ɢᴏᴛʜɪᴄ ɴᴏᴄᴛᴜʀɴᴇ

The house was mostly dark — just night lights casting long shadows over the hallway walls.

You slipped out of bed barefoot, the silk hem of your sleep shirt brushing your thighs, and crept toward the kitchen. You knew who the boots would belong to before you saw him.

James Barnes stood at the far end of the marble counter, half-lit by the fridge light as he reached for a bottle of water. His back was to you — broad and straight, shirt tight across his strong shoulders, sleeves rolled up like always. His sidearm sat in its holster, still snug against his hips, even now, in the middle of the night.

He didn’t jump when you stepped in. He probably heard you.

“Can’t sleep either?” you asked softly.

His voice was a gravel-lined hum. “Just doing rounds.”

Of course. Always working. Always watching.

You walked to the cabinet and grabbed a glass, careful not to glance at him too long. “You never actually relax, do you?”

“I relax when you’re safe.”

“And you think I’m in danger... right now?”

He didn’t answer that. Just took a sip of water and leaned his weight back against the counter.

You turned slightly, standing opposite him, glass in your hand. Let the quiet stretch.

The tension wasn’t loud. It was soft. Lingering. The kind that took up space in a room without raising its voice. The kind that came from the way he looked at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

You open the fridge and pour orange juice into your cup before putting the carton back. You look back to him.

You kept your tone casual. “You ever sleep at all?”

He gave the tiniest shrug. “Lightly.”

“Because of me?”

“Because I’m paid to.”

You smiled, amused by his relentless professionalism. “You’re not very good at small talk, are you?”

“I’m not here to talk.”

“Right.” You stepped around the counter, closer. Not close enough to be inappropriate — but enough to make his posture shift. “You’re here to protect.”

He didn’t look at you, but you caught the subtle way his jaw ticked.

You leaned against the counter beside him, sipping from your glass slowly. The cold edge of the marble pressed into the back of your thighs where your shirt had ridden up. You didn’t bother to pull it down.

“Do…I make your job hard?” you asked lightly.

He turned his head slightly, like he was trying not to. “Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because you look at me like I’m a problem you can’t solve.”

His eyes locked on yours. For one breathless second, neither of you moved.

Then he said, quietly: “You’re not a problem. You’re a responsibility.”

You should’ve felt offended by that.

Instead it made you feel warm.

All you heard was the restraint in his voice. Like he was holding something back. Like calling you that was the only way he knew how to keep himself at a distance.

You tilted your head. “Do you ever get tired of pretending you don’t feel?”

“I feel everything,” he said, almost too fast.

You scoff and roll your eyes at the witty remark.

He pushed off the counter and stepped past you — close enough that his arm brushed yours. Just a graze. But your skin prickled.

“You should be in bed,” he said without looking at you.

“I’m not tired.”

“You should try anyway.”

“I’d rather stay here.”

He paused. Just long enough to betray the fact that he wasn’t unaffected. But he didn’t turn around.

“If you’re still awake in thirty minutes,” he said, “I’ll come back and check in again.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do.”

And then he walked away.

You stood in the kitchen long after he left, your heart thudding louder than your thoughts, the glass cold in your hand.

You’d only been in that room for seven minutes.

But you already wanted him to come back.

You didn’t go back to sleep.

You tried. You lay there in the dark, covers pulled up to your chest, the shadows of tree branches flickering across the ceiling as the wind rattled gently outside. But your mind wouldn’t settle.

You kept replaying it.

The low rasp of his voice. The near-silent breath he took before walking away like it physically pained him.

And worse — you liked it.

Liked watching him try to hold the line. Liked knowing you were the reason his jaw was always clenched, that he always stood with his hands behind his back like he didn’t trust them.

Eventually, you slipped out of bed again. A growing heat pooling inside you.

You knew where to find him.

The living room was dark, lit only by the flicker of a single lamp. Bucky sat on the leather armchair by the window — the one with the view of the estate perimeter — his left elbow propped on the armrest, metal fingers curled near his chin.

You didn’t say anything.

He didn’t either. But his eyes tracked you as you walked in.

“Still awake,” you said softly, stepping into the room like you were afraid to scare it all off — the peace, the silence, him.

He gave a slow nod. “I figured.”

“You said you’d check on me.”

“I did and you weren’t there.”

You crossed the room slowly, letting the wooden floor cool your feet, letting the seconds stretch. “Do you do this every night?”

“What?”

“Sit here. Watch the windows. Pretend not to care what room I’m in.”

He huffed. It was almost a laugh — dry and without humor. “I don’t pretend anything.”

“Then you do care.”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer.

You stood beside the arm of the chair, letting your fingers trail lightly across the leather. “You ever sit like a normal person? Live like a normal person? Put your feet up, maybe fall asleep watching a dumb movie?”

“No.”

“You should try it.” You gestured toward the couch a few feet away. “Come on. Sit like you don’t expect someone to kick the door in any second.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.

“I can’t do that,” he said finally.

“Why not?”

His voice was quiet, almost apologetic. “That’s not what I’m here to do. I can’t forget my mission. Because when I start forgetting what I’m actually here for, things get... complicated.”

You notice his dark gaze linger on you for a second too long before looking away.

You were close enough now to see the tension in his hands. The way his metal fingers twitched, then stilled. Like his body betrayed what his mouth wouldn’t say.

“Would it be so bad,” you whispered, “if things got a little complicated?”

His eyes met yours again. That same look. That same unspoken storm you were slowly learning how to summon.

“You don’t want this,” he said.

With a sudden surge of boldness, you sank to your knees in front of him, legs folded beneath you, elbows resting on the chair’s arm. The sudden nearness made his shoulders tighten. You see his eyes widen, just barely.

“I think I do,” you said.

“I’m old enough to be your father”

You smiled faintly. “I know how old I am.”

He leaned back just slightly, as if putting even a few inches between you would stop this from becoming what it already was.

“Youre supposed to be with a boy your age. You’re used to boys staring at you like they’re starving,” he said quietly. “I don’t look at you that way. I’m not like that.”

“You do,” you said. “You just think I don’t notice.”

He closed his eyes.

For a moment, you thought you’d pushed too far.

But then he sighed. Long. Tired. And when he opened his eyes again, they were softer. Tired in a different way.

“I spent a long time... unlearning things,” he said. “Violence. Instinct. Wanting-needing, something just because it’s in front of me.”

Your heart fluttered, your cheeks growing hot. You feel yourself getting wetter by the second, especially when you look down and notice the considerable bulge underneath his pants. You looked back up and noticed the need in his eyes.

He didn’t stop you when you moved to the couch. He didn’t scold or order you back to bed. He just turned back toward the window and kept his silent watch.

But as the minutes passed, you felt his eyes drift back to you.

Just once.

“You ever stop being on edge?” you asked softly.

“I can’t afford to.”

“You’re not on duty 24/7.”

“I am,” he said, with a grim tilt to his mouth. “Whether I like it or not.”

You curl your knees up to your chest.

“You’re allowed to let your guard down,” you said. “Just for one night.” You say, with a tinge of something else laced in your voice.

He shook his head, eyes locked on yours now.

“No,” he said. “Not with you.”

You blinked. “Why not?”

“Because you make it too easy to forget where the line is.”

You felt that like a shiver, sliding down your spine and curling around your stomach.

You moved closer to the side of the couch he was on the other side of. Not enough to touch — not yet. But enough to see the pulse jump in his throat. The fine tension across his shoulders. The way his jaw clenched, even as he sat perfectly still.

“There’s no one here but us,” you whispered. “No father. No threat. No mission.”

“There’s always a mission,” he murmured. “And right now, it’s not touching you.”

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t saying it to scare you. Or to put you in your place. He was saying it like it was the only thing keeping him sane.

You watched him battle with himself — eyes now on your mouth, then your neck, then back to the ceiling like he needed to look anywhere else.

The rain started against the glass — soft at first, then heavier. It covered the silence like a blanket.

“I should walk the house,” he said abruptly, standing, like he had to remind himself. “Check for flood risks.”

“There’s nothing out there,” you said gently.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you’re tired.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re human.”

He looked at you again — and this time, there was something raw in his expression. Like he hated being seen. Like it hurt to be reminded he wasn’t just a weapon anymore.

He stops infront of you, gazing down at you on the couch. You can’t help but admire the view.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he said, voice low and sharp. “You think you’re just being cute. Flirty. But it’s more than that. Every time you walk into a room, I have to remind myself not to want it.”

You swallowed hard. You didn’t smile this time.

“I do know,” you said. “I feel it, too.”

His breath left him in one sharp exhale.

“You think this is a game,” he muttered. “But if I slip—if I give in—it won’t be soft. No- it’s wrong. It won’t be sweet. I’ve spent half my life learning how not to snap. Tonight won’t be the night.”

“I’m not asking you to snap,” you whispered.

“No,” he said. “You’re asking me to burn slowly. And I am.”

That silenced you.

The lightning cracked again. The light caught his face, and for one unguarded second, you saw it. All of it.

Desire. Frustration. Guilt. And worse — fear. Not of you. But of what it would mean if he stopped resisting.

You leant forward. His hand twitched at his side, but he didn’t stop you.

You didn’t touch him.

You just sat there, close enough to feel the warmth rolling off his body. Close enough to hear his breathing.

“I’m not a child,” you said. “You can keep pretending that’s the reason. But it’s not.”

His head dipped. His voice was rough.

“No. It’s not.”

Silence.

And then—his hand, slowly curling into a fist at his side. Like if he didn’t, he might reach for you.

“I’m going to bed,” you said quietly. “Because if I stay in this room another minute, I might do something you can’t undo.”

His eyes closed. His throat bobbed with a silent swallow.

You walked past him without brushing your shoulder to his.

But as you passed, you whispered:

“You’re not the only one burning.”

And then you were gone.

