#bucky fluff

You blinked down slowly, the world swimming into focus in patches of white and blue. Hospital room, beeping machines, and— oh.

There was a man sitting beside your bed. A really really pretty man. Dark hair, sharp jaw, shoulders that looked like they were personally crafted by Michelangelo. And his eyes, of the most ridiculous shade of blue you've ever seen.

"Hi," you breathed, the word slurring slightly. "Are you real?"

The pretty man's lips twitched into a smile. "Yeah, sweetheart, I'm real. How you feeling?"

"Floaty," you admitted, trying to lift your hand but it felt like it weighted a thousand pounds. "Everything's… soft. Are you a nurse? You're the prettiest nurse I've ever seen."

He laughed and the sound made your fuzzy brain light up. "I'm not a nurse, baby. I'm Bucky, your boyfriend."

You squinted at him suspiciously. "No."

"No?"

"No," you said firmly. "Because if you were my boyfriend I'd definitely remember. I would remember so hard you'd be all I ever thought about. I'd be insufferable about it."

"You're insufferable about it," he said, grinning now. He reached out and took your hands, his thumb stroking over your knuckles. One hand was warm, the other was cool metal. "You literally have a folder on your phone called 'Bucky being pretty' with like three hundred photos in it."

Your eyes went wide. "I do?"

"Yes, you do."

"…can I see?"

"After you're more awake." He was trying so hard not to laugh. "The nurse said you'd be loopy for a bit."

"I'm not loopy," you insisted, then immediately contradicted yourself by reaching up to poke his face. "You're loopy. Your face is loopy. Too pretty, not fair." Your finger booped his nose. "Boop."

Bucky caught your hand before you could poke him again, pressing a kiss to your palm. The gesture was so tender it made your drugged heart skip. "You tell me that a lot."

"Well, it is true." You tried to sit up and failed spectacularly. Bucky immediately stood up, his hands gentle as he helped adjust your pillows. "Woah, you're really tall too. How tall are you? Like eight feet?"

"Just six feet, baby."

"That's so many feet." You grabbed at his jacket as he tried to sit back down. "Wait, come back. I need to look at you more."

"I'm right here." But he stayed standing, letting you stare up at him with unbashed wonder.

"Your eyes are blue," you announced, like you'd discovered something groundbreaking.

"They are."

"Like… aggresively blue. Who gave you permission to have eyes that blue? That's illegal, you should be arrested." You gasped suddenly. "Wait, are you a criminal? Is that why you're in the hospital? Are you on the run?"

"I'm not on the run, I'm here because my girlfriend had surgery and I wanted to take care of her and make sure she was okay."

You processed this slowly, then after a minute of silence, you said: "Your girlfriend is so lucky."

"Yeah?" His smile was soft, affectionate in a way that made your chest warm even through the drug haze.

"Yeah. I hope she knows how lucky she is, if I had a boyfriend that looked like you—" you sighed dreamily. "I'd never let you leave, I'd just stare at you all day. I'd cancel plans, I'd call in sick to work 'sorry, can't come in, too busy looking at my boyfriend's face."

Bucky actually had to cover his mouth to hide his laughter. "That so?"

"Mmhmm…" You tried to focus on him but everything kept going a little fuzzy at the edged. "What's your girlfriend like? Is she pretty? She's probably pretty, you seem like you have good taste."

"She's beautiful," he said quietly. "Smartest person I know, funny, brave as hell, a little reckless sometimes, which gives me heart attacks. But yeah, she's pretty perfect."

Your drugged brain felt emotions about this that you couldn't quite name. "Wow, you really love her."

"More than anything."

"That's…" your eyes were getting misty. "That's so nice, everyone should be loved like that. I wanna be loved like that." You looked up at him with the saddest eyes. "Do you think anyone will ever love me like that?"

Bucky's expression did something complicated. He sat back down on the edge of your bed, taking both of your hands in his. "Baby… sweetheart, I'm talking about you. You're my girlfriend."

You blinked slowly. "…I am?"

"Yes."

"But…" You looked down at your hands, then back up at his face. "But you're so pretty."

"So are you."

"And nice, you seem really nice."

"You're nicer."

"And you have good hair." You reached up to touch it and he let you, patient as a saint while your clumsy fingers carded through the strands."It's so soft, do you condition? What's your routine? I need your routine."

"You bought me the conditioner," he said, amused. "You did a whole presentation about hair care."

"I did?" You perked up. "Was it good? Did I use a PowerPoint?"

"It was very thorough, had charts and everything."

"Past me is so smart." Your hand dropped from his hair to his face, cupping his cheek. Your thumb traced his cheekbone, then down to his jaw. "You have a really good bone structure, like… really good. Are you a model?"

"Not a model."

"You should be, you'd be great at it. You'd just stand there being pretty and everyone would throw money at you." You gasped dramatically. "Do you even have a job?"

"I'm an Avenger."

Your jaw dropped. "Like… the superheroes?"

"Yep."

"Oh my god, you're a superhero! A pretty superhero." You looked at him with renewed awe. "What's your power? Is it being pretty? Because that should count."

He was fully grinning now. "I've got a vibranium arm. Super soldier serum."

"Can I see the arm?"

Bucky glanced at the door, then shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeve, revealing the black and gold vibranium arm. Your drugged gasp was deeply gratifying.

"That's so cool!" You grabbed at it, running your fingers over the plates. "It's pretty. You're pretty. Everything about you it's pretty… do you sparkle in the sunlight?"

"That's vampires, baby."

"Are you a vampire?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Because you look like you could be a vampire. A really hot vampire." You squinted at him. "Smile, let me see your teeth."

He humored you, smiling wide. You peered at his teeth very seriously. "Okay not a vampire, just a regular pretty person." You seemed satisfied with his conclusion. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"Always."

You leaned in conspiratorially, nearly falling out of the bed. Bucky caught you easily, steadying you. "I think I have a crush on you."

"Do you now?"

"The biggest crush. An embarrassing crush." You bit your lip. "But you have a girlfriend so I shouldn't be saying this… that's not good etiquette, I apologize." You tried to look serious. "I respect your relationship, even though I'm dying inside.

"Noted," he was shaking with silent laughter now. "What if I told you that you're the girlfriend?"

"Then I'd say you're lying because there's no way—" you gestured vaguely at him. "—that someone who looks like that would date someone like me."

"And what's someone like you?"

"You know, regular, average… not a superhero. Probably have weird hobbies." You paused. "Do I have weird hobbies?"

"I don't thinks is weird, but you enjoy collecting vintage objects—"

"See? Boring."

"I think it's cute."

You stared at him. "Okay, but if we're actually dating—which I still don't believe—but IF we are, then I need to know some things…"

"Shoot."

"Have I kissed you?"

"Many times."

Your hand flew to your mouth. "Oh my god."

"Just yesterday you kissed me goodbye like five times because you kept forgetting things and having to come back inside."

"What else? What else have we done? Have we—" You lowered your voice to a whisper. "—held hands?"

"We live together."

The machine monitoring your heart started beeping faster. "We what?"

"We share an apartment… have for three months now. We meal prep on Sundays—"

"That's so domestic!" You clutched his hand tighter. "Oh my god, am I living my dream? Is this real life?"

"Very real life."

"Prove it. Tell me something only my boyfriend would know."

Bucky thought for a moment, his smile going soft. "You talk in your sleep, usually about work, but sometimes you just say random stuff. Last week you had a full conversation whether cats understand democracy. You also steal all the blankets and I have to burrito wrap you to get any covers. And when you're really tired, you make me play with your hair until you fall asleep."

Your eyes were getting watery again. "That sounds nice."

"It is nice, the best part of my day."

"Even the blanket stealing?"

"Even that."

A nurse peeked in, smiling at the scene. "How's our patient doing?"

"She's very high," Bucky said.

"I'm in love," you corrected, squeezing his hand. "With him, this pretty man. He says he's my boyfriend but I think he might be a hallucination because he's too perfect."

The nurse laughed. "He's been here since they brought you in, hasn't left your side."

"Really?" You looked up at Bucky with wonder.

"Really," he confirmed.

The nursed checked your vitals, adjusted your IV and gave you some ice chips to suck on. "The anesthesia should wear off in another hour or so. You'll probably be pretty tired though."

After she left, you went back to staring at Bucky. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Anything."

"If we're dating, can I kiss you?"

His smile could've powered the sun. "You don't have to ask for permission, sweetheart. But maybe wait until you're a little less loopy?"

"What if I forget? What if the drugs wear off and I forget that I'm allowed to kiss you and I just pine forever?"

"Then I'll remind you. Like I do every morning."

"Every morning," you repeated dreamily. "We have mornings together. Plural mornings."

"So many mornings." You yawned suddenly, the exhaustion hitting you. Bucky stood and adjusted your bed so you could lie back more comfortably. "Get some rest, baby."

"Will you stay?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?"

"Promise." He settled back into the chair, but kept hold of your hand.

"Bucky?"

"Yeah?"

"When I wake up and I'm not high anymore, will you still be this pretty?"

He brought your joined hands up and kissed your knuckles, his eyes crinkling with tat smile you'd apparently been cataloging in a folder for months. "Guess you'll have to wait and see."

"Can't wait," you mumbled, eyes already drifting closed. "Gonna wake up with the prettiest boyfriend in the world."

"Get some sleep, sweetheart."

"Okay, but just so you know—" you forced your eyes open one more time to look at him. "—if we really are dating, then I'm the luckiest person alive."

"Funny, I was thinking the same thing."

You fell asleep with his hand in yours, the steady beep of the monitors, and a smile on your face.

Two hours later.

You woke up slowly, the fog clearing from your brain. Everything came back in pieces—the surgery, the recovery room, and oh god, Bucky. Your boyfriend Bucky. Who you'd apparently hit on while high.

He was still there, slouched in the in the uncomfortable hospital chair, scrolling through his phone. When he noticed you were awake, his whole face lit up.

"Hey," he said softly. "Welcome back, how you feeling?"

"Mortified," you croaked. "Please tell me I didn't say anything too embarrassing."

His grin was evil. "Define too embarrassing."

"Bucky—"

"You told me I should be arrested for having blue eyes. You asked if I sparkled in the sunlight. You said you had a crush on me and then apologized because you didn't want to disrespect my relationship."

You covered your face with both hands. "Oh my god."

"Oh and you called my face 'loopy'". He was definitely laughing now. "And you said you'd call in sick to work just to stare at me all day."

"I hate you."

"No you don't. You love me, you told me so multiple times, very emphatically." He stood and came to bed, gently pulling your hands away from your face. "For the record, I recorded about five minutes of it."

"You what?!"

"For posterity." His eyes were sparkling with mischief. "And for the next time you try to say I'm not pretty."

"I didn't—I don't—" You couldn't even form a defense. "You are pretty."

"So you keep telling me." He leaned down and kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. "Feeling better?"

"Physically, yes. Emotionally, destroyed."

"Well the good news is the surgery went great. The bad news is I'm definitely showing that video at our wedding."

"Bucky!"

That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.

What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.

With the florist.

With you.

“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside. 

They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.

“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.

Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.

Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”

Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”

“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”

They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.

That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”

As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”

Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”

“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”

Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“She was literally wearing it—”

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.

Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.

Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.

What was the world coming to?

—

Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ. 

Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib. 

She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”

Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.

“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase

Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”

From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”

Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.

Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”

Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”

Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”

Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.

Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”

John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”

“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”

John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”

“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”

Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”

Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”

“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”

His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.

She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.

“You’re lying,” she snapped.

He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”

Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”

Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”

He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.

And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.

—

Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.

And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.

It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets. 

Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.

“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”

“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.

Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”

John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”

Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”

Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”

Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”

Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.

John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.

“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.

“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway. 

It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— ​​It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.

But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.

They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.

It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.

To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.

“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”

Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”

John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”

Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.

And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.

The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.

“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”

Yelena and John froze in their tracks.

James?

James?

No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.

Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”

Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.

Honey?

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”

Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.

You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”

Oh.

Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated

John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”

Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.

John let out a wheeze.

Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”

Bucky nodded. “Yup.”

“Like—actually married?”

“Mhm.”

Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”

Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”

“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.

Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”

“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”

“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”

“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”

Bucky could only nod again.

Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”

You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”

Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.

John looked like he was about to have a stroke. 

“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”

John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.

“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”

Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”

Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.

John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.

But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”

You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.

You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.

Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.

You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.

“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”

John scoffed, “A while?”

You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped.

“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”

John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”

Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."

Bucky only shrugged, unbothered. 

You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”

John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.

Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.

“How did you meet?”

“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”

“Does he ever actually smile?”

At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”

John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”

You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”

And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.

You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges. 

Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.

“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”

John choked.

Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”

Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut. 

For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.

And then, without thinking, you leaned in.

It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.

Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you. 

John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.

You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him. 

“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.

Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.

“Off,” you said simply.

Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.

Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say. 

John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.

You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.

“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.

Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”

And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.

The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.

A ring.

A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.

She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.

That’s why he always played with it.

Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.

Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.

-end.

Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.

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Bucky noticed first. He always did. Watching people wasn’t just habit—it was an instinct. A soldier’s reflex, sharpened by a lifetime of reading danger in the twitch of a hand or the flicker of a glance.

He noticed how your shoulders curled inward like you were trying to disappear into yourself, or how your arms folded across your stomach, elbows tucked in tight as if they were armour.

You flinched when anyone passed too closely behind your chair. You stopped walking through the halls with your usual spring—started hugging the walls, choosing longer routes that avoided high-traffic zones.

When Yelena clapped a hand to your shoulder in greeting, a simple, affectionate gesture—your entire body jolted like you’d been hit. Not just startled. 

Terrified.

The room had gone quiet at that moment. Even Alexei paused, a half-eaten sandwich frozen in his hand. Ava had gone still beside the mission board, her eyes narrowing slightly.

You recovered too quickly. Smiled too fast. “Sorry, nerves,” you’d said, brushing it off, grabbing the nearest file and practically sprinting from the room. But Bucky had already seen too much.

And then the bruises.

They started subtly. Shadows beneath the cuff of your blouse that could be passed off as bad sleep, maybe a knock against a desk corner.

You were clumsy sometimes—everyone knew that. A walking hurricane in heels, Yelena liked to tease. You once tripped over your own shoelaces in front of Val, and no one had let you live it down for a week.

But these weren’t accidents.

There was a splotch of purple just visible beneath your collarbone, dark and irregular. Faint, yellowing fingerprints on your wrist that looked like they were trying to fade, but kept stubbornly coming back.

A raw, angry mark that peeked out from your hairline one morning, like someone had gripped your jaw too hard—someone tall enough, big enough to loom over you, strong enough to leave a handprint in their wake.

Bucky saw that one when you bent down to pick up a report you’d dropped. Your blouse’s collar dipped slightly, just enough to reveal a line of bruising that trailed from your neck toward your shoulder like a hand had wrapped around you and squeezed.

His hand clenched into a fist on instinct.

He didn’t say anything right away. He knew better. But he watched. Quietly, intensely. Not just because he cared, but because something inside him roared with the need to protect you, something deep and territorial and dangerous.

The same thing that made him stare holes into the security cameras when you left the compound for lunch, or that made him scan every incoming message with a new, sharpened edge.

He began checking your schedule.

Not overtly. Just… looking. Noting when you left the compound. Who signed you out. When you came back, and what your face looked like afterward.

You used to return from errands with little smiles and tiny stories—“The deli guy gave me an extra pickle today,” or “Some lady on the street said I had pretty earrings.” But lately, you came back quieter. Shoulders tighter. And you always avoided his eyes.

One afternoon, he asked you if you were okay.

You smiled—again, that damn smile. So polite, so practiced. 

“Yeah. Just tired. Thanks for asking Bucky”

But being tired didn’t leave marks on someone’s throat.

And when you walked away, Bucky watched you disappear down the hallway and felt something cold curl in his gut. Something he hadn’t felt in years.

He knew pain. He’d lived it. Breathed it. Worn it like a second skin. But there was something worse about watching you endure it.

Something far more dangerous.

And whoever had hurt you?

They’d just reminded him exactly what he was willing to protect.

Still, Bucky didn’t act rashly. He waited. Watched. Gathered more than just bruises and broken glances. He needed to be sure—of what you were dealing with, of who was doing this to you, of how to approach without sending you further into yourself.

The wrong move could make you shut down entirely. He knew trauma didn’t unravel with questions—it needed patience. 

Stillness. Safety.

So he waited until the Watchtower cleared out for the evening.

The others had trickled out one by one—Yelena dragging Alexei into a sparring match he didn’t ask for, Ava and John disappearing into the training room, Val locked in her office for a late-night debrief.

The corridors fell quiet, fluorescent lights humming low overhead. Bucky lingered near your office, watching the shadows stretch along the floor, the door slightly ajar with the warm glow of your desk lamp spilling out into the hall.

You were still there. Of course you were.

You always stay late now.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping into your office once the others had gone.

You didn’t jump—but he saw the way your shoulders stiffened. How your fingers paused on the keyboard, curling slightly as if preparing for something.

Your eyes stayed locked on the screen for a moment too long, and when you did glance up, they were wide and glassy with that familiar, haunted look.

The one he recognised too well.

The one he used to see in the mirror.

“Can I talk to you?” His voice stayed quiet, gentle—like coaxing a wounded animal out of hiding. He stood just inside the door, hands in the pockets of his black jacket, posture non-threatening but steady. He wouldn’t crowd you. He wouldn’t touch you. But the one thing he wouldn’t do is walk away.

You swallowed, throat tight, and gave a small nod.

“Sure.”

But the word was fragile. Like it had been stitched together with effort.

He crossed the room slowly, pulling the door shut behind him—not all the way, just enough to give the illusion of privacy without making you feel trapped. Then he moved to the chair across from your desk and sat, leaving space between you. Letting you decide what came next.

You glanced back at your screen, like you were searching for a reason to stay distracted. Like if you just kept typing, none of this would be real. But your hands didn’t move.

He waited a beat, then spoke, low and careful. “I’ve been noticing some things.”

You didn’t answer.

“I don’t mean to scare you,” he added. “I just… I’m worried about you doll”

Your shoulders tensed again. That flinch. That tell. He saw it before you could mask it. And when your arms folded across your stomach, hiding your bruised wrist, he knew.

You were protecting yourself from more than just a conversation.

“I know something’s going on,” he said. “And I don’t need the details if you’re not ready. But I need you to know that… you don’t have to do this alone.”

Still, silence. But your eyes were starting to shine, tears gathering at the corners as you stared down at your keyboard like it held all the answers.

“You’ve been flinching at every touch,” he went on, his voice nearly breaking. “You don’t smile anymore. You avoid everyone like they’re gonna hurt you. And those bruises—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked as the word came out, sharp and desperate.

Bucky’s breath caught. But he didn’t move. “Okay,” he said immediately. “I won’t push. I swear.”

The silence that followed was thick—trembling between confession and collapse.

And then your lip quivered. You shook your head once. “I didn’t mean for anyone to notice,” you whispered, voice so soft it almost didn’t reach him. 

“I thought I could handle it.”

Bucky leaned forward, slowly, carefully. “You shouldn’t have to handle it.”

Your chin trembled. “I didn’t want to be a burden. Everyone’s got their shit. Missions. Scars. Who wants to hear about the secretary who made the mistake of falling for the wrong guy?”

His jaw clenched so tightly he thought he might crack a molar. “Who did this to you?”

You didn’t answer.

But your silence was answer enough.

His tone darkened, low and steady like steel cooled in ice. “Tell me who put their hands on you.”

You shook your head again, fast this time, panic blooming across your features. “Bucky—don’t. Please. It’ll just make it worse.”

He stood up, jaw rigid, fists clenched at his sides. The chair scraped quietly behind him, but he didn’t move toward you. Didn’t crowd. Just stood there, vibrating with barely contained rage.

But it wasn’t at you.

“I would never let anyone hurt you again,” he said, his voice rough now, fighting to stay gentle. “But you have to let me help.”

Your eyes met his cerulean irises then. And something inside you cracked.

Because he didn’t look at you with pity.

He looked at you like you mattered. Like your pain mattered. Like he saw you—really saw you—and it didn’t make him walk away.

And something about the way he said it, like a lifeline broke you.

You told him everything.

From the first time it happened, when your ex shoved you against a wall during an argument over a text message. To the second time, when he slapped you so hard your lip split open. The cycle became normal. You had started covering up bruises like second nature, lying to your friends, flinching at shadows.

Two nights ago, he’d come home drunk, angry. He dragged you by your hair into the bedroom, wrapped a hand too tight around your neck, and left purple thumbprints beneath your jaw.

You had to call in sick the next day. Told Val it was the flu. She didn’t question it.

Tears streamed silently down your cheeks, but Bucky never looked away. His face was tight with rage, his jaw clenched so hard you thought he might break a tooth. His metal hand had curled into a fist again, knuckles whitening where they met synthetic plating.

“I'm gonna kill him,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“No,” you croaked, your hand reaching to grip his wrist. “Just… just get me out of there.”

“You don’t have to ask,” he said.

He helped you out of the office, holding your arm with such care, like you might shatter if he used too much strength. He led you to his motorcycle, the matte black vehicle parked beside the Watchtower’s bay doors.

You hesitated. “I don’t—”

He handed you his helmet and said, “You’re safe with me.”

And you believed him.

The wind was sharp against your face, your arms clinging around his waist as he drove through the dusky streets toward your apartment. Your heart thundered the entire ride—not from fear of falling, but from the feeling of escape.

At your place, you let Bucky in and stood frozen in the doorway. Your keys shaking in your hands.

“Tell me what you need,” he said.

You walked numbly toward your bedroom and began pulling a small duffel from the closet. Bucky followed, surveying the apartment with quiet calculation.

The broken picture frame on the floor. The hole punched in the hallway drywall. The cracked phone screen beside your bed.

You gathered clothes, toiletries, your journal, a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. Bucky packed in silence, folding your shirts neatly, rolling your socks with care.

When you turned to get your toothbrush, your hands were trembling too badly to hold it.

“I can’t…” you whispered, finally falling apart.

Bucky was there in an instant, arms wrapping around you, pulling you into the solid warmth of his chest.

“It’s over,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re not going back there. I won’t let you.”

You sobbed into his shoulder, your body wracked with grief and relief all at once. For the first time in years, you believed it. 

You were leaving.

Bucky had decided to take you to his apartment, given how late it was—and how you didn’t want the rest of the team knowing about any of this. You couldn’t bear their questions or the way they might look at you differently if they knew the truth. What you needed right now wasn’t a spotlight—it was safety.

And Bucky, somehow, had understood that without you ever having to say a word.

Tucked away in a quiet corner of Brooklyn, it felt like a sanctuary: minimalistic but lived-in, with dark wood furniture, shelves lined with old books, framed black-and-white photos, a few of them being Steve's, and soft lighting that bathed the space in warm, golden hues.

There were blankets folded over the back of his couch, plants that looked surprisingly healthy, and a record player in the corner with a small stack of vinyls beside it. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air—warm, masculine, grounding.

“Bathroom’s through there,” Bucky said gently, “and the guest room’s yours for as long as you want it.”

You nodded, wiping your face with your sleeve.

He handed you a folded pile of clothes—one of his blue Henley shirts and a pair of grey boxer briefs that would sit loosely on your frame.

“You can sleep in these,” he said. “I’ll set up fresh towels, and if you need anything—anything—you come get me.”

You changed in the bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. The bruises on your neck looked even more vibrant in the soft light. You touched them lightly, then pulled Bucky’s shirt over your head. It was warm from his hands, and it smelled like cedar and something unmistakably him.

You sank into the bed that night with clean sheets, the window cracked open just enough to let in the cool night air. Bucky’s home felt quiet in a way yours never had. Not silent from tension—but peaceful. The kind of quiet that comes with safety.

You curled into the soft mattress, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly like him, and for the first time in two years, you slept without fear.

Safe. Protected. Free.

You woke up with a gasp.

The remnants of the nightmare clung to you like cobwebs—suffocating and sticky. Flashes of fists in the dark. That voice slithering in your ear, venomous and cruel. The oppressive weight on your chest, the cold dread of being trapped with no way out.

