Just came here after a very long time but I couldn't find Never again
Did you take it down? Also it's not there on Wattpad.
Also will you be continuing Take it back,His story? This book holds a very special place in my heart that's why I'm asking
I really love and enjoy reading your work. You're just so amazing 👏
Hi! It should be up on wattpad and AO3. Tumblr took it down unfortunately because it was flagged for sensitive content. And I will! lol I'm just trying to update everything for you guys at once while also taking care of a baby and my house hahahaha. Thank you so much!! I'm so glad you've stuck around after all these years.
katerina (ashens sequel). upcoming
My name is Katerina Barnes, and I'm a force in this world. Or at least, that's what mom says dad used to say about me before The Revolution.
The Things We Couldn’t Bury. upcoming.
A lawyer/love-triangle situation.
Newest:
When the camera Never Stopped
𝘼 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙩𝙝 𝙤𝙧 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙜𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙗𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙨 𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙖𝙨𝙩; 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙞𝙩, 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙚, 𝙪𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙝𝙞𝙗𝙞𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙭. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚'𝙨 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙡𝙚𝙛𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙘𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙙. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩.
Break Me
In which Bucky and Y/N deal with their emotions over their friend’s death in the worst way possible- having hard sex
Bad Guy
You experience another night out in your new hometown. One that has you reaching for a drink, and maybe ending with a certain someone between your legs.
Lick it, baby girl
Anon request: Pet play. Butt plug. Tail, kitten ears, collar & leash, cage. Her master cumming in her water bowl so she has something to drink.
The Home of The Number “9”
He’s a Varsity jock. Reader’s an outcast.
You can, but you won’t
“Can you write something where Bucky has the reader at gunpoint but he kisses her instead?”
Right There
“Lay your head on my lap.”
Obsession
He’s yours.
Live Show
“Can you write one where one day the team is in the compound and Bucky goes to show them something on the TV and his phone is connected to it and he accidentally shows everyone a video of him touching himself and he gets embarrassed and reader starts blushing because she has a crush on him and then after that they are embarrassed because Bucky likes her too and then he kisses her or more.”
Forbidden Fruit (being revamped)
It happens all in sync with a metaphorical bass of one of the sexiest songs you’ve ever heard in your entire life. Low and heavy, your heart matches the bass and it’s humming along with the other parts of your hungry body. It’s an animalistic feeling mixed with an unspoken lust, maybe even a little mystery. It makes you want to do things that you can’t control, and it makes you gutsy beyond recognition. Most of all, it makes you want to do something that you know you can’t-because all of this is happening while you’re staring into his eyes from across the room, meanwhile, your fingertips are wrapped around the neck of his best friend, Steve Rogers;
We Ride
You ride Bucky’s thigh like a good girl.
I Met You at an Orgy
You meet Bucky Barnes at an Orgy.
Hungry
You have a threesome with your two favorite boys- Bucky & Steve - in a place where there’s a possibility of being caught or watched. The Avengers’ compound’s kitchen counter.
Summary: About five years ago, a one night stand with Y/N tore Bucky’s life apart. It was also the night before his wedding. Now he’s married to her sister and she needs a place to stay.
Summary: She falls in love with Bucky Barnes from the moment she sees him. Bucky, still in love with a woman from his past, hates Y/N and plans to make her life miserable. To both their dismay, they are assigned together to go undercover into The Capitol for six months. There, they develop a heartbreaking friend with benefits agreement. Modern AU. Dystopian. Some toxic relationship elements that could be triggering. Very sexual. Rated M.
Tumblr took my masterpage for When The Cameras Never Stopped down. I’ll reupload later when i’m home. 🙄 I see Tumblr still hates my guts. Are they going to shadow ban this one too? Fuck man. Sorry my smut is too hot for you.
"The system malfunctioned. Or maybe it was never set to stop. I don't know. But the recording kept going." Steve's voice was steady, but you could hear the strain beneath it. "It captured everything."
Everything.
The word echoed in your head, but your brain couldn't process it. Couldn't make sense of what he was saying.
Bucky's voice was low. Controlled. "Define everything."
Steve met his gaze. "The evaluation. The conversation. The…” He stopped. Looked away. "All of it."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
You couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
All of it.
The truth game. The confessions. The moment you'd finally admitted un-verbally that you loved him. The kiss. The way his hands had felt on your skin. The way you’d…
“Where where the cameras?” You ask slowly and carefully.
Steve swallowed.
“The office and the hallway,” You could see the disappointment on his face, “The bedroom capture just audio.”
Oh God.
"No," you said. The word came out strangled. "No, that's not…”
"I'm sorry," Steve said, and the pain in his voice was unmistakable. "I reviewed it because I always review Buck's evaluations. I didn't know what was on it until I'd already started watching. By the time I realized what I was seeing, I—" He stopped. Shook his head. "I tried to pull it from the system immediately. But it had already been uploaded."
Bucky still hadn't moved. Hadn't blinked. But you could see the tension radiating off him in waves.
"Uploaded where?" His voice was deadly quiet.
Steve's jaw tightened. "The intelligence review database. It's automatic. Every evaluation gets flagged for analysis."
"Who has access to that database?"
Steve didn't answer.
"Steve." Bucky's voice cracked like a whip. "Who has access?"
"CIA," Steve said finally. "NSA. Homeland Security. Anyone with Level 7 clearance or higher."
The room spun.
"How many people?" you asked. Your voice was shaking now. "How many people have seen it?"
Steve looked at you, and the answer was written all over his face.
"I don't know."
Your knees buckled. You grabbed the edge of the table to steady yourself, but it didn't help. Nothing helped.
They'd seen it.
Strangers. Intelligence officers. People you'd never met.
They'd seen you.
They'd seen him.
They'd seen the most private, most intimate moment of your entire life.
"Jesus Christ," Bucky said. His voice was hoarse. Broken.
Steve took a step forward. "Buck—"
"Don't." Bucky held up a hand, and Steve stopped. “Just, don't."
"I tried to stop it," Steve said. "As soon as I realized what was on the recording, I tried to have it pulled. But the system had already processed it. It was already in the database. I couldn't—"
“—You watched it." Bucky's voice was flat. Emotionless.
Steve flinched. "I didn't know what it was. I thought it was a standard evaluation. By the time I realized—"
“—You watched it."
"Yes."
The word hung in the air like a death sentence.
Bucky turned away. His hands were shaking. You could see them trembling at his sides, his fingers curling and uncurling like he didn't know what to do with them.
"How much?" Bucky asked. His voice was barely audible.
"Buck—"
"How much did you see?"
Steve's silence was answer enough.
Bucky made a sound, low, guttural, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He pressed his palms against the table, his head bowed, his shoulders heaving.
You couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Your mind was racing, trying to piece together what this meant. Trying to understand the scope of it.
Steve had seen you. Had seen the way you'd looked at Bucky. The way you'd touched him. The way you’d…fuck.
Your stomach lurched.
"I'm going to be sick," you whispered.
Steve moved toward you, but you held up a hand, stopping him.
"Don't," you said. Your voice was shaking so hard you could barely get the words out.
"I know that doesn't mean anything right now, but I'm sorry. If I could have stopped it, I would have.” Steve.
"But you didn't," Bucky said. His voice was cold. Hollow. "You didn't stop it. And now,” He stopped. Shook his head. "Now everyone knows."
"Not everyone," Steve said quickly. "The recording is classified. It's restricted to intelligence personnel with the right clearance. It's not—"
"It's not what?" Bucky turned to face him, and the look in his eyes was devastating. "It's not public? It's not on the internet? That's supposed to make this better?"
Steve didn't answer.
"They saw us," Bucky said. His voice cracked. "They saw—.“ He couldn't finish the sentence.
You felt tears burning at the corners of your eyes, but you couldn't let them fall. Not here. Not now.
"How many?" you asked again. Your voice was steadier this time. Colder. "How many people have accessed the file?"
Steve hesitated. "I don't have an exact number."
"Guess."
"At least three dozen. Maybe more."
Three dozen.
Three dozen people had watched you fall apart. Had watched you confess things you'd never told anyone.
You pressed a hand to your mouth, fighting the urge to scream.
"Can you delete it?" Bucky asked.
"I'm trying," Steve said. "But it's complicated. The file is part of an active intelligence review. If I delete it without authorization, it'll raise red flags. I'm working with Fury to see if we can have it reclassified or sealed, but—"
"But it's already out there," you said.
Steve nodded.
The room was silent.
You looked at Bucky. He was staring at the floor, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might shatter. His hands were still shaking.
He looked like he was breaking.
Your knees buckled.
Bucky moved before you could fall. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you against him, steadying you. His other hand came up to cup the back of your head, holding you close.
"I've got you," he murmured. His voice was rough. Broken. But his grip was solid. "I've got you."
You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. But his hands were warm and real and the only thing keeping you from completely shattering.
"I thought we were alone," you whispered against his chest.
"We were supposed to be,” Bucky said quietly.
"But we weren't." The words tasted like ash. "We were never alone."
Bucky's arms tightened around you. For a long moment, he just held you, his chin resting on top of your head, his breathing uneven.
Then he pulled back slightly. His hands moved to your shoulders, steadying you as he looked into your eyes.
"Hey," he said softly. His thumb brushed across your cheek, catching a tear you hadn't realized had fallen. "Look at me."
You did.
"We're going to figure this out," he said. His voice was steady now. Controlled. "Okay?"
You nodded, even though you didn't believe it.
Bucky's gaze moved toward the door. Something shifted in his expression—something dark and dangerous.
Then he looked back at you. "Baby," he said quietly. "I need you to wait outside for a minute."
You blinked. "What?"
"I need to talk to Steve." His hands squeezed your shoulders gently. "Alone."
"Bucky—"
“—Please." His voice was soft but firm. "Just for a few minutes. I'll come find you. I promise."
You wanted to argue. Wanted to stay. But the look in his eyes told you he needed this.
So you nodded.
Bucky's hand slid down your arm, his fingers tangling briefly with yours before letting go.
You walked to the door on unsteady legs. Paused with your hand on the handle and looked back.
Bucky was watching you, his jaw tight, his eyes dark.
Then you stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind you.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Bucky stood there, his back to the door, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
He counted to ten.
Then he turned and walked back down the hallway to Steve's office.
He didn't knock.
Steve looked up from his desk as the door slammed open. "Buck—"
"Get up."
Steve stood slowly. "Listen, I know you need time—"
"I said get up." Bucky's voice was low. Dangerous.
Steve came around the desk, his hands raised slightly. "I'm sorry. I know that doesn't—"
"You watched it." Bucky took a step forward. "You sat there and you watched me fuck her."
Steve flinched. "Buck—"
"Don't." Bucky's voice cracked. "Don't you dare try to soften this. You watched us. You saw everything."
"I tried to stop it as soon as I realized—"
"How long?" Bucky demanded. "How long did it take you to realize what you were watching?"
Steve's jaw worked. "A few minutes."
"A few minutes." Bucky laughed, but there was no humor in it. "So you saw enough. You saw me kiss her. You saw me touch her. You saw—" He stopped. His hands were shaking. "You saw everything."
"I'm sorry."
"You're sorry." Bucky shook his head. "You're sorry. That's supposed to fix this?"
"No," Steve said quietly. "Nothing fixes this."
"You're goddamn right nothing fixes this." Bucky took another step forward. "Do you have any idea what you've done? What this means?"
"I know—"
"You don't know." Bucky's voice rose. "You have no idea what it took for me to let someone in like that. To trust someone enough to—" He stopped. Swallowed hard. "And now you've seen it. The CIA's seen it. God knows who else has seen it."
"I'm trying to get it sealed—"
"It's too late!" Bucky shouted. "It's already out there. You can't unsee it. They can't unsee it. And now every time I look at you, I'm going to know that you watched me—that you saw her—"
He couldn't finish.
Steve's face was pale. "I never wanted this."
"But it happened anyway." Bucky's voice dropped again. Became something cold and hollow. "You're my best friend. The one person I thought I could trust with anything. And now I can't even look at you without wanting to put my fist through a wall."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to tell me why." Bucky's voice was shaking now. "Why the hell didn't you tell me the cameras were still recording?"
"It's standard protocol—"
"I don't give a shit about protocol!" Bucky slammed his hand against the desk. "You knew I was going into those evaluations. You knew what they were for. And you never once thought to mention that everything I said, everything I did, was being recorded?"
"I assumed you knew—"
"You assumed." Bucky's laugh was bitter. "You assumed I knew. You assumed she knew. But neither of us did. And now—" He stopped. Pressed his palms against his eyes. "Now everyone knows."
"I'm sorry," Steve said again.
"Stop saying that!" Bucky's voice cracked. "Stop apologizing like that makes any of this better. You saw us. You saw me with her. You saw—" He couldn't say it. Couldn't put into words what Steve had witnessed.
The most intimate moment of his life.
The first time he'd let himself be vulnerable with someone in decades.
The first time he'd felt safe enough to let go.
And Steve had watched it all.
"She didn't deserve this," Bucky said finally. His voice was barely audible. "Whatever you think of me, whatever mistakes I've made—she didn't deserve to have her privacy violated like this."
"I know," Steve said quietly. "And I'm sorry. For both of you."
Bucky didn't respond.
Steve took a breath. "For what it's worth—what I saw—" He stopped. Started again. "You looked happy. Both of you. I've never seen you look like that."
Bucky's hands clenched. "Don't."
"I'm just saying—"
"I don't want to hear it." Bucky turned to face him, and the look in his eyes was devastating. "I don't want your observations. I don't want your analysis. I don't want to know what you thought when you watched us. I don't want anything from you right now except a promise that you're going to do everything in your power to make sure that recording disappears."
Steve nodded. "You have my word."
"Your word." Bucky's laugh was bitter. "Yeah. Okay."
He walked to the door.
"Buck—" Steve started.
"Don't follow me," Bucky said without turning around. "Don't try to fix this. Don't try to make it better. Just—leave me alone."
"How long?"
Bucky stopped. His hand was on the door handle. "What?"
"How long do you need?"
Bucky was silent for a long moment.
"I don't know," he said finally. "I don't know if there's enough time in the world to make me forget that my best friend watched me fall in love."
Then he opened the door and walked out, leaving Steve standing alone in the empty office.
The door closed behind him with a quiet click.
And Steve was left with the weight of what he'd done settling over him like a shroud.
You were waiting in the hallway when Bucky emerged. You'd been pacing, your arms wrapped around yourself, your mind racing.
When you saw him, you stopped.
His face was flushed. His jaw was tight. His hands were still clenched into fists.
But when he saw you, something in his expression softened.
He walked to you without a word and pulled you into his arms.
You buried your face against his chest and finally let yourself cry.
"I've got you," he murmured again. "I've got you."
And for now, that was enough.
But it wasn't.
You pulled back after a moment, wiping at your face with shaking hands. "I can't—" Your voice broke. "I can't stay here."
Bucky's jaw tightened. "Neither can I."
"Everyone knows." The words came out strangled. "Everyone in this building knows what we did. And they saw us.”
"Hey." His hands came up to frame your face, forcing you to look at him. "We're leaving. Right now."
You nodded, unable to speak.
Bucky's hand found yours, his grip firm and grounding. "Come on."
He led you down the hallway, moving quickly but not running. You kept your eyes down, focusing on the floor, on his hand in yours, on anything except the faces you passed.
Someone said something as you walked by—you didn't catch the words, but you heard the tone. Sympathetic. Pitying.
Bucky's grip tightened.
You made it to the elevator. The doors opened immediately, mercifully empty. Bucky pulled you inside and jabbed the button for the parking garage.
The doors closed.
The silence was deafening.
You leaned back against the wall, your legs suddenly unsteady. Bucky stood beside you, his shoulder pressed against yours, his hand still holding yours like a lifeline.
"Where are we going?" you asked quietly.
"My place." His voice was rough. "It's closer. And no one from SHIELD knows where it is."
The elevator descended. You watched the numbers tick down, each floor feeling like an eternity.
When the doors finally opened onto the parking garage, Bucky stepped out first, scanning the space like he was expecting an ambush.
It was empty.
He led you to a black motorcycle parked in the corner (of course he had a motorcycle) and pulled a helmet from the storage compartment.
"Here." He handed it to you.
You took it with numb fingers. "What about you?"
"I'll be fine." He swung his leg over the bike and looked back at you. "Get on."
You did.
Your arms wrapped around his waist, and he started the engine. The roar of it filled the garage, echoing off concrete walls.
Then you were moving.
Bucky drove fast—not recklessly, but with so much skill it was illegally handsome. The city blurred around you as he navigated through traffic, taking turns you didn't recognize, doubling back twice to make sure no one was following.
You pressed your face against his back and closed your eyes.
His apartment was in Brooklyn. A brownstone in a quiet, but overpriced, neighborhood.
Bucky parked the bike on the street and helped you off. Your legs were shaking again. He steadied you with a hand on your elbow, then led you up three flights of stairs to a door at the end of the hall.
He unlocked it and stepped inside first, flipping on lights.
The apartment was small. Sparse. A couch, a coffee table, a kitchen barely big enough for one person. But it was clean and quiet and blessedly empty.
Bucky closed the door behind you and locked it. Then he engaged two additional deadbolts and a chain.
You stood in the middle of the living room, your arms wrapped around yourself, not sure what to do.
Bucky turned to face you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Then he crossed the space between you and pulled you into his arms again.
This time, you didn't cry. You just stood there, holding onto him, feeling the solid warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
You pulled back to look at him. "For what?"
"For all of it." His jaw was tight. "For not knowing about the cameras. For not protecting you from it.”
"Stop." You pressed your hand against his chest. "This isn't your fault."
"It feels like it is."
"It's not." Your voice was firmer now. "Neither of us knew. We couldn't have known."
Bucky's hand came up to cover yours. "Doesn't change what happened."
The silence stretched between you.
"What do we do now?" you asked finally.
Bucky exhaled slowly. "I don't know."
You moved away from him, needing space to think. You walked to the window and looked out at the street below. Normal people doing normal things. Walking dogs.
"Steve said the recording is classified," you said quietly. "That it won't go public."
"That doesn't mean it's gone." Bucky's voice was hard. "It's still out there. People have still seen it."
"I know."
"The CIA has it." He said it like a curse. "God knows who else."
You turned to face him. "What do you want to do?"
Bucky's hands curled into fists. "I want to burn every copy of that recording. I want to find everyone who's seen it and make them forget. I want,” He stopped. Shook his head. "I want to go back to yesterday when it was just us."
"Me too."
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and something in his expression cracked. "I'm so sorry you got dragged into this."
"I'm not." The words surprised you both. "I'm not sorry for what happened between us. I'm sorry it was recorded. I'm sorry other people saw it. But I'm not sorry it happened."
Bucky crossed the room in three strides and kissed you.
His lips were so goddamn soft. It was different from the kisses in the safe-house. Those had been exploratory and tentative This was desperate. Claiming. A reminder that what you had was real, even if it had been violated.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
"We'll figure this out," he said quietly.
"How?"
"I don't know yet." His hands came up to cup your face. "But we will."
You wanted to believe him.
You weren't sure you did.
But for now, in this small apartment in Brooklyn, with the door locked and the world held at bay, it was enough to try.
“Hey,” he says softly. You look into his eyes and see something you never really thought you ever would, “I love you.”
You'd been sitting on Bucky's couch for maybe twenty minutes when the knock came.
Three sharp raps against the door. Deliberate. Confident.
You and Bucky both froze.
His hand was still resting on your knee from where he'd been sitting beside you, and you felt his entire body go rigid. His eyes snapped to the door, then back to you.
"You expecting someone?" you whispered.
"No." His voice was flat. Too controlled. "No one knows I live here."
Another knock. Louder this time.
Bucky stood slowly, his movements careful and measured. You watched as he crossed to the door, his hand hovering near the knife block on the kitchen counter as he passed it.
He didn't look through the peephole. Instead, he positioned himself to the side of the door.
There was a pause.
Then: "It's Stark. Open up, Barnes. We need to talk."
Your stomach dropped.
Bucky's jaw tightened. He glanced back at you, and you saw the same dread in his eyes that you felt coiling in your chest.
He unlocked the door.
Tony Stark stood in the hallway wearing a charcoal suit that probably cost more than your annual salary, sunglasses perched on his head despite the fact that it was nearly evening. He looked tired. More than tired—he looked like he hadn't slept.
His eyes flicked past Bucky immediately, landing on you sitting on the couch.
He didn't look surprised.
"Ah," Tony said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "There you are. Saved me a trip."
Bucky closed the door behind him, his hand still on the knob. "How did you find me?"
"Please." Tony pulled off his sunglasses and tucked them into his jacket pocket. "I'm a genius billionaire with access to satellite imaging and facial recognition software that makes the NSA look like they're working with Etch A Sketches. You drove here on a motorcycle. In broad daylight." He paused. "Also, I put a tracker in your jacket two years ago. You're welcome."
"Stark—"
"Relax, I'm kidding about the tracker." Tony's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Mostly."
You stood up from the couch, your arms wrapping around yourself. "What are you doing here?"
Tony looked at you then, really looked at you, and something in his expression shifted. The trademark Stark bravado flickered, just for a second, and you saw something underneath it.
Sympathy.
Pity.
Your chest tightened.
"I'm here because—" Tony stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. "Look, is there any chance either of you have something stronger than water in this place? Because I could really use a drink right now, and I have a feeling you're going to want one too."
Bucky didn't move. "Just say it."
"Bucky—"
"Say it."
Tony exhaled slowly. He looked between the two of you, and for once, he didn't have a quip ready. No sarcastic deflection. No pop culture reference to soften the blow.
He just looked tired.
"There's been fallout," Tony said finally. "From the recording."
Your knees went weak. You sat back down on the couch before they could give out entirely.
Bucky stayed standing, his body coiled tight. "What kind of fallout?"
Tony moved further into the apartment, his hands sliding into his pockets. He looked around—at the sparse furniture, the bare walls, the single window overlooking the street—and you could see him cataloging everything. Processing.
"The CIA accessed the recording before Steve could pull it," Tony said. "You already know that part. What you don't know is that it didn't stop there."
"Who else saw it?" Bucky's voice was dangerously quiet.
"Does it matter?" Tony turned to face him. "Too many people. People with clearance. People with opinions. People with—" He stopped himself. "People who think they have a say in how this gets handled."
You felt like you were going to be sick.
