#hotbuckysummer2025

All the while, you kept John Walker and Ava Starr in the back of your mind. 

The two members of the New Avengers were always sniping at each other, always sparring in the gym when they had free time, and you suspected there was something more going on there. Something that was beginning to throw off the balance of the team.

But you didn’t want to make your colleagues do anything they didn’t want to do, of course—you just wanted to give them a little push. So you made sure the potion only worked if the people dosed were already attracted to each other. 

Once you thought you had the combination right, you began pouring the finished potion into glass containers. You were just thinking of ways to slip it to John and Ava, or trap them in a room and set it off, when the trouble began.

Bucky Barnes barged into your workshop—as the annoying super-soldier often did—and immediately launched into a tirade of criticism over your witchcraft. 

Apparently, the hair growth potion you’d given Alexei Shostakov had worked too well, and his chest was covered in hair so thick, he was having trouble fitting into his Red Guardian outfit. Of course, according to Bucky, this was all your fault. 

You would’ve rolled your eyes, if you weren’t staring in horror at the rising plume of thick, pink smoke quickly filling the workshop. Following its trail, you found shattered glass at your feet, the remnants of a bottle that had once held your love potion. 

All you could do was look at the broken bottle, dumbfounded that you’d been so startled by Bucky’s sudden appearance that you’d knocked it over. You didn’t think the super-soldier had that much of an effect on you, but apparently you were wrong.

The evidence of just how wrong you were was filling the room, your potion having turned into a magical gas that was rapidly pouring into the room. As you watched it plume and expand, leaving nothing but broken glass behind, your shock was quickly replaced by anger. 

The potion you’d worked on all day had turned into a gaseous fog, and there would be no putting it back in the bottle. All your hard work was going up in smoke—literally—right before your eyes, and you whirled on Bucky, ready to give him a piece of your mind.

Before you could open your mouth to yell at the blundering super-soldier, and berate him for charging into your workshop without knocking, a metal shield slid down over the door with a loud clang, locking it shut. A tinny, automated voice filled the room, notifying you and Bucky that containment protocols had been initiated.

For a moment, you were stunned into silence.

When Val had set you up with the workshop, you thought she’d been exaggerating about the protective protocols put in place for any errant witchcraft. You’d assumed it was a lie to keep you in line, so you didn’t mess with anything that could harm the others or the tower.

Apparently, she wasn’t lying (for once), and you were about to learn the hard way not to play with love potions in New Avengers Tower. 

“How many times have I told you to be more careful, witch?” Bucky hissed, hurling the epithet like an insult across the span of the workshop. 

Your eyes found the super-soldier through the pink gloom, giving him your harshest glare. But he wasn’t even looking at you. He was warily watching the pink smoke swelling and enveloping the room. 

“And how many times have I told you not to disturb me while I’m working, soldier,” you snapped back, spitting the last word with as much venom as you could muster, which was quite a bit despite the worry in your gut. You glanced around the room as well.

The smoke was filling up your workshop so quickly, you knew you were seconds away from breathing it in, and you had a good idea of what would happen to your body once you did. 

Across the room, you watched Bucky’s nostrils flare, the super-soldier dragging in a deep breath to respond to your sharp words. 

For a moment, all you could think about was how grateful you were that you’d made the potion so it would only affect those who already felt attraction—even if that meant it would affect you when you were in such close proximity to Bucky.

It was your most shameful secret that you harbored secret fantasies about the annoying super-soldier, and what was beneath that black and red superhero suit he wore. More nights than you could count, you got yourself off to the idea of Bucky railing you to within an inch of your life. 

So you knew the magic-induced lust would hit you like a freight train as soon as you inhaled the pink smoke. But at least you’d be alone in feeling the effects of the love potion. Because there was absolutely no way Bucky was attracted to you. 

The super-soldier had made it very clear during the months you’d worked together that he couldn’t stand you. 

He called you ‘witch’ every chance he got, had a problem with everything you did, and otherwise avoided you unless he was criticizing your recklessness on the last mission. There was no way he felt anything but irritation for you. 

But none of that dampened your attraction to Bucky Barnes. 

And you were minutes, if not seconds, away from letting him in on your deepest, darkest secret—that you wanted him. So you fortified yourself, knowing you’d have to resist begging him to fuck you for as long as possible if you ever wanted to look him in the eye again.

While the pink smoke continued filling the room, you tried not to breathe too deeply, but it soon became unavoidable. The sweet-smelling gas infiltrated your senses, and once you got your first whiff, you inhaled until your lungs were full of the magic smoke. 

A delicious, pink haze fell over your mind, the edges going fuzzy while your body felt like it was floating. It was a pleasant sensation, almost like you were weightless and wrapped up in the most delicious scent you’d ever smelled.

Then, the burning ache began.

It hit you like a punch to the gut, the sudden, needy pulse between your thighs. All of a sudden, you could feel your racing heartbeat in the throbbing of your core, and your inner muscles clenched pathetically around nothing.

A whimper escaped your lips before you could bite it back, and you hunched over your worktable, your hands clutching the edge, nails digging into the wooden surface as you tried to control the urges surging through your body.

You wanted to hurl yourself across the table and into Bucky’s arms. You wanted to tear your clothes off and then his, making it easy to impale your body on his hot, hard length…

“I need help.”

The words were a gasp, a plea hurtled into the thick fog of smoke filling the room. Wildly, your eyes searched through the gloom to find Bucky. He was standing rigidly next to the door, looking like a statue made of granite for how motionlessly he stood.

“I need you to tie me up,” you said, your tone sharp with an order. Despite the state of your body—which had begun to sweat beneath your clothes from the warmth building in your core—you couldn’t bring yourself to be nice when you asked the super-soldier for help.

Bucky was quiet for a moment, his blue eyes bright in the pink duskiness of the room. He raked them down your body, seemingly taking stock of the way you were curled in on yourself. 

Surely he could see you were in pain and would help you. He was constantly annoyed by your existence, but he was a good man. He would help.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to get anywhere near you,” Bucky said stiffly, his gaze unreadable when it returned to yours. 

A slight frown pulled down at the edges of Bucky’s mouth, but that wasn’t abnormal when he was in your presence. A quick glance down his body assured you he looked normal, as if he wasn’t affected by the smoke. So you didn’t understand his reluctance.

“Why?” you asked, huffing an annoyed sound as you stared at the super-soldier, willing him with your mind to answer. 

You had to bite back a whine when you breathed in more of the smoke, the burning ache between your thighs increasing enough to make your arms start to shake. Your nails bit deeper into the wooden table.

“The effects aren’t contagious. You can touch me, you’ll be fine,” you said, trying to reassure the hesitant super-soldier, though your voice came out more annoyed than soothing. It was difficult to sound calm when you wanted to climb Bucky like a tree and fuck him.

Bucky’s knuckles cracked so loudly in the quiet room that your eyes dropped to his hands. They were curled into fists, his fingers clenched so tightly, it looked like it hurt. In fact, when you looked closer, every muscle in his body was wound tight enough to snap.

Your brain, which was trying to feed you an endless stream of images of you fucking the super-soldier, was slow to catch on to what Bucky’s body language meant. 

“What…the hell is happening?” you asked, your voice wary, your eyes darting up and down Bucky’s form. Your mind was torn between appreciating his thick biceps and noticing the way his legs looked ready to pounce. For some reason, you couldn’t make sense of it. 

Instead of answering your question, Bucky only clenched his fists tighter, and you could hear his knuckles crack again. 

“What was in that glass you broke?” he asked, the question sounding like it was ripped from the depths of his barrel chest.

It was on the tip of your tongue to hiss back at him that you wouldn’t have broken anything if he hadn’t startled you by barging into your workshop unannounced—especially after you’d told him multiple times not to do that because the magic you dealt with was volatile. 

But you managed to bite back your harsh words when a wave of need crashed through you. You could…you could smell Bucky, even across the room. He smelled like salt and man, the scent so deliciously potent, you had to close your eyes and gather your wits before responding.

“I was just messing around with a love potion,” you admitted. Your voice was thin as you tried to play it off as no big deal, though the wetness dripping from your core and soaking your clothes painted another story.  

When you managed to wrench your eyes open, you found Bucky glaring at you from his side of the room.

“What the fuck—why?” he growled through clenched teeth, his blue eyes flashing with fury.

You basked in Bucky’s anger, the emotion stirring something inside you besides need. In your moment of relief, you clung to your tiny kernel of rage, shooting the super-soldier your own glare.

“I wanted to test out a theory about Walker and Ava,” you said in your most lofty tone, knowing it would only piss him off more. “You may not have noticed, soldier, but they’ve been circling each other for weeks and it’s messing with the team.”

At his sides, Bucky’s hands unfurled and curled tight again, like he was restraining himself from doing something—strangling you probably. It gave you a sick sense of satisfaction to see him reacting to your words, even if it was only out of anger.

“Why the fuck would you do that, witch?” Bucky growled, dragging your attention back to his face. He barely looked like himself, and you realized, all of a sudden, that the potion was doing something to him.

He was glaring daggers at you from across the room, his blue eyes piercing through the pink gloom still swirling in the air. The look in his gaze was wild, his mouth twisted into an angry sneer, and his body was practically vibrating with a furious tension.

Unfortunately for you, all of that rage only made Bucky impossibly hotter. He looked like your most shameful fantasies come to life, and he was standing right in front of you, only a worktable between you. 

Desperately, you wanted Bucky to take out all his anger on your body. You wanted him to pound his thick cock into your tight cunt with all the fury on his face, and then you wanted him to spill his seed deep in your body, growling in your ear the whole time, telling you that you belonged to him…

God, you needed to touch yourself. You needed something to stave off the throbbing ache beneath every inch of your skin. But you refused to do that in front of Bucky, not when he was standing right there and staring at you like you were little more than a bug beneath his boot.

You dug your nails into the wooden worktable you were hunched against, forcing yourself to remember your anger at the super-soldier and answer his question.

“It’s only supposed to work if both people are attracted to each other!” you cried, defending yourself, though your voice came out as a pitiful whine. Shaking your head, you tried to clear the pink fog from your brain as you muttered, “I must’ve messed up the ingredients.”

It was the only explanation you could come up with for why the potion seemed to be affecting Bucky. You still couldn’t believe he might be attracted to you, but something was happening to him. It was undeniable in the tense way he held himself.

Bucky’s rough voice sounded in the dim room, catching your attention and pulling you from your thoughts. 

“You didn’t.”

The super-soldier’s words were barely discernible through the growl in his voice, and your eyes snapped up to him. Confusion drew your brows together when you saw the tortured look on his face.

“What?” you asked, your voice sounding dumb even to your own ears. But you couldn’t seem to catch up with what he was saying.

Bucky looked away. You watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallowed, fighting the urge to sink your teeth into his neck. You didn’t understand the impulse, only that you wanted to taste the salt straight from Bucky’s skin.

“You’re gonna make me say it?” he asked harshly, his eyes flicking back to yours before skating away, looking around the room as if searching for an exit you knew didn’t exist. He looked like he’d rather die than say whatever it was.

You were about to tell him you didn’t understand, but a wave of need crashed over you so strong, your knees wobbled and nearly gave out. You slumped further over the worktable, a whine building in your throat. 

The pink smoke wasn’t dissipating, the magic overwhelming whatever ventilation system was installed in the tower. If anything, it was growing thicker, stronger, and along with it, the need to have something inside you became excruciatingly painful. 

“Bucky, please,” you whimpered, not knowing if you were begging him to answer your question or to fuck you. Your eyes searched for his through the gloom, and despite the thickness of the fog, you could see Bucky’s face perfectly.

He looked devastated, his eyes filled with a concern you’d never seen directed at you as they raked over your hunched form. His arms were shaking, and his fists had curled so tightly, his knuckles had all bled white. He looked as wrecked as you felt.

When a rough sound came from his throat, your thighs trembled dangerously and your core clenched with need. Between your legs, your skin was sticky with sweat and desire, and all you could do was look at him pleadingly.

“I’m attracted to you, witch.”

If you’d been struck by lightning, right there in the tower, you would’ve been less shocked than you were by Bucky’s confession. It hit you like rolling thunder, an awareness spreading through your body as your heart raced in your chest.

The insistent, pounding pulse between your thighs grew even more ravenous, your body shuddering as your pussy clenched hard around nothing. With a groan, you bent over your worktable, pressing your heated forehead to the cool wood.

Then you laughed. 

The sound was scratchy and half-hysterical, filling the room with ridiculous peels of laughter. You couldn’t believe it—couldn’t believe Bucky was being serious. All you could do was laugh. It was either that or cry. Or beg him to fuck you. 

So you laughed, and you couldn’t help but notice Bucky didn’t join in. 

When you were able to get enough control of yourself, you tipped your head to the side and looked at Bucky across the room, still standing as motionless as a statue. 

“No, there’s no way,” you huffed, laughter still bleeding into your voice. Your shoulders were shaking and you wiped tears from your cheeks, unable to lift yourself up off the table.

Bucky’s jaw was clenched hard, and you couldn’t be certain, but you thought you saw a faint pink flush in his cheeks. Before you could puzzle over what that meant, the muscle in his cheek popped and distracted you. 

He must’ve been grinding his teeth something fierce, and you wondered fleetingly what he was thinking. You wondered if he’d take back what he’d said, admit it was a joke. But he didn’t.

“How long is this going to last?” Bucky asked finally, seemingly trying to change the subject.

You were so busy trying to figure out what might be running through the super-soldier’s mind that you answered unthinkingly. “A couple of hours, or until…”

Images of Bucky fucking you filled your head again and you trailed off, getting lost in the fantasies for a moment. 

“Until what?” Bucky snapped, his eyes finding yours. There was a desperation in his gaze that you’d never seen before. 

Errantly, you wondered what emotion you’d find in his eyes if you sank down on his cock. Would he stare at you with the same intense desperation, needing to come, or would his gaze fill with arrogant satisfaction. 

You closed your eyes against those thoughts, unable to look at him while you answered his question.

“Or until we do something about it, ok?” you said, your words a pitiful whine as they spilled from your lips. Your nails dug into the wooden worktable again as you attempted to ground yourself, but it barely worked. “I’m trying really hard to control myself over here, soldier.”

Bucky was silent for a long minute, and you focused on the sound of your breath. You tried to keep them even, tried to slow your racing heart, tried (and failed) to ignore the thrumming pulse between your thighs.

Then, Bucky growled, “Don’t.”

Your mind, which had wandered into a fantasy of Bucky bending you more fully over your worktable and fucking into you from behind, had lost the thread of the conversation. You lifted your head, looking at the super-soldier with confusion. 

“What?” you asked dumbly. 

That muscle in Bucky’s cheek popped again, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. You could tell it was taking him a great deal of effort to be patient with you, but somehow he managed. 

“If it makes this torment end faster, don’t control yourself, witch.”

Something in the distant recesses of your mind bristled at the implication in Bucky’s words, that it was agony to want you as badly as he did. But the rest of you fixed on the fact that his words sounded like an invitation—and it was one you wouldn’t pass up. 

Rising up off your worktable, you stood for a moment on shaky legs, then took an unsteady step toward the super-soldier. When he shifted toward you, you broke into a sprint, rounding the table and running across your workshop before launching yourself into his arms.

Bucky caught you easily, and you wasted no time. Your lips crashed down on his and you kissed him with all the ravenous need raging through your body. 

With a growl, Bucky turned and pressed you into the wall beside the door, kissing you just as fiercely. His tongue invaded your mouth as if he owned it, taking possession of your body as he kissed you deeply, thoroughly, licking your moans from the back of your throat.

You could feel his thick cock pressing into the slit between your thighs through your clothes. He was twitching and throbbing and you ached to get him inside you, but for the moment, all you could do was kiss him and touch him. 

The hunger in your core was satisfied with that, for a short while anyway.

Your hands were everywhere at once, skimming up his broad biceps and tangling in his hair. Your nails raked down the back of his neck, your fingers tugging impatiently at his superhero suit. 

You rolled your hips against his, grinding your hot center down on his thick bulge, and you moaned miserably into his mouth as the need grew desperate again.

“I don’t want to hurt you, witch,” Bucky rasped against your mouth, and you jerked back, shocked by the care in his voice. 

His eyes were pained as he held your gaze, and he looked so agonized and noble, you could only roll your eyes.

“You’re not gonna break me, soldier,” you promised, ducking your head and dragging the flat of your tongue up the column of his throat. When he made a rumbling, guttural sound, you sank your teeth into his neck, smirking when his hips kicked between your thighs. “Just shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

With a low roar, Bucky’s hand wrapped around the back of your neck and he pulled you in for another devastating kiss. His hands tore at your clothes until they were nothing but shreds, falling from your body to land in a pile on the floor. 

Then he dropped you down to your feet, and helped you remove his suit. Your movements were frenzied, desperate, and when he was finally bare, the two of you crashed back together.

Bucky hauled you over to the closest worktable, clearing everything off with the sweep of his arm. If you’d been in your right mind, you would’ve been furious, but the lust pounding through your body was too needy to care what he might’ve broken. 

You just wanted him on top of you, inside you, surrounding you, overwhelming you. You kissed him harder, your hands tangling in his hair and yanking him closer, your mouth devouring his.

A needy whimper slipped from your lips and Bucky swallowed the sound hungrily. Then he was laying you down on your back on the cool wooden surface of the table, and he was climbing on top of you. So much of his heated skin was touching yours that you moaned into his kiss.

He broke away, sucking and nipping at your jaw, then down your neck while his hands groped greedily at your tits. He kneaded your soft flesh and plucked at your nipples, wringing mindless sounds of pleasure from your lips. He ducked down, sucking on your nipples until you were squirming beneath him. 

All the while, your fingers clutched at his soft, brown hair, holding the super-soldier close. Of their own accord, your legs wrapped around the backs of Bucky’s thick thighs, and you felt his cock, hot and heavy, lay against the soft folds of your pussy. 

“Bucky, I need your cock,” you whined, barely sounding like yourself. You sounded like a weak, pitiful creature, so you yanked hard on Bucky’s hair to remind him—and yourself—that you were just as fierce as him.

The super-soldier, however, barely reacted. He was busy inhaling greedily at the pulse point in your throat, and groaning when the smell of your skin invaded his lungs. 

You let out a keening, desperate whine, your hips rocking beneath his big body, and you yanked on his hair again, even harder to get his attention. The super-soldier huffed a sound of annoyance, biting into your skin at the base of your throat until you went limp beneath him.

“Be a good little witch and I’ll give you my cock,” Bucky rumbled into your skin before licking and sucking his way back up your neck.

At his words, you tensed, something close to a hiss spilling from your lips. You yanked on his hair until you could look him in the eye, and you gave him a glare. “Now, soldier.” 

Bucky’s eyes darkened, his face twisting into a snarl as he shifted onto one arm. Reaching between your bodies, he lined up his thick cock with your tight hole. 

Still holding your furious gaze, he dragged the head between your messy folds a few times, until you were whimpering pathetically beneath him.

“You want my cock so bad, witch,” he ground out, the muscle in his cheek popping with fury. “Then fucking take it.”

With that, he impaled you in one swift thrust. He filled your tight hole with every inch of his thick cock in a hard, powerful thrust that had you stretching around him to accommodate his size. 

Blinding, pain-edged pleasure tore through your body as he split you in half, and an orgasm detonated suddenly in your core. It crashed over you in unrelenting waves, your body bowing up off the worktable as a scream ripped from your lips.