Your heart thundered, breath tearing in and out of your lungs like you were still running, still being chased. Your skin was damp with sweat, your hands shaking uncontrollably as you pushed the covers away and bolted upright in bed.

The room swam around you—familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Dimly lit by the glow of a streetlamp outside, walls painted in shadow. The silence rang too loud.

You couldn’t stay.

Before you even registered the movement, your bare feet found the cool hardwood floor, each step down the hallway echoing softly. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.

Bucky’s door was cracked open.

He was awake. Sitting at the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, his metal hand cradling the back of his neck like it ached. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. The soft light from the city cast silver lines across the sharp angles of his face, tracing the tension in his jaw, the furrow of his brow.

Your voice trembled, more breath than sound. “I had a nightmare.”

His head snapped up immediately, eyes locking onto yours. The shift was instant—soldier to protector. In two strides, he was in front of you.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and soothing. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”

His hands came to your shoulders—not forceful, just present. Anchoring. His touch was warm and steady, and it sent a tremor through you that wasn’t from fear this time, but release. Like your body finally allowed itself to feel how shaken you were.

Your lip quivered. “Can I stay?”

He nodded before you even finished the question. “Always.”

You didn’t hesitate. The bed welcomed you like a long-lost memory—soft sheets, a comforting dip in the mattress, the faint scent of his soap clinging to the pillow.

You curled into the center of it, small and tentative, feeling like a ghost of yourself. Like you might disappear if the shadows swallowed you up again.

Bucky moved with care. He didn’t rush. He pulled the blanket up over your trembling frame, tucking it gently around your shoulders. Then he slid into the bed behind you, close but not suffocating, the heat of him already beginning to thaw something frozen inside you.

His arm hovered behind you for a moment. He didn’t assume. Didn’t take. Just waited.

When you shifted ever so slightly—just enough for your back to press lightly against his chest, his arm came around you. A quiet, protective barrier. His metal fingers splayed carefully against your stomach, grounding you in the here and now.

You exhaled a shaky breath, your eyes slipping shut for the first time all night. The tension in your body began to unwind, thread by thread. His scent, clean and faintly earthy filled your nose, mingling with the sound of his heartbeat against your spine and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

And then he whispered it, his voice barely brushing your ear, soft and sure and steady.

“I’ve got you.”

The words sank into your skin like warmth, like truth. No promises he couldn’t keep. No hollow reassurances. Just a vow, solid and unspoken, in the way he held you like you were something worth protecting.

You blinked slowly, a tear slipping free and soaking silently into the pillow.

For the first time in as long as you could remember, you believed it.

You were safe.

Not because the nightmares were gone—but because Bucky was here when they came.

The morning sun filtered gently through the blinds of Bucky’s apartment, casting warm strips of gold across the hardwood floors.

For the first time in over a year, you hadn’t woken up with your heart pounding in fear. No yelling, no slamming doors. Just the subtle hum of city life beyond the window, and the distant sizzle of bacon in a skillet.

You padded out of the bedroom in Bucky’s oversized shirt and boxers, clutching the sleeves around your palms. The faint scent of him lingered in the fabric—cedar-wood, leather, and something warm, like late summer.

Bucky stood by the stove, his hair damp from a quick shower, grey T-shirt clinging to the breadth of his shoulders. When he heard your footsteps, he turned slightly and gave you a soft smile.

“Hey, sweetheart” he murmured, voice low and scratchy from sleep. “Hope you’re hungry.”

You nodded, grateful, eyes stinging. It was in the little things—the way he slid a cup of coffee toward you without asking how you liked it, because he already remembered. 

Later that day, the team found out.

Yelena had noticed first. She cornered Bucky in the Watchtower’s armoury after morning briefings. “What’s going on with (y/n)?” she demanded, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “She barely said five words. She jumped when Alexei dropped his water bottle. I know bruises when I see them.”

Bucky hesitated, jaw tightening. But when Yelena added, softer this time, “I care about her too,” he gave her the truth.

Word spread in a ripple. Quiet, but powerful. By the end of the day, the team was different.

It started with your phone. You were sorting through mission reports in the comms room when it buzzed beside you, and you flinched hard enough to drop a pen because without looking, you already knew who it was. Him.

John, usually, cocky caught the look on your face and immediately picked the phone up himself.

“Give me your passcode,” he said steadily.

You hesitated. “Why?”

“Because if this asshole’s still texting you, I’m blocking him. And if he’s tracking you, we’re disabling it right now.”

You blinked at him, lip trembling. John just held your gaze, patient. Protective.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Ten minutes later, your ex was blocked. His number, email—gone. John handed the phone back like it weighed nothing, but you knew it had been a thousand-pound chain.

Bob, quiet and sweet, began programming something on the side—a digital firewall. One you didn't even ask for, but he gave it to you anyway.

“If he tries anything online, you’ll be notified. But he won’t get through. I made sure of it.”

You could’ve cried.

Ava began walking with you more often. No words. Just always there—on your way to the labs, when you stopped by the kitchen, even when you headed out to grab lunch across the street.

“I know what it’s like,” she said one day while the two of you sat on a park bench eating sandwiches. “To feel hunted.”

You looked at her, stunned. Her face was unreadable, but her hand brushed yours for a moment, just enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.

Then there was Alexei. Loud, boisterous, intimidating. He walked into the common area one afternoon with three grocery bags in hand and plopped them dramatically onto the table.

“You like those little orange cracker fish?” he boomed showing you the goldfish crackers he had gotten. “I bought five bags. And some juice. Juice is important.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“I don’t—”

“Shush little one,” he said, winking. “You part of us. Thunderbolts always feed Thunderbolts.”

Your laugh broke out before you could stop it. It felt foreign. Strange. 

But real.

Alexei beamed like he’d won a medal.

Slowly but surely, the team wrapped you in something new. Something stronger than fear. Stronger than pain.

When you needed to go to the mall for more clothes—things that weren’t tainted with memories—Yelena and Bob went with you.

Yelena stuck close to your side, pretending to be indifferent but always scanning the crowd. Bob carried all the bags with a goofy grin. He even helped pick out a new hoodie. It was soft and warm and maroon.

“You should feel safe in your skin,” Yelena said simply, handing you a matching beanie. “Even if you’re still growing into it.”

Back at the Watchtower, life began to feel... lighter.

You started laughing again. At Alexei's terrible jokes, at Yelena’s savage sarcasm, at Bob’s quiet mutterings when tech didn’t work. Even John, in all his arrogance, could make you smile.

There was a movie night every Friday now and Bucky always sat next to you, sometimes with a pillow between you both to give space, other times with his shoulder a solid warmth at your side. You’d found yourself leaning into him more. Not because you had to. But because it felt right.

And he never pushed. Never demanded. Just let you exist next to him. Sometimes he’d hand you a blanket without saying a word. Sometimes he’d offer half his popcorn. Sometimes, his fingers would brush yours, warm and careful, and linger just a second longer than necessary.

You slept more. Ate more. Laughed more.

One day, Ava caught you humming in the hallway, arms full of supplies. She stopped in her tracks.

“What?” you asked.

“You’re glowing,” she said quietly.

You blinked. “I—I am?”

She gave a rare, small smile. “Like someone who remembers what sunlight feels like.”

One night, after Yelena dropped you off, you returned to the apartment Bucky always insisted was open to you. You let yourself in with the spare key. It was late, and he was half-asleep on the couch with a book in his lap. He stirred when you closed the door.

“You okay sweetheart?” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” you said.

He nodded, eyes drifting shut again.

You sat beside him, curling your legs up, and rested your head against his shoulder.

He didn’t move. Didn’t ask. Just reached for the blanket draped over the armrest and pulled it gently over you both.

It was the safest you’d ever felt.

It had started out as a good night.

One of those rare moments where the city lights felt warm rather than harsh, where laughter didn’t feel like something you had to fake.

The team had dragged you out—gently, persistently, lovingly.

“C’mon,” Yelena had said, slinging her arm over your shoulder. “Burgers, milkshakes, greasy fries. We deserve it. You deserve it.”

You hesitated. It had been a while since you went to any public diner. Too many memories. Too many shadows. Too much risk of seeing him.

But tonight? You nodded. Just once. Just enough.

The diner was loud with neon buzz and the clatter of plates, the kind of classic joint with red booths and checkered floors. Bucky slid into the booth beside you while Yelena and John sat across. Bob and Ava took the seats at the edge, Alexei immediately requesting the biggest burger they had.

Jokes flew easily. John was ranting about ketchup crimes. Yelena argued that mayonnaise was the superior condiment. Bob kept trying to order fries but the waitress only seemed to hear Alexei’s booming voice.

You were laughing. Honest, soft laughter that made your chest ache.

Then the door jingled. And just like that, the warmth bled from the room. Laughter dimmed. The sizzle of the grill and clatter of dishes became distant, muffled by the sudden roar of blood in your ears.

Bucky stilled beside you.

Your ex stood in the doorway, flanked by two men you didn’t recognise—thick-necked, sneering types with clenched fists and hooded eyes. But it was him you saw. Him, with that awful smirk, like nothing had changed.

Like he still owned the air you breathed.

Bucky noticed the way your body tensed, your fingers gripping the edge of the table. “Hey—”

Your ex’s eyes landed on you, and he stepped forward, raising his voice.

“Well, look who it is. Didn’t think you’d crawl this far downtown. Guess word spreads when you’re spreading your legs for every man in New York now, huh?”

The sound of the booth creaking was the only warning before Bucky stood.

Yelena’s fork clattered onto her plate.

John was on his feet in seconds, positioning himself directly between you and your ex.

“Take that back,” Bucky growled.

Your ex only sneered, moving closer. “What, you gonna fight me in front of your new playgroup? Cute. Didn’t think the Winter Soldier was into charity cases.”

You flinched.

Bucky didn’t.

“I know what you did to her,” Bucky said, low and lethal.

Your ex chuckled, but there was unease in his posture now. “What? You mean the bruises? Bitch liked it rough. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

Yelena stood up behind John, her face carved in steel. “The next time you touch her,” she said flatly, “will be the last time you have hands.”

Your ex stepped forward as if to challenge, but John didn’t move an inch. “Try it,” he warned. “Give me a reason.”

You saw it—the twitch in your ex’s jaw, the way he coiled his fist. He swung at Bucky.

But Bucky didn’t just dodge. He caught the punch mid-air.

With his metal hand.

The crunch of bone was audible and a gasp ran through the diner.

Before anyone could react, Bucky gripped your ex by the front of his jacket, lifting him clean off the floor. The metal arm locked around his throat with frightening precision. The air stilled. Your ex's feet dangled.

“If you ever look at her again,” Bucky snarled, voice sharp and shaking with rage, “if you so much as breathe in her goddamn direction—I will rip your spine out and hang it from the Watchtower gates.”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It was full of restrained fury. Of violence barely held back. His eyes had darkened, steel-gray and burning.

Your ex gurgled, his hands clawing at Bucky’s grip.

“Do you understand me?”

A choked nod.

Bucky dropped him like trash.

Alexei stepped forward then, looming over the two henchmen. “You want to try luck?” he asked them casually. “I haven’t punch anything in weeks.”

The men looked at each other, then down at your ex, now coughing on the floor. They backed away.

“You’re not worth it,” one muttered, and the other practically dragged your ex toward the exit.

Your heart was thundering. Your breath short.

Bob slipped into the seat beside you. Ava stood near the door, eyes scanning the street for any lingering threat.

Bucky turned to you, jaw tight, shoulders still trembling with adrenaline. But when he looked at you, his expression softened immediately.

He crouched in front of you, hands open. “You okay?”

You nodded shakily, tears welling.

Yelena handed you a napkin. “He’s gone,” she said quietly. “He’s never coming near you again.”

John was still standing like a human shield, arms crossed.

And Bucky... Bucky cupped your cheek with his hand. It was warm, comforting, his thumb brushing away the tear that escaped.

“He doesn’t get to touch you. Not now. Not ever again.”

You leaned into him, trembling.

“I was so scared,” you whispered, barely audible.

Bucky pressed his forehead to yours. “I know, sweetheart. But it’s over. He can’t hurt you anymore. Not while I’m breathing.”

And for a moment, even in the shattered remains of what should have been a peaceful night, you were wrapped in a shield stronger than steel.

You had them.

You had him.

You were safe.

You didn’t speak on the way home.

No one made you.

Bucky drove, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing against your thigh—anchoring, grounding. The rest of the team took a second vehicle, giving you space. After what happened, you needed it.

You stared out the window, watching the neon blur into streaks of yellow and red, feeling like you were floating somewhere outside yourself. Somewhere between fear and relief.

The silence between you and Bucky wasn’t heavy—it was steady. Like the calm after a storm. Like quiet waves still curling back from the shore.

When he parked outside the compound, he turned to you slowly.

“Do you want to be alone?”

You shook your head.

He didn’t ask again. Just took your hand gently, led you through the compound, through the hallways, up the stairs. When you reached your room, he hesitated at the door.

“Can I stay?”

You nodded.

Inside, the room felt untouched by the chaos of earlier. Soft lamplight, a rumpled blanket on your bed. Familiar, safe.

You kicked your shoes off and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting in your lap. Bucky crouched in front of you again, like at the diner, his hands resting on your knees.

“You’re not weak for being scared,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Your throat tightened. You nodded.

“But he’s never going to get to you again. I won’t let him. None of us will.”

You looked at him. The way his eyes held yours, soft but strong. The way his presence wrapped around you like armor. The way his touch was always careful, like you were something breakable but worth protecting.

And then you whispered, “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

Bucky leaned forward. Pressed his forehead gently to yours.

“You don’t have to. Not right away. But you’re not alone anymore. We’ll fight it together.”

You closed your eyes.

And when he climbed into bed beside you, when his arms wrapped around you and pulled you against the steady thump of his heart, you believed him.

Not because the fear was gone.

But because for the first time in so long, you weren’t carrying it alone.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. Whispered something you didn’t catch—but it didn’t matter.

It sounded like safety.

It felt like home.

a/n: this fic is one i hold close, because i have experienced abuse/dv in my previous relationship, and i had no idea how to leave, and writing this helped, a lot. i do hope that every person that is trapped in this cycle will find their bucky—someone who makes them feel safe and loved. i am grateful i found mine. if you're a victim or know someone who is struggling, please don't be afraid to seek for help. i promise it does get better once you leave. (google dv helpline, your country's hotline should appear)

He pushed off the doorway and came to stand behind you, metal hand resting lightly at your waist. “I’m not staring,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder. “I’m admiring.”

“You’re trying to get us out of going.”

“Can you blame me?” he asked, turning you around slowly until you were facing him. His eyes swept over you like a man starved. “You in this dress… Jesus. I didn’t know you were gonna wear this. You could’ve warned me.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “Bucky—”

“Just five minutes,” he said, leaning in, kissing your jaw. “Let me take this off you. I’ll be fast, promise.”

You giggled, brushing your nose against his. “You’re never fast.”

“That’s not true,” he mumbled into your neck, already pushing the hem of your skirt up.

You grabbed his face in your hands and kissed him once—slow, deep, enough to make his knees buckle. Then you pulled away. “You’re going to behave at Sam’s. There’s kids there. Food. Community.”

Bucky groaned, head tipping back. “You’re cruel.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I can be crueller.” 

He blinked and stepped back, smiled and grabbed your purse. “No need. I’m moving. Practically in the car.” 

You snorted, shaking your head at his antics. You followed after him, shutting and locking the door behind you. 

He slipped his hand in yours. 

The Wilson house was already alive when you pulled up. Music floated from the backyard, mingled with laughter and the high, excited squeals of children. 

The scent of something grilled and delicious hung in the air. Bucky leaned over to open your door, hand immediately on your lower back as you both stepped out. 

“Ready?” you asked. 

“No,” he answered, eyes lingering on your legs. “But I’ll survive.” 

You patted his chest in mock sympathy. “You can do it, Buck. I believe in you.” 

Sarah greeted you both with warm hugs and lemonade. A shout from one of her kids pulled her away and you waved her off, told her to go check on them and you’d find her in a bit. Sam, already one beer in, sauntered over. 

“Took you long enough,” Sam said, clapping Buck on the back. “Lemme guess. You were trying to talk her out of coming?” 

You laughed as Sam hugged you, soft, like an older brother might. 

“Something like that,” Bucky muttered, eyes scanning the crowd. You laid a hand on his arm and he relaxed slightly, eyes crinkling softly at you as Sam handed him a beer. 

Cass and AJ were mid-sword fight in the yard and immediately hollered when they spotted Bucky. 

“UNCLE BUCKY!”

“Oh no,” Bucky sighed as they charged. He gave you one last look, smirk tugging at his lips as AJ grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the grass. You and Sam laughed as Cass hugged you hello before darting after them. 

You caught Bucky’s eye just as he slowly fell on his back, exaggeration bleeding out of him as he beamed at the kid’s laughter. 

Pray for me, he mouthed. 

I love you, you mouthed back, turning before you could see his eyes turn into hearts. 

Pulled into a conversation, Sam walked away after squeezing your shoulder and you wandered off to find Sarah and help her in the kitchen. 

It was good, easy. Everything always felt so light here, like the weight of the world drifted into the harbour and all that was left was softness and laughter. 

Later, Sarah brought out one of her friends—a woman named Candace. She’d just moved into the neighborhood with her husband and their baby girl. 

“Oh, you have to meet her,” Sarah told you, dragging you toward the couch. “She’s an angel. And I have a feeling she’ll love you.” 

You’d always liked kids. Talked about them in soft, tentative tones late at night with Bucky—some day, not now.

But when Candace placed her daughter in your arms, something inside you settled. Something ancient and quiet. You shifted her gently, feeling the sweet weight of her body, and you were a goner. She had the chubbiest cheeks and the softest fuzz of dark curls on her head. You chatted and cooed, drawn to the little one like it was instinct.

Sarah and Candance looked at each, a look of knowing passing between them. A look only a mother could understand, could decipher. They slowly moved away, like they knew how important this was for you—how life changing it could be. 

Bucky looked up from the grass where he’d been tackling Cass to the ground in a mock wrestling move. He caught your laugh first. That soft, fluttering giggle you always gave when something melted you. He turned from where Aj was trying to tie his metal arm behind his back like a superhero cape—and he froze. 

You were holding a baby. 

Your arms curled around her like you were made to carry her. You rocked her gently, one finger tracing her tiny cheek as you spoke to her in that quiet voice that did things to him. There was a smile on your face that Bucky hadn’t seen before. You were glowing, soft, peaceful, the kind of beauty that wasn’t just physical—but something else, something foreign and familiar all the same. 

And Bucky—something shifted. He felt it deep in his chest. A low, unfamiliar ache. An instinct he’d never let himself entertain. Not in this life. Not with his past. 

He felt like something in him snapped. 

He didn’t want to want kids. He never thought he would. He never thought it was even possible for him to live a life that normal, that good. He already had you—had something so pure and good that he constantly pinched himself to make sure it was real. 

But now he couldn’t unsee it. Couldn’t unfeel the way his chest pulled and clenched with a sudden need, a new type of longing. You were his wife, his beautiful, perfect wife, and now he wanted to make you a mother. 

Sam walked by, caught him frozen mid-step, his nephews giggling on the grass. 

“You alright there, Buck?” Sam came up beside him, grinning.

Bucky blinked. “Huh?” 

Sam followed his gaze and nodded, grinning wider. “Ah, I see.”

“Shut up,” Bucky grumbled, mindful of the kids around him. 

Sam raised a brow. “You got it bad.” 

“Don’t—” Bucky started, but Sam just laughed, bumped his shoulder. 

“Relax. I’ve seen that look before. You’re gonna be insufferable the rest of the night, aren’t you?” 

Bucky didn’t answer—couldn’t. Because you were looking up at him now, smiling that sweet, private smile, and the baby was still curled against you like she belonged there—and Bucky felt his cock twitch in his jeans. A primal and unwarranted reaction, but a natural and unstoppable one, nonetheless. 

Jesus Christ, it was going to be a long day.

Later, near sunset, the kids were winding down and the adults were camped on the porch. You sat on a rocking bench with the baby girl in your arms again, after Sam had gently given her to you when Sarah called him, now sleepy and burbling as you gently hummed a lullaby. Bucky came to sit beside you, his thigh brushing yours, his fingers itching to touch. 

“Tired?” you asked, quietly. 

Bucky hummed, shifting closer to you. “Yeah, a bit. Those boys sure know how to play.” 

You laughed, fond. He pressed his shoulder into yours. “What about you?” he asked, just as quiet. “Had fun?” 

You looked down at the baby in your arms and nodded, briefly overcome with feeling. “She’s so good,” you whispered. “Just look at her, Buck.” 

He did—couldn’t look away. “You’re so good with her.”

Your eyes found his, something soft and fragile between you. She grabbed his metal finger, tiny fist curling tight, and Bucky swore his heart cracked right open. 

You watched him carefully, watching as the tension in his body melted and how his breath hitched. His eyes were wide, filled with curiosity and hesitation. You felt your heart swell, the ache in your stomach grow,

You swallowed, trying to reel in the flutter between your legs, in your gut. “I never thought it’d hit me like this.” 

Bucky didn’t look at you, eyes on the tiny, flesh hand wrapped around his metal one. “Like what?”

You looked down. “Wanting one. Our own.”

Bucky looked up and stared at you. 

You didn’t see the way his throat bobbed, the tension in his jaw. But Sarah did, from across the porch. She elbowed Sam with a grin, and he barely stifled a laugh.

The car ride home was silent. 

Thick with heat and want and emotions and need. 

Bucky’s hand was on your thigh the entire time, thumb rubbing circles just below the hem of your dress. You shifted, breath catching. He pressed harder and you clenched your thighs together. 

There were no kids, no Sam or other other adults to behave around. Just you and Bucky—alone, driving home. It was different today, the air in the car. Usually, Bucky would be mumbling about something; the food or the people or Sam or simply how he missed touching you, but there was none of that. 

Just silence—heavy and warm, wrapping around you both like it knew, knew that the ache inside you both would only grow in the quiet comfort of each other. 

Bucky could smell it—the shift in your hormones. Your body calling him. He didn’t know much about ovulation, but he knew you. Knew your scent, your taste, the pulse of want that beat through you when you were aroused. His senses weren’t that enhanced but he knew your body, completely in-tune with you. 

You were ovulating. It explained how you jumped him last night in bed and it sort of explained the situation now—how you were turned towards him, clenching your thighs together with a far away look in your eyes. It leaked out of you—out of your pores and your cunt, probably pooling in your panties and soaking his seats.

Bucky was losing his mind. His thumb pressed into your skin and you sighed. His cock twitched and he almost groaned out. All he wanted was to sink into you but he had to drive, had to get home and take care of you properly.

The door barely shut behind you before Bucky had you pinned against it, breath hot and heavy against your cheek. His hands gripped your hips, rough and desperate, as if grounding himself—like if he didn’t hold on, he might float away. 

You barely had time to gasp before he kissed you. 

It was brutal in the way only love could be—all tongue, all teeth, all reverence. Bucky kissed like he was starving—like every second spent not inside you was one wasted. His metal hand slid up your spine, fingers fisting in the back of your sundress, dragging the fabric up your thighs as he pressed his body flush to yours. 

“You don’t know,” he rasped against your lips. “You don't know what you did to me today, baby.” 

You blinked up at him, lips plump and dazed. “What…what did I do?” 

He groaned, forehead dropping to yours as he pressed his hips against yours. “You holding that baby,” he said, voice breaking. “You smiled and I saw it—saw you glowing, glowing like you were meant to be someone’s mama. Like you were meant to carry my baby.” 

Your breath caught, eyes fluttering. 

“I couldn’t think straight,” he admitted, lips brushing your jaw, your cheekbone, the shell of your ear. “Sam caught me starin’. Said I looked like a lovesick idiot but I didn’t care. All I could think was—fuck, she’d be the most beautiful mama.” 

He nibbled the skin under your ear. “I want you full of me, sweetheart. Want you round and glowing and pregnant.” 

Your knees buckled at his words, at the heat in his voice, at the trembling in his hands. You clutched at his shirt, dragging him closer, whimpering when his thigh slotted between yours. 