You’d only been asleep for an hour when the heavy thunderstorm woke you.

A sharp crack of thunder made your eyes fly open, letting out a loud gasp at being startled. You lay there in the dark, breath held, heart racing—not from fear, but from the echo of what had happened downstairs.

His voice still echoed in your ears.
His gaze still burning into you.

You make it too easy to forget where the line is.

And worse—
I’m burning.

You rolled onto your back, heat thrumming low in your belly. The blanket that was once covering you was draped across the foot of the bed, and your thin sleep shirt clung to your skin. You weren’t cold. You were restless. Warm. Needy.

You should have gone back to sleep. Instead, you rose—quietly, barefoot, drawn by instinct and desire more than reason.

The room was dark. Only the occasional flash of lightning illuminated the walls.

You opened your door.

And nearly collided with Bucky.

He froze, arm halfway raised like he’d just been about to knock. The light from the hallway caught the edge of his face, casting shadows across his sharp cheekbones.

His voice was low. Rough. Tired.

“I heard something. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Your breath caught. “I… I’m fine. I just couldn’t sleep.”

His eyes dipped briefly down your body—just once—but you noticed.

You stood in nothing but that paper-thin shirt and cotton panties. No bra. Your skin still warm from restless dreams.

And he looked wrecked.

His jaw was tight. His shoulders rigid. He was breathing a little too shallow. Like the proximity was undoing him.

“I should go,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t let him either.

“Why are you fighting it so hard?” you whispered.

His eyes flicked back to yours. Desperate. Frustrated. Wild.

“Because if I don’t…” he said hoarsely, “I’m not gonna stop.”

You reached for him—slowly—and your fingers brushed his wrist. The moment your skin touched his, he tensed.

But he didn’t pull away.

“I don’t want you to stop. I want this. I need this.”

A beat. He harshly swallowed. You felt his pulse kick under your fingers.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said.

“I know exactly what I want.”

And finally—finally—he gave in.

It wasn’t a kiss. Not at first. It was a grab.

He backed you into your bedroom before you could blink, shutting the door behind you with a quiet click.

And then he was on you.

Mouth crashing to yours, hands gripping your hips so hard your breath hitched. Those will surely be bruises later. One cold metal hand, one hot flesh hand, and both of them greedy. Hungry. Desperate.

You whimpered into his mouth as he licked into you, kissing like he’d been starving for it. His hand slid down your thigh, hooking it around his waist as he pressed you into the wall, hips grinding slow and hard against you.

“You feel that?” he rasped against your lips. “That’s what you fucking do to me.”

You gasped. His cock was already straining through his pants, thick and hard, pressing into the softness between your legs.

“Please—”

“I tried to be good,” he growled. “I tried to be respectful. But you keep looking at me like you want me to ruin you.”

“I do.”

That broke him.

He lifted you easily—strong arms sliding under your thighs—and carried you to the bed, laying you down before looking at you like he couldn’t decide whether to worship you or tear you apart.

He knelt between your legs, dragging the hem of your shirt up slowly, his eyes devouring every inch of skin as he revealed it.

“No bra,” he murmured. “You were hoping this would happen?”

You bit your lip and nodded.

He leaned down, mouth hot against your breast, and licked over your nipple slowly before sucking it into his mouth. You whimpered out, arching into him as his metal hand slid between your thighs.

“You’re already soaked,” he growled. “Fuck, baby, you needed this.”

“Yes—please—”

He shushed you with another kiss, deeper this time, like he couldn’t get enough of your taste. His fingers slid under your panties, and you gasped when two thick fingers found your slick heat.

“Jesus,” he muttered against your mouth. “You’re dripping.”

He teased you first. Just barely circling your clit. Your hips bucked.

“please—I need—”

“You need what?” he asked, voice husky, teasing but rough. “Say it.”

You were squirming now, lips parted, gasping against his mouth.

“I need your fingers—please.”

He pushed them in slow, stretching you gently, watching your face twist in pleasure.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he groaned.

He moved slowly at first, scissoring you open, curling them just right to make your eyes flutter shut.

Then faster.

Harder.

Until your hands gripped his shoulders and you were gasping his name like a prayer.

“You’re gonna come just like this,” he said, “and then I’m gonna fuck you.”

And the way he said it—low, commanding, with that deadly edge in his voice—you didn’t dare disobey.

You were close. So close.

And when his thumb rubbed tight circles over your clit, you shattered.

Your thighs shook. Your breath caught. You came hard on his hand with a strangled moan, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing left.

And he kissed you through it, swallowing every sound, still grinding his hand against you like he needed to feel it, needed to know what he’d done.

You were still trembling when he pulled back as you watched, wide-eyed, dazed and aching, as he stripped off his shirt—then shoved his pants and briefs down in one rough motion.

And when he knelt over you, fully bared, you couldn’t help the way your thighs pressed together.

He was big.

Thick, flushed, hard. The tip already leaking. You licked your lips involuntarily.

“Jesus,” you breathed.

Bucky let out a low, bitter laugh. “Come on sweetheart, you can take it”

You looked up at him, eyes dark, hair falling into his face, body tense like he was holding himself back with everything he had.

“I want to taste you.”

He groaned so deeply you felt it in your chest.

“Don’t say shit like that unless you mean it, darling,” he warned.

You slid forward, slowly shifting until you were on your stomach on the bed, in front of him. Hands light on his thighs, as he stands right at the edge of the bed.

You leaned in and kissed the head of his cock.

He sucked in a breath so sharp it made you smile.

Then you wrapped your lips around him.

“Fuck—”

His hands landed in your hair immediately, one metal, one warm. Not forcing. Just there. Gripping. Shaking.

You went slow. Letting him feel your tongue on the underside, the way your mouth stretched around him.

You watch his eyes roll back.

“Feel so fucking good princess, such a pretty little mouth”

You can’t help but moan a little. Smiling around him when you feel him twitch.

“You’re fucking killing me,” he panted. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

You pulled back for just a second. “Yes I do.”

His hands unraveled from your hair, tilting your chin up.

“Get up back on the bed.”

You obeyed—heart racing, thighs slick, aching to be filled.

Bucky followed, settling between your legs, his chest brushing yours, and for a moment he just stared at you.

No teasing now. No banter. Just hunger.

“You’re sure?” he rasped.

“Yes.”

“You’re mine now. You know that, right?”

You swallowed hard. Nodded.

He reached down, stroking his cock once, then guided himself to your entrance, slow, so slow, teasing.

You gasped as the head pushed in.

And then—

“Fuck,” he growled. “So tight.”

He bottomed out slowly, and the stretch made you moan out loud, clinging to his shoulders. He was huge, filling you in a way that felt almost too much, but exactly what you needed.

Once he was all the way in, he stilled, letting you adjust. His forehead dropped to yours.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“Perfect.”

He pulled back. Thrust in.

And again.

And then he lost the last of his control.

He fucked you.

Hard. Deep. Slow at first—but it didn’t stay slow. He pounded into you, one hand pinning your wrists above your head, the other gripping your thigh and pushing it up to get deeper.

Your cries echoed off the walls. He swallowed them all with his mouth, kissing you between every word.

“Look at you—so fucking perfect—made for me—taking me so good—fuck—”

He thrust harder, his breath ragged, his body straining over yours.

And all you could do was take it—moaning, writhing, begging.

“Bucky—please—gonna come—oh my god”

His metal hand found your clit, circling roughly.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Come on my cock sweetheart.”

That all you needed.

You came.

Hard.

Your whole body arched as the orgasm ripped through you, crying out his name, pussy clenching so tight it pulled a broken growl from his throat.

“Fuck—gonna—shit—”

He slammed into you once more before coming with a rough low moan, burying his face in your neck as he filled you to the brim with hot, pulsing release.

You were both panting, trembling, wrapped around each other like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

His weight eased down over you, careful but heavy. Real. Solid.

And for the first time since he walked into your life, Bucky Barnes let himself have what he’d been denying all along.

You.

The room was quiet except for your breathing.

Bucky hadn’t moved yet. He was still draped over you, face buried in the crook of your neck, one arm curled tight around your waist like he could anchor himself there.

You could feel the weight of him, heavy and warm. He was still inside you, softening slowly, but neither of you moved to separate just yet.

Your heart was pounding—but not from fear.

Bucky spoke first, voice low and hoarse. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you whispered. “You were perfect.”

He exhaled hard, like that one word had knocked the air out of him.

Slowly, he shifted to his side, pulling you with him until you were curled into his chest. He eased out of you carefully, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead as you tucked your face into his neck.

“I shouldn’t have,” he murmured.

You stilled.

He ran a hand down your spine, gentle. Soothing.

“I knew better. I tried so fucking hard not to touch you.”

You tilted your head up, eyes searching his in the dark.

“But you wanted to.”

He looked at you like you were made of glass. “That’s the problem.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers over the stubble on his jaw. “Don’t make this ugly. Don’t ruin it before it’s even begun.”

His expression shifted, like that hit somewhere too close.

You leaned in. Kissed him softly—once, twice, lingering against his lips like you weren’t ready to stop.

He groaned against your mouth and cupped your face, resting his forehead to yours. “You don’t understand what this means. If your father ever found out—”

“He won’t.”

“You think I’m worried about me?” His eyes were fierce now, protective again. “He’ll come for you, not me. You think he’d let you keep seeing the hired help?”

“I’m not a child.”

“You’re twenty-one.”

“So?”

His jaw flexed. You could feel it in the hand on your waist—the tension, the line he thought he’d crossed.

You softened, pressing your hand over his heart.

“I wanted this. I wanted you. For weeks. You can’t act like I didn’t make my own choice.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then:

“I haven’t wanted something this badly since before Hydra.”

That made you still.

He blinked, clearly startled he’d even said it out loud.

But then he didn’t take it back.

He brushed your hair back and looked down at you like he was memorizing something he wasn’t sure he’d get to keep.