Above you, Bucky grunted, his hips grinding between your thighs as he rocked into your clenching pussy. He was staring down at you with something like wonder in his face. 

“Did you just come on my fucking cock, witch?” he growled, his hips drawing back before slamming into you again, driving his hard length deep into your cunt. “Such a needy fucking slut, huh, coming on your soldier’s cock so fast?”

You sobbed your pleasure, nodding your head as tears spilled down your cheeks. It was so good, the feeling of Bucky’s cock filling you up. His pounding thrusts only made the pleasure spiral higher, dragging out your release for what felt like forever.

Finally, the waves of pleasure started to ebb, but instead of satisfying the burning, magical ache deep in your core, your release only spurred you on. In a matter of seconds, you felt like you hadn’t come at all, the desperate need in your body building again.

You clung to Bucky desperately, your nails digging into the warm, golden skin of his shoulders as your legs hooked around the backs of his thighs. You used your leverage on his body to hump your hips up against him, meeting his brutal thrusts as the sound of your bodies coming together filled the room. 

“More—Bucky, I need more,” you hissed, writhing beneath him, trying to take him deeper. You wanted to feel his cock pounding against the end of you, his balls slapping your ass. You slid your hands down his back, your nails digging into the hard muscle of his ass. “Fuck me harder, soldier.”

Bucky gave a feral roar, burying his face in your neck, and then he was fucking into you even harder and faster, moving beyond what should be possible for a normal human man. A scream wrenched from your lips, and you rolled your hips desperately as your pleasure built. 

“Ya got such a greedy cunt, huh, witch?” Bucky rasped in your ear, growing more furious with every word. “I already made you come and you want more already? Is that how this is going to be—you make demands and I’m meant to be your mindless soldier who fulfills them?”

Before you could respond, Bucky pulled out of you, breaking free from the hold of your legs and leaving you crying out pitifully at the loss of him. He flipped you over so your front was pressed into the unrelenting surface of the worktable, shifting so his legs caged in yours.

The super-soldier pressed you flat to the table, then slid back into your pussy. Grabbing your arms, he held your wrists pinned to your lower back so you couldn’t move. All you could do was take him, take his cock as he fucked you without mercy.

His hips slapped hard against your ass, the smacking sound filling the room, and his heavy balls teased your clit with every rough thrust. He held himself up with his metal arm planted beside your head, and you shifted to press your lips to his vibranium thumb, pulling it into your mouth so you could suck on it idly.

“I like this better, witch,” Bucky rumbled in your ear, splitting you open with his cock as he fucked you into the table. “Having you at my mercy—and having you do what I tell you for once in your fucking life.”

A moan slipped from your lips, sounding like an agreement even to your ears. You didn’t know what Bucky was doing to you, but you felt yourself slipping deeper into the pleasure filling your body. All you could do was take his cock, feel it pounding into your cunt, and it felt glorious. 

You never wanted it to end, never wanted him to stop fucking you. So you didn’t protest his words, even as they turned filthier. There was a meanness in his tone that had you clenching even tighter around his cock, your body loving the way he spoke to you.

“You’re so much sweeter like this, witch,” he growled in your ear, his hand tightening around your wrists as he fucked you in deep, hard thrusts. “I think I like you best like this—when you’re so drunk on my cock, you can’t talk back.”

It didn’t even occur to you to respond to Bucky. You just sucked on his thumb harder, flicking your tongue over the tip lazily. Sharp sounds of pleasure spilled freely from your lips, drool trickling from your mouth and pooling on the worktable beneath your cheek. 

Bucky lowered his big body down on top of you so he was nearly crushing you. His scruffy jaw rasped over your cheek before he nipped at the lobe of your ear. 

“Fuck, your cunt’s sucking my cock so good, angel,” he rumbled, his voice getting rougher as he fucked you harder. “You feel so good—why do you feel so fucking good, witch?”

The super-soldier sounded tormented, and you understood the feeling. It wasn’t fair that it was so good with him—better than it had ever been in your fantasies. You had to believe it was the potion, because you didn’t think you’d survive if it wasn’t.

“Oh fuck, ‘m gonna come,” Bucky rasped above you, burying his face in your shoulder. “Gonna come inside your tight fucking cunt, witch—ya ready for it?”

“Yes,” you sobbed pulling away from Bucky’s thumb and catching his eye over your shoulder. “Make me come, soldier, make it end.”

Bucky’s blue eyes glinted with something dangerous as they raked over your face. “Beg me, witch,” he growled, his words so gruff you could barely understand them. “Beg me to make you come.”

Your heart lurched in your chest and something deep in your soul rebelled against the command. You were a powerful witch, you didn’t beg anyone for anything. 

But you knew Bucky well enough to recognize the stubborn set of his jaw, and the ruthlessness in his gaze. You held his stare for a long moment, trying to fight the need to give in, but ultimately your desire won out. 

“Please, Bucky,” you rasped, the words rough like you’d dragged them from the pit of your being. “Please rub my clit and make me come.” The pleading spilled more freely from your lips the more you spoke, your need urging you on. “I need it so bad—I need you, Bucky, please!”

Bucky’s eyes flashed, and you thought you caught the hint of a grin. But then he picked up his pace and you were lost. 

Your eyes rolled back in your head as Bucky rutted into you, pounding you into the table until your hips hurt and your cunt was clenching tight around his hard length.

When it was almost too much, Bucky reached under you, freeing your hands so he could slip his warm fingers between your thighs and rub your clit. It took only a few rough strokes before you were coming apart for him.

You came with a piercing scream, your release overwhelming you as pleasure ravaged your body. It blotted out everything else besides Bucky and his cock—his perfect cock that kept fucking you while he chased his own pleasure.

“Fuck—fuck, take my come, angel, take it deep in that sweet cunt,” Bucky growled, his words cutting off in a loud grunt as he shoved his cock deep inside you. His teeth sank into your shoulder, biting you and muffling a roar against your skin as he came.

His hips pressed flush to your ass, fucking you shallowly as he unloaded himself in your pussy. You felt his cock twitch, and his warm come filling you up and you trembled in pleasure, basking in the sensation while you writhed beneath him.

Time stretched like taffy as you both reveled in your pleasure, and you didn’t know how long it had been by the time Bucky let out a last, shuddering groan. He collapsed on top of you, though he was careful not to crush you.

You thought it was over, but you’d barely heaved a sigh of relief before warmth began to prickle beneath your skin again. The heat spread quickly, like your release had only taken the edge off before it came back stronger, headier.

“Ba-Barnes,” you whined, squirming beneath Bucky, your hips rolling when you felt him harden inside you. “I don’t think it’s—oh fuck.”

The super-soldier pulled his hips back and snapped them forward, burying his stiff length in your already well-used pussy. You trembled at the almost unbearable sensation of his hard cock dragging against your sensitive inner walls, a mindless moan slipping from your lips.

“I’m sorry, witch,” Bucky mumbled into your neck, his hips pumping faster and faster. “But I don’t think the magic’s worn off—fuck, ‘m not done with you yet.”

All you could do was sob your pleasure, your hands reaching back for him, needing something to ground you as he sent you flying all over again. He buried his face in your neck, groaning as he set a brutal pace, fucking his come deeper inside you as he fucked you into the table.

“Fuck, witch, what’d you do to me?” he rasped into the hollow beneath your jaw, his scruff tickling your neck. “I’ve already emptied my balls in your hungry cunt once, and I can’t stop—can’t stop until I fill you up until your belly’s bulging with my seed.”

“Bucky, yes,” you cried, lifting your hips so he could sink even deeper inside you. He was so big and hot and heavy inside you, and you wanted his come, you wanted him to fuck you and fill you up until you couldn’t take anymore. “Give me more, soldier, I need all of you.”

At your demand, Bucky growled, the sound not entirely happy. It seemed to spur him into moving. 

Pulling out of your greedy hole, he flipped you over and spun your bodies until he was stretched out on his back on the worktable. He stared up at you, wonder and fury blazing in his blue eyes as you impaled yourself on his cock, taking every inch of him inside your hot cunt. 

The position had Bucky’s cock pushing even deeper into your cunt, and you threw your head back, savoring the feeling of being filled by his thick length. It wasn’t until Bucky gave your ass a sharp spank that you refocused on the super-soldier.

“If you want more, you’re gonna have to do some of the work, witch,” Bucky rumbled with a smirk, reaching his metal arm back and laying his head on it, propping himself up so he could watch you squirm on his cock. His other hand rested on your hip, anchoring you to his body. “Bounce on your soldier’s cock, angel, lemme see what a slut my sweet witch can be.”

It wasn’t in your nature to follow commands blindly, but even you couldn’t resist the desire to do exactly what Bucky had said. So you writhed above him, spurred on by his words as you rocked your hips experimentally, feeling his thick length shift inside you.

Bucky’s jaw clenched and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, his eyes going molten as he watched your hips hump on his cock. It was intoxicating, watching him unravel for you, and you realized you couldn’t get enough. You wanted more.

Planting your hands on Bucky’s broad chest, you lifted your hips and slammed back down. The super-soldier groaned loudly, his eyes sliding closed with bliss, his hips rising up off the table to meet your bouncing body.

Leaning down, you let your mouth brush teasingly against Bucky’s, pulling away when he tried to capture your lips in a bruising kiss. You laughed softly as you retreated, your hips lifting up and slamming back down at a relentless pace.

“You want a slut, soldier?” you asked in a sultry voice, your tone only a little bit mean. “I’ll show you such a good time, you’ll be begging to get back inside my cunt even after the potion’s worn off.” You nipped at his lower lip, moving away again before he could catch you for a kiss. “Maybe if you’re nice, I’ll even let you fuck me again—without the magic.”

Something in Bucky seemed to snap and he let out a furious roar, his face contorting with rage. Quick as a flash, he grabbed your hips and, using his super-soldier strength, he bounced you on his cock like you were nothing more than his own personal fleshlight. 

“You think I’m the one that’s gonna be addicted after this, angel?” Bucky growled meanly, fucking into you harder—so hard you had to cling to his arms to hold on. “You’re gonna be so drunk on my cock, you’re gonna be crawling back to me, begging to be my slut, witch.”

Bucky sat up suddenly, his metal hand curving around the back of your neck and his other arm banding around your lower back, holding you pinned against his body. His blue gaze was furious as he stared deep into your eyes, stealing your breath with the intensity of his look.

“You’re going to beg me to make you my fuck toy, angel,” he promised, his fingers tightening around your neck with a possessiveness you didn’t know he was capable of—and it had you gasping with excitement. He smirked smugly at the look on your face. “Just you fucking wait.”

You wanted to protest Bucky’s words, but you were slack-jawed with pleasure. The position of his body, and the rolling, deep thrusts of his hips had you barreling toward another release. Your clit was rubbing against the base of Bucky’s thick, perfect cock and all you could do was tip your head back and moan.

“Fuck, Bucky, just like that, I’m gonna come,” you whined, your nails digging into the hard muscles of his biceps. You clung to him like he was the only thing between you and death, all while he sent you hurtling toward a release that you knew would be devastating.

“Do it, witch,” Bucky growled, his voice harsh. His chest heaved with effort as he bounced you on his lap. “Come all over your soldier’s cock—show me what a good, filthy slut you are for me.”

Despite yourself, his command had your release crashing over you, you body going rigid and your eyes rolling into the back of your head. A broken scream left your lips. All you could feel was wave after wave of overwhelming pleasure rocking through your every limb, leaving you shaking and gasping.

Distantly, you were aware of Bucky roaring as he rutted into you, his cock twitching as he came deep in your cunt. You felt his warmth filling you, sating something in your soul that you weren’t sure had anything to do with the love potion, but you didn’t bother thinking about that just yet.

You let your release roll through you, reveling in the pleasure and clinging to your soldier all the way through it. He held you just as tight, his face buried in your neck, sucking greedily on your skin as you rocked together until the waves of pleasure finally ebbed.

With a weak cry, you collapsed against Bucky’s chest, both of you slumping down to the table as you caught your breath. You lay sprawled across Bucky’s broad form, his warm hand resting on your lower back, your bodies still joined where his cock remained inside you.

For the moment, the magic-induced heat in your blood had abated, but you could still feel it at the edge of your awareness. It was giving you a reprieve, but it was biding its time until the potion would have you fucking again. 

“I thought you said this need would end if we did something about it,” Bucky grumbled, his chest rising and falling beneath your limp body as he caught his breath. “I can still feel it—what do we have to do?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” you whined, burying your face in Bucky’s sweaty chest. 

That was a mistake, because you inhaled the full brunt of his scent, making your mind go hazy around the edges. It was so good, and your body still felt so sated from your orgasm that you could feel your walls crumbling. 

You didn’t have the energy to keep them up, and you felt emotion slip into your heart. Without meaning to, you let yourself be vulnerable in front of Bucky, not caring for once about appearing like the strong and formidable witch that you were.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled into his skin, defeat making you feel heavy. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been messing around with love magic—I’m so fucking stupid.”

Embarrassment rushed in as soon as the words were out, and you tried to pull away while keeping your face hidden so Bucky couldn’t see your shame. But he shocked you by tugging you right back to where you were. He held you tight to his chest and brushed a kiss to your damp forehead.

“It was a foolhardy idea, but you’re not stupid, witch,” he murmured into your hair, his calloused fingers stroking up and down your spine in a surprisingly soothing gesture. “Were you acting like an arrogant idiot? Yes. Were you being reckless? Definitely.”

You snorted, the sound derisive in the quiet of the room, and Bucky squeezed the back of your neck firmly until you went silent again. He heaved a sigh, then continued speaking, so quietly you weren’t sure if you were even supposed to hear him.

“I have a soft spot for reckless idiots apparently.”

The two of you let those words linger in the air. It almost didn’t seem possible, that Bucky Barnes had a soft spot for you, but he’d just said as much. It took you a moment to believe it, but when you did, you lifted up and pressed your mouth to his in a sweet kiss.

Bucky groaned softly, his hand cradling the back of your head while you kissed, each of you exploring the other the way you hadn’t earlier. When his tongue slipped into your mouth, you whimpered, feeling his cock harden inside you and reigniting the spark of lust. 

“What do we do?” you whined when you pulled away to gasp for air. Your eyes found Bucky’s, giving him your best pleading look. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

Bucky let out a soft breath, cupping your cheek in his warm palm, his thumb brushing your cheek comfortingly. 

“We ride it out, angel,” he said gently, tipping your head down until your forehead pressed to his. “We hope you were right that it’ll wear off in a couple hours.”

Unbidden, tears gathered in your lashes and leaked from your eyes. It was exquisite torture, feeling Bucky’s hard cock inside you, and you rolled your hips even as you cried softly.

“I’m sorry, Bucky, I’m so sorry,” you whimpered, emotions rushing through you that you didn’t understand, mixing with the heat of the magic into a heady, overwhelming mix. You clung tighter to Bucky, apologizing over and over again even as you rocked against him.

Bucky rolled you over onto your back, holding you cradled against his chest as he loomed over you. He kissed the tears from your cheeks and fucked you in slow, deep thrusts that set off sparks of pleasure in your core. 

“Ya gotta be strong for me, angel,” Bucky rasped against your cheek, kissing away your tears as quickly as they fell. “Where’s my headstrong, reckless witch who was demanding more from her soldier just a little while ago?”

A wet laugh bubbled from your lips, and you turned your face, kissing Bucky, feeling endlessly grateful that the super-soldier was being so patient with you. That he was showing you he liked every side of you, even the ones you thought annoyed the hell out of him.

The longer you kissed your soldier, the more you were able to sink into the building desire burning in your blood. Your legs hooked around the backs of Bucky’s thighs, and he groaned in pleasure when you lifted your hips, meeting his thrusting cock.

Your fingers sank into Bucky’s brown hair, twisting mercilessly in the strands and yanking on him roughly, your hips moving faster as you urged him on.

“Fuck me, Bucky,” you whined against his mouth, swallowing his grunts of pleasure. “Use me like my body is your own personal fuck toy, make me drunk on your cock, make me a mindless slut for you, soldier.” You pulled back, catching Bucky’s eye and shooting him a wicked smirk before murmuring, “That’s an order.”

With a low, rumbling growl and a wolfish grin, Bucky grabbed your thighs and hiked them up to your chest, folding you in half and pinning you to the worktable while he pounded into you. His cock sank deep inside you, mercilessly bullying your cunt with every thrust.

“Don’t order me around, witch,” he rumbled, though there wasn’t as much heat to his words as there had been earlier, and they were further softened by the look of reverence in his eyes. “You’ll take my cock like a good little slut and you’ll fucking thank me for it.”

“Thank you, soldier, thank you,” you gasped, writhing beneath Bucky’s bigger body. You yanked on his hair, dragging him down for another filthy, messy kiss, and he fucked you harder, both of you racing toward another release. 

Together, you tipped over the edge, losing yourselves in each other. You moaned against each other’s mouths as you both came apart, your bodies entwined so tightly, you barely knew where you ended and Bucky began. 

Without you noticing, the last wisp of the pink smoke that had once filled the room finally filtered out, and the containment protocols locking the door were lifted. But it would be a long time before the effects of the love potion wore off. 

You and Bucky kept going at it for another few hours, fucking late into the night and making each other come until both of you finally passed out from exhaustion.

When you woke, Bucky’s cock was still inside you, and your first instinct was to roll your hips. A moan slipped from your lips at the delicious drag of him inside you, his hard length twitching in your pussy. 

It took your tired mind a moment to realize the magical heat in your blood had finally disappeared, and you slumped back down on top of Bucky. You were sprawled on top of his chest, his breath stuttering on a groan as he roused.

Turning your face up, you pressed a kiss to the scruffy underside of Bucky’s jaw. “It’s finally out of our systems, soldier,” you murmured, knowing he’d be able to hear you.

Bucky grunted, his arms tightening around your waist. You could feel his hips lift slightly beneath you, fucking deeper into your aching cunt, managing to wring even more pleasure from your body.

“Mm, are you sure, witch?” he rumbled in a teasing tone, his hips bucking more noticeably beneath you. Your inner walls clenched weakly around him, as if urging him on. “Because your sweet cunt’s calling to me, begging me for another load.”

You tried to huff a laugh, but the sound devolved into a helpless mewl as you felt him move inside you. The slide of Bucky’s cock in your pussy was made easy by all the come he’d emptied inside you, and you could feel new wetness leaking from your hole at the idea of him spilling his seed inside you again.

Lifting up only enough to find Bucky’s lips, you kissed him lazily before pulling away to tease him back. 

“I told you you’d be addicted to my cunt after the potion wore off, soldier,” you murmured against Bucky’s mouth, your lips curved in a smile. “Do you think you’ve been nice enough that I should let you fuck me?”

“I think I’ve been very nice to you, witch,” Bucky said, the warmth of a grin in his tone. “And don’t act like you aren’t dying to fuck my cock again, angel.” His hips lifted up off the table, bouncing you on his hard length.

“Fine, fine,” you said, trying for a teasing tone, but it came out too breathy. Your fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair, and you kissed him more deeply. “Fuck me, soldier, and make it good, because after this, I’m gonna need so much food and water—and to sleep for a few days.”

Bucky chuckled against your mouth. “You got it, witch,” he said, fucking up into you in long, deep strokes that had you seeing stars. Your pussy was sore from all the pounding you’d taken earlier, but that made the pleasure all the more decadent. 

You and Bucky writhed together on the worktable, your bodies exhausted but still craving more—wanting at least one time without the magic clouding your minds. You kissed as you came together, your releases blistering and deeply satisfying as they burned through you, your moans filling the room.