“Bucky—” 

“I know we haven't had a proper conversation," he murmured, kissing down your neck. “But I saw how badly you wanted it. And I want it too, want you. Tell me to stop and I will but I want this.” 

You swallowed thickly, your heart pounding so hard it hurt. You looked into his eyes, blue and black, filled with love and affection. 

“I want a baby, Bucky,” you whispered. “I want a baby with you—yours.” 

He was right, you hadn’t had a proper conversation, just that you’d wait a bit, but it wasn’t like you weren’t ready. You knew you wanted a future with him after your first date and he knew long before he’d even asked you on that date. 

Besides, you knew this wasn’t something you wanted to plan. You wanted it to happen for you and him naturally, and what’s more natural than immense lust and want. 

Bucky froze—just for a second—and he snapped, letting go of the reins completely. 

His mouth crushed yours again, more desperate than ever. Tilting his head, he deepened the kiss and slipped his tongue into your mouth. Tongues, teeth, and lips crashed together in perfect harmony. 

Bucky lifted you into his arms with ease, your legs wrapping around his waist as he stumbled down the hall, barely making it to the bedroom before throwing you onto the bed. You laughed as your back hit the mattress, legs immediately parting. 

“Keep the dress on,” he growled, crawling over you, yanking your panties down your thighs. “Fuck—this fucking dress.” He shoved the hem up to your waist, staring down at your glistening cunt like it was holy. 

“You’re so wet,” he groaned. “God, baby, you’re dripping.” 

“For you,” you breathed, pussy fluttering as the cold air brushed against it. “Always for you.”

He smiled, something wicked and promising. He surged forward, lips on your neck and you arched into him, giving him more access to your neck. He kissed down your body, shifting himself as he kissed down your clothed breasts, sucking and biting through the flimsy material. 

You whimpered when his tongue poked and prodded your sensitive nipples, hot tongue against your skin. He unbuttoned your dress and kissed your exposed breasts, tongue swirling against your hardened nipples. 

He kissed down your stomach, gentle as he continued to unbutton your dress. “So fucking pretty,” he mumbled, staring down at you with heated eyes. 

“Buck” you practically whined, needing him, anything. 

“I know,” he mumbled, and he did. He needed this as badly as you did, if not more. But he was a dutiful husband, and he’d take care of you, satisfy you. All you had to do was be patient. 

Bucky laid on his stomach and looked up at you. Head propped up on a pillow, you stared down at him and smiled, nodding slightly to his non-verbal question. 

Gently, Bucky lifted each of your legs and placed them over his shoulders, forcing you to open yourself for him completely. He leaned in and pressed his nose against your cunt, your hips jerking upwards at the feeling of him nosing your clit but he held them down. 

“So wet, baby,” he breathed out, rubbing his nose further into you. “Naughty little wife,” he grinned as he brought his metal hand to your pussy and rubbed your arousal all over clit. 

“Getting so wet while holding someone else’s baby girl.” You whimpered when he kissed your slit. “You want your own, don’t you? I’ll give you one.” 

Before you could say anything, he planted a hot, wet, open-mouthed kiss on your clit and he moaned as his tongue slipped inside your pussy. Crying out, you arch your back in response as his nose nudged against your swollen folds. A low hum reverberates through him as he licks, sending delicious shivers down your spine.

Bucky moaned when you tugged on his hair, his name slipping quietly from your lips. He licks one long stripe up your slit and you nearly screamed as he pushed his nose further into you, his tongue fucking in and out of your sopping hole. 

His hands were everywhere—gripping your thighs, spreading you wide, holding your still as he devoured you. Tongue thrusting inside, slurping and sucking, groaning like he was the one being touched. 

“Fuck, Bucky—oh my god—”

He sucked your clit, flicked it with the tip of his tongue in tight little circles, your body shaking as heat coiled deep in your belly. 

“Gonna make you come like this,” he growled against your cunt. “Gotta make you fall apart on my tongue before I fuck a baby into you.” 

The pressure of your pleasure built and snapped inside you as he wrapped his lips around your cunt and pressed his thumb to your clit. You sobbed out his name, clenched your eyes shut as your nerves lit on fire and your vision went white. 

Bucky moaned, drinking you down, licking through your orgasm like he needed it more than life. “That’s it,” he panted. “Cum all over my face.” The bottom half of his face, his beard, was shiny with your cum and slick as he continued to lick at you, his tongue working its way from your entrance all the way to your clit. 

When you collapsed, boneless and gasping, he pulled away from your cunt and looked at you like you were made of starlight, something magnificent and out of this world. 

You were breathing hard, fucked out. Bucky watched you carefully as he stripped—sweater, pants, briefs—all gone in a blur. 

You opened your eyes to the sight of him staring at you, a predatory look in his eyes. His cock was leaking, flushed and hard and thick, precum leaking from his swollen tip. He knelt between your legs, stroked himself with one hand while the other cupped your jaw.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he murmured, all gentle. “You sure about this?” 

You nodded, eyes glassy. “Yeah, I want it.” You curled your finger around the chain of one of his dogtags, pulled him flush against you. Pressing your lips against his, you mumbled into his mouth. “Make me a mama, Buck.” 

Bucky groaned against your mouth, tongue teasing your bottom lip as he pressed his cockhead to your entrance, swallowing your moan when your hips tilted up. You held your breath as he pushed inside, moaning out his name as your pussy sucked him in. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up, sweetheart. Gonna cum so deep in you it’ll have no choice but to stick. You’ll be so full of me—my come, my baby.” He kissed your forehead. “My pretty girl.” 

You moaned at the stretch, arching your back so your ass pressed flush against his hips. Bucky bit your shoulder, slowly rocked his hips against yours, sliding his dick in and out of you at the most delicious pace. He bottomed out slowly, burning himself to the hilt. 

He stayed there, forehead to yours, panting. 

“You’re so tight,” he choked. “So fucking perfect.” 

You whimpered, nails digging into his back as he pressed into you, thick and pulsing inside you. 

Pressing a kiss to your nose, he lifted his hips and started fucking you—deep, slow, intentional. Every thrust was heavy, hot, full of claim. His hand slid under your neck, cradling it. The other gripped your hip, grounding himself as he slammed into you, muttering against your mouth.

“Take it, baby, take all of me. Gonna fill you up so good. You’re gonna be such a good mama.”

You were crying now—overwhelmed, wrecked, unraveling from the intensity of it all. 

“I love you,” you sobbed, babbling. “I love you so much, Buck.” It all felt like too much—his cock, the intentions of the way he pressed into you. 

He kissed your tears away, hips stuttering as your nails raked down his back. “I love you too, baby. So fucking much. You’re my everything.” 

Your cries echoed through the room as the pressure inside you snapped and you climaxed, your cum coating his cock. Your body convulsed uncontrollably, your walls tightening around him. Bucky’s own moaning mingled with yours as he bit down on your neck, cumming inside you. 

With a strangled growl, Bucky shoved as deep as he could and spilled inside you—hot, thick ropes of cum flooding your cunt as he trembled over you, gasping your name like a prayer. He continued to thrust, filling you completely, his gaze transfixed on the sight of his cock disappearing into your white, creamy warmth. 

Amidst your incoherent babbling, Bucky was lost in the depths of your pussy. His movements were relentless, driven by an urge he couldn’t deny. Tears streamed down your cheeks, a mixture of overstimulation and raw emotion overwhelming your senses. 

As the final drops of his cum dripped into your core, Bucky gradually slowed his pace, pressing tender kisses to your neck and shoulders. He wrapped his arms around you, smiling against your skin when your limp legs wrapped loosely around him. 

He kissed you, gentle and soft, cock softening  a bit inside you as you both caught your breath. Slowly, gently, he pulled out and your pussy fluttered around nothing, clenching at the loss. His cum dripped out of your cunt, dripping down your thighs and Bucky watched, mesmerized. 

He groaned as he spread your thighs wider, fingers dragging through the mess he left inside you, gliding over swollen folds, watching them glisten. 

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped. “You’re leaking all over the bed. Think I’m losing my mind.” 

You blinked, breath catching. “Mhm.” You were fucked out, mind hazy, but the emptiness between your legs was evident. 

“I got you, sweetheart,” he murmured, thumb circling your clit. “Just lay back. I know what you need. Let me fuck it back in.”

And he does—pushes two fingers into you, slow and deep, and you gasp, hips twitching. You're sore but your cunt clenched around him like you needed more, wanted more—and you do.

“You feel that?” he panted. “That’s all mine. You’re fuckin’ full of me, baby.” 

“Need more,” you whimper. “Please, Buck.” 

“I know.” His mouth is against your belly now, kissing, worshipping. He whispered praises against your skin. “Feelin’ empty, aren’t you?” 

He kissed your mound and then licked a slow, wet stripe from your hole to your clit. You jolted, breath stuttering. He hands pinned your thighs open as he pushed his tongue inside you, moaning into your cunt at the taste of his cum mixed with yours. 

Shameless, he devoured you. His beard scratched at your sensitive thighs, tongue curling deep inside until you’re begging.

“Bucky, fuck—s’too much—”

“Take it, sweetheart,” he growled, voice slurred with lust. “You taste so fuckin’ good. Gimme that pussy, come on, I need it—” 

You cry out when he slapped your thigh, rough and sweet at the same time. He pulled back, eyes fluttering open. “Sit on my fuckin’ face.” 

“What?” you breathed out, dazed and on the verge of tears again. 

“You heard me,” he grinned, licking his lips. “Ride my face, pretty girl. Wanna feel you grind all over me.” 

You let him flip you over, straddled his face as his hands guided you down until your pussy was flush against his mouth. He moaned like he’s been depraved. His tongue lapped into you greedily, fucking into you as you rocked on him, thighs trembling. 

Bucky knows he’s on a high right now, pussy drunk, completely lost in it—gripped your thighs tight, pulled you down like he wants nothing more than to drown in you. 

Your thighs burned as you gripped the headboard for dear life. The pleasure is too great, it snapped too quickly and you screamed, cumming all over his face. 

Bucky licked and sucked even as you tried to pull away. “Can’t,” you sobbed. “Bucky, I—” 

Bucky whined and flipped you again, settling between your legs. He’s ripped the dress off you, threw it somewhere unimportant. His cock is hard again, thick and red and he pushed the leaking head of his cock to your entrance again, slapped it against your folds and grunted. 

He pushed in—slow and so fucking deep, and you cry out at the stretch, at the burn, the fullness. 

“That’s it,” his eyes are squeezed shut. “Such a good fuckin’ girl, taking my cock again.” 

You moaned, legs wrapping around his waist. He thrusted, dragging every inch of his veiny cock against your plush walls. He leaned down, kissed you hard—tongue in your mouth. 

“Bucky—!” It’s all you're left capable of saying, just his name, over and over again. 

“Gotta fuck my cum into you, baby,” he reasoned with you, sweat glistening his chest. “You want that, don’t you? Want me to fill you again? Want me to fuck a baby into like I promised?” 

“Yes—please, Bucky.” you were panting. “I need it—” 

“Say it,” he growled, slamming into you, his fingers bruising your hips. “Tell me you want it.” 

“I want it,” you sobbed, clawing at the sheets. “Want your baby—don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

He’s rabid—tongue dragging down your neck as his teeth grazed your skin, biting as he pounded into you. The lewd slap of skin against skin is filthy, mixed with your wet cries as his broken grains. He slapped your cunt with his metal hand—hard—and you screamed into his mouth. 

“Fuck, good fuckin’ girl. Look at you—so fuckin’ needy. All this ‘cause you wanna be bred.” 

He pulled your hips higher, flush against his pelvis. You’re full on sobbing now, begging for it. You pussy fluttered and clenched around him with every thrust and he hissed, pressed into you deeper. 

His hand pressed into your skin and slid down your body until it reached your pussy. His thumb circled your clit, pressed into it as he drove his cock deep, hips slammed into yours again and again until—

Your vision goes white completely, stars dancing as you cummed. Your whole body trembled, legs giving out as your pussy milked his cock. Bucky gritted his teeth and slammed into you one more time and groaned—deep and broken—in his chest as he cummed inside you, cock throbbing. 

“Fuck—fuck, baby, take it—take it all,” he moaned, buried himself deeper, grinding into you. “So good for me. So fuckin’ perfect.” 

He pressed into you, panting, before he pulled out just a little. Your thighs are soaked, your cunt swollen and leaking all over his thighs and the sheets. “Shit,” Bucky whispered, dazed, drooling. 

“Look what I did to you.” 

You blinked up at him, smiling dumbly. He leaned down, kissed your trembling lips. Tender and slow, one hand brushed the hair off your sweaty face. 

“Think we just made a baby,” he whispered with a grin, voice warm and low. 

You laughed, breathless, fucked-out, completely wrecked.

You were barely conscious—just boneless warmth draped over him, your thighs trembling, lips swollen and bruised, and still, still he hadn’t pulled out. 

Bucky stayed buried deep inside you, both arms wrapped tight around your back, your cheek pressed against his chest where his heart was still pounding like a war drum. 

His cum was thick inside you, heat pooled low, locked in place by the gentle grind of his hips, cock twitching every time you shifted in your sleep. His hand stroked up your back, across your spine, then curled under your ass, squeezing softly. 

He couldn’t bear to let go. Didn’t want to risk a single drop slipping out. 

“Doin’ so good for me, baby,” he whispered, kissing your eyelids. “Gonna keep it all inside, yeah? Gotta keep you full.” 

You mumbled something unintelligible against his skin, barely more than a sigh, and he felt you melt even more—his cock twitched again. 

He wanted you pregnant—needed it in his bones. And it wasn’t just the thought of breeding you—of cumming inside you so deep it took—but the life of it. Of you and him expanding your family. He could see it as clear as day; you holding their baby at your hip, glowing with that softness only he got to see, wrapped up in something warm and soft. 

“I’m gonna be good,” he whispered into your hair, voice cracking. “I’ll be so good for you. Gonna take care of both of you. You’ll never lift a damn finger, sweetheart. I swear.” 

He stayed inside you for as long as your body would let him—until your breath evened out completely, and your hand went limp over his chest. 

Only then, carefully, slowly, did he slip out of you, hissing as his cock left that warm, soaked haven. He cupped his hand over your cunt instantly, thumb brushing the slick mess between your thighs, murmuring, “That’s it, baby, hold it in for me.” 

He kissed your temple, then your shoulder, then finally eased away from the bed—just long enough to wet a warm cloth and come back to clean you up, gentle as anything. 

You didn’t even stir—too fucked out and too loved. 

Bucky smiled as he tucked the blanket around your waist, crawled back into bed, and curled around your body like a shield. His cock was already hardening again where it pressed between your thighs, but he didn’t move—just held you. 

“I love you,” he whispered, kissing the shell of your ear. “So much. You’re my heart.” 

You made a soft, sleepy noise, and he smiled into your hair. 

“You’ll see,” he promised, already picturing it—tiny baby fingers curling around yours, soft coos in the middle of the night. “I’ll be the best dad. The best husband. I’ll be good.” 

And he meant it. More than he meant anything else.

You stared at the little plastic stick in your hand like it was a live wire. The bathroom was quiet except for the soft hum of the fan and the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. 

Three minutes. 

You hadn’t told him you were late yet—not until this morning, when you’d woken up with your face buried in his neck and an unease in your stomach and whispered, “Buck? I think I might be pregnant.”

His eyes had shot open instantly. No sleepy blink, just a rush of warmth and wonder in this blue eyes—filled with excitement and caution. 

You sat on the closed toilet lid, test in hand, and he crouched in front of you, both of his huge hands wrapped around your knees. You could feel him vibrating with nerves, with hope. You hadn’t even looked yet. 

“Baby,” he said, quiet and so fond. 

You looked up at him. “Mm?” 

He smiled, gentle and promising. “Whatever the test says, it’ll be okay. If you’re not pregnant, I don’t want you to worry. It’ll be okay.” 

You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded, love and anxiety swimming down your throat. It would be okay, but you wanted this so bad. 

“You ready?” he asked, softly. 

You nodded once. 

Then, you slowly turned the stick. 

Pregnant. 

The word stared up at you in tiny digital letters—so simple, so final.

You barely had a second to process it before Bucky exhaled a shaky breath and grabbed you, arms winding around your waist so fast and tight you dropped the test and laughed into his shoulder. 

“Oh my god,” he whispered into your neck, kissing you, eyes wet. “You’re pregnant. Baby. Baby—we did it. You did it.” 

You smiled so wide your cheeks hurt, threading your fingers through his hair as he pulled back just enough to look at you. 

“You’re really happy?” you asked, voice thick. 

Bucky let outa breathless, wet laugh—then dropped to his knees on the tiled floor, lifting your shirt with shaking fingers. 

“Happy?” he whispered. “Sweetheart, I’ve never been this happy in my whole damn life.” 

That wasn’t all that true, since the day he married you would always be the happiest day of his life, but this was such a close second. 

He kissed your belly—soft and reverent. Once, then again. He pressed his forehead to your stomach like he was praying. 

He looked up at you, eyes shiny. “Are you happy, baby?” 

You blinked and then your lips wobbled and Bucky stood instantly, catching you just as you collapsed in his arms. He cooed in your ear softly, encouraging you to cry, to let it out. 

“I’m so happy,” you mumbled through tears. You looked up at him, beautiful and glowing he was undone. “I’m gonna be a mama, Bucky.” 

“You are,” he choked, nose brushing against yours. “You’re going to be such an amazing mama,” he said, voice wrecked with love and emotion. “Luckiest kid in the world.” 

You stroked your fingers through his hair as tears slipped down your cheeks. His arms wound tighter around your waist, like he couldn’t get close enough. “We’re gonna be parents.” 

You nodded, choking out a laugh. “Yeah, Buck. We are.” You kissed his cheek. “You’re gonna be such a good dad.” 

Natasha plucked it off you mid-conversation one morning in the kitchen while you were praying—desperately—to whatever all-seeing god might finally make the coffee machine work faster. Between the groaning, spluttering sounds and the blinking lights, it felt like the damn thing was possessed. With flawlessly manicured nails, Natasha held the hair up to the morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the compound.

“Is this Alpine’s fur?” she mused aloud, twirling the long, pale strand between her fingers.

“Probably.” you replied absently, more concerned with the coffee machine’s latest refusal to cooperate. You jabbed the buttons harder, ignoring the way Natasha’s eyes flickered with something dangerously close to amusement.

“For all of Tony’s money, you’d think we’d have a coffee machine that actually works,” you grumbled.

“Turn around?” Natasha asked. There was a particular lilt to her voice, that barely concealed intrigue she tried—and failed—to mask whenever she was onto something. It set you on edge instantly, the tone that meant she was clicking a mystery into place, giddy with excitement beneath a thin veil of indifference. You didn’t trust it for a second.

“No, just—” You smacked the machine in frustration. It whined pathetically before the lights blinked off entirely. You let out a long, exasperated groan. “Why won’t this stupid fucking thing ever work—”

“Jesus, you’re covered in it—”

You froze mid-motion as Natasha yanked at your shirt, effectively grooming you like a monkey. Her sharp lips had turned up into a wicked smirk, the type of smirk that made dread pool in your gut.

“Everything is covered in her fur,” you said quickly, still trying for casual. You reached for the plug, praying Natasha would drop it. “She sheds everywhere, especially on the couch.”

“Mm.” Natasha tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “And yet, I thought Tony hired cleaners for that? Especially with Kate always bringing Lucky around?”

You yanked the plug from the socket a little too forcefully. “Honestly, Nat, I don’t know. I just want this damn machine to work.”

Right on cue, a familiar voice rumbled behind you.

“Machine giving you trouble again?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest before resuming its normal rhythm—though maybe a little faster. You turned just as Bucky strolled in, looking frustratingly good despite the early hour. His hair was a little dishevelled, sleep still clinging to him in a way that made him look too soft for someone who could snap a man’s spine in half.

“There’s a trick to it, remember?” He stepped in close beside you, skin brushing yours as he reached for the machine. The scent of his aftershave lingered, warm and familiar. You tried—and failed—not to watch the way the muscles in his forearm tensed, veins shifting beneath his skin as he pressed a series of buttons.

“Barnes, you’ve got cat hair all over you,” Natasha noted, not even bothering to be subtle. You didn’t dare look at her. Instead, you busied yourself wringing your hands, pretending you weren’t hyper-aware of Bucky standing so damn close.

“Huh?” Bucky barely spared a glance at his shirt, where Alpine’s fur was unmistakably clinging to the fabric. “Oh. Yeah, guess I do. She always wants attention in the morning.”

Then, with one final smack, the machine roared to life. The rich aroma of coffee filled the air as liquid finally poured into your mug. You sighed in sheer relief.

“There you go,” Bucky said, looking down at you with a small smile, a few strands of dark hair falling across his forehead.

Your stomach did a stupid little flip. You smiled back, warmth creeping into your face. “Thanks.”

The machine beeped again, snapping you back to reality. You quickly grabbed the mug with both hands, muttered another thanks, and let Natasha tug you away.

“What was that?” She hissed, voice low as she turned to you with narrowed eyes.

“Huh?” You weren’t entirely listening to her words. You found yourself glancing over your shoulder, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. You could still see Bucky standing in the kitchen, both hands braced on the counter as he waited for his own coffee. His back was turned, but even through the thin material of his fur-covered t-shirt, you could see the way his muscles shifted beneath it—

Natasha didn’t even humour your innocence. She crossed her arms. “You and Barnes?”

“What about him?” You mumbled, pulling your gaze away as the elevator dinged, doors sliding open.

Her lips twitched, amusement clear. “Are you two*—?*”

You made a face at her. “What are you on about?”

Natasha didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.

For now.

As the elevator hummed and Bucky was cut from your view as the doors shut, you took a sip of coffee, the liquid a few degrees between too hot and burning. It scalded your tongue, and with the phantom smell of Bucky’s aftershave no longer haunting you, you felt your mind snap back into action.

Right. Focus.

“We’re going to be late for the meeting,” you declared, shaking your head. “And that damn machine is the reason. You know what? Let’s take a detour to Stark’s lab and demand a better one.”

Natasha chuckled, pressing the button for a different floor.

“I like the way you think.”

—

You knew Alpine would be your downfall.

The little white menace was notoriously selective. If you weren’t Bucky, she wanted nothing to do with you. Everyone at the compound had suffered her wrath at least once—Sam even had the scars to prove it. Alpine liked to play dangerous games that usually ended in blood or a yowl of pain. You swore the Avengers bled more dealing with the feline than fighting aliens, wizards, or whatever else tried to obliterate Earth every other week. She was a cunning little creature, lurking around corners, hiding under tables, prowling along bookshelves. And just when you least expected it—bam. Teeth and claws bared, she would pounce, latching on like a tiny, vengeful spectre. This was her idea of fun. The Avengers had learned to tread carefully, tip-toeing around the compound whenever they knew she wasn’t safely curled up in Bucky’s room, where she ruled with an iron paw.

So, when you sat down on the couch one evening, and Alpine immediately hopped onto your lap, you knew you were fucked.

She didn’t hesitate, didn’t so much as sniff at you in consideration before curling right up, purring loud enough to be heard over the football game droning on in the background—which you were only half paying attention to.

You stiffened, caught between awe at the rare privilege and sheer dread at the witnesses currently gaping at you.

Bucky, for his part, had been sitting at the other end of the couch, flirting with danger in his usual way—stolen glances, conveniently placed touches as he shifted in place. Alpine, just as obsessed with him as you were (Bucky had taken to calling you both ‘his girls’ in private, which always managed to make you swoon.), had immediately perched in his lap when he sat down. Only when he carefully pried her off to grab another round of beers did the little white she-beast decide you were a worthy substitute, strutting over with lazy, languid confidence before settling down, blissfully unaware of what she had just unleashed.

The room fell into stunned silence. Several pairs of eyes locked onto you, breath collectively held. They were waiting for the yowl, for the inevitable attack, for you to tense up and leap to your feet in pain. But to your horror, the little sadist simply settled in. Cosy, unbothered, as if this had been the plan all along.

