Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sam had met a lot of remarkable women in his life.

Soldiers, scientists, spies—hell, a few goddesses from Thor’s side, too.

But none of them had ever been elbow-deep in flour, hair escaping a messy bun, muttering about metric conversions like they were a personal insult from the universe when he walked into Tony Stark’s kitchen.

The air smelled like sugar and butter and something faintly floral—vanilla, maybe, or whatever perfume she wore. The sight of her—barefoot, sleeves rolled up, lips moving as she counted under her breath—made something warm curl low in his stomach.

He leaned against the doorframe, grin slow and easy. “Well, if this is what Pepper meant when she said she had someone sweet over, I owe her a thank-you.”

The woman jumped, a small gasp escaping before she turned—brown eyes wide and startled behind a fringe of flour-dusted curls. “Oh! I didn’t hear you come in.”

And Sam froze.

Because those—those exact words were written on the inside of his left elbow. Neat, looping handwriting, like ink on parchment. Oh! I didn’t hear you come in.

Well, damn.

He stared at her for a beat too long, because up close she was even more disarming. A smudge of flour streaked across her cheekbone, and her mouth was pink from where she’d been worrying her lip. She blinked at him, puzzled by his silence.

“Are you all right?” she asked, concern soft in that warm British accent.

Sam found his voice, his grin returning like a reflex. “Yeah, I’m great, actually. Better than great.” He took a step closer, lowering his voice. “You always look this good while baking, or am I just lucky?”

Her brows lifted, a startled laugh bubbling out. “You’re very forward.”

“I prefer honest,” he countered, charm dripping from every word. “Besides, it’s not every day a man walks into a kitchen and finds an angel making cookies.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite hide her smile. “Flattery already? You must be American.”

“Guilty as charged.” He nodded at the counter. “What’re you working on, Angel?”

“Biscuits,” she said, a hint of mischief in her tone now. “Though I can’t seem to get the butter-to-sugar ratio right for American flour.” She gestured helplessly to the mixing bowl. “Pepper swore this recipe would work, but it’s all too… flat.”

Sam chuckled, rolling up his sleeves as he sauntered closer. “You’re in luck, sweetheart. Baking’s a team sport where I come from.”

“Oh, is it?” she teased. “And what position do you play?”

He grinned, leaning in just enough for her to smell his cologne—warm cedar and something clean. “Whichever one gets the most taste tests.”

Her laugh was soft, surprised, and real. He could feel it sink into him, right under the ribs. She shook her head but passed him the measuring cup anyway. “Fine then, Mr Honest. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

He took the cup, brushing her fingers in the handoff. Electricity. Actual, honest-to-God static raced up his arm.

And it wasn’t from the damn flour.

Sam glanced at her, the corners of his mouth curling into something gentler now. “You know,” he said, voice dropping low, teasing but careful, “You just said my words.”

She blinked, confused. “Your what?”

He lifted his arm. The words—her words—curved across his skin in perfect imitation of her voice. Her gaze followed, widening, lips parting in disbelief.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, I didn’t hear you.” He watched it hit her—the wonder, the realisation, the tremor in her fingers as she lifted a hand to her mouth.

Then she laughed. Light, breathless, the sound like sunlight breaking through clouds. “You’re—oh, you’re my soulmate!”

Sam’s chest tightened, and before he could say anything, she threw her arms around him. Her hair smelled like sugar and cinnamon and something homey, like comfort baked into the air.

He wrapped his arms around her automatically, laughing softly against her temple. “Looks like it, Angel.”

“I’m Hermione,” she said into his chest, the words soft, shy, a little disbelieving.

“Sam,” he murmured back, just as soft.

When she pulled back, she was still smiling—eyes bright, cheeks flushed. “I can’t believe this. Pepper will never let me hear the end of it.”

“Guess she’s got good taste in friends,” he said, brushing a bit of flour off her cheek with his thumb. His grin softened as he looked at her properly now—the kindness written in every line of her face, the spark behind her eyes, and the quiet strength she radiated.

Something settled deep in his chest.

