises on Bucky’s ass from earlier, albeit fainter and already healing, and Steve just has to fit a hand over one and squeeze as he rummages around the kitchen drawer with his free hand, looking for lube. He knows it’s there somewhere, because he had to chuck it hastily in the drawer a week ago when Sam turned up for a surprise visit just when Steve had planned to finger Bucky over the dining table.
He makes a quick work of it, wetting Bucky up and testing his looseness with a couple of fingers before slicking his own dick and pausing to admire the view. Bucky’s sprawled over the kitchen counter, ass up and sweater rucked up to his armpits, and he’s flushed and a little sweaty with arousal already, riled up so easily.
“Come on, fuck me already,” Bucky grits out, grinding back into Steve’s hands. Look how the tone changed with some fingers up his ass.
“Yeah?” Steve spreads Bucky’s ass lewdly, watching his slick-shiny hole giving in easily. He dips the tips of his thumbs in, lining himself up as he delivers his grand line. “You want me to give you that Big Daddy seed?”
“Oh my god,” Bucky moans, smacking back towards Steve with his metal hand, hitting him on the abdomen. “I hate you, you big, stupid— Fuck!”
“M-hm,” Steve says and fucks in deeper, Bucky’s body going loose and pliant under him. “What was that, I didn’t quite catch it?”
“You motherfucker ,” Bucky says through another moan, and then he doesn’t say anything for a long while.
It’s indeed a nice day for planting some seeds.