"Handled," you repeated. The word tasted bitter. "How is this being *handled*, Tony?"
He looked at you, and you saw him hesitate. Actually hesitate. Tony Stark, who never hesitated, who always had an answer, who could talk his way out of anything.
He was stalling.
"Tony." Bucky's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "What did they do?"
Tony pulled his hands from his pockets. Crossed his arms. Uncrossed them. Settled on clasping them in front of him like he was about to deliver a eulogy.
"She's been fired," he said quietly, nodding toward you. "Effective immediately. And you're on temporary suspension pending a formal review."
The words hit like a physical blow.
You couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
Couldn't process what he'd just said because it didn't make sense, it couldn't make sense, this couldn't be happening—
"What?" Bucky's voice was barely above a whisper.
"I'm sorry." Tony's expression was genuine. Pained. "I tried to stop it. I really did. But this came from way above my head. CIA brass, SHIELD oversight, people whose names I'm not even cleared to know—they all saw the recording, and they all agreed that there needed to be consequences."
"Consequences." You heard yourself say the word, but it sounded distant. Like someone else was speaking. "Consequences for what?"
"For the ethics violation." Tony looked at you. "You were his assigned profiler. There are rules about—"
"I know what the rules are." Your voice was shaking. "But we didn't—it wasn't—"
"I know." Tony held up a hand. "I know. And for what it's worth, I don't think you did anything wrong. Neither does Steve. Neither does anyone with half a brain and a shred of human decency."
"But?" Bucky's hands were clenched into fists at his sides.
"But the people making the decisions don't care about context." Tony's voice hardened. "They care about optics. They care about liability. They care about the fact that a SHIELD behavioral profiler and her subject were caught on camera in a—" He stopped. Cleared his throat. "In a compromising position. And they decided that someone needed to take the fall for it."
"So they fired her." Bucky's voice was flat. Dead.
"Yes."
"And I'm suspended."
"Temporarily. Pending review." Tony looked at Bucky. "Which, let's be honest, is bureaucratic speak for 'we'll let you back eventually but we need to make it look like we're taking this seriously.'"
You couldn't feel your hands. Couldn't feel anything except the crushing weight of what he'd just said.
Fired.
Your career. Your entire career. Everything you'd worked for. Gone.
Because you'd fallen in love with someone you were supposed to be helping.
Because you'd been honest.
Because you'd been human.
"This is bullshit." Bucky's voice cut through your spiraling thoughts. "She didn't do anything wrong."
"I agree." Tony's tone was careful. "But it doesn't change what happened."
"She was doing her job." Bucky took a step toward Tony. "She was helping me. She was the only person who—" His voice cracked. "She was the only person who saw me as something other than a weapon or a victim, and now she's being punished for it?"
"I know." Tony didn't back down. "I know, and I'm sorry. But the decision's been made."
"Then unmake it."
"I can't."
"You're Tony Stark." Bucky's voice was rising. "You can do whatever you want."
"Not this." Tony's expression was grim. "This came from people I can't touch. People who don't answer to me. People who saw that recording and decided that the best way to handle the PR nightmare was to make an example out of her."
"An example." You heard yourself laugh. It sounded hollow. Broken. "I'm an example."
Tony turned to you, and the sympathy in his eyes was almost worse than the news itself. "I'm sorry. I really am. If there was anything I could do—"
"But there isn't." You stood up, your legs somehow holding you even though you felt like you were falling apart. "So why are you here? To deliver the news in person? To make sure we understood the consequences of—" Your voice broke. "Of what? Caring about each other?"
"No." Tony's voice was firm. "I'm here because you deserved to hear it from someone who actually gives a damn about what happened to you. Not from some faceless bureaucrat who's never met either of you and doesn't care that you were set up to fail."
"Set up to fail?" Bucky's voice was sharp.
"You were recorded without your knowledge or consent." Tony looked between the two of you. "In a room that you had every reason to believe was private. During a moment that should have been private. And now you're both paying the price for something that never should have been seen by anyone." He paused. "That's not justice. That's a violation. And the fact that they're punishing you for it instead of the system that allowed it to happen?" He shook his head. "It's wrong."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
You sank back down onto the couch, your hands shaking.
Fired.
The word kept echoing in your head.
Fired.
Everything you'd worked for. Your entire career. Your reputation. Your future.
Gone.
Because you'd fallen in love.
Bucky moved to sit beside you, his hand finding yours. His grip was tight. Grounding.
"What happens now?" he asked quietly.
Tony exhaled slowly. "Now? You lay low. You don't talk to anyone from SHIELD or the CIA. You don't make statements. You don't try to fight this." He looked at Bucky. "Your suspension is temporary. You'll be reinstated once the review is complete. It's a formality."
"And her?"
Tony's expression darkened. "Her termination is permanent."
You felt Bucky's hand tighten around yours.
"There has to be something we can do," Bucky said.
"There isn't." Tony's voice was gentle but firm. "Not right now. Maybe down the line, once this blows over, there might be options. But right now?" He shook his head. "Right now, the best thing you can do is stay out of sight and let the dust settle."
"That's it?" Bucky's voice was incredulous. "That's your advice? Hide and hope it goes away?"
"No." Tony met his gaze. "My advice is to survive this. Both of you. Because the people who made this decision? They're hoping you'll fight back. They're hoping you'll make noise and give them an excuse to make this even worse." He paused. "Don't give them the satisfaction."
You couldn't speak. Couldn't process. Couldn't do anything except sit there and feel the weight of everything crashing down around you.
Tony moved toward the door, then stopped. Turned back.
"For what it's worth," he said quietly, "I'm sorry this happened to you. Both of you. You didn't deserve this."
Then he left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And you and Bucky sat in the silence, the reality of what had just happened settling over you like a shroud.
You'd lost everything.
And there was nothing either of you could do about it.
The door clicked shut behind Tony.
Neither of you moved.
The silence was suffocating. Heavy. Like the air itself had turned solid and was pressing down on your chest, making it impossible to breathe.
You stood there, staring at the closed door, your mind still trying to process what had just happened.
Fired.
The word kept echoing in your head.
Fired.
Everything you'd worked for. Everything you'd sacrificed. Everything you'd built.
Gone.
You felt something crack inside you.
"I told you," you said quietly.
Bucky turned to look at you. "What?"
"I told you." Your voice was shaking. "Back at the safe-house. I told you this could happen.” He didn't say anything. "I told you I was terrified of this." You turned to face him, and you could feel the anger rising in your chest like a wave. "I told you exactly what I was afraid of, and you—"
"I know."
"Do you?" Your voice was getting louder. "Do you actually know? Because I just lost everything, Bucky. Everything I worked for. Everything I worked for.” Your voice cracked. "I spent years building my career. Years earning the trust to work with people like you. Years proving I was good enough to be in that room."
Bucky's jaw tightened, but he didn't speak.
"I told you," you continued, and now the words were spilling out faster, sharper. "I told you I was scared. I told you that if we crossed that line, if we got together,” You stopped. Swallowed. "I told you I could lose everything."
"I remember."
"Then why didn't you—" You stopped yourself. Shook your head. "No. That's not fair. We both—" You pressed your hands to your face. "God, I don't even know what I'm saying."
"You're angry," Bucky said quietly.
An absurd laugh left your lips.
"Of course I'm angry!" You dropped your hands. "I just got fired, Bucky. Fired. For doing my job. For helping you,” Your voice broke. "For falling in love with you."
He flinched.
You saw it. The way his entire body reacted to those words like they were a physical blow.
“I don’t regret what happened, and I don’t regret falling for you, but I don't think you understand what I just lost."
"I do."
"No." You shook your head. "You're suspended. Temporarily. You'll be back in a few weeks, maybe a month. But me?" Your voice cracked again. "I'm done. Permanently. My entire career is over because I…” You stopped.
"Because of me," Bucky said quietly.
You froze.
"What?"
"Because of me." His voice was flat. Emotionless. "You lost your career because of me."
"That's not—"
“—It is." He looked at you, and his eyes were dark. Hollow. "You were doing your job. You were helping me. And I,” He stopped. "I pushed. I asked you to play that game. I asked you those questions. I—"
“—Stop."
"I made you cross that line."
"Bucky, stop."
"You told me you were scared," he continued, and his voice was getting quieter. "You told me what you were afraid of, and I didn't listen. I didn't care. I just,” He shook his head. "I wanted you so badly that I didn't think about what it would cost you."
"That's not true."
"It is." He looked at you. "And now you're paying for it."
You stared at him.
He wasn't defending himself.
He wasn't reminding you that you'd made the choice together.
He wasn't pointing out that you'd kissed him first, that you'd told him you wanted this, that you'd said you didn't regret it.
He was just standing there.
Taking the blame.
Accepting it like it was his to carry.
"Bucky—"
"I'm sorry." His voice was rough. "I'm so sorry. If I could go back and—"
"And what?" Your anger was fading now, replaced by something else. Something that felt like grief. "Go back and not fall in love with me?"
He didn't answer.
"Is that what you want?" you asked quietly. "To go back and pretend we never—"
"No." The word came out sharp. Definitive. "No, I don't want that."
"Then what do you want?"
He paced the floor and then turned sharply to face you.
"I want you to not have lost everything because of me." His hands were shaking. "I want you to still have your career. Your future. Everything you worked for. I want,” He stopped. "I want you to not be standing here hating me.”
Your heart broke at his words.
"I don't hate you."
“Well, you should."
"Well, I don't." You took a step toward him. "I'm angry. I'm devastated. I’m," Your voice broke. "I'm terrified of what happens next. But I don't hate you."
He looked at you like he didn't believe you.
"Bucky." You moved closer. "I'm not angry at you. I'm angry at,” You gestured vaguely. "At all of it. At the system. At the people who made this decision. At the fact that we were recorded without knowing. At,” You stopped and took in a deep breath. "I'm angry that the worst thing I imagined actually happened."
"Because of me."
"No." You shook your head. "Because of a system that punishes people for being human. Because of people who saw something private and decided to make it public. Because we fell in love in a world that doesn't allow for that."
Bucky's jaw tightened.
"I told you I was scared," you said quietly. "And I was. I was terrified. But I also told you—I didn't regret it."
"You said that before you got fired."
"I'm saying it now too.” He stared at you. "But I don't regret you.” His eyes were shining, "I'm angry," you continued. "I'm so angry I can barely breathe. But I'm not angry at you. I'm angry at everything else.” Bucky didn't move., ”Say something," you whispered.
"I don't know what to say." His voice was rough. "I don't know how to fix this."
"You can't."
"I know." He looked at you. "But I want to. I want to make this right."
"There is no making this right." You felt tears burning in your eyes. "It's done. I'm fired. You're suspended. The recording is out there. We can't undo any of it."
"Then what do we do?” You didn't have an answer. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then Bucky moved.
He crossed the space between you and pulled you into his arms.
You didn't resist.
You let him hold you, let yourself collapse against his chest, let the tears finally come.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into your hair. "I'm so sorry.” His arms tightened around you.
You stood there in the middle of his apartment, holding each other, both of you broken in different ways but neither of you willing to let go.
"I don't regret it," you said again, your voice muffled against his chest, “But I'm allowed to be angry. And scared.” You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were red. His jaw was tight. He looked like he was barely holding himself together, ”We'll figure this out," he said quietly.
"You keep saying that."
"Because I have to believe it's true." His hand came up to cup your face. "I have to believe there's a way through this."
"What if there isn't?"
"Then we'll make one."
You wanted to believe him.
You wanted to believe that love was enough.
That somehow, despite everything, you'd find a way forward.
But right now, standing in his apartment with your career in ruins and his future uncertain, you didn't know if belief was enough.
"I'm tired," you whispered.
"I know."
"I don't want to think about this anymore."
"Then don't." He pulled you back against his chest. "Just—stay here. With me. We'll figure out the rest later."
You nodded against him.
Later.
You'd deal with everything later.
Right now, you just needed to breathe.
Bucky sat on the couch, his back against the armrest, one leg stretched along the cushions. You lay against him, your head on his chest, your body curled into his side. Neither of you had moved in what felt like hours.
The argument had burned itself out. There was nothing left to say.
You'd screamed at him—not because you blamed him, but because you needed somewhere to put the grief. He'd let you. He hadn't defended himself, hadn't tried to explain away what had happened. He just stood there and took it, because he knew you were right to be angry. You'd warned him. You'd told him exactly what would happen if you crossed that line.
And you'd crossed it anyway.
Now your career was gone. His was hanging by a thread. And the most private moments of your lives had been watched by people who had no right to see them.
Bucky stared at the ceiling. His hand rested on your back, fingers spread across your shoulder blade. He could feel you breathing—slow and steady, but not relaxed. You weren't asleep. Neither of you were.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
Your fingers curled against his shirt. "I know."
"I mean it."
"I know you do." Your voice was hoarse from crying, from yelling. "It doesn't change anything."
He swallowed. "No. It doesn't."
Silence settled over you both again. Heavy. Suffocating.
But you didn't pull away.
That was the thing he couldn't reconcile. You'd lost everything because of him—because of what you'd done together—and you were still here. Still pressed against him like he was the only solid thing left in your world.
Maybe he was.
Maybe you both were, for each other.
Your hand moved slightly, fingers tracing the edge of his ribs through the fabric of his shirt. It wasn't absent-minded. It was deliberate. Slow.
Bucky's breath caught.
You shifted against him, your thigh pressing more firmly against his hip. Your head tilted, and he felt the warmth of your breath against his collarbone.
"Hey," he murmured.
You didn't answer. Just kept moving. Small adjustments that brought your body closer to his. Your hand slid lower, resting on his stomach now. Your fingers splayed wide, and he felt the heat of your palm through his shirt.
His heart was pounding. He didn't know if you could hear it.
"You don't have to—" he started.
"I know." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I want to."
He closed his eyes. His hand moved from your back to your hair, fingers threading through the strands. "We just…”
"I know what we just did." You lifted your head, and when he opened his eyes, you were looking at him. Your face was still blotchy from crying. Your eyes were red-rimmed and exhausted. But there was something else there too. Something raw and certain. "I know what we lost. I know what this cost us. But I don't want to be anywhere else." Your voice cracked. "Because the only place I feel like I can breathe right now is right here. With you."
Bucky's throat tightened. He cupped your face with his right hand, thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "I don't deserve that."
You leaned into his touch.
You kissed him then. Soft and slow, like you were trying to memorize the shape of his mouth. He kissed you back, his hand sliding to the nape of your neck, holding you close.
When you pulled away, you didn't go far. Your forehead rested against his, and your hand moved lower, fingers brushing the waistband of his sweatpants.
"Is this okay?" you whispered.
He nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, it's okay."
You shifted, sitting up slightly so you could straddle his hips. Your knees pressed into the couch on either side of him, and you settled your weight onto his thighs. Your hands rested on his chest, and you looked down at him with an expression he couldn't quite name.
Grief. Exhaustion. Love.
All of it at once.
Bucky's hands found your waist, thumbs brushing the bare skin where your shirt had ridden up. "You sure about this?"
"Are you?"
"I asked you first."
A ghost of a smile crossed your face. It didn't last. "I'm sure."
He nodded. "Okay."
You leaned down and kissed him again, deeper this time. Your hips rolled forward, a slow, deliberate movement that made his breath hitch. He could feel the heat of you through the thin fabric of your leggings, and his body responded instinctively.
He felt it too. He knew because you made a soft sound against his mouth and did it again.
"Jesus," he muttered.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. Your hands moved to the hem of your shirt, and you pulled it over your head in one smooth motion. No bra. You hadn't bothered putting one back on after you'd gotten home.
Bucky's hands slid up your sides, palms skimming over your ribs, your breasts. You arched into his touch, eyes fluttering closed.
"Come here," he said quietly.
You did. You leaned down, and he kissed you again, slower this time. His hands moved to your hips, guiding you as you rocked against him. The friction was maddening, even through your clothes.
You broke the kiss, breathing hard. "Bucky—"
"I know." He shifted beneath you, reaching down to push his sweatpants and boxers down just enough. He didn't bother taking them off completely. There was no rush. No urgency. Just the two of you, moving together in the dim light of the apartment.
You lifted yourself slightly, and he helped you slide your leggings and underwear down your thighs. You kicked them off, and then you were back, settling onto his lap again.
For a moment, you both just looked at each other.
"I love you," you said. Your voice was steady. Certain.
"I love you too."
You reached between you, wrapping your fingers around him. He groaned, head falling back against the couch. You stroked him slowly, and he felt like he was going to lose his mind.
"Please," he muttered.
You positioned yourself over him, and then you sank down, slow and careful. He felt every inch of you, the tight heat of your body enveloping him. You gasped, hands bracing on his shoulders.
"Okay?" he asked, voice strained.
You nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay."
You started to move. Slow, rolling motions that had him gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. He didn't mean to. He just needed something to hold onto.
You didn't seem to mind.
Your head fell forward, forehead resting against his. Your breaths mingled, hot and uneven. You moved like you had all the time in the world, like there was nowhere else you needed to be.
Bucky's hands slid up your back, pulling you closer. You were so warm.
"God," you whispered. "Bucky—"
"I know.."
You kissed him, messy and desperate. Your movements became less controlled, more instinctive. He met you halfway, hips lifting to match your rhythm.
It wasn't frantic. It wasn't wild. It was something quieter. Something that felt like grief and comfort and love all tangled together.
You broke the kiss, burying your face against his neck. He felt your breath, hot and ragged, against his skin. Felt the way your body trembled as you moved.
You wanted to tell him you were close but the words dissolved into a moan.
You did. He felt it in the way your body tightened around him, in the way your fingers dug into his shoulders. You made a sound that was half-sob, half-gasp, and he held you through it, one hand cradling the back of your head.
He followed a moment later, his own release crashing over him in waves. He buried his face in your hair, breathing you in, holding you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
For a long time, neither of you moved.
You stayed where you were, still connected to him, your body draped over his. His arms were wrapped around you, and he could feel your heartbeat against his chest.
"We're going to be okay," you whispered eventually.
Bucky didn't know if that was true. He didn't know what came next. Didn't know if you'd ever get your lives back.
But he knew this: you were here. You were choosing him. And that had to be enough.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "We will."
You lifted your head, and when you looked at him, your eyes were wet again. But you were smiling. Just a little.
"I don't regret it," you said. "Any of it."
He kissed your forehead. "Me neither."
You stayed like that, tangled together on the couch, until the light outside started to fade. And for the first time since everything had fallen apart, Bucky felt like maybe, just maybe, you’d find a way through this.
Together.
The air three hundred feet below ground tasted of recycled oxygen and old concrete. No windows. No natural light. Only the pale blue glow of a dozen monitors arranged in a crescent, each one flickering with frozen frames.
The largest screen showed them: Bucky and Y/N, bodies curved together in the half-dark of his apartment, her face pressed against his chest, his hand cradled at the nape of her neck. The image was grainy but intimate. Too intimate.
The hum of servers filled the silence—a low, mechanical breathing that never stopped.
A figure sat motionless before the monitors. Shadows pooled in the hollows of the room, obscuring everything but the faint outline of shoulders, the suggestion of a uniform. Watching. Always watching.
Eight tentacles.
A gloved hand moved into the light.
Leather creaked as fingers hovered over the controls, then pressed down with deliberate care. The image froze. The timestamp stopped. The screen went dark, reflecting nothing but the room's own emptiness.
"Because I can't—" He stops. Starts again. "I can't do this if you don't. I can't sit in that room and pretend I didn't feel what I felt when you touched me. I can't pretend I don't think about you every goddamn day. I can’t," His voice breaks. "I can't watch you panic about losing something we never let ourselves have."
Your chest is so tight it hurts.
"I'm terrified," you whisper.
"I know."
"I don't know how to do this."
"I don't either."
"What if we ruin it?"
Bucky's jaw clenches. "What if we already did?"
The words hit you like a physical blow.
"No," you say immediately. "No, that's not—"
"Then what?" He leans forward, and now you can see it, the desperation underneath the exhaustion. "Tell me what you're so afraid of, because I don't understand. You keep saying you don't want to lose what we had, but you won't let us have anything else."
"Bucky—"
"Stop." He moves closer. Close enough now that his knee brushes yours. "You think I don't know the difference? You think I haven't spent the last six months trying to convince myself this was just—what? Imagination? Some kind of fucked-up mental thing?" His voice drops. "I know what you are to me. I've known for months. I just didn't think I'd ever get to—"
He stops.
You're staring at him.
"Didn't think you'd ever get to what?"
His eyes drop to your mouth.
"This," he says quietly.
He kisses you.
Your heart stops.
It's not gentle.
His hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, and he pulls you into him like he's been holding himself back for months and finally can't anymore. Your hands find his chest, his shoulders, and you're kissing him back just as desperately.
It's not romantic. It's a need.
His mouth is hot and demanding and you open for him without thinking. His other hand finds your waist, grips hard enough to bruise, and you make a sound against his mouth that's half-sob, half-relief.
He pulls back just enough to breathe.
He kisses you again, harder this time, and you forget what you were going to say. Your fingers curl into his shirt. He tastes like desperation and something darker, something that's been building between you for so long you forgot what it felt like to not want him.
When he pulls back again, you're both breathing hard.
His forehead drops against yours.
Bucky's thumb brushes across your cheekbone, wiping away a tear you didn't realize had fallen.
"Come inside," he says quietly.
It's not a demand. It's a question.
You nod.
He stands, pulling you up with him, and his hand doesn't leave yours as he leads you into the bedroom and closes the door behind you both.
The room is dim, lit only by the faint emergency lighting from the hallway seeping under the door. Bucky turns to face you, and in the low light, his expression is unreadable. But his hand is still holding yours, grip firm and steady.
You step closer and kiss him again.
He responds immediately, both hands coming up to frame your face as he kisses you back with an intensity that makes your knees weak. You feel him walking you backward until your legs hit the edge of the bed. He doesn't push you down—just keeps kissing you, one hand sliding down your neck, over your shoulder, down your arm.
When his fingers find the hem of your shirt, he pauses. "Can I—?"
"Yes."
He pulls the shirt up slowly, giving you time to change your mind. You lift your arms, and he draws it over your head, tossing it aside. His eyes drop to your body, and you see his throat work as he swallows.
"God," he mutters.