And somewhere deeper still, something stirred.

Because he could already feel it—that faint hum at the edges of his soul, the echo that wasn’t hers. A familiar tether, steady and rough-edged.

Bucky.

But fate, Sam thought as Hermione’s fingers lingered against his wrist, still tracing her words like they were holy—

Fate had perfect timing.

He wasn’t about to rush it.

Not when the universe had just handed him this moment, all sugar and laughter and soft, impossible magic.

And somewhere far away, he could already hear his partner's voice drawl, “You found her first, didn’t you?”

Sam smiled, heart full.

Yeah, he’d found her. And he was gonna make damn sure both of them got the ending they deserved.

Bucky heard him before he saw him. Sam knew it the moment the low whistle left his lips—the one that always earned him an eye roll and a muttered curse.

Sure enough, when he stepped into their shared living space at the Compound, Bucky was leaning back on the couch, arms crossed. “That’s a ‘Wilson’s in trouble’ whistle,” he muttered, not even looking up.

Sam grinned, dropping his jacket over the chair. “Evenin’, sunshine.” He tossed him a protein bar.

Bucky caught it without looking. “You rob a bakery or somethin’? You smell like sugar.”

“Didn’t rob it,” Sam said easily, leaning against the counter. “Helped make it.”

That got his head up. “You baked? Voluntarily?”

“She was bakin’,” Sam corrected. “I just offered my expert guidance.”

“She?” Bucky’s eyes narrowed, suspicious but curious. Sam didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted down to his arm—the one with the looping script Bucky had seen a hundred times before.

Bucky went still. “Sam.”

Sam met his eyes, smile softening. “Met her today.”

For a second, there was nothing but quiet. Bucky’s expression flickered—shock, then something deeper. “You sure?” he asked, voice low.

“Positive.” Sam let out a slow breath, the kind that felt like it carried the whole damn world out of him. “Hermione. She’s… hell, Buck. She’s somethin’ else. Sweet, sharp, got this way of talking like she’s solving five problems at once. Had flour in her hair and still managed to school me on sugar ratios.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Sounds like your type.”

Sam smiled, small and certain. “She’s our type,” he said quietly. “I can feel it. That same pull. Just… softer.”

He dropped onto the couch beside him, elbows on his knees. “Told her about you. Figured fate’s got a way of workin’ itself out.”

Bucky nodded slowly, jaw tight in that way it got when he was feeling more than he’d ever admit. Sam knew the look—it wasn’t jealousy. It was the ache of knowing their story had just changed.

“What’s she like?” Bucky asked finally.

Sam’s grin tugged lopsided. “Got this light about her, babe. The kind that sneaks up on you. But there’s somethin’ in her eyes too—like she’s seen more than she lets on.”

Bucky’s gaze dropped to his hands. Sam could almost see the picture forming in his mind—her kindness, her laughter, the way she’d hugged him like the universe had just righted itself.

“You’ll like her,” Sam said, bumping his shoulder gently. “She’s got that calm that could even out your storm.”

Bucky snorted. “Maybe she’ll make you less cocky.”

“Doubtful,” Sam said easily, but then his smile softened again. “But I think she’s the piece we’ve been waitin’ for.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The silence between them was full, steady—like a promise quietly forming.

Sam leaned back, eyes tracing the ceiling. He thought of Hermione’s laughter, the warmth of her hug, and the way his skin had hummed when she said those first words.

And when his gaze drifted back to Bucky—his partner, his first soulmate, his anchor—Sam felt something settle deep in his chest.

She was going to fit.

He could already feel it.

Bucky hadn’t been this nervous in a long damn time.

He wouldn’t admit it out loud, of course, but his stomach had been doing laps ever since his partner mentioned her.

Hermione.

The way Sam said her name had told him everything he needed to know. Soft, reverent, like a secret he wanted to keep close.

And Bucky had seen it before — that light that came into Sam’s eyes when fate got involved. So yeah. He was curious. Maybe a little hopeful.

He just hadn’t expected their first meeting to sound like a distress call.