After, you and Bucky were so tired, and it was so late, that you didn’t speak as you stumbled off the worktable. He helped you tug on his undershirt, since he’d ruined your clothes when he’d torn them off you, then he pulled on some pants.

Leaning against each other for strength, you made your way through the tower to the kitchen, grabbing some food before heading to Bucky’s room. There, you ate and then tumbled into bed together as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

In the morning you’d have to talk about the state of your relationship, but it was nice to simply exist quietly together. You’d spent so much time arguing with Bucky, that it meant more to feel safe and secure enough with him not to talk than if you’d filled the air with mindless chatter.

So you remained silent as Bucky wrapped you up in his arms, holding you tight to his chest in his bed. You tipped your face up for a brief kiss, and then settled down, letting yourself savor the comfort of his body.

You fell asleep quickly, a smile on your face as you gave in to the exhaustion and bone-deep satisfaction you felt. Even if you didn’t have any of your love potion left, it had been a good, meaningful day. 

Thanks to a barging super-soldier and that broken container in your workshop, you learned a few lessons about witchcraft: Drink lots of water before brewing love potions. Make sure to store potions in unbreakable containers. 

And don’t play with love potions unless Bucky Barnes was close by—just in case you needed a little help. Thankfully, after that day, he was never too far away. He was your soldier and you were his witch. Forever.

thank you for reading!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated ♡

You were so sweet, so good, and he would treat you so well if you were his.

And you were so deserving.

You ought to have someone dote on you, take care of you. You were fiercely independent, fully capable, but you shouldn’t need to be.

He was more than willing to take care of you. He always insisted it was no trouble to hold a door open for you, to help carry your groceries, to pick up your mail when you were out of town, to help you put together the table you ordered online when it was delivered. Not only was it no trouble, he liked doing those things for you.

He wanted to do more.

He heard you late at night with your vibrator.

He could give you so much better.

How many times had the super’s wife said to him what a sweet couple the two of you would make?

What was the harm with hurrying you along into something he was so sure you wanted with a little sex pollen?

Before he’d been The Winter Soldier, the efficient and essentially untraceable assassin for decades, he’d been a damn good soldier as Bucky Barnes. He was still an asset now whether he was consulting or going into the field. Constantly valued for his keen mind.

Why shouldn’t he use his expertise and strategy now?

It was just traces at first. You hardly noticed.

There’d be the odd moment when you hesitated in a sentence, blinking, eyes glossy as you lost your train of thought. That little fluster was delicious, but not enough. He watched you closely, reading the microexpressions that drifted across your features: confusion, a tiny flicker of heat, embarrassment you squashed down. You’d shake your head briskly, recenter yourself, and apologize with a laugh he could tell was forced.

And he always smiled warmly at you, but inside, it was with the energy of a satisfied smirk.

It was working.

He made minute adjustments. Ratcheted the levels up and down, spiked your mail with just enough to make you breathe deeper when you opened it. He traded in your regular coffee beans for a new bag from the “cool indie shop on the corner,” slipped the powder into the grounds. It was a delicate balance: he never wanted you to feel sick, just hungry. Desirous. Needy.

Once, he heard you through the wall, weeping with frustration. He’d never heard that in your voice before, and it made him burn with satisfaction and anticipation.

But he was always successful in his missions because of his expertise, his ability to gage proper timing.

He struck early, before the city could shake off its Saturday morning haze. Heat already radiated from the bricks, the kind of July swelter that made people yearn for lemonade and picnics and pools. He moved in darkness as much out of habit as necessity, crossing the handful of feet between your fire escape and his with the ease of a man who’d spent too many years navigating roofs and ledges and the soft places between shadows.

The mixture was clear, almost invisible, but he applied it in a glistening line along the edges of your window frames, working methodically. His hands did not shake.

He returned to his own apartment and pulled up the port he’d developed to control your HVAC system, and shut it down just before he knew you were typically up and stirring around on a Saturday morning.

And then he waited.

By 8:37 a.m. your apartment was growing warmer than usual, and you woke with a slick hairline, a sheen of sweat over your skin. He watched you from the camera he installed as you slipped out of bed and down the hall. You pawed at the digital thermostat first, muttering under your breath, but only the error message blinked back at you: HVAC ERROR. CALL MAINTENANCE. You let out a laugh, brittle and bitter, and trudged to the windows, pushing up the panes to at least get the fresh air. You left every window open, desperate for a through breeze.

You braced your palms against the sill and he could see the relief already blooming in your posture as the pane slid open. The breeze was gentle but constant, carrying with it the faintest hint of the compound’s sharp, metallic sweetness. It was immediate, the way it worked instantaneously: you inhaled, unaware, then blinked rapidly. Your jaw slackened for a fraction of a second, mouth parted in an unintentional invitation. Your hands lingered on the window frame, before you pulled them back and wiped one over your brow, while the other went to your chest, and no wonder since he assumed that you’d be feeling an uptick in your heart rate.

And now, he would wait.

He watched you pad into your little kitchen, tugging at the hem of your sleep shirt. You filled the kettle, set it on, and stood at the counter, hands fluttering as if you’d forgotten what to do with them. You took a breath—he could see the shudder of your shoulders—then craned your neck, face tilted to the open window, and inhaled again, a long, greedy drag.

Inside a minute, you began to fidget. Your thighs pressed together, then parted, then pressed again, the rhythm building. Your head tipped forward, eyes closing as you gripped the countertop, knuckles going white. A slick little shiver wound through you. The kettle whistled, shrill and out of place, and you startled so hard the mug tumbled from your hands, landing on the floor with a muted thunk.

Bucky chuckled.

This was going to be fun.

You were not, generally, this unbalanced. You could ride out a wave of sexual frustration for weeks, even months, and never let it show in your polite smile or the hand you’d lend to old Mrs. Lopez on 5B with her packages. You had learned to live with your little obsession with your neighbor Bucky Barnes in the same way you’d learned to ignore the drip in your bathroom sink: a low-level, constant irritant, a fixture of your life that you could, with sufficient self-control, simply tune out.

It was only a quarter past nine in the morning and you were already panting like you’d just climbed six flights in July, not merely rolled out of bed. Something was wrong with your body. Not sick—more like your skin had outgrown you overnight, every inch of you thrumming with an ache that had nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with need.

Because as bad as the heat was, you’d woken up at 3:21am, rolled onto your stomach and pressed your thighs together and rocked your hips, humping your mattress to no avail. It was as unfulfilling as the dream you’d woken up from, a dream featuring your neighbor Bucky Barnes pinning you in place, fucking you so well, so close you could taste the climax, only to have jolted awake, desperate and empty.

Now with no AC, it just figures that the universe would align for the worst day of your sexual frustration to peak when your AC went out.

You had lived through enough New York City summers to know the heat would try to kill you, but you’d never expected it to go for the slow, erotic smother instead.

Great. Now your brain was writing romance copy.

You took a cold shower, or as cold as the pipes allowed, and stepped out feeling more feverish and frustrated than ever. After that you stood in front of the open fridge for several minutes, eating string cheese in small, desperate bites, willing the chill to transfer from your tongue to your bloodstream. It didn't work. Cold air kissed your shins momentarily, but it was already evaporating.

Your phone, sticky with sweat, offered no solutions. The building super had already responded to oyour texts, but with the city-wide sweltering temperatures, he said it was going to be difficult to get someone to come look before Monday. You scrolled through social media, found only posts about the heat, people frying eggs on their windowsills, and, for some reason, an uptick in thirst traps. You slammed it facedown on the kitchen table, stood there, and considered your options.

Maybe you would have to resort to leaning on your own personal thirst trap and endure the torture.

Look but not touch.

As always.

You jogged your memory for Bucky’s likely status. His AC always worked, a source of neighborly gloating he pretended to feel sorry about. You’d seen him on the fire escape last night, watering an improbable pot of basil, so he hadn’t left for one of his mysterious, week-long trips.

You counted on him to be up, and you counted on him to be kind and neighborly. How many times had he said to let him know if you needed anything?

You slipped your feet into flip-flops and padded across the hall, the chill of the corridor almost pornographically relieving. Ignoring the urge to just lie down in the communal patch of coolness, you knocked. Not politely, but as un-desperately as you could manage.

His door opened before the second knock. He wore an old t-shirt and gym shorts in the way of a man who didn’t expect guests but was always ready for them. He grinned, broad and easy, and you wanted to slap it off his face or maybe—maybe—sink your teeth into the soft underside of his jaw, alternate violence and adoration. If it weren’t for the white socks on his feet, he would have been wholly unapproachable. He blinked at you, a little surprised, before his expression softened in recognition.

His blue eyes slid from your face down the length of you—bare-legged, sweat-sheened, half-dressed. If he noticed how untethered you looked, he didn’t say a word.

He just leaned against the doorframe, forearm braced above his head, a little smirk twitching at the edge of his mouth. “Hey, neighbor,” he said, voice just hoarse enough to sound like he, too, had just woken up. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. No, you were not okay. “Yeah, no, my AC’s dead. Reuben says maybe Monday.”

“Damn. That’s rough.” He stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come on in, you can cool off in here. It’s like an igloo compared to the hallway.”

You tried to say “thanks” but it came out thin and breathy. You hesitated in the threshold, pulse hammering in your ears, palms sticky. You were acutely aware of every inch of your skin and the patches where your tank top clung and stuck to your warm skin. You kept your arms tight at your sides and followed him in, trying not to look too hard at the wide set of his shoulders and the deliciously lived-in swoop of his hair.

His apartment was frigid. A gasp left you, startled, as the coolness curled around your ankles and up your shins, relief so sharp it tasted almost like salt. You braced a hand on the wall, felt your knees threatening to buckle for a whole, embarrassing second.

Bucky closed the door behind you and put a hand in his pocket, rocking his weight once up and back on the balls of his feet. As you adjusted to the temperature, your brain came back online, time stretching out but your thoughts not clearing so much as multiplying, all scrambling around the same basic theme: need.

Every little physical sensation felt magnified and weirdly erotic—Bucky’s clean-laundry scent, the chill bristling your nipples, your own rapid breathing, every sound echoing in his silent apartment.

Bucky peered at you with gentle concern, vaguely amused, like he could hold both those things in his expression at once. “You want some coffee?” he offered, casual, normal.

“Only if it’s iced,” you answered, following him into the kitchen.

You perched at his breakfast bar, gripping the edge, trying to appear unbothered. Up close, the scent of his skin and aftershave filled the air, a dizzying magnetism that was entirely unfair. You shifted, restless, gnawing the inside of your cheek.

Bucky moved with measured, assured movements behind the counter, opening a cupboard for glasses, filling them from a pitcher of cold brew. You couldn’t help but follow the flex of his forearm, the way his veins pressed up beneath the thin skin, the way his hands dwarfed the glass when he reached to set it in front of you.

His close proximity, the press of cold air from the vent above, the frisson of want that kept pooling in your belly and lower—god, was there anything left of you but need, at this point? It was getting hard to think, and you had to grip the glass hard to keep your hand from trembling. The iced coffee gave you the jitters. Or maybe it was just him, and the way he looked at you—just for a second, a slip out from behind his affable neighbor mask. It made your skin flare with fresh heat, the want sharper now for the momentary suggestion that maybe he knew exactly how ruined you felt by him.

He didn’t sit, just stood at the other counter a few feet away, tilting back his own glass.

He watched you over the rim, unhurried, eyes steady and watchful, and you thought, briefly, incoherently, that if you didn’t put something else in your mouth besides ice, you were going to say something reckless and humiliating. The coffee wasn’t helping at all. The caffeine sharpened your need, made it into a nervous, electrified ache, made you more aware of the incessant want.

“How’s your week going?” he asked, mild as ever. His voice was a low vibration, something pleasant you wanted to crawl inside.

You tried to recall anything that had happened since Monday, but it all seemed distant, unrelated to the desperate present. “Um. Work’s a lot,” you said, then, quickly, “How about you?”

He waited a beat, as if debating whether to give the default “fine” or to try for something more interesting. “You know. The usual. Little consulting, some paperwork, surveillance for an old friend. Watered the plants.”

There was a small silence. When you spoke, your voice was tight. “Your place is always freezing.”

He shrugged, a smile tugging the edge of his mouth. “Just lucky for once, I guess.” He was looking at you—really looking, with that steady, disarming focus of his, like he was cataloguing everything from the way you shivered to the fact that you couldn’t seem to unclench your legs. “You can hang out as long as you want. I’ve got snacks, TV, whatever you need.”

You needed something, and it was not TV.

But you had worked so hard to manage this—all your strange, out-of-joint attraction to Bucky, your embarrassing daydreams about what it would be like, the impossible softness that sometimes came over his face when he listened to you talk. You knew it was only the pheromones, the chemical trick of proximity that had you feeling so desperately out of control.

God.

He was just being the nice neighbor and friend he always was, and here you were actively fighting some itchyearndesperateneed to fuck him.

Maybe it wasn’t the heat or the coffee. Maybe it was just you, and the unsolvable, hungry problem of wanting him.

You finished your glass with a gulp that left your throat sore. The chill bloomed through your veins, hitting the heat in your core and swirling the want into a sharper, thinner line that tethered you, drove you. You wiped condensation from your lip and found Bucky staring at your mouth. You caught him, or he let himself get caught, because he didn’t look away—he watched, and then, slow and unapologetic, he smiled.

You could feel the edges of yourself getting fuzzy, your boundaries dissolving in the cold and the ache. His name was a bell in your head, a reflex: Bucky Bucky Bucky. You wondered what it’d be like to say it while he was inside you. Or after. Or never.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, but he came closer, leaned over the counter, invading your space as if he knew you weren’t, as if he needed to be sure.

Instead you cleared your throat. “Yeah. Sorry. I think I’m just a little, uh, loopy from the heat.”

His gaze flicked purposefully down your throat, over the pulse jumping there, then back up to your face. “Don’t apologize,” he said, softer than before, which made it worse. “It’s not your fault. Heat’s a killer.”

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound that came out was so thin it hurt. “Is it weird if I jus sit here for a little?”

“You sure you’re okay? No fever?” he asked, his eyes on the exposed column of your throat as you swallowed.

You shook your head and then realized that wasn’t entirely true. “I don’t know. Kind of feels like it.”

“Want me to check?” His question was so innocent you almost missed the note beneath it, the glimmer of amusement in his gaze. “Had to pick up some medical skills in the field. Got really good at feeling foreheads.”

Some combination of mortification and anticipation made you pulse all over. But you wanted the excuse—needed the contact.

“Sure,” you managed, low and hoarse as you scooted your stool a few inches closer to the counter.

He reached across the bar, his cool metal fingers a sharp relief, thumb feathering just under your jaw, palm broad and hot against your cheek. You wanted to press into it like a cat, you wanted to be ruined by it.

He drew in a breath, slow, deliberate, as if he were inhaling more than just your scent. His thumb brushed the hair back from your forehead, and his skin was so much colder than yours—you tingled where he touched you, the contrast as intoxicating as his closeness. “You’re burning up,” he said, with a gravity that made it sound like it was your fault and also exactly what he wanted.

You must have made some noise, some keening thing, because he chuckled, low in his chest. “You okay?” he said again, but this time, not moving back, not letting go.

It wasn’t the move of a guy checking for fever in a platonic way, not really—the way he cradled your chin, thumb brushing over your face, was too familiar, too practiced. His callouses rasped against your skin, a roughness you liked maybe too much.

He started to draw his hand back, and your own moved lightning fast to catch his wrist and bring his touch back to your face. “I…”

“Yes?” he asked, infuriatingly patient.

“Please, I need help,” you whimpered.

The words hung between you, unbearable. He held there, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You stayed, rooted, nails warm on the metal of his wrist, breath short and staccato.

He ducked his head just a fraction, eyes still on you, as if waiting for more. “What kind of help?” he asked.

You couldn’t say it. Not outright. Your grip on him was enough, maybe. You hoped. You hoped not. It trembled out of you: “I don’t know. I just—” You let go, finally, as if releasing his wrist would break the spell. Instead the ache in your palms was replaced instantly by the ache everywhere else.

“You can ask me anything,” he said, as if the answer was simple. You felt the tenderness in the way his hand returned to cup your cheek with unexpected gentleness, thumb stroking along the apple of your cheek, cooling it, coaxing you to keep going.

You shuddered, half in mortification and half in surrender. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you managed, voice high and thin. “It’s not just the heat, I swear, I just—” You pressed your thighs together, pulse jackhammering. “I can’t even think.”

His smile softened, the smugness replaced by something darker, intent. “Hey,” he said, voice lower now, “it’s okay. You trust me, right?”

You nodded, feeling the flush climb to your ears. “Of course I do.” Because you did, more than you’d ever admit. If you didn’t, you’d never be here, letting him touch you, letting your body confess the truth your voice couldn’t find.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, so steady, so direct it made you dizzy.

You tried to answer, but it caught in your throat, a wordless plea. Maybe the problem wasn’t just the heat. Maybe the problem was that your body had been braced for so long against this tidal pull; now it was finally time to give in.

You pressed your thighs together, yet again, and his eyes dropped to the movement immediately.

Then he leaned in, crowding your space, his presence as immediate as the frozen air and the thump of blood behind your ribs. You held your breath, and when he spoke, the words ghosted over your cheek.

“Let me help,” he said. It wasn’t a request.

You nodded, and it was like the cord inside you snapped. He moved so fast, so fluid, that you barely registered being turned—his hands a gentle but unbreakable grip as he rotated you on the barstool, so your knees faced him directly. His palms, one human and one metal, slid up your thighs, thumbs stroking the inside seam, and he sunk to his knees in front of you, the nearness of his face a gravitational force.

The world funneled down to the place where his hands pressed, and you realized he was holding you apart. Not obscenely, not yet, but enough that you were completely open to him, the thin cotton of your shorts doing nothing to hide the flush, the damp.

You made a soft, startled sound—the kind of sound that would have mortified you any other day, but now just seemed like a necessary release valve. The edge of the counter pressed into your back, bracing you, and there was nowhere to look but at him.

He glanced up at you, eyelashes impossibly dark, the blue of his eyes cool and unhurried as the rest of him. “Is this what you need?” he asked softly, one thumb circling closer, not quite touching you where he must have known you needed it most.

“I—” You gripped the counter as your own breath left you high and bright. “Yeah,” you whispered, then stronger. “Yeah. Please.”

Something old and hungry flickered in his eyes; for a second, it was like witnessing a mask falling away, exposing the pure, adoring greed underneath. He nodded, almost formal, and then both his hands bracketed your hips, holding you steady on the stool.

He started at your knee, a glancing scrape of blunt nails and calloused knuckles that sent shivers up your thigh. He traced the seam of your shorts slowly, as if there was all the time in the world, as if he wasn’t about to devour you.

His eyes didn’t leave yours, even as his mouth hovered over the thin cotton barrier. He ghosted a breath across the damp spot he found, and you lost all chance of composure. There was no longer any you, only some open, yearning thing perched on a stool, barely holding itself together. He thumbed the edge of your shorts aside just enough to press against you directly, the heat of his mouth and the shock of his cool fingers alternating in a way that broke your sanity into a thousand flickering, animal senses.

You grabbed at his hair without even meaning to, the urge so primitive it felt like a survival reflex. He hummed appreciatively at the contact, as if you’d pleased him, as if you were doing him a favor by yanking his mouth closer to your cunt. The sound vibrated through you, under your skin, rattling your bones. You tipped your hips, your nerves on fire, and his tongue licked a slow, deep stripe from your inner thigh up, not touching your clit, not yet, just lavishing the tender skin in a way that felt almost teasingly reverent.