You reach for his shirt, and he lets you pull it off. Your hands flatten against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart. There are scars, you’ve seen them before at pool parties, but seeing them up close like this is different. You trace one lightly with your fingertips, and his breath hitches.
For a moment, he just looks at you. Then something shifts in his expression—control giving way to need—and he kisses you again, harder this time. His hands move to your waist, then lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants.
"Off," he says against your mouth.
You help him, fumbling with the button and zipper until you can push them down. He does the same with his own, and then you're both standing there in just underwear, breathing hard, staring at each other.
"Come here," he says, voice rough.
You step closer, and he pulls you against him. The feeling of skin against skin makes you gasp. He's warm and solid, and you can feel every line of muscle, every scar, every place where his body presses against yours.
His mouth finds your neck, kissing and biting gently. You tilt your head back, giving him access, and his hands slide down to your hips, gripping tight. When his teeth scrape over your pulse point, you make a sound you didn't know you were capable of.
"Fuck," he mutters against your skin. "The sounds you make—"
He doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, he turns you around, guiding you down onto the bed. You go willingly, lying back against the mattress, and he follows you down, settling between your legs. His weight is perfect, grounding, real.
He kisses you again, slower this time, like he's trying to memorize your taste. His hips press against yours, and you can feel how hard he is through the thin fabric separating you. The friction makes you arch up against him, seeking
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's something almost predatory in his expression.
His hand slides down your body, over your ribs, your stomach, stopping just above the edge of your underwear. "Can I?”
“Please."
He hooks his fingers into the fabric and pulls it down slowly, watching your face the entire time. When you're bare before him, he sits back on his heels, just looking.
"Bucky—"
"Let me look at you," he says quietly. "I've thought about this so many fucking times.”
The admission sends heat flooding through you. "What did you think about?”
His eyes meet yours. “Everything."
He leans down, pressing a kiss to your hip bone, then lower. When his mouth finally reaches where you need him most, you gasp, hands flying to his hair. He takes his time, using his tongue in slow, deliberate strokes that make your thighs shake.
"Oh god—“
He hums against you, and the vibration makes you cry out. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, and he doesn't stop. He's methodical, paying attention to every reaction, every sound you make, adjusting his rhythm until you're trembling beneath him.
Just when you think you can't take anymore, when you're right on the edge, he pulls back.
You gasp.
He looks up at you, mouth glistening, eyes dark.
“Bucky—"
He moves back up your body, kissing you deeply. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and it's so intimate it makes your head spin. His hand slides between your legs, fingers moving in slow circles that make you whimper.
"Please," you breathe against his mouth.
"Please what? You need me?”
“Yes.”
He makes a low sound, almost a growl, and pulls back just long enough to strip off his boxers. When he settles back between your legs, you can feel him, hard and hot against you.
"Condom," he mutters, reaching for the nightstand.
"I'm on birth control," you say quickly.
He pauses, looking at you. "You sure?”
"Yes. Are you—?”
“Yeah.” The words are barely out of his mouth by the time he positions himself at your entrance, and for a moment, neither of you move.
Then he pushes in slowly, and the feeling of him stretching you, filling you, is almost overwhelming.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You feel. Fuuuuck.”
He doesn't finish. Just keeps pushing in until he's fully seated inside you. You're both breathing hard, adjusting to the sensation. He's big, and it's been a while, and you need a moment.
"Okay?" he asks quietly.
"Mmm.”
He pulls back slowly, then pushes back in. The friction is perfect, and you moan, wrapping your legs around his waist. He sets a steady rhythm, not too fast, just deep and thorough. Every thrust hits something inside you that makes your vision blur.
"God, you're soft," he mutters.
His words send heat through you. “Harder."
He complies immediately, hips snapping against yours with more force. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, mixed with your gasps and his rough breathing. He buries his face in your neck, and you can feel his breath hot against your skin.
"Touch yourself," he says against your ear.
“What?"
"Touch yourself. I want to feel you come.”
You slide your hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. The added stimulation makes you cry out, and he groans in response.
"That's it," he mutters. "Yeaaaaah, I can feel you getting tighter.”
He's right. The pressure is building fast, coiling low in your belly. His rhythm doesn't falter, steady and deep, and combined with your own touch, it's too much.
"Bucky, I’m—"
"I know. I can feel it. Come for me.”
The command in his voice pushes you over the edge. Your orgasm hits hard, making you arch up against him as waves of pleasure roll through you. He doesn't stop, just keeps moving, drawing it out until you're shaking beneath him.
"Jesus," he breathes. "You're so fucking beautiful when you cum.”
Before you can respond, he pulls out. You make a sound of protest, but then he's flipping you over onto your stomach.
"On your knees," he says, voice rough.
You comply, getting up on your hands and knees. His hands grip your hips, positioning you, and then he's pushing back inside from behind. The angle is different, deeper, and you gasp at the sensation.
"Fuck," he mutters. "This view—“
He starts moving again, harder this time. One hand stays on your hip, gripping tight enough to leave marks, while the other slides up your spine. When he reaches your shoulder, he uses the leverage to pull you back onto him with each thrust.
The pace is rougher now, more desperate. You can hear the strain in his breathing, feel the tension in his body. He's close, but he's holding back.
"Don't stop," you gasp, “Don’tstopdon’tstop.”
His hand slides around to your front, finding your clit again. The dual stimulation makes you cry out, and you feel yourself getting close again already.
The pressure builds faster this time, and when he changes his angle slightly, hitting that perfect spot inside you, you come apart again. Your arms give out, and you collapse forward onto the mattress, but he doesn't stop. Just follows you down, covering your body with his, still moving.
He breathes against your ear.
His hand is still between your legs, fingers moving in tight circles. You're oversensitive, almost too much, but he doesn't let up. The third orgasm builds slower, almost painful in its intensity. When it finally hits, you sob into the mattress, and that's when he finally lets go.
His rhythm falters, becoming erratic, and then he's coming with a low groan, hips pressed tight against yours. You can feel him pulsing inside you, and the sensation makes you shudder.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. He's still covering you, breathing hard against your shoulder. Then he carefully pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you.
You turn your head to look at him. His eyes are closed, chest heaving, one arm thrown over his face.
"Holy shit," you breathe.
He makes a sound that might be a laugh.
You roll onto your side, facing him. After a moment, he lowers his arm and looks at you. His hair is a mess, lips swollen, and there's a flush across his chest. He looks completely undone.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
"More than okay.”
Something in his expression softens. He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Good."
You're both quiet for a moment, just looking at each other. Then you notice he's still half-hard.
"Already?" you ask, surprised.
He glances down, then back at you with a slight smirk. "Super soldier serum. Recovery time is faster.”
"How much faster?”
"Depends." His hand slides down your side, over your hip. "Why? You want to go again?”
Instead of answering, you push him onto his back and swing your leg over his hips, straddling him. His hands immediately come up to grip your waist.
"I want to use you," you say, watching his reaction.
His eyes darken. “Yeah?"
"Yeah. I want to ride you until I can't anymore.”
"Fuck," he mutters. "Do it.”
You reach between your bodies, positioning him at your entrance. You're sensitive and sore, but the stretch as you sink down onto him feels too good to stop. You’ve never been this turned on in your life. He slides into you like hot butter. His grip on your waist tightens, and you can see the muscle in his jaw flex as he fights for control.
"You feel even bigger like this," you gasp.
You start moving, slowly at first, adjusting to the angle. His hands guide you, helping you find a rhythm. When you lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, he groans.
"That's it," he mutters. “That’s it. That’s it. Use me. Take what you need.”
You do. You set the pace, grinding down on him in a way that hits your clit with every movement. His hands move from your waist to your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and the added stimulation makes you moan.
"So fucking perfect," he says, watching you move above him. "You have any idea how many times I've thought about this? Watching you ride me?”
"Tell me," you gasp.
"Every goddamn day.”
His words send heat through you, and you move faster. "What else?”
"Wondered what sounds you'd make. If you'd be quiet or loud. If you'd beg." His hands slide down to your hips again, gripping tight. "Turns out you do all of it.”
You lean down, kissing him hard. He kisses you back just as fiercely, one hand moving to the back of your neck to hold you there. When you pull back, you're both breathing hard.
He suddenly sits up, wrapping his arms around you. The change in angle makes you gasp, and he takes advantage, kissing you deeply while he starts moving his hips, thrusting up into you.
“Bucky—"
"My turn," he mutters against your mouth.
He's stronger than you, and he uses it now, holding you in place while he fucks up into you. The pace is brutal, and you can do nothing but hold onto his shoulders and take it. Every thrust hits deep, and you can feel another orgasm building already.
"Not yet," he says, slowing down.
“What—?"
He pulls out, and you whimper at the loss. But then he's moving you, positioning you on your side. He slides in behind you, lifting your leg and draping it back over his hip. When he pushes back inside from this angle, you both groan.
"Fuck, this is—" He doesn't finish, just starts moving again.
One of his arms is wrapped around your waist, holding you against him. The other hand slides up to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there. The possessiveness of the gesture makes you clench around him.
He makes a low sound and starts moving faster. The angle is perfect, hitting that spot inside you with every thrust. His hand slides from your throat down to your breast, then lower, finding your clit again.
"I want you to come one more time," he says against your ear. "Can you do that for me?”
"I don't know if I can—“
"Yes, you can." His fingers move in tight circles. "Come on. Give it to me.”
The combination of his voice, his fingers, and the relentless rhythm of his hips is too much. You feel the pressure building again, different this time, almost overwhelming.
When the orgasm hits, it's different from the others. Stronger, deeper, almost painful in its intensity.
“FUCK MEEE!” You cry out, body going rigid, and you feel yourself gush around him.
"Holy shit," he breathes. "Did you just—?”
You can't answer, still riding out the waves of pleasure. He keeps moving, gentler now, drawing it out. When you finally come back to yourself, you're shaking.
"That was—" You can't finish the sentence.
"Yeah." His voice is strained. "Fuck, that was the hottest thing I've ever seen.”
He's still hard inside you, and you can feel how close he is. "Come for me," you say softly.
That's all it takes. His rhythm falters, and then he's coming with a groan, hips pressed tight against yours. You feel him pulse inside you, and the warmth of it makes you shudder.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. He's still wrapped around you, face buried in your neck, breathing hard. Then he carefully pulls out and rolls onto his back.
You turn to face him. He looks completely wrecked, hair a mess, skin flushed, eyes half-closed. There are scratches on his shoulders from your nails, and the sight of them makes something possessive curl in your chest.
"Come here," he says quietly, holding out his arm.
You move closer, and he pulls you against his side. You rest your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slowly return to normal. His hand traces lazy patterns on your back.
"You okay?" he asks after a while.
"Sore. But good.”
“Sorry."
"Don't be." You tilt your head to look at him. "That was…"
“Yeah."
You're both quiet for a moment. Then you feel him start to harden again against your hip.
"Seriously?" you ask, half-laughing.
He groans. "I can't help it. You're naked and pressed against me.”
"How many times can you…?"
"I don't know. Never really tested it." He looks at you. "Want to find out?”
You should say no. You're already sore, and you both need rest. But the look in his eyes makes you want to say yes.
"Maybe just one more," you say.
His hand slides down your back to your ass, squeezing. "One more. Then we rest.”
“Promise?"
“Promise."
He rolls you onto your back, settling between your legs again. This time, when he pushes inside, you both groan at the sensitivity.
He moves slowly, almost gently, like he's savoring it.
"This okay?" he asks.
"Yeah. Don't stop.”
He doesn't. Just keeps moving in long, slow strokes that make you feel every inch of him. It's different from before; less desperate, more intimate. He kisses you slowly, deeply, like he has all the time in the world.
"I don't want this to end," you admit quietly.
He pulls back to look at you. "It doesn't have to.”
"The lockdown will end eventually.”
"I know." His hand cups your face. "But this doesn't have to end with it.”
"What are we going to do?”
"I don't know." He kisses you again. "But we'll figure it out.”
The reassurance in his voice makes something in your chest loosen. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans.
He huffs a laugh against your neck, and the sound makes you smile. His rhythm stays slow and steady, building gradually. There's no urgency this time, just the two of you moving together, learning each other's bodies.
When you come this time, it's gentle, rolling through you in soft waves. He follows soon after, and you hold each other through it.
Afterward, he doesn't pull away. Just stays there, still inside you, forehead resting against yours.
A few minutes later, you watch him walk to the bathroom, unselfconscious in his nakedness. A moment later, you hear water running. He comes back with a warm washcloth and gently cleans you up. The intimacy of the gesture makes your throat tight.
"Thank you," you say quietly.
He just nods, tossing the washcloth aside before climbing back into bed. He pulls you against him, and you go willingly, tucking yourself against his side.
Exhaustion is pulling at you. The last thing you feel before sleep takes you is his hand in your hair, fingers moving in a soothing rhythm.
You drift back to sleep wrapped around each other, but it doesn't last.
You're not sure what time it is when you wake again—2 AM, maybe 3—but the room is still dark, and Bucky's hand is moving slowly down your side. You're both half-asleep, caught in that hazy space between dreaming and waking.
"You awake?" he murmurs against your neck.
"Barely."
His hand slides over your hip, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. "Can't sleep."
"Why not?"
His voice is rough with sleep, lower than usual. "I can't stop thinking about how tight your pussy felt wrapped around my cock."
Heat pools low in your belly. You're sore, exhausted, but the want in his voice makes you ache for him anyway.
"Again?" you whisper.
"If you want."
Instead of answering, you reach down between your bodies and wrap your hand around him. He's already half-hard, and when you stroke him slowly, he groans.
"Fuck," he mutters. "Yeah, I want it again."
You turn in his arms and kiss him. It's slow and drowsy at first, tongues moving lazily against each other. His hand slides into your hair, and he deepens the kiss gradually, like he has all the time in the world. When you stroke him again, he's fully hard in your hand.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark even in the dim light. "Roll over."
You do, turning onto your back. He moves over you, settling between your legs, and the weight of him is grounding. He kisses you again, slower this time, while his hand slides down your body.
When his fingers find you, you're already wet.
"Fuck," he mutters against your mouth. "Your cunt is already soaked for me.” He makes a low sound and positions himself at your entrance. When he pushes in, you both groan. You're sensitive from earlier, and the stretch makes you gasp, but it feels too good to stop.
He sinks in slowly until he's fully seated, then stills.
"Okay?" he asks.
"Yeah. Move."
He does, pulling back and pushing in with a slow, deliberate rhythm. It's different from before—unhurried, almost lazy. Like he's savoring every sensation.
"God, you feel so fucking good," he mutters. "So tight and wet around my dick."
His words send heat through you. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans.
"That's it," he says. "Take all of me. Feel how deep I am inside you?"
"Yes—"
He keeps the pace slow and steady, each thrust deep and thorough. You can feel the pressure building gradually, coiling low in your belly. Your breathing gets heavier, and he notices immediately.
"You getting close already?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"Good. I want to feel you come around my cock again." He adjusts his angle slightly, and the next thrust hits that perfect spot inside you. "Want to feel that pussy squeeze me."
"Bucky—"
"Tell me how it feels."
"So good. You're so deep. I can feel every inch of you."
He makes a satisfied sound and keeps moving, maintaining that perfect angle. The pressure builds faster now, and you can feel yourself getting close. But then you notice his breathing getting ragged too, the way his rhythm falters slightly.
"Fuck," he mutters. "I'm getting close too. Your pussy feels too fucking good."
"Then don't stop—"
Just as you're both about to tip over the edge, he pulls out completely.
You make a desperate sound, hips trying to follow him, but he's already moved back. His cock is hard and glistening with your wetness, and you can see it twitch.
"Not yet," he says, voice strained. "We're gonna take our time with this one."
"Bucky—"
"Trust me." He's breathing hard, jaw tight with restraint. "Gonna make us both lose our fucking minds."
He stays still, kneeling between your legs, until the urgency fades slightly for both of you. Then he positions himself again and pushes back in slowly.
The sensation is almost overwhelming—you're so sensitive, so close, and he's deliberately keeping you both right on the edge.
"You feel so fucking good," he says, voice strained. "Could stay buried in this pussy forever."
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"Let me come.”
He leans down, kissing you deeply, mostly tongue.
He keeps that slow, steady rhythm, and the pressure builds again for both of you. This time it's more intense, almost painful. Your thighs are shaking, and you're making sounds you can't control. His breathing is harsh, and you can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back.
His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit.
The added stimulation makes you cry out, and you feel yourself right on the edge again. His rhythm falters, and you know he's close too.
"Fuck," he gasps. "Gonna come if I don’t stop.”
He pulls out again, and this time you both make desperate sounds. His are needy and almost desperate please, his hips thrusting into the air, seeking your warm hole. He’s breathing hard, and when you look down, you can see his cock is rock hard, the head flushed dark, pointed into the air.
He’s catching his breath. Without thinking, you reach down and trace your finger along the underside of his shaft, circling the head slowly.
"Oh fuck—" His whole body jerks. He looks down at you playing with him and starts to buck his hips, "Yeah. Right there. Just like that. There, yes. Right there. Right under the head—“ You circle again, watching his face contort with pleasure. "Oh shit, gonna cum—!” He shouts. He grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away. "Stop. Fuck. Stop."
He's shaking, breathing hard, and you can see how close he was. The knowledge that you can make him lose control like that sends heat through you.
"See how that feels?" you say quietly.
"You're evil."
"You started it."
He waits until he's pulled back from the edge which is about two minutes of him playing with you, then positions himself again. This time when he pushes in, it's harder, more desperate. He sets a faster pace, and you can tell he's struggling to maintain control.
The sounds your pussy is making is soaking and wet, echoing around the room.
He's torturing you both, and he knows it. You can see the strain in his face, the way his jaw is clenched tight. His rhythm is getting erratic, and you know he's fighting just as hard as you are.
The third time you both get close, you're whimpering. Your hands are fisted in the sheets, and you're right there, so close you can almost taste it. His breathing is ragged, and he's making low sounds with each thrust.
"Bucky, please.”
"Fuck, I'm close too.”
He almost decides to forfeit, but in the last minute, he pulls out again, and this time you both actually sob. He's shaking, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, squeezing hard to keep himself from coming.
"I know," he mutters. "I know, baby. But it's gonna be so fucking good when we finally let go."
He waits, breathing hard, until the urgency fades slightly. Then his hand moves to your clit, fingers circling slowly. The sensation makes you gasp, and the pressure builds immediately.
"That's it," he says, watching your face. "Getting close again, aren't you?"
"Yes—"
His fingers move faster, circling right over your clit, and you're right there, right on the edge—
He stops.
"No—" you gasp.
His fingers move to the hood, circling there instead, keeping you right on the edge without letting you tip over. "Gonna make you beg for it."
"I am begging—"
"Not enough."
He does it again, circles your clit until you're gasping, then stops just before you come. Then again. And again. Each time you get closer, more desperate, until you're actually crying with frustration.
"Please," you sob. "Please, I need to come so bad.”
"I know. Me too." He positions himself again, pushing in slowly. "Feel how hard my cock is? That's what you do to me. Make me so fucking hard it hurts."
He starts moving again, and this time his thumb finds your clit while he thrusts. The dual stimulation makes you cry out, and the pressure builds faster than before. You're so sensitive, so desperate, that it only takes a few thrusts before you're both right on the edge again.
"Beg me!” He shouts, humping your cunt.
"Please. Please let us come. I need it so bad. Need to feel you come inside me—"
He pulls out, and you actually scream in frustration. He makes a choked sound, hand going to his cock again.
"Fuck," he gasps. "Almost came. Was so fucking close—"
You reach down, finding him again. This time you trace the head slowly, circling right under it the way he showed you.
"Oh fuck—" His hips jerk forward. You do it again, watching him fall apart. "Gonna cum—" he gasps. “God, fucking, shit.” He grabs your hand with a snarl.
He makes a desperate sound. He's trembling, breathing hard, and you've never seen him look so wrecked.
"You're killing me," he mutters.
"Good."
When he's pulled back from the edge, he pushes your hand away and positions himself again. This time when he pushes in, there's barely any restraint left. He sets a harder pace, and you can tell he's struggling.
"One more time." He slows down, fighting for control. "One more edge. Then I'm gonna fuck you so hard you scream."
He keeps that slower pace, but his thumb finds your clit again. The pressure builds for both of you, more intense than before. You're so sensitive, so desperate, that every sensation is almost too much. His breathing is ragged, and you can feel him shaking.
"Bucky—"
"I know. Me too. So fucking close—"
"I'm right there—"
"I know, baby. Can feel your pussy getting tighter. Gonna come so hard around my cock, aren't you?"
"Yes—"
You're right there, right on the edge, when you manage to gasp out, "Stop."
He freezes immediately, making a sound that's almost a whimper. "What?"
"Not yet," you whisper, throwing his own words back at him.
"Fuck—" He's shaking, buried deep inside you, and you can feel him pulsing. "Please. I can't—I'm so fucking close—"
"Just a little longer."
He stays perfectly still, and you can feel him trembling with the effort. His forehead drops to your shoulder, and his breathing is harsh against your skin.
"Please," he mutters. "I don't know how much longer I can hold back."
You can feel him pulsing inside you, right on the edge. The knowledge that you're both this desperate, this close, makes the ache even more intense.
Finally, when you think you might actually die if this continues, you whisper, "Okay. Now. Fuck me."
He doesn't need to be told twice.
He starts moving again, but this time there's no restraint at all. The pace is brutal, desperate, and his thumb presses hard against your clit. The pressure builds immediately, and you know neither of you is going to last.
"Gonna fuck you so hard," he gasps. "Gonna make you come on my cock. Right fucking now."
The command in his voice combined with the relentless pace pushes you over the edge. Your orgasm hits hard, making you arch up against him as waves of pleasure crash through you. Only your feet and your shoulder blades are on the bed as you literally feel yourself levitating from pleasure. It's more intense than anything you've felt before—all that build-up, all that denial, finally released.
"Fuck, yes," he groans. "That's it.”
He keeps moving through your orgasm, drawing it out until you're shaking beneath him. And then, just as you're starting to come down, he completely loses it.
His rhythm becomes wild, desperate. He's pounding into you now, harder than before, chasing his release with single-minded intensity. One hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise while the other braces beside your head. The sounds he's making are almost feral—low groans, heavy grunts, and gasps that get louder with each thrust.
"Fuck—" he gasps. "Gonna come."
