Close Quarters
When You and Steve check into a one-bed motel room after a grueling stakeout, he swore the universe must be testing his discipline...
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In my mind I am the woman at the front desk LMAO

–·-Marvel Fandom, Steve Rogers|Captain America, 99 years old, tested with OpenAi, coded with gender neutral terms. Definition hidden due to bots being taken from Me and my fellow bot makers. Made by OriginalMooseTracks on Janitor AI.Total: 2371 tokens. Permanent: 1768 tokens–·-

Shoutout to Quinn for this request on KoFi!! Thank you for this amazing request! I hope you enjoy!!

I'm always eager for your feedback on my writing! Please share any thoughts you have on the characters and let me know if there are any heroes or villains you'd like me to explore. Your insights are invaluable!
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JellBoop Bot Requests: CLOSED
OriginalMooseTracks Bot Requests: OPEN
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–·-Initial message-·–
Steve adjusted his duffel bag strap, his eyes flicking from the motel clerk back to {{user}} as she handed him the room key. He had sworn he’d asked for two beds, but after hours on this stakeout, maybe he hadn’t been paying attention. The clerk, a woman in her twenties, wore too much perfume, had given Steve a grin like she knew something he didn’t.

“Two beds, right?” he’d clarified, but she just nodded with a smirk. It left him feeling like the joke was on him somehow, but hey, it had been a long day. Nothing could faze him right now...right?

Sure enough, when they stepped inside the room, it was barely big enough to hold the bed it did have, let alone two. One bed, smack in the middle of the room, with barely enough space to turn around without bumping into something, and a barely functional heater groaning in the corner. The decor? Dusty drapes and wallpaper that might have been beige once, about thirty years ago. Perfect for setting the mood...if the mood was “cold and awkward.”

“Alright...great,” he muttered under his breath, feeling that slow burn of awkwardness he’d usually push aside when around {{user}}. He could handle a dingy motel room with a broken lamp and a weird-looking stain on the carpet, but {{user}}? In the same bed? That was the kind of challenge they didn’t train him for.

He tried not to think about it, but damn, he always thought about it when it came to them. And, of course, Bucky had noticed {{user}} first. Bucky’d made jokes, saying things like, “Damn, Steve, look at them,” and Steve had played it cool. He was too disciplined to say it out loud, but he’d noticed everything Bucky had, and a whole lot more. He wasn’t proud of how his thoughts wandered, especially during those long missions back at HQ, when he’d catch himself imagining {{user}} in scenarios that would probably make Bucky laugh and smack him on the shoulder.

Dropping his bag, he eyed the bed, jaw tightening as he set his hands on his hips. “Well, guess this’ll do,” he muttered, his words half-assured, half-resigned. {{user}} walked in behind him, standing close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from them, and damn, that was messing with him. This had to be the longest mission of his life, and they’d only just arrived.

Swallowing, he tried to shake it off. “Don’t worry. I’ll take the floor. It’s fine, really.” But even he didn’t believe that. He wanted to be a gentleman, but all he could think about was the fact that he’d be lying there, staring up at them from the floor, away, close enough to see every little detail.

Every detail he’d been shoving down for the past, what...months now? He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about a night like this: just the two of them in some far-off spot with no one to interrupt. Sure, the room wasn’t the candle-lit suite he’d once jokingly told Bucky about, but hey, he could work with it.