“I’m not good at soft things,” he said, voice raw. “I know how to protect. I know how to fight. I don’t know how to…” He trailed off, brow furrowing.

“Be loved?” you offered gently.

His eyes flicked to yours, fast and sharp. Like it scared him.

You laid your head on his chest again, listening to the heartbeat under your palm.

“You don’t have to know how. You just have to stay.”

You felt the press of his lips in your hair. Gentle. Almost reverent.

And then, quietly:

The bathroom was your sanctuary. A place to rewind and relax. After a particularly hard and tiring mission with Steve, your partner for these missions, you stepped under the steaming water, spraying from the shower shower head above you, letting it cascade down your, washing away the grime of battle and the ache of exhaustion. The heat seeped deep into your muscles, loosening tight knots of tension that had built up over days. You let out a pleased sigh, feeling your body slowly but surely begin to decompress. You closed your eyes, tilting your head back, feeling the water wash through your hair and run down your back.

The sound of the shower was hypnotic, rhythmic—the steady pulse of warmth and release. Your hands wandered on yourself, trailing over damp skin, fingertips mapping the familiar landscape of your body in the privacy of the steam. You let out a slow breath, the subtle pressure building between your thighs as your fingers dipped lower.

Your mind wandered, painting vivid pictures of him.

Steve.

You tried not to but being locked up in a house with just him for weeks… his broad chest, the way his strong hands moved with quiet authority, the softness hidden beneath his soldier’s exterior. You imagined him here with you, close enough to feel his breath, to press your bodies together beneath the water. Your fingers trembled as they brushed against the slick skin of your inner thigh.

Reaching for the detachable shower head, you grasped it with flushed hands and pressed the warm spray against your wet skin, letting it pulse in teasing rhythms against your most sensitive places. Over your chest, trailing down your stomach, up agasint your inner thighs, before finally settling on your heat. The water’s temperature mixed with the intense pressure had your breath hitching in sharp gasps as the pleasure spiraled higher.

You begin to imagine Steve again, imagining there with you, images flash through your mind. Him on his knees between your legs, your body pressed against his with his hand on your clit, or him pressing you up against the shower wall, taking you as the water falls on you both.

You bit your lip, fingers tightening around the handle, your eyes squeezed shut as waves of release built and crashed beneath the mist.

But then—

The bathroom door creaked open.

Your eyes snapped open.

Steve stood frozen in the doorway, his mouth slightly parted, eyes wide as they took in the sight of you—wet, flushed, your hand wrapped around the detachable shower head pressed firmly against your skin, the evidence of your intimate moment impossible to ignore.

You froze, cheeks burning hotter than the steam around you, caught in the most vulnerable way imaginable.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The hot water sprayed over you, mixing with the steam, wrapping you in a warm, private haze. Your heart pounded, cheeks burning hotter than the mist.

You watched Steve’s face progressively get more red although not being able to look away from the state of you. Your eye wander over his frame, stopping to see the straining beneath his pants.

Then something inside you snapped — the tension, the aching need, the desperation you’d been holding back all day.

You didn’t stop.

Not for Steve. Not for anything.

Your fingers slid down your body, fingertips trailing wet, slick paths as you pressed the shower head harder against yourself, letting the warm jet pulse harder over your clit. Your breath hitched, trembling with need.

Steve blinked, disbelief and something darker flickering in his eyes.

He just stood there.

Watching.

You swallowed the thick lump of embarrassment and confusion, your body on fire, craving every inch of sensation.

“Steve...” you whispered, voice rough and shaky, “I can’t stop.”

He swallowed hard, every muscle frozen, eyes glued to you like you were the only thing in the world.

For a long moment, the only sound was your gasping breaths mingling with the steady roar of the water.

Steve watches as the water sprayed over your body, casting a glistening sheen over your flushed skin. He could feel the restraint and suffocating tightness in his sweatpants.

He was supposed to be just coming in to make sure you were okay. He stood outside the door and knocked and called out your name, but when you didn’t respond, he got worried.

And now here he was, watching as you relentlessly pleasure yourself, looking at him in a such a way that is on the edge of making him fold.

Your eyes were half-lidded, lips parted, caught in that delicate moment between pleasure and shame. The heat pooled deep inside you, curling tight around your nerves and making every inch of your skin sing.

And Steve just stood there. Watching.

You could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his breathing had shifted—deeper, uneven, as if he was trying to steady himself but failing.

Your other hand slid over your breasts, fingertips teasing nipples, slick with water. Your breath hitched sharply, a soft moan slipping free despite yourself.

You glanced up, locking eyes with him through the haze of steam. “Please...” Your voice was a low, breathy whisper, trembling with need.

He swallowed audibly, eyes flickering with a storm of emotions—shock, disbelief, longing, and something darker, more vulnerable. The space between you felt charged, electric, thick with tension so sharp it was almost painful.

His fingers twitched at his side, restless but unsure.

The way you looked at him—open, exposed, utterly raw—pulled at something deep inside him. The restraint he’d held so tightly over the years began to slip.

He always wanted you, the way you treated him even back when he was trying to learn the new world. He loved everything about you. But he didn’t want to risk losing you if you didn’t return the feelings, so he stayed reserved from that part of him.

But now…

A slow step forward.

Your heart slammed in your chest, every nerve screaming in anticipation.

Steve’s voice was barely more than a whisper as he spoke, “Let me help.”

You eagerly nod, a whimper escaping your lips as you continue to pleasure yourself, feeling so desperate but nothing yet satisfying your need.

His hands made quick work of his clothes. Your eyes glued to him, watching more and more of his skin uncover with hungry eyes. You analyzed every curve of his muscle, every vein peaking through the soft flesh, his sculpted chest. Your eyes traveled lower as he removes his sweatpants.

Your jaw drops.

You let out a heavy sigh filled with awe and desperation. Despite how horny and ready for him you were, his size worries you. You’ll have to ask later if it’s due to the super soldier serum.

Before you could think too much, you were pulled back to reality as Steve opened the glass door to the shower. You watched as he steps in a hunger and desire evident in his eyes as he scans over you, his arms reached towards you steadying you as they slid around your waist. You trembled beneath his touch, a delicious shiver rippling through your body, still shocked that this is happening.

He took the shower head from your fingers, adjusting the water pressure to a softer, teasing rhythm. The jet traced lazy circles over your skin, the sensation heightened with his steady hands guiding it. You closed your eyes, mouth open in soft pleasure.

His mouth ghosted over your collarbone, lips brushing and sucking, breath hot and intoxicating. You tilted your head back, giving yourself over to the slow burn of his kisses and the pulse of the water.

Your hands reached up and tangled in his damp hair, pulling him closer as his lips moved to your neck, then down your chest, fingers tracing the line of your ribs, sliding lower with reverent care.

Time seemed to slow, the world shrinking to the two of you — water, heat, heavy breaths, and the steady crescendo of your need.

His eyes met yours again, dark and intense, searching for permission.

You gave it willingly, heart pounding as your lips finally closed the distance.

Steve’s lips found yours—soft at first, questioning, then deepening into something urgent, desperate. Your hands roamed his chest, the muscles taut beneath your touch, as he pulled you flush against him, the shower head being let go and long forgotten in the moment

The water slicked your skin, your bodies pressed together in a perfect fit.

You shivered under his hands, every touch igniting a wildfire of sensation, every kiss stripping away years of yearning and friendship tempting into something more.

Steve’s lips moved with yours with a tender hunger that made your knees weak. His hands roamed down your back, sliding over the curve of your waist, moving down to your softness of ass, his hands giving them a gentle but firm squeeze. You moan into his mouth, your back arching.

His mouth left yours only to trail down your neck, sucking marks into your skin that will surely be there later. His hands moved and cupped your breasts, thumbs teasing your nipples until they peaked under his touch, sending sharp jolts of pleasure through you. You moaned out his named, as he gives them gentle pinches.

You whined and shifted your hips against him, craving the press of his hardness. Steve groaned low in his throat, a sound that rumbled straight into your core, “You’re so fucking gorgeous”.

He reaches over and grabs the detachable shower once again, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he guided it back to the sensitive spot you’d been teasing before. The warm spray hit you with a delicious rush, and you whimpered, head falling back against his shoulder.

“Tell me what you want.” He whispered into your ear.

Your fingers traced the hard lines of his chest, heart pounding as you answered seemingly searching for anything to hold onto as he pleasures you, “You. Everything.”

His lips brushed against yours before a teasing smile appears on his face.

“Not yet…”

You whined in frustration, fingers slipping lower to trace the muscles of his hips, moving closer and closer to his cock. You looked down, mouth practically watering at the sight of it, head flushed with need and precum leaking from the top.

Before you could act on any of the sinful thoughts going through your mind, Steve’s hands found your wet hair, firmly pulling it, making your head tilt back as he leans forward, sliding his wet warm tongue across the expanse of your neck, finishing with kisses before his mouth covered yours once more, tongue teasing, exploring, claiming.

Steve shifted, his hardness pressing firmly against the curve of your hip. Your breath hitched, and your body responded instinctively, pressing your ass against him, grinding slowly as his hand reached around cupped your breasts again. Giving pulses of gentle squeezes and kneading.

With the shower head still pulsing warm water against your clit, he gently readjusted it—circling around your mound, you feel the heat quickly increasing in your lower belly. Your eyes roll back, trembling at the sensation, your hips bucking toward the shower head.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, voice thick with desire.

You shook your head, words caught in a breathy moan. “It’s perfect.”

Steve’s other hand slid between your legs, warm and steady, fingertips gently sliding through your folds. The water from the shower head mixed with his touch, slick and warm, and your hips pressed harder, chasing the growing heat inside.

His fingers rubbed a few gentle circles before sliding one finger into your heat. He groans as he quickly puts it to work, coaxing every sigh and moan from your lips. You arched into him, every nerve ending alive with pleasure.