"Don't stop," you manage to say. "Want to feel you come inside me—"
“—Fucker!” His voice is getting louder, almost breaking.
He's slamming into you now, the sound of skin against skin obscenely loud in the quiet room. You can feel another orgasm building already, the overstimulation almost too much.
You gasp.
"Fuck!" His voice breaks into almost a shout. "I'm coming—Oh shit, I’m cumming.”
His whole body goes rigid, and then he's coming with a sound that's nearly a scream. You feel him pulse inside you, feel the warmth of his release, and it pushes you over the edge again.
You come together, both of you crying out, bodies locked together as the pleasure crashes over you. He keeps moving through it, erratic thrusts now, drawing out every last sensation until you're both completely spent.
Finally, he collapses on top of you, breathing hard. His face is buried in your neck, and you can feel his heart pounding against your chest. You're both shaking, overwhelmed, barely able to move.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Just lie there breathing together, slowly coming back to yourselves.
"Holy shit," he finally mutters against your neck.
"Yeah."
"That was—" He doesn't finish the sentence. Just makes a sound that might be a laugh or a groan. "Fuck."
"Intense?"
"That's not even close to the right word."
He carefully pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you. When you turn your head to look at him, his eyes are closed, one arm thrown over his face. He looks completely wrecked.
"You okay?" you ask quietly.
"Give me a minute. Pretty sure I just saw God."
Despite everything, you laugh. He turns his head to look at you, and there's something soft in his expression.
"That was..." you start, but you don't know how to finish.
"Yeah," he says. "It was."
You're both quiet for a moment, just holding hands in the darkness. Then he turns his head to look at you.
"Sleep now?" he asks.
"Yeah. Sleep now."
He pulls you against him, and you tuck yourself into his side. This time, when sleep comes, it's deep and dreamless.
You're not sure what wakes you.
It's still dark—that deep, quiet darkness that only exists in the hours before dawn. You're lying on your back, and there's a sensation, something soft, barely there, tracing along your inner thigh.
Your eyes flutter open, still heavy with sleep. Bucky's propped up on one elbow beside you, and in his hand is something small. It takes your sleep-fogged brain a moment to recognize it; a makeup brush from the bathroom, the kind with soft, dense bristles.
"What are you—" you start, but the words die when he drags the brush slowly up your inner thigh.
"Shh," he whispers. "Just relax."
The sensation is unlike anything you've felt before. Not the roughness of his fingers or the heat of his mouth—this is delicate, almost ticklish, but in a way that makes heat pool low in your belly.
He traces the brush higher, and you realize you're already wet. Your body remembers everything from earlier, still sensitive, still responsive to his touch.
"Found this on the nightstand," he murmurs, voice low and soft in the darkness. "Got curious."
The brush reaches the apex of your thighs, and he drags it slowly along your pussy lips. The sensation makes you gasp—it's so light, so precise, that every nerve ending lights up.
"Fuck," you breathe.
"Good?"
"Yeah. Really good."
He does it again, this time applying slightly more pressure. The soft bristles part your lips just barely, and the sensation is maddening. You're already sensitive from before, and this delicate touch is somehow more intense than anything rougher would be.
"You're so wet," he whispers. "Can see it even in the dark."
Opening you up a little better with the other hand, with the brush he traces the bristles up one side, then down the other, mapping you with careful precision. Your hips shift involuntarily, seeking more pressure, but he keeps the touch feather-light.
"Stay still," he murmurs. "Let me explore.” His chin and head is resting is on your thigh.
You force yourself to relax, and he continues his slow exploration. Up and down, tracing every fold, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you moan. The brush is so soft that it's almost torture; enough sensation to drive you crazy but not enough to satisfy.
Then he drags it directly over your clit.
"Oh fuck—" Your whole body jerks.
"There?" he asks, voice soft.
"Yes. Right there."
He does it again, just as slowly, and the sensation makes your thighs tremble. The bristles are so soft that they don't overwhelm—they just tease, building the pressure gradually.
"Tell me how it feels," he whispers.
"Like... like electricity. But soft. I can feel every single bristle."
"Good." He circles your clit with the brush, not touching it directly, just around the edges. "Want more?"
"Yes."
He drags the brush directly over your clit again, this time with slightly more pressure. The sensation makes you arch up off the bed, and he makes a satisfied sound.
"So responsive," he murmurs. "Love watching you react to this."
He establishes a rhythm—slow strokes up and over your clit, then circling around it, then back up again. The pressure builds gradually, and you can feel yourself getting wetter. The brush is probably soaked by now, but he doesn't stop.
"Getting close?" he asks.
"Yeah. Don't stop."
"Wasn't planning on it."
He keeps that same slow, deliberate pace. No rushing, no urgency; just steady, precise strokes that make the pressure coil tighter and tighter in your belly. Your breathing gets heavier, and your hips start moving in small circles, chasing the sensation.
"That's it," he whispers. "Take what you need."
You're right there, right on the edge. He pulls away and waits until your breathing slows slightly, until you're not quite so close. Then he brings the brush back, this time starting at your entrance and dragging it slowly up through your folds.
The sensation makes you whimper. You're so sensitive now that even that light touch feels overwhelming.
"So pretty like this," he murmurs. "All spread out for me, so wet and desperate."
“Put it on my clit. Please."
He drags the brush up, but instead of going directly over your clit, he traces around it. Teasing. Building.
"Here?" he asks, voice soft.
"Higher. A little to the left."
He adjusts, and when the brush finally makes contact with your clit, you moan.
“There?"
“More.”
“Here?"
"Yes. Right there. Don't move."
He keeps the brush in that exact spot, applying gentle pressure. The sensation is perfect—not too much, not too little. Just steady, constant stimulation that makes the pressure build again.
"Like this?" he whispers.
"Yes. Maybe tap it. Up and down. Gently."
He does, lifting the brush and bringing it back down in soft, rhythmic taps directly on your clit. The sensation is incredible, each tap sends a jolt of pleasure through you, and the rhythm is hypnotic.
"Fuck, yes," you breathe. "Just like that."
"You're shaking."
He keeps tapping, maintaining that perfect rhythm. Your thighs are trembling, and you can feel yourself getting close again. The pressure is building faster this time, more intense.
"I'm close," you gasp.
"I know. Can see your pussy clenching. Some of my cum from before is still leaking out of you. Want to watch you come like this."
"Don't stop—"
"Not stopping. Gonna make you come with just this brush. Gonna watch you fall apart."
His words combined with the steady tapping push you closer. You're right there, right on the edge. You make a desperate sound, but he's already moved the brush another direction. Your whole body is trembling with need, and you can feel tears of frustration pricking at your eyes.
When he finally brings the brush back to that spot, you're so sensitive that even the first touch makes you cry out.
"Easy," he whispers. "Gonna take care of you."
He starts at your entrance again, dragging the brush slowly up through your folds. When he reaches your clit, he doesn't tease this time, just applies steady, gentle pressure right where you need it.
"Stroke it. Up and down. Slow."
He does exactly what you ask, dragging the brush up over your clit in long, slow strokes. The sensation is perfect—not too fast, not too hard. Just steady, deliberate movement that makes the pressure build immediately.
"Yes," you breathe. "Just like that. Oh, that’s gonna make me fucking cum. Don’t change anything."
He maintains that exact rhythm, slow strokes up over your clit, each one sending waves of pleasure through you. Your hips are moving now, small circles that match his rhythm, and you can feel yourself right on the edge.
"I'm gonna come," you gasp. "Don't stop—"
"Not stopping. Come for me, baby."
The next stroke pushes you over. Your orgasm hits in slow, rolling waves, not the sharp, intense peak from before, but something deeper, more sustained. He keeps stroking the brush up over your clit, maintaining that same slow, steady rhythm, and it draws out your orgasm until you're shaking.
"That's it," he whispers. "So fucking beautiful when you come."
The pleasure keeps rolling through you, wave after wave, and he doesn't stop. Just keeps that slow, deliberate stroking until you're gasping, until your whole body is trembling with aftershocks.
Finally, when you can't take anymore, you reach down and gently push his hand away.
"Too much," you breathe.
He sets the brush aside and moves up beside you, pulling you against him. You're still shaking, still catching your breath, and he just holds you.
"Holy shit," you finally manage.
"Good?"
"That was.. I don't even have words for what that was."
He makes a satisfied sound and kisses your temple. "Found a new toy."
Despite your exhaustion, you laugh. "Apparently."
You're both quiet for a moment, just breathing together in the darkness. His hand traces lazy patterns on your hip, and you can feel yourself starting to drift.
"What time is it?" you murmur.
"No idea. Early. Sun's not up yet."
"Should sleep."
"Yeah." But neither of you moves. Just lie there tangled together, warm and sated and completely at peace.
Eventually, sleep pulls you both under again. This time, there are no more interruptions.
You wake to the sound of his breathing, deep, steady, peaceful. The room is still dark, but there's the faintest hint of gray light creeping in around the edges of the door. Maybe an hour has passed. Maybe less.
You're curled against his side, and he's on his back, one arm thrown above his head, completely relaxed in sleep. It's rare to see him like this—unguarded, vulnerable, at peace.
Your eyes drift to the nightstand where he left the makeup brush.
A slow smile curves your lips.
Moving carefully so you don't wake him, you reach over and pick it up. The bristles are still slightly damp from before, and the memory of what he did to you with this simple object makes heat pool low in your belly.
Turnabout's fair play.
You shift slowly, propping yourself up on one elbow so you can see him better. In the dim light, his body is all sharp lines and defined muscle—the product of decades as a weapon, but also beautiful in a way that makes your chest ache.
You start at his collarbone.
The first touch of the brush against his skin is feather-light, just barely there. You drag it slowly across his chest, tracing the line of his collarbone, then down over his pectoral muscle. His breathing doesn't change, but you see the slightest twitch in his jaw.
Still asleep. Or pretending to be.
You continue your exploration, dragging the brush down over his ribs, across his abs. His stomach muscles contract slightly under the touch, and you smile. Definitely not fully asleep anymore.
"What are you doing?" His voice is rough with sleep, barely above a whisper.
"Exploring," you murmur mockingly, not stopping. "Go back to sleep."
"Not sure I can do that."
"Try."
You drag the brush lower, tracing the defined V of muscle that disappears beneath the sheet pooled at his hips. His breathing gets slightly heavier, and when you glance up at his face, his eyes are still closed but there's tension in his jaw now.
"You're awake," you say softly.
"Hard not to be."
You pull the sheet down slowly, exposing him completely. He's already half-hard, his cock resting against his thigh, and the sight makes your mouth go dry.
"Found your toy," you whisper.
His lips curve into the faintest smile. "That's my toy."
"Not anymore."
You drag the brush down his hip, then along his inner thigh. The muscles jump under the touch, and his breathing hitches.
"Fuck," he breathes.
"Sensitive?"
"You have no idea."
You trace the brush higher, along the crease where his thigh meets his groin, deliberately avoiding where he's getting harder by the second. His hips shift slightly, seeking more contact, but you keep the touch light and teasing.
"Patience," you murmur, echoing his words from earlier.
"Not my strong suit."
"I know."
You finally drag the brush along the underside of his cock, from base to tip, and the reaction is immediate. His whole body tenses, his breath catching, and his cock twitches and hardens fully.
"Jesus—" His voice breaks slightly.
"Good?"
"Yeah. Really fucking good."
You do it again, this time applying slightly more pressure. The soft bristles create a sensation that's completely different from your hand or mouth—delicate but intense, teasing every nerve ending.
"You're already so hard," you whisper. "Love watching you respond to this."
His voice is strained. "Feels incredible."
You establish a slow rhythm, dragging the brush up along his shaft, then circling around the head, then back down. His breathing gets heavier with each stroke, and you can see his hands fisting in the sheets beside him.
"Where do you want it?" you ask softly, “I want to do it the same way you did it to me."
“Okay,” he stretches his left leg out a little more, "Right there. Under the head. That spot — a little more—fuck, right there. There. Brush it there.”
You focus the brush on that sensitive spot just under the crown, using small circular motions that make his hips jerk up off the bed.
"Oh shit," he gasps.
"Not yet." You lift the brush away, and he makes a frustrated sound. "Gonna make this last."
"You're evil."
"Learned from the best."
You wait until his breathing slows slightly, until he's not quite so close to the edge. Then you bring the brush back, this time starting at his balls and dragging it slowly up his shaft.
The sensation makes him groan, low and rough. "Fuck, that's—"
"Tell me what you need," you whisper.
"Slower. Just... take your time."
You do exactly what he asks, dragging the brush up his cock in long, slow strokes. Each one makes him harder, makes his breathing more ragged. You can see precum beading at the tip now, and you use the brush to spread it around the head.
"Oh god—" His voice breaks. "That's so fucking good."
You keep that same slow pace, watching his reactions, learning what makes him gasp and what makes him moan. When you circle the brush around the head of his cock, his whole body tenses.
“My God.” he breathes. "Just like that. Don't stop."
"Here?" You focus on that spot, using gentle circular motions.
"Yes. Fuck, yes. Don’t fucking stop.”
You can feel him getting close again—his breathing is harsh now, his hips moving in small circles, chasing the sensation. Right when you think he's about to come, you lift the brush away. You lean down and press a soft kiss to his hip.
He makes a desperate sound but doesn't argue. You wait longer this time, letting him come down further from the edge. His cock is rock hard now, flushed dark and leaking, and the sight makes you ache.
When you finally bring the brush back, you start at the base and drag it slowly up his shaft. The sensation makes him gasp, and his hands reach down to grip your wrist—not stopping you, just needing to hold onto something.
"Please," he breathes. "Need to come."
You establish a steady rhythm, dragging the brush up over the head of his cock in long, slow strokes. Each one makes him harder, makes his grip on your wrist tighten.
You keep that exact pace, watching his face as the pleasure builds. His eyes are squeezed shut, his jaw clenched, and there's a flush spreading across his chest. He's completely undone, vulnerable in a way you've never seen him before.
"Keep going. Just keep—fuck—“ You suddenly move the brush back to that one spot he wanted it, “YES, touch it! Oh, fuuuuuuuck."
You don't stop, just keep that slow, steady stroking. When his orgasm hits, it's not explosive like before—it's deep, rolling through him in waves that make his whole body shake. He’s half sitting up and he comes across his abs, and you keep stroking the brush gently over his cock, drawing it out until he's gasping.
You set the brush aside and move up beside him, watching as he tries to catch his breath. His eyes are still closed, and there's a sheen of sweat on his skin.
"Holy shit," he finally manages.
You smile and press a kiss to his shoulder. "Good?"
"That was..." He opens his eyes and looks at you. "I don't even know what that was."
"Payback."
Despite his exhaustion, he laughs—a real laugh that makes your chest warm. "Fair enough."
You reach over and grab something to clean him up, then settle back against his side. He pulls you close, one arm wrapping around you, and you can feel his heart still racing against your ribs.
"We're keeping that brush," he murmurs.
"Definitely."
You're both quiet for a moment, just breathing together. The room is getting lighter now—dawn must be close. But neither of you moves. Just lie there tangled together, warm and sated and completely at peace.
"Should probably sleep," you whisper.
"Yeah." His hand traces lazy patterns on your back. "In a minute. Fuck, if I knew this entire time you were a little sex freak like me, we would’ve been doing this every day.”
But you're both already drifting, pulled under by exhaustion and contentment. This time, when sleep takes you, it's deep and dreamless.
The elevator doors opened onto the main floor of Avengers Tower, and immediately, something felt wrong.
You couldn't put your finger on it at first. The hallways looked the same. The lighting was the same. The low hum of activity. Agents moving between offices, the distant sound of keyboards, the occasional murmur of conversation; all of it was exactly as it always was.
But the air felt different. Thick and heavy.
Bucky stepped out first, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
You followed, your own bag in hand, still riding the quiet contentment of the last twenty-four hours. The lockdown had ended. You'd left the safe-house. And despite everything, despite the professional lines you'd crossed, despite the uncertainty of what came next, you felt lighter than you had in months.
That feeling lasted approximately ten seconds.
The first agent you passed, a woman you recognized from intelligence briefings, looked up from her tablet. Her eyes landed on you. Then on Bucky. Then she went completely still.
Not the kind of still that came from being busy or distracted.
The kind of still that came from being caught.
Her gaze flickered away so fast it was like she'd been burned. She turned on her heel and walked in the opposite direction without a word.
You glanced at Bucky.
He'd noticed too. His jaw was tight, his eyes tracking the woman's retreat with the kind of focus that meant he was already cataloging threats.
"Weird," you murmured.
He hummed lowly.
"Yeah."
You kept walking.
The next hallway was worse.
Two agents stood near the conference room, talking in low voices. The moment you and Bucky rounded the corner, they stopped mid-sentence. One of them, a guy you'd worked with on a joint task force last year, looked directly at you.
Then he looked away.
Not casually. Not politely.
Like he couldn't bear to hold your gaze.
The other agent muttered something under his breath, and they both moved quickly toward the stairwell, leaving the hallway empty.
Your stomach twisted.
"Okay," you said quietly. "That's not normal."
Bucky didn't answer. But his hand had shifted slightly, hovering near his side in a way that told you he was already on edge. Already preparing for something.
You passed another cluster of people near the operations hub. This time, no one looked away.
They stared.
Not openly. Not rudely. But you felt their eyes on you like a physical weight. Conversations died as you approached. A woman near the back of the group whispered something to the man beside her, and his expression shifted—uncomfortable, awkward, like he didn't know where to look.
You forced yourself to keep walking. Forced yourself not to react.
But your heart was pounding now.
What the hell is going on?
Bucky's voice was low and tight beside you. "Something's wrong."
"I know."
"Everyone's acting like…” He stopped himself. Shook his head. "I don't know what they're acting like."
You didn't either. But the knot in your stomach was getting tighter with every step.
By the time you reached the main conference room, the tension was suffocating.
The room wasn't empty. A handful of agents were gathered near the far wall, reviewing something on an iPad. The moment you stepped inside, every single one of them looked up.
And then, as if choreographed, they all found somewhere else to be.
One grabbed a file and muttered something about a meeting. Another checked his watch and claimed he was late for a briefing. Within thirty seconds, the room had cleared.
You stood there, frozen, your bag still in your hand.
Bucky was staring at the empty doorway, his expression unreadable. But you could see the tension in his shoulders. The way his fingers had curled into a fist.
"They're avoiding us," you said.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
He didn't answer. But the look in his eyes told you he was asking himself the same question.
You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but before you could, a familiar voice cut through the silence.
"Buck."
You both turned.
Steve Rogers stood in the doorway, his hands shoved into his pockets, his expression carefully neutral. But there was something off about him too. Something strained.
He wasn't looking at you.
He was looking at Bucky. And the way he was looking at him—like he was bracing himself for impact—made your pulse spike.
"Steve," Bucky said slowly. "What's going on?"
Steve's jaw tightened. He glanced past you, scanning the hallway like he was checking to see if anyone else was nearby. Then he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
The click of the lock was deafening.
"We need to talk," Steve said quietly.
Bucky's entire body went rigid. "About what?"
Steve hesitated. And in that hesitation, you saw something you'd never seen in Steve Rogers before.
Guilt.
"Not here," Steve said. He gestured toward the hallway. "Come with me."
"Steve—"
"Please."
The word was quiet. Almost pleading.
Bucky exchanged a glance with you. You could see the confusion in his eyes. The wariness. But he nodded.
Steve led you through a series of hallways, moving quickly and deliberately. He didn't speak. Didn't look back. Just kept walking, his shoulders tense, his hands still buried in his pockets like he didn't trust himself to do anything else with them.
You followed, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Every agent you passed had the same reaction. Averted eyes and sudden silence. A few whispered conversations that cut off the moment you got close enough to hear.
By the time Steve stopped in front of a nondescript door near the back of the building, your hands were shaking.
He unlocked it with a keycard and stepped inside. You and Bucky followed.
The room was small. Windowless. Just a table, a few chairs, and a single overhead light that cast everything in harsh, clinical white.
Steve closed the door. Locked it.
Then he turned to face you both, and for a long moment, he didn't say anything.
He just stood there, looking at Bucky with an expression that made your stomach drop.
"Steve," Bucky said again, and this time his voice was harder. Sharper. "What the hell is going on?"
Steve exhaled slowly. Ran a hand through his hair. "I need to tell you something. And I need you to let me get through it before you say anything."
"Okay."
Steve's gaze flicked to you. Then back to Bucky. "You know I review your evaluations."
Bucky nodded. "Yeah. So?"
"So I reviewed the one from the safe-house.”
The words hung in the air.
You felt the blood drain from your face.
"What?" Bucky's voice was flat. Dangerous.
Steve's expression didn't change. "Every behavioral evaluation is recorded. It's SHIELD protocol. Has been for years. The recordings are automatically uploaded to a secure server for intelligence review."
Your heart stopped.
"Recorded," you repeated. Your voice sounded distant. Hollow.
Steve nodded. "Video and audio. The system is supposed to stop recording once the evaluation is officially over, but,” He paused. Swallowed. "It didn't."
Bucky went completely still.
"What do you mean it didn't?" you asked.
Steve looked at you. And the guilt in his eyes was so raw, so visceral, that you felt it like a punch to the chest.
His jaw was tight, a muscle working furiously in his cheek. He gave a short, sharp nod.
"What's your favorite position?" you asked. The question was blunt, designed to be as crude and direct as possible. An act of retaliation.
The defensiveness was immediate, a stiffening of his shoulders.
He looked at you like you'd just slapped him.
"With a partner," he clarified, the words a brittle barrier, "or alone?"
The question was a deflection, a way to regain some modicum of control by specifying the terms.
"Either," you shot back, refusing to give him an inch. "I want to know what you like best for yourself."
He was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the scarred surface of the table between you. You could see him warring with himself, the discipline of the asset warring with the man forced to play the game.
"On my back," he finally bit out, the words forced from between clenched teeth. "Alone. I like the pressure against the mattress. It makes me feel grounded."
It was an answer that was both intensely physical and deeply psychological. He wasn't just describing a position; he was describing a method of self-soothing, a way to anchor himself against the internal void. It was an intimacy so raw it hurt to witness.
"My turn," he said, his voice a low growl, reclaiming the initiative before you could process the weight of his confession. "Truth."
You braced yourself. "Truth."
He leaned in, and the air grew thick, heavy with the unspoken.