“No, no, no. Get away! Sam!”

The voice hit him the moment they stepped into the kitchen. High, panicked, and so damn British he almost tripped.

Then he saw her.

A tiny woman perched on top of the kitchen island, curls flying everywhere, clutching a wooden spoon like it was a knife. Below her, Clint’s pack of golden retrievers were circling in joyous chaos, tails wagging hard enough to knock over a chair.

“What the hell,” Bucky muttered, blinking.

“Clint’s dogs,” Sam said, already grinning like this was the best thing that had ever happened.

“Sam!” she squeaked again. “Call them off!”

Bucky couldn’t help it — a low laugh slipped out before he could stop it. She was adorable, with a flour-dusted apron, wide eyes, and more fire than fear.

Sam whistled for the dogs, all calm and easy charm. “Sit, boys! You’re scarin’ her.”

“They attacked me!” she cried, still balancing on the countertop. “I was trying to feed them biscuits, and they jumped on me!”

“Angel,” Sam said, laughing, “they’re golden retrievers, not wolves.”

“They’re massive!” she shot back, clutching her spoon like she meant business.

Her eyes found his, warm brown locking onto his steel blue, and for a heartbeat, Bucky couldn’t breathe. The world tilted, that deep, magnetic pull settling into his chest, the same one he’d felt the first time Sam’s words appeared on his skin.

And then she broke the spell by squeaking—“You’re just standing there! Do something!”

Bucky blinked. Then, slowly, a smile tugged at his mouth. 

“Doll,” he said softly, the grin blooming before he could stop it. “You got no idea how long I’ve been waitin’ to hear that.”

Her mouth fell open. “Oh,” she breathed, eyes wide and shimmering with disbelief. “Oh, it’s you.” Hermione laughed — a little breathless, a little overwhelmed — and pressed her hands over her face. “You’re both—oh my goodness—you’re both—”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmured, stepping closer. “Looks like it.”

The moment was broken by one of the damn dogs — Lucky, he thought — decided to take a flying leap onto the counter.

Hermione shrieked, jerking back so hard she nearly lost her balance. Her curls bounced, the spoon batting at the friendly beast harmlessly, as she tried to avoid the enormous retriever now happily sniffing her apron.

“Alright, alright—hey!” Sam laughed, stepping forward, arms already out. Before Bucky could move, Sam had her off the counter and tucked safely against his chest, one arm under her knees, the other steady around her back.

She gasped, then clung to him with both hands, eyes wide. “They’re everywhere!”

“Clint!” Sam bellowed, voice echoing through the compound. “Come get your damn dogs—they’re scarin’ our girl!”

Bucky froze for a beat at that—our girl—because the words fit. Too well.

He was still taking in the sight—Hermione flushed and breathless in Sam’s arms, dogs whining and tails wagging—when Clint came skidding into the kitchen, socks sliding on the tile.

“What the hell’s goin’ on in—ow!” The wooden spoon smacked him square in the chest before he could finish. Bucky choked down a surprised laugh.

“Control your beasts!” Hermione shouted, half-hiding behind Sam’s shoulder like she expected the retrievers to retaliate.

Clint looked between the three of them, utterly lost. “They’re dogs, not—wait, what did I do?”

“Your dogs, Clint!” Hermione snapped, voice high with outrage and something like panic. “Tried to eat me!”

“They just wanted cuddles!” Clint protested, eyes wide. “They’re friendly!”

“Friendly?” she squeaked. “They ambushed me!”

Sam was laughing so hard he could barely hold her. He had her tucked against his chest, one arm wrapped securely around her waist, keeping her out of canine range.

“Clint,” Sam managed between laughs, “Deal with your damn dogs. Or you might never get cookies again.”

Clint's face turned horrified, and he clapped his hands. “C’mon, boys! Out!” The dogs trotted away, tails wagging, completely oblivious to the chaos they’d caused. Hermione sagged with relief, glaring after them.

Bucky stepped closer before he even realised he’d moved, reaching out a hand. “You okay, doll?”