“So goddamn tight… I don’t know if I’m gonna fit” He growls out, his head falling on your shoulder, relishing in the feel of your tightness.

Steve’s breath was ragged against your skin. Working you and stretching you out, before adding another finger. You groan as you wince at the small sting. Eventually feeling the pain subside, you rock your hips with his movements. He began to move with more purpose, the rhythm slow and teasing, while changing the water pressure to a harder, more relentless mode, making the pleasure rise like a tide.

“Oh god…Steve..”

“You gonna cum, sweetheart? Be a good girl and cum for me, princess.”

You let go with a shuddering gasp, clinging to him as waves of sensation rolled through your body, Steve talking you through your pleasure with praises and dirty talk, leaving you trembling and breathless.

His lips captured yours again, slow and gentle, grounding you in the aftermath.

Steve gently place the shower head back onto the stand, the water, somehow still hot, poured over both of you, washing away the last barriers between friends and something so much more.

Your fingers slid behind you, trailing over his stomach, making your way downward. Your fingers wrap gently around his cock, you hear him let out a curse as you give him a teasing squeeze before setting a loose, gentle rhythm.

Steve groaned low, fingers roughly grabbing at your hips as you feel him buck his hips into your hand.

You turn around, facing him as your eyes look him over, his eyes lidded with desire, his cheeks flushed, looking further down you watch as he continues to desperately thrust him into your hand. You bite your lip as you let out whine at the sight before you, before looking back up at him.

“Please, Steve….I need you inside me, so bad”

That’s all he needed.

Steve lifted you easily, your legs winding around his waist as he pressed forward. The slick slide of his skin against yours sent a rush of heat and longing crashing through you.

He aligned himself, the tip of him pressing against your entrance, warm and eager.

“I hope you’re ready sweetheart, cause I’m not stopping until you’re a moaning, whimpering, mumbling mess under me.”

You gasped, hands clutching his shoulders as he slowly pushed inside, every inch a delicious burn and stretch, his fingers definitely did not ready you for this.

Steve filled you slowly, inch by inch, until your back arched with the stretch and the delicious pressure of him seated deep inside. The thick head of his cock nudged against that sensitive spot with perfect, maddening pressure.

“God,” you moaned, barely able to breathe, “you feel so good, Steve.”

His jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut for a moment as he held himself still inside you, like he was savoring every inch, trying not to lose control too quickly.

“You’re so tight,” he growled against your lips, voice ragged. “So warm—fuck.”

Steve began to move.

Slow at first. Deliberate.

He pulled nearly all the way out, then pushed back in with a smooth, controlled thrust that rocked you against the wall. Your breath hitched, your nails digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders as pleasure bloomed in your core.

He found a rhythm that made your head spin—steady, powerful, each deep thrust sliding against just the right place inside you, making stars bloom behind your eyes.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear. “Please, Steve…wanna cum around your cock”.

That did something to him.

Something in him snapped as his grip on your hips tightened, he slammed into you harder, faster, the sound of wet skin on skin drowned only by the water and your loud, broken moans.

You clenched around him involuntarily, and Steve nearly lost it, his head dropping to your shoulder with a low, guttural groan. “Fuck, you feel so good. You’re so fucking perfect. Tight little pussy was made for me.”

His lips found your throat, kissing and biting and sucking, marking you as his hips snapped forward with urgent, unrelenting need.

Your legs tightened around him, needing him deeper, closer. Every nerve inside you was lit up, desperate, trembling.

One of his hands slid between your bodies, fingers seeking your swollen clit. He circled it in rhythm with his thrusts, watching your face with parted lips and hooded eyes.

“Come for me,” he murmured, voice dark and commanding. “Right here. With me.”

You shattered.

Eyes squeezing shut, cry caught in your throat as your orgasm hit like lightning. Your whole body spasmed around him, pulsing, clenching, milking him deeper.

Steve groaned your name, hips stuttering, thrusts growing erratic as you clenched around him again and again. With one final deep thrust, he came with a choked gasp, holding you tight, spilling deep inside you as your lips locked in a desperate, messy kiss.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of rushing water, labored breathing, and hearts beating furiously against soaked skin.

He pressed his forehead to yours, brushing a wet strand of hair from your cheek with the gentlest touch. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted that.”

You smiled, boneless and breathless in his arms. “You could’ve just walked in on me sooner.”

He laughed, a low, warm sound vibrating through his chest, and kissed you again, slower this time. “Next time,” he murmured. “I won’t wait.”

The water had long since cooled, but neither of you moved right away. Steve held you close, his strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, lips brushing your damp forehead as your bodies slowly calmed. His chest rose and fell against yours, still slightly uneven, still pressed flush to your skin like he didn’t want to let go just yet.

You nuzzled into the crook of his neck, legs weak but heart impossibly full.

“I think I’m going to melt into you,” you murmured with a lazy smile, your voice raspy and worn with pleasure.

Steve chuckled, voice low and fond as he rubbed slow circles over your lower back. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He finally reached over, turning off the water with a sigh. He gently slides out of you with a groan and gently helps you stand back on the ground. Silence replaced the rush of the shower, save for your shared breathing and the slick sound of skin as he helped you step carefully out onto the soft bathmat.

Your legs wobbled for a moment, and he caught you instantly, one arm slipping under your knees, the other behind your back.

“Oh my God—Steve,” you laughed, surprised as he scooped you up bridal-style, your wet bodies pressed together again. “I can walk, you know.”

He looked down at you, grinning. “I know. But I don’t want to let go yet.”

The sincerity in his eyes made your breath catch. You tucked your head against his shoulder, smiling like an idiot.

He carried you out of the steamy bathroom and into your bedroom, setting you gently down on the edge of the bed before grabbing a towel from the chair nearby. He knelt in front of you, draping it across your lap, and began patting you dry with quiet reverence.

Not rushed. Not sexual.

Just care.

You watched his face, the way his brows furrowed slightly with focus, the soft set of his mouth, as he ran the towel up your thighs, over your stomach, then to your chest, warming you with each pass.

“I didn’t think I could feel closer to you than I already did,” you said softly, brushing damp strands of hair off his forehead, “but I was wrong.”

Steve looked up at you, something tender and overwhelmed flickering in his eyes. “You’ve always meant more to me than I knew how to say. This… it’s not just tonight for me. You know that, right?”

You nodded, heart thudding hard again—but for different reasons now.

“I know,” you whispered. “Same.”

He kissed you, soft and slow this time, like he was learning you all over again.

Then he stood, drying himself off quickly, tugging on a pair of sweatpants before grabbing one of his old T-shirts and slipping it gently over your head. It was far too big, warm from his skin, and smelled faintly of him—clean, woodsy, and unmistakably Steve.

“I’ve wanted to see you in my clothes forever,” he admitted with a boyish smile, crawling into bed beside you.

You pulled the covers over both of you as he stretched out and gathered you into his arms, spooning you from behind. His chest pressed to your back, his arm heavy and safe around your waist, his nose brushing your temple.

The room was quiet, peaceful now, filled with the scent of clean skin and the faint trail of leftover steam.

“Promise me,” he murmured sleepily, “you won’t pretend this didn’t happen tomorrow.”

You turned in his arms to face him, lips brushing his jaw.

“I promise. You’re stuck with me now.”

His smile against your lips was the softest thing you’d ever felt.

But when the team’s extraction was delayed, you and Bucky found yourselves trapped inside the building’s dusty corridors, waiting for backup.

After the constant, usual bickering and insults, he left and you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall as he scouted ahead, his metal arm clanking softly with each step. You stayed close to the cracked wall, nervously fingering the strap of your gear. Wishing there were windows to bring in any source of light throughout the creepy dim building.

Suddenly, Bucky’s footsteps stopped. Silence swallowed the hallway. Slight worry grew over you, as you take a look down the hallway, however, no sight or sound of him to be found.

When you finally heard footsteps again, you quickly peaked your head past the doorway down the hallway. Seeing Bucky approach, his movements were slower, heavier. His dark eyes held something unreadable — a flicker of distraction mixed with a strange heat.

You noticed the sweat beading at his temple, the way his breath came a little too fast, a little too shallow.

“Bucky?” Your voice curious, concern knitting your brows.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned against the doorway, jaw clenched tight, hand pressing over his mouth as if trying to catch his breath.

Your heart pounded. You couldn’t just stand there.

Carefully, you took a few steps closer, eyes scanning his face for any sign of injury or distress. “Are you hurt? You don’t look well.”

Your fingers hovered uncertainly near his arm before gently laying it on the flushed skin.

The contact made him flinch, a sharp intake of breath escaping his lips, and his whole body tensed under your touch.

He looked at you, confusion clouding his dark eyes before darting his eyes away. “I… I don’t know what’s happening,” he admitted quietly, voice strained. “I can’t… focus.”

You bit your lip, cheeks burning with a mix of worry and something else you couldn’t name.

Despite your hesitation, your fingers lingered, tracing the line of his jaw slowly.

His heavy breathing filled the tight space between you.

He wasn’t the bold, direct, and frankly asshole of a man you’d expected to come back— he was confused, vulnerable in a way that made your heart ache.

And yet, beneath that confusion simmered something primal, waiting to break free.

You swallowed hard, fighting the urge to pull back as Bucky’s gaze locked with yours—dark, confused, and somehow raw in a way you’d never seen before. His chest rose and fell rapidly, breath hitching like he was struggling to steady it.

“Do you need to sit down?” you offered softly, voice barely above a whisper. You hated how your own hands trembled, but you couldn’t just leave him like this.

Bucky shook his head slowly, jaw still tight. “No,” he said, voice rough, “I just… need a moment.”

You edged closer, feeling the warmth radiating off his body, the subtle tremor running through his muscles. Your fingers brushed again against his skin—this time along the softer flesh of the inside of his wrist, inspecting his seemingly pulsing veins.