"When you're with someone," he asked, his voice a confidential whisper that crawled across your skin, "do you prefer to take control, or do you prefer to be controlled?"
The question bypassed the physical and went straight to the power dynamic, to the core of your personality. It was a direct challenge to your carefully constructed persona of the calm, collected professional.
You felt a dizzying rush, a vertigo of exposure. This was the heart of it. The thing you never admitted. The need to let go, to surrender the crushing weight of your own mind, even for a little while.
"Controlled," you whispered, the confession a surrender in itself. "I spend my whole life analyzing, directing, anticipating. In bed I just want to be told what to do. To not have to think."
The words hung in the air, a fragile, trembling admission. You had just handed him the blueprint to your deepest desire. To your most vulnerable self.
"Truth or Dare?" you asked, your throat tight.
"Truth," he said, the word immediate.
You leaned forward, mirroring him, the table a forgotten barrier.
"Is that what you think about?" you asked, your voice a delicate, razor-sharp blade. "When you're alone. Controlling someone?"
He didn't flinch. But you saw the subtle shift in his eyes, a darkening, a deepening of the intensity.
"No," he said, the word a quiet, brutal negation. "I think about someone trusting me enough to let me."
The answer was a punch to the gut. He had twisted your question, turned it inside out, and handed you back a truth that was more intimate, more revealing than you could have anticipated. It wasn't about domination. It was about trust.
"My turn," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Truth or Dare?"
"Truth," you whispered, the word a surrender.
He leaned in closer, until you could see the dark, dilated centers of his eyes, could feel the soft puff of his breath with every word.
"What's a word," he asked, his voice a deliberate, intimate murmur, "that you like to hear in bed? Not a compliment. Not a pet name. Just a word. A single word that makes you lose control."
The question was so specific, so invasive, it was like he had reached inside your head and plucked the fantasy directly from your subconscious.
You thought about it, your mind a chaotic whirl of sensations and memories. The words people had said, the words you'd wished they'd said. And then you found it. The one. The word that was a key, a switch, a command.
"Please," you breathed, the word a strangled whisper.
You saw it instantly in the way his pupils blew out, a flash of raw, unguarded hunger. He understood the power of it. The submission. The desperation.
"My turn," he said, his voice a raw, rough sound. He cleared his throat, a futile attempt to regain control. "Truth."
You could feel the slick heat between your thighs, a physical response to the verbal intimacy. You could feel the way your body was responding, betraying your mind.
"What do you do," you asked, your voice a low, deliberate purr, "when you can't finish?"
The question was a direct, unapologetic attack. It was designed to probe the moments of failure, the moments of frustration. The moments when the body refused to obey the mind.
He was silent for a long moment. The only sound was the frantic thrum of your own blood in your ears.
"I stop," he finally said, the words clipped and precise. "And I wait. And I try again later."
The answer was a perfect reflection of the man. Patient. Disciplined. Determined.
"My turn," he said, his voice a low growl. "Truth or Dare?"
"Truth," you whispered, the word a surrender.
He leaned in closer, until you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin.
"What's the one thing," he asked, his voice a confidential whisper, "that you would never, ever do in bed?"
The question was a test. A final, probing inquiry into the boundaries of your desire.
You thought about it, your mind racing through a catalogue of fantasies and fears. The things you'd read, the things you'd heard, the things you'd imagined.
"I would never," you began, your voice trembling slightly, "let someone tie me up."
The confession hung in the air, a stark, raw admission. You had just handed him your final boundary. Your ultimate vulnerability.
He didn't speak. He just watched you, his expression unreadable. But in the depth of his eyes, you saw a flicker of something. Not pity. Not understanding. A grudging, terrifying respect. He knew, then, that he had won. He had stripped you bare, laid bare your every secret. He had pushed you to your absolute limit, and you had not broken.
"Truth or Dare?" you asked, your throat tight.
"Truth," he said, the word immediate and absolute.
You leaned in, mirroring him, until your faces were inches apart.
"What's the one thing," you asked, your voice a delicate, razor-sharp blade, "that you've always wanted to do?"
He was silent for a long moment. The only sound was the frantic thrum of your own blood in your ears. You could feel the heat of his body, the sheer, coiled strength of him, just inches away.
"I've always wanted," he finally said, the words a raw, wounded confession, "to watch a woman touch herself. And I want her to be looking at me when she does."
The confession was a bomb. You felt a dizzying rush of vertigo, as if the floor had dropped out from under you. He had just laid bare the most vulnerable, most dangerous part of himself, and he had laid it at your feet.
You stared at him, your mind reeling. You had pushed him, prodded him, and he had answered with a truth that was so raw, so utterly devastating, it left you breathless.
"My turn," he said, his voice a low murmur, as if he hadn't just upended your entire world. "Truth or Dare?"
"Truth," you said, the word a surrender.
He leaned in closer, until you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. The space between you had shrunk to nothing, a fragile membrane of air and unspoken desire.
"What do you listen to?" he asked, his voice a low, deliberate growl. The question was unexpected, a left turn into a more intimate, sensory territory. "When you're alone. Music? Silence? Or something else?"
The question was a scalpel, precisely aimed to dissect the soundscape of your desire.
"Something else," you admitted, the word a strangled whisper, “Just the sounds. The wet sounds. The sound of my own breathing. I turn off my analytical brain and just listen to my body.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. His eyes, dark and intense, bored into yours.
"My turn," you said, your voice a shaky breath. "Truth."
He nodded, a sharp, jerky movement. He was as trapped in this as you were.
"What do you grab?" you asked, the question a direct, physical probe. "When you're about to come. What's in your hands?"
His posture stiffened, a barely perceptible tightening of the muscles in his neck and shoulders. He looked like a cornered animal, and you had just prodded him with a sharp stick.
"Nothing," he said, the words clipped and precise. "My hands are empty. I just clench my fists. Against the sheets. Or the headboard."
The answer was a raw, wounded thing. An act of self-imposed restraint that made your chest ache. You had won the exchange, but the victory felt hollow, like you'd forced him to show you a wound he kept carefully hidden.
"My turn," you said, your voice a shaky breath. "Truth."
You leaned forward, the movement slow and deliberate. "Besides your hands," you began, your voice a low, confidential murmur, "what other parts of your body do you use to build the sensation? To make it last?"
The question was designed to bypass the obvious, to force him to articulate the nuanced, physical choreography of his own pleasure. It was an intimate, technical query that demanded a visceral, unpracticed answer.
He was silent for a long moment, his gaze dropping from yours to the scarred surface of the table. You could see a faint flush creep up the back of his neck, a betrayal of the composure he fought so hard to maintain. He was a soldier, accustomed to discussing tactics and wounds, but this was a different kind of anatomy, a different kind of strategy.
"Thighs," he finally ground out, the word sounding foreign and rough on his tongue. "I tense them. Rock against the friction. The pressure." He paused, swallowing hard. "And my stomach. I control the contractions. Delay it."
The confession was a staggering piece of self-revelation. He wasn't just seeking release; he was conducting an orchestra of muscle and tension, a symphony of self-control played out on the canvas of his own body.
A muscle in his jaw jumped, a frantic, tell-tale rhythm. He looked up from the table, and the blue of his eyes was nearly swallowed by the black of his pupils. He was no longer in the house.
"Right," he started again, his voice lower, rougher, stripped of its defensive edges. "My right hand, the fingers are curled, but they're not doing anything. Just pressed against my lower stomach to distract myself.”
His gaze was fixed on you, but he wasn't seeing you. He was seeing himself.
"The metal one, it's the anchor." His left hand, resting on the table, flexed, the plates shifting with a soft, sinister whir. "The heel of it is pressed into the mattress. Right here." He tapped the spot just above the wrist on his own left arm. "The pressure grounds me. Reminds me where I am. Reminds me what's real."
Your breath hitched. He wasn't just describing a physical act; he was giving you a masterclass in his own survival. The dichotomy of flesh and vibranium, of sensation and steel.
"And the fingers, of my right hand, they’re what I feel with. Two of them. Just the pads. Slow circles at first. Then faster. Until it's not a circle anymore. Just a focus. A single point of—” He trailed off, searching for the word.
"Friction?" you offered, your own voice a bare whisper.
He flinched, as if your word had pulled him back to the present. He met your eyes, and the intensity there was a physical blow.
"Yes," he breathed. "Friction. And the whole time my thighs are locked. My whole body is a bowstring, pulled tight. The feeling; it's not pleasure. Not at first. It's tension. An unbearable, climbing tension. Like I'm trying to claw my way out of my own skin."
He stopped, his chest rising and falling with a harsh, ragged breath. The game was gone. The rules were gone. There was only the space between you, thick with the explicit, undeniable truth of how he brought himself to the edge of oblivion.
"What does it feel like?" you asked, the question no longer a part of the game, but a genuine, desperate plea for understanding. "When it breaks?"
He looked at you, and for the first time, you saw it all.
"It's a release," he said, his voice flat, stripped of all poetry. He was a soldier giving a report. "A sudden, full-body spasm. Starts deep in my balls, like a hot wire. Then it just fires. A jolt that shoots right up my shaft. My whole body clenches. Legs, ass, stomach."
He paused, a flicker of something (discomfort, maybe even shame) in his eyes.
"Then," he continued, his voice dropping even lower, "it's just a mess. A shudder. And everything goes slack. Empty. For a second, anyway."
The word he used, "mess," was so brutally, biological; it sent a fresh jolt through you. This wasn't a confession anymore. This was an animal need. And he was giving it to you, raw and unfiltered.
The silence after he finished wasn't silence at all. It was a low, persistent hum in your ears, the frantic thrum of your own pulse against your ribs.
He'd just given you the ugly, mechanical truth of it, and in doing so, had somehow made it more intimate than any poetic confession could have been.
You felt the damp heat soak through the fabric of your underwear.
He watched your face, his gaze like a physical touch, tracking every expression, every betraying flicker of your eyelids. He saw your reaction. He knew the effect he was having. The power had shifted so completely you weren't sure it would ever return.
He broke the stare, glancing down at his own hands resting on the table. His right one, flesh and blood, lay curled loosely. The metal one was a fist.
The room tilted. The grim, tactical confession hung in the air, and you felt the world reorder itself around it. The scent. The evidence. Of course.
"And what happens," you asked, your voice barely disturbing the heavy silence, "when you can't?"
He didn't even blink. The question didn't seem to surprise him; it was the obvious next step in the brutal logic you were both exploring.
"I don't do it," he said, the words flat, absolute. "If I'm on a mission, in a safe-house; I don't. It's a non-essential function. It's shut down."
Your mind reeled. Not a desire. Not a need. A function. To be shut down. Like a leaking faucet. The sheer, chilling force of will required for such a thing was staggering. You were talking about a basic human drive, and he was describing it with the cold, detached language of a mechanic disabling a faulty system.
The knowledge settled in your stomach like a stone. The tension in the room, the suffocating heat, it wasn't just about a game of Truth or Dare anymore. It was about this. This fundamental, terrifying difference between you.
You, who sought release in your own body, and he, who saw it as a potential compromise.
"So you just hold it?" you asked, the phrase sounding ridiculously juvenile in the face of the reality he was describing.
He let out a short, sharp breath, a sound that was half laugh, half exasperated sigh. He leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table, the metal of his left arm gleaming under the harsh light. The movement closed the distance between you again, and you could feel the shift from soldier to man.
"'Hold it'?" he repeated, and there was a rough, wry humor in his tone. "Yeah. I hold it. Even when I want it so bad my fucking teeth ache." His voice dropped, becoming a low, confidential murmur that vibrated right through your bones. "Sometimes it's all I can think about. After a long op, when the adrenaline is still fizzing under my skin; it's a wildfire. And I just have to stand in the flames and not get burned."
The room felt smaller. Hotter. The single lightbulb overhead seemed to pulse with your own heartbeat.
You could feel the slick heat between your thighs, the way your body was responding to every word, every rough confession. This was beyond the game now. This was something else entirely.
You watched him, really watched him. The way his breathing had gone shallow, the faint sheen of sweat at his temples despite the cool concrete tomb you were trapped in.
He wasn't unaffected. He was a man barely holding on, and you were the one pulling the threads.
"My turn," he said, and his voice had dropped an octave, a rough, gravelly sound that made your stomach clench. "Truth."
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
He leaned forward, and the movement was slow, predatory. "When you're alone," he began, his eyes locked on yours, "and you're touching yourself, do you make noise? Or are you one of those people who goes completely silent?"
The question bypassed your brain entirely and landed somewhere deep and primal. You felt your face flush, heat crawling up your neck; the betrayal you'd confessed to him earlier, now happening in real time.
“I," you started, then stopped. The truth. No lying. "I try to stay quiet. But when it's really good, when I'm close, I can't. I make these sounds. Little gasps. Sometimes I bite my lip to keep from—"
“—From what?" he interrupted, his voice a low growl.
"From saying something I shouldn't," you finished, the confession torn from somewhere deep inside you.
His pupils dilated, swallowing the blue of his irises. You saw his throat work as he swallowed hard.
"Like what?" he pressed, and you realized with a jolt that he'd just asked a second question. He was breaking the rules of his own game, too desperate for the answer to care.
You should have called him on it. Should have reclaimed the power. But you didn't.
"Like a name," you whispered, “Or a scream.”
The silence that followed was deafening. The hum of the ventilation system, which had been a constant background drone, now sounded like a roar.
You could hear your own pulse hammering in your ears, could feel the frantic flutter of your heart against your ribs.
He didn't ask whose name. He didn't have to. Not anymore.
"Truth or Dare?" you asked, your voice barely audible.
"Truth," he said immediately, and there was something almost desperate in the word.
You leaned forward, closing the distance until you could see the individual flecks of silver in his eyes, could smell the clean, metallic scent of him mixed with sweat and something darker, muskier.
"When you're in that moment," you asked, your voice a deliberate, intimate murmur, "right before you come, what does your body do that you can't control? The one thing your discipline can't stop."
He stared at you, and for a long, terrible moment, you thought he wouldn't answer.
You'd pushed too far, asked for too much.
Then he spoke, and his voice was wrecked.
"My hips," he said, the words rough and raw. "They buck. Just once. Hard. Like my body's trying to bury itself in something that isn't there. It's involuntary. Desperate. And I fucking hate it because it reminds me that I'm alone."
The confession shattered something between you. The game, the rules, the careful distance you'd both been maintaining; it all crumbled under the weight of that single, devastating truth.
You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The room was spinning, tilting, and the only solid thing in the world was the man sitting across from you, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and wild and locked on yours.
"My turn," he said, and his voice was barely human.
He didn't move. Didn't lean back. The space between you had collapsed to nothing—inches, maybe less. You could see the pulse hammering in his throat, could hear the ragged edge of his breathing.
His right hand was still fisted on the table, knuckles white with the effort of staying still. His left hand, the metal one, had gone completely motionless.
"Truth," he said for you, and the word came out like gravel. Like something dragged up from the bottom of his chest.
You nodded, but you couldn't speak. Your throat had closed.
His eyes dropped, just for a second, to your mouth. Then lower, to the hollow of your throat where your pulse was visible, frantic and exposed.
When his gaze came back to yours, there was something feral in it. Something unraveling.
"Right now," he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper that seemed to fill the entire room, "in this room, with me sitting three feet away from you,”
He paused, his jaw clenching so hard you heard his teeth grind. "Are you wet?"
The question detonated between you.
Not do you get wet. Not have you ever.
Are you.
Right now. For him. Because of him.
The air left your lungs in a rush. Your face went hot, then cold, then burning again. You felt the flush crawl down your neck, that traitorous tell you'd confessed to him, and you knew (knew) he could see it. Could read every response your body was giving him.
This wasn't the game anymore.
This was him asking if you wanted him. Right now.
In this concrete tomb with no escape and no witnesses and nothing between you but the last fragile thread of professionalism you were both still pretending existed.
If you said yes, everything changed.
If you lied, he'd know.
Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard it hurt. You could feel the slick heat between your thighs, the ache that had been building for the last hour; longer, if you were honest. Since the moment you'd walked into this safe-house and seen him waiting.
His eyes never left yours. He wasn't blinking.
Wasn't moving. He looked like a man on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if you'd push him or pull him back.
"Yes," you whispered.
The word hung in the air for one endless, terrible second.
Then his control shattered.
The word landed like a bullet.
For one terrible second, he didn't move. Didn't breathe. His entire body went rigid; every muscle locked down like he'd been hit with a live wire. His right hand was still fisted on the table, knuckles bone-white.
His left hand (the metal one) whirred once, then twice, the plates shifting audibly under the strain of whatever he was forcing himself not to do.
Then his breath caught. Sharp. Ragged. Like he'd just surfaced from drowning.
His eyes squeezed shut.
"Fuck," he breathed, and the word came out broken. Wrecked.
He shoved back from the table so hard the chair scraped across concrete with a violent screech. He was on his feet before you could process it, his back to you, one hand dragging up through his hair and gripping hard enough that his knuckles went white. The other, metal, braced against the wall like he needed it to stay upright.
His shoulders were heaving. His head dropped forward.
You could see the war happening in real time. The rigid line of his spine. The way his jaw was clenched so tight you thought it might crack.
The faint, mechanical whir of his left hand as the plates shifted again (once, twice) like even the machinery couldn't hold still under the pressure.
He wasn't walking away.
He was fighting himself. Right there. Three feet from you.
Because he'd just realized what you'd actually confessed.
Not that you got wet. Not that you could want someone.
That you wanted him. Right now. In this room. That every question he'd asked, every answer you'd given; it had all been about him. That when you'd admitted you said a name, it was his name. That the ache between your thighs, the flush on your neck, the way your breath had gone uneven; it was all for him.
And he couldn't unknown it.
Couldn't go back to being your friend. Couldn't pretend this was still a game. Couldn't sit across from you for one more second without crossing the table and putting his hands on you and finding out exactly how wet you were and whether you'd say his name again if he made you come apart right here on this concrete floor.
"Fuck," he said again, quieter this time. Almost to himself.
His breathing was still ragged. His hand was still fisted in his hair.
He didn't turn around.
Because if he looked at you right now, if he saw the way you were looking at him, he’d lose.
Your heart was hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat.
He knows.
The realization hit you like cold water. He knew you wanted him. Him. The man currently white-knuckling the wall three feet away because he couldn't trust himself to turn around.
The mortification should have been unbearable. Should have made you grab your notebook and retreat behind professionalism and pretend this never happened.
But it didn't.
Because his breakdown, the ragged breathing, the death grip in his hair, the way his entire body had gone rigid with restraint, wasn’t rejection.
It was confirmation.
He wanted you back.
And he was terrified of it.
The thought sent a dangerous thrill through you, sharp and electric. You should let him have this moment. Should give him space to collect himself, to rebuild whatever control he'd just lost.
But you didn't.
Because if he walked away now, if he used this as an excuse to end the game, you’d never get him back. He'd lock it down. Bury it. Pretend it never happened. And you'd spend the rest of this lockdown pretending right along with him.
No.
Not this time.
Your voice cut through the silence, steady and sharp.
"Your turn, Barnes."
His shoulders went rigid. His head snapped up slightly, but he still didn't turn around.
"I answered," you continued, and your tone was merciless. Clinical. "That means you ask the next question. Or do the rules not apply to you anymore?"
Silence.
You could see the tension coiling tighter in his spine. The way his metal hand flexed once against the wall, plates shifting audibly.
"Unless," you added, softer now but no less cutting, "you're forfeiting."
That did it.
His jaw clenched so hard you heard it. His hand dropped from his hair. Slowly, agonizingly slow, he turned around.
And when his eyes met yours, they were dark. Wrecked. Furious.
Not at you.
At himself.
Because you'd just forced him to stay. Forced him to keep playing. And now he had to either ask the next question or admit he couldn't handle what was happening between you.
The power had shifted.
And he knew it.
He stayed where he was for a long moment, breathing hard, staring at you like he was deciding whether to walk through the door or put his fist through the wall.
Then his voice came out low. Dangerous.
"Truth."
You waited.
"Do you know what you just did?" His eyes never left yours. "That you just took complete control of this entire game?" He took one step forward. "That I'd let you keep it?"
Your breath caught.
The question landed like a physical blow. Because he wasn't asking if you wanted control. He was asking if you knew you had it. If you understood exactly what kind of power you were holding over him right now.
And the worst part was—you did.
"Yes," you said, and your voice came out sharper than you intended. Defensive. "I know."
"Good." His jaw tightened. "Because Claire was right, wasn't she?"
Your stomach dropped.
What?
"Don't—"
"She told me I had unresolved feelings for you," he continued, his voice flat and brutal. "And I told her she was wrong. Spent weeks convincing myself she was wrong." His eyes burned into yours. "But she wasn't."
The anger in his voice wasn't directed at Claire. It was directed at himself. At the time he'd wasted. At the lie he'd been living.
And suddenly you were angry too.
"Then why the hell were you with her?" The words came out before you could stop them. "If you felt this way, why—"
"Because I thought I could make it go away." His voice was raw. "I thought if I tried hard enough, I could want someone else instead."
The confession hung between you like smoke.
Your hands were shaking.
"Truth," he said again, and this time he took another step closer. "Right now, standing here looking at me like that, how close would I have to get before you couldn't maintain whatever professional distance you think you still have?"
Your pulse spiked.
"That's not fair—"
"Answer the question."
You swallowed hard. He was maybe six feet away now. Close enough that you could see the tension in his shoulders. The way his chest was rising and falling too fast.
"Three feet," you said quietly. "Maybe less."
His eyes darkened.
"Truth." Another step. Five feet now. "You just watched me completely fall apart. You know exactly what you do to me." His voice dropped lower. "So tell me—are you enjoying this, or are you terrified?"
Your breath hitched.
"Both," you admitted, and the word came out barely above a whisper. "I'm both."
Something shifted in his expression. Not softness. Something more dangerous.
"Truth." He was four feet away now. Close enough that the air between you felt electric. "If I asked you to do something right now—not asked, told you—would you do it?" His eyes held yours. "Or does the game stop being about honesty and start being about whether you trust me enough to lose control too?"
Your heart was hammering so hard you could barely hear your own voice.
"I'd do it."
The words left your mouth before you could think them through. Before you could analyze what you were agreeing to.
His pupils dilated.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed.
Then his voice came out rough. Almost a growl.