You made a strangled noise, one part protest and one part plea, and Bucky’s hands tightened ever so slightly, anchoring you. He mouthed softly at you through the cotton, kissing and tasting like he had planned this moment, fantasized about it, orchestrated it down to seconds.

“God, Bucky, please—” you heard yourself say, shame gone, language stripped down to pure imperative.

He obliged, finally, dragging the fabric aside with both thumbs and kissing you directly, a cool blast of breath ghosting over your slick heat before his tongue pressed flat and broad against your clit. The relief was so acute you almost sobbed, hands convulsing where they tangled in his hair. You heard the low, satisfied growl in his throat as he set in, slow at first, until your hips bucking.

He didn’t tease, not in the sense of withholding; he controlled the pace only so you wouldn’t go off too soon, so you wouldn’t lose yourself before he had you in exactly the state he wanted. He gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking up and down, pinning you gently but completely, and sucked softly at your clit, laved it, flicked it until you heard yourself choking on a sob. Your hands curled into his hair, desperate for more, for anything, and he let you grind against his mouth, so attentive that he’d match every desperate movement with the exact pressure you needed.

It was embarrassing how quickly you came, shameful and glorious at once. You still had enough self-awareness to gasp his name in something like apology. “Bucky, Bucky, ah—fuck, so close.”

He growled, mouth pressed to you, and angled his tongue just-so, and the orgasm hit with staggering force, a white-out that blitzed your vision and stole any words from you. He didn’t stop. He held you through it and past it, swallowing down the shudders and the desperate sounds you made, like he’d known exactly how this would unfold. When you came down it was only because he let you, retreating from your cunt with a last, obscene kiss to your inner thigh.

He stayed on his knees as you caught your breath, looking up at you through the mess of his hair with a carefulness that could almost have passed for concern, were it not for the dark, starved edge to his gaze.

“It’s not enough, is it?” he asked, voice warm and hoarse, a dangerous temptation.

You shook your head before you realized what you were doing. The need was still there, louder if anything, a metabolic demand your body had never known before. The aftershocks of your orgasm didn’t blunt it; they just made you more sensitive, skin electric, greedy for any touch. The taste of his name was still burning on your tongue.

“I don’t—” You tried to get your breath, but every inhale was a plea, an invitation. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.” It sounded like a lie as soon as you said it. You did know, and so did he; the only thing you didn’t know was how far either of you would let it go.

Bucky’s hands slid up your thighs, palms broad and possessive suddenly, not the gentle friend but a man answering a hunger of his own.

He rose in a single uncoiling, smooth and predatory, and you found yourself wanting to press back, to get some space, but you didn’t want space—what you wanted was to be pressed under him, to feel the full weight of him locking you down, holding you together.

He didn’t say another word, just bent and swept you up. His hands were careful, but the grip was decisive, one arm braced under your ass, the other curling around your upper back so your body instinctively folded against his chest. You clung to his shoulders, dizzy from the abrupt motion, but he was already hauling you past his kitchen, navigating the hall with a single-minded purpose. In the living room he set you on your feet behind the couch, spun you so you faced the window, city sun slicing in through the blinds and painting stripes over the room.

He nudged you forward until your hips bumped the cushion, then planted his hands on your waist, pressing you down in a gentle but unmistakable command. You braced your palms on the back of the couch, arms locking to hold yourself upright, the cool leather shivery against your bare thighs. His breath ghosted over your shoulder as he leaned in, mouth at your ear.

“You’re desperate for me to ruin you, aren’t you, pretty girl?”

His tone was so wicked, so knowing, that you felt your knees threaten to buckle. Before you could respond, Bucky’s hands slid down, splayed wide over your hips, and then he used a foot to nudge your legs apart.

The movement was so natural, so certain, that you obeyed without thinking, planting your feet wider, arms braced. Your shorts were still tangled around one thigh and even that didn’t matter, there was nothing in the world but the way his hand slid between your legs and the sound you made when he did. He pressed the heel of his palm right to your cunt, pushing up against the fabric, feeling exactly how soaking, how frantic, you were for him.

Bucky made a low, appreciative noise, and you could feel the shape of his cock, hard and urgent, as he moved in closer behind you. He raked his thumb up your spine and you arched for him, made yourself an offering.

There was a trembling pause as his hands found the elastic, hooked under it, peeled the shorts and your underwear down in a single, devastating motion. He left them tangled around your knees, a shackle you could feel, and then he was there—close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the shape of him, hard and insistent, through his gym shorts.

You heard the rustle of his clothes behind you, the elastic snap of his waistband, the uneven jolt of his breath. You tried not to turn back, to break the spell, but his hand fisted gently in your hair, holding you forward, not cruelly but as if he worried you might float away from him. You felt the graze of his knuckles against the small of your back and then the soft, heavy head of his cock against your inner thigh, thick and achingly hot. You made another helpless sound, impossible to disguise as anything but want.

You half heard him whisper, “Good fucking girl,” and it was more grounding than anything—the way he said it, not for praise but as a pure statement of fact, as if you’d always belonged to this moment.

A heartbeat later you felt him line up, one broad hand bracing your hip, the other guiding himself between your legs. He slid in slow, first just crowning the tip, then a steady, unhurried advance until you pulsed around him, all the breath knocked out of you. He was big, God, he was fucking huge, and you felt every inch of him, slow and relentless, until your body gave up its resistance and let him in all the way.

You choked on a sob and he stilled, letting you adjust, the metal of his hand biting into your hip in an anchoring grip that kept you from collapsing. He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, feather-light, before rolling his hips forward, testing. The drag was so exquisite, so sharp, that your eyes filled up and spilled over before you understood you were crying. It didn’t feel sad or even humiliating; it felt like relief, like every nerve in your body finally tuned to the right frequency.

“There you go,” Bucky murmured, and the silk in his voice slid down your spine. “Let me take care of you.”

You arched back into him, jaw gone slack, and he took the cue, holding onto your hip with steel precision as he drew out, then thrust in to the hilt. The both of you made sounds then—animal, necessary, a tangled braid of shameless arousal. You were seared open, body and brain in ruins for him, and Bucky’s every move felt designed to keep you right at the rawest possible edge without letting you tumble off. With each slow, grinding thrust, he’d flex his fingers into your skin, and you were glad for the force. Otherwise, you might have rocketed apart.

He fucked you like he had nowhere else to be for the rest of his life. Each pass in and out was deep, so deep you saw stars, and he bit down on every gasp and whimper you made like treasure, hoarding them, making sure there was nothing you could give that he wouldn’t take. When you shuddered, he braced you. When you tried to hide your face in your arms, he made you look out the window.

“Imagine how wrecked you look if someone could see you like this, how good you are, how pliant, how utterly fucked out and feral for me.”

You could only groan beneath him.

But that wasn’t good enough.

“Because you are, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you managed to gasp.

“Fuck yeah, you are. Should film you next time so you can see.”

And that promised sentiment or threat or blessed assurance of a next time only barely registered in your head.

You felt the shape and girth of him everywhere, not just inside you but in your fingertips and jaw and even your toes, curled white-knuckled against the plush carpet. It felt like a breaking-open, a shudder that rattled the cage of rib and skull and emptied you in the best way. After the first spasm hit, it didn’t really stop; it just crested and broke, and then again, and again, as he drove you relentlessly through every aftershock.

Your throat was raw from the sounds you made, but you didn't care. Let the whole damn building know, let the heatwave carry it down to the street—anyone who heard would only know what you’d always suspected: that you were made, and remade, by the hands and cock of James Bucky Barnes.

He came with a groan that sounded like it had been torn up from the pit of him. You felt it, impossibly deep, an anchoring warmth at your core. He didn’t pull out right away, just pressed you down and into the couch, his breath ragged against your shoulder, sweat mixing with your own. The sun striped you both, pale and blurred, in the window’s glare. He cupped your waist, held you like he was scared you might disappear. The sound of your pulse was everywhere, in your mouth, your cunt, the tips of your fingers.

Eventually he eased out, then tossed you gently over the back of the couch and onto its cushions, hoisting himself immediatle after you, and settling between your thighs.

You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, he cupped your jaw in both his hands, and you met halfway in a kiss. Slow, charting, but eager to map, to pour into each other.

You should be spent, you knew that, and yet there was still a flickering need for even more, and ultimately you couldn’t keep from squirming your hips up beneath him like a bitch in heat.

Bucky growled but grinned against the crook of your neck. "Already? Thought I wore you out." He was half-teasing, half hopeful, and all of it made you ache more.

You panted, little strains of whimper leaking out as you shifted beneath his weight. "It's not—" You couldn't catch your breath. "It's not gone."

He drew back enough to see your face, the marvel and hunger written in every line of him. He was giddy on it now, drunk on you, the endlessness of your need. His thumb traced a path under your eye, along your jaw, a tenderness just as striking as the force when he'd bent you over the couch.

His hand was already sliding down, finding the tremor in your thigh where you'd hooked your heel into the small of his back. “C’mon, pretty girl, take what we know you need.”

He was still hard, not as superhumanly so as thirty seconds ago, but the evidence of his stamina pressed hot and thick against your thigh. The animal edge to his smile dared you to test him. So you did.

Your hand slid down between the bodies, still trembling, and guided his cock back home. Then you canted your head up, eyes wide, mouth open to him even before he took it. The kiss was deep and viscous as he slid his thick length back into you.

“You gonna let me fill up this tight cunt all day?”

Your head fell back, the surrender automatic. “Yes,” you managed, “please, Bucky—just—”

He didn’t give you time to finish the thought before he buried himself again, the shock of it so perfect you clenched hard around him, a plea and a welcome and a thank you all at once. You couldn’t believe there was anything left in you to give, but every stroke proved you wrong, dragged up a new, desperate need that was only satisfied by the relentless rhythm of his cock and his hands and the way his mouth fixed on you, starved.

He took you harder this time, body layered over yours on the couch, arms caging you in, fists in the cushions, the infected animal in your belly delighted to be conquered. The slap and drag, the obscene wet noise of your bodies meeting, should have been mortifying, but you couldn’t care less. All you could think about was the way he felt inside you, the fullness.

You fucked up into him like it could ever be enough, like you could reach the end of it, but all it did was ratchet higher the more you got. Illogical. Perverse. You wanted it so bad you felt like you might splinter from it.

He kept his eyes open, watching your every twitch and lost syllable, and when he spoke, it was a benediction and a dare all at once. “That’s it,” he cooed, “—take it, sweetheart, take every fucking drop.”

This man who you’d pegged as your polite, kind, helpful, funny neighbor, a gentle giant, a friend but not possibly interested in anything more… how could you have been any more wrong about him? It seemed his need was as insatiable as yours, as rough as yours.

He braced a hand on your ass and fucked into you so deep your vision actually blurred, and you had a moment of floating, refracted through heat and sensation, no thought in your head but the total occupation of Bucky’s cock and Bucky’s hands and Bucky’s words, which were now a white-noise loop of fuck, that’s so good and look at you and you greedy little thing.

You lost count of how many times you came, whether it was three or four or one long endless melt that crested and crashed and kept cresting again. Each time you clenched harder, he grunted, all approval and gratitude, like you were thriving on the mutual destruction. The only thing that finally stopped him was the way your body seized under him, shaking with exertion, whole frame slick with sweat and blown wide open—and even then, he only slowed to kiss the tears off your cheek before pumping in shallow, locking thrusts, filling you a second time.

He rolled and shifted so he was below and you were arranged on top of him, cock still inside you, and petted your head and back, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

But somehow your body still wasn’t done. The pitch of wasn’t as feverish, but you still ached for more, and you shifted, pressing your hands firmly onto his chest and pushing your hips back.

He growled and grinned up at you in approval, letting you take the pace, lazy hip rolls and shallow thrusts, like he was content to be used if only you’d keep him inside your cunt.

"That’s it, baby," Bucky murmured, hands cupping your hips in living brackets of steel and warmth, "workin’ it all out of your system, huh?" He let you ride him at your pace, let you grind and flex and arch your spine in a slow, deliberate torture, as if the last hour hadn’t emptied you. He watched the place where you were joined with worshipful fixation. Sometimes his hands drifted up your plump sides, moving over the sweat slicking over your ribs, sometimes they hovered beside your tits, thumbs circling the soft underside without quite squeezing. He wanted you to take, to use.

It was so much. The room, the man, the way your senses flattened and then sharpened around only the pressure and friction, the molten bracket of his thighs under yours. You could feel the outline and density of him in your gut, could feel the part of him inside you as an ache in your own bones.

Your hair stuck to your face, skin flushed and slick. You looked down at him, saw the blue of his eyes gone wild with something that wasn’t just lust but an infatuation so raw it jolted you harder than any thrust. You felt gorgeous and filthy and alive.

You braced your palms on his chest, the sweat-slick warmth of him grounding you to the world, to the precise coordinates of this couch, this apartment, these four walls where everything inside you had been rewritten. You rolled your hips, slow at first, test-driving this new sense you’d grown this morning. Each drag, each grind made the both of you moan, made his jaw go slack with admiration and something wild behind it.

“You look so good like this,” he whispered, almost reverent. His hands continued to wander, kneading your waist, your ass, committing every detail like a man who’d been in a famine so long he didn’t trust that the feast would last.

You uncurled from his chest and sat up, knees braced against the outside of his thighs. The angle changed everything—it let you drop down with gravity on your side, and the sudden invasion made you gasp, then laugh a little at the reckless power of it.

“Didn’t know you had this in you, pretty girl,” he said, eyes bright with admiration and a little awe, as your bodies met again and again. You shuddered, every nerve ending tuned to the raggedly sweet friction. You braced one hand on the couch back for support, the other pressing his chest flat to the cushions so he couldn’t move, so you could wring every last drop out of him.

He let you, his hands only guiding, though you could feel they itched for more, alternately cupping your ass and tracing the slick line along your spine. He never looked away, and you couldn’t either, not really. Part of you was afraid if you stopped, you’d never start again, that all of being alive was compressed into this blinding, needy cycle, the slow slide up, the brief gasp at the crest, the smashed-together bodies and the static-burst of coming apart.

You both dissolved into it, rode out the rhythm together, a storm system of skin and sweat and salt air. You wanted to memorize every flicker in his face, the way his jaw tensed when you clenched around him, the soft snarl of delight when you scraped your nails up his stomach, the groan from somewhere ancient when you rocked down, hard, and took him to the hilt. Like this, you were animal and angel at once, an ache shaped just for him, every ounce of pain and pleasure remade as a message to Bucky that he could have you, all of you, if only he asked.

This time when you came, it was a slower surrender, a low-voltage tremble that climbed your spine and made you shake all over. You fell forward onto him, collapse and comfort in the same gesture, and Bucky wrapped his arms around you, rocked you gently even as you whimpered from the aftershocks. He kissed the top of your head, and it was tender but also bespoke a possessiveness that you felt curl happily inside you.

“That’s it,” he crooned, lips against your hairline, “breathe. You did so fuckin’ good.” His hands swept over your back, grounding you, stoking the heat that was already beginning to spark again in the depths of your belly. You wanted to fight it, or at least express some normal human embarrassment at the way you’d let yourself melt into a horny puddle in your neighbor’s arms, but the pleasure sparked with every breath and touch, making defiance impossible.

It was fortunate that this man was a super soldier and could give you what you needed.

You wondered how many times you would come before you burnt out completely, or if you’d just fuse into something new, a singularity of slick and want and Bucky’s name.

Bucky knew he could see you through all of it.

He looked forward to being the conduit you found your relief in since he was the architect of this sweet, filthy, exquisite destruction.

And he couldn’t imagine that this brain-altering type of experience wouldn’t yield him exactly what he’d been waiting so long for: you, surrendering to him completely, admitting there was more than neighborly friendship between you, content and eager to finally be his.

The chemicals would burn out of your system in a few more hours, and then he’d take such good care of you in your recovery. He’d keep the AC off in your apartment so he could coax you to accept his invitation to stay all weekend.

He was sure two days was all he needed to secure you forever.

small 300-word scribble that happened the next day

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

“You look…like a hungry beast,” Steve Rogers, ever the observant, annoying best friend, says. “Is it the food or the woman?” He snorts, watching Bucky’s face scrunch up in confusion.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” the alpha scoffs and turns back around to polish his bike. He angrily rubs a stain off the bike, ignoring Steve’s nagging voice.

“You should go over there and tell her she’s yours.” The blonde doesn’t know when to stop. “Buck, I’m telling you, she’s a shy one. You've got to make her yours and not give her the chance to shy away.”

“Punk, leave me alone with your lousy matchmaking skills.” Bucky throws the rag he used to clean his bike at Steve.

The blonde easily catches the rag and throws it back at Bucky. Right into the brunette’s face. “Hey, I matched Natasha and Yelena. Do not underestimate the power of Steve Rogers.”

Bucky scoffs. “Last time you tried to set me up with a woman, she tried to steal my bike and was into women. She was all over Yelena.”

“It’s not my fault you lost your mojo, Buck.” Steve shrugs and turns his head to watch you carry flowers into your house. “Hm…big event this time. A birthday or an anniversary, maybe?”

“UH—I think she said something about an anniversary.” Bucky rubs his scruffy chin, trying to remember what you were talking about with your neighbor next door. He tries not to give away that he was listening to your conversation. “I bet she’s going to host the anniversary dinner.”

“And?” Steve cocks his head, a smirk on his face. “Did you ask if you can join them? As her alpha, you should finally meet the family.”

“You’re an ass only to be an ass,” Bucky grunts and kicks a stone at Steve. “She’s not my omega. Y/N is a neighbor, a good one. Whenever I need something, she helps me out and tells me to keep it.”

“Yeah, because she’s courting you, Buck.” Steve laughs and dodges another attack with the rag. “Just saying, grab the girl and make her yours.”

“It’s not that easy, Steve. You know that.” Bucky sighs deeply while running one hand down his face. “Mating is complicated. Most of the time, omegas are scared of alphas like me.”

“Buck, with all due respect, you’re a coward.” Sam laughs in his friend’s face. “You want that omega. She’s the one, and you are still looking for an excuse to not mate her.”

“Who asked you, man?” Bucky angrily replies. He wants to scold his friends, but then you open the front door, looking left and right only to walk back inside. “Huh, what was that?”

“I don’t know. It looked like she was looking for someone to show,” Sam replies. He looks at your door, watching you step outside to sit on one of the front porch steps. “Hmm…what’s with her?”

Bucky, Steve, and Sam glance your way. You’re sitting on the step, getting your phone out of your pocket. You sigh while staring at the device.

“Should I go over and ask if she’s okay?” Bucky says more to himself than to his friends. “I think she looks sad.”

“You could go over and ask for some sugar,” Steve grins at his idea, proud of himself.

“What?” Bucky can’t believe his friend sometimes. “She looks sad, and you want me to ask her for some sugar? I don’t think she’s in the mood for naughty things.”

Steve groans. “Not like give me some sugar. I meant the sugar you put in your tea.”

“Oh—OH!” Bucky grins. “That’s not the worst idea you ever had.” He looks down at his body and checks his outfit. “How do I look?”

Sam snorts. “Honestly? Like a needy alpha close to his rut. You look like shit, but Y/N is a kind-hearted person and won’t send you away.”

“Asshole,” Bucky growls in Sam’s direction. “Next time you want me to fix your bike, you can go to Brock.” The alpha huffs before stalking toward your house.