He flinched again, that sharp intake of breath turning deeper, ragged. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, turning his face away from you as if trying to contain something he didn’t understand.

“Bucky…” Your voice softened, uncertainty threading through every word. “What’s going on?”

He opened his eyes, dark pools swirling with confusion and frustration. “I don’t know,” he said roughly, voice breaking just slightly. “I feel… wrong. Hot. Like I’m… burning up from the inside.”

You bit your lip, heart clenching. The man who is feared, who’s a deadly super soldier, was now trembling under your touch, vulnerable and raw.

Without thinking, your hand moved to rest flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

His breathing hitched, eyes darkening as if the simple contact overwhelmed him. “Don’t…” he growled out, voice hoarse.

The room seemed to shrink around you both, heavy with unspoken tension. You wanted to pull away, to respect his boundaries, but your body betrayed you—drawn to him like a moth to flame.

“Bucky,” you whispered, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your palm pressed against his chest, trying to calm the wild thumping of his heart. Bucky’s breath was ragged, uneven, like he was barely holding himself together. His dark eyes flicked toward you, filled with confusion—and something raw, unfiltered.

He growled softly, a frustrated sound. “I ran into some kind of room in the west wing with a bunch of plants. They were releasing some kind of gas. I don’t know what it’s doing to me, but—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “—it’s making me feel things. Things I don’t like.”

You raised an eyebrow, and try to lighten the mood. “Oh great. Just what I needed: Barnes, the grumpy tin man, suddenly turned into a hot mess.” You say softly, rolling your eyes with a slight smile

He scowled but didn’t deny it. “Keep it up, and I might just knock that smug smile off your face.”

“Yeah, yeah. Not like this you won’t” you teased, voice light despite the tension.

Bucky took a deep, shuddering breath. “Don’t tempt me. Besides, this isn’t a joke. I don’t know how to control it, and I don’t want you getting involved.”

You stepped closer, still wary but unable to look away. “Since when did you care what I think?”

His eyes darkened, and he took a half-step towards the other side of the room, like you might be contagious. “Since this gas has me all messed up and I’m not sure I’m still me.” He growls out

You bit your lip, trying not to let your cheeks betray how much the sight of him like this was affecting you.

“Look,” he said, voice low and rough, “I understand that we’re partnered up for this mission, but—” His voice cracked slightly, “right now… I need you to just stay out of it. Or maybe just don’t make it worse.”

You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Fine. But only because I’m curious what’ll happen next.” Not sliding in the tid-bit that you’re still extremely worried for him no matter how aggravating he may be or how many times he’s insulted you back at the avengers tower.

Bucky’s glare was sharp, but something softer flickered beneath it before he turned away, trying to hide the vulnerability that scared him.

Bucky’s back was stiff as a board as he leaned against an abandoned table in the room, jaw clenched tight, but the rapid rise and fall of his chest gave him away. The gas wasn’t just messing with his head—it was twisting something deeper, something primal he clearly didn’t want to admit.

Without a word, he suddenly stepped closer, the heat radiating off him intense and raw. His dark eyes locked onto yours with a sharpness that made your breath catch.

Then, almost abruptly, his hand reached out and grabbed your wrist—his grip firm but not cruel.

His voice came low and rough, like gravel scraping over steel. “You don’t get it. This gas… it’s messing with me. Making me feel things I shouldn’t.”

You blinked, caught off guard, heart pounding.

He swallowed hard, eyes darkening as if fighting to hold himself back. “I don’t want you involved. Hell, I don’t want anyone involved. Especially not you.”

You stepped back slightly, wary but steady. “Just cut deeper why don’t you.” You say dripping with sarcasm.

Bucky’s jaw tightened even more. Standing in silence very clearly thinking something through despite the haze he’s under. “I feel like I’m starting to lose control—and you’re the one thing that’s driving me crazy.”

His breath hitched. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to want you.”

Your cheeks flushed but you didn’t pull away.

He hesitated for a moment, then leaned in just enough for you to feel his breath on your skin.

“Don’t make me lose it,” he warned, voice rough and low.

The closeness of his face, feeling the hotness of his breath fanning over your skin, the tone of his voice. You can’t help but to begin breathing heavily. Despite you and Bucky’s mockery, insults, and arguing, you can’t help but be affected by how he’s acting towards you right now. Your eyes scan over him as you fail to resist the squeezing of your thighs and the feeling of molten heat pool in your stomach.

You notice his nostrils flare and his eyes close, inhaling deeply as he lets out a low groan. His eyes open and burned into yours, fierce and unyielding, but underneath there was a raw vulnerability that made your chest tighten. He walks closer towards you, making you back up until your back hits the cold concrete wall. The tension between you wasn’t just the usual snark or competition anymore—it was something sharper, hotter, dangerous.

Bucky closed the last few inches and pressed his palm flat against the wall beside your head, trapping you gently but firmly. His metal fingers brushed lightly against your temple, and a flicker of something desperate crossed his face.

“You don’t know what this is doing to me,” he muttered, voice thick with frustration and something darker. “I’m not… me right now. And I don’t want to hurt you.”

You swallowed hard, nerves sparking but your gaze steady. “You won’t.”

He swallowed again, chest rising and falling faster now, like every breath was a fight.

Then, almost reluctantly, his hand found yours—fingers curling around yours, cool against your skin but firm, possessive.

“I’m warning you,” he breathed, his voice dropping lower, “if you let me, I might not going to be able stop.”

His gaze flicked down to your lips, then back up, heavy with unspoken promises and desperate need.

You felt your heart hammer in your chest, caught between fear and the undeniable pull drawing you closer to him.

Bucky’s grip tightened around your fingers, a low growl rumbling deep in his throat. His dark eyes searched your face like he was looking for permission—and maybe begging for it too, though his pride wouldn’t let him say so.

“I don’t want this,” he snarled softly, voice rough and raw, “but I’m losing the fight.”

His breath hitched, hot and ragged against your skin. The heat radiating off him was suffocating—an almost tangible force pulling you closer, burning away the space between.

You wanted to pull back, wanted to remind him that you weren’t sure what this was either, that this was the opposite of professional, opposite of what you two were—but something in his expression held you fast, unsteady and trembling.

His metal hand slid from your fingers to your wrist, then higher, tracing the delicate skin of your forearm. Every inch was electric under his touch, like you were both alive on a knife’s edge.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered hoarsely, voice thick with frustration, “and I will. But if you don’t…”

He closed the distance suddenly, lips brushing a harsh, breathless kiss against yours—rough and demanding, like he was trying to ground himself through the contact.

Your breath caught, shyness warred with a fierce, blooming heat deep inside you.

Bucky’s hands framed your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as if trying to memorize every line, every trembling breath.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice low and vulnerable beneath the roughness. “Scared I won’t be able to pull back.” You feel him physically trying to restrain himself from pulling himself closer to you.

You swallowed, heart pounding louder than your thoughts.

“No,” you whispered, voice soft but sure. “Don’t pull back.”

His lips instantly found yours, crashing into your lips, with a wild insatiable hunger. There was no gentleness in it, just raw need and the taste of restraint shattering. He gripped your waist, his hands big and calloused, roughly pulling you flush against his body like he needed you to stay anchored to the ground.

You gasped into him, the sound catching in your throat as you felt the heat of him—every line of muscle, every tremble in his body that betrayed how hard he was fighting to stay in control.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he growled, voice rough against your lips, “not with you… not like this.”

But his hands didn’t stop. One slid up under your shirt, skimming over your ribs, fingertips dragging goosebumps in their wake. His touch was desperate, reverent, like he needed to memorize your body just to keep from coming undone.

“I didn’t even like you,” he muttered hoarsely, forehead resting against yours, breath ragged. “You always ran your mouth, always got under my skin…”

Your hands clutched at the front of his tactical shirt, heart pounding against your ribs. “You didn’t like me?” you managed, breathless.

“I hated how much I noticed you,” he growled. “How I couldn’t stop watching the way you moved… how you looked at me like you saw past the metal and my history.”

You whimpered as his fingers slipped beneath your waistband, teasing the skin just above your underwear. His touch wasn’t tentative—it was firm, claiming. Possessive. But there was a tremble in it, like he wasn’t sure if he was about to worship you or ruin you.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered again, voice cracking with restraint. “Please.”

But you couldn’t. All you could do was look up at him, seeing him, pieces of hair falling in his face, his dark eyes staring into yours and let out a soft needy whine.

That was all he needed.

His mouth moved to your neck, kissing and biting, the sting softened by the heat of his tongue. His hand slid into your pants, cupping you firmly. The gasp that tore from your throat only made him press closer, lips brushing your ear.

“Fuck, you’re warm,” he groaned. “So soft…”

His fingers dipped lower, teasing over your folds, dragging a moan from you that made his grip falter—like your voice alone was a match to dry gasoline.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as his fingers slipped inside you, slow but thick and deep. “Don’t even know if this is the gas anymore… or just you.”

You could barely breathe, body melting into his as he thrust his fingers slow and deep, watching your every reaction like he was starving for it. He was so careful despite the desperation coiled in his muscles—his touches growing rougher, but still holding back that last thread of restraint.

His fingers, curling just enough to make your knees shake. You gasped, a tremor running through your thighs as you clutched at the front of his suit, but Bucky didn’t rush—not yet.

He growled under his breath, forehead still pressed to your shoulder, lips ghosting against your skin as his fingers dragged slick and steady inside you.

“Goddamn…” he breathed, voice broken with awe and frustration. “You’re driving me out of my fucking mind.”

You whimpered, your breath shallow. “Bucky…”

His name made him shudder.

He pulled his hand away too soon, and you let out a small sound of protest. Bucky met your eyes then—completely unguarded. His pupils were blown wide, his lips slightly parted, sweat shining along his jaw.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “I’m hanging on by a thread.”