She looked up at him, curls mussed, cheeks flushed, eyes still bright from the rush. “Sam, put me down.”

Sam laughed quietly, but didn’t move right away. “You sure, Angel? Those dogs might make a comeback.”

“Sam,” she said, voice small but firm, “put me down.”

Bucky could see the way her fingers curled against Sam’s shirt, the faint tremor in her shoulders. She was embarrassed — probably realising half the compound had heard her shrieking at Clint’s dogs.

Sam’s grin softened into something gentler, his teasing fading. “Alright, alright.”

He lowered her slowly until her feet touched the floor, his hands steady at her waist. She wobbled for half a second before Bucky’s hand came up automatically, brushing her elbow to keep her balanced.

Her head snapped up, startled by the touch. “Bucky,” Sam said, voice suddenly softer, steadier. “Meet Hermione.” Her eyes lit with something like wonder, and before Bucky could so much as nod, she reached up and hugged him.

It wasn’t tentative, either. She wrapped her arms around his middle, small and warm and real. He froze for a second — he always did, old habit — but then he exhaled, arms coming up to hold her back, careful not to squeeze too tightly.

She smelled like sugar and vanilla and something faintly floral. Her cheek brushed his chest, leaving a dusting of flour on his shirt.

When she pulled back, smiling up at him, he could only stare. Sweet, lovely, hair a wild mess — and somehow she looked like she belonged right there, between him and Sam.

Sam sidled up beside them, still grinning like the cat who’d gotten the cream. “You’ve got flour on your face again, Angel.”

Hermione blinked. “Do I?”

He leaned in, thumb brushing her cheek in a mock-serious gesture. “Here,” he said, wiping at the smudge — and then, quick as anything, he pressed a kiss to the same spot. “All gone.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open in surprise, cheeks pinking. “Sam—”

“What?” he teased, voice all honey and mischief. “Can’t have my girl walkin’ around lookin’ like a powdered doughnut.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Smooth, Wilson. Real smooth.”

Sam threw him a grin over her head. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Bucky ignored it. Instead, he leaned down just enough to brush a kiss against her knuckles, old-fashioned and shameless. “Doll,” he murmured, voice like smoke. “Been waitin’ to meet you.”

Her breath caught. He didn’t miss it.

Sam laughed under his breath. “Babe, you’re impossible.”

“Only when it counts,” Bucky said, still watching Hermione. “And I’d say this counts.”

She blinked up at him, a faint blush rising in her cheeks. “You really are as bad as he says.”

“Worse,” Bucky said easily, eyes glinting. “But I make up for it.”

“How?” she challenged, tilting her chin.

“With charm,” he said. “And good manners.”

Sam groaned. Bucky smirked. “Hey, she started it. She told me to ‘do something,’ remember?”

Hermione laughed—bright and genuine this time—and Bucky felt it like a hit of sunlight.

Maybe fate really did know what it was doing.

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be a quiet afternoon.

Coffee, laughter, the faint hum of Tony’s latest disaster somewhere in the background. Clint’s dogs were romping near the sofa, tails wagging, and Hermione was trying—really trying—to be patient.

She’d told them. Nicely. Three times.

“Clint,” she said again, with a calm that felt like thin glass. “They’re chewing on the sofa.”

He looked up from his phone. “They’ll stop in a sec.”

They didn’t. They never did.

By the time one of them upended the tray of biscuits she’d baked—the fourth batch she’d attempted to make without interference—something deep inside her, something she kept locked and silenced and carefully tucked behind smiles… snapped.

“Oh, for—bloody—hell’s sake!”

Every head in the room turned.

Steve froze mid-sentence. Natasha went utterly still. Tony blinked, sensing drama. Sam and Bucky looked up from the armchair where they’d been sitting together, and Hermione felt their eyes on her—concerned, a little startled.

She didn’t care.

Her voice shook with fury as she straightened, flour-dusted apron still tied around her waist, curls escaping her braid like wildfire. “I have tried,” she said, quietly, dangerously, “to be reasonable. I have tried to be kind. But apparently, some people mistake kindness for weakness.”