“Aw, look at them,” Steve snickers. “They grow so fast. I bet he already has hair on his sack.”

Sam snorts, watching his friend nervously walk toward you. “What can I say? We are witnessing young love, Steve. Young love.”

Bucky ignores his friends’ laughter and walks a little faster toward you. “Y/N…hey.” He clears his throat to get your attention. You look up at him, shielding your eyes from the sun with your hand.

“Bucky…hi.” You sniffle and try to blink the tears in your eyes away. “Do you need something?”

“I—” Bucky tries to come up with a lie, but he stops himself, seeing the tears in your eyes. “What happened, Angel?”

“Nothing,” you sniff and look away, embarrassed because Bucky saw right through your façade. You don’t want to bother your neighbor with your problems.

Before you can protest, Bucky sits next to you to snatch your phone out of your hands. He frowns deeply, reading the message your mother sent you a few minutes ago. “This doesn’t look like nothing to me, Y/N.”

“It’s not a big deal,” you lie poorly. “They want to eat food from a professional cook, not their daughter. It’s their anniversary, and they can do whatever they want. My brother invited them, so…”

“They canceled plans right before they should have arrived at your place. That’s not okay, Angel. That’s shitty.” Bucky growls loudly, catching Steve and Sam’s attention.

“I cooked all day, baked and prepared the table for ten people, and…” You whimper and hide your face on Bucky’s shoulder. “They not only forgot to tell me earlier but didn’t invite me either.”

“Fuck, that’s just awful.” Bucky carefully wraps his arm around your shoulders. “You put a lot of effort into cooking for them, and they stood you up.”

“I asked if I could come along, and they said no. There’s no chair for me because they invited one of their book club friends and their partner.” You choke out a sob. “Why are they doing this to me? I made so much food, pie, and dessert for ten or more people.”

“Food?” Brock suddenly stands in front of your house, rubbing his growling stomach. “Sweetie, do you want me to eat it all?”

“Uh—wait!” You gasp, grabbing Bucky’s hand. “Do you want to eat with me?” You look at Bucky, hoping he won’t turn you down too.

“I’ll get some food too, right?” Sam is quick to offer help. “I’m a hungry man, Y/N. I can eat for ten!”

“Guys, Y/N cooked for her family. I don’t think she wants to share with us.” Bucky grunts at his friends. “Leave her alone. This is not the right time to get free food.”

“But…” You sniffle and wipe your eyes. “I have so much food, and you have many friends. You can come over. I know Natasha likes my food. She tried everything I made for my test cooking.”

“She did?” Glaring at Natasha, who is standing across the street, Bucky huffs. “She didn’t say a word.”

“It’s free food, Barnes. Don’t overthink things,” Brock mutters under his breath. “I haven’t had homemade food in ages.”

“I don’t want to throw all the food away,” you murmur and lean into Bucky’s embrace. “If your friends are hungry, I want them to eat the food.”

“You heard her, Bucky.” Rumlow pats his belly again. “We are going to dine like kings thanks to this wonderful lady. Let me get something for her.”

He walks off to get some booze and chocolate ice cream from Natasha’s secret stash.

“Do you really want to feed the whole gang?” Bucky asks, loving the feeling of having you in his arms.

“My family let me down. If they do not want the food I cooked, let me feed your family. I bet they’ll be better guests than my family.” Your voice cracks, but you feel your heart flutter because Bucky presses you even closer to his body.

“You belong to my family now too, Angel,” he simply states. The alpha doesn’t waste time on courting or making his claim on you known. He’s your alpha, and you are his omega—it’s that simple. “You’re my omega.”

You smile and even laugh as Brock, Yelena, Natasha, Sam, Clint, Thor, his brother Loki, Steve, Bucky, and Okoye sit around your dining room. They all cheer for you, your food, and the booze Brock smuggled into your house.

“Cheers to Bucky, who finally told his omega he wants to court her!” Sam grins at you.

Bucky grits his teeth, glaring at Sam. “Mind your own damn business for once, Wilson,” Bucky grunts, but his tone is playful. “Now, let’s all thank Y/N again for feeding the hungry pack and for being a selfless person.”

Everyone cheers for you, your food, and the bond Bucky and you will soon form.

Part 2

Especially because the snack drawer came stocked with exactly one cherry lollipop, and the bed came with exactly one pillow.

Subtle, SHIELD. Real subtle.

Because nothing says “controlled scientific trial” like handing two adult operatives a single suggestively phallic candy and a one-bed setup straight out of a bad porno.

Honestly, all that was missing was rose petals and soft jazz.

You snag the lollipop and unwrap it without calling dibs. You plop down on the bed opposite Bucky, as if this is some random sleepover at a friend’s house. It’s anything but.

Bucky glances at the ceiling like it personally offends him. “This place makes my skin crawl.”

You hum around the lollipop, letting the cherry flavor coat your tongue. “What, you don’t like 1970s roadside brothel chic?”

“That lamp’s definitely seen crimes.”

“So have you,” you shoot back.

He huffs a laugh, then tosses the unopened protein bar onto the side table. “Still. One bed? No toothpaste? No minibar? SHIELD’s really cutting corners on the fantasy.”

You shift, dragging your legs across the cheap floral comforter just to watch his eyes flicker toward the movement. He’s quick to look away, but not quick enough.

“They said it had to be plausible,” you say, voice smooth. “One-bed motel room, two agents, one experimental serum that’s supposed to block any kind of pheromone-induced arousal response? Totally normal.”

Bucky smirks. “You memorized the brochure.”

You pop the candy from your mouth with a soft click. “I read it cover to cover. In case of unforeseen horniness, please remain calm and inform your test partner immediately.”

That gets you a full-on snort. He leans back on his elbows, a muscle flexing beneath the rolled sleeve of his henley. “You gonna tell me if you start feeling… compromised?”

“If I start moaning your name, Barnes, take that as a sign.”

His smile freezes for just a second. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to burn.

You tilt your head, still twirling the lollipop between your fingers. “What about you? You gonna keep it together?”

“I’ve got military-grade focus,” he replies smoothly. “I’ll just meditate.”

You raise a brow. “Is that what the kids are callin’ it nowadays?”

He grabs a pillow and hurls it at your face.

You catch the pillow mid-air and cradle it like it’s a prize. “Rude.”

“I warned you,” he says, kicking his boots off with a grunt. “I take pillow politics seriously.”

“Pillow politics?”

“One pillow. One bed. Two people. That’s hostile territory.” He shifts to lie back fully on the mattress, arms folded behind his head like he doesn’t have six feet of muscle currently invading your peripheral vision. “I don’t plan on losing sleep—or a kidney.”

You grin, folding your legs beneath you. “Fine. I’ll take the floor like a good little martyr.”

“No you won’t.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He gestures lazily at the mattress. “You’ll stay on your side. I’ll stay on mine. There’s a perfectly good tape line in the middle.” He reaches over to the side table, grabs a mini roll of white lab tape—lab tape, for god’s sake—and starts tearing off a strip.

You gape. “You’re actually doing this?”

“You said it yourself—plausible scenario. Classic sitcom setup. This is the part where we hate each other and fight over the blanket.”

You snort and flop onto your side, facing him across the ridiculous white line. “You think I’m giving you the blanket?”

“I know you’re not.” He closes his eyes. “You’re the blanket thief in every fake relationship arc. Probably steal the covers and my hoodie.”

Your smile falters just slightly.

Because you would steal his hoodie. You’ve thought about it more than once—those soft grays and faded blacks, sleeves a little too long, smelling like leather and cedarwood and him.

But you can’t say that. Not here. Not when he’s this close and trying so hard to play it cool.

So instead you jab, “Only if you cry in the rain after.”

He doesn’t open his eyes, but you see the smile pull at the corner of his mouth. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You bite down lightly on the lollipop stick. “I really would.”

It’s quiet for a beat.

The hum of the air vents blends with the fake motel A/C unit mounted near the door, doing nothing to cool the room. You let the silence stretch, lazily twirling the lollipop back into your mouth and watching Bucky through your lashes.

He hasn’t moved.

He’s still lying there—arms behind his head, shirt stretching across his chest, long legs crossed at the ankle. Relaxed, but not asleep.

You narrow your eyes.

“Are you trying to win the who-can-stay-still-the-longest contest?”

He shifts slightly, eyes still closed. “No. I’m trying not to get a boner.”

You choke on the lollipop stick.

He peeks one eye open, just long enough to clock the expression on your face. “Kidding.”

You cough, half-laughing. “Jesus, Barnes.”

“What? You started it.”

You go to respond—but then pause.

Is it just you, or is it suddenly really warm in here?

You reach for the bottle of water on the side table and take a long sip, letting the cold trickle down your throat. Your skin is suddenly... hypersensitive. You feel everything. The seam of your leggings against your inner thighs. The cool drag of condensation where your fingers graze the water bottle. Even the cotton pillowcase under your elbow feels like it’s chafing and soft at the same time.

You glance at the wall-mounted thermostat.

Still set to 70.

Weird.

You lick your lips and shift onto your back, trying to ignore the way your heartbeat kicks up just from the sound of Bucky adjusting his position beside you.

“Hey,” you say casually, not looking at him. “Do you feel...off?”

His voice is lower than before, quiet. “Define off.”

“Like…” You hesitate. “Like your skin’s too tight. Or your pulse is faster than it should be.”

There’s a pause.

Then the mattress dips, and he leans up on one elbow to look at you. His face is unreadable in the dim light, but there’s a tension in his jaw you hadn’t noticed before.

“How fast?”

You lift your wrist to check your watch. It’s got a built-in sensor.

Eighty-nine. Ninety-four. Ninety-eight. Shit.

“High.”

He stares at you for a second longer before sitting up, dragging a hand through his hair.

You watch the way his fingers flex. The way his throat works as he swallows. And suddenly the cherry flavor on your tongue feels obscene.

You clear your throat and sit up too, arms crossed.

“Maybe the compound’s not working.”

Bucky looks at you again—really looks at you—and you know.

It’s starting.

Bucky’s eyes drag down your body, then snap back up to your face. He doesn’t mean to stare. You don’t mean to notice. But it happens anyway.

His voice is rougher this time, frayed around the edges. “You sweating, or is that just me?”

You swallow hard. “It’s not just you.”

He lets out a breath through his nose, quick and humorless. “Cool. So either we’re both incredibly out of shape… or—”

“The compound’s failing,” you finish for him.

Another beat.

Then you both say it at the same time:

“Shit.”

Bucky stands, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, and he starts pacing. 

You watch the way his shoulders tense. The way his metal fingers twitch at his side. He’s sweating, just a little. His pulse visible in his neck.

The room feels smaller by the second.

“What was the window on this stuff?” he asks, not looking at you.

“Two hours to peak efficacy,” you say, scanning the wall timer. “It’s been three.”

Another beat. You glance at the exposure readout above the door.

Still blinking green. No warning. No alert. The AI doesn’t know. Or it’s lying.

“I’m gonna file a formal complaint,” you mutter, pushing up to your feet.

Bucky snorts, turning toward you—and that’s a mistake.

Your eyes lock.

And suddenly he’s right there, not even a foot away, body radiating heat like a damn furnace. You can smell him—clean soap, worn cotton, something darker underneath. Your mouth goes dry.

“I’m fine,” you lie.

“You’re flushed,” he says, too quietly.

“So are you.”

Neither of you moves. Neither of you breathes.

You clutch the lollipop stick harder than necessary and force a smile. “Maybe we just need to distract ourselves.”

His brow lifts. “Yeah? How?”

You glance around, wild and pointless. “I don’t know. Pushups? A rousing game of never-have-I-ever? That meditation you mentioned?”

He doesn’t laugh.

Instead, he leans in just slightly, head tilted like he’s examining you under a microscope. “You’re shaking.”

You hadn’t noticed until now. Your hands, your knees. The way your thighs keep pressing together like your body’s trying to self-soothe.

“I’m not—” you start, then stop. The words crumple in your throat.

He takes a step closer. Then another.

And then you break.

Your voice is soft. Unsteady. Almost a whisper. “I need help.”

His whole body goes still.

“Say that again,” he says, voice low and hoarse.

You meet his eyes—and the fire you find there is not professional.

“I need you to help me,” you murmur. “I—I think it’s in my bloodstream. I can’t… think. I can’t cool down. It hurts.”

His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare. Like he’s trying to breathe through something that isn’t going away.

“Fuck,” he mutters, running a hand over his mouth. “Okay. Okay. I’ve got you.”

And then his hands are on you—gentle, steady, grounding. One at your waist. One cupping the back of your neck.

You gasp.

Not from the heat this time. From relief.

His thumb strokes your hip—slow, deliberate. Like he’s asking permission without words.

You don’t pull away.

You can’t.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper, the heat pooling lower, tighter, sharper than before. “I—I’ve trained for interrogation, pain tolerance, long-term capture scenarios. Not this.”

“I know,” Bucky murmurs. His forehead presses to yours, breath shallow. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Your hand fists in the front of his shirt. You can feel the tremor running through him, feel the tension in the cords of muscle along his chest and shoulders.

And God, he’s trying. He’s holding back so hard it’s making you ache. Like he thinks this is wrong. Like he still wants to be good.

But his pupils are blown, his chest is rising too fast, and his voice is fraying every time he speaks.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks.

You shake your head instantly. “No.”

“I don’t want to do this unless—”

“I need you,” you breathe. “Bucky. Please.”

His control shatters.

You barely have time to exhale before his mouth is on yours—hot, hungry, punishing. He kisses you like the air’s been knocked out of him. Like touching you is the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

You moan into his mouth, clutching at him, nails dragging across his shoulder blades.

His hands map your body like they’ve been waiting years to be allowed to. One slides under your shirt, fingers splayed across your ribs like he needs to feel every inch of skin. The other cups the back of your thigh, guiding you, backing you toward the mattress.

Your legs hit the edge of the bed and you fall with a gasp. He follows, bracing himself above you.

Chest to chest. Breath to breath.

“I’ve got you,” he says again—this time like a promise. A vow. A prayer.

And then he’s kissing you again. Slower now, exploring more. Every stroke of his tongue making your spine arch and your thighs clamp tighter around his hips.

His lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, then down your neck, slow and open-mouthed. You arch into it, gasping when his teeth graze the spot just beneath your ear.

“Fuck,” he growls against your skin. “You smell—Jesus, it’s everywhere.”

You can barely breathe. His weight, the heat of him, the pressure between your thighs—it’s too much and not enough, all at once. Your body’s thrumming, starving, every nerve ending lit up like a fuse ready to blow.

“I don’t care,” you whisper. “I just need you.”

Bucky groans, low and guttural, and drags your shirt over your head. You help him, clumsy with urgency, until your bra’s gone too and you’re bare beneath him, chest rising with every ragged breath.

His metal hand runs up your side, cool and smooth in contrast to the heat blazing under your skin. He watches the way you squirm under the touch, eyes so dark they’re nearly black.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” you pant, fingers already tugging at his belt. “It’s not just me.”

“I’ve been hard since you said ‘never-have-I-ever,’” he mutters, and you choke on a laugh—then moan when he ducks down to take your nipple into his mouth.

He sucks, slow and greedy, tongue swirling while his flesh hand trails down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your leggings. The second his fingers press against the satiny heat between your thighs, he groans.

“Fuck, sweetheart. You’re soaked.”

You buck up into his touch, shameless now. “I told you—I need help.”

“You’ll get it,” he promises, voice rough with strain. “But I need to taste you first. Just once.”

“Bucky—”

“Shhh.” He kisses down your stomach, yanking your leggings and underwear down in one swift motion. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you open. Your breath catches.

Then his mouth is on you.

You cry out, back bowing as he licks a long, deliberate stripe through your folds. He groans like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, like he’s starving, like he needs this more than air.

And maybe he does.

He sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking in tight circles while two fingers slide inside you—thick, unrelenting, curling in a way that punches the breath right out of you.

Your hands claw at the sheets. The pressure is unbearable. Your orgasm slams into you like a freight train—too soon, too hard, tearing a whimper from your throat as your body locks up around his fingers.

But even as you shake through it, he doesn’t stop.

“Too much,” you gasp.

“No,” he growls, licking you harder. “Not enough.”

He’s right.

Because the ache is still there. The fog hasn’t lifted. If anything, it’s worse now.

You whimper, grabbing at him. “It’s not going away.”

“I know.”

He kisses you again—messy, hungry, tasting like you—and you fumble to shove his pants down, cursing when your fingers won’t work fast enough. He helps, stripping off his shirt in record time before settling between your thighs.

His cock is thick, flushed, leaking against your slippery folds. He rubs the tip against you, groaning low in his throat.

“Still want this?” he asks, voice shaking. “Once I’m in, I—I don’t know if I’ll stop.”

You wrap your legs around him and pull him closer.

“Then don’t.”

He pushes in—and everything else disappears.

The sink into you is in one, steady thrust—thick, hot, and impossibly deep.

You cry out, hands scrambling across his back for something to hold onto, fingernails digging into bare muscle. He swears, low and hoarse, forehead dropping to your shoulder as your body clamps around him like a vice.

“Fuck—fuck—you feel like heaven,” he groans, hips twitching, barely holding still.

“Don’t stop,” you pant, legs locking around his waist. “Please—just move.”

He doesn’t hesitate after that.

He starts to thrust—slow at first, almost reverent, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. The pressure, the tightness, the slick slide of skin against skin… it’s too much. Too good. Too urgent.

You meet every stroke, gasping his name each time he bottoms out.

“Harder,” you beg, voice already broken.

He gives it to you. Hips snapping, hands gripping your thighs, pinning them wide as he fucks you into the mattress. The headboard knocks the wall with every thrust. The fake motel room groans around you. Somewhere above the door, the exposure level readout flickers yellow.

But you don’t see it.

You only feel him.

The stretch. The weight. The deep grind of his cock against the spot that makes your vision white out.

“You were made for this,” he grits, biting back a groan. “Fucking—mine.”

That word punches through your chest like lightning. “Say it again.”

“Mine,” he snarls, slamming into you harder. “Mine. You hear me?”

You nod frantically, tears springing to your eyes from the intensity. From the pressure. From the way the orgasm builds again—not easing, not fading, rising.

“Gonna come again,” you gasp. “Can’t stop it—Bucky—oh god—”

“Let go,” he pants. “I’ve got you. Come on me. Come for me.”

You do—with a sharp cry and a full-body shudder. Your walls clamp down so tight it nearly takes him with you, but he grits his teeth and keeps going.

Because the sex pollen won’t let him stop yet.

He doesn’t even soften. He just slows for a moment, breathing raggedly as he watches you tremble beneath him.

“You good?” he rasps.

You nod, blinking through the haze. “Still burning. Still need you.”

He groans—destroyed—and starts moving again.

You’re still fluttering around him, oversensitive and swollen, when he starts to thrust again—slow and deep at first, like he’s trying to savor the drag, the way you gasp at every stroke.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

You claw at his back, dragging him down to kiss you, open-mouthed and messy. Tongue and teeth and breathless little whimpers into each other’s mouths.

“Hurts,” you whisper, not even sure which part you mean. The ache between your legs. The heat crawling under your skin. The way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that exists.

He nuzzles into your jaw, voice shredded. “I know, baby. I know.”

The pet name slips out like muscle memory.

Neither of you flinch.

Instead, he lifts your leg higher over his hip and drives into you with more force—grinding now, working his hips in tight, brutal rolls that make you sob into the crook of his neck.