You weren’t sure if that was a plead, command or a threat.

Then, you could feel the thick bulge of him straining against his pants, grinding against your soaked core through the fabric of your clothes.

“Feel that?” he rasped into your ear, rutting against you. “That’s what you’re doing to me. And I haven’t even gotten inside you yet.”

Your breath caught. His words lit a fire in your belly, made your thighs clench, made you ache.

His hand slipped down again, running two fingers over your clit.

“Fuck. You’re soaking.”

The curse slipped through his teeth like a prayer as your eyes roll back at the heavenly friction of his hand.

You whine once more as he brought his fingers up and stared at them—coated in your wetness—then met your eyes again as he sucked them slowly into his mouth.

Your legs nearly gave out. “Bucky…” you mutter.

“I’m not gonna fuck you yet,” he said, voice rough and tight like it hurt to say it. “Not until you’re begging for it.”

You whined, hips rolling instinctively toward him, chasing friction.

“Oh, you like that?” he murmured darkly, hand sliding between you again, rubbing slow, heavy circles over your clit. “The mouthy little agent who never shuts up… can’t even form a sentence now.”

You were panting, your body hypersensitive to every stroke, every drag of his rough voice.

“I want to ruin that attitude,” he growled. “Make you forget how to talk. Make you cry.”

His fingers dipped inside you again, thrusting slow and deep, each stroke deliberate and angled just right. You clenched around him, a soft cry leaving your lips, and he chuckled low and sharp in your ear.

“There it is,” he whispered. “That’s what I wanted. So fucking tight around my fingers already.”

His metal hand slid up your shirt, palming your breast through your bra, thumb flicking across your nipple with just enough pressure to make your back arch. “You gonna fall apart just from this?” he taunted, voice husky. “We haven’t even started yet.”

“Bucky—” you gasped.

“No,” he cut in, hot breath against your neck. “Not yet. You don’t get to come until I say.”

Your head hit the wall behind you with a soft thud, pleasure cresting inside you—too much, too slow, not enough.

Bucky’s mouth moved to your jaw, your throat, licking and biting as his fingers fucked you slow, precise, dragging you closer to the edge and pulling you back again and again.

“You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” he whispered. “Like you hate me. But underneath it? You wanted this. You wanted me.”

Your moan betrayed you.

He grinned against your throat, then sank his teeth into the delicate skin there—not enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp. His hand never stopped moving, never gave you what you needed all the way. He was relentless, teasing, every inch of him vibrating with tension and barely held control.

“I could keep you like this for hours,” he muttered. “Desperate. Soaking wet. Shaking.”

He dragged his fingers out of you and pressed them between your lips.

“Taste how sweet you are,” he said roughly. “And tell me you don’t want me.”

Your mouth opened before you could stop yourself, and the taste of your own need sent heat rushing straight to your core.

Bucky growled. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s what I wanted.”

He pushed his hips into yours again, the thick, throbbing heat of him pressing right against your clit through the fabric.

“You ready?” he asked darkly. “Because once I’m inside you, I’m not stopping.”

You were trembling beneath him, body pinned to the wall, soaked and aching. Every nerve ending buzzed under the weight of his mouth, his hands, his voice—dragging you to the edge, over and over, without mercy.

And still… he hadn’t taken you.

Until now.

Bucky’s jaw flexed like he was still trying to fight it—but the look in his eyes told you he was past the point of no return.

“I told myself I wouldn’t,” he growled, lips ghosting over yours. “Told myself I could ride it out. Wait for backup. Do the right thing.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, his hips grinding against you in a slow, punishing circle. You felt him—thick, hard, straining inside the confines of his pants—and your breath hitched.

“But I can’t fucking think straight,” he whispered, almost like it hurt. “Not when you’re this wet. This soft. Looking at me like you’d let me break you open.”

You didn’t say a word. You couldn’t. The air was thick with your shared breath, hot and humid, and your voice had long since abandoned you.

He slid your pants down, low enough for you to shimmy and step out of them. He reached down, undid his belt with shaking hands, and freed himself—thick and heavy and flushed, the head already leaking. The sight of it made your thighs clench instinctively.

Bucky groaned at the sight of you. “Fuck, look at you. So shy all the time, but now…” he leaned towards you, grabbed your thigh and wrapped it around his waist. He pushed your soaked underwear to the side, lined himself up and paused, metal hand gripping your thigh, holding you open, holding you still.

“Last chance,” he rasped. “You want me?”

You look up at him with pleading eyes and a whine, “please, Bucky….”

That was all it took.

He thrust forward in one deep, brutal stroke,

burying himself inside you to the hilt. You cried out, nails digging into his arms as your body stretched to take him.

“Shit,” he gritted through clenched teeth, eyes screwed shut. “So fucking tight. You feel—God—you feel unreal.”

He held still for a beat, shaking from the effort not to lose it too fast. But you clenched around him, and he groaned low in his throat, head falling to your shoulder.

Then he started to move.

Each thrust was deep, rough, and controlled—but just barely. He was shaking with it, like he couldn’t believe how good it felt, like every time he slammed into you it pulled a piece of him loose.

“You like it rough, sweetheart?” he growled against your ear.

But you were already gone—moaning, head back against the wall, gasping as your body met his rhythm instinctively. You give a messy nod.

“Yeah,” Bucky snarled, gripping your ass and lifting you a little higher so he could drive in deeper, your leg not wrapped around his waist barely touching the ground. “You take me so fucking good.”

The sound of skin slapping echoed off the walls, the wet slick of your arousal making each brutal thrust louder, messier.

“You think I don’t see you?” he grunted, voice ragged. “Always biting your lip around me, looking away. Playing innocent. But you’re not.”

His pace picked up, hips slamming into yours harder now, deeper. “You want this. You’ve always wanted this.”

“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice cracking.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” you gasped, clinging to him.

He cursed viciously, his control unraveling at the sound of your voice.

“Fuck—I’m not gonna last—” he bit out, slamming in deeper with each thrust. “You feel too good—too tight—I’ve never—”

He cut himself off with a broken groan, his lips crashing against yours in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans as he fucked you harder, rougher. Your body was shaking, teetering right at the edge, and he could feel it.

“Come for me,” he commanded, voice thick and guttural. “Now.”

And with one last, brutal thrust—he hit the spot that sent you spiraling.

You shattered around him, crying out, trembling as your climax tore through you, soaking him. Bucky followed instantly with a strangled groan, burying himself deep as he came hard, hips jerking, forehead pressed to yours as he gasped your name like a lifeline.

His hips slowed, but only slightly—just enough to ride out his own release as you trembled around him, body slack and twitching in his hold. But he didn’t pull out. He didn’t ease away. He stayed inside you, panting against your neck, every muscle still coiled tight like a predator that hadn’t fed nearly enough.

You whimpered softly as his cock throbbed still-hard inside you, impossibly thick, sensitive—but not softening. Not even a little.

“…You’re still hard,” you breathed, dazed.

Bucky’s shoulders shook with a low, humorless laugh. He dragged his mouth up your throat, tongue catching on the sweat at your collarbone before he murmured, “I know.”

His voice was darker now—gravel scraping over flame—and when he pulled his head back to look at you, his pupils were still blown wide, black swallowing the blue.

“That plant,” he said, panting, “it did something. I don’t feel normal, I—” He gritted his teeth and rolled his hips forward again, slow and grinding.

You moaned, sharp and overstimulated, but it only made him groan. “Still not enough.”

He pulled out just a few inches, dragging his cock against your soaked, sensitive walls—then slammed back in with a low, wrecked sound.

Your body jolted, pleasure colliding with sensitivity, making you gasp. “Bucky—”

“Can’t stop,” he growled. “Can’t. You feel too good. I need more.”

He hooked your other leg up around his waist, spreading you open and lifting you slightly off the ground. The shift in angle drove him deeper, the stretch unbearable, the pressure mounting again despite how recently you'd come. You were already growing slick around him again, your body betraying your mind as it begged for more.

“I should hate you for this,” he whispered against your lips. “You make me insane.”

“Then hate me,” you whispered back, breathless.

He snarled—and then snapped.

His mouth crashed to yours, biting and claiming, tongue dragging over your lips before plunging deep. At the same time, he started to fuck you again—harder than before, frantic and relentless, each thrust punching a moan out of you.

You had no defense anymore. No sharp quips, no witty retorts—just Bucky, inside you, growling your name like a curse and a prayer all at once.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he panted, lips brushing your ear. “Stuffed full of me. Until you can’t walk straight. Until everyone on comms knows what I did to you.”

His words hit you like lightning, heat pooling fast and hard in your gut again.

“You want that?” he murmured, nipping your earlobe. “Want me to ruin you until all you can say is my name?”

You couldn’t speak. You could only cry out, moaning shamelessly as he started slamming into you again—rough, wild, deep. His grip bruised your thighs, his mouth never left your skin, and every thrust sent stars behind your eyes.

“You’re mine right now,” he gritted, pounding into you. “Just mine.”

Your second orgasm hit harder—sharper—your body seizing around him with a cry that echoed through the empty hall. You were pulsing around him, milking him, but this time, Bucky didn’t come.

He just groaned and kept going.

His breath was ragged now, like he was in pain from holding back.

“I’m not done,” he choked out, pressing your back tighter to the wall. “Not until I’ve wrung every fucking sound out of you.”

Then he pulled out, slowly, deliberately—and spun you around.

Your hands hit the wall just in time to catch yourself as he dragged your underwear the rest of the way off. You whimper at the cold concrete pushing against your soft chest. His hands gripped your hips, pulling your ass back toward him—and without pause, he shoved himself back in from behind with a deep, wrecked growl.

You gasped, moaning at the new angle, at how deep he felt this way.

His hand came around to your front again, fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing in messy circles.

“You’re taking me so fucking well,” he snarled. “Like you were made for me.”