“Okay, what the hell is this?” Sam finally demanded, pointing an accusing finger.

You blinked down at Alpine, then up at Sam, stroking the soft fur like nothing was amiss. “Uh… a cat?”

You were foolish and desperate enough to pretend this was completely normal, to gaslight the others into believing Alpine was a perfectly gentle and affectionate cat. A sweet, loving companion. Not a tiny, vengeful menace who had terrorised them all—and definitely not a creature who had only warmed up to you in recent months because you spent more time in Bucky’s bed than your own.

“The same cat that tried to claw out my eyeball for getting too close? And now she’s just—” He gestured wildly at Alpine, who flicked her tail with the smugness of a queen on her throne. “—cuddling with you like you’re her best buddy?”

“She likes me, I guess.” You blinked innocently, turning back to the TV, hoping he would drop it, but Sam, ever the dramatic, was not satisfied.

“Are you kidding me? That cat has tried to kill me.”

Natasha snorted into her drink.

Alpine smugly licked her paw before resting her head upon your thigh and blinking her wide blue eyes at Sam, who shook his head with an exaggerated shudder. “This is bullshit, and you know it—”

“Maybe she just doesn’t like you, Sam.” You huffed, scratching Alpine behind her ears. “She’s always been fine with me.”

“That is not true!”

“She took a chunk out of my arm once,” Natasha added, ever the instigator.

“Remember when I gave her a treat and she bit me?” Steve piped up.

Bucky returned at that moment, frowning as he saw the conversation unfolding before him. You turned to him with wide, desperate eyes, silently pleading for help. Alpine, the little traitor, merely pressed her pink nose to your hand, rubbing her face against you with a contented sigh.

“She only likes people she’s comfortable with,” Bucky offered, setting the beers down with a clink, but his pitiful attempt to be helpful only added fuel to the fire.

The room exploded into a series of overlapping voices.

“I didn’t realise you spent so much time with Alpine?” Natasha’s sharp gaze flicked between you and Bucky, her smirk primed to taunt you both.

“Buck, doesn’t she spend all her time in your room—?” Steve leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, invested now.

Sam jolted upright like he’d just solved a murder case. “Now, hold on a second—”

“You have been covered in cat fur a lot lately,” Natasha mused. “And you two have been suspiciously close—”

As you glanced over at Bucky, you couldn’t tell if his repeated blunders were intentional or borne out of genuine panic. He cleared his throat, his brows raising as he casually popped off the cap of one of the beers with his vibranium thumb in faux nonchalance.

“Coincidence.” He muttered with a shrug, tipping back a mouthful of the brew.

Alpine, completely oblivious (or entirely aware of the chaos she’d caused), didn’t budge as Bucky sat back down beside you, levelling you with a look that screamed we are so screwed.

“You two aren’t even going to try to lie?” Natasha pressed.

“Lie about what?” You feigned innocence, but the act was flimsy at best. The jig was well and truly up.

Bucky, clearly done with this little charade, let out a long-suffering sigh that might’ve sounded exasperated if not for the telltale smirk tugging at his lips. Without another word, he slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you effortlessly against his chest, Alpine still coiled contentedly in your lap. The smug little she-beast didn’t even stir. She just purred loudly—too loudly, like she was taking credit for the entire thing.

“Wait a second!” Sam pointed a dramatic finger between the two of you. “How long has this been happening?”

“How long has what been happening?” Tony strolled into the room, a glass of amber liquid that looked suspiciously like whiskey in hand.

“Her,” Steve announced, gesturing between the both of you. “And Barnes.”

Tony didn’t even blink. “Oh, I already knew that. You didn’t know that?”

Bucky turned so fast you were surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash. “You what?”

“Oh, come on,” Tony drawled, making himself comfortable on the armrest of the couch like this was all just another day at the office. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice her sneaking out of your room at ungodly hours for the past six months? F.R.I.D.A.Y. kept flagging intruders, and, shocker—it was just you two, utterly failing at stealth.”

Sam threw up his hands. “Did you say six months?!”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but instead of answering, he just turned to you and, without hesitation, kissed you.

It was sudden but warm, his lips soft against yours like he’d been waiting for an excuse. The room erupted into even more noise, Sam shouting something unintelligible, Natasha making a sound of smug satisfaction, and Steve groaning like he should’ve known, but it all faded into the background.

You laughed against Bucky’s lips, breathless but entirely unbothered. “This is definitely her fault.”

Alpine, still purring in your lap like the devious little mastermind she was, flicked her tail.

Bucky just hummed, brushing his nose against yours. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Not complaining, though.”

You stop mid-step. Your brain short-circuits just long enough for the lid of your coffee cup to betray you—a small dribble of liquid lava hits the edge of your hand.

“Shit,” you hiss, wiping it on your lab coat. Not the best look, but frankly, it’s not like he can judge. You have your flaws. He has a kill count.

Captain America’s ex-best friend. The Winter Soldier turned Avenger. The human embodiment of a sealed file. Exactly what your overclocked nervous system needs at seven in the damn morning.

You don’t hate him. That would require too much emotional investment. What you feel is more like… persistent irritation mixed with a healthy dose of distrust. He’s everything you resent about agents: cocky, haunted, prone to unpredictable violence, and somehow still glorified in every agency briefing and classified report.

But more than that—it’s the Budapest symposium.

Two months ago, you were presenting a closed-door session on the ethical implications of biometric surveillance overlays in the field. You’d made a case for data-limited neural interface protocols—no deep emotion-mapping without consent, no unconscious tracking. You had charts. Citations. A damn good argument.

And Bucky Barnes? He was in the back row, arms folded, face unreadable. Before the time even came for questions, he stood up and asked—in front of a dozen international regulators—

“Aren’t you just trying to build a better leash?”

The room had gone quiet. You’d gone cold. Because the worst part was—he hadn’t been wrong.

He walked out before you could answer, leaving you to field the fallout with a thin smile and a throat full of fury. You spent the next week drafting three different sarcastic emails you never sent.

So no, you’re not thrilled to see him outside your lab. Especially not looking like a government-issued mistake you’d almost make twice.

“You’re here,” you say once your voice decides to cooperate. You hold your coffee like a weapon—or a shield. “And scowling. Which I think breaks at least two of our site protocols.”

He turns his head slightly. Those icy blue eyes flick toward you, unreadable behind the scruff and the perpetual shadow of something heavier than war. You’ve read the file. But seeing him again in person is different. Less haunted soldier, more statue carved from tension.

“Security assignment,” he says, voice low and gravel-rough. “I’m with you today.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Protocol says highest-risk assets get an escort during internal breach investigations.”

And by ‘protocol’, he means Val.

You stare at him. “I thought that meant someone like Ava. Or Lena. Not…” You gesture vaguely at all of him. “This whole glowering thing.”

He doesn’t answer. Just steps forward, pushes the door open, and holds it for you with exaggerated politeness—like a gentleman or a prison warden. You’re not sure which is worse.

You walk past him muttering, “I’m not a high-risk asset. I’m a scientist who got stuck in the crossfire of a bureaucratic dick-measuring contest.”

He follows close behind, boots heavy on the linoleum. “You designed a compound that links neural responses across two brains. That’s high-risk by definition.”

You spin on your heel to face him. “It was theoretical. You know what theoretical means, right? No human trials. No deployment. No volunteers. The compound is locked down in cold storage with three redundant containment protocols.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“You sound defensive,” he goads mildly.

Your jaw drops. “I sound correct.”

He raises one eyebrow, expression neutral—which somehow makes it worse. “You always this wound up?”

You glare. “Only when former assassins are breathing down my neck before breakfast.”

He gives the faintest shrug, like it’s not worth arguing. You turn away again, heels clicking faster now as you head for the secure wing, hoping you look more in control than you feel.

God, you haven’t even had time to check your email.

The corridor stretches long and bright and sterile, lined with reinforced doors and retina scanners, every square foot designed to scream classified. You reach the final keypad and punch in your code, a practiced sequence that usually calms you. But this morning it just makes your fingers itch.

The door slides open with a quiet beep—

And the air hits you like a punch to the face.

Your nostrils flare instinctively. Sharp. Acrid. A faint metallic tang riding the edge of the ventilation.

Chemical.

You freeze. One second. Two. Your brain connects the dots a hair too late.

Gas.

“No, no, no—”

You drop your coffee—cup and all—and sprint into the lab. Your eyes lock instantly on the containment cabinet against the far wall. The red emergency light above it pulses in warning, casting the walls in sickly, flickering hues.

The cabinet—where the prototype compound is stored under triple-sealed cryo-containment—is open. Not wide. Just… cracked. A whisper of vapor hisses from its seams like breath from a sleeping monster.

You spin toward the door. “Barnes, get the door sealed—”

But he’s already inside, scanning the room, eyes sharp and military-fast, and it’s too late anyway.

The soft whoomp of emergency ventilation kicks in, the system responding to your alert. You stagger as the remaining aerosolized compound bursts into the air in a rapid pressure release—microscopic particles blooming invisible around you like a deadly fog.

You cough. Once. Twice. The taste hits the back of your throat. And then you feel it.

Not panic. Not exactly. More like a tug just behind your ribs. A subtle wrongness threading through your consciousness like a splinter sliding in the grain.

Not pain. Not fear. Something else. Something other.

You turn—and Bucky Barnes is staring at you like you’ve both just heard the same gunshot.

His pupils are blown. His stance off-kilter. He looks—

Connected. Like he feels it too.

“Oh shit,” you whisper.

Because there’s only one thing in that cabinet capable of inducing a shared neuro-emotive feedback loop between two human brains.

And now it isn’t theoretical anymore. It’s happening.

To you. And him. Together.

—-

You’re ushered into quarantine within six minutes of exposure.

By minute seven, your blood pressure has been taken, your pupils checked, and your ego thoroughly trampled by a flurry of panicked lab techs—and one very smug containment officer who keeps muttering, “Told you this was going to happen,” like your entire life’s work exists solely to vindicate his mediocre career.

By minute ten, you’re sitting on the edge of a cot in Isolation Chamber A, glaring through the reinforced glass at James Buchanan Barnes in Chamber B like you can will his lungs to stop working out of sheer spite.

He, unfortunately, looks fine.

“You don’t look like you’re dying,” he says blandly.

You fold your arms. “Neither do you. Tragic oversight.”

He doesn’t smile. Of course not. He just leans back on his cot with that frustratingly composed, ex-assassin posture. Like stillness is a performance and he’s performing it at an Olympic level.

It makes your teeth itch.

“You feel anything?” he asks, casually. Too casually. As if he’s not currently entangled in a theoretical neural tether that was never supposed to reach human trials, much less him.

You hesitate. “Not really.”

Which isn’t a lie. But it isn’t the whole truth either.

Physically, you feel fine. No nausea. No tremors. No limbic misfires. But there’s something else. A buzz under your skin. Familiar, because you modeled it. Dismissible—until it isn’t.

A quiet frequency, just at the edge of perception. Like pressure. Or breath on the back of your neck.

Mental static. Not yours.

“I feel something,” Bucky says. He frowns—an actual expression—and taps his chest once, distracted. “Not pain. Just… something else.”

You arch a brow. “Let me guess. Low-level irritation and the overwhelming urge to be left alone?”

His eyes flick to yours. “Exactly.”

You scowl. “That’s me, genius.”

He blinks. Then frowns harder. “Shit.”

You groan. “Nope. This cannot be happening. Absolutely not. No thank you.”

You stand up abruptly and start pacing. The cot creaks behind you like it also hates this.

Because this is bad. Not theoretically bad. Functionally. You know what the compound is designed to do—and how unstable it gets at full potency. This isn’t an accident. It’s a worst-case scenario.

The door hisses open.

Dr. Yen, the Chief Medical Officer of your division steps in, tablet already lit, lips pressed thin. You’ve seen that look before. It means the results are in, and you’re not going to like them.

“Vitals are stable,” she says. “No visible cellular breakdown. But limbic scans are confirming cross-resonance.”

You close your eyes. “So it’s real.”

“It’s real,” she confirms. “You’re linked.”

Across the glass, Bucky sighs. “Linked how?”

Yen barely looks up. “Emotionally. Neurologically. The aerosolized bond agent was absorbed via mucosal membranes—eyes, nose, mouth. Maximum contact.”

“You’re saying we’re… what? Reading each other’s minds?”

“Not minds,” you say automatically. “Emotional states. Neural fluctuations. Maybe low-level somatic impulses.”

She nods. “Shared dreams are possible. Mirror physiology. Elevated empathy. Possibly even localized reflex responses.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “So if she stubs her toe, I feel it?”

“Not unless your motor cortex overcompensates. Which is unlikely. For now.”

You sit back down, hard. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Yen gives you a dry look. “No, but your name’s still at the top of the protocol. I believe the phrase you used in your original paper was ‘temporary adaptive tethering of live-state neural patterns via synthetic limbic resonance.’”

You mutter, “God, I hate myself.”

“You invented the scientific version of a psychic handcuff,” Bucky says.

You glare at him. “Trust me, if I could break it off and throw it in a volcano, I would.”

He leans back again, exasperated, like this is just another mission gone sideways. But you see it now—underneath the irritation. Not just annoyance.

Curiosity. Amusement. And something quieter that you can’t place yet.

Dr. Yen taps through her readings. “We’re transferring you to Observation Room One. Together.”

“What? Why?” you ask.

“Because separating you could intensify the neurological drift. The bond is responding to proximity—removing it might trigger feedback escalation.”

You blink. “Escalation?”

“Increased bleed. Emotional volatility. Uncontrolled synching. You remember, the time we tested on mice, one started trying to dig a tunnel with its face when the other was removed.”

You stare.

Bucky sighs. “Great. Can’t wait.”

Dr. Yen continues, already halfway out the door. “I’ll monitor for spike activity. Try not to kill each other.”

The door hisses shut behind her.

You look at Bucky. He looks at you. And just like that, the hum gets louder. Not in the room. In your chest. Like the tension between you has grown teeth.

“Don’t talk to me,” you mutter, grabbing your duffel.

He smirks. “I don’t have to. You’re already broadcasting loud and clear.”

“Then prepare to suffer.”

You follow the guards out of the chamber, still vibrating with dread, loathing, and a pressure you absolutely refuse to call attraction.

He falls in step beside you.

And just before the door closes behind you, you hear him mutter, “Could be worse.”

You don’t look at him.

He finishes anyway. “You could be stuck with Walker.”

—

The room isn’t big. Two cots. One bathroom. A table with bolted-down chairs. A surveillance camera blinking red in the corner like a passive-aggressive metronome. The air’s too cold, the lights too bright, and the fluorescent hum drills straight into the base of your skull.

Everything about the room says safe and neutral. Which really means sterile. A trap.

You sit across from Bucky at the table, arms folded tight across your chest, as if sheer compression might keep your thoughts from bleeding into the air between you.

It doesn’t work.

There’s that tug behind your ribs—low, persistent, off. Not pain. Not even discomfort, really. Just… dissonance. Like your body’s tuned to the wrong frequency and can’t stop resonating. Or, more accurately: someone else is doing the vibrating, and you’re just along for the ride.

Barnes stretches out in his chair like he’s got nowhere better to be, shuffling a deck of cards with infuriating calm. His hands move slow and steady. Like he’s done this before. Like it centers him.

You don’t want to know what he needs centering from.

The silence builds, heavy and electric. Until finally, you crack.

“So,” you say, deadpan. “This is awkward.”

He doesn’t look up. Just keeps shuffling. “You think?”

“You’re taking this very well for someone who just got mentally handcuffed to basically a complete stranger.”

His jaw flexes but he only shrugs. “Not the weirdest thing that’s happened to me.”

There’s no bravado in it. Just tired truth.

You sigh. “God. What a comforting standard.”

He cuts the deck with a flick of his wrist, then holds a card out toward you without even glancing up. You narrow your eyes. Then take it anyway.

Blackjack. Of course.

“Is this how you pass time in high-security quarantine?” you mutter. “Gambling with unwilling civilians?”

“You’re not unwilling,” he replies easily. “You’re just pissed it’s your own fault you’re stuck with me, Doc.”

You open your mouth—then close it again. Because the second he says it, you feel it: a jolt of annoyance. Not just yours. A flicker of his, folded inside something steadier. Something infuriatingly composed.

Your irritation rebounds like a ricochet—hits something calm. Anchored. And softens.

You feel it. His quiet, bone-deep stillness sliding under your skin like heat through a vent. Not comforting. Not invasive. Just there.

You stare at him, breath catching. Then drop the card on the table. “God. This is real.”

He finally meets your eyes. “Yeah. It is.”

“It was just a theory. I never meant for it to get to this… But y’know, Val.”

He jerks out a nod. Your pulse kicks. “You can feel me.”

He nods once. “And you can feel me. Can’t you?”

You don’t answer right away.

Taking stock of what’s resonating through your body. A pressure you want to think is just the room, the strangeness of proximity, the humiliating weight of a containment protocol gone wrong.

But it’s not the room. It’s him.

You can feel his focus when he watches you—that heavy, unblinking heat of attention, like standing too close to a silent engine. You can feel his amusement when you snap at him, like your temper tickles something buried and patient beneath the surface. You can feel the effort it takes for him to stay back—to keep his emotional distance while you’re sitting three feet away. Like he’s building a wall in real time, plank by plank. You can feel him trying not to feel you.

Biting your lip, you take a few deep breaths, trying to calm your rapidly rising pulse. It’s intimate in the worst possible way. The kind that makes privacy a joke and pretending pointless.

Every flicker of discomfort. Of defensiveness. Of attraction—

Wait.

Your stomach flips. That wasn’t yours.

It comes in hot and sharp, a spike of want so visceral it knocks the breath out of you. Frustration tangled with something lower. Needier. You haven’t felt anything like that in months, maybe years.

For one stupid second, you want to crawl out of your skin. And then it’s gone. Or suppressed. Or masked. Or—

“You okay?” he asks.

His voice is lower now. Cautious.

You nod too fast. “Fine.”

You can tell he doesn’t buy it. Doesn’t need to. He probably feels the spike in your chest, the flicker of your pulse when it jumps. You’ve lost your poker face. And not because of the cards. God, you are never going to survive this.

“So we're just stuck here?” you ask, trying to steady your voice. “We just sit here for three days and try not to think about anything incriminating?”

He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That’s not really how brains work. And just a gentle reminder—you’re the one who built this little science fair nightmare.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “I am going to kill Dr. Yen.”

“She said it’s temporary.”

“She also said we might share dreams.”

Bucky makes a face. “Don’t dream much anymore.”

“Well, I do,” you mutter. “And I don’t need you wandering through my subconscious.”

A beat.

“You think I want you in mine?”

That shuts you up. Because no. You don’t think he wants anyone in there. Not even himself.

The silence settles again. But it’s not empty.

You can feel his discomfort now. Quiet and low-grade. But there. Wrapped around something denser. Guilt, maybe. Something that sticks. And underneath it—just barely—curiosity.

You sit back, exhaling. “We need ground rules.”

“Like what?”

“Like no thinking about sex. Or trauma. Or childhood pets.”

He snorts. “In that order?”

“Especially in that order.”

You catch the edge of a smile before he looks down again, resuming his slow, steady shuffle. The cards whisper against each other like they’re in on the joke.

You try not to notice how your chest feels a little less tight. How the noise in your head quiets when his focus drifts. How the hum beneath your skin feels less like static and more like something alive, because you’re feeling him. And—God help you—he’s feeling you.

— 

The lights never fully shut off. They dim, sure, but the surveillance camera stays on, its little red eye blinking in the corner like it’s watching your soul unravel in real time. The overhead fluorescents are on a slow cycle, just soft enough to lull your brain into thinking it can rest—until the second you close your eyes and they flicker again.

You’re not sleeping. And judging by the restless way Bucky shifts on his cot every few minutes—blankets rustling, jaw grinding—he isn’t either.

The silence is loud. Not peaceful. Not companionable. Just dense. Like the air itself is waiting for one of you to say something that will tip the whole room over the edge.

You’ve tried reading. Tried meditating. Tried breathing exercises, even though you usually hate those with a passion reserved for line-cutters and PowerPoint animations.

None of it helps. Because whatever thin emotional boundary once existed between you and Bucky Barnes has long since dissolved.

His emotions creep into you like fog—quiet, heavy, invasive. You don’t get specifics, not clearly, but the mood is unmistakable. Guilt. Anger. A bone-deep ache compressed into something sharp and humming under the surface.

You feel it. And worse—you can tell he’s trying not to let you.

You roll over for the hundredth time, then give up. Sit up. Rub your hands over your face. The room feels like it’s shrinking. Or maybe it’s just the part of your brain still screaming about boundaries.

From across the room, his voice finally cuts through the quiet.

“You feel that too?”

It’s rough. Quiet. Worn raw from disuse.

You blink into the dim. “The… what? The vague, awful sense that I’m about to start crying for no reason?”

A beat.

“Yeah,” he says. “That.”

You press your fingertips to your temples. “God, is that you or me? I can’t even tell anymore.”

“Me,” he says immediately. “Sorry.”

You shake your head, rubbing your hands down your thighs. “Don’t be.”

And you mean it. Sort of.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask, still not looking up. You’re not sure which one of you will flinch harder at the offer.

He’s quiet long enough that you figure it’s a no. A nerve hit. A wall closed.

Then, “No.”

You nod, the cot creaking beneath you. “Fair.”

A breath passes.

“But I might anyway,” he mutters, so low you almost miss it.

That makes you look. He’s sitting now, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might disappear if he looks hard enough. His vibranium fingers twitch—absent, reflexive.

“It’s like…” he starts, then stops. You wait. “When I was the Soldier, there were days I didn’t feel anything. Years, probably. Just… silence. Nothing in my head but orders.”

You stay still. Hold your breath.

“And then it all came back. All at once. Like my brain had been hoarding it in a box and someone finally kicked it open. And I couldn’t breathe under it.”

The weight of it lands between you like ash.

“And this?” He looks up at last. His face isn’t cold. It isn’t angry. It’s just tired. Raw.

“This feels like that. Too much. Too close. Like I can’t shut the door.”

Your throat tightens. Because you feel it too—his overwhelm, his fear of being seen, his instinct to slam every door before someone gets inside. It isn’t unfamiliar.

His jaw ticks. His eyes stay locked on yours. “And now you’re in my head."

“And now I’m in your head,” you echo.

There’s a beat before a low, dark laugh escapes him.

“Well. Fuck me.”

You smile—tiny, reflexive. “Tempting.”

His gaze sharpens at that. And instantly, you regret it—not because of the joke, but because of the response it pulls.

Want.

It hits like a shock to the chest. Sudden. Warm. Unmasked. Not lust. Not crude. Longing.

You flinch. Inhale sharply.

He looks away fast. “Shit. That wasn’t on purpose.”

You shoot to your feet, pulse kicking. “You’re not supposed to broadcast things like that.”

“I wasn’t!” His voice rises—gritty, strained. “I’ve been locking everything down since this started. But apparently your brain’s running on the emotional equivalent of a glass wall.”

You stare at him, heat rushing up your neck. “Jesus, Bucky.”

“You think I want you to know that I—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching hard. Shakes his head like he’s trying to shove the feeling back down his throat.

You cross your arms tightly over your chest. “I don’t want to feel this.”

“Yeah, well, me neither.”

The silence snaps tight. You stand there, two hearts hammering in unison, locked in some terrible emotional feedback loop neither of you asked for. It doesn’t break. It pulses harder.

“I think I need a wall,” you mutter. “A mental one. Like an internal firewall.”

“I tried that already,” he says. “Didn’t hold.”

You look at him. He’s watching you again. Still. And it’s not anger on his face anymore. It’s grief.

“This is a violation of literally every HR protocol in existence,” you mumble, arms still crossed.

“Good thing I don’t work here.”

You snort. It escapes before you can stop it. And you feel it—that flicker of relief from him. Small. Fleeting. But real.

You sit down hard on the edge of your cot. “I’m not good at this.”

“Neither am I.”

“I don’t want you to feel what I’m feeling.”

“I already do.”