"Truth." He took one final step forward. Three feet. Exactly the distance you'd said. "When you touch yourself thinking about me, do you imagine me watching?" His gaze pinned you in place. "Do you want me to see exactly what I do to you?"
The room tilted.
You couldn't look away. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think past the suffocating weight of the question and what answering it would mean.
Your voice came out hoarse.
"Yes."
His hands curled into fists at his sides.
The silence that followed was unbearable. Suffocating. The kind of silence that came right before something shattered completely.
And then you heard yourself say it.
The word that changed everything.
"Dare."
His expression didn't change. But something in his eyes went cold.
He was silent for a long moment, and you watched him decide. Watched him weigh exactly how far he was willing to push you. How much control he was willing to take.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Controlled.
"I dare you to show me."
Your breath stopped.
"Show you what?"
His gaze never wavered.
"What you look like when you're thinking about me." He took one slow breath. "Touch yourself. Right here. Right now." His jaw tightened. "And don't stop until I tell you to."
The room went silent.
Your heart was slamming against your ribs so hard you thought it might crack through. Your hands were shaking. Your entire body felt like it was on fire.
"Bucky—"
"You said you'd do it." His voice was flat. Uncompromising. "You said if I told you to do something, you would." He tilted his head slightly. "So do it."
You stared at him.
He wasn't moving. Wasn't touching you. He was just standing there, three feet away, watching you with an intensity that made your knees weak.
This wasn't a question anymore. This was a command.
And you'd already agreed.
Your hands moved to the hem of your shirt before you could think it through. Before you could talk yourself out of it.
"Slowly," he said, and his voice dropped an octave.
Your fingers trembled as you slid one hand beneath the fabric. Your skin was burning. Your pulse was roaring in your ears.
His eyes tracked every movement.
"Don't look away from me.” he said quietly.
Your breath came out shaky. Uneven.
And then you stopped.
Your hand froze where it was. Your chest was heaving. Your entire body was trembling.
But you didn't move.
Bucky's expression shifted. Confusion flickered across his face for half a second before he caught it.
"What are you—"
"No."
The word came out breathless. Shaking. But certain.
His jaw tightened. "You agreed—"
"I know what I agreed to." You pulled your hand back slowly, deliberately, and let it drop to your side. Your heart was still slamming against your ribs, but something else was rising through the panic now. Something sharper. "And now it's my turn."
His eyes narrowed.
You took one unsteady breath. Then another. Your legs felt like they might give out, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze.
"You don't get to just watch me fall apart and walk away from this untouched," you said, and your voice was still shaking but it was getting stronger.
"If you want to see what I look like when I'm thinking about you," You paused. Swallowed. "then I get to see what you look like when you're thinking about me."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Bucky didn't move. Didn't blink. But you saw the exact moment he realized what you were doing.
You'd just flipped the entire game.
"So here's my dare," you continued, and now your voice was steady. Controlled. The kind of voice that didn't leave room for negotiation. "Touch yourself. Right here. Right now." You tilted your head slightly, mirroring his earlier movement. "And don't stop until I tell you to."
His expression went completely blank.
But his hands, his hands curled into fists so tight you could see the tendons standing out in his forearms.
"You're serious."
"You were."
His jaw worked. You could see him trying to find a way out. Trying to find some angle, some loophole, some way to take back control.
But there wasn't one.
He'd set the rules. He'd pushed the boundary. And now you were holding him to the exact same standard.
"That's not—" He stopped. Took a breath. "That's different."
"How?"
"Because—" He cut himself off. His hands flexed. "Because I wasn't—"
"Wasn't what?" You took one step closer. "Wasn't planning on having to follow through yourself?" Another step. "Wasn't expecting me to make you as vulnerable as you just tried to make me?"
His breathing had gone shallow.
You were close enough now that you could see the pulse hammering in his throat. Could see the way his pupils had blown wide. Could see the exact moment his control started to fracture.
"You don't get to command me and then hide," you said quietly. "If you want this, if you want me, then you have to be just as exposed as I was about to be."
His eyes locked on yours.
Neither of you moved.
And then something shifted in his expression. The anger didn't disappear, but underneath it, beneath all the frustration and fear and desire, you saw something softer. Something that looked like surrender.
"Sweetheart," he said quietly, and the word was so gentle it nearly broke you. "If we do this, there's no going back."
It wasn't a warning. It was a promise. A question. A last chance for both of you to walk away.
But neither of you moved.
And then, slowly, so slowly it was almost painful to watch, his hand moved to his belt.
The motion was deliberate. Controlled. Like he was trying to prove to you, to himself, that he could do this without breaking.
But you saw it.
The way his fingers hesitated for half a second before they touched the buckle. The way his jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jump beneath his skin. The way his breathing had gone shallow and uneven, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that didn't match the careful steadiness of his hands.
He was trying so hard to hold it together.
And he was failing.
The buckle came undone with a soft metallic click that seemed impossibly loud in the silence. His right hand moved to the button of his jeans. Popped it open. His left hand, the metal one, stayed braced against his thigh, fingers curled into a fist so tight you could hear the faint whir of the plates shifting.
He was shaking.
Not visibly. Not the way a normal person would shake. But you'd spent months learning to read him, learning the micro-expressions and tiny physical tells that most people missed. And you saw it now, the barely-noticable tremor in his right hand as it moved to the zipper. The way his throat worked as he swallowed. The way his pupils had blown so wide his eyes looked black.
He pulled the zipper down.
The sound cut through you like a blade.
Zzzzzip.
Slow. Deliberate. Devastating.
And that was the moment you understood.
This wasn't a game anymore. This wasn't a dare or a power play or a battle of wills. This was real. This was happening. And there was no taking it back.
Your breath caught in your throat. Your hand, still pressed against your own body beneath your shirt, went completely still.
Because you'd thought you had control. You'd thought you were the one pushing him, the one making him vulnerable, the one forcing him to crack.
But watching him now; watching the way his hands trembled as he pushed his jeans down just enough, watching the way his head tilted back slightly and his eyes closed for one brief, devastating second, watching the way his entire body seemed to be fighting itself; You realized you were the one falling apart.
“God, Y/N.” His voice was wrecked. Barely recognizable. He opened his eyes and looked at you, and the raw need in his gaze was so intense it felt like a physical touch. "You need to decide right now if you want me to stop."
It wasn't a question. It was a lifeline. A last chance for both of you to walk away before you crossed a line that would change everything.
But you didn't move.
You didn't speak.
You just stared at him, at the way his chest was heaving, at the way his right hand had moved lower, at the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
And then, so quietly you almost didn't hear it, he said:
"Tell me to stop."
But you didn't.
And he didn't stop.
He pulled himself out. Long, gorgeous. Manly.
His right hand wrapped around himself, and the sound he made (low, guttural, involuntary) punched straight through your chest.
You could see everything. His jeans were shoved down his hips just far enough to free himself, the denim bunched mid-thigh, the waistband of his boxer briefs pushed below.
He was fully hard, flushed dark with arousal, thick enough that his fingers didn't quite meet around the girth. The visual alone was devastating, the way he was exposed between the rough fabric of his jeans, the contrast of his calloused hand against heated skin, the evidence of exactly how much he wanted this.
His head fell back, and you watched his throat work as he swallowed hard. His lips, those lips you'd spent months trying not to stare at, parted on a shaky exhale, full and slightly swollen like he'd been biting them. The lower one trembled. His jaw went slack, the sharp line of it softening as control slipped further away.
And for one devastating second, all that careful control he'd been clinging to just shattered.
His chest was heaving now, each breath making the muscles of his torso contract and release in a rhythm that was almost hypnotic.
You could see every line of definition, the cut of his obliques disappearing into his jeans, the ridges of his tanned abs flexing with each labored inhale, the way his pecs tensed when his hand moved up. His skin was flushed, a deep pink spreading across his chest and up his neck, visible even in the harsh overhead light.
There was a thin sheen of sweat beginning to form along his collarbone, in the hollow of his throat.
You watched his thighs tense exactly the way he'd described, thick muscle going rigid, the denim pulled taut across them. His stomach muscles contracted as he tried, and failed—to regulate his breathing. The defined V of his lower abs clenched.
His left hand was still braced against his thigh, metal fingers digging in hard enough that you heard the faint creak of the plates shifting under pressure, leaving small indentations in his jeans.
He was trying so hard not to fall apart.
And he was failing so bad.
His right hand moved, slow at first, deliberate, a long stroke from base to tip that made his hips jerk forward involuntarily. You could see the way his fingers tightened, the way his thumb swept over the head and came away glistening. His breathing hitched, sharp and broken, and his lips parted wider on a sound that was half-gasp, half-moan.
"Fuck," he breathed, and the word was barely recognizable. Wrecked. Raw.
You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Your hand was still pressed against your own body beneath your shirt, but you'd forgotten it was there. Every nerve ending in your body was focused on him;on the way his breathing had gone ragged and uneven, on the way his head tilted forward again and his eyes opened and locked onto yours.
Those eyes. The blue was almost completely gone, swallowed by pupils blown so wide they looked black. But the intensity hadn't dimmed; if anything, it had sharpened into something almost feral.
His gaze was glassy, wet at the corners, and the way he was looking at you made your knees buckle. Like you were the only thing in the world. Like he was drowning and you were air.
“Don’t," His voice broke. He swallowed hard, tried again, his lips forming the words with visible effort. "Don't look away."
You couldn't have looked away if you'd wanted to.
His hand moved faster now, the rhythm fracturing into something desperate and uncontrolled. His breathing turned harsh, each exhale a sharp burst of air through parted lips. You could see the exact moment he stopped trying to control it; the moment his body took over and his mind just surrendered.
His hips rolled forward to meet his hand, his thighs shaking with the effort of staying upright. His abs clenched and released, clenched and released, the muscles standing out in sharp relief. His metal hand had moved from his thigh to brace against the table behind him, and you heard the screech of metal on metal as his fingers dug in, leaving scratches in the surface.
And then you heard it.
The wet sound of his hand moving, slick and obscene in the silence. The sharp, broken exhale that came with it. The low, desperate noise that tore out of his throat when his hips jerked forward again; a sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper that he couldn't have held back if he'd tried.
So, he was a noisy lover.
And he was completely undone.
His lips were red now, bitten and swollen, parted on ragged breaths. A drop of sweat rolled down his temple, along his jaw. His entire body was trembling, not just his hands, but his thighs, his stomach, his shoulders. You could see the tension in every muscle, the way he was wound so tight he looked like he might shatter.
And watching him, watching the way his face had gone slack with need, watching the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality, watching the way his hand moved faster and his breathing turned desperate and his body arched into his own touch—
You took one unsteady step forward.
Then another.
His eyes tracked the movement, pupils somehow dilating even further. His hand didn't stop. If anything, it moved faster, more frantic, his hips snapping forward with each stroke.
"Sweetheart—" The word was barely a gasp. A warning. A plea. His lips formed the syllables but barely any sound came out.
You stopped three feet away from him. Close enough to hear every ragged breath. Close enough to see the way his chest was heaving, the flush spreading down to his stomach. Close enough to see the wetness at the corners of his eyes, the way his lashes were damp. Close enough to watch the exact moment his control finally, completely, broke.
Your hand slid beneath the waistband of your pants.
His eyes tracked the movement, and the sound he made (raw, desperate, broken) nearly brought you to your knees.
His hand stuttered. His hips jerked forward.
He gasped, and his voice cracked.
You took another step closer. Close enough now that you could feel the heat radiating off his body.
His breathing was ragged, uncontrolled.
You moved toward him then, and it felt like crossing a threshold you'd been standing at for months. Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up, before you could second-guess what you were about to do.
The space between you collapsed with each step, three feet becoming two, then one. Your breath caught in your throat as you closed the distance, as the reality of him became tangible and immediate.
Your free hand reached out first, hesitant and certain all at once. Your fingers hovered just above his chest, trembling slightly as you took in the sight of him: completely undone, completely exposed, waiting for you.
There was a moment where you could have stopped, could have pulled back, but you didn't. You couldn't. Not anymore.
You were right in front of him now, close enough that you could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the flush spreading down his neck, the way his pupils were blown wide with need.
Your palm pressed flat against his chest. His skin was burning. His heart was slamming against his ribs so hard you could feel it thundering beneath your fingertips, wild and uncontrolled. You let your hand slide down slowly, deliberately, tracing the defined lines of his abdomen. His muscles contracted beneath your touch, tensing and releasing as you moved lower.
Your fingers stopped just above where his hand was still moving, still stroking himself.
He was breathing so hard now it was almost a pant. His head tilted back slightly, exposing the long line of his throat, the sharp angle of his jaw clenched tight.
"Look at me," you commanded, and his eyes snapped back to yours immediately. Obedient. Desperate. "I want to see your face."
You took one more step, closing the final distance between you. Your body was almost touching his now, and you could feel the heat radiating off him in waves. Your hand, the one that had been touching yourself, moved to his hip, steadying yourself against him as you reached down.
Your fingers found his hand first.
He was fully exposed now, his cock hard and flushed, glistening at the tip. The sight of him like this, so vulnerable, so completely undone, made your breath catch.
His hand was moving in steady strokes, but the moment your fingers brushed against his, his entire body went rigid.
"Fuck—" he breathed.
"Shh," you whispered, and you covered his hand with yours, your smaller fingers wrapping around his as you guided him. The warmth of him was shocking, the silky hardness of his cock against your palm making your own arousal spike sharply. "Let me help you."
You started slowly, deliberately, your hand moving with his in long, measured strokes from base to tip. You could feel every ridge, every vein, the way he was already leaking slightly at the head. Your thumb circled the sensitive crown, and he made a sound, a half gasp, half groan, that went straight through you.
"That's it," you murmured against his chest, and you realized you'd moved closer, your face pressing into his shirt. You could smell him. Sweat and soap and something uniquely Bucky that made your head spin.
Your breath was coming fast, matching his rhythm. "You're so hard. So ready for me."
His metal hand came up and gripped the back of your head, not pulling, just holding you there against him as you worked him. His right hand, your hand over his, began to move faster, the friction building as you guided him through the motions.
You breathed against his chest, your other hand sliding up his back, feeling the muscles there tense and flex.
You increased the pace, your hand moving with his in faster strokes now. The wetness at his tip made each movement smoother, easier, and you could feel him trembling against you.
Your face was still pressed into his shirt, and you turned slightly, pressing a kiss to his chest through the fabric, feeling his heart racing beneath your lips.
"You're so close already," you whispered, and it wasn't a question. You could feel it in the way his hips were starting to move rhythmically, the way his breathing was becoming more erratic. "I can feel it. You want to come for me, don't you?"
"Yes—yes—" His metal hand tightened in your hair, and his hips began to thrust into your joined hands, taking over the rhythm, making it faster, harder. "I want, I need—"
Your hand on his back slid down to grip his hip, anchoring him, pulling him closer.
His entire body went taut, every muscle locking tight as he chased his release. Your hand kept moving, kept stroking him through it, your thumb circling his head with each upstroke, feeling the way he was pulsing in your grip.
"Look at me," you commanded again, lifting your head from his chest. "I want to see your face when you come."
His eyes opened, meeting yours, and they were completely blown, pupils dilated so wide there was barely any blue left. He looked devastated. Undone. Like he was standing on the edge of something he couldn't come back from.
"Come for me, Bucky," you whispered. "Let me see it. Let me feel it."
That was all it took.
His entire body went rigid, every muscle locking tight as the orgasm tore through him. The sound he made was devastatingly sexy. A broken, guttural cry that came from somewhere deep in his chest, raw and uncontrolled. Loud enough to shake the earth. His hips jerked forward violently, once, twice, three times, and you felt the hot evidence of his release spilling over your hand, over his stomach, soaking into the fabric of his shirt and yours.
His metal arm crushed you against him, holding you there as his right hand kept moving through it, drawing it out, prolonging the pleasure until he was shaking so hard you thought he might collapse. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.
And then you felt it—wetness against your shoulder that wasn't sweat.
You wrapped your arms around him, holding him through it, feeling your own tears spill over as the weight of what you'd just done crashed down on both of you.
This wasn't the game anymore.
This was real.
When his breathing finally slowed, when the trembling subsided to occasional shudders, he lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, wet, devastated. He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time. Like he was seeing the end of something.
The silence afterward was worse than anything that came before it.
You were still close enough that he could feel the heat coming off her body. His jeans were still undone. Your hand was still wet. Neither of them had moved.
Bucky's breathing hadn't evened out yet. He could feel his pulse everywhere; throat, wrists, the base of his skull. The kind of awareness that came after something that couldn't be taken back.
Your pulled your hand away first. Wiped it on your thigh without looking at him.
"Shit," you said quietly.
It wasn't regret in your voice. It was realization.
Bucky swallowed and reached down to zip his jeans. His hands were steadier than he expected. "Yeah."
You stood up. Took two steps back. Then stopped like you didn't know where the hell you were supposed to go.
He stayed where he was. Watched you wrap your arms around yourself even though it wasn't cold.
"We," You stopped. Started again. "We shouldn't have—"
"Don't." His voice came out harder than he meant it to. "Don't do that."
Your eyes snapped to his. "Do what?"
"Pretend like that was a mistake."
"I'm not,” you shook your head, frustrated. "That's not what I'm saying."
"Then what are you saying?"
Your opened your mouth. Closed it. Your hand came up to your neck, fingers pressing against the side of your throat like you were checking your own pulse. "I don't know. I just,” You looked at him, and there was something close to panic in your eyes. "What the fuck are we doing, Bucky? What did we just do?”
He didn't have an answer for that.
Your laughed, but it was hollow. "We spent months building something that actually worked. And now, now I don't know what the hell we are anymore."
Bucky stood up. You took another step back.
"We're the same thing we were ten minutes ago," he said.
"No." You shook your head. "No, we're not.”
He looked at you incredulously.
"So what, you touch my dick and suddenly we're strangers?"
You flinched at his crudeness. "Jesus Christ, Bucky—"
"That's what happened. You can't just,” He gestured between you, frustrated. "You can't act like it didn't."
"I'm not." Your voice cracked. "I'm not saying it didn't happen. I'm saying I don't know what happens now."
"Nothing has to happen."
"Bullshit." You were breathing harder now. "Everything just changed. You know it did."
He did know. That was the problem.
Bucky ran a hand through his hair and turned away from you. You took three steps toward the kitchen. Stopped. There was nowhere to go. You were locked in this house for another sixteen hours.
When he turned back, you were staring at the black couch like you were trying to figure out how you ended up here.
"I can't lose this," you said quietly.
Something tightened in his chest. "Lose what?"
"This. Us." you looked up at him. "You were the one thing in my life that made sense. And I just,” your breath hitched. "I fucked it up."
"You didn't fuck anything up."
"Then why does it feel like I did?"
"Because you're panicking."
"I'm terrified," you corrected. "There's a difference."
Bucky moved toward you without thinking. You didn't step back this time. He stopped close enough to touch you, but didn't.
"Of what?" he asked.
"Of losing you."
The words hit him wrong. Like you were already halfway out the door, ”You're not losing me."
You looked away, swallowing hard, ”You don't know that."
"Yeah, I do."
"How?" Your voice was rising now. "How do you know that? We just crossed a line we can't uncross, Bucky. We can't go back to what we were."
"I don't want to go back."
You stared at him. "What?"
"I don't want to go back," he repeated. "I'm not interested in pretending the last hour didn't happen."
"That's not—" You pressed your palms against your eyes. "God, you're not listening to me."
"Then say it clearer."
"I'm trying!" You dropped your hands. "I'm trying to tell you that I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be whatever the fuck we're supposed to be now. We can't just,” You gestured helplessly. "We can't just exist in some weird limbo where we pretend nothing's different."
"I'm not pretending anything."
"Then what are you doing?"
"I'm standing here telling you it wasn't a mistake."
"And I'm telling you that's not what I'm afraid of!"
The words came out louder than you meant them to. You both went still.
Bucky's jaw tightened. "Then what the hell are you afraid of? Because i’m lost as shit right now, Y/N.”
You looked at him like he'd just asked you to explain gravity. "I'm afraid we just destroyed the best thing in my life because we couldn't keep our hands off each other."
His voice was harder now. "You think I don't know what this is? You think I haven't been,” He stopped himself. Shook his head. "I'm not the one trying to walk it back."
"I'm not walking anything back!"
There was hurt in his eyes.
"You're acting like you regret it."
"I don't regret it!" You were breathing hard now, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. "I don't regret what we did. I regret that I don't know what the fuck happens next. I'm scared, Bucky." Your voice broke. "I'm fucking terrified that we just ruined the one relationship I actually trusted.” You stopped. Swallowed hard. "I don't know how to lose you.” You stopped when his hand came up to your arm. His fingers curled around you elbow, gentle but deliberate. You didn't pull away, ”Stop," you whispered.
"Stop what?"
"This. You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Making it harder."
His thumb brushed against the inside of your elbow. "Harder than what?"
"Harder to think."
"Good."
"Bucky—"
"You're overthinking it."
"I'm trying to protect what we had."
"We still have it.” The silence that follows is different from the others. Heavier. You can feel the weight of it pressing down on your shoulders, making it hard to breathe. "I should go," he says finally.
You looked at him blankly, still trying to emotionally process the last hour.
"What?"
"I need—" He gestures vaguely toward the hallway. "I need a minute."
"Bucky—"
But he's already moving, walking past you toward the bedrooms. You reach out without thinking, your fingers catching his wrist. He stops. Doesn't turn around. Just stands there with your hand on his skin and his pulse beating against your fingertips.
"Don't," you say. "Don't shut me out."
"I'm not shutting you out. I'm giving us both space."
"That's the same thing."
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is. You're doing what you always do when things get too—"
He pulls his wrist free and turns to face you. "Too what?!”
"Too real."
His eyes flash. "You want to talk about real? You just had your hand on my cock and now you're telling me you want to go back to being friends. You're telling me you want safe. So forgive me if I need a fucking minute to process that."
The words hit like a slap. You take a step back. Then another.
"That's not fair," you say.
"None of this is fair, can’t you see that?” His voice cracked and you could see the water in his eyes.
"I'm not trying to hurt you."
"I know." His voice drops, and somehow that's worse than the anger. "I know you're not. But you are anyway."
He turns and walks away before you can respond. You watch him disappear into one of the bedrooms. The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds impossibly loud in the silence.