The words made you clench, and he hissed through his teeth, hips stuttering.

“Say it,” he barked. “Tell me you want more.”

“More—” you choked, hands scrambling for purchase against the wall. “Bucky—God—more—”

He slammed into you even harder, punishing now, wrecked with need.

“Good girl,” he growled, voice low.

Your hands braced against the wall, fingers splayed, trying to ground yourself—but Bucky gave you no reprieve.

His thrusts were brutal now, paced with a rhythm that shook through your entire body. Each snap of his hips pushed a cry from your lips, every inch of him stretching you open all over again, slick from your last two orgasms and still somehow burning for more.

You were soaked. Raw. Quivering.

And he was insatiable.

Behind you, Bucky was panting like a man possessed. His forehead dropped to your shoulder for a second, teeth grazing your sweat-slicked skin as his grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging in deep enough to bruise.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, voice wrecked. “I can feel you squeezing me—like you’re trying to pull me deeper.”

You moaned, unable to answer. You weren’t sure there were words anymore—just sensation.

Heat. Pressure. Him.

He slammed into you harder, and your knees buckled, but he caught you—one arm locking around your waist, dragging you up against his chest. Moaning, feeling your body pressed flushed against his. His other hand was still between your legs, fingers working your clit with ruthless precision, flicking and circling until your legs were trembling, your cries coming faster.

“Gonna come again,” he rasped in your ear. “I can feel it. You’re so close, baby. Give it to me.”

His metal hand gripped your throat—slightly tight, just enough to tilt your head, to control you—and he sank his teeth into the curve of your neck as he fucked you harder, faster.

You cried out, your body tipping toward the edge again with dizzying speed, your back arching at the intense pleasure.

“Say it,” he ordered through gritted teeth. “Say you want to come on my cock.”

“Please—Bucky—want it—fuck—I want it, I want it—”

“That’s it,” he hissed. “God, that’s it—gonna make you come so fucking hard—”

You clenched around him, your whole body going taut—and then snapped.

Your climax tore through you like fire, a scream ripping from your throat as your pussy spasmed around him, pulsing, slick, drenching him.

Bucky groaned like it broke him, thrusting deep one last time before he came with a roar—slamming into you to the hilt, cock twitching as he spilled inside, hot and thick, filling you to overflowing.

He held you tight, shuddering, mouth pressed to your shoulder as he rode it out—still pulsing, still deep inside you.

For a moment, everything was quiet—just your panting, the wet sounds of your bodies, and his heart hammering against your back.

Then he finally spoke—voice low, hoarse, almost reverent.

“…Still hate me, sweetheart?”

You let out a breathless, broken laugh against the wall.

“Only when you’re not fucking me like that.”

Bucky chuckled darkly, nuzzling your neck, still buried inside you. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep doing it.”

Bucky’s breathing was still ragged behind you, his broad chest rising and falling against your back. His arms stayed wrapped around your waist, firm but gentle now, as if afraid you’d slip away if he let go.

You both stayed like that for a long moment—pressed together, skin flushed and slick with sweat, the heavy sound of your breathing the only thing filling the silence.

Then, slowly, he eased out of you, hissing softly at the overstimulation. You whimpered, sensitive and sore and still trembling, and he caught you as your knees buckled, guiding you gently to the floor.

The moment your back hit the cold wall, you shivered.

“Shit,” Bucky muttered, voice thick and gravelly. “You okay?”

You looked up at him, lips parted, dazed. “I think so…”

He crouched in front of you, one knee bent, eyes scanning your face—not with lust now, but something softer. Something real. His pupils weren’t as blown out anymore. The sharp edge of heat in them was starting to fade.

And for the first time since all this started, you realized… the gas was wearing off.

You could see it in his body—the subtle way his muscles unclenched, the way his breathing evened, like his senses were slowly coming back under control.

“…Bucky,” you murmured, still catching your breath, “what was that stuff?”

He exhaled hard, dragging a hand back through his damp hair.

“Like I said earlier, there was a room. Down the hall. Some kind of overgrown greenhouse or lab, I don’t know.” His voice was quieter now, more grounded. “I barely stepped inside before I started sweating. My head got light, and then everything started to burn. My skin, my blood… my cock.”

You flushed, throat bobbing as your eyes flicked down between you.

He noticed. His jaw tightened.

“I didn’t know what was happening,” he added, guilt creeping into his tone. “Didn’t understand why I was reacting like that until I saw you again and I just—”

He broke off, shaking his head like he was angry at himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “I shouldn’t’ve touched you. Not like that. Not when I wasn’t thinking straight.”

But you reached out and curled your fingers around his vibranium wrist, grounding him.

“You didn’t force me,” you said softly. “I wanted it. All of it.”

His eyes met yours—sharp, guarded, like he was still waiting for the punchline.

“You sure?” he asked. Not a tease. Just a whisper of vulnerability cracking through the armor.

You gave a breathless laugh, nodding. “Yeah. Pretty sure the three orgasms confirm that.”

That pulled a small, crooked smirk from him—but it didn’t last. His gaze drifted back to where your bare thighs were still spread, slick and flushed, your pants still tangled around one ankle. You were raw, used, full of him.

And still… somehow… the tension wasn’t gone.

“You didn’t hate it,” he murmured, like he was testing the waters.

“No,” you admitted. “And… maybe I don’t hate you as much as I pretend to.”

That surprised him.

He tilted his head, lips parting like he had something to say—but instead, he leaned forward, slowly, giving you the chance to stop him.

You didn’t.

His lips brushed yours, soft this time. Nothing like the devouring heat from earlier. Just a quiet, aching thing. A kiss that said we’re not done—but maybe not just in a physical way.

You kissed him back, fingers curling into his jacket. And when he finally pulled away, his forehead leaned against yours, breath warm across your face.

“I’ll get you cleaned up,” he murmured, voice husky again, but this time with gentleness rather than hunger.

You nodded, legs still shaky. “Yeah. I… don’t think I can stand yet.”

That made him chuckle, low and rough.

“You won’t be walking straight for a while.”

You smacked his chest weakly, and he grinned. It was the first time you’d ever really seen him smile—not that tight, sarcastic twist, but something real.

And just like that… something had shifted.

The lines that used to keep you on opposite sides of every room were gone—burned away by sweat, heat, and the way his hands had held you like he was afraid of losing something he didn’t know he wanted.

As he helped you pull your clothes back on, slow and careful, your fingers brushed. You didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

⊹ ︶⏝⭒ ⊹ ⭒⏝︶ ⊹

By the time the extraction team touched down, the gas was well out of Bucky’s system—but the aftermath lingered on both of you like a second skin.

He still walked close to you. His arm still brushed yours whenever the hallway narrowed. His jacket, slung loosely around your shoulders, smelled like him—warm leather and sweat and something darker, primal, something you’d felt grinding deep inside you less than an hour ago.

Neither of you had said much since.

Not because there wasn’t anything to say—but because the weight of everything that had happened still hummed like a live wire between you.

And when the door to the building finally slammed open and Sam’s voice came over the comms—dry, impatient, and absolutely oblivious—you nearly jumped.

“There you two are,” he said, stepping into view in full gear, eyes flicking from you to Bucky. “Took your sweet time, huh? We were about to call it and let you rot in there.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. He just grunted. “We managed.”

Sam looked at the both of you suspiciously.

Your hair was a mess. Your pants were definitely on inside out, despite your frantic fumbling earlier. Bucky’s shirt clung to him with dried sweat, and his belt was still hanging open under his tactical vest.

And when Sam’s eyes narrowed and slid down to the distinct bite mark blooming just beneath your collarbone, visible even beneath the edge of Bucky’s jacket—

He froze.

Blinked.

And looked back at Bucky. Slowly.

“…Did you fight each other?”

You opened your mouth, panic rising in your throat.

But Bucky—smug bastard—beat you to it.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said coolly, leading the way past Sam without missing a beat. “I won.”

Sam gawked after him. “You won what? An STD?!”

You groaned and followed quickly, cheeks flaming. “Shut up, Wilson.”

“You shut up!” Sam called after you. “I’m gonna have to Lysol the entire jet, aren’t I?!”

Bucky didn’t even blink as he climbed aboard.

You shot him a glare as you slid into the seat across from him, keeping your arms crossed even though his jacket still hung around your shoulders like some ridiculous trophy.

The second Sam stepped in behind you, eyeing the both of you like a disgruntled parent, you tried to school your expression into something neutral.

You failed.

Bucky smirked.

“So,” Sam said, dropping into the pilot’s chair with a sigh. “Either of you wanna tell me why your vitals were going crazy on the monitors for thirty minutes straight?”

“Must’ve been a glitch,” Bucky replied smoothly.

Sam turned, staring at him.

You were biting your lip. Hard.

“A glitch,” Sam repeated flatly.

Bucky shrugged, unbothered. “Must’ve been the plant gas. Messed with my sensors.”

“Oh, I bet it did,” Sam muttered, spinning back to the controls. “God, I’m too old for this.”

The Quinjet engines flared to life.

You glanced at Bucky. He was watching you from under his lashes, jaw tight, one corner of his mouth twitching upward like he was this close to smiling.

You leaned closer, voice just low enough that Sam wouldn’t hear.

“You’re really proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

Bucky’s smile turned wicked.

“You’re the one still wearing my jacket, sweetheart.”

You flushed—and hated how much it thrilled you.

As the jet lifted into the sky, the tension didn’t fade.

It simply shifted.

No longer the tension of enemies circling each other like knives waiting to clash—but the quieter, heavier kind. The kind that simmers under the surface, waiting to boil over again the second you're alone.

And something told you…

This wasn’t over.

You weren’t supposed to be at the café that day. Your morning class had been canceled, but your brain hadn’t caught up to the change in schedule, so you showed up anyway. After a quick internal debate, you decided to reward your accidental punctuality with a caramel latte.