You fall quiet. Because, for better or worse, you’re in this together now. You don’t know what’s scarier—that he can feel your loneliness. Or that you can feel his.

—

You’re dreaming.

You know it without knowing how. It’s the stillness that gives it away. Like the air is too weightless, the light too diffuse—nothing casting shadows, nothing fully real. The kind of hush that doesn’t exist in waking life. 

You’re standing in a field you’ve never seen before. It’s not specific. Just green. A meadow with no wind, no scent, no sound. Every color softened at the edges like an unfinished rendering. It doesn’t feel like anything.

And that’s what tells you it’s yours. A liminal space. Peaceful. Barely conscious.

You close your eyes. And that’s when you feel it. A presence. A pulse.

Not in the dream—in you. Tapping against your thoughts like someone knocking softly on the inside of your skull.

Not words. Not movement. Just pressure. Steady. Coiled. Heavy with something unsaid.

Your eyes open. You turn in place, scanning the edges of the field, expecting—Nothing.

But the weight gets stronger. You feel it in your chest. Low. Familiar. Tense.

Bucky.

But you don’t see him. You just know he’s close. Or maybe not even close. Maybe just… bleeding in.

Your dream flickers.

A breeze picks up—impossible in a dream that’s never moved before. The grass ripples once, unnatural and out of sync, like the physics here are starting to break.

Your pulse stutters. And then—

It hits.

The air tears. The color drops. The field vanishes like someone cuts the feed.

And suddenly you’re underground.

A corridor. Narrow. Stained concrete walls. The ceiling is low, the light sharp blue and sterile. The air tastes like iron and rust. You stumble. Your knees scrape. You catch yourself on a wall that shouldn’t be cold, but is. It’s disorienting. Wrong. You know this isn’t your dream.

It’s his.

“Bucky?” you call out.

No answer. But the pressure behind your ribs spikes. You push forward anyway. Each step echoes. Your own, but also—his. Mismatched. Heavy. You turn a corner and see him.

He’s not looking at you. He’s walking in the opposite direction, body rigid, head bowed, like he’s being led. Or dragged.

He’s not dressed like the man you know. No tactical black. No soft tee and boots. Just bare arms and restraints. Fresh bruises. The remnants of blood not his own.

He’s not Bucky. Not here.

You try to speak but your voice fails. He turns the corner ahead. You follow.

The room you enter is stark. Cold. A chair in the center—stripped down and inhuman. Restraints hanging like dead vines. A spotlight fixed directly above it.

He’s standing beside it now, still not looking at you. The air is too still. Too thick. The bond hums so loudly you want to scream. And then he speaks.

“Don’t look.”

You freeze. His voice is quiet. Barely audible. But it’s him.

He still won’t face you.

“Bucky, this isn’t—”

“I said don’t look,” he says again. Sharper this time. A command—not to control you, but to protect himself. To hide. “You don’t want to see this.”

But it’s too late. The dream—his memory—wraps around you like wire. Sharp and invasive. You feel it like it’s your own. Not a picture. Not a scene. A flood.

Pain. Control. The snap of identity stripped away. Screams that echo without sound. The weight of command phrases burned into neural pathways like rot beneath the skin.

You stagger backward. But the bond holds. You feel it all. The moment he gave up trying to remember his name. The moment he forgot why it mattered.

“Please,” he says. He’s still facing away from you. Shoulders tense. Fists clenched.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, tears blurring the edges of the dream.

“This isn’t yours,” he grits out. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You take a step closer anyway. That makes him turn. Not all the way. Just enough for you to see it—his face. Younger. Blank. Terrified.

“I didn’t want you to see,” he gestures to himself. “This.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you say, voice shaking. “I fell asleep and… you pulled me in.”

He winces. Like that makes it worse.

“I tried not to,” he admits. “I’m sorry.”

You reach out, slowly, not to touch him—just to offer your hand. Because right now, you’re in this together. And the bond doesn’t care what either of you want.

His gaze flicks to it. Then to you. His jaw flexes. And he takes it.

The second your fingers touch, the dream shudders. The restraints flicker. The chair vanishes. The floor beneath you cracks—just hairline fractures, like the nightmare is losing hold.

“I’m still here,” you say.

“I know,” he says softly.

And then—

—

You jolt upright in your cot, heart hammering. Breath sharp. Palms sweaty.

Across the room, Bucky sits up just as fast—like something yanked him out of deep water. He’s already breathing hard, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, jaw clenched like it might hold something back if he just bites down hard enough.

You lock eyes. Neither of you speak. Not at first. The air is thick with something raw and invisible. Or the kind of silence that settles after a confession neither of you wanted to make.

He runs a hand over his face. “So. That happened.”

“Yeah,” you rasp.

You don’t say what that was. You don’t need to. You felt it. Lived it. Not as a witness. Not even as a passenger. As a part of him. And now you can’t un-feel it. Can’t shove it into a clean corner labeled ‘his problem’. It’s in you now. In your chest. Threaded through your ribs like something grafted there on instinct.

You shift slightly, fingers curling into the edge of the blanket, grounding yourself in anything that isn’t his memory. But it doesn’t help. The emotional weight is still there, even as the dream fades. A dull ache under your skin. The echo of metal restraints and too-bright lights.

He exhales, rough and low. “I didn’t want you to see that.”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you lie back slowly, eyes on the ceiling. Cold. Pockmarked. Real. And for the first time since this started, you stop trying to block him out. Because the truth is, you don’t want to. Even now, with the weight of what you saw still lodged somewhere between your lungs. You don’t want to pretend you didn’t see him.

“It’s not your fault,” you murmur. “That I saw it.”

“No. But it’s still mine.”

You turn your head. He’s staring at the floor now, hands braced on his knees, elbows sharp beneath the sleeves of his shirt. His metal fingers twitch slightly. Barely a motion, but it radiates with tension. You feel that, too. Of course you do.

“Do you think if we sleep again…” you start, then trail off.

He finishes it. “We’ll go back?”

You nod once.

He shrugs. “Don’t know. I’ve never had to share a nightmare before.”

You breathe in. Then out. Neither of you moves.

The hum of the overhead lights seems louder now. The surveillance camera ticks faintly in the corner. Somewhere, two hearts beat in rhythm without trying.

“I’m not tired,” you say.

He glances up at you. “Me neither.”

It’s a lie, on both ends. You can feel it in your body. The ache. The heaviness. The way your limbs sink just a little deeper into the mattress. But sleep isn’t safe now. Not when it might mean pulling each other into things neither of you are ready to carry, let alone share.

You sit up again. Curl your legs under you. Bucky shifts to do the same. It’s not planned. It just happens.

No one speaks for a while. And then—

“I’m sorry you had to,” he starts, so quietly it barely lands. “Feel that.”

The words linger, fragile but deliberate. They hang in the air like breath held too long.

Bucky doesn’t look at you. Not right away. His shoulders stay tight, his stare pinned to the floor like he’s trying to unsee what he knows you saw. 

You study him. And something shifts in your chest. It’s not sympathy. Not even admiration. It’s deeper than that. Stranger. Something close to awe—and not the clean kind. The complicated kind. The kind that unsettles.

Because now you’ve seen him. Not the soldier. Not the sarcasm and shadow. The person. The fear. The memory. The grief.

And somehow, that makes him feel… real. Not more fragile. Not smaller. Just clearer. You’re seeing him now in a way you hadn’t before. And it’s doing something to you.

Is it the link?

You want to say yes. Want to blame the synaptic bleed, the proximity, the dream. Want to label it as data and side effects and bad timing. But deep down, you’re not sure. Not anymore.

You shift. Your voice, when it comes, is quieter than before.

“Do you have them a lot?”

He stills for a beat too long. Then he exhales, the sound low.  “Used to. Nightly. For years.”

You nod, eyes tracing the seam of your blanket. “But not anymore?”

“Not like that,” he admits.

Something in your chest lifts, but only a little.

“So…” you hesitate, careful not to make it sound like anything more than what it is. 

“Was it easier this time? With me there?”

This time, he looks up. Direct. Steady. No evasion. His voice is quiet. Almost reluctant. “Yeah.”

You blink. It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t land the way it does. But it does. Because it means something. Or it might. Or maybe it only feels like it does because your brain is lit up on synthetic empathy and shared neural architecture. But still. It means something.

You nod, barely. “Okay.”

You don’t say what’s spinning in your chest: I see you now. I don’t want to look away. I don’t know if that’s you or me or both.

You can feel that he doesn’t want to ask either. Not yet. So neither of you does.

You both just sit there, in the dimmed silence. The bond—a quiet, pulsing presence between your ribs. And this time, you don’t try to shut it out. You just let yourself feel it. Feel him.

—

You wake up suddenly—hot, restless, throat dry. Your skin is flushed. Your pulse a little too fast. Your legs tangled in the blanket like you were shifting more than sleeping. It takes you a second to orient. The cot. The hum of the lights. And the slow burn pulsing under your skin.

You press your palms to your eyes. Shit.

You’re not dreaming anymore, but your body hasn’t gotten the message. Everything feels hypersensitive. Like someone turned up the volume on every nerve ending and forgot to turn it back down.

You exhale. Try to steady your breathing. But then your gaze shifts—and you see him.

Bucky’s still sitting where he was when you drifted off. Back against the wall. He looks calm, but there’s a sharpness in the set of his jaw, a tension in his posture.

He never went to sleep. He’s watching you now. Quiet. Steady. Like he already knows what you’re feeling.

You shift upright on the cot, trying to tamp it down—the warmth low in your belly, the ache that has no business being this loud, this early, in a lab-grade holding cell with your unintentional telepathic security detail.

“Did I…” you start, voice scratchy, “did I fall asleep again?”

He nods, slow. “Around four. You didn’t mean to.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Did you…?”

“No. You didn’t dream loud enough this time.”

It’s a joke. You think.

But then he tilts his head a fraction, brows drawing slightly together. “You feel… okay?”

You hesitate. Because yes. You do feel okay. You feel too okay. Your heart is kicking a little faster than it should and you know without looking in a mirror that your pupils are probably dilated.

There’s no fear. No adrenaline. Just— Want. Need. Aching. And you’re not entirely sure where it’s coming from.

“I feel… weird,” you murmur.

He shifts a little. You feel the ripple before you see it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Same.”

You glance at him again and your stomach flips. Because now that you’re paying attention, you can feel it. The thrum. The tension. That low, slow ache in your bloodstream that isn’t just yours anymore.

You clear your throat. “This doesn’t feel…emotional.”

“No,” he agrees. His voice is lower now. Rough. “It feels physical.”

Your breath catches. You both look away at the same time. The air thickens.

And then the door hisses open.

Dr. Yen steps in like a fire alarm, holding her tablet like a shield. “Morning,” she says briskly. “Vitals check.”

You sit still while she scans you. Bucky does too. Her eyes narrow slightly as she reads, her mouth pressing into a thin line.

Then she sighs. “Okay. So. Bit of a development.”

You wince, already bracing for whatever comes next.

“The bond’s progressing faster than expected. Your convergence scores are spiking well ahead of baseline. You’re already presenting signs of full-spectrum neural and somatic reciprocity.”

You blink. “Somatic?”

Yen nods. “Body-based responses. Sympathetic systems syncing. Neurochemical fluctuations. Endocrine bleed.”

You just stare.

Bucky crosses his arms. “Translation?”

“You’re not just feeling each other’s moods anymore,” Yen says. “You’re reacting to each other’s hormones.”

You freeze.

“So this…?” you ask, gesturing vaguely to your whole overheated, vibrating situation.

She nods. “Elevated oxytocin, dopamine, serotonin—both of you. You’re experiencing mutual physiological… arousal.”

You swear under your breath. Bucky exhales through his nose, sharp.

Yen scrolls. “This is accelerating. You may experience projection next. Sensory cross-talk. Physical feedback from imagined stimuli.”

You and Bucky don’t move.

“You mean—” you start.

“Yes,” she says. “If one of you starts thinking about something… the other might feel it.”

You shut your eyes. Hard. Bucky shifts.

Yen closes the tablet. “We’re working on a counter-agent. In the meantime—stay calm. Avoid escalation. Try not to, y’know, spiral.”

She gives you both a tight smile that’s not a smile and ducks out the door.

The moment it hisses shut, silence slams back into place. You don’t look at him. He doesn’t look at you. But you feel each other. Your blood still buzzes, warm and quick, like something is sparking just under the surface.

“I need a cold shower,” you mutter.

“If you’re feeling what I’m feeling,” he says, voice low and tight, “that’s not gonna help.”

Neither of you laughs. Because it’s not funny anymore.

You don’t move and neither does he. You stay on opposite cots, both too still, both too aware. You can feel the bond buzzing like a live wire behind your ribs—no longer subtle, no longer background noise.

Not just his mood. Not just tension or restraint. His thoughts. Vague, half-formed shapes brushing up against your mind like fogged glass. You don’t get detail, not really—but there’s pressure behind it. Focus. Heat.

You swallow. Hard.

He shifts again, one leg stretching out, and your eyes flick to the motion without meaning to. Just his hand. Just his thigh. Just some insane amount of muscle in a pair of extremely not regulation sweatpants. And that’s when it hits you. A spike of awareness.

Low. Sharp. Direct.

Not yours. Yours now, but not originally.

Your breath stutters. Because that wasn’t your thought. That was his. You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help.

Now you can feel it more clearly: the way his thoughts catch on your bare legs, on your neck, on the way you just bit your bottom lip without realizing it.

The image forms before you can stop it. Your body reacting to his body. His gaze. His mind. A flash of heat coils low in your stomach. You shift suddenly. Sharp, fast, like that might reset something. It doesn’t.

He feels the shift in you. You know he does. You feel his whole body tense in response. The link thrums, nearly audible in your skull.

“Stop,” you whisper, breath catching.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, voice hoarse.

You press your palm to your sternum. It’s like trying to press out a heartbeat that isn’t even yours.

“I can feel it when you look at me like that,” you mutter.

“I’m trying not to,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Well, try harder,” you snap—but it’s shaky, breathless.

Your thighs press together unconsciously. And that, he feels. He lets out a breath—low, ragged, like it hurts to hold it.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“Don’t what?” you snap, voice high and tight.

“That. The thing with your legs.”

You go still. And the heat spikes. The thought now forming in your head is yours. It’s real. Immediate. Something to do with him between your knees, his hands on your hips, his mouth at your throat. The sound he’d make if you pulled his shirt off. The look in his eyes when—

He jerks upright like he’s been electrocuted.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.

You slap a hand over your own mouth, mortified. “I didn’t mean to think that.”

“I know,” he growls.

And still—your body pulses. That awful, exquisite feedback loop. Want ricocheting back and forth until you don’t know whose it was to begin with.

You drag your blanket up like its armor. “We can’t do this.”

“No,” he agrees immediately. “We can’t.”

You lock eyes. And don’t look away.

The silence that follows is different now. Charged. Taut. It’s not that the attraction is new. It’s that there’s nowhere left to hide it. No denial. No wall. Just each other. You lie back slowly, exhaling through your nose. Trying to calm your heart. Trying not to think of him. It doesn’t work.

Bucky’s breathing is heavier now. Not dramatic—but deeper. Controlled. You feel it against your own skin. You know—you know—he’s thinking about you too. But neither of you moves. Not yet.

Your heart won’t settle. It keeps pushing against your ribs like it wants to say something first. And then, before you can stop yourself:

“You drive me insane.” The words hang there. Blunt. True.

Bucky shifts slightly on his cot, but doesn’t speak.

“Not in the way you’re thinking, but okay—in that way too.” You pull the blanket tighter around you, trying to hold your voice steady. “You’re cold. Condescending. You don’t say anything unless it’s to poke a hole in something I’ve spent months building.”

His mouth twitches. “You’re a scientist who’s not used to people poking holes?”

“I’m not used to people doing it like you.” You glare at the ceiling. “You just—show up. And stare. And judge. And then disappear before I can even argue back.”

He exhales through his nose. “And you like arguing.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It feels like the point.”

You turn your head and look at him. “You didn’t even stay for the full hearing. Just blew it up and walked out.”

He meets your eyes. “Didn’t need to.”

Your chest tightens. “God. You’re impossible.”

There’s a long pause.

And then he says, quieter: “You were right, though. About the link. About what it could be.”

You blink.

“I didn’t go to that hearing to get in your way,” he says. “I went because what you said scared the hell out of me.”

“Right,” you mutter. “Thanks.”

He shakes his head. “No. I mean—it was good. You were right. You had every angle covered. You didn’t flinch. And the more I thought about it afterward…”

His eyes lift to yours.

“About you.”

Your stomach flips.

He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “So when Val mentioned they needed an internal breach detail at the site—”

“You asked for this assignment,” you state, stunned.

He nods once. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches again—but now it’s different. There’s heat in it. Yes. But also something else. Something real.

Your head falls to your hands in defeat. “I don’t want to like you.”

“Yeah. That’s not working out too well for me either,” Bucky mutters lowly.

You peek up at him through your fingers. “This is a disaster.”

His mouth twitches. “A highly classified, emotionally compromising disaster.”

You stare at him. And he stares right back. Something hums between you, low and molten. Not as sharp as before—but deeper now. Grounded in knowing. Seeing. Feeling. Your eyes flick to his mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough to make it dangerous.

He sees it. Of course he does.

“Don’t,” he says softly.

“Don’t what?”

“That.”

You blink, innocent. “Look at you?”

“Look at me like that.”

You tilt your head, heart pounding. “Like what?”

“Like you want to see what else I’m hiding under these very official sweatpants.”

You suck in a sharp breath. A flush climbs up your neck before you can stop it.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re imagining things.”

“You’re broadcasting things,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges. “Loud.”

You shift on the cot and feel his breath hitch now.

It’s too much. Too close. And it’s not the bond anymore. Not entirely.

“You think about it too,” you say quietly.

He nods, once. “All the time now it seems.”

You don’t know if you want to slap him or kiss him—or let him press you back against the wall and do everything you’ve already imagined and more.

“So what the hell are we supposed to do about it?”

He smiles—just barely. It’s crooked. Dangerous.

“Nothing reckless.”

You lift a brow. “You’re telling me not to be impulsive?”

“I’m telling you not to do anything you’ll regret.”

You lean forward, like you’re settling into something casual. But you know what you’re doing. You can’t help yourself.  You know he can feel it—your heat, your hunger, your restraint wrapped in silk.

“Then maybe stop giving me reasons to want to,” you murmur, voice light. Teasing.

His jaw ticks. His eyes darken. The silence that follows is sharp. Not a pause. Not a delay. A held breath.

You smile, small and smug, and stand up slowly—too slowly.

“Anyway,” you say, heading toward the small attached bathroom, “I’m going to take a cold shower and try to remember I’m a professional with several advanced degrees.”

You stop in the doorway. Look back over your shoulder, just enough to make sure he’s still watching.

He is.

“Try not to think about me while I’m in there,” you add, voice all fake innocence. And then you shut the door behind you.

—-

The water is cold. Brutally so. You step into the spray like it’s punishment—hands braced against the tile, jaw locked, breath held.

Because you’re still trying to wrap your head around the words that just tumbled out of your mouth a minute ago and why the fuck you even said them. The heat in your body needs to burn off or be drowned, and freezing water feels like your last rational defense.

It doesn’t work.

You gasp as it hits your skin—tight, cutting, and sharp. Your nipples pebble instantly. Your muscles tighten. But the cold doesn’t pull you out of it. It sharpenes it.

Every drop feels like a shock, like a wire pulled taut under your skin. Your thighs clench. Your breath trembles. Because Bucky is still out there.

And you can still feel him. Not with your hands. Not with your eyes. But with your mind. Your body. The thread still connects you. Hot under the cold. Deep under the logic. It pulses low in your belly, electric and alive. Dragging your thoughts right back to him.

You try to redirect—try to count the tiles on the wall, name the amino acids in a protein chain, recite your grant proposal backwards.

But your body betrays you. Your hips rock, searching for friction that doesn’t exist. Your hand drags down your chest without permission, sliding over wet skin, slick nipples, the curve of your stomach.

And suddenly he’s there. Not really. Not consciously. But you feel him. Watching. Wanting.

And worse—you want him to.

You bite your lip, hard. Try to shut it down. But your hand keeps moving. Between your thighs now. Water trailing down your skin like a thousand fingertips. The ache blooming sharp and impossible. You press your palm to yourself, just for a moment. Just to quiet it.

But something flares like it’s hungry too.

Your legs almost buckle. Shit. Shit. He felt that. You pant against the tile, eyes squeezed shut.

You can feel his attention spike like a spotlight behind your eyes—his breath, his pulse, the jagged edge of his restraint grinding against yours. You try to pull back. You try. But now you’re imagining it.

The wall behind you pressing into your shoulder blades. His mouth dragging heat up your neck. One hand on your hip—no, both hands. One flesh, one metal, holding you still while he whispers how much he’s been thinking about this.

How he knew you were going to touch yourself in the shower. How he wanted to be the reason you couldn’t help it.

Your breath hitches. A whimper escapes you. Just a sound, high and desperate and real. A surge.

The sensation that hits you is dizzying—like your nerves are suddenly on fire, like your own want is being echoed back tenfold.

You slap the water off fast, heart hammering. Your skin prickles as the cold air licks over it. You lean your forehead against the tile, panting. You’re shaking. Not from the cold. Not from fear. From restraint. From everything you didn’t let yourself do. And everything you know he felt anyway.

You press your hands over your face.

“Fuck.”

You stay like that for a long moment. Trying to breathe. Trying to pull yourself back into your body. Into the present. But even now, with the water off and your hands gripping the edge of the sink, you can feel the bond pulsing low behind your navel like it’s waiting. Like he’s waiting. And worst of all— You’re thinking about opening the door.

You want to know if he’s sitting there as wrecked as you are.

But you don’t yet. You reach for the towel. Wipe your face. Pull it tight around your body like it might hold you together. And you promise yourself you’ll be calm when you step back out there.

You wait a full minute before stepping out of the bathroom. You make sure your skin is mostly dry, your breathing sort of steady, and your towel tightly secured like a barrier that might still mean something. You open the door like you’re composed. You’re not. But it doesn’t matter.

Because the second you step into the room, you know. Bucky’s posture is wrecked. No more monk-like stillness. No more composed soldier routine. He’s pacing. Shoulders tense. Shirt clinging to him in places like he’s been sweating. His jaw is tight. His hands—both of them—are curled into fists like he’s holding back from breaking something. Or doing something.

His head snaps up the second he sees you. And then—he stops moving altogether. Freezes.

You feel it before he says a word: the punch of arousal, the crash of restraint, the friction of denial and desire grinding together behind his ribs like a blade.

His eyes sweep over you. Just once. Slowly.

The towel. The water still glistening along your collarbone. The flush on your cheeks that has nothing to do with temperature.

You feel his restraint falter—just for a breath—and it slams into your chest like a jolt of electricity.

“You…” he says, then stops. Swallows. His voice is hoarse. “That wasn’t fair.”

You blink, playing innocent. “What wasn’t?”

He steps forward once. Not touching. Not even close. But the bond pulls at you like gravity.

“You know what,” he says, voice low. “You know exactly what.”

Your heart pounds.

“So you felt that,” you say lightly, trying not to lose your footing on the slick edge of this moment.

He lets out a sharp breath. “You think I somehow didn’t feel that?”

The tension crackles between you—raw and thick and already past the point of pretending.

“I tried to shut it down,” you murmur.

He laughs. Just once. Bitter and breathless. “Yeah, I could tell ya tried really hard, sweetheart.”

You grip the edge of the towel a little tighter. “So what, you just sat there and…?”

His gaze drops to your mouth. And stays there.

You feel the burn of it behind your knees, in the pit of your stomach, deep between your thighs where the ache hasn’t fully gone away.

Your voice comes out smaller than you mean for it to. “And?”

His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare. You feel him fighting it again—fighting you. But he doesn’t lie.

“I wanted to come in there.”

The breath leaves your lungs in a shudder.

“I wanted to touch you,” he says, stepping closer. His voice drops lower. “Everywhere you were touching yourself.”