The second orgasm crashes over you mid-thrust, sudden and overwhelming. Your body clamps down around him so hard you hear him snarl against your throat.

“Fuck—you’re gonna make me come,” he groans, pace faltering. “Shit—”

“Inside,” you gasp, not even caring anymore. “Just do it—please, I need it.”

That undoes him.

His hips stutter, rhythm falling apart as he drives in one final time, spilling deep inside you with a rough cry of your name. You feel it—hot, pulsing, thick—and it only makes the ache worse.

You’re both panting. Shaking. Staring at each other like you don’t know what the fuck just happened, but neither of you regrets a second of it.

He doesn’t pull out right away.

Instead, he brushes his thumb along your cheekbone and mutters, “Still burning?”

You nod. “You?”

His jaw clenches. He’s still hard inside you. Still twitching with every shift of your hips.

You both exhale at the same time.

“Shit,” you whisper. “We’re gonna have to go again, aren’t we?”

He rests his forehead against yours.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, already canting his hips again, slower this time. “We’re just getting started.”

How is he still rock-fucking-hard, like he never came at all? 

You cry out as he starts to thrust, slower this time—with further reach. Each roll of his hips punches sound out of your lungs, and you’re already shaking.

Your nerves are frayed. Your body’s still clenching around him in the aftershocks of the last orgasm. It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel this necessary.

But it does.

“Fuck,” you moan, dragging your nails down his back. “Bucky—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he pants, voice fatigued. “You have to. It won’t stop otherwise.”

And you know he’s right.

The burn hasn’t eased. The tension’s building again like a tidal wave, already cresting in your belly. You’re still dripping from the last round, and the slick heat of him grinding against your overstimulated walls is too much.

He fucks you like he’s losing himself—lips dragging down your neck, muttering things you can’t even process, his metal hand gripping your thigh so tight it might bruise.

You curve up into him, gasping as he hits that spot—that fucking spot—over and over again.

“Right there,” you sob. “Oh my god—don’t stop—right there—”

“Not gonna,” he growls. “You feel how tight you are? How fucking wet? That’s all for me, sweetheart. All mine.”

You clench hard around him and his rhythm falters.

“I can’t stop,” he grits out. “I don’t think I want to.”

You kiss him, messy and brutal, teeth clacking and tongues sliding. It’s nothing sweet. It’s just heat and desperation and sweaty skin on skin.

He pulls out without warning, and you whimper at the loss—until he flips you over and drags you up onto your knees.

“Hands on the headboard,” he rasps, voice shaking. “Now.”

You obey without thinking.

He slides back in with one long thrust and you scream—high and ragged, fists gripping the faux-wood headboard as he slams into you from behind.

It’s animal now. Deep and filthy.

The slap of skin. The creak of the bed. The obscene, wet sound of how fucking soaked you are for him.

You’re keening. Clawing at the wall. Chanting his name like a litany.

“That’s it,” Bucky groans behind you, fucking into you harder. “That’s my girl. Just like that—taking every inch. You love it. I can feel you fucking love it.”

You can’t even respond.

You shatter again—back arching, mouth open in a silent scream as your vision whites out. Your pussy clamps down so hard he nearly follows you off the edge.

But he doesn’t stop.

He slows. Keeps rolling his hips through the waves of your orgasm. Panting like a beast behind you.

“I need to come again,” he grits, voice barely human.

“Then do it,” you gasp.

He grabs your hair, pulls your head back, and growls into your ear, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

And then he slams into you once, twice, three times—

And comes with a violent shudder, burying himself to the hilt, cock pulsing deep inside you.

You both collapse forward in a tangle of limbs, sweat, and cum, your bodies shaking from the intensity.

But even as you gasp for air, the ache returns.

Low. Lingering. Throbbing between your legs like a warning.

You whimper. “Bucky…”

He groans beside you, already rolling onto his back, chest heaving.

“Don’t say it,” he pants.

“But—”

“I know,” he groans. “Shit. I know. It’s not over yet.”

You don’t even realize you’re whining until your lips brush his shoulder.

A soft, high-pitched sound, muffled into his sweat-slick skin. Pathetic. Needy. Real.

“Bucky…”

He groans, arm thrown over his eyes, chest still rising and falling like he just ran a marathon with a twenty-pound vest.

“You’ve gotta give me a second,” he pants. “Jesus—I can’t feel my knees.”

You’re already squirming against the sheets, thighs pressed tight together, hips rocking instinctively against the lingering pressure. That insatiable ache is back. Worsened by how deep he came, how hard you came. It never stops building.

“Then don’t use your knees,” you whisper, dragging your hand down his chest, fingers dipping lower. “Use your mouth. Use your fingers. I don’t care. Just—please.”

He huffs out a half-laugh, half-growl. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You climb over him slowly, mouth trailing kisses along his ribs, up the center of his chest. He tastes like sweat and sin. You straddle his hips—his cock is shiny with your spends and softening beneath you, twitching at the barest drag of your heat across it.

“I need more,” you whine again, grinding against him with a frustrated little sound. “Bucky, it hurts.”

His arm drops from his face, and he looks at you—eyes glassy, jaw clenched. You can see the exact moment he breaks.

Again.

“Fuck,” he rasps, sitting up in one brutal motion. His hands grab your ass, pulling you tighter against him as he bites down on your throat.

“You want more?” he growls into your skin. “You’re gonna get more.”

His flesh hand falls from your ass cheek, but it doesn’t go to you.

It goes to himself.

You watch, wide-eyed and breathless, as he wraps one fist around his still half-hard cock—gritting his teeth as he strokes slow, determined, from root to tip. Bringing himself back with deliberate effort. You can see the twitch of overstimulation in his jaw. The raw shine of sweat on his neck. The way his hips buck helplessly into his own grip.

His eyes never leave yours.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he breathes, voice rough as gravel. “If you need it so bad, take it.”

Your thighs clench at the sound of his voice—commanding, spent, wrecked, and still so fucking hungry. He’s giving it to you now. The reins. The rhythm. The choice.

So you do.

You rise up on your knees and reach between you, lining him up with one shaky hand. He’s already hardening fast again in your grip, thick and hot and still covered in both of you. You drag the swollen head through your slick folds, teasing your entrance, and his whole body shudders.

“Fuck—ride me,” he growls. “Please. Just ride me.”

You sink down in one slow, wet, trembling slide.

You both moan—broken, desperate, like that one motion snapped whatever was left of your restraint.

He fills you perfectly. You’re stretched wide, throbbing around him, thighs trembling from the effort of holding yourself steady.

Bucky’s head drops back against the pillow, jaw slack, hands grabbing your hips so hard, leaving fingertip indents.

You roll your hips once.

Then again.

His breath punches out of him.

“Just like that,” he pants. “You’re so fucking tight—Jesus.”

You pick up the pace, rising and falling, faster now, sweat sliding down your spine as your hands brace against his chest. Your nails dig in with every bounce of your hips. Every slap of skin. Every filthy sound that echoes in this goddamn fake motel room like you’re the only two people left on earth.

You’re crying out now, whining with every thrust down.

“Harder,” he begs. “Fuck—bounce on it, baby. Ride it like you need it.”

You do.

You do need it.

Your vision blurs, your thighs burn, and your orgasm barrels into you, crashing through your ribs. You sob his name as your body spasms around him, grinding down to chase every second of the high.

Bucky chokes on a moan, hips bucking wildly as he spills inside you again—hot and deep, cock twitching as he grabs your waist and holds you there, gasping as you both shake through it.

You collapse onto his chest, boneless, spent.

But even now…

You can still feel it.

That ache. That pressure. Lurking beneath the surface, still waiting.

Still not gone.

Your breath stutters against his chest.

You’re trembling—soaked in sweat, your thighs sticky with your juices and his cum, your heartbeat thrumming behind your ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out. You feel raw. Shaky. Strung out on a thread that won’t snap.

And worst of all?

It’s still there.

That burn between your legs. That insatiable, molten ache that keeps climbing no matter how many times you come.

You’re exhausted. Your skin feels too tight. Your vision pulses around the edges. And suddenly, it all crashes down.

A soft, broken whimper escapes your throat.

Then another.

Bucky tenses beneath you. “Hey,” he says gently, shifting onto his elbow so he can see your face. “Hey, look at me.”

You try. But your eyes are already glassy, your mouth wobbling with the words you don’t want to say.

“It won’t stop,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I—I can’t—I don’t think I can keep doing this.”

Bucky’s hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away the first tear that slips free.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling you in. “You’ve done so fucking good. I know it’s too much. I know.”

You break.

The sob crawls up your throat and shakes your whole body. You curl into him, arms wrapping tight around his torso, fingers gripping his back like you’re afraid you’ll float away if you don’t hold on.

“I’m so tired,” you cry into his skin. “But it keeps hurting. It keeps burning. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” he says, kissing your temple, your hair, any part of you he can reach. “Nothing. It’s the fucking compound. You’ve been hit just like me. But you’re not alone, okay? I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His voice is low and soothing now. Steady. Strong.

You clutch at him like a lifeline, nose buried in the crook of his neck. He strokes your back, murmuring soft things against your skin—nonsense, mostly. Shhh. I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’ve got you. Just breathe.

It helps.

Not enough to dull the heat, but enough to bring you back to yourself. Enough to keep you tethered.

You lie there like that for what feels like minutes—your breathing slowing, your body settling, your chest pressed to his as the sweat cools on your skin.

And then—

You feel it again.

The twitch of him beneath you.

The subtle hardening. The soft grunt in his throat as his hand, still resting on your ass, flexes instinctively.

You whimper. “No…”

“I know, baby,” he groans. “I know.”

He flips you gently onto your back, eyes burning now—not with lust, but with fierce determination.

“We’ll get through it,” he says, kissing your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “One more round. You don’t have to do anything. Just let me take care of you.”

His fingers slip between your thighs—careful now, reverent—and the moment he touches your oozing, puffy folds, you gasp. You’re so sensitive. So needy. So close to the edge all over again.

And still, part of you whispers: Thank God.

His mouth finds yours again—soft this time. Less hunger, more heat. Less chaos, more comfort.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into the kiss. “Just let go. Let me do it.”

You nod helplessly, eyes fluttering shut as he kisses his way down your neck, your collarbone, your chest—his stubble dragging sparks across every oversensitive inch of skin.

His fingers stroke slowly between your thighs, parting you with aching care, two thick digits sliding into your soaked, swollen heat.

You gasp—so full already, so raw—but it’s good. So good. He knows just how to curl his fingers, how to press his thumb against your clit in slow, deliberate circles that make your hips twitch with every pass.

“There she is,” he breathes, watching your body react like it belongs to him. “You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart.”

Your eyes brim again—not from pain this time, but from the tenderness of it. From how badly you want this. Want him.

“Please,” you whisper. “I want you inside again. Just—slow. Please.”

His jaw flexes like he’s holding something back. He nods, pulling his fingers from you with a soft groan.

Then he lines himself up, one hand sliding beneath your thigh, the other cradling the side of your face.

He pushes in slowly.

So. Fucking. Slow.

You feel every inch. Every thick stretch. Every pulse of his cock as it fills you again—this time gentler, like he’s pouring himself into you piece by piece.

Your breath catches.

“Too much?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

You shake your head, tears slipping down your temples. “No. Just—perfect.”

He stays there, buried to the hilt, not moving yet. Just breathing with you. Letting your bodies adjust. Letting the pressure settle into something bearable.

Then he begins to move.

Slow. Deep. Grinding his hips into yours with each thrust, cock dragging against every sensitive spot that makes you moan into his mouth.

He’s whispering again—words you can barely hold onto.

“So tight for me.”

“You’re taking me so good.”

“I’ve got you.”

“I’ll give you everything you need.”

“I’ll make it better.”

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him into you further. Your hands tangle in his hair. Your eyes lock, and something pulses between you that has nothing to do with chemistry or compounds.

It’s him.

It’s you.

And the ache isn’t so scary anymore—not with him holding you like this, moving inside you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

Your next orgasm builds slow, but when it hits, it crashes like a wave—full-body, overwhelming, your breath catching on a sob as you shatter underneath him.

Bucky doesn’t stop. He groans, thrusts once, twice more—and then he’s spilling inside you again, forehead pressed to yours, gasping your name like a prayer.

You both lie there—sweating, shaking, broken open.

But this time?

There’s no panic.

Just his arms around you.

Just the warmth of his body against yours.

You lie there for a long time—both of you quiet, chests rising and falling in sync, damp skin sticking together in all the places that still buzz with oversensitivity.

The ache hasn’t fully left. It lingers, a dull throb in your bones, but it’s not clawing anymore. Just simmering. Waiting.

You’re the first to move.

“I need water,” you croak.

Bucky groans softly, but props himself up on one elbow. “Yeah. Me too. And probably electrolytes. Protein. A cold shower. Fucking therapy.”

You huff a laugh, raw and scratchy. “Add a priest to the list. Maybe an exorcist.”

You both stumble to the kitchenette and down a full bottle of water each in silence, necks arched, throats working. He tosses you a granola bar, and you stare at it like it might combust in your hand.

“Eat,” he says softly, nudging your hip. “Even if it tastes like cardboard. You’ll crash harder if you don’t.”

You nod and rip it open with trembling fingers. You don’t even sit. Just lean your hip against the counter and take slow, careful bites.

Bucky watches you like he’s memorizing each one.

Eventually, you both make your way back to the bed. No longer frantic, just quiet. Stripped raw. Too tired to tease, too wired to sleep.

You curl into each other on the obliterated mattress, limbs tangled, your head on his chest. His arm draped around you. The sheets are twisted and damp, but you don’t care.

The green glow of the exposure readout finally shifts to blue: Stabilizing.

You exhale.

Bucky does too.

Then his hand moves—just a little. A slow stroke along your spine. Lazy. Thoughtful.

“You were incredible,” he says softly. “All of this? Everything we just went through? You handled it like a fucking champ.”

You lift your head, blinking at him. “You’re literally a super soldier.”

“And I still felt like you were the one keeping it together,” he says, smiling faintly. “You didn’t tap out. You didn’t panic. You just… let me take care of you. Trusted me.”

You look away, throat tight.

“I didn’t really have a choice,” you mumble.

Bucky catches your chin gently, turning you back to face him. “No. You did. You always do.”

Your eyes search his.

Something soft unfolds between you—quiet and warm. Like the eye of a storm that hasn’t quite passed.

He keeps going, voice a little hoarse, like he’s not used to saying this much at once. “I’m glad it was you,” he says. “I know this wasn’t… ideal. But if it had to be anyone, I’m glad it was you.”

Your heart stumbles.

“Bucky…”

He shakes his head, brushing your hair behind your ear with aching tenderness.

“I’ve wanted you for months. Thought about you. Dreamed about you. But I never would’ve crossed that line if this hadn’t happened. So yeah… maybe it started with the compound. But everything after? Every touch, every kiss, every time I made you come—that was me. Just me. Wanting you.”

Your breath catches.

And then you feel it.

That familiar simmer. That low, rolling heat—not sharp this time, not urgent—but there. Blooming again, under your skin. Spreading.

Bucky swears under his breath, brow furrowing.

“You feel that too?” he asks, already sliding a hand to your hip.

You nod slowly, heart thudding. “It’s coming back.”

He exhales through his nose, jaw clenching. But this time, he doesn’t look panicked. Just… ready.

He rolls you gently onto your back and kisses your forehead.

“Then I guess we’re not done yet.”

The bed creaks, the walls echo, the air pulses with heat—

“I’m coming!”Your voice breaks, high and desperate.

“I’m—fuck, I-I’m right there with you, baby!” Bucky’s answering groan is ragged and hoarse, like it’s been torn from the center of him. 

You feel him spill inside you just as you clamp down around him one last time, your whole body shuddering with the aftershock.

And then—

Stillness.

Weightless, breathless stillness.

You collapse onto the sheets in a boneless heap, Bucky slumping half on top of you, chest heaving, skin soaked. You’re both shaking. Viscid and aching and utterly, blissfully ruined.

He nuzzles into your hair, forehead pressed to your temple, one arm sliding under your back to pull you closer.

Neither of you says anything for a long time.

Then he breathes, soft and warm against your cheek: “That was the last one.”

You hum sleepily, curling into his chest. “You sure?”

“Not even a little.” He presses a kiss to your damp hair. “But if my dick gets hard again, I’m filing for disability.”

You laugh—quiet and full of relief—and bury your face against him, skin still tingling but the fire finally, finally gone. Your limbs are heavy. Your eyelids heavier.

He strokes a lazy hand along your spine. “You were perfect.”

“You’re biased,” you mumble.

“Still true.” He kisses your shoulder. “I don’t think I’ll ever get over this.”

You look up at him, eyes lidded. “The sex?”

He shakes his head. His thumb brushes your cheek.

“You.”

And just like that, the ache in your chest replaces the one in your body.

You don’t reply—don’t have to. You just curl tighter into him, fingers laced with his beneath the rumpled blanket, and let sleep tug you under.

BANG BANG BANG.

“Trial Room 3A, experiment concluded. Participants, report for medical clearance.”

BANG BANG BANG.

You bolt upright with a yelp, tangled in sheets, fully naked, and still vaguely sticky.

Bucky groans from beside you, covering his face with one hand. “What the actual fuck—”

“Room’s still being monitored,” a tinny voice adds through the intercom. “We recommend clothing. Immediately.”

You dive for the first piece of fabric you can find—his shirt, maybe yours, hard to tell in the chaos. Bucky scrambles for his pants, one leg in, one leg out, muttering curses under his breath.

“You’d think they’d knock softer after what they just witnessed,” you grumble, yanking a blanket around your shoulders.

Another knock.

“We did. Three times.”

You and Bucky freeze mid-motion, then exchange a look.

The same look.

Horrified. Embarrassed. Barely containing laughter.

And completely, utterly done with whatever the hell this assignment turned into.

They don’t say a word as they’re led down opposite hallways.

Two sets of footsteps echo off the linoleum like gunshots, sharp and sterile. Their clothes cling to skin still damp with sweat, hastily pulled on, uncomfortable. Every shift of fabric is a reminder—of friction, of exposure, of just how raw they still are.

The rooms are identical. Unforgiving.

Cold fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in a flat, clinical glow that turns skin sallow and eyes hollow. The air is crisp with recycled chill, laced with antiseptic and the faint undercurrent of ozone—like someone just wiped the walls down after something went wrong. There’s no clock. No warmth. No color.

Just a metal table bolted to the floor, two hard plastic chairs, and a one-way mirror wide enough to see your own reflection. You can’t help but notice the bruises blooming on your throat, the raw flush still high on your cheeks.

A single bottle of water sits on the table, sweating condensation, untouched.

No one mentions what just happened. No one asks if they’re okay.

They’re separated like evidence—tagged, processed, and boxed away—while the heat still lingers in their blood, the ache hasn’t fully left their bodies, and the weight of what they shared hangs thick in the silence.

It doesn’t feel like a debrief.

It feels like a dissection.

One sits rigid in the chair, arms crossed, eyes locked on the mirrored glass. “So let me get this straight. The compound was never stable?”

The other paces once before slamming both hands on the table. “You ran a field trial with unstable biochemistry and no manual override. What the hell did you think was gonna happen?”

“Because it sure felt stable when I was sobbing through my fourth orgasm with no concept of time or hydration.”

“She was shaking. Crying. Couldn’t even speak. And you sat there with your little readouts and watched.”