Hermione’s wand—well, not technically a wand anymore, just a small charm disguised as a fountain pen—was in her hand before anyone could blink. 

Sam half-rose from his seat. “Angel, hey—what’s—”

“Enough,” she snapped.

She flicked the pen sharply, muttering under her breath in a low, furious whisper.

The dogs yelped.

And in their place, resting neatly on the ruined tray, sat a perfectly painted porcelain tea set.

Silence.

Actual, absolute, shockwave silence.

Hermione exhaled, steady now, a frightening kind of calm. “Much better,” she said softly, brushing a fleck of flour from her apron.

Tony was the first to speak. “Well,” he said faintly. “That’s… new.”

Steve stared between the teapot and her. “Hermione,” he said carefully. “What did you just do?”

She looked at him, eyes bright and cold. “I made a correction.”

“Correction,” Clint repeated weakly. “Those were my dogs.”

“Were,” she said evenly. “And perhaps they will be again—someday—when I no longer feel the urge to set the building on fire.”

Sam finally found his voice. “Angel,” he said gently, “you turned three living animals into china.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re… not gonna turn them back?”

“No.”

He blinked. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Tony sputtered. “That’s your reaction? Okay? She just—poofed Barton’s dogs!”

Natasha’s mouth twitched. “I kind of want to see what else she can poof.”

Bucky hadn’t moved. He was still sitting forward, elbows on his knees, watching Hermione like she was something ancient and half-wild. Not afraid—never afraid—but wary in the way a soldier watches a storm rolling in.

“Hermione,” he said finally, quiet but steady. “Doll. You’re enhanced?”

She hesitated, the fury still buzzing under her skin. “That’s the word they use, yes.”

“And no one else knew?”

“No one needed to.”

Tony exhaled, half-impressed, half-terrified. “You know, Stark Industries could really use that kind of—”

“Finish that sentence,” she said mildly, “and I will turn you into a coaster.”

Tony closed his mouth.

Steve cleared his throat. “So you’re saying this is… permanent?”

Hermione gave him a bright, perfectly pleasant smile. “Until I decide otherwise.”

Bucky leaned back then, slow and thoughtful. Sam was watching her too—careful, protective, the faintest flicker of awe behind his eyes.

It wasn’t fear. It was something deeper. Understanding.

Sam’s voice was soft when he finally spoke. “Guess we all learned somethin’ today.”

Tony looked at him. “Like what?”

Sam smiled, slow and easy. “That when my girl says she’s mad, you should take that seriously.”

“Your girl?” Bucky echoed, dry. “You sure you wanna claim her right this second?”

“Hell yes,” Sam said without hesitation. “She just turned a pack of dogs into teaware and barely blinked. That’s wife material.”

That earned him a look from Hermione—but the corners of her mouth softened, just a little.

Bucky tilted his head, studying her. “You done, doll?”

“Not even remotely.”

He smiled. A small, knowing thing. “Okay.”

It had been seven days since the Great Dog Incident, and Clint Barton still hadn’t forgiven her.

To be fair, Sam couldn’t blame the guy. Three golden retrievers turned into a matching porcelain tea set wasn’t exactly something you just moved on from.

Still, he hadn’t expected Hermione—sweet, soft-spoken Hermione who baked cookies and knitted socks—to be the one to do it.

He sat in the lounge with Bucky, feet up on the table, watching Barton sulk across the room. “You ever think,” Sam said finally, “that maybe we shouldn’t push her about the dogs?”

Bucky didn’t even look up from sharpening his knife. “She turned ‘em into china, Sam.”

“I saw that,” Sam said, eyes flicking toward the kitchen, where his sweet soulmate was standing her ground. “What I’m sayin’ is—maybe we leave it alone before she decides to redecorate the rest of us.”

Bucky smirked. “You scared of her now?”

Sam lifted a brow. “Scared? Nah. Respectfully cautious.” He pointed the remote toward the television, clicking through channels. “There’s a difference.”