You swallow hard.

“But I didn’t,” he adds roughly.

You look up at him. “Why?”

His eyes search yours. Not angry. Not even pleading. Just—holding back.

“Because if I had…” He exhales, jaw tight. “I wouldn’t have stopped.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. Your body hums. Your fingers dig into the towel like it’s the last shield between you and a decision you might not be ready to unmake. And all you can do is whisper:

“…Okay.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch you. But something shifts in his posture—like he’s caught between instinct and decision, body wired forward even as his mind throws up a stop sign.

You see it all happen. The way his eyes flick to your mouth. The way his breaths become deeper. The way every muscle in him says yes while the rest of him fights to say no.

And then, finally—he steps back. One short, sharp step. Like distance will save either of you.

“Shit,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “We can’t.”

Your heart punches your ribs. “Why not?”

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just shakes his head, pacing once, hands flexing.

“You just came out of the shower like that, thinking what you were thinking, and I—” He stops. “I felt everything. You know that, right?” he repeats yet again.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know. And that’s the fucking problem.”

You blink. “So what, now you’re mad about it?”

“No,” he snaps. “I’m not mad. I’m trying not to lose my goddamn mind.”

You fold your arms over the towel. “You think this is easy for me?”

“I think our minds are so fried that we can’t tell what’s ours and what’s this,” he bites, gesturing between you two. “And if I touch you right now, I don’t know whose choice I’m making. Yours, mine, or the damn compound’s.”

That stops you. Because he’s right. Because you don’t even know anymore.

His voice drops. Still rough. Still wrecked.

“I’m not gonna take advantage of something that’s most likely not real. Not with you.”

You shift your weight, heartbeat hammering. You want to argue. You want to push. But part of you respects the hell out of it. So you just nod once. Clipped.

“Fine.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like restraint in physical form.

“Fine.”

And that’s it. You don’t close the distance. You don’t say anything else. You just turn away, heart still racing, skin still hot, towel still clutched like armor, and try like hell to pretend your body isn’t already halfway to betraying you again.

—-

Just perfect. Now there’s only a few more hours of pretending you’re not fully horny for the government-assigned menace in the corner.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the cot, earbuds in, blasting white noise loud enough to drown out your own thoughts—and hopefully his. It doesn’t work.

You can still feel him pacing. The slow, deliberate kind, like he’s working something out of his system. Like he’s hunting a problem he can’t solve. You can feel the heat of his attention every time your shirt rides up when you stretch. Every time you shift just a little too far sideways and your thigh brushes bare against cool air.

Every time your breath catches and his does, too. You know what he’s thinking. Or trying not to think.

So you decide to mess with him.

You think louder—sweet and smug, like you’re painting it across the bond on purpose: That shirt looks really good on you, soldier.

He flinches. Physically. And then stops pacing.

You smirk, tug the hem of your shirt down with exaggerated innocence. Small victories.

But then he drops to the floor and starts doing pushups. Which is so not fair.

You glance over and immediately regret it. His shirt stretches across his back like it’s apologizing to no one. Sweat clings at the collar. His arms flex, contract, flex again—slow and steady. Every controlled breath pushes heat through the bond.

You are trying to read a report. You are actively attempting productivity. But it’s hard when every line blurs around the mental image of his hands braced on either side of your head. You close the file. Try again.

He switches to pull-ups on an overhead bar. You throw your tablet at the wall.

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

He doesn’t stop. “Doing what?”

“Weaponizing your arms.”

His mouth twitches. “Maybe I’m just trying to stay in shape.”

You scowl. “This is psychological warfare.”

“You started it.”

You grab a pillow and launch it at his head. He dodges without breaking rhythm.

“Unbelievable.”

Later, you fall asleep. Not on purpose. Just long enough for your body to betray you. The dream is hot. Too hot. Lips at your throat, a mouth on your hipbone, hands everywhere you shouldn’t want them. You wake up gasping, sweat pooling at the base of your spine.

And he’s watching you. Sitting in the corner, arms folded, expression like stone. Except for his eyes. His eyes are a slow burn. He doesn’t say anything. But you feel it. The echo of your dream still pinging between you. Not graphic—just emotional residue. A leftover ache.

And maybe the worst part is: you feel his too.

The loneliness under it. The way he felt it right along with you. The part of him that wanted it to be real. To be his hands. His mouth. His weight on top of you instead of the memory of a shared hallucination. You shift on the cot, heart still pounding.

“Did you…?” you ask.

He doesn’t move. Just nods once. “Yeah.”

You pull your knees to your chest and try not to shake.

Five hours in, you almost lose it.

You’re pretending to read again. You’re biting the inside of your cheek to keep your breathing steady. He’s sitting on the other cot now, towel around his neck, shirt wrung out and tossed somewhere in the corner like it wronged him personally. His skin is flushed. His forearms are braced on his knees. His head is tipped back slightly.

You can feel it through the bond—he’s trying not to think about how your skin looked glistening after the shower. Trying not to remember the sound you made. You try to be good. You really do. But then you snap.

“You have to stop thinking about my mouth.”

You don’t even look up. You don’t have to. There’s a long pause.

“I’m not,” he says.

You glance over. He’s biting his lip. You both groan.

He covers his face with one hand. “Okay, you have to stop doing the thing with your tongue.”

“What thing?”

He waves a hand vaguely. “That thing you do when you’re concentrating. You lick your bottom lip slowly like you’re trying to kill me.”

You throw a blanket at him. He catches it with a smug little grin, but you feel the way his chest tightens under it. The way he’s fighting not to lean into the tether—into the pull of you.

You flop onto your cot face-first. “This is the worst horny hostage situation I’ve ever been in.”

“Been in many?”

You scream a muffled “FUCK” into the mattress.

His chuckle is low. Rough. Warm.

It rolls down your spine like a confession you weren’t ready to hear. And when your hand slips between your thighs a minute later, just to relieve the pressure, just to breathe, you feel his breath hitch in your mind.

“Stop.” His voice cuts through the air, hoarse. Strained. Not angry—pleading.

You freeze. But don’t pull away.

“I can’t,” you whisper.

A pause. Heavy. Loaded.

“You can.”

You roll your head toward him, half-lidded, flushed, and exhale: “Then say it.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Tell me not to touch myself,” you say. “But say it like you mean it.”

You feel his restraint buckle. The desire choking the back of his throat. You move your hand again, slow, under the blanket. The wet slide of your fingers deliberate.

“You already know what I’m thinking,” he grits out.

“Say it anyway.”

He’s still across the room, sitting rigid on the cot, fists clenched on his knees like it’s the only way to stop himself from moving.

You close your eyes and moan—quiet, bitten-off. You can’t help it. 

And that’s when it breaks him.

“God,” he growls. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

“I have some idea,” you tease back and squeeze your eyes shut.

And in your mind, you can feel a switch flip in his.

There’s a sudden metallic crack—a sharp, violent sound that echoes off the walls. Your eyes fly open. The security camera in the corner is shattered—glass fractured, wires exposed, the red recording light extinguished. His chest is heaving, fists clenched like he didn’t even think before moving.

“I want to be over there,” he rushes out hoarsely. “I want to rip that sheet off and watch you fall apart for me.”

Your breath stops but he keeps going, like his tongue is unable to stop.

“I want your legs open. Want your fingers soaked because you were thinking about my mouth.”

He rises, takes one step forward, then stops himself—grabbing the edge of the table like it might anchor him. You whimper.

“I’d put my hand between your thighs,” he says, lower now. Rougher. “Press my fingers into you until you begged me to fuck you.”

Your mind hums, white hot. You feel it in your ribs, your spine, your throat.

“You’d take it, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs. “All of it. My fingers, my cock—”

You cry out softly, thighs twitching, chasing friction.

“I’d have your back arched and your hands in my hair and you wouldn’t even be able to say my name without sobbing.”

You grind down harder now, pulse pounding in your ears. You feel him feeling you—his hips twitching, cock hard and aching, brain flooded with everything you’re giving him.

“Touch your clit,” he commands.

You do. Gasping. The pleasure punches through your body like a current.

“Just like that,” he says, voice shaking. “Rub slow. You don’t need to come yet. I want to hear you say what you want.”

“You already know,” you choke out.

“Tell me, doll,” he says again, dark, wanting. “Tell me how wet you are.”

You almost sob. “So wet—Jesus—Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he says. “Let me hear it. I want every filthy sound you’ve got.”

You move faster, breath catching, the heat coiling tight and hard and close.

“I’d eat you out so slowly you’d scream. Then fuck you with my fingers until you begged for more. You want that?”

“Yes.”

“You want my cock?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to come in you, fill you, make you feel it for hours?”

Your whole body locks—back arching, legs tightening—

And you shatter.

White-hot pleasure rips through you, shattering like glass behind your ribs—louder and deeper than anything you’ve ever felt. It’s not just the orgasm. It’s also his body responding to yours, his want echoing through every nerve ending like a second heartbeat.

You can feel what you’re doing to him. The hunger. The ache. The way his restraint unravels with every sound you make, every twitch of your fingers.

The bond lights up like an explosion—flooding both of you. There’s no separation. No inside or outside. Just youandhimyouandhimyouandhim in one long, gasping pulse of release.

His groan is feral. Raw. Wrecked. You’re still trembling when you open your eyes. And he’s right there.

Closer than he was. Right in front of you. Breathing hard, eyes dark, hands clenched like it took everything in him not to touch you. Not to throw himself into the wreckage and keep going.

He’s about to move. About to drop to his knees. About to make good on every filthy promise he just breathed into your bones—

Then a chime sounds at the door.

You both freeze. A beat. Then Dr. Yen’s voice comes crisply over the intercom.

“Just a heads up—I’ll be entering the room in ten seconds for dampener prep. Try to look less… elevated.”

You let out a strangled noise and yank the blanket over your face, legs still shaking.

The door hisses open. Light spills in. Footsteps. Dr. Yen walks in like she didn’t just catch you mid-meltdown.

“Good evening,” she says, clipboard in hand, eyes respectfully trained downward. “Time for neural dampener administration.”

Bucky turns away like he’s been gut-punched. You lie there in silence, half-covered, half-exposed, pulse still thundering.

Dr. Yen pauses. Looks up.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t just watch both your biometric readings spike like you ran a marathon while getting tased.”

You groan louder.

She sighs. “I’ll return in ten minutes with the equipment. Maybe try some breathing exercises.”

She turns and walks out, boots clicking.

The door shuts, and the silence she leaves behind could crush a mountain. You’re both wrecked. Glowing. Silent.  Not comfortable. Not even heavy. But pressurized. You shift on the cot. Pick at the edge of the blanket, like you’re unthreading a thought. You cough once. Clear your throat.

“So…” you say. Then instantly regret it.

Bucky doesn’t look up from where he’s now sitting, arms braced, jaw tight. His eyes are fixed on some invisible point across the room.

You try again, softer this time. “That was… intense.” Still nothing.

You roll your eyes at yourself. “God, sorry. That sounded like the end of a bad first date.”

Finally, his voice cuts through the silence. Low. Flat.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

You blink. “What, the part where you told me everything you wanted to do to me while I was—?”

He exhales sharply. “Don’t.”

You pause. Watch him. “Why?”

“Because it wasn’t fair,” he mutters. “I didn’t have to make it worse.”

“You didn’t make it worse.”

He glances at you. Briefly.

And you feel it—what he won’t say. The guilt. The self-loathing. The fear that he wanted it more than he should’ve, and the shame that he let himself say so.

You try to keep your voice light. “It hasn’t been all bad, you know. Feeling like this.”

Something flickers in him—shame, maybe. Sadness. But it’s gone before you can name it.

“It’s not real,” he says. “You know that.”

You shift again. “You think I can’t tell the difference?”

“I don’t know, Doc. But you should. You wrote the fucking book on it!” He’s not angry. Just tired. 

“You’re reacting to a synthetic neurochemical tether.” He says it like he’s quoting a file. “It wires your empathy straight into mine and floods your body with cross-sensory feedback. Of course it feels like something.”

“Yeah,” you say. “It feels like you. Like… warm static. I didn’t think I’d get used to it, but I have.”

His jaw clenches.

Something bracing inside him tickles through your bones. Like he’s locking the door before you even finish knocking.

You hesitate, before adding, carefully, “Maybe that’s not so terrible.”

He turns toward you now, finally, and there’s something in his face—tired, closed off, already half gone.

“Look,” he sighs. “In a few hours, you’re going to feel normal again. This’ll wear off, we’ll detox. And you’ll go back to thinking I’m a prick.”

You stare at him. “Is that really what you think I’m going to walk away with?”

“It’s what I’ll walk away with,” he says.

How certain he is bounces back at you. The way he’s already convinced himself this was a mistake. Not just a misstep, but a flaw in his wiring. Something he’s trying to undo before it’s too late and your resolve starts to melt.

His voice softens, but not in a comforting way. In that quiet, beaten-down way that says he’s already written the ending and doesn’t want to hear another version.

“I crossed a line,” he says. “And you’re going to wake up tomorrow and wish I hadn’t.”

You feel it. In your ribs, your throat, your teeth. Not the tension from before—but a dull, hollow echo of finality. He believes this.

You don’t answer. There’s nothing left to say that won’t bounce off the wall he’s putting back up. You nod once. Slowly. Then lie back on the cot and turn your face to the wall. The link hums faintly behind your ribs—tender, uncertain. But you don’t follow it. You just let the silence settle between you again. Thicker than before. Colder. Final.

—

You’re sitting across from him when the door opens. Same cots. Same sterile walls. Same ten feet of silence between you. You haven’t looked at him but you still feel him linked. Quiet, almost gentle now. Like it knows it’s dying. A breath too deep. A flicker of guilt. A spike of regret. It doesn’t matter that he won’t meet your eyes.

Dr. Yen steps into the room with her tablet in one hand and a hard-sided case in the other. She’s in scrubs this time. Hair tied back. Movements clipped and practiced.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

The case opens with a soft click. Two injectors inside, small and sleek. She pulls one out and checks the dosage. 

“Once administered, the dampener will suppress all synthetic limbic resonance. You’ll feel a shift within thirty seconds. Disassociation. Numbness. Maybe a little nausea.”

You exhale through your nose.

“And then?”

She meets your eyes. “Then the link breaks.”

You nod. She walks to you first.

“Roll up your sleeve,” she says gently.

You do. The motion feels surreal—like you’re watching yourself from somewhere outside your body. She presses the injector to the soft skin inside your elbow.

You take a breath, hold it. Click. A whisper of compressed air. Cold floods your arm instantly—icy, clinical, creeping up your bicep like frostbite. It spreads into your shoulder, your neck, your spine.

And then—

Something inside you flickers. The hum. The warmth. Him. It begins to fade. Not all at once. It drains. Like light slipping out of a room. Like someone slowly turning the volume knob on a song you didn’t know you’d memorized. You feel the difference before you can process it. Your thoughts stop echoing. Your heartbeat feels… alone.

Bucky says nothing when it’s his turn. He doesn’t ask what it’ll feel like. He doesn’t hesitate. Just rolls up his sleeve, still pitched forward. Dr. Yen administers his dose with quiet efficiency. Click. Hiss. And then it’s quiet again. Except it’s not the same.

Because now, the silence is dead. No hum. No pulse. No emotional feedback or flicker of awareness. No him. He’s still there, physically. Still sitting across from you. Still wearing the same black T-shirt, the same unreadable expression. But you can’t feel him anymore. And the absence hits harder than you expect.

Dr. Yen checks the readings on her tablet. Taps a few buttons. Then nods.

“That’s it,” she says. “Connection is terminated.”

You nod, slowly. There’s a ringing in your ears that wasn’t there before.

Yen doesn’t linger. She packs up and walks out without another word. The door hisses shut behind her. And that’s it. It’s over.

You look at him. He’s not looking at you. There’s no warmth where your chest used to light up every time he almost met your gaze. Now it’s just empty space. You wait. A beat. Two.

He finally stands. Moves like he’s stiff. Or maybe he’s just trying to control the way his body reacts now that you can’t feel it.

His eyes flick toward you, just once. And then away.

At the door, hand hovering near the panel, he pauses. Just long enough to let hope get in one last swing.

“You’ll feel like yourself again soon.”

You blink. Straighten slightly. But before you can respond, he’s already gone. The door shuts behind him. And this time, you feel nothing at all.

—

Two weeks later and you definitely don’t feel like yourself again. Everyone said you would. That the dampener would work, that your neural pathways would recalibrate, that within a few days you’d forget what it felt like to share your mind with someone else.

They were wrong. The silence is worse than the bond ever was.

It isn’t just quiet—it’s hollow. There are no phantom thoughts, no flickers of static behind your ribs. No heat curling in your stomach when someone else walks in the room. You’re not buzzing anymore. You’re just… still.

You’ve tried to distract yourself. Buried yourself in lab reports. Filed updates. Pretended the whole thing was a chemical anomaly that didn’t matter.

You haven’t heard from him. You haven’t reached out, either.

Mostly because you’re not sure what you’d say—and partly because the last time you saw him, he all but told you that everything you felt was fake. You were still deciding whether to be mad or hurt when Valentina Allegra de Fontaine’s name lit up your encrypted line.

And now here you are. Walking into the new Avengers Tower for a mandatory debriefing.

You strut through the sleek white corridor with polished concrete floors, reinforced glass walls, surveillance cameras tucked into every corner. A place designed to look like freedom and security, while quietly reminding everyone who’s in charge. And Val’s definitely in charge.

You press your thumb to the biometric reader. The door clicks open. And then you’re in the room.

Seven chairs. One long table. Your team’s already there—Dr. Yen, Dr. Deenan, and Dr. Morales, seated stiffly with laptops open and half-expressed concern on their faces. You nod to them, then catch sight of the others.

The New Avengers. Ava’s leaning back with her boots up on the chair next to her, scanning her phone like she’d rather be anywhere else. Yelena twirls a pen in her fingers while whispering something to Bob, who stifles a laugh. Alexei ie eating something from a foil pouch. John Walker’s in full uniform, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he’s waiting to be pissed off.

And at the head of the table—Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. She smiles when she sees you. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Doctor,” she purrs. “Right on time. We were just getting to the fun part.”

You arch an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize this was a party.”

Val gestures to the empty seat across from her. “Take a load off.”

You sit. The chair’s cold. So is the room.

She taps her tablet, and the wall monitor comes to life—schematics, biofeedback logs, simulated overlays of two bodies in sync.

Yours. And his. Your heart gives a tiny, involuntary jolt.

“We’ve reviewed your data,” Val says. “The bonding agent was more successful than projected. Real-time empathic mirroring. Linked adrenaline response. Even synchronized aggression modulation. Fascinating.”

You glance at your team. No one meets your eye.

“Fascinating doesn’t mean safe,” you say.

“No,” Val agrees, tapping to the next slide, “but it does mean viable.”

Your stomach drops.

She keeps going. “We’ve had early conversations with R&D. We think we can refine it. Pull the limbic entanglement into tighter constraints. Give our agents an edge in the field. Total tactical unity. Real-time mental synchronicity in squads of two to five. Imagine it.”

“I’d rather not,” you say flatly.

Val tilts her head. “That’s surprising. You invented it.”

You cross your arms. “I invented a theory. Not a weapon. That compound was never designed for field ops. It was meant to test artificial empathy synthesis in high-stress environments. I never signed off on deployment.”

“You didn’t have to,” she replies, sweet as poison. “You tested it. That’s what matters.”

Your jaw tightens. “What do you want from me?”

Val smiles.

“I want you to stabilize it.”

The room goes quiet.

You don’t answer.

Because your fingers have curled into fists under the table, and the muscle in your jaw is working too hard.

Val’s smile sharpens. “Don’t make that face. You’re not the first brilliant mind to regret what they’ve built. That’s why we’ve brought in oversight.”

You glance around the table, pulse ticking higher. “This is oversight?”

Val gestures lazily toward the door. “Speak of the devil.”

It opens. He walks in. Bucky.

Same stride. Same black tactical pants. Same expression that says he’d rather be anywhere else. But not quite the same. Tighter. Like something inside him is coiled and hasn’t uncoiled since the dampener. You sit straighter without meaning to. He doesn’t look at you. Just nods to the room like it’s a formality. Takes the seat across the table from you, beside Ava, who gives him a quick look. You can feel the space between you stretch like a fault line.

Val keeps going, too casual.

“As most of you know, Sergeant Barnes was one of the two bonded during the prototype incident.”

No one speaks. Ava tilts her head, intrigued. Alexei is still chewing. John looks like he’s waiting to laugh. Bob’s the only one scribbling anything down.

Val turns toward Bucky, her voice silk-wrapped steel. “You submitted a full statement. Care to summarize for the room?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“It’s not stable.”

“Define ‘not stable.’”

He looks directly at her now. “There’s no shut-off switch.”

Val smiles like she’s waiting for that. “The dampener worked.”

“Eventually.”

You feel a tug in your chest—but not from the bond. Just memory. Just him.

Val leans back. “Let’s talk about the psychological aftermath.”

You freeze. So does he.

“I read your report,” Val continues. “There were some… interesting observations. About your partner.”

You glance at him, breath catching. He doesn’t speak. Val does.

“‘Responsive. Precise. Too quick to hide discomfort behind sarcasm. Wants to be in control but softens under pressure. Harder to ignore than expected.’”

You stare at her. Then at him. He’s not meeting your eyes. His jaw is tight.

Val keeps reading, but her eyes are on you. “‘I think she felt it too. I think we both wanted it to stop, and neither of us wanted it to stop.’”

The room is silent. No one breathes.

She closes the file with a tap and smiles. “Romantic. Almost poetic.”

Bucky shifts in his chair. “That wasn’t meant for discussion.”

Val keeps going, tapping her tablet again. “Of course, Sergeant Barnes wasn’t the only one who filed a report.”

Your eyes narrow. She scrolls casually. “Let’s see here…”

Your team shifts awkwardly. Ava raises an brow. Walker leans back, already skeptical.

“Ah—found it,” Val says, lips twitching. “‘Post-dampener vitals returned to pre-bond baseline within 48 hours. No lingering physical effects. Subject reports successful cognitive decoupling.’” She glances at you. “Very clinical so far.”

You say nothing. Your throat is tight.

Val continues reading, voice just loud enough to carry. “‘Subject notes difficulty adjusting to emotional silence. Persistent phantom resonance. Reports occasional insomnia, sensory misfires, and…’” She slows. “‘…a recurring sense of loss with no identifiable origin.’”

You feel the breath leave your lungs.

Val looks up, smile gone. Her tone shifts—mocking, just slightly. “‘It’s strange. I should be relieved to have myself back. But some part of me feels like it’s still looking for him.’”

The silence in the room shifts. Heavy. Sharp. Bucky turns to look at you. Not subtly. Not just a glance. He looks at you like you’ve just said something dangerous. Like you’ve handed him a key he didn’t know he was allowed to touch.

You look back. And for the first time since the bond broke—you really see him seeing you.

But then his expression shutters. Clean. Cold. Gone. Like he’s pulled the wall back up in one brutal breath.

Val closes the file with a flick of her fingers. 

“Well. This answers my question. If it worked that fast on two unsuspecting individuals—one emotionally distant, the other the one who wrote the damn rules about boundaries—what do we think it’ll do to a trained field team under fire?”

You exhale through your nose. “You’re not trying to refine it. You’re trying to weaponize it.”

Val shrugs. “Tomato, tomahto.”

Your pulse spikes. “You want to use forced bonding as a tactical tool. You want soldiers to feel each other die in real time, feel pain that isn’t theirs, emotions that aren’t theirs—”

“They’ll be trained.”

“They’ll be broken.”

Now the room shifts. Ava sits forward. Yelena’s brow lifts. Even Walker glances sideways at Val.

Val only smiles. “Everyone breaks differently, doctor. That’s the point.”

You can’t help it. You turn to Bucky. He’s looking down. Still silent. Still locked. But you know that posture. You’ve felt it. The way he retreats. The way he steels himself before walking away.

Val’s voice cuts back in. “Final reports are due in forty-eight hours. Including yours, Doctor. Whether you cooperate or not, this is moving forward.”