You stand there for a long moment, staring at the closed door.
Then you sit down on the couch and try to remember how to breathe.
You last three minutes.
Three minutes of sitting on the couch, staring at nothing, your hands clenched in your lap. Three minutes of trying to convince yourself that he needs space, that you should give him time, that following him would only make things worse.
Three minutes before you're on your feet and walking down the hallway.
The door is closed. You stop in front of it, your hand raised to knock, and for a moment you almost turn back. Almost convince yourself to leave him alone.
Then you remember the look on his face when he walked away. The careful blankness of it. The way he pulled his wrist free from your grip like your touch burned.
You knock.
No answer.
You wait five seconds and knock again, harder this time.
Still nothing.
"Bucky." Your voice sounds too loud in the quiet hallway. "I know you can hear me.” Silence. "I'm not leaving.” More silence. Your hand drops to the doorknob. You don't turn it, that feels like a violation somehow, even now, but you rest your palm against the cool metal. "You don't get to do this," you say. "You don't get to walk away and shut me out like I'm—like I'm everyone else."
Nothing.
You press your forehead against the door.
"I'm not going away," you say quietly. "I'm not going to pretend. So you can either open this door and talk to me, or you can stay in there and listen to me talk through it. Your choice."
You wait.
Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
Nothing.
Fine.
"You want to know what I'm afraid of?" you ask the closed door. "I'm afraid that we just destroyed the best thing in my life. I'm afraid that when we leave here and go back to the real world, you're going to look at me differently. We’ll lose our jobs. Our homes. We’re both going to be thinking about this moment instead of focusing on your actual life. I'm afraid that I just violated every boundary I've ever believed in, and I'm afraid that I don't regret it as much as I should."
Your voice cracks on the last word.
"I'm afraid that you're going to realize this was a mistake," you continue. "That the only reason it happened was because we were locked in here together with nothing else to do and nowhere else to go. I'm afraid that you're going to wake up tomorrow and wish it never happened. And I'm afraid that I'm going to lose you—not as a coworker, but as—"
You stop because you don't know how to finish that sentence.
As what? As a friend? As something more than a friend? As the person who knows you better than almost anyone else in your life?
All of it. None of it. Something you don't have words for.
"I'm afraid," you say finally, "that we just ruined everything. And I don't know how to fix it. And you're in there hiding from me instead of helping me figure it out."
Still nothing.
Your hand tightens on the doorknob. "Bucky, please."
Silence.
"Goddammit." You hit the door with your palm, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to make a sound. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to make me feel; you don't get to look at me the way you looked at me out there and then just walk away. You don't get to tell me you don't want to pretend and then hide in there like a—“ A racked sobs goes through you, “You’re my best friend in the whole world.”
You sit down across from the door and cry quietly.
The door opens.
You don't look up immediately. You can't. Your face is still buried against your knees, shoulders shaking with the effort of keeping quiet.
You hear him freeze.
The silence stretches so long you finally lift your head.
Bucky's standing in the doorway, one hand still on the handle. He looks wrecked. His eyes are red and wet, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling like he's been holding his breath for the last ten minutes.
He stares at you sitting on the floor outside his room.
You stare back.
Neither of you move.
"I'm sorry," you say, and your voice cracks on the second word. You wipe at your face with the heel of your hand. "I'm sorry, I just—I couldn't—"
"Stop."
It's not angry. It's quiet. Almost pleading.
You stop.
Bucky's throat works. He looks at you like he's trying to figure out if you're real or if he's imagined this entire night. His hand drops from the door handle. He takes one step forward, then stops again.
"I need to ask you something," he says.
You nod. You don't trust your voice.
He crouches down in front of you. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough that you can see the exhaustion carved into every line of his face.
His eyes search yours.
"Do you want this?" he asks.
The question is so simple it breaks you all over again.
"Bucky—"
"No." His voice is rough, scraped raw. “Not, not the profile. Not the sessions. Not the friendship or whatever the fuck we've been calling it for the last six months." He swallows hard. "Do you want me?"
The safe house looked normal from the outside. It was in the middle of suburban north-Jersey. It resembled a sprawling country estate more than a government building, its stone exterior softened by ivy climbing the walls and gardens that had clearly been maintained with care.
If someone hadn't told you what happened here, you might have mistaken it for a luxury retreat tucked away from the rest of the world.
It wasn't.
The moment the vehicle rolled to a stop beneath the covered entrance, the illusion disappeared.
Two armed agents waited outside the front doors, dressed in plain black tactical uniforms instead of formal security attire. Another stood farther back beside the entrance with a tablet already in hand, checking your names before either of you had stepped onto the stone walkway.
The rear door opened.
"Ms. Y/L/N. Sergeant Barnes."
You climbed out first, the late-morning air noticeably cooler than it had been in Manhattan.
Bucky followed a second later, slinging his duffel bag over one shoulder without saying a word.
"Welcome to The Blackwood House," the agent said politely. "I'm Agent Mason. I'll be showing you around before we get started."
Neither of you objected.
The inside of the house felt surprisingly warm.
Dark hardwood floors stretched through the foyer beneath vaulted ceilings held by exposed wooden beams, while floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked acres of forest in every direction.
"You'll each have a private room on the second floor," Mason explained as he led you down the main hallway. "Meals are prepared downstairs. The kitchen's stocked twenty-four hours a day if either of you needs anything outside scheduled meal times. Wi-Fi is available throughout the property, although we'd appreciate limiting outside communication during the assessment unless it's necessary."
He pushed open the first bedroom door.
"This one's yours, Sergeant Barnes."
The room overlooked the woods behind the property. It wasn't extravagant, but it was comfortable—large bed, desk, dresser, private bathroom, and a small sitting area beside the window.
Mason turned to you.
"Ms. Y/L/N, you're across the hall."
Your room mirrored Bucky's almost exactly, except for a bookshelf already filled with journals on psychology, behavioral science, and criminal profiling. Resting neatly on the desk sat two cardboard archive boxes labeled BARNES, JAMES B. along with a locked briefcase containing the assessment materials S.H.I.E.L.D. had delivered ahead of your arrival.
"You'll find everything you requested inside," Mason said. "Interview files, consent forms, recording equipment, observation logs, and your secure server access."
You nodded.
"Thank you."
He checked his watch.
"Sergeant Barnes, your first session is scheduled for noon."
Barely forty-five minutes away.
The words settled over the hallway before anyone spoke again.
"If you need anything," Mason added, “Just give us a call. We’ll be stationed about fifteen minutes away.”
With that, he offered a polite nod and disappeared down the staircase, leaving the two of you standing alone for the first time since arriving.
The silence returned almost immediately.
Bucky shifted the strap of his duffel bag higher onto his shoulder before finally looking in your direction. His expression remained carefully neutral, but there was something unmistakably weary about the way he held himself, as though he'd spent the entire drive preparing for a conversation he still wasn't ready to have.
"So,” His voice was quieter than you expected, ”I guess this is it."
You managed the smallest nod.
“Yeah. Guess so."
Neither of you knew what else to say.
After another brief, awkward moment, he disappeared into his room and quietly closed the door behind him.
You stood in the hallway for several seconds longer before taking a slow breath, opening the door across from his, and stepping inside.
In less than an hour, James Buchanan Barnes, your best friend, would walk into your office as your first official subject. And there would be no more avoiding each other.
A soft knock echoed through the office. You looked up from the file in front of you.
The door opened slowly.
Bucky stepped inside, one hand still resting on the handle as his eyes wandered around the room before eventually finding yours.
For a second, neither of you said anything.
Then you smiled. You could get through this weird bump. You would have to.
"Hey." You say quietly.
It takes him an extra second to respond, but he does.
"Hey." The corners of his lips turn up just slightly. He lingered in the doorway another moment before stepping inside.
It was the first genuine smile either of you had seen from the other since the restaurant. You gestured toward the chair across from yours.
"You can sit right there if you’re ready."
He lowered himself into the armchair, glancing briefly at the notebook sitting between you.
"That thing's already making me nervous." He mumbles under his breath.
You life a brow at his statement.
“It’s paper."
"Still judging me." He says.
"It literally can't judge you, weirdo.” You reply. You laughed softly again before reaching for the recorder, "Okay, so unfortunately, before we actually start, I have to get the boring legal stuff out of the way."
He sighed dramatically, "Of course."
"This assessment is confidential. If you need a break, just say so. If there's something you genuinely don't want to answer, tell me. I'd rather you say 'I'd rather not answer' than make something up."
"I can do that." He says nodding.
"Good." You pressed the record button. The tiny red light blinked on. Something shifted almost immediately. You rested your notebook on your knee instead of hiding behind the binder Tony had insisted every analyst receive.
The silence that followed wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as the one in the SUV.
You looked at him for a moment before speaking. Outside this room, it had always been easy to look at him without really looking at him. There had always been someone else around.
There wasn't one now.
He'd changed after unpacking, trading the leather jacket for a grey cotton t-shirt that fit him almost unfairly well, the sleeves tight on his forearms.
The afternoon sun spilled through the windows behind him, softening the sharper angles of his face and catching the handful of strands of silver beginning to grow through his dark hair.
His vibranium hand rested against the arm of the chair while the fingers of his right absentmindedly rubbed the seam of his jeans. It was such a small habit that most people probably would've missed it.
You didn't.
His eyes found yours before you thought to look away.
So very Blue.
You'd known that before, of course. Anyone did. But never like this. Never in a room quiet enough to see the tiny shift in them when he was thinking, or the way they lingered on you with quiet curiosity.
It wasn't the guarded stare he kept for strangers, nor the relaxed one he wore around Sam and Steve. This was something caught in between, as though he was trying to reconcile the woman he'd laughed with over dinner a week ago with the behavioral analyst sitting across from him now. Plus, you are best friends.
For a fleeting second, you wondered if he was doing exactly what you were.
Trying not to look too long.
Be professional.
The reminder came a beat too late.
You lowered your eyes to the notebook resting in your lap, pretending to straighten the corner of the page.
It was ridiculous. You'd spent years interviewing spies, military officers, politicians; people trained to intimidate, manipulate and conceal.
None of them had ever made you suddenly aware of your own heartbeat.
"Assessment One," you said, your voice settling into the calm cadence you'd practiced for years. "Participant: James Buchanan Barnes. Behavioral analyst. Twelve p.m."
You clicked your pen.
"So,” You glanced down at the first page before looking back at him. "Let's start with something simple." A quiet breath escaped through his nose. You looked down at the binder, "Tell me about a mission where you deliberately ignored an order."
He didn't answer. Instead, he watched you for another second, his head tilting ever so slightly, "Are these Stark's questions?"
"Yes."
The silence stretched comfortably between you before he finally answered.
“Madrid."
"The mission with Sam?" You asks, faintly remembering what he was talking about.
He nodded once, "I split off." His shoulders lifted in a faint shrug, "It would've gotten people killed."
You didn't respond immediately. Instead, you made a short note in your notebook. His eyes followed the movement instantly.
"Mmm." He makes a sound.
"What?" You glanced up, brows furrowing.
"Writing your mysterious little notes." He says playfully.
"They're not mysterious."
"They are if you won't let me read them."
A smile threatened despite yourself.
"Bucky. I wrote, 'No hesitation.'"
He blinked, a bit surprised that you actually told him and simultaneously offended, "That's all?"
You shrugged, ”So far."
"I thought you were psychoanalyzing me."
"I am." He leaned back in the chair, shaking his head almost to himself, "When you made that decision,” You tapped your pen lightly against the notebook. "Did it ever occur to you that you might've been wrong?"
“No." His answer came almost immediately.
You raised an eyebrow.
"Never?"
"No."
"You didn't even consider it?"
"I considered the consequences if I was." He says. You held his gaze. Something passed across his face, too quick to name, gone before it could fully settle, "You know," he said after a moment, "you're a lot more annoying at work."
Another beat of silence settled between you. You ask him a few more typical questions for the next twenty minutes or so.
You glanced back at your notes, your expression growing thoughtful again.
"Can I ask you something?" You ask.
"I thought that's what we've been doing."
"It is."
You looked back up. "But this one's not in the binder."
His expression shifted, "Go ahead."
He seemed to grow quieter, the easy sarcasm fading as he studied you with curiosity.
Until now, he'd been able to tell himself this was an interview; a strange one, maybe, but still an interview.
The binder on your lap, the notebook between you, filling with observations all reinforced the illusion that there were rules taking over the conversation.
He leaned back a little farther in his chair, folding his arms loosely across his chest.
"I'm listening."
You didn't ask the question immediately.
Instead, you looked down at your notebook, your thumb absentmindedly running along the edge of the page while you considered how to phrase it.
Behavioral analysis wasn't about catching someone in a lie. It was about removing enough noise that the truth became easier to recognize. The wording mattered. A single misplaced assumption could change an answer before it had even been spoken.
When you finally looked up again, your voice remained calm.
"Back at the restaurant,” His eyes lifted to yours, ”when I overheard you and Claire." The room seemed to lose whatever warmth it had held a few seconds earlier.
His jaw tightened.
"You've answered every question today without needing more than a few seconds to think. Even when I challenged your reasoning, you stayed consistent. Your breathing stayed the same. Your posture stayed the same. You corrected my wording twice." You glanced briefly at your notes before meeting his eyes again. "The only time you've shown any measurable discomfort since sitting down is when I mentioned the restaurant."
Bucky didn't say anything.
He just looked at you, his expression flattening in a way you hadn't seen all afternoon. Whatever patience had carried him through the first half of the interview seemed to disappear all at once.
He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest and let out a slow breath through his nose before speaking.
"Can I ask you something?" His voice is low and calculating.
You swallowed thickly, knowing this would come.
"Of course."
"What exactly are we doing right now?"
You blinked, "The interview."
"No." He shook his head. "Don't give me the official answer." His blue eyes stayed fixed on yours. "I'm asking why we're talking about something that happened outside a restaurant a week ago. Something private and none of your business.” You opened your mouth to answer, but he kept going, "I'm serious, Y/N. I walked in here expecting questions about missions, judgment calls, the way I work with the team. I didn't expect to sit down and have you bring up one of the most awkward conversations of my life." He gestured toward the notebook on the table. "How does that have anything to do with this?"
You looked down at your notebook for a moment, turning your pen slowly between your fingers before meeting his eyes again.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
“Bucky—“
"Because right now it feels like my best friend invited me into a room and then decided to psychoanalyze something she accidentally overheard."
The words landed harder than he probably intended.
You looked at him for a second before quietly nodding.
"I've been arguing with myself about this since before you got here. Part of me thinks I should've left it alone."
He scoffs.
"Hmm. And the other part?"
"The other part keeps coming back to the same thing." You exhaled slowly, "I know you, Bucky. You’re my best friend.” He didn't say anything.
"You and I have spent enough time together that I know what you're like when you're relaxed. I've watched you sit through Tony's hour-long speeches without losing your mind. I've watched Sam spend an entire dinner trying to get a rise out of you,” The corner of his mouth threatened to move before he stopped it, "You don't rattle easily."
"No," he admitted cautiously.
"So when I brought up the restaurant and you changed," You shook your head. "I couldn't pretend I hadn't seen it."
His jaw tightened, "You keep saying I changed."
"Because you did. You’ve been answering my questions for almost twenty minutes, and not once have you looked uncomfortable. You corrected my wording. You challenged my assumptions. You even argued with one of my questions. But then I mentioned the restaurant. And you've barely looked me in the eye since."
His head came back up almost immediately.
“No shit, Y/N. I wonder why. Can you just drop it?” It replays in his head. The hallway, Claire, the silence, cursing you out, and walking past you without saying a word. He looked down at the floor for a moment before rubbing a hand over the back of his head, ”You heard something you never should've heard. You heard my girlfriend tell me she thought I was in love with somebody else." The room fell completely silent, "You think I forgot that?" His eyes locked onto yours. "Because I didn't."
You swallowed, "I wasn't bringing up Claire."
"So let me ask you this,” his voice came out rough and angry this time, “ Why do you think bringing any of it back up was a good idea."
You held his gaze.
He looked at you for a long time.
When he finally spoke, there wasn't any sarcasm left.
His jaw was tight and his teeth was clenched.
"You know what's really pissing me off, right now? I can't tell if you're saying all this because you're my analyst right now,” He says. He shook his head once. "or because you're my friend,” The question hit you harder than you expected,” All I know is that you need to drop this. Right now, or I’m walking out that damn door and driving back to New York.”
You didn't answer right away.
Instead, you reached over and clicked the top of your pen closed, setting it carefully beside the notebook.
"If that's what you want to do," you said quietly, "I'm not going to stop you." Bucky held your gaze, waiting for the rest, "But before you make that decision, I need you to hear me out."
His jaw remained tight, “You've got about thirty seconds."
You nodded once.
"Good. Because I think we're talking about two completely different things." You say.
He folded his arms again.
"Enlighten me."
"You think I'm sitting here trying to dissect your personal life."
"Aren't you?"
"No, Bucky, I’m not.” The answer came so quickly that it caught him off guard. "I'm not your therapist, Bucky. I’m not even a therapist. I'm not here to help you process your breakup. I don't care about any of that because none of it belongs in this report."
He studied you carefully, trying to decide whether he believed you.
You continued.
"My job is to evaluate how people think under pressure. That's what I've done for years. Usually it's foreign assets, intelligence officers, diplomatic personnel, people we've pulled out of interrogations, witnesses whose credibility we're trying to assess,” You gave a small shrug. "Most of the people I interview aren't people I know. They're certainly not people I have dinner with every Friday."
Something softened in his expression, though only slightly, "So why does this feel different?" he asks.
"Because it is different, you doof.” You didn't try to pretend otherwise, "I've never had to evaluate someone I care about."
The words hung in the air.
You realized what you'd said a split second too late.
You watched his expression change.
You cleared your throat.
"What I'm trying to say is,” You looked down for the first time since he'd threatened to leave. "this isn't a normal assignment. The restaurant isn't relevant because Claire broke up with you.” You looked back at him, “It's relevant because, in twenty minutes, it's the only thing that's changed your behavior. And I know okay, I know it would be both did, and I hate that I had to go there. And I’m sorry.”
He let out a frustrated breath.
"And that's the part that drives me crazy." Your eyebrows drew together, “You keep talking about my behavior like I'm one of your case files."
"I'm trying very hard not to."
"Then stop sounding like it." His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a frustration that had been building since the moment she'd mentioned the restaurant.
"You've known me for weeks. You know how I joke. You know when I'm tired. You know when Sam's driving me insane before I even say anything. And now we're sitting in here, and every time I move my head or look at the floor, it turns into another observation,” He shook his head. "I don't need my best friend telling me I blinked differently."
The words landed harder than he'd intended. You looked at him for a long moment before answering.
"I don't want to be that person either."
He frowned, "Then why are you?"
You drew in a slow breath, "Because if I pretend I didn't notice something simply because you're my best friend, then I'm not doing the job Stark asked me to do."
Another silence settled between you.
This one wasn't hostile.
Finally, Bucky leaned back in his chair, rubbing both hands over his face.
"I hate this assignment."
A reluctant smile tugged at your lips, "I was starting to suspect that."
"No." He looked at you over his hands. "I don't hate the assignment." He lowered them, “I hate that it had to be you."
Your heart broke, because he was right. And you did mess up, too.
The room settled into an uneasy silence.
The fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead. Somewhere beyond the concrete walls, the safe-house ventilation groaned to life before falling quiet again.
Neither of you spoke.
Finally, you reached over, closed the notebook, and let your hand rest on the cover.
"I'm sorry." Bucky didn't look up, "For eavesdropping." His jaw flexed, “I should've walked away." He stayed quiet. "I heard my name," you continued softly. "I froze. I don't even remember making the decision to stay. I just did. But I should've left."
Another long silence.
Then he nodded once.
"Yeah. You probably should've." He says brutally. His shoulders loosened ever so slightly, "It doesn't really matter now,” His eyes met yours for the first time in nearly ten minutes. “Thank you for apologizing.”
Something in his expression eased, not enough to disappear, but enough that the room didn't feel quite so hostile anymore.
You slid the notebook back in front of you.
"So,” A tired smile tugged at one corner of your mouth, ”Truce?"
Bucky exhaled through his nose.
"Temporary truce.”
You let out a chuckle.
"Deal. Let's finish this before one of us loses our mind."
You glanced down at the next section of the assessment.
"Baseline physiological response." Your voice is monotone.
He groaned immediately. "Oh, come on."
"Any dizziness?" You ask going down the page.
"No."
"Nausea?"
"No."
"Changes in appetite?"
"No."
"You've eaten one protein bar since yesterday."
"I'm conserving resources.” You stare up at him, ”What?" He asks genuinely at lost by your reaction. "There's a fully stocked kitchen.” He leaned back in his chair.
It was quiet again.
You looked down at the binder once more.
There were dozens of questions left. All standardized and approved.
You sighed.
"We're only halfway through." You say.
Bucky glanced at the stack of pages and then back at you.
"Can I make a suggestion?" He asks.
"I'm listening."
"Throw the binder away."
You laughed, "I don't think Fury would appreciate that."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
"No,” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, "You wanted a baseline. You won't get one from those questions."
"They're evidence-based."
"They're rehearsed,” You frowned. "I've answered versions of those questions for years." His eyes stayed on yours, "I know exactly what SHIELD wants to hear."
You felt your grip tighten around the pen, "So you've been filtering your answers, Bucky? Really?"
"I've been giving the answers that end the meeting."
You stared at him, "That's incredibly frustrating. It also completely defeats the purpose. They’re supposed to be for your safety you know that right?” You couldn't help letting out an exasperated laugh, “So what are you proposing?"
The corner of his mouth lifted for the first time all afternoon.
"A fair fight."
You narrowed your eyes.
"I'm listening."
"You stop asking questions somebody else wrote,” He nodded toward the notebook, "I stop giving answers somebody else trained me to give."
Your expression grew cautious.
"And then?"
"And then,” He held your gaze, "we find out what either of us sounds like without SHIELD sitting between us." You could feel your heart hammering away in your chest, "Ask me something."
Your fingers tightened around the pen.
"Anything?"
"Anything."
"No rules?" You ask. He thought for a second before replying.
"No lying,” You studied him. He wasn't smiling anymore. The room suddenly felt much smaller, ”No half-truths, No dodging, No hiding behind SHIELD.” His voice stayed calm, “If you're going to ask it,” He held your gaze, “ask the question you actually want the answer to."