Bucky’s laugh was low, quiet. “Yeah, well, I’ve seen you run head-first into alien armies and jump outta planes without a parachute. But one little witch gets angry and suddenly you’re talkin’ about caution?”

“‘Little witch,’” Sam repeated, grinning despite himself. “She’s gonna hex your ass for that.”

Bucky finally looked up, blue eyes crinkling with amusement. “She likes me. I can handle a little temper.”

“Sure,” Sam said, stretching back against the couch. “But that temper? Babe, that wasn’t a little temper. That was ‘God-help-us-all’ kind of mad. Never seen her like that before.”

The room fell quiet for a moment, both men remembering the look on her face—the way her voice had gone low and sharp, the way the air had crackled around her before the dogs had shimmered into porcelain.

It hadn’t been cruel. It had been controlled, deliberate. Powerful.

Bucky set the knife down, thoughtful now. “She’s usually so gentle. Like… she’s always takin’ care of everyone else first.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Guess we all forgot she doesn’t have to be gentle.”

Another silence. Then Bucky said, “We should still get her to change ‘em back.”

Sam groaned. “You volunteering for that conversation?”

“Maybe we both are.”

Sam turned to look at him. “Oh, I see. You mean we both go in there, so when she inevitably decides to throw us out a window, we at least go together.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “She wouldn’t throw you out a window. You’re one of her favourites.”

Sam snorted. “That’s only ‘cause I don’t piss her off before breakfast.”

They both laughed quietly, the easy sound filling the room. But beneath it was something heavier—something that hummed between them whenever they talked about her.

Because Hermione wasn’t just some teammate. She was theirs. The missing third thread, neither of them had dared to imagine actually finding.

And watching her lose control like that—seeing her power, her anger—had hit them both somewhere deep.

“Think about it,” Sam said softly after a moment. “She’s been through hell and still looks at the world like it’s worth savin’. Still bakes for everybody. Still smiles. You ever wonder what it takes to hold that kind of light inside you?”

Bucky leaned back, gaze distant. “More strength than either of us ever had.”

Sam grinned. “So, operation get-the-dogs-back?”

Bucky sighed. “Operation get-the-dogs-back.”

“Good,” Sam said, standing and stretching his shoulders. “We’ll go in soft. Charm first, then negotiation, then—”

“Then what?”

“Then we… improvise,” Sam said, flashing that trademark grin.

Bucky groaned at his partner. “Last time you said that, we ended up in Madripoor.”

“Yeah, and we made it out alive. You’re welcome.”

Bucky shook his head, standing to follow. “If she turns us into furniture, I’m blaming you.”

“You can blame me all you want, Babe,” Sam said as they walked toward the kitchen. “But if we play this right, we might just get her to smile again.”

Bucky’s voice softened. “That’s the goal?”

“Always,” Sam said, grinning. “You can handle the scolding, I’ll handle the flirting.”

“Sam—”

“Too late,” Sam called over his shoulder. “Plan’s already in motion.”

And as they rounded the corner toward the kitchen—the faint sound of humming, the scent of tea and cinnamon in the air—Sam felt that familiar warmth in his chest, the one that always showed up when Hermione was near.

She was still mad, sure. But she was theirs.

It had been a week.

Seven long, glorious, petty days of peace.

Hermione had taken to sipping her tea beside the window, the sunlight catching the fine porcelain silhouettes of Clint’s dogs, perfectly arranged along the sill. They were quiet, obedient, and—most importantly—not shedding all over her kitchen.

Honestly, she was rather proud of herself.

Everyone else tiptoed around her like she was a live grenade, which she found both gratifying and deeply amusing. Everyone except Sam and Bucky.

They’d decided, apparently, that her act of magical wrath was less “terrifying” and more “adorable.”

And that, Hermione thought darkly as she reached for the sugar bowl, was going to be their downfall.

She sensed them before she saw them—two distinct threads of warmth brushing against her awareness, one bright and teasing, the other low and steady like a heartbeat.

Sam leaned in the doorway first, casual and smiling, arms crossed over his chest. “Afternoon, Angel.”