You don’t answer. She rises. The others begin to move.

But Bucky doesn’t. Not until the last chair scrapes back. Then he stands. And walks out without looking back. This time, you don’t hesitate.

You catch him in the hallway just outside the briefing room.

“Barnes.”

He keeps walking, boots steady on the polished floor like you’re not behind him, like he didn’t just bolt from a public dissection of your most private thoughts. You pick up the pace.

“I said—”

“Don’t,” he mutters without turning. “Not here.”

You follow anyway. Right past the security checkpoint. Into the common area of the residential wing.

Then you hear them. Voices behind you—low, not subtle. Bob. Alexei. You’d bet money Walker’s loitering just out of view, arms crossed and dying for gossip.

“Wow,” Yelena says from behind the coffee bar. “Very dramatic storm-off. Ten out of ten.”

Bucky still doesn’t stop. You catch up beside him, matching his pace. “You’re seriously going to act like none of that meant anything?”

“I’m not doing this in front of an audience,” he snaps, still not looking at you.

You ignore it. “What did you think was going to happen? You walk away and I just go back to being a line item in your report?”

He reaches the end of the hallway. Stops. Jaw locked. Hands at his sides.

“I’m not doing this,” he says again, quieter now. Less sharp. More tired.

You hesitate.  And then you say it—just low enough for him to really hear it.

“Bucky, please.”

His head turns. Slow. Measured. Like he didn’t expect you to use his name. Like it broke through something.

You stare up at him. One beat. Two. And then he grabs your wrist—not rough, not rushed—and pulls you with him through the nearest door.

His quarters. The lock clicks behind you. He doesn’t let go. You’re both breathing too hard for how little either of you has moved. His fingers tighten around your wrist.

“I don’t need a debrief,” he says flatly. “Whatever Val’s hoping you’ll get out of this—”

“Don’t do that,” you say.

His shoulders go rigid. “Do what.”

“Shut me out.”

He finally turns. And the look on his face makes your heart falter.

He’s not angry. He’s gutted.

“I told you, once this wore off—”

“I didn’t say it because of the link,” you snap. “I said it because it’s true.”

He shakes his head. “You think it’s true. Because it’s recent. Because you’re still sorting it out.”

“No,” you say. “I said it because I miss you. Because I can’t sleep. Because the silence feels worse than the noise ever did.”

He goes quiet. You take a step closer.

“And don’t tell me it’s not real. Don’t tell me it’s just feedback. I’ve been through every model of post-synthetic resonance in the literature. This isn’t detox.”

Bucky stares at you like he wants to believe you. Like he’s aching to. But the wall is still up. Tighter than ever.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “You’re going to walk out of here and get over it. And I’m going to remember everything I said. Everything I wanted. And wish I hadn’t said a goddamn word.”

That knocks the air out of you. You feel the urge to step back—but you don’t. You root yourself there.

“I’m not over it,” you say, quietly. “And I don’t want to be.”

He looks at you. Really looks. And something shifts in him. But he still doesn’t move. So you step closer. Not too close. Just enough to make it clear you’re not afraid of the space between you. Not anymore. You don’t touch him. Not yet.

“I’ve spent two weeks trying to shut you out of my head,” you murmur. “Pretending I didn’t miss you. That I wasn’t checking every hallway and every email, wondering if you’d say something.”

He exhales sharply through his nose and looks down.

“And when you didn’t,” you add, voice tighter now, “I told myself you were just being careful. That you were trying to do the right thing.”

A pause. Then, lower.

“But maybe it was just easier for you.”

That hits. You see it—right in his eyes. Still, he doesn’t speak. So you finish it.

“Either you felt what I felt or you didn’t,” you say, chin lifting. “But don’t stand there and act like it was just some side effect. Like all of it—everything between us—was just my body misfiring.”

You take a final step closer to him.

“I know who you are now—not just the version you show, not the file, not the soldier. You. I felt every part you tried to hide. And it only made me want you more. And if that was all fake, I don’t know what the hell is real anymore.”

That’s when he moves.

It’s not gentle. It’s not rehearsed. It’s like something inside him snaps, and before you can take another breath, his hands are in your hair, his mouth crashing against yours like he’s been holding back for years—not weeks.

You stumble into him with a gasp, grabbing the front of his shirt like you need it to stay standing. His kiss is rough, hungry, almost frantic—like he’s trying to erase the silence with his teeth.

He spins you, walks you backwards until your shoulders hit the door, and then he’s bracing one arm beside your head, the other sliding down to your hip like he needs to feel you, all of you, right now.

You kiss him back with everything you’ve been holding in. Anger. Frustration. Hunger. Something dangerously close to relief. He pulls back just long enough to look at you, lips swollen, breathing hard.

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

“Yes,” you whisper, dragging your fingers down the line of his stomach. “I do.”

His mouth reclaims yours. This time, the kiss is slower. Hungrier. Less desperation, more purpose. His tongue traces the shape of your lips, parting them before diving in. His hands move, rough and reverent. Skimming your jaw, down your neck, across your chest. They slide beneath your shirt, palms splayed wide like he’s trying to cover all of you at once, like he can’t decide what to touch first. You feel the heat of him through every inch of fabric, and it lights you up from the inside.

He hesitates Just a little. Like it costs him something to stop. A breath caught in his throat. Fingers curling into fists where they’d just been on your ribs. Everything is vibrating with want. No bond. No compound tether. Just this. Just him. And he’s shaking. Not visibly. But you feel it in his breath. In the way his hands flex when they grip your hips. Like he’s holding back with every ounce of control he has left.

“You sure?” he rasps, low and wrecked.

You nod. He doesn’t move. So you press your mouth to his ear. 

“Bucky,” you whisper. “I’ve been sure since I looked you in the eye and told you not to think about sex.”

He exhales, a bit shaky, but lifts you, guiding you backward toward the bed. Walking you slow and blind, like he’s memorized every inch of you and he’s finally getting to touch what he learned.

You hit the mattress. He’s on you a second later, crowding you down with the weight of his body, the strength of his stare.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your cheek. “I want to see you.”

Your heart stutters as he starts to undress you. Slow at first, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. Fingers dragging over skin with intention. Mouth kissing every new inch he uncovers.

“You’re fuckin’ beautiful, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You whimper, hands reaching, but he pins your wrists lightly to the bed.

“Let me,” he says. “You’ve had your hands on yourself enough, haven’t you?”

Your face burns but your thighs twitch. He clocks it.

“Oh, you liked that,” he murmurs, voice like velvet. “Liked making me feel it. Every fuckin’ second.”

“Bucky—”

“You wanna know what it did to me?” he asks, trailing his fingers down your stomach, your hip, your thigh. “The way you touched yourself? Knowing I couldn’t stop you. Couldn’t help you. Couldn’t taste you.”

Your breath hitches as his lips graze your inner thigh.

“I almost lost it, doll.”

He groans as he spreads you open, thumb teasing, mouth following. He’s slow at first. Too slow. Licking soft circles like he’s memorizing the shape of your pleasure.

And then he dives in.

Moans into you like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Holds your thighs apart, firm and unrelenting, while his tongue works in perfect rhythm. Watching you. Murmuring praise between licks and gasps. Your hips twitch, a whimper slipping through your clenched teeth.

“Already?” he murmurs, breath hot against you. “You that close, sweetheart?”

You try to answer, but it’s useless.

“God, look at you,” he groans. “So fucking wet.”

You arch up in response, gasping.

“Needy little thing,” he laughs, brushing his fingers through your folds. “Bet this is all you’ve been thinking about the past two weeks, huh?”

He plunges a finger inside of you and curls, as do your toes while you rasp out.

“Bucky, please!”

“You gonna fall apart for me, doll?” he murmurs against you, the words so filthy and tender they almost make you cry. “I want it. Want to feel you shake. Want to taste every bit of it.”

He flicks his tongue in tight circles, then flattens it low and slow. Adding another finger to your weeping core. Your hips start to shake, lifting off the bed. He feels it and grips you tighter.

“Don’t fight it,” he gasps into you. “Don’t you fucking dare. That’s mine.”

He sucks hard—just once—and your vision whites out. You try to warn him. A gasp, a stuttered breath, a twist of your hips. But it’s already too late. You come with a cry, fists clutching the sheets, legs locked around his shoulders, everything inside you unraveling at once.

It’s too much. Too sharp. Too good. And he groans into you like he’s the one coming. You’re limp, gasping, still shaking—and he’s still there, mouth wet, fingers brushing your hip.

“Shit,” you breathe. “That was…”

He kisses the inside of your thigh. Then again, a little higher.

“You’re not done yet,” he says, voice thick with hunger. “Not even close.”

He keeps going, softer now—just enough to draw the aftershocks out of you, murmuring things you can barely hear over your own heartbeat.

“So perfect. So fuckin’ sweet”

You blink through the stars behind your eyes, chest rising in fast, uneven bursts.

“Bucky—”

He finally comes up for air, his eyes are darker with something deeper than just heat as his gaze locks on yours. And for a second, neither of you moves.

You’re still panting, still wrecked from his mouth and fingers, but there’s something in the way he looks at you now. Like he’s trying to memorize you, even as his restraint starts to crack again.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

You nod, breath caught in your throat.

“Good,” he says, fingers sliding up your sides. “Because I’m not done learning how you fall apart.”

You whine when he pulls away. But when his own shirt comes off, followed by the rest, your breath stutters—because even now, with the link broken, you’re still wrecked by your need for him.

Not like before. Not a shared mind or emotion. But like muscle memory. Like your skin knows him now. His mouth tilts up—barely a smile, more like relief bleeding through restraint.

Then he climbs your body like he owns it, skin dragging over skin. Not rushing. Savoring. Like he’s been starving for you and doesn’t want to miss a single fucking bite. His chest brushes yours—bare, flushed—and you both exhale hard, the contact so electric it knocks the air from your lungs.

You reach for him, aching, but he catches your wrists—not to stop you. To feel you. To anchor himself. His thumbs press into your palms, grounding hard.

“You still want this?” he murmurs.

You nod. But that’s not enough. Not for either of you.

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you.”

He kisses you like he means to brand it into you, deep and claiming. His whole body comes down over yours, pinning you into the mattress with his weight like he’s trying to fuck the memory of him into your bones.

His hand trails down your side, over your hip, gripping your thigh with purpose. Holding you there, keeping you open for him.

“You feel that?” he whispers against your jaw, slowly dragging his cock against your sensitive heat. “That’s real. Not chemicals. Not the compound.”

You nod again, blinking up at him.

“I felt you before, doll,” he murmurs, pressing the head against your entrance. “But now? Now I get to have you.”

Then he pushes in slowly. Inch by inch as it steals the air from your lungs, not realizing how you could ever feel this full. He’s everywhere. It’s not artificial. It’s just him. Just this. And it’s overwhelming in a completely different way.

“God, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he groans, as his hips finally meet yours. “Like you were made for me.”

He moves slow at first, watching your face, chasing every gasp, every arch of your body. Letting you relax into the stretch as he drags himself in and out of you. Your body answers him before your mouth can. Nails digging into his shoulder. The pressure already building, faster this time, hotter. And he feels it, responding with a low, rough growl in your ear.

“Got used to feeling everything,” he murmurs. “Now I’ve gotta earn it. Every sound. Every twitch of those perfect fuckin’ hips.”

You can’t even speak. You moan, hips tilting up, greedy for more.

“That’s right,” he breathes, rougher now. “Show me.”

He rocks into you again, harder this time. You gasp, cry out softly against his shoulder. 

“Bucky—please—”

“You begging already?” he groans, continuing to pound you deeper into the mattress. “Thought I was just a side effect.”

“You weren’t.”

He freezes, just for a moment. Kisses you again, softer now, but more desperate.

“Say it again.” His forehead presses to yours.

You touch his face, thumb brushing the hard line of his jaw. “You weren’t.”

He exhales like it hurts.

“You gonna come for me again, sweetheart?”

You whimper, helpless as your walls begin to flutter around him.

“Yeah, you are,” he breathes. “I can feel it. So tight around me already.”

And the way he looks at you—wrecked and reverent and just this side of feral—makes your whole body stutter. You want it. Want to be ruined by him. Claimed by him.

You tighten around him again, and his hips snap harder. His hand slips between your bodies. Finds your clit. Zeroes in without mercy.

“Give it to me,” he whispers into your throat. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

It hits like a freight train—loud and messy and devastating. Your back arches, your breath catches, and you cry out his name like it’s the only word you’ve got left.

He fucks you through it—long, dragging thrusts that keep you trembling. Your body’s oversensitive now, every nerve frayed, but he doesn’t stop. Keeps going, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“Bucky,” you moan, hand in his hair, nails dragging over his scalp.

He breaths into your mouth—kissing you like he’s starving.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he pants. “You know that?”

You whimper, thighs shaking.

“I tried to keep it together,” he growls, voice ragged. “I tried—”

Every thrust is brutal now. Precise. Shattering.

“Fuck,” he breaths. “When you were—”

“Buck—”

He kisses you again, biting your lip. His hand moves between you again, thumb rubbing fast and perfect.

“God, baby—” His voice cracks. “You’re gonna make me fuckin’ lose it.”

“Then lose it,” you whisper. “I want you to.”

He growls your name, broken and wrecked, hips jerking once, twice—And you shatter. It slams through you—raw, loud, everything burning at the edges. Your body seizes, clenching around him, sobbing his name as you fall apart in his arms.

He buries himself inside you. You feel the heat. The flood. The way he tries to hold himself together and can’t. He’s trembling over you, muscles locked tight, jaw clenched as he pulses deep in you, riding it out with a low, wrecked moan.

You’re both gasping now. Shaking. Tangled up and clinging. And still—he doesn’t pull away. He stays. Forehead to yours, still buried deep, arms wrapped around you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I’ve never thought—” he starts, voice ragged. “That wasn’t just—”

You touch his face, soft now. “I know.”

Because you do. This wasn’t adrenaline. Wasn’t science. Wasn’t the bond. It was him. It was you. He lifts his head slowly. Looks at you like he’s still afraid to believe it. So you cup his face, kiss his temple, and whisper, “Don’t you dare vanish on me now.”

His throat works, jaw clenches. But he doesn’t run.

He stays right where he is. Wrapped around you.

—-

The room is warm. Quiet. You’re lying on your back, one leg tangled with his, the sheets kicked halfway off the bed. Bucky’s fingers skim slow circles over your hip, like he hasn’t figured out how to stop touching you yet. Or doesn’t want to. You stare at the ceiling.

“Tell me again how this wasn’t a terrible idea,” you murmur.

He huffs out a laugh. “It was a terrible idea.”

“Oh, good,” you say. “So we’re on the same page.”

He shifts, rolling just enough to look at you. His hair is a mess, his chest still rising a little fast, like he hasn’t fully come down. There’s a smudge of dried sweat at his temple and your teeth marks fading on his neck, and you have the completely inappropriate urge to kiss both.

“Can’t believe I got to sleep with the woman who called me a glorified blunt object,” he says dryly.

You smirk. “Wasn’t planning to sleep with the guy who implied my life’s work was an emotional leash.”

“Touché.”

You sigh. Close your eyes for a second. The weight of it all—what came before, what you just crossed into—settles somewhere behind your ribs. He’s still watching you when you open them again.

“I’ll deal with Val,” he says suddenly. “If she tries to pull anything with the compound, I’ll shut it down.”

You blink. “You’re serious.”

“I usually am.”

You study him for a beat. “You don’t have to fight my battles, Barnes.”

“No,” he says. “But I want to.”

Something about the way he says it. Casual and quiet, like it isn’t a big deal, makes your stomach tighten. He’s not pushing. Not performing. He just means it. You shift closer, resting your chin on his chest. “You know, if you’d told me two weeks ago I’d end up in your bed—”

“You would’ve laughed in my face.”

“I did laugh in your face.”

“You told me I looked like a government-issued mistake.”

You snort. “Well. You kind of did.”

He smirks, fingers brushing a line along your spine. “Still think I’m a mistake?”

You glance up at him. He’s smiling, but it’s tentative. Like he’s not sure if you’ll dodge or hit back. So you lean up, kiss him—soft, but real. Honest.

“Maybe not a mistake,” you whisper against his mouth. “Maybe just… statistically improbable.”

He laughs against your lips. You both fall back into the pillows, tangled up and far too warm, but neither of you moves.

Eventually he murmurs, “This thing between us—whatever it is—it’s real now, right?”

You stretch a leg over his, sighing. “I mean, if it’s not, then I’m still having incredibly vivid sex dreams while awake.”

“That’s flattering.”

“That’s science.”

He kisses your forehead and mumbles, “Then let’s see what happens without science.”

You let that settle. No neurobond. No link. No forced proximity. Just choice. You curl in closer. And this time, when you breathe him in, you don’t feel afraid.

''I'm fine.'' He flexes his fingers, testing the weight of it, the glow of the Wakandan tech reflecting the low light on the jet. Another stutter, another spark, and the arm slams against the wall beside him with a loud clang. The whole jet seems to echo the sound.

Your eyes widen. ''Bucky—''

''It's fine.'' The words are clipped, as if the sheer force of his denial could override the reality of malfunctioning circuitry. He holds the limb tightly against himself like he can pin it into submission, like it's just a wild animal that needs restraining.

You raise an eyebrow. ''Uh-huh. Because most people's arms throw tantrums like that.''

The corner of his mouth almost twitches, but then another wave of sparks hisses, scattering in the dark like fireflies, and his whole body stiffens. His fingers uncontrollably curl into a fist, not budging even when he uses his flesh hand to pry it open.

''Okay,'' you say slowly, keeping your voice light. ''Are we going to ignore the fact that your arm's auditioning for The Exorcist?''

He shoots you a look that should've been withering but is softened by the desperation hiding behind it. Bucky Barnes, master of stoicism, sitting there like a man betrayed by the one part of his body he trusted not to betray him. He mutters something under his breath, you catch only fragments, the cadence sharp with frustration.

''Don't think Steve would approve that kind of language, Buck.''

Bucky exhales hard through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. For a moment he just sits there, still and rigid, until the next spasm jerks through the arm. He curses, low and bitter, then finally digs into his pocket for the slim Wakandan communicator he carries like a lifeline he never wants to admit he needs.

He stares at it too long, thumb hovering. You lean forward, elbows on your knees. ''If you don't hurry up, that thing is going to become sentient and kill us all. Like M3GAN. By the way, did you know that Sam almost cried watching that? Joaquin told me.''

His glare flicks up, but there's no real bite in it, just staring at you with a defeated fondness before pressing the button, and the holo-screen blinks to life with the golden image of Ayo's face.

''White Wolf,'' she greets. No wasted words, as usual.

Bucky clears his throat. ''The arm's… not working right. Glitching. I think it needs to go back. Is Shuri in?''

Ayo's gaze flicks over him, reading him more than he feels comfortable with. ''She will be shortly. It will have to be brought back to Wakanda for reparations.''

''How long?'' His voice is casual, like asking how long dry cleaning might take.

''Three days.''

He stiffens. Three days. You see it hit him like a punch to the gut. The hesitation, the way his hand curls tighter around the faulty arm like a child might clutch a stuffed animal. Three days without it.

Ayo doesn't wait for his reply. ''We will send someone to collect it. Be ready.'' And then she's gone, the communicator dimming, leaving only the quiet rumbling of the Quinjet again.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. You watch him carefully as he stares at the dark screen, shoulders tense, jaw set so tightly you half-expect to hear his teeth crack.

You try for levity. ''Hey, look on the bright side. That means you get to watch me struggling with every stubborn jar in the house for three whole days. You always say you find that very entertaining.''

It earns you a huff of air that might've been a laugh if it weren't laced with something heavier. He shakes his head, glancing at you, corners of his mouth subtly twitching. ''Not funny.''

''Kinda funny,'' you counter. ''Maybe we can train your left hook while we're at it. Get you ambidextrous. That's a real party trick these days.''

His eyes finally flick to yours, and there it is, that hint of self-consciousness you don't usually get to see, raw and almost boyish. Under the soldier, the retired assassin, the survivor, he's still just a human being terrified of being seen as less than he is.

You want to press. Want to tell him it doesn't matter, that he's not defined by a piece of tech, no matter how sleek and advanced. But instead you sit back, let the hum of the Quinjet fill the silence, let him enjoy the comfort of having his walls up for now.

If there's anything you've learned these past two months of being by his side, both in battle and at home, it's that Bucky always retreats into himself after a mission, a haunted look on his face, like he's struggling to separate the violence he commits for a good cause and his past with ruthless violence for all the wrong reasons.

You cross your arms, let your eyes close against the drone of the engines, and decided to let him have his silence. For now.

...

Bucky doesn't tell you when the Wakandan courier arrives. You only realize because his texts go quiet, and when you call, you can hear the faint static of silence before he mutters that he's busy. You give him a day. Out of respect. Out of love. Then another morning, though it gnaws at you. By the second night, you're pacing your living room like a caged animal, phone heavy in your hand, wondering if he's just sitting alone in the dark pretending the world outside doesn't exist. It wouldn't be the first time you found him in such a state.

Sam's words echo in your head. If he gets stubborn, you've got the spare key. You just hadn't thought you'd ever need it.

The stairwell leading to Bucky's apartment smells faintly of dust and old plaster. His door is closed, the hallway dim except for the sputter of the single overhead bulb.

You knock once, soft. No answer. You knock again, harder. Nothing.

So you fish out the key from your back pocket. The lock clicks too easily, and you realize you could've definitely picked it with a hairpin. Not that it ever had to come to that, of course. You have the key. If Bucky even lets you keep it after barging in like this.

Inside, the air is stale, heavy with stillness. He hasn't turned on the lights, but the faint glow from streetlamps outside spills in from the kitchen window, painting the room in shadows. You spot him on the couch instantly. Back to you. Shoulders hunched. He doesn't startle when you enter, and you know he heard you. He always hears you.

''Breaking and entering,'' he says, attempting humor, his voice rough. ''That's a crime, you know. I'll have to arrest you.''

''Kinky,'' you retort, corners of your mouth tugging upward. You set your bag down by the door, toe off your shoes, trying to sound casual when the atmosphere feels anything but.

His right hand is curled on his knee, his left side angled away from you, the broad curve of his shoulder leading down to the blunt edge of metal where his arm should be attached. The plate gleams a little in the dim light, bare and exposed, and you realize that's why he hasn't texted you back, and why he doesn't look at you now.

You move closer. He shifts slightly, like he's trying to make himself smaller.

''Bucky.'' Your voice is soft, careful.

''Don't.'' It's quick, sharper than he intends, but his body is tight with shame, every muscle wound like a spring. ''Just not right now.''

You crouch beside the couch anyway, grounding yourself on the carpet, so he can't avoid you unless he walks away. ''I was worried about you. You're not answering my texts. You're not answering the door. And now you won't even look at me?''

He still doesn't move. ''It's better this way.''

''Better for who?''

The silence stretches. You study him, the hard line of his jaw, the way his right hand grips his knee like he's holding himself together. And then, gently, you rest your palm against his cheek, coaxing his face toward you. His stormy eyes shift to yours, hesitant.

You let your hand drift lower, thumb grazing along the line of his jaw, tracing the stubble that always grows faster than he bothers to shave. His chest rises and falls unevenly, like the simple act of being seen like this is too much weight to bear.

''Don't look at me like that,'' he mutters, voice breaking at the edges.

''Like what?''

''Like I'm—'' His throat works. The words snag. ''You don't have to pretend like I'm not missing something.''

Your heart aches. He thinks the absence makes him less, when to you it only makes him more human. ''Bucky,'' you whisper. ''You're not broken because your arm is.''

His jaw clenches, looking away, but you don't let him hide. You keep your hand steady, warm against his skin. ''You're not half a man when it's gone. You're not less. You're still you. All of you.''

The silence that follows is heavy, charged. You can almost hear the thoughts spiraling in his head, the doubts, the insecurities he won't admit, the endless ledger of things he thinks he's lost.