That’s when he walked in.

Peter Parker, with his curly brown hair damp from the morning drizzle, hoodie pulled up halfway and cheeks flushed from the cold. He looked like every New York boy trying not to be noticed—and failing. Especially by you.

He didn’t see you at first. You were sitting at the window, fiddling with your phone. But when he glanced up to grab a napkin, your eyes met.

“Peter?”

You said his name like it was a secret.

He looked genuinely surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“Class got canceled. What about you?”

“Uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “Trying to warm up. Forgot my umbrella. Again.”

You smiled. “Still haven’t learned, huh?”

He chuckled and shrugged. “Some things never change.”

You hadn’t seen Peter much since graduation. He got into a fancy science internship, you went off to college, and life just… moved on. Texts became occasional. Likes on Instagram here and there. But seeing him again sparked something familiar.

“Wanna sit?” you asked, gesturing to the seat across from you.

He hesitated only for a second. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

It became a routine.

Coffee on Tuesdays. Sometimes Thursdays. Never Mondays—Peter claimed Mondays were cursed. You didn’t argue.

At first, it was casual. Catching up. Laughing about old teachers. You didn’t bring up the weirdness of how often he disappeared back in high school or why he was always bruised. And he didn’t mention the way you always waited a little longer at your locker, just in case he passed by.

But over time, something shifted.

Like today.

Peter slid into the booth with his usual order—black coffee, two sugars—and offered you a smile that felt warmer than it had any right to be.

“You look nice,” he said.

You blinked. “Thanks. I showered. Big achievement.”

He laughed, and it lit up his whole face. “Well, congrats. I feel honored.”

“Should I expect applause?”

“Only if you want it.”

You pretended to think. “Nah. I’ll save it for when I pass calculus.”

He sipped his coffee, watching you over the rim of his cup. “You’ll totally pass. You’re smarter than you think.”

You raised a brow. “And how would you know?”

“I’ve seen your notes. They’re like, NASA-level organized.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “That’s just highlighters and anxiety, Peter.”

“I like your anxiety, then.”

You both paused. The words hung there, awkward and cute and a little too honest.

“I mean,” he started, “not your actual anxiety. Just… you. I like you.”

There it was. The shift. The moment everything tipped a little closer.

You didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at him, really looked, and saw the nervous flutter in his eyes, like he was ready to run.

But you weren’t going to let him.

“I like you too, Peter.”

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

Dating Peter Parker was like dating the sun—when it wasn’t setting fire to itself.

He was sweet and funny and the kind of boy who remembered your coffee order and always carried a second hoodie in case you got cold. But he also had secrets. You weren’t dumb. You noticed the bruises, the late replies, the excuses.

You just didn’t expect the truth to come crashing through your window one night.

Literally.

You were curled up in bed, halfway through a rom-com, when a red-and-blue blur smashed into your room with a thud that made your heart lurch into your throat. You gazed over the intrusion to see-

“Spider-Man?!”

Spider-Man groaned from your floor, tangled in your curtains.

“Hey,” he wheezed. “Nice room.”

You rushed to his side, hands shaking. “Are you crazy? What happened?!”

“Fell. From a building. It was a tall one.”

You yanked off his mask. Only to see your lover, Peter, beneath the mask. His face was scratched, lip bleeding, but his eyes still crinkled with amusement.

“You’re Spider-Man!?”

He winced. “Surprise?”

You stared at him, then did the most logical thing you could think of: you smacked his arm.

He flinched and rubbed his arm. “Ow!”

“You lied to me!”

“I didn’t lie. I just… strategically avoided the truth.”

“Same thing, Peter!”

He gave you a sheepish smile, before seeing your raise your hand, preparing to smack him again, he winced away. “Okay, fair. But I didn’t want to drag you into this. You deserve normal.”

You exhaled slowly, heart pounding. “But you’re not normal. And I like you.”

He was too stunned to speak.

You helped him up, patching him with trembling hands and worried eyes, and when you were done, he caught your wrist gently.

“I’ll understand if this is too much,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “But I—I want you to stay.”

You didn’t even hesitate.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

From that moment on, everything changed.

You became part of his world—not just Peter’s world, but Spider-Man’s. You learned how to treat his wounds. You kept snacks in your backpack in case he swung by hungry. He taught you how to tell when someone was watching you and how to punch (though your punch still barely hurt him).

And he let you in.

On the rooftops, in the middle of the night, under a sky full of stars, Peter would rest his head in your lap and talk. About the pressure. The fear. The people he couldn’t save.

And you just listened.

“You know,” he murmured once, tracing lazy circles on your arm, “you’re kind of my safe place.”

Your heart fluttered. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. When everything’s loud, you’re quiet. When I’m falling, you’re the one pulling me back.”

You leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Well, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t die.”

He grinned. “Thank you...”

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

The first time he asked you to swing with him, you almost threw up.

“Just hold on tight,” he said, grinning like he hadn’t just invited you to literally dangle off skyscrapers.

“Peter, this is insane.”

“Correction: this is romantic. Very Aladdin. Minus the magic carpet. Add webs.”

You stared at him, deadpan. “You are the magic carpet.”

“Exactly!”

Still, when he wrapped his arm around your waist and said, “Trust me,” you didn’t hesitate.

The first swing was terrifying.

The second was exhilarating.

By the third, you were laughing.

You flew over rooftops and through alleys, the wind tangling your hair, your arms tight around Peter’s neck. And when he landed perfectly on top of a building and spun you around, he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“See?” he said breathlessly. “Told you it’d be fun.”

You kissed him right then, heart pounding from more than just adrenaline.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love me.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I really do.”

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

Dating Spider-Man was never easy.

There were nights you waited by your window, praying he was okay. Days he didn’t text because he was patching up some villain mess. Times when you had to lie to your friends because the truth wasn’t safe.

But there were also mornings when he made you pancakes shaped like hearts. Evenings when he curled up next to you and fell asleep mid-movie. Notes left in your bag that said, “Web you always.”

And every time he looked at you—really looked—you felt it. The kind of love that made the hard parts worth it.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

It was raining again the day he told you he wanted forever.

You were walking, sharing an umbrella, his hand snug in yours.

“Hey,” he said, a little nervously.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think… like, maybe… you’d want to live together someday?”

You turned to him, surprised.

“I mean—not now! Obviously not now,” he rushed. “But like, later. When we’re ready. I just— I want to wake up with you more. And maybe burn breakfast with you. And do all the boring stuff. Together.”

Your heart swelled.

“You’re such a dork,” you whispered.

He laughed. “Guilty.”

“But yeah,” you added. “I’d like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Someday.”

He squeezed your hand and smiled like he just saved the world again.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

Peter Parker was a mess. Brave and reckless and full of secrets.

But he loved you like it was the one thing he was sure of.

“I had it under control,” you muttered, more to yourself than to anyone else.

“Well, that’s debatable,” came his voice from the shadows.

You turned sharply. There he was—Loki Laufeyson, sauntering out of the smoke like he hadn't just disappeared in the middle of the battle. Not a hair out of place. Not a speck of ash on his dark green leather.

“Nice of you to show up after the fight,” you said coldly.

He smiled, that trademark smirk curling his lips like he was amused by your anger. “I was merely observing. Strategically. Besides, you looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

“Observing?” you snapped. “You ditched me in the middle of a fight with a ten-foot fire demon.”

“I was testing your reflexes,” he said smoothly. “Very impressive, by the way. Ten out of ten for dramatic flourishes.”

You clenched your jaw. “You're insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping closer, his voice a low purr, “here we are. Again. Side by side, fighting the same battles. It's almost romantic.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “Romantic? You're a pain in the ass, not a love interest.”

Loki gave an exaggerated sigh, placing a hand over his heart. “Cruel. But accurate.”

You turned to leave, your patience long gone. But before you could take more than a few steps, his hand shot out and caught your wrist. It wasn’t rough, but it was firm.

“Wait,” he said.

You paused. You could’ve pulled away—but something in his voice made you stop. It was too... unguarded. Loki didn’t ask. He demanded. He manipulated. But this? This was almost pleading.

You turned, slowly. His eyes—sharp and cunning only moments ago—were serious now. Calm. No tricks. No mask.

“I’m not your enemy anymore,” he said.

The words stunned you into silence.

“I haven’t been for a long time,” he added.

You frowned. “You have a funny way of showing it. Disappearing in fights. Undermining me in meetings. Mocking me constantly.”

“It’s easier to push people away than to admit I don’t want to lose them.”

That silenced you.

“I act like this because I don’t know how to want something without ruining it,” he said. His voice was quiet, his tone different—raw, even. “Because when I care… everything goes wrong.”

He let go of your wrist. “So I keep pretending I don’t care. It’s what I’m good at.”

You didn’t speak for a long moment. The storm that had gathered outside the ruins rumbled in the distance, as if the sky itself was holding its breath.

Then, softly: “Maybe you just haven’t wanted the right thing yet.”

Loki’s gaze snapped up to yours.

You didn’t mean to say it. You didn’t plan to say it. But it was the truth.

You had hated him once. For his arrogance. His chaos. His cruelty. But somewhere along the way—in shared battles, shared near-deaths, and those long silences between—the hate had turned into something else. Something sharper. Something more dangerous.

Something that felt like longing.

Loki took a step forward, slowly, as if testing the ground beneath him. “You drive me mad,” he said.

“Good,” you breathed.

His hand lifted—tentative at first—fingertips grazing your cheek. His thumb brushed the dried blood from your brow.

“You make me want to be…” he stopped, swallowed. “Better.”

And then he kissed you.

Not like a prince. Not like a god. Like a man who had lived through war and loneliness and regret—and had finally found something worth breaking for.

It was furious, aching, and soft. As if he’d been holding back this moment for far too long and wasn’t sure he’d get another.

You didn’t push him away.