“You call it a controlled environment, but you locked us in a motel sex fantasy built by a sociopath with a Pinterest account.”

“You gave us a cherry lollipop and one pillow. Don’t act like you weren’t trying to provoke a reaction.”

“I want names. Files. Every sad little ‘technician’ who sat behind that glass making popcorn while I begged for help.”

“She asked for help. And your only response was to mute the mics and let it ride.”

“You’re lucky it was him. If it had been anyone else, you'd be dragging a body bag out of that room right now.”

“If she’d been paired with someone who didn’t care? Someone who didn’t listen? You’d be answering to a war crime tribunal.”

“This was supposed to test a compound, not how many times you can break a woman without breaking the law.”

“I don’t care how pretty your reports are. I don’t care how sanitized the footage looks. What you did was abuse.”

“If you think this is over, you’re wrong.”

“If you think I’ll stay quiet about what you put her through, you’re out of your goddamn mind.”

Behind the glass, two agents sit side-by-side, watching the dual feeds.

One exhales. “So… that’s gonna be a lot of paperwork.”

The other presses their comm. “Notify legal. And maybe HR. They’re not gonna let this die quiet.”

Location: SHIELD Medical Wing, Secure Recovery Floor- Two hours later

The lights are lower here. The hum of overhead fluorescents swapped out for the soft thrum of filtered air. It's quiet. Calmer. Neutral paint on the walls, the sterile smell of antiseptic lingering. The kind of room meant for cooling down after classified disasters. Or, in this case, weaponized orgasms.

You sit cross-legged on the exam bed, hair damp from the world’s most humiliating decontamination shower. The sweat is gone, but the exhaustion lingers, soaked into your bones like concrete. You’re wearing loaner sweats and someone else’s oversized SHIELD tee. You don’t care.

The door opens.

He steps in, looking just as done as you feel—his hair still damp, henley swapped for a SHIELD-issued long sleeve, jaw tense. But the second your eyes meet?

Relief.

Real. Grounding.

“Finally,” you mutter, sliding off the bed. “I was starting to think they were gonna sedate me.”

He lets out a laugh that sounds half-feral and wraps you in his arms without hesitation. You bury your face in his chest. You both exhale like it’s the first breath you’ve taken in hours.

Then, at the exact same time: “Can you believe that shit?”

You both blink, then snort in tandem.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes scanning like he’s making sure you’re still standing. “You okay?”

You shrug. “Physically? I think I’ll live. Mentally? I’m gonna need three weeks off, a therapist, and a flamethrower.”

He huffs a laugh, thumb brushing under your eye.

You step closer, softer now. “What about you?”

“I’m fine,” he says quietly. “Mostly just—” He trails off, looking at your mouth. “Grateful.”

You blink. “Grateful?”

“That it was you,” he says. “If I’d been in there with anyone else…”

You nod, the emotion swelling behind your ribs. “Same.”

A beat.

Then, more tentative: “So… what now?”

Bucky pauses, hand still resting at your waist. “I don’t know. But I don’t want this to just be a trauma-bonded one-off.”

You raise a brow. “Even if it was the best trauma-bonded sex of your life?”

He smirks. “Especially because it was.”

You grin, but there’s something real in your voice when you say, “I don’t want to go back to pretending. Not after everything.”

His voice softens. “Then don’t.”

You reach up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. “You saying that like we could just… start something?”

He tilts his head, eyes full of something unguarded now. “I’m saying maybe we already did.”

And you’re about to respond—heart full, lips parting—when the door slams open behind him.

“Bucky Barnes!”

Steve Rogers stands in the doorway, wide-eyed and absolutely horrified. His shield is slung over his back like he came straight from combat. “I just saw the incident report—what the hell did they put you through?!”

Sam pokes his head in behind Steve, eyes scanning the room, then landing on the two of you wrapped around each other. “Oh. Ohhh no. They did not sex pollen the both of you.” He whistles, impressed. “Damn, Buck. All those months of pining finally paid off?”

Bucky groans, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Please let this be a dream.”

You’re laughing, hiding your face in his neck.

Steve is still mid-freak-out, flipping through a datapad. “Fifteen physiological spikes? Uncontained compound exposure? Emotional compromise?!”

“Fifteen?” Sam says, eyebrows up. “And here I thought you were just broody and old-fashioned.”

You peek over Bucky’s shoulder, smiling at both of them. “If you’re done with the play-by-play, maybe let the sex pollen survivors breathe?”

Bucky grumbles, “They’re never letting this go.”

Sam’s already smirking. “Nah, but hey—congrats on finally getting your girl, man.”

Steve sighs. “I’m putting in a formal complaint.”

It'd been a while, to be honest, since you'd had any kind of opportunity to sneak into Bucky's room, and it was starting to wear very thin.

The memory of his body under yours as you'd taken your pleasure from him in the huge Jacuzzi tub on the balcony was just a memory. The feel of his hands on your hips, holding you still as he drove you both into his headboard and over the edge of pleasure was just a dreamy sensation.

Now you were contending with your own hands and the few toys you managed to sneak in past your fellow heroes.

"Are you alright?" Bob asked from his nest of cushions and beanbags by the ridiculously huge windows.

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine. How're you, read anything good lately?"

He frowned, looking at you sideways.

"I was just — nevermind, you must not have heard me." He went a little pink at the ears and you realised he'd been talking about his latest read for at least ten minutes while you looked at the balcony and tried to recall, in detail, what Bucky's cock felt like inside you.

"Sorry, Bob, just, in my own head at the moment. Nothing to do with you."

You half-smiled, but still couldn't take your eyes off the covered tub.

You fell back into your own thoughts until the elevator dinged open, making you start.

"I told you, Yelena, I'm fine."

"Bucky, you do not seem fine." She grumbled back, "you broke so much stuff, you know how much all that stuff costs?"

"No."

Even the sound of his gruff voice was sending tingles down your spine. Fuck. You needed that sound in your ear, telling you every disgusting thing he was going to do to you just as soon as you got some time alone and —

"Hey, are you oh-kay? What is it with you two lately."

"She's fine, 'Lena, she said she's fine." Bob raised his eye brows, not brave enough to say anything, but he sure was fond of suggesting.

"Ergh, there's nothing wrong, leave me alone." You flopped back into the couch cushions, one eye open.

You tracked Bucky's movements across the living area, he shrugged his jacket off, pulling it down each muscled arm, you licked your lips, when he tugged it free and shook it out you could see his broad shoulders, biceps swelling.

Bob followed your eyeline.

Bucky stretched, his t-shirt riding up and revealling a slither of his lower belly, a dusting of dark hair, a hint of muscle.

You sighed dreamily.

He sat down, kicking his boots up onto the coffee table and searching for the remote before reaching his vibranium hand behind him to ruffle his long hair.

"Okay, I'm going to bed." You announced, slapping your thighs and pushing yourself up.

"It's not even dinner yet?" Yelena said, confused. "It is like half past six in the evening, you can't go to bed."

"I'm…very sleepy." You insisted, faking a yawn and stretching your arms in your best attempt to show off your own body.

Bucky looked at you then, the same hunger in his eyes when they trailed down your body and back up. You were only in a big t-shirt and shorts, but when you moved you knew he could see the curve of your hips, the arch of your back — his favourite places to grasp and pull at.

"Yeah, we've all been very tired." He agreed, his voice slightly stilted. "It's good to rest — sleep."

"Going to lay down. In my room. On my bed." You backed towards the elevator, toying with the bottom of your shirt.

Bucky stood too, eyes locked with yours as if he was stalking you like prey. Every footfall of his boots echoed in the otherwise silent penthouse.

"You guys are weird." Bob mumbled, but he couldn't look away either, picking his milkshake back up.

Finally you were both in the elevator, backs against each wall, still eyeing each other.

The doors closed heavily.

"They're so weird." Bob laughed, taking a long, loud, slurp of milkshake.

"Too weird."

Yelena pushed the call button again and, sure enough, the elevator came straight back, the doors opening slowly to reveal you and Bucky tangled together.

He'd lifted you into his arms straight away, wrapping your legs around his waist so you could press yourself against his hardening length. He was kissing you so deeply you didn't even notice Yelena stood in the open door.

"Oh my god, 'Lena! Look!" Bob shouted and Yelana nodded in agreement.

"Oh fuck." You laughed, burying your head in Bucky's neck to cover your embarrassed shock.

But Bucky didn't falter, he pressed the button for your floor, continuing to kiss up your neck and, as the doors were shutting, turned to Yelena.

It’s not exactly unlike her to surprise him. She often plays with the unexpected to keep him on his toes and help him explore what’s possible. But this is new, she's never started without him before and it hits him hard, a visceral shock to his system. A dirty kind of thrill like discovering that your sexy roommate “forgot” to close her door before getting in bed with her vibrator. He's so overcome- lungs seized, heart pounding, cock painfully stiff- he doesn't even know what to do with himself. But the beauty of it is that he doesn't need to know. In the games he plays with Moxie, she's always in charge. So for now, until she tells him otherwise, he can just enjoy the gorgeously filthy sight before him and the wonderful freedom of waiting for instructions.

“Hey- baby-” she pants out on broken breath- “I- I-” her pants abruptly turn to gasps and he thinks for sure she’s going to come. But at the last second, she pulls herself back from the brink- “I’m- sorry. I just need- I’ll- just a minute, baby- just a-” 

This time there is no pulling back, her breath catches in her throat as she throws her head back and her whole body tenses. He barely notices that he’s leaning in close to the screen to watch her face as she falls apart, already palming his cock through his sweats. 

After a minute, the tension in her body snaps and her shoulders drop. Her thighs fall open and from this angle, with the way she kneels facing him, he catches a glimpse of her glistening cunt. A quiet whimper breaks from the back of his throat.

Moxie rasps harshly for a long minute before trying to speak again. 

“Sorry, baby,” she says between breaths, “I was just so wound up getting ready for you. I needed to come. I-” abruptly the hand gripping the wand- which fell loosely on her upper thigh- tightens and she clamps her legs around the toy once more- “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just- need another. I promise baby, I promise I’ll- we’ll- oh god!” 

This time as she comes, she shouts, hoarse and overwrought, writhing as her hips rock into the toy of their own volition. The front of Cleansheet’s pants are wet with precum and his teeth grind as his hips buck up into his palm.

When she finds her voice, she apologizes again. But before she can get any farther, a wave of impulse too strong to deny overtakes her and she’s fucking herself against the wand once more. 

This happens twice more and each time she says she’s sorry, so sweetly too, but he knows that's just part of the game. Especially when she gives him a mischievous, knowing wink before going right back to what she was doing. 

MoxieMinx didn't need to ask him if this is the kind of game he would enjoy, she already knew. Roughly two months of weekly private sessions, and she understands him better than some of his long term girlfriends did. Which, he knows he’s at least partially to blame for. He’s never really told anyone what he wanted before. 

Why is it that taking the lead in bed when a woman wanted him to never scared him, but even the thought of admitting that he wants to be told what to do terrifies him? 

He knows what his therapist would say if he ever got the nerve up to tell him about it, that he's too comfortable putting other people’s needs first. And asking for what he wants is something he’s never had much practice with. 

Even in his first private session, after he finally decided to pull the trigger and request one, he struggled to tell Moxie what he wanted. At first, he chickened out and just asked her to “do what you normally do”. Right away, he had the strange feeling that she could see right through him. But she didn’t call him out on it, she just told him that there is no “normally” when it comes to private sessions because they’re all about the individual. She suggested that if he wasn’t sure, he could look over her menu of options and see if anything stood out. Still, even with “soft dom” right there in black and white”, he couldn’t say it. Sensing his uncertainty, she took pity on him. She told him that he didn’t need to decide at that moment, instead, she sent him a checklist to look at in his own time and send back to her. She then suggested a little “choose your own adventure” for that first time. They could get started, she said, and every once in a while, she would pause and give him two choices for how to proceed. He easily agreed and barely even noticed that she must have picked up on what he couldn’t say, because at some point, the options stopped being questions and turned into directives. He came harder that first session than he ever had before and he knew he was hooked. 

They’ve come a long way since then. They both know the way he likes to play now, which means Cleansheet absolutely should not be touching himself right now without her permission. But in this exact moment in time, watching Moxie come undo for him alone, he can’t stop himself from helplessly grinding his cock against his palm through his pants. 

Finally, on the tail end of a shockwave that had her keening, she relents. When she finally lets the tension go from her body, she drops the wand on the bed beside her and makes no move to pick it up. For several heartbeats, he watches in fascination the way her chest heaves and her belly hollows as her lungs and heart fight their way back to normal. 

Eventually, she turns her attention back to him. When she sees that he's touching himself, she frowns.

She looks wounded as she says, “Baby, you’re not jerking off, are you? You wouldn’t get off without me, would you?” she asks, wide-eyed and artless, as if she hadn't been doing exactly that herself. 

Still, he’s quick to pull his hands back, knowing that her supposed guilelessness could easily turn into a rebuke if he's not careful. 

“I'm very sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to. It’s just that- you’re just so beautiful. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Thank you.” She smiles sweetly before turning stern. “But that sounds like you making an excuse for yourself.” Her brow is raised pointedly.

“You're right, miss,” he replies quickly, eager to defer, “I broke a rule and have no one to blame but myself. I apologize and hope you can forgive me.”

Moxie hums, her expression unreadable and he holds his breath. A heartbeat passes before she finally smiles. 

“I accept your apology. But I will need to see better control from you in the future. I really don’t want to have to discipline you to teach you a lesson.” 

Ha, yes, she does, he thinks. And really, that’s fine with him. Because as much as he knows that she likes edging him into near insanity, she knows that he likes having the bounds of his stamina and restraint tested before being told when to come.

“Yes, miss. It won’t happen again, I promise.” 

“Good. Now-” she straightens and lifts her chin. Her chest glistens with sweat and his cock jumps eagerly at the sight of her peaked nipples. “I promised I wouldn’t make you wait much longer-” four orgasms ago, he thinks, snorting internally at her innocent act that they both know is fake- “and I really, really do want you to come. Last time,” her thighs flex seemingly of their own accord and her voice suddenly turns breathy, “you made such a mess, I get wet just thinking about it. I want you to do it again. I want you to make a mess of me too.”

Her hands slide over her belly and breasts. His cock leaks more precum into his already ruined shorts. 

He nods eagerly before remembering that she probably can't see given the position of the camera. 

“Yes, miss. I- I would love that.” 

She smiles.

“You just have to do exactly what I tell you. Think you can do that, baby?” 

Throat too tight to speak, he nods. When she raises a brow, he pushes out on a squeak, “Yes, miss.”

“Good, now get those fucking shorts off, I need to see my cock.”

Complying immediately, he stands and shucks them off before sitting back in his chair. Sometimes he lays on the bed, but he likes the chair for this, it’s easier to see her this way and something about gripping the arms when she tells him to feels a bit like being tied up. 

“Oh, baby,” she says appreciatively, “so fucking gorgeous. Do you know how beautiful it is?” As she asks, the deliberately artful tone of her voice slips away, replaced by a sincerity that makes his heart thump. “I dream about it, about it buried deep inside of me.” 

Cleansheet blushes and the appendage in question jumps like it can hear her. She notices. 

“I think he dreams about me too,” she says with a bounce of her eyebrows. “Don’t worry, I plan to give my cock lots of attention.” 

Shit, he loves it when she calls it “my” cock. 

“But first,” she goes on and his nerves start to tingle with an intoxicating mix of trepidation and excitement, “we have to give the rest of that beautiful body some attention too.” 

What comes next, Cleansheet can only describe as a deliciously torturous dance. 

He’s already on edge, but she draws it out, building the anticipation even higher. She teases him by making him tease himself. At her direction, his hands move lightly across his chest and stomach, past his hips and down his thighs. She focuses on the places she’s learned that he likes to be touched and makes him explore new ones. His touch turns firmer and more focused when she says so. He massages and scrapes and pinches himself at her command. He whines and moans and pants. Every nerve in his body comes alive. 

When she finally gives him permission to touch his cock, she forces him to go slow, making him explore himself like it’s the first time, tentative and curious, with light fingers and delicate strokes. 

“Start at the head, just use your finger tips. Rub your thumb lightly over the slit, feel how wet you're getting. Don't let it drip, collect it with your fingers, that's it.” 

The coil in his belly gets tighter and his balls ache but he forces himself to breath through it, making the urgent tension ease back just a hair. 

“Now, run your finger tips around the ridge where your head meets the shift. Feel the way your foreskin is stretched so fucking tight because my cock is so desperate to be seen.”

Following every word like it's gospel, he leans his head back and closes his eyes. He likes to watch her, especially in times like this when she licks her lips and tenses her thighs and stomach like she doesn't know she's doing it. But he wants his fingers to be her fingers and in his head he can make them exactly that. 

“Slide your fingers down your length, find the veins and trace each one. Lightly like the tip of my tongue.”

His hips jerk reflexively and he has to fight to keep them still. Blood rushes in his ears,  thunderously loud, but he can still hear her. 

“Yes, you like that don't you? Thinking about my tongue? I like it too. Useyour nails- carefully- and think of my teeth just grazing you as I kiss and lick my cock.”

Cleansheet whimpers.

“Keep one hand like it is and touch your balls with the other.” His legs widen as he follows her command and she groans. “Gorgeous. Fingertips only, baby, and nails. Feel my teeth there too, testing how sensitive you are, letting the weight press down against my lips. Squeeze them now, not too hard. I'd suck on them first, before taking my cock down all the way down my throat.” 

Everything inside of him tightens painfully and his breath turns ragged. He's afraid he can't hold his orgasm back anymore, he's so close to snapping. 

“Oh baby, hold on, hold on,” she says, “I know it's so hard. Take a deep breath, it'll be worth it I promise.”

Opening his eyes, he fights against his body, trying to force it to obey him. He takes a deep breath and she praises him, then encourages him to take another. The pressure starts to recede, but it takes two more deep breaths before he feels safe. 

“That was amazing, baby,” Moxie praises. “You're doing so good. Not much longer, okay? My cock just takes so much abuse,” she teases, “I want to make sure it feels appreciated.”

He huffs a laugh. 

“Yes, miss. It does, miss. Always with you.”

She hums appreciatively. 

“Good, my pussy appreciates you both.”

He breathes out a rough breath at the thought. She bites her lip, clearly pleased. 

Even as caught up as he is in his own body, he doesn't fail to notice the way that she reacts. He sees the little telltale twitches and flexes that give away her own growing excitement as she takes him further and further. As she's been talking, her hand has slipped between her thighs. She doesn't comment on it as she sometimes does and she keeps her legs closed, pressed close together for friction rather than wide open so that he can see. It's not an act of performance but of pleasure, and he loves it all the more for it. 

MoxieMinx isn’t the first camgirl Cleansheet's ever visited, but she is the only one he’s ever wanted to keep coming back to. Four months since he discovered her and he likes her just as much now as he did when he first became a viewer, if not more. There’s something special about her. 

Yes, she is gorgeous and sexy as hell, with a kind of imperfection that’s human and inviting and so fucking hot. But it’s more than that. Shit, in her free chats- where he first found her- she doesn’t even take her clothes off. Things can get a bit risque- her tops are often sheer and her shorts tiny- but things rarely ever venture beyond P-13. She does talk about sex, but she also talks about movies and music, articles and books, food and funny news stories. The best thing about her chats isn’t that they’re sexy, it’s that they're fun and an escape from the pressures and insecurities of the real world. Sex is only part of it, it's connection that keeps everyone coming back. 