So you lean in closer, pressing your forehead to his, grounding him with the simplest touch. ''I don't care about the arm. I care about the man who holds the door open for me, and teases me relentlessly when I cook another terrible dish, but still eats it because it makes me happy. The man who holds me when I've had a nightmare, and stays up to watch over me until I fall asleep again. If all of that hasn't changed just because you don't have the arm, then you haven't changed either. Then you're still the man I—'' You pause, searching his eyes, steady and unflinching. ''The man I love.''

His breath catches like you've yanked it from his lungs. ''I didn't want you to see me like this,'' he says finally, voice raw.

''Too late,'' you murmur, brushing your nose against his.

And then, because the conversation could use some lightheartedness, you let a small smile tug at your lips. ''Besides, I kind of like being the one with all the upper body strength for once, which is, like... as rare as a solar eclipse.''

That earns you a hoarse laugh, his forehead pressing against yours like he's anchoring himself to you, to the sound of your voice.

Your hand drifts lower, across his chest, lingering over the steady thrum of his heart beneath your palm. ''You're still you. All of you. And I wouldn't change a thing.''

He exhales shakily, tugging you a little closer until your knees bump the couch. His lips brush yours, tentative.

You tilt your head, catching his gaze in the low light. ''You don't have to hide from me. I love you like this, too.''

And maybe it's the way you say it, simple and sure, but something eases in him. He leans in, slow and cautious, until his mouth finds yours. The kiss is soft, almost tentative, but it sparks like kindling catching flame, spreading warmth through your chest.

When you pull back, you rest your hand on his shoulder, near the metal plate his vibranium arm would usually be attached. His brows pinch, breath stalling, but he doesn't move away.

''You're still a hundred percent man to me,'' you whisper against his lips, smile curling. ''Maybe even a hundred and ten.''

This time his laugh is real, deep, shaking loose some of the shadows clinging to him. He kisses you again, firmer now, his hand sliding to the small of your back and pulls you onto the couch beside him, holding you closer than he's allowed himself in days.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

The Tower was silent, eerily so.

Bucky liked it that way sometimes, when the others were off on assignments or out enjoying the city. Silence gave him space to think. Or not think.

Today, he’d planned on the latter.

A few days ago Sam, being the same and usual Sam, had slipped him some modern help laughing as he tossed a bottle into Bucky’s lap and winked. “You're a hundred years old, Barnes. Might as well try what the rest of us use now and then.”

Bucky had scowled, rolled his eyes but yet shoved the little bottle into his drawer with no intention of touching it.

That morning was different.

His mind was too loud, his body tenser than usual, and thoughts of her hadn’t stopped plaguing him.

Y/N.

She was everything he wanted and nothing he thought he deserved. Y/N was fierce, loyal, funny in a way that disarmed him, and way too good at dodging his awkward flirt attempts.

He tried so hard not to stare at her when she trained. Tried harder not to listen too closely when she laughed but most days, he failed miserably.

When he woke up he was already hard and aching, tons of thoughts of her were already tormenting his mind, he remembered Sam’s stupid joke and he gave in. “Just to get it out of my system,” he muttered, swallowing the damn pill and dragging himself to the showers like a man on a mission.

No one else was supposed to be in the Tower anyway.

“What could go wrong?” He muttered to himself at the empty room.

Y/N stood in the kitchen in leggings and an old Stark Industries hoodie, barefoot with her hair damp from her own shower, sipping coffee and scrolling on her tablet. She had stayed behind from the latest op to recover from a minor sprain, nothing serious, but Tony had made a fuss and ordered her to “take a break or face the wrath of Black Widow.”

The quiet was nice and peaceful.

She rinsed her mug and went back to her room. Until she heard a deep, muffled groan echo down the hall. Her head tilted. That was… definitely a male groan. Her brows furrowed. Only a few of the guys had voices that deep, and only one of them lived on the same floor as her.

“Bucky?” She called.

Silence.

Then another low, frustrated sound almost like pain. Or…

Her eyes widened. “Oh my God.” She muttered.

In the privacy of his room, Bucky gritted his teeth and gripped the edge of the bathroom counter. This was not what he expected. He was used to… control. Training, pain tolerance, discipline. But this? The moment he wore his underwear, there was fire under his skin. But it wasn’t due to the hot shower he just took.

The pill was working far too well and his body was strung tight, aching desperately. He leaned over the bathroom counter, sweat beading on his brow as he tried to breathe through it. He cursed. “I’m gonna kill Sam,” he muttered under his breath, palming himself through his boxers as another wave of heat rushed through him. “Stupid, cock-”

He barely made it to the bed, panting as he laid back against the sheets, metal hand gripping the sheets while his flesh one wrapped around his cock. Underwear around his ankle but it wasn’t working. Not enough. Not the person he craved. Not the skin to skin he really wanted.

He stroke himself fast and hard, precum dripping down his shaft, muscles tense and abs flexing with every thrust of his hand. His lips parted as low, desperate groans filled the room. “Fuck… can’t… fuck… not enough…”

Knock knock.

He froze.

“Bucky?”

A voice.

Her voice.

Just outside the door.

His stomach dropped. Blood rushed to all the wrong places, the same wrong place. He scrambled on his feet jumping from the bed to the door, holding it closed. Boxer rushed on, painfully tight on him. “Y/N—what are you doing here?”

“I live here? What are you doing?” She paused. “Are you okay?”

“No,” he groaned, forehead hitting the door. “I mean, yes. I mean—please don’t come in.”

There was silence for a beat. Then her voice, lower. “I thought I heard something. Are you sure?”

“Mmff… yeah… I’m fine,” he murmured, voice barely audible. Hearing her voice was killing him. Keeping his forehead against the door, his hand slid down his body inside his boxer. He gripped himself again, tightening the pressure.

Outside, Y/N frowned biting her lip. “You don’t sound fine.”

He swallowed hard, frustrated that he couldn’t speak clearly. “Just… wait a sec,” he said, trying again, voice cracking. His metal hand pressing on his lips, trying to muffle the noise coming out of his mouth.

He tried so hard to calm himself. He moved toward the bed, sitting on the edge of it. Legs spread open and hand moving faster on his cock.

“I’m okay… I swear…”

The door opened a crack. He’d forgotten to lock it. Bucky didn’t even try to lung forward or pushing it closed again.

She was already peeking in, eyes wide and lips parted and then she saw him.

Flushed, shirtless, wearing only a pair of very thigh underwear. Hair damp and sticking to his neck and very clearly… affected.

His hand was still around his cock, she glanced down smirking. He winced like you’d just caught him watching porn at work. “This is not what it looks like.”

“And what does it look like, Bucky?” She asked, voice soft but tinged with something sharper. Teasing. Dangerous. He hesitated, sitting better on the bed.

She raised a brow. “…Did you take something?”

His face flushed red, ears burning and eyes on the floor, too ashamed of looking at her face. “…Maybe.” He growled. “Yes, okay? Sam gave me a damn pill days ago and I thought I was alone, so I-”

“Why?”

He swallowed. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” He snapped, embarrassed beyond reason.

She didn’t look disgusted. Or scandalised. She looked… intrigued? A little smug?

The blue pills weren’t meant for someone like him. Not officially. Not for a super soldier with an already enhanced everything, strength and reflexes and stamina and… libido. “You look like you’re in pain,” she said softly.

“I am,” he grit. “I didn’t think anyone was here. I wasn’t gonna… hell, I don’t know what I was gonna do.”“Well,” she said, locking the door behind her, “you’ve got a few options.”

He blinked at her. “What?”

She leaned against the wall. “You could wait it out. Could take a cold shower. Or…” She moved toward Bucky, he flinched a little once she sat on the bed near him, brushing against his hip. “…You could let me help.”

His breath hitched. “Y/N… don’t tease me.”“I’m not,” she said, voice suddenly serious. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, Bucky. If this is how the truth comes out… so let it be.”

The look in her eyes nearly undid him. Heat but softness at the same time. There was lust and even something else he didn’t get immediately. It was something that burned even hotter than the pill in his system.

“Say the word,” she whispered.

He leaned closer, metal hand cradling her jaw, the human hand trembling slightly as it rested on her waist. His forehead pressed against hers. Sitting near each other, his fire rise. “You’re sure?”

She nodded. “I want you.”

Then his lips were on hers, hungry and desperate holding many months of tension snapping like a live wire between them. She gasped into his mouth, fingers digging into his back as he backed her up against the mattress in a second.

He hovered her, grinding against her. Bucky kissed her like he was starving. Not rushed but yet devouring her. Lips slanting over hers, tongue sliding in with a low groan. His metal hand firm around her hip while the other roamed her skin like he couldn’t decide what to touch first. Her neck, her waist, the swell of her breasts under her hoodie.

All of it was his to explore.

Y/N felt the weight of him between her legs as he pressed her back against the mattress, hips grinding with purpose. He was hot and hard and heavy against her, and there was no mistaking the effect of that little blue pill. “Fuck,” she breathed as he kissed down her neck, nipping just beneath her jaw. “This isn’t going to wear off anytime soon, is it?”

His chuckle was low and rough. “No. You’re in for a long day, sweetheart.” She pulled his mouth back to hers, kissing him deeper this time, moaning when his fingers dipped beneath her waistband.

He found her soaked, already slick and swollen, and he hissed through his teeth. “Jesus, you’re wet. For me?”

“All for you,” she whispered, rocking into his touch.

“Gimme a little show doll… strip for me,” Bucky ordered her.

She didn’t wast a second. Rushing up from the bed, Bucky laid down resting on his metal arm. The flesh hand goes directly to his cock as he removed his boxer. Bucky was now fully naked, stroking his cock.

Y/N stood at the end of the bed, mouth open as he saw Bucky in his glorious state. She began playing with the edge of her hoodie, letting him seeing some skin. She lifted the hoodie, no bra nor shirt under it.

Her boobs peaked out and Bucky stroke himself faster. “Good, perfect boobs doll.”

He moaned the last word.

Not wanting to tease him more, she slid leggings and undies in a swift movement.

“Come here now.”

She knelt on the bed and crawled up to him. He slid his hand on her waist and pulled her down on the mattress. His finger circled her clit slow, deliberate and teasing. She tried to grind harder, closing her legs but he gripped her thigh and spread her open wider.

“Patience,” he growled into her ear. “Wanna feel you come apart on my hand first.”

He sank two fingers inside her. Her head fell back, a choked moan escaping her lips as he curled them just right, finding the spot that made her hips buck involuntarily. “There,” he murmured, thumb rubbing tight circles against her clit while he pumped in and out with slow, merciless rhythm. “That feel good?”“Yes,” she gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “God, Bucky…”

He kissed her again to swallow the sounds she made, fingers never slowing. The metal of his other hand gripped her thigh, holding her open, strong and unyielding. She was about to came with a gasp, trembling, clenching around his fingers as her legs shook. He stopped and she grunted but he didn’t even give her time to whine. He dropped to his knees in front of her on the floor, pulling her on the edge of the bed.

“Wait… what are you…”

His mouth latched onto her soaked pussy before she could finish the sentence. She nearly screamed. He licked her like a man possessed. Slow at first tasting her, then with more urgency. His tongue flicking over her clit in sharp, wet strokes. He groaned against her, hands gripping her thighs, keeping her open as he feasted on her like it was his goddamn job.

“Bucky… fuck… I can’t…”

“Yes you can,” he growled, mouth shiny and wet. “Give me what I want.”

She came with a cry, hips twitching and thighs squeezing around his head as her vision went white. He stood quickly after that, lips slick and eyes blown black with lust. She could see how hard he still was as the pill hadn’t worn off in the slightest.

His cock straight in the air, thick and flushed, leaking at the tip. “Condom,” he muttered, rifling through the drawer.

“I’m clean,” she panted, pulling her hair off her face. “And on the shot.”

His eyes darkened. “Fuck,” he muttered. “You sure?”

She nodded, kneeling on the bed close to the edge, wrapping her hand around his cock and stroking it slowly. “I want all of you. Nothing between us.”

Bucky jumped on the bed, just as she slid in the middle of it. She spread her legs, Bucky saw her pussy still glistening from his saliva. He took his cock in his hand, playing with her folds with his tip.

“Bucky…” she whined.

“What?” Bucky replied smirking. His cock now slapping on your pussy. “Don’t you like a little teasing first?”

You shook your head no.

Bucky looked at you. Eyes closed, hair tousled on the bed.

The first thrust stole both their breaths. He slid in deep, stretching her wide and they both moaned at the contact, at how good it felt. Raw and bare, heat against heat.

He paused only a second, breathing hard against her neck. “You feel like heaven,” he whispered. “So tight, fuck… so perfect.” Then he started to move.

Deep and smooth strokes, slow enough to make her feel every inch of him. His metal hand gripped her waist, holding her still while his hips snapped forward again and again, hitting that spot inside her that made her cry out.

“Wanted this for so long,” he muttered, lips against her throat. “Thought about you every damn night. Touching myself, wishing it was you.”

She whimpered, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper. “You should’ve said something,” she whispered, clenching around him. “I wanted you too.”“Don’t say that,” he growled, fucking her harder now. “I’m barely holding on.”

But she wanted him to let go. So she clenched tighter, dragged her nails down his back, whispered filthy things into his ear and when she came, crying out his name, he lost it. He cursed, pulled her flush against him, and came with a growl, buried deep inside her. His hips jerked as he filled her with thick, pulsing heat.

For a long moment, they just breathed. His head dropped to her shoulder, her arms wrapped around his neck, and the world felt still. “Better than your hand?” she teased after a while, voice breathless. He chuckled, kissed her cheek. “You ruined me.” Then, something softer. “I think I love you.”

She smiled, brushing his hair back. “Good. Because I think I love you too.”

Bucky was still hard.

Even after blowing his load deep inside her, hips trembling with release, he hadn’t softened in the slightest. “Jesus,” Y/N mumbled with a dazed smile, her legs barely working. “That pill really doesn’t quit, huh?”

“It’s not just the pill,” he muttered, holding her close. “You’re in my head. You’ve been there for months.”

She kissed his jaw, flushed and glowing, skin sticky with sweat. “Well, maybe you’ll finally sleep after this.”“I wouldn’t count on it,” he muttered, brushing a hand between her thighs. “Still hard as a damn rock. You’re lucky I’m not bending you over the sink right now.”

She shivered from the pleasure. “Why don’t we compromise?”

He looked at her, and lifted her in a second.

The bathroom was already fogged up from the earlier shower but now the steam was rolling thick again, curling around their naked forms as the shower sprayed hot against their skin.

Bucky stepped in behind her, arms snaking around her waist, cock already nudging against her ass.

“I should be tired,” she murmured, eyes fluttering shut as he nuzzled the side of her neck. “But I’m not.”“That makes two of us.” He turned her slowly, pressing her back against the tiled wall.

The water ran down her curves, glistening across her chest as she looked up at him. His soaked hair sticking to his skin, lips parted, chest rising and falling in anticipation. “You look like something out of a dream,” he muttered. “And I’ve had a lot of dreams about you in the shower.” She smirked, trailing her fingers down his chest, over the lines of his abdomen, until she was gripping his thick and still aching cock again.

“Like this?” she asked, stroking him slow under the water.

He growled low in his throat, eyes closing for a second. “Exactly like that.”

Then she dropped to her knees.

The water cascaded over his shoulders as she licked the head tasting him. Her tongue teasing the tip before her mouth went down over him. He hissed, one hand bracing against the wall, the other threading through her wet hair.

“Fuck, Y/N… your mouth…”

She hollowed her cheeks bobbing her head slowly. Her tongue was dragging along the underside. Bucky’s thighs tensed, groans echoing in the tile chamber but he didn’t stop her. He didn’t dare, not until he was twitching in her mouth, dangerously close again. “Baby,” he gasped, pulling her up before he could lose control. “I wanna come inside you again. Please.”

She leaned in, kissing him deep. He picked her up and she wrapped her leg around his waist as he pressed her back to the wall. He lined up and thrust in her deep enough to made her clench.

Her moan was broken and breathless against his lips as he filled her again, sliding home to the hilt.

“Still so tight,” he growled, thrusting slow, grinding against her. “Can feel you clenching already.”

She clung to him, nails raking down his back. “You feel so good, Bucky…so big…” He fucked her slow and wet, the sound of skin slapping echoing through the shower. His mouth moved over her throat and her collarbone, biting and sucking marks into her skin. “Mine,” he whispered between thrusts. “You’re mine now.”

“Yours,” she panted. “Always was.”

That broke him.

He slammed in harder and faster, arms flexing as he pinned her to the wall. Her cries grew louder, water running down their bodies as he fucked her through another climax. Y/N felt her legs shaking, as her nails digging deep inside his back. He came with a groan against her neck, hips jerking, cock pulsing inside her for the second time.

They stayed like that for a while letting the water wash over them. Bucky finally pulled back, brushing soaked hair from her face, his expression softer now. “You okay?”

She smiled, resting her forehead against his. “Better than okay. You?”

He nodded, though his cock still hadn’t gone completely soft. His body was high on her. At this point it wasn’t just the pill, it wasn’t even just the sex itself.

It was her. It always had been.

“Round three,” he teased with a tired grin. “Eventually.”

“God help me,” she whispered with a laugh. “You’re insatiable.” He kissed her gently, sweet and slow this time. “Only for you.”

She should have been tired, really tired, but Bucky’s cock still semi hard for her along with his eyes absolutely stuck on her made her less tired. They dried themselves and got back in Bucky’s room. He let her pass first, as a gentleman but also taking a look at her ass.

“Feeling his eyes on me,”

“Can you blame me?”

She turned around. “Do you have something in mind?”

He took a look at the floor, then at her.

“Barnes do you wanna fuck me on the floor?”

“Would you let me?” He looked down, almost shy.

“I’d let you do anything you want,”

Bucky smiled as he moved closer, then kissing her. At last he knelt. He kissed her stomach, then her thighs. “You’re addicting…”

She lowered on the floor, lips to his ear. “How do you want me on the floor?”

“Laying down,” a kiss. “On your stomach,” another kiss. “Spread your legs a little…” one last kiss.

She rushed turning herself on the floor. Her ass fully in sight. Bucky let his finger slid on her body, then he lowered and kiss her back thighs. He gave her ass a little slap, kneading her cheeks with both hands. He spread them a little, licking her pussy. He positioned himself better, cock in his hand. As he did before, he tapped her pussy with his cock. He slid inside her. Her core still warm and welcoming. He grabbed her hips as he moved his weight on his knees. He pounded in her hard and deep.

“Buck,” she moaned as she tried to move her arm behind. “Come closer… crush me please… I need it…”

“Are you sure?” He snapped his hips once more.

As she nodded, he lowered on her. His chest against her back. His hot breath in her ear. He licked her neck, nibbled at her lobe. He lifted her torso, just enough to grab both her boobs. His weight completely crushing her.

“Fuck me harder Bucky…”

He removed his hands from her chest, letting her down on the floor. He yanked her hair in a fist, pulling her head behind. As his hips snapped harder. Precise thrusts hitting her spongy spot inside.

“Oh my god,” she moaned breathless, her nails on the floor like cat claws. “Just like this… don’t stop please… don’t stop…”

He didn’t, in fact he pounded more and more in her pussy. He felt a cramp but didn’t stop. He knelt completely pulling her up with him. She was now on all four, exposed and sweaty. As he slapped her ass once more, she came. Her legs trembled, as her pussy clenched on him just as she wanted to keep him in there forever.

He followed her second later. Another flush of him inside her. He remained there hands on her hips, cock inside her and forehead on her back.

On the other hand, Y/N’s knees threatened to break the balance but she stayed there feeling his weight on her.

Once their breath were calmer, he stood up. She lost balance and felt on the floor. Bucky immediately picked her up again.

He opened the shower, turning on the hot water. Sensing the heat he entered with her clinging on him like a koala.

“Can you stand?”

“If you hold me yeah…” she muttered, face crushed into his chest.

He kissed her head, picking the shampoo. He washed her hair, then his with the remaining foam. It was now time to take the body wash. He picked the bottle and squeezed some on his hands. Y/N was in a sleepy state, against Bucky’s massive frame. He slid his hand on her body, massaging and cleaning her. Her skin so soft.

“I can get used to this,” she said, caressing his hair once he lowered himself to wash her legs. “It’s nice,”

“I want you to get used to this,”

He stood and stole another kiss from her. He got out the shower first, picked a robe and put it on. Then he took the other robe and slid on her body. He stroke his hand on her clothed body, then circled her waist. She found again her spot on his chest, standing there in the foggy bathroom.

The tower was still empty when they eventually finished and they finally went to bed, cleaned and satisfied. Y/N laid on his chest, hand on his heart. Bucky felt her weight on his torso, as his arm circled her body protecting and keeping her there.

The morning after Bucky was whistling, actually whistling, as he padded into the kitchen barefoot. When he woke up, he kissed Y/N’s lips first.

“We’re gonna have to face the other… especially Sam…” he said, looking down at you.

“I’m gonna thank him so much. Best sex I’ve ever had,” she looked at him noticing an almost sad expression on him. “Bucky… I know it’s not only the pill. I’ve dreamt about it for so long…”

He smiled. “I’ll let you know it was not the pill… 100% you…” She corked her eyebrow up. “Alright 80% you and 20% the pill,”

When you got up, he threw on a hoodie over his bare chest. He picked something from his wardrobe for her.

He was smiling like he hadn’t done in months, maybe longer.

They both entered smiling and holding hands seeing the only one Bucky didn’t want to see.

Sam Wilson.

He was seated at the breakfast bar eating his cereal and froze mid-spoonful. He blinked, lowered the spoon. Then slowly turned to look at Y/N, who trailed into the kitchen, wearing Bucky’s hoodie. “…No fucking way,” Sam said, deadpan.

Y/N paused. “Morning, Sam.”

“You,” He pointed his spoon between the two of them. “You did not. You seriously?”

Bucky walked right past him to the coffee machine, not bothering to hide his grin. Sam dropped his spoon. “When?!”

“Yesterday,” Y/N said cheerfully, grabbing a mug. “In his bed. Then the shower. Then the floor.”

“The floor?” Sam covered his ears. “Stop. I don’t need a play-by-play!”

Bucky chuckled, sipping his coffee. “You did give me the damn pill.”

“I gave it as a joke!” Sam shouted, now half-laughing, half-horrified. “I didn’t expect you to actually use it!”

“Well, you gave a super soldier a pharmaceutical-grade sex drug,” Y/N said, raising an eyebrow. “What did you think was gonna happen? The tower was empty.”

Sam slumped over the counter like a man in defeat. “I thought maybe he’d get a little action. Not that he’d break the fucking foundation of the building.”

“C’mon,” Bucky said, smirking. “You should be happy for me.”

“I was until I realised I was gonna hear about your Olympic-level sex marathon over my Cheerios.”

Y/N leaned in, lowering her voice dramatically. “You should’ve heard him moaning… best sound in the world… I have to thank you, Sam.”

“OKAY!” Sam stood up, backing away. “That’s it. I’m moving out. I’m done. I can’t live like this.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Bucky said, sipping his coffee.

Sam stared at him. “You barked at me the other day for breathing too loud while you were watching The Crown and now you’re here walking around like it’s Valentine’s Day morning in a goddamn Hallmark movie.”

Bucky shrugged. “I’m relaxed.”

“Too relaxed.” Sam snorted.

Y/N was giggling now, leaning into Bucky’s side as he wrapped a lazy arm around her waist.

Sam gave them both a long, unblinking look. “Fine. You guys are cute together,” he looked at them. “But stop with the sex Olympics…”

“Can’t promise you anything,” Y/N said laughing.

Sam smiled, seeing his best friend happy.

Once they were alone again, Bucky picked her up on the counter. She spread her legs and Bucky positioned himself between them. She circled his neck with her arms, pulling him closer.

“I love you, Bucky. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, doll.” He kissed her. “I’m sorry for this… this wasn’t how I meant to let you know about my feelings.”

“I like how you let me know about your feelings…” she kissed her ear, the space on the neck above the ear. He flinched from pleasure, even tho the pill’s effects were completely washed out of his body.

“I’m gonna spend my life letting you know that…”

“I’m gonna be here waiting every time.”