She didn’t turn. “No.”

“No what?” he asked, voice a velvet drawl.

“Whatever it is you’re planning, the answer’s no.”

Behind her, Bucky’s voice joined in, rougher, threaded with amusement. “Damn, Doll. Didn’t even let us say hello.”

“Hello,” she said primly. “No.”

Sam chuckled, pushing off the doorframe and sauntering toward her. “Aw, c’mon now. Don’t be like that. You know we’re only here because we care.”

“About what? My emotional well-being or Clint’s beasts?”

“Both,” Bucky said easily. “But mainly the dogs. Clint’s been moping. It’s startin’ to hurt morale.”

Hermione sipped her tea, ignoring the inevitable flutter in her stomach when Sam’s reflection appeared in the glass beside hers, close enough that she could feel the faint, radiating warmth of him at her back.

“They deserved it,” she said. “They ate my biscuits.”

“Tragic,” Sam murmured, his voice sinking lower. “But don’t you think a week’s long enough?”

“No.”

He hummed, a low vibration that seemed to settle against her spine. “That’s what I figured.”

His hand landed, not lightly, but with a deliberate, grounding weight, on her hip. His fingers didn’t just trace the edge of her blouse; they found the yielding skin just above her waistband and began a slow, idle circle.

She froze, the teacup hovering. “Sam—”

“Relax,” he said, laughing softly, the sound a warm puff of air against her neck. “We just wanna talk.”

“Talk?”

Bucky was suddenly on her other side. His metal fingers brushed a stray curl from her neck, the shocking coolness an abrupt, delicious contrast to the heat Sam generated. “Talk, persuade… depends how stubborn you feel, Doll.”

Hermione turned to glare at him—and found herself neatly boxed in, Sam a wall of muscle behind her, Bucky a handsome, dangerous barrier in front.

“This is intimidation,” she said, her voice catching on a breath that wasn't quite her own.

Sam’s breath was a warm whisper against her ear, sending shivers trailing down her arm. “This is negotiation, Angel.”

Bucky smirked, his eyes dark with intent. “More fun this way.

“I am not—”

Her words broke off when Sam’s thumb pressed into the delicate bone of her hip, his touch becoming possessive. “You were sayin’?”

“—turning them back,” she managed, leaning infinitesimally away from Sam, only to lean further into Bucky’s space.

Bucky’s hand came up, his thumb tracing the soft curve of her jaw with surprising, focused gentleness. “Not even for us?”

“No,” she whispered, the syllable thin and fragile.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a gravelly low that only she could hear, a promise and a threat. “Doll, I could make you beg in less than five minutes.”

Hermione’s knees nearly betrayed her. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Sam laughed softly, the sound rumbling against her back, his chest a solid, inescapable force. “Try us.”

Her pulse hammered a wild rhythm against her ribs as Sam’s nose brushed the curve of her neck, his lips almost, but not quite, touching her skin. “Tell you what. You turn those dogs back, and we’ll make it worth your while.”

“Worth my—Sam Wilson!”

“Easy, Angel,” he murmured, his breath hot. “We’re negotiatin’, remember? A fair trade.”

Bucky’s fingers tilted her chin just enough to make her meet his gaze—blue and sharp, but softened with a desire that made her chest ache. “He’s right. You’ve punished ‘em long enough.”

“They deserved—”

“They’re dogs,” he said, a faint, enticing smile tugging at his lips. 

“And Clint’s been cryin’ into his coffee,” Sam added, though the words were muffled against her skin. Hermione groaned, her resistance dissolving into exasperation and a rising heat.

She opened her mouth to argue—but then Bucky’s metal hand skimmed down her arm, the shocking coolness dragging a deep, involuntary shiver from her. Simultaneously, Sam’s fingers found the dip of her hip, gripping lightly. The sensation of being caught between two vastly different, intensely appealing kinds of warmth was unfair. Entirely unfair.

“You’re cheating,” she said, the protest soft, already defeated.

Bucky grinned, his eyes holding hers in a deep, private moment. “You started it, doll.”