“Let's show my cock just how much we adore it, hmm?” 

He nods and whines weakly in agreement. 

“Wrap your fingers around it, slowly one at a time, make sure you feel each one.” 

She shakes her head and her teeth prick into her bottom lip. 

“So fucking gorgeous with my cock in your hand,” she says, her voice full of a kind of reverence that makes his cheeks heat with more than just arousal. 

“It’s time now baby, stroke yourself. Slowly, keep your strokes long baby, give every inch the worship it deserves.” He does as she says and watches as her hips start to rock. “That’s it, baby, just like that, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.” 

She devours him with her gaze as the tension in her own body starts to peak. 

“Faster now, just like that, yes. Keep going, keeping going,” she pants out, rolling her hips faster and faster. “Fuck, baby we’re almost there. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.” 

His hand speeds up, unconsciously synced with her movements. He’s dizzy and breathless and everything inside of him is tight, begging for release. He’s so close, he wants to let go, he just wants her to come with him. 

“Please, miss, please,” he begs breathlessly. “Together, please, together.” 

“Yes, baby, I’m with you, I’m right-” her breath catches- “now, now, now, I’m-” 

His ears fill with static as his orgasm hits him with all the force of a punch in the gut. Come spurts from his head at the exact moment that her body seizes and she lets out a throaty keen. Ropes of his seed spurt everywhere and just as she told him, he imagines it landing her, on her breasts and stomach and thighs, a primitive instinct to “claim”. 

Waves of pleasure white out Cleansheet’s vision at the edges. He rides out his orgasm half-blind before slumping loosely back into his chair. 

He’s not sure how long he sits there dazed before he comes back to himself. When he does, he blinks at the screen. Moxie’s ragged breaths sound loud in his speakers and she’s trembling. Her head hangs forward as she holds herself upright with fisted hands pressed to her thighs. She lets out a quiet dazed “fuck” like she was just as surprised by the intensity of it all as he was. 

Something deep in his chest squeezes tight.

When she eventually looks up at him, something bright and eager shines in her eyes. She smiles a crooked smile and when she laughs, it’s a joyful, awed sound. 

“You know,” she says, her voice teasing but missing the deliberate coquettishness of before, “I think we’re getting pretty good at that.”

He barks a laugh. That’s an understatement if he ever heard one.

“Yeah, although I don’t think I can take any credit for that, it all goes to you.” 

“Thank you, but… it really doesn’t, you have to take at least some of it too.” 

He wants to argue, brushing off her compliment, but before he can, she goes on. 

“I mean, I am good,” she says with a cheeky smile, “but that- it-” she pauses, as if she can’t find the word she wants. He holds his breath, but doesn’t know why- “it’s not always like that.” 

Cleansheet’s heart thumps hard and the hairs on his neck lift. But then Moxie’s smile flatters for a second, like she just processed her own words. Before he can react, her full smile is back and brighter than ever. 

“So, um, that’s our time,” she says, her voice friendly but professional. “See you next time?”

He wishes he could ask her about what just happened, but he knows he can’t.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t miss it.” 

“Great, until then,” she blows him a kiss, then leans forward and ends the connection.

He stares at the “session ended by host” screen for too long. 

“Moxie” is a fantasy. A very convincing, very beautiful, very indulgent fantasy. But she isn’t real. Cleansheet knows it. All of her clients know it. It’s part of the social contract they’ve all willingly agreed to. Moxie happily plays her part and lets people live out their filthy fantasies for a little while, as long as everyone remembers where the line is drawn. That the very real person behind Moxie is not theirs for the having. She’s not the one on their screens every week. 

But just now, just for the barest of moments, Cleansheet thinks that maybe he saw her. Like maybe what she said was real and not part of the game they were playing. And suddenly he knows that he’s in trouble. Because whether that’s what happened or he just imagined it, he realizes how desperately he wants it to be true. And wishing for something like that is very, very dangerous. 

Part Three

Series Masterlist

Privacy at the tower was practically nonexistent these days. No one should have expected anything different, though. You were a team of people who didn’t really have much of anywhere else to go. The tower wasn’t really supposed to be a permanent residence, but no one was in much of a rush to find places of their own. Yourself included.

Knowing what you were dealing with, you had learned to accept the fact that your alone time could get cut short or interrupted at any minute. It wasn’t your favorite thing in the world, but you’d been stuck in much worse places. This place was the closest thing you’d had to a home in a long time, and it came with its own dysfunctional family dynamics included.

While you were accepting of the living arrangements, and managed to accept them without too many complaints, Bucky wasn’t handling it quite as well as you were. He was also at the tower now that he was in New York instead of down in DC. Whenever he complained you’d send him a random apartment listing, and for as much as it bothered him he continued to do it. Lucky for you there was no shortage of listings in the boroughs to send him.

The lack of privacy bothered Bucky a whole lot less before the two of you had started sneaking around together. Thinking back on it, you realized that you two only managed to stay away from each other for about a month after he started living at the tower with the rest of you. You could’ve sworn it was longer, but maybe that was just because it wasn’t as though Bucky had ever really fully thawed out his warm and fuzzy side even now. That didn’t particularly bother you either.

It especially didn’t bother you in moments like this, when Bucky was holding the side of your face with one hand while the other was sliding down your chest, your shirt already discarded on the floor. He hovered over you as he kissed you. Warmth bled into your body from his as he kept you caged between him and your mattress. You could hear it better than most, how quickly his heart was beating as he slotted the two of your bodies together.

There was the ticklish brush of his beard against your jaw and then your neck. You tilted your chin up to give him better access, digging your teeth into your bottom lip to stifle the moan you felt creeping up the back of your throat. Unable to stop yourself, you slid your fingers through Bucky’s hair, giving it a small tug of encouragement.

His low hum of appreciation sent vibrations down your entire body. The sensation caused you to arch into him, a shuddered gasp slipping from between your lips as he slid the strap of your bra down off your shoulder.

The word yes was right on the tip of your tongue as his hand that was previously holding your face landed on the button of your jeans. Before you could say it, though, you heard the sound of the doorknob twisting. You tried to get yourself upright, knowing that someone was about to walk in, but you didn’t get very far nor did you communicate to Bucky what you thought was about to happen. All the words were caught in the back of your throat, trapped there by the way Bucky’s teeth were sinking into the sensitive skin there.

Bucky heard the creak of the door open, but even if that hadn’t gotten his attention there was only half a second between that sound and the gasp that Bob let out, immediately followed by him stammering and stuttering, trying to get through an apology of some kind.

If it had been in Bucky’s wheelhouse of powers, he would’ve sliced Bob clean through from top to bottom with just a look. Luckily for all of you that wasn’t the case, but the look on Bucky’s face still made Bob want to dissolve into a puddle on the floor.

You had never seen Bob’s face turn such a deep shade of red before. He clearly hadn’t meant to walk into your room. His was the next door down in the hallway, and you were willing to bet that he’d had his nose buried in the book in his hands which lead to him walking into your room instead of his own. A series of honest mishaps but that didn’t do anything to assuage the anger that Bucky was currently feeling. Blood was rushing quickly through his veins for an entirely different reason now, one that had you trying to hold him back from getting up off the bed.

Bob was nervously looking down at his book, and then up at the two of you, and then back down at his book again as he tried to assure you both that he didn’t see anything. Which you had no choice but to laugh at because he was technically still seeing it, even as he was trying to say he wasn’t.

“I won’t say anything. Well, because there’s nothing to say. Because I didn’t see—”

Bucky cut him off, harsh but simultaneously saving him from trying to come up with the rest of his soliloquy. “Shut the fucking door, Bob!”

His eyes popped wide open, like the thought hadn’t crossed his mind even though you knew all he wanted to do was leave and forget that this had ever happened. “Right. Right.”

The second his hand landed on the doorknob, Bucky spoke up again, more exasperated now than angry. “With you on the other side!”

Your attempt to stifle your laughter was hardly even half-hearted. There was no pretending the entire scene wasn’t comical, Bob’s face somehow managing to get even redder as he went and put himself on the other side of the door. With a laugh and a flick of your wrist you pushed it shut behind him, scooching him out the rest of the way in the process. Once he was out, you allowed yourself to truly break down into laughter at what had just happened.

Bucky sat upright, maneuvering himself so that he was sitting with his legs hanging off your bed. Running his fingers back through his hair he huffed. “It’s not funny.”

You were still laughing, which was enough of an argument to his point without you even saying anything. Using one arm to prop you up, you slid your bra strap back into its rightful place. “It is, though.”

He gestured towards the door. “Didn’t think that a little warning would’ve been—”

You scooted closer to him. You’d managed to stop laughing but the humor hadn’t left your voice yet. “I was a little distracted—sue me.”

“If he goes and tells everybody…” he trailed off, meaning to make it sound like a threat but the tone wasn’t hitting quite right.

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t think you have to worry about that.” Bucky looked at you with an expression that clearly showed how little faith he had in your statement. “I thought the kid’s heart was going to explode in his chest for a second there. I think we’re gonna be alright.” Bucky was grumbling, like you wouldn’t be able to hear him just fine even when he was speaking under his breath. Leaning into him, you hooked your chin over his shoulder. “That’s the risk you run when you’re sneaking around.”

“He has no reason to be barging in here.”

“Well, yeah, that obviously wasn’t on purpose.”

There was a pause, and while you couldn’t get the best look at Bucky’s face from your current angle, you had a feeling that he was mulling over your point. You hoped that the sound logic, combined with the fact that you were ready to finish that the two of you had started if he was, would be enough to stop him from getting up and going after Bob. What happened didn’t have to be a big deal if Bucky didn’t make it one.

About five more seconds went by and just when you were thinking that Bucky was going to fall back into bed with you, he shifted his grip on the edge of your mattress and went to stand up off the bed.

“I’m just gonna—” he was halfway to standing when you reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him back towards you.

He was strong, but so were you, so your pull did cause him to stumble back a step. Looking back at you, annoyance was still etched into his features. Only difference now was that some of it was for Bob, but some of it was for you too.

“Is that really what you wanna spend your time doing right now?” You gave another light pull on his hand.

“What if he says something?”

You laughed. “What do you think he’s gonna do? Text the group chat saying he caught us making out and he saw, like, half my boob?”

Bucky had years of practice in keeping a straight face, but even so you knew deep down that he wanted to laugh. Something about hearing it spelled out like that made him realize, at least a little bit, how ridiculous he was being.

“Fine.” His concession came with him collapsing back onto the bed with you.

It took him no time at all to be right back on top of you again, but you still couldn’t help but to nettle him a little bit with, “Wow, don’t sound so excited about it.”

You caught his eyeroll right before he leaned in to kiss you. Neither of you bothered enough by the events of the conversation after to let it keep distracting you from what you’d set out to do in the first place. One more flick of your wrist and the lights shut off.

It wasn’t until early the following morning when you finally left your room again. Bucky had gone back to his own space the night before once the two of you were done, but you’d had no reason to leave your mini-sanctuary. So you didn’t. You’d slipped into a relatively unbothered sleep until the sunrise started coming through your window.

When you stumbled your way into the kitchen, there were hardly any lights on. There were enough windows to make up the difference, though. Rubbing the last of the sleep from your eyes, you saw that the only other person there, presumably the only other person awake at such an early hour, was Bob. He was sitting at the counter, a bowl of cereal and milk in front of him. His spoon was halfway to his mouth as he continued to read the same book he’d had in his hands last night.

You broke the silence, and by extension his concentration. “How is that book, anyway?”

He flinched at the sound of your voice, not having heard you come in. The spoon dropped back into the bowl. Luckily the droplets of milk that made it over the side didn’t seem to get on the pages he was looking at. He looked at you, but could only manage to hold eye contact for a moment before staring down into his cereal. His cheeks were already turning color.

“It’s, uh,” he cleared his throat, “it’s good.”

You smiled and nodded. “That’s good.” Turning around, you stepped over to the refrigerator and pulled the door open. Your head was practically tucked inside the thing as you contemplated what you wanted to make for your own breakfast. With your back still to him, you said, “Figured it must be a pretty immersive read if it’s got you walking into the wrong bedroom.”

The choking sound that came next let you know that he’d clearly tried to take a bite of his cereal while you weren’t looking at him. A couple more coughs and he managed to get out, his voice a little strained, “That was an accident. I prom—”

Carton of orange juice in your hand, you finally turned around to face him. “I know it was, Bob.” You chuckled as you grabbed a glass for yourself and filled it. “If I thought you were some kind of perv, I wouldn’t have let them put my room right next door to yours.”

He managed a weak smile, face still red from a mixture of embarrassment and coughing. “Right.”

Even though it grew quiet between you, you could tell from the rapidity of Bob’s heartbeat that this probably wasn’t the end of the conversation. He was just working up the courage to ask or say whatever it was that was on his mind. You were in no rush—he could take all the time he wanted. You kept yourself busy grabbing eggs from the fridge and finding whatever other leftover goodies in there you could to make something reminiscent of an omelet.

There was the clinking of Bob’s spoon against his bowl of cereal, and you were glad that he couldn’t see the smile on your face. He would’ve asked why you were smiling and you didn’t really want to tell him that you found his nervousness to be a little bit endearing. He wasn’t the one who was doing anything wrong. He wasn’t the one who had been keeping secrets. By that logic he had nothing to be nervous about.

His now-empty bowl scraped along the countertop as he pushed it away from him. Clearing his throat, he said, “So…you and Bucky…?”

You chuckled. All that time to think and yet those four words just about summed it up. You nodded, facing the stove still instead of him. “Yeah, something like that I guess.”

Bob nodded even though you weren’t looking at him. “Wow. I didn’t, uh, how long’s that been…”

You shot him a good-natured smile over your shoulder. “Long enough that I’m surprised you’re the first one to catch us.”

He smiled nervously, and the darkening hue of his cheeks had you wondering just how red his face could get. “Oh.”

He’d only met your eyes long enough to see that you smiled at him before looking back down at the book in front of him. It was evident that he wasn’t actually taking in any of the words written out, but it was easier to stare blankly at the pages than it was to stare at you.

Returning your attention to the stove, you said, “You know, it’s going to be really difficult to work on a team together if you can’t make eye contact with me.”

“Oh, uh, I’m not—I’m fi—it’s fine.”

Sliding your finished omelet out of the pan and onto a paper plate, you shut off the stove and put the frying pan into the dishwasher. Plate still balanced in one hand, you used the other to pull the drawer open and grab a fork. Bob was looking quickly back and forth between you and his book as you moved, his hair falling in front of his face every time he looked down.

You situated yourself on the opposite side of the counter, but directly in front of him. Paper plate right by the edge, you leaned forward and braced your forearms against the edge of the counter so you could eat. Cutting into your omelet, you gave it a couple seconds before speaking up again. It felt like Bob needed time to recover from every exchange now.

Once you finished your first bite, you said, “Out of everybody involved, you have, like, the least amount of reason to be embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” he said, the color not yet fully gone from his face.

“Okay,” you took another bite, “sure. I’m just saying,” you used your fork to point at yourself, “me,” you gestured towards the hall where Bucky’s room was, “and him should be the ones avoiding eye contact. But I have no sense of shame,” you said with a laugh, “and he takes all his shame and turns it into annoyance and angry looks so…”

Bob managed not to laugh until you made the comment about Bucky and then he allowed himself to revel in the amusement for a moment. He knew you were right, but that didn’t do anything really to make him feel any better about what had happened. He also knew that Bucky’s anger wasn’t confined to just the look on his face. He was worried about that more than the rest of it.

“Right. He just seemed pretty pissed, so…”

You shrugged and took another bite of your breakfast. “Don’t take it personally—he’s always like that.”

It got another quiet laugh out of Bob. You were both giggling to yourselves over it when you heard another set of footsteps getting closer to the kitchen. You could tell from the pacing of them that it was Bucky, but Bob seemed blissfully unaware of that fact. You let him enjoy ignorance for a few more precious seconds until Bucky came lumbering into view.

He looked back and forth between you and Bob. He caught the smiles on both of your faces, although the look quickly melted off of Bob’s when he realized who had just walked into the kitchen. You didn’t bother to try and pretend that you felt any less amused than you really were.

You flashed a cheesy grin at Bucky. “Good morning, sunshine.” Rather than return your greeting, he gave you a frown that was one part annoyance, one part exhaustion. Continuing to use your fork as a wand, you looked at Bob and gestured to Bucky’s face. “See? Told you. He’s just like that.”

Bucky didn’t look at Bob, but after another second he wasn’t looking at either of you. Back turned on both of you, he started to make himself a cup of coffee. “Yeah? What’d else you tell him?”

You rolled your eyes. “Bucky, c’mon.”

He turned back around, coffee mug in his hand. He skipped right over you and went to looking at Bob. It was hard for him to maintain eye contact with Bucky too, but for an entirely different set of reasons. He managed it, though. Managed it easier than he had with you.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Bucky said, his tone flat. “Not to her, to me, to anyone. Just mind your own damn business and—”

“Come off it, Buck,” you interrupted him. “It’s not like he was snooping around.”

Bob’s eyes widened at the fact that not only had you interrupted, but you interrupted to come to his defense. He was content just to let Bucky say his piece and then try to move on without ever bringing it up ever again. He’d deal with the dirty looks and grumbles from Bucky for however long he needed. Eventually it’d all blow over. Something else would happen to steal Bucky’s annoyance. Probably, anyway.

The look that Bucky gave you told you to shut up without him having to actually utter the words. His put his attention back on Bob. “Just keep your mouth shut or—”

“Or what?” you asked with a laugh, tossing your now-empty paper plate into the garbage can. “He goes and blabs to Alexei about us, what’re you gonna do?” The ensuing silence spoke volumes, and you didn’t miss the tiny smile that was starting to creep its way across Bob’s face. “Because if I remember right, the last time you tried to get the upper hand on him, Bob beat you up with your own arm, so, you know,” you shrugged, “might wanna reconsider.”

Your rationale had both Bucky and Bob protesting, for similar reasons phrased very differently. Bob was talking to Bucky, trying to say that he had no intention of doing something like that, while Bucky was talking to you trying to explain that it wasn’t Bob who had done that. They were both right, but you didn’t care about that part. It got Bucky off Bob’s case for the time being, and it had the added bonus of giving you a good laugh.

Bucky stopped before he got himself too worked up. Taking another sip of his coffee, he turned and started to head back towards his bedroom. “It’s too early for this.”

You chuckled as he walked away, but you refrained from making any extra commentary. There would be plenty of time for that later. Both you and Bob watched him until he’d completely disappeared from view down the hallway.

Once you heard Bucky’s bedroom door shut, you looked across the counter at Bob again. “See? Not that bad. He’ll get over it.”

He looked at you, the longest he had all morning, with a sheepish smile on his face. “Thanks.”

“Don’t sweat it.” You tossed your fork into the dishwasher. “Plus now, you know, you got something to hold over Bucky’s head like a guillotine so—”

“Oh, no,” he cut you off, eyes wide like he was shocked you’d made the suggestion. “I don’t want to do that.”

You chuckled. “I know. Which is why it’s a good power for you to have.” Swiping your drink off the counter, you made your way over to his side of it. “And, you know, for what it’s worth,” you gently rested your hand on his shoulder as you walked by, “maybe next time double-check the room before walking into it.”

His cheeks darkened again as he nodded, gaze locked back onto the counter. “Yeah, I’ll remember that.”

Marvel Taglist (please let me know if you'd like to be added!): @garbinge @late-to-the-party-81 @blackhawkfanatic @artemiseamoon