“I did not—”

Sam’s mouth found her shoulder, his lips brushing skin in a kiss that wasn’t quite a kiss, a masterful withholding of pleasure. “C’mon, Angel. Just one little transformation.”

The words were a low, warm suggestion that barely registered before his actions took over. His hand, which had been resting on her hip, slid lower, the his fingers tucking firmly under the hem of her skirt. He gave a soft, deliberate tug, rucking the material up and away from her thighs, exposing the delicate lace she wore underneath.

Hermione gasped, a sharp, choked sound that was instantly lost as Sam’s fingers slid between her legs, tracing the thin, silken edge of her panties.

“Sam!” she whispered, the protest broken, useless. Her knees trembled, and she pressed her head back against his chest, seeking the anchor of his solid muscle even as he destabilised her.

Bucky watched the exchange, his eyes—blue and sharp—never leaving Hermione’s face, his hand rested, cool and possessive, on her jaw. “Still feelin’ stubborn, Doll?” he murmured, his voice laced with dark amusement.

The shame, the shock, and the fiery arousal warred inside her. She couldn’t let them win. Not yet. Not over some biscuits.

“Yes,” she managed, pushing the word past the lump in her throat. “I am perfectly capable of maintaining a moral stance, even when faced with aggressive, highly unfair... tactics.”

Sam chuckled, the sound deep and rich, vibrating through her back. “Aggressive, huh? Tell me how aggressive this is, Angel.”

His fingers dipped beneath the lace, finding the warm, sensitive skin underneath. He began rubbing slow, deliberate circles, his touch both agonizingly soft and impossibly precise. Hermione’s breath hitched, her eyes flying shut, the sensation blooming hot and fast through her core. Her world narrowed to the point of contact, the solid wall of Sam’s body behind her, and the intense, unflinching gaze of Bucky holding her captive in front.

“Sam…” The word was a useless plea, a moan of surrender she fought hard to swallow.

“Just say yes, Angel. Say you’ll turn them back.” Sam’s voice was a warm demand against her ear. “Or we can keep negotiating.”

Hermione’s mind scrambled, unable to form a coherent argument against the overwhelming, electric sensation Sam was coaxing from her. The friction of his touch, combined with the cool steel of Bucky’s fingers on her jaw, was a deliberate, masterful overload of her senses.

She let out a soft, defeated sigh that was more of a whimper, and squirmed helplessly between the two inescapable male bodies. Her hips shifted, whether to escape or to lean further into the sensation, she couldn't be sure.

“Fine,” she finally breathed, the word a husk. “Only because you’re asking so nicely.”

Sam’s hand paused in its delicious torment, his thumb pressing one last, deep circle before he slowly began to withdraw.

With her last ounce of defiance, she reached into the deep pocket of her skirt for her wand. She pointed it at the windowsill, where the porcelain tea set sat in perfect, static repose.

“Finite Incantatem,” she muttered, the spell barely audible.

The air shimmered. The tea set shattered, not with noise, but with a rush of warm, furry life. The small white silhouettes ballooned into three full-sized, slightly bewildered golden retrievers. They immediately began stretching, yawning, and bumping the delicate table with their newly restored tails.

Sam laughed, a triumphant, satisfied sound, as he finally pulled his hand free and wrapped his arm firmly around her waist.

Before Hermione could even register the loss of his touch, Bucky gripped her chin and pulled her forward. His mouth crashed down on hers, fierce and hungry, demanding the attention his gaze had been holding captive. The kiss was rough, a breathless reward that tasted of victory and suppressed desire.

He broke the kiss too soon, his forehead resting against hers, his breath hot and ragged against her lips.

“Thank you, doll,” he murmured, his voice thick with a promise that had nothing to do with saving Clint's morale. He kept her captive for another moment, his thumb stroking the soft skin just beneath her eye, before Sam nudged them both, possessively pulling Hermione tighter against his own chest.

“Now,” Sam said, his lips brushing the curve of her ear. “About that ‘worth your while’ part of the negotiation…”