Your heartbeat quickened for reasons you refused to examine.
Slowly, you uncapped your pen again.
Not because you intended to write. Just because your hands needed something to do.
"You know," you murmured, "this could go very badly. You might regret saying yes."
The sides of his lips twitch.
"I might."
"And if you don't answer?"
He shrugged once, "Then I lose."
"And if I don't?"
His eyes narrowed just enough to tell you he'd already thought about it, “Then you lose."
Another silence settled between you.
Neither of you looked away.
Finally, you slid the notebook completely off the table and onto the empty chair beside you.
The space between you was suddenly clear; nothing left to hide behind.
You drew in a slow breath.
"All right." Bucky waited, "So we're really doing this,” he leaned forward, "No more than one question each turn."
"Agreed."
"And no topic is off-limits," he added, "for either of us."
That one hung in the air for a moment. You could already feel your mind starting to race, cataloging all the questions you'd never dare to ask in a professional setting.
"Agreed," you said finally.
"And the loser of the game?" he asked, "What happens to them?”
The game, he'd called it. A fair fight. You could feel the shift in the room already, the professional dissolving into something else, something more charged and unpredictable.
"What do you want?" you asked. His gaze sharpened, as if he'd been waiting for you to throw it back to him.
"Whoever breaks first," he said, "answers the last question. The real question. No filters."
You felt a shiver go down your spine, a mix of apprehension and something that felt dangerously like excitement.
"And how do we determine a break?”
"If you refuse to answer," he said, "if you lie—or if I lie," he added, "that's a break. If you deflect or change the subject, that's a break. If you stop the game, that's a break.”
"And how do we know if someone is lying?”
He paused, then met your eyes directly. "You'll know.”
It wasn't a boast. It was a statement of fact. And the terrifying thing was, you believed him. You could feel it too, that unspoken understanding that had always simmered between you.
"Okay," you said, your voice softer than you intended. "Truth or Dare, Barnes?”
He arched an eyebrow at your unexpected choice of format.
“Truth."
You leaned forward slightly, your elbows on the table, mirroring his earlier posture. The game had officially begun.
"Why did you really agree to this?" you asked. "And don't give me some excuse about 'fair fights'. What was your actual reason?”
For a second, you thought he might deflect. His jaw tightened, just a fraction, and you watched the subtle play of muscle in his throat as he swallowed.
"Because," he said, his voice dropping a little, "I'm tired of being read by people who think they've got me figured out from a distance.” Your pen stilled in your hand, ”And you," he continued, "you're not like them. You get in close. But even you," he gestured vaguely, "you're still using SHIELD's tools. Their language. Their questions.” He looked at you, and the intensity in his eyes was almost unbearable. "I wanted to know what you'd see if you really looked.”
Your breath hitched. The walls of the safe-house felt like they were pressing in, the concrete suddenly porous, the silence outside no longer a barrier but a witness to this escalating intimacy.
He'd turned your own question back on you, laid your motivation bare without you ever having to admit it.
You cleared your throat.
"Okay," you said, a little shaky. "Your turn.”
He leaned back, the tension in his shoulders easing just enough to look casual, but you knew it was a lie. He was coiled, ready.
"Truth or Dare?”
“Truth."
"Okay," he said, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "What's the one question you're afraid to ask me? The one you've been holding back since you walked in this room?”
Your breath hitched, a small, sharp sound in the enclosed space. It was the perfect move. He wasn't just playing the game.
You set the pen down carefully, aligning it with the edge of the metal table. You did it on purpose to buy you a precious second, a moment to gather the shattered pieces of your composure.
You met his gaze, and the challenge in his eyes was clear. He expected you to deflect. He expected you to name something safe, something clinical. Have you ever had a nightmare so vivid you couldn't distinguish it from reality?
"Truth or Dare, Barnes?" you asked, your voice level.
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, quickly masked. “Truth."
"Good," you said, and you felt a surge of power, a thrill that had nothing to do with psychology and everything to do with the man sitting across from you.
"Because the question I'm afraid to ask is the one I know you won't answer honestly.”
"That's not a question," he countered, his posture straightening almost immediately.
"It is," you insisted. "It's a question about your inability to be truthful with yourself, let alone with me. I'm afraid to ask you what you want, because I don't think you've ever let yourself admit the answer.”
The silence that followed was different. Charged. He wasn't looking at you as a subject or a professional anymore. He was looking at you as an equal who had just called his bluff in the most direct way possible.
A muscle worked in his jaw.
For the first time since the game began, you saw a flicker of something like genuine frustration in his eyes.
"My turn," he said, his voice lower, rougher. He leaned forward again, planting his hands flat on the table on either side of the binder you'd discarded.
The space between you shrank with every inch he gained.
"What's the last thing you did that was just for you?" he asked. "Not for SHIELD, not for your career, not for anyone else. Something selfish.”
The question was a scalpel, precisely aimed to cut through your professional armor. You tried to think of something clever, something to deflect, but the rule was no lying. And the truth, the honest, selfish truth, was something you hadn't even admitted to yourself.
You looked away from him, at the bare concrete wall, at the single, bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. When you finally spoke, your voice was barely a whisper.
"Last night," you said. "After the lockdown was announced. I took a scalding hot shower. For thirty minutes. Just stood under the water until it started to run cold. Knowing full well we were on emergency water rations.”
When you looked back at him, his expression had changed.
The intensity was still there, but it was softer now, edged with something you couldn't name.
"Truth or Dare?" you asked, needing to break the spell he was casting.
"Truth," he said, his eyes never leaving yours.
"When was the last time you felt safe?" you asked, the question tumbling out of you before you could stop it. It was too personal; too close to the bone.
You'd violated your own rules.
He didn't flinch. He didn't look away. He just watched you, a long, silent assessment that made your skin prickle.
"Right now," he said, and the two words hit you with the force of a physical blow.
Your breath caught. You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but no words came. The safe-house, which had felt like a cage moments before, suddenly felt like a sanctuary.
And the man you were supposed to be assessing, the man you were supposed to keep at a professional distance, had just declared you the only safe harbor in a storm of your own making.
He had won. You knew it, and he knew it.
"My turn," he said, his voice a low murmur. "Truth or Dare?”
"Truth," you whispered, the word a surrender.
He leaned in closer, until you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. The scent of him (clean, cologne, metallic, with a hint of something uniquely Bucky) filled the air.
"When you're alone at night," he asked, his voice dropping to a confidential whisper, "what do you think about?"
The question hung in the sterile air, intimate and invasive.
Your professional training screamed at you to shut it down, to cite ethical boundaries, but the rules of the game were ironclad. And a treacherous part of you, a part you kept ruthlessly suppressed, wanted to answer.
Wanted him to know.
You looked down at your hands, clenched in your lap. You thought about the sleepless nights, the endless cycles of analysis, the way your mind refused to switch off.
But that wasn't the whole truth. Not anymore.
"I think about the quiet," you said, your voice barely audible. "The second right after a mission, when the comms are dead and the adrenaline is fading and there's just nothing. I try to hold onto that nothing. Because it never lasts. Ha.”
You risked a glance at him. The predatory confidence in his eyes had been replaced by something else. A flicker of understanding, of shared experience.
He looked genuinely surprised, as if he'd expected a deflection, a lie, anything but the raw, unvarnished truth you'd just offered. He'd been trying to make you crack, to expose a vulnerability, but you'd given him something else entirely. A piece of your own quiet desperation.
It was his turn to be disarmed.
He leaned back slightly, the charged space between you widening by a few inches. The shift was subtle, but it was there. The power dynamic had realigned.
You were no longer just the profiler and the subject. You were two people, trapped together, sharing truths in the dark.
"My turn," he said, his voice a little rougher than before. "Truth or Dare?”
"Truth," you said, your own voice stronger now.
He looked at you for a long moment, as if weighing his next question with a precision that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
"What's the lie you tell yourself most often?" he asked.
The question was so precise, so psychologically perfect, it felt like he'd reached inside your head and plucked it directly from your subconscious.
You felt a familiar chill, the one you always got when you were on the verge of a major breakthrough with a subject.
Only this time, you were the subject.
You took a slow breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.
"That I have it all under control," you said. The words came out easily, practiced. You'd said them to yourself a thousand times. "That my work, my training, my ability to read people, that it's enough. That it makes me untouchable.”
The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of your admission. You'd just handed him your biggest weakness on a silver platter. You waited for him to press, to use it against you, to win the game.
Instead, he just nodded, a slow, deliberate movement.
"I know that one," he said, his voice quiet. "It's a good lie.”
It wasn't a victory. It was an acknowledgment. A shared confession.
"Truth or Dare?" you asked, your throat tight.
"Truth," he said, the word immediate.
"Besides your arm," you began, choosing your words with care, "what part of your body do you feel most disconnected from?”
The question was intimate, but it was also clinical. You were framing it in terms of proprioception, of the disconnect between mind and body. But you both knew what you were really asking. You were asking about the parts of himself that still felt foreign, that still belonged to someone else.
He looked down at his hands, resting on the table. His left one, a marvel of black and silver metal, was motionless. His right one, pale and scarred, flexed once, a nervous tic you'd never seen before.
"My reflection," he said, finally, his voice flat. "Most days, I look in the mirror and I don't know the guy looking back at me. I know what he looks like. I know the history etched into his face. But I don't feel him. He's a ghost. A story someone told me.”
The admission was so raw, so utterly honest, it left you breathless. You had pushed him, prodded him, looking for a crack in his armor, and he had shown you.
You wanted to reach across the table, to touch his hand, to offer some small measure of comfort. But the rules of the game were clear. There were no gestures of comfort, no platitudes.
There was only the truth, in its ugliest, most unvarnished form.
"Truth or Dare?" he asked, breaking the silence.
"Truth," you said, your voice barely a whisper.
"Did you ever have feelings for someone you worked with?" he asked. "And don't lie to me. I'll know.”
The question was a minefield. It was too close, too personal.
And the answer, the honest answer, was sitting right across the table from you.
But you couldn't say it. Not yet. The game wasn't over.
And you weren't ready to lose.
"Yes," you said, the word a careful, calculated truth. "But it was a long time ago. It didn't work out.”
It wasn't a lie. A half-truth that you knew he would see through, a test to see if he would call you on it.
He didn't. Instead, he nodded, a slow, deliberate movement.
"Truth or Dare?" you asked, your voice a little too bright.
"Dare," he said, the word a surprise.
You hesitated, your mind racing. A dare was a risk. It was an opportunity to escalate, to push the boundaries even further. But it was also an opportunity to retreat, to choose something safe.
But you weren't ready to retreat.
"I dare you," you said, your voice dropping to a whisper, "to tell me something you've never told anyone else. Something real.”
He looked at you for a long moment, a strange, unreadable expression on his face. Then, he leaned forward, until you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin.
"I still have nightmares about the train," he said, his voice so low you had to strain to hear it. Not about falling. Not about the pain. But about the look on Steve's face. The last thing I saw before I went under.”
The admission was so raw, so utterly devastating, it stole your breath. You had read the files, you knew the history, but to hear it from him, in his own words, was something else entirely. It was a piece of his soul, laid bare for you and you alone.
"Truth or Dare?" he asked, his voice a rough whisper.
"Truth," you said, the word a surrender.
"What's the last thing you do before you go to sleep?" he asked.
The question was deceptively simple, almost mundane, but you knew it was a trap. He was looking for another piece of the truth, another window into your soul.
You thought about it, about your nightly routine. The way you'd brush your teeth, the way you'd check the locks, the way you'd lie in the dark and wait for sleep to come. But that wasn't the last thing. The last thing was something you never admitted to anyone.
"I touch the scar on my shoulder," you said, your voice barely audible. "The one from the car accident when I was a kid. I don't know why. I just do. It's like a promise to myself that I'm still here. That I survived."
The confession hung in the air, a fragile, vulnerable thing. You waited for him to react, to press, to use it against you. But he didn't. He just watched you, his expression unreadable.
"My turn," he said, his voice soft. "Truth or Dare?”
"Truth," you said, bracing yourself.
"What's the last thing that made you cry?" he asked.
You thought about it, about the well of emotion you kept carefully dammed up inside. The grief, the fear, the loneliness. But the last thing was surprisingly recent.
"Last week," you said, your voice trembling slightly, ”Truth or Dare?" you asked, your throat tight.
"Truth," he said.
"What's the one thing you're most afraid of?" you asked, the question a direct challenge. "And don't say 'hurting people.' That's the answer you give to your therapists.”
A flicker of something (annoyance, maybe even respect) crossed his face.
He was silent for a long moment, the only sound the low hum of the ventilation system. The safe-house felt like a vacuum, pulling all the air, all the sound, all the focus into the small space between you.
"Forgetting," he finally said, the word barely more than a breath. "Waking up one day and not remembering their faces. My ma. Becca. Steve. Forgetting what my own hands looked like before this." He gestured vaguely with his right hand, not even glancing at the metal one. "Not the big things. The small ones. The way the sun felt on the docks in summer. The taste of a specific brand of chocolate. The sound of my sister's laugh. Being hollowed out by quiet. That's what I'm afraid of.”
The confession was so profound, so deeply personal, it felt like a physical touch. You had pushed him, and he had answered with a piece of his soul. The game had mutated, was no longer a battle of wills, but a strange, brutal form of intimacy.
"My turn," he said, his voice rough, as if the admission had cost him something vital.
"Truth," you said, the word an automatic response.
He leaned forward, the movement fluid and predatory.
The metal table was the only thing separating you. The air grew thick, heavy with unspoken things.
"When was the last time you actually touched yourself?”
The question was a shock. A jolt of electricity that shot through your system. It was blunt, crude, and utterly disarming. It was a deliberate escalation, a test to see if you would retreat, to see if you would revert to your professional role.
But you didn't. You held his gaze, refusing to be the one to look away. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, a treacherous betrayal, but your voice, when it came, was steady.
"Two nights ago. In my room at the tower.”
You saw it then. A flicker of surprise in his eyes. He had expected you to flinch, to deflect.
He had not expected you to answer so directly, so honestly. The power dynamic shifted again, a subtle but undeniable realignment.
"Truth or Dare?" you asked, your own voice a little lower now, a little more dangerous.
He didn't hesitate. “Truth."
"Where were you when you did it?" you asked, throwing his own invasiveness back at him.
His posture stiffened, a barely perceptible tightening of the muscles in his neck and shoulders.
His jaw clamped shut with a defensive anger that was pure instinct. He looked like a cornered animal.
"The armory bathroom," he said, the words clipped and precise. "In the dark.”
The admission was a raw, wounded thing. An act of self-imposed that made your chest ache. You had won the exchange, but the victory felt hollow, like you'd forced him to show you a wound.
"My turn," he said, his voice dropping an octave, a low, dangerous growl that vibrated through the table and into your bones. He leaned in closer, until you could see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes. “Truth."
The declaration was a challenge. He wasn't asking. He was daring you to ask.
You took a slow, deliberate breath, the air thick in your lungs. "When you're alone in your room at headquarters," you began, your voice a deliberate echo of his earlier question, "do you choke it back and stay quiet, or are you loud enough that the agents down the hall can hear exactly what you're doing to yourself?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. His eyes, dark and intense, bored into yours. He was trapped, and you both knew it.
“Quiet."
The single word was a stone dropped into the deep, still well of the room.
He didn't elaborate, but he didn't have to. You could see the answer in the hard set of his jaw, in the way his gaze didn't waver from yours. He answered the question you asked, but the way he held himself answered the one you didn't: it was a product of control, of discipline, of a lifetime spent making himself small, silent, and unnoticeable.
You gave a short, sharp nod of acknowledgment. A point scored.
"My turn," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to come from deep in his chest.
He was leaning forward again, his weight on his forearms, the solid muscles of his biceps straining against the fabric of his shirt. The movement was slow, deliberate, a predator inching closer to its prey.
You held your ground, refusing to let him see the way your pulse hammered at your throat, a frantic bird beating against a cage. You were a profiler. You were supposed to be the one in control, the one observing.
But now, you were the one being observed, dissected with each word, each glance.
"Truth or Dare?" he asked, his eyes locking onto yours. The question was a formality, a ritual. You both knew the only acceptable answer in this escalating game was the most vulnerable one.
"Truth," you said, the word a challenge.
He didn't smile. The predatory glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by something more dangerous, more focused. He was studying you, not as a subject, but as a puzzle he was determined to solve.
"What's your body's betrayal?" he asked.
The question was so unexpected, so clinically precise, it knocked the breath out of you. It wasn't crude; it was worse. It was intimate in a way that overlooked the physical.
He wasn't asking about your desires; he was asking about your involuntary responses, the things your body did that your mind couldn't control.
You thought about it, your mind racing through a catalogue of professional tics and personal tells. The way you twisted your ring when you were nervous. The way your left eye twitched when you were lying. But those were things you knew, things you could manage.
He was asking for something deeper.
Finally, you settled on the truth, the one thing you tried to ignore.
"My neck," you said, your voice barely a whisper, ”When I'm worked up. The skin there gets hot, and I can feel my own pulse. It's fast and shallow. I hate it. It feels like a beacon, like everyone can see how out of control I am, just by looking at my neck.”
As you spoke, you became acutely aware of it happening now. The heat was spreading up your throat, a creeping flush you couldn't stop. You could feel the frantic thrum of your blood beneath the skin, a traitorous drumbeat announcing your vulnerability to the only person in the world you didn't want to see it.
His eyes dropped, just for a fraction of a second, to the column of your throat. It wasn't a leer. It was an assessment, a confirmation. He saw it. He knew. And the knowing was a power that settled over him like a cloak.
When he looked back up at your face, his expression was unreadable, but the air in the room crackled.
"Truth or Dare?" you asked, your voice strained. You needed to wrestle back some semblance of control, to turn the spotlight back on him.
"Truth," he said, the word immediate and absolute.
You leaned in, mirroring his posture, until the table was a mere inches between your bodies. The game had become a chess match played with bodies instead of pieces.
"Besides the nightmares," you began, your voice low and steady, "what's the physical sensation that reminds you most that you're not whole?”
He was silent for a long time. The only sound was the hum of the lightbulb and the synchronized, shallow rhythm of your breathing. You watched him, watched the way the muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed, the way his gaze grew distant, as if he were looking at something far beyond the concrete walls of the safehouse.
"The cold," he finally said, his voice rough. "Not the temperature. A specific kind of cold. An internal cold. It starts in my left shoulder, where the arm connects. It spreads down my side, like I'm being packed in ice. It happens when I'm still for too long, when I'm not focused on a mission. It's the feeling of him going dormant. Waiting."
He looked at you then, and the depth of pain in his eyes was staggering.
He had just described the physical sensation of his own emptiness.
"My turn," he said, before you could even process the weight of his confession.
"Truth," you whispered, bracing yourself.
He shifted in his chair, a subtle movement that seemed to take up all the remaining space in the room.
"Tell me about your last lie," he said. "Not to me. To yourself. The one you told this morning.”
The question was a violation. A precise, surgical incision into your most private thoughts. Your mind raced. I'm fine. I can handle this. This is just another assessment. But those were the lies of a professional. The lie you'd told yourself this morning was different.
You looked away from him, at the gray concrete wall, at the water stain spreading across the ceiling like a dark continent.
You took a shaky breath, the air thick and heavy in your lungs.
"I told myself," you began, your voice trembling slightly, "that the reason I requested this assignment was because I was the only profiler qualified to handle your case."
You looked back at him, and the raw, unfiltered truth in your eyes must have been a shock, because you saw him flinch.
A tiny, almost imperceptible movement.
"That was the lie," you continued, your voice gaining a little strength. "The truth is, I requested it because I wanted to see you again. And I didn't want to admit that to myself.”
It was the most honest thing you had ever said to anyone. And in saying it, you had broken the biggest rule of the game: you had admitted that this, between you, was more than just a professional engagement.
He didn't speak. He just watched you, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched, a taut wire pulled to its breaking point. You could feel the blood pounding in your neck, a frantic, desperate rhythm. You had lost the game. You had exposed yourself completely.
"My turn," he said, his voice a rough whisper.
"Truth," you said, the word a surrender.
He leaned in closer, until you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. The space between you had shrunk to nothing, a fragile membrane of air and unspoken desire.
"When you touch yourself," he asked, his voice a low, deliberate growl, "are you thinking about a person, or just the feeling?”
The question was a scalpel, precisely aimed to dissect the nature of your desire. It was intimate, invasive, and utterly devastating in its simplicity.
"A person," you admitted, the word a strangled whisper. "Always a person.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. His eyes, dark and intense, bored into yours.
"Truth or Dare?" you asked, your own voice a little lower now, a little more dangerous.
He didn't hesitate. “Truth."
"Is the face ever clear?" you asked, your voice a deliberate echo of his own invasive questioning.
The silence that followed was different. Charged. He was looking at you, not as a subject, not as a professional, but as a woman who had just asked him the most vulnerable question he had ever been asked.
"No," he finally said, the word a raw, wounded confession. "It's always just... a shadow. A feeling. A presence."
“Truth."
"Is the face ever clear?" you asked, your voice a deliberate echo of his own invasive questioning.
The silence that followed was different. Charged. He was looking at you, not as a subject, not as a professional, but as a woman who had just asked him the most vulnerable question he had ever been asked.
"No," he finally said, the word a raw, wounded confession. "It's always just a shadow. A feeling. A presence."
The admission was a gift. A piece of his soul, laid bare for you and you alone.
"My turn," he said, his voice a low murmur. "Truth or Dare?"
"Truth," you said, the word an automatic response.
He leaned in closer, until your faces were inches apart. The air was thick with the scent of him, with the heat of your shared confessions.
"When you're alone," he asked, his voice a confidential whisper, "do you use your hands, or do you use toys?"
The question was a shock. A jolt of electricity that shot through your system. It was blunt, crude, and utterly disarming. It was a deliberate escalation, a test to see if you would retreat, to see if you would revert to your professional role.
But you didn't. You held his gaze, refusing to be the one to look away. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, a treacherous betrayal, but your voice, when it came, was steady.
"My hands," you said, the word a challenge. "I like the feel of my own skin."
You saw it then. A flicker of surprise in his eyes. The power dynamic shifted again.
"Truth or Dare?" you asked, your own voice a little lower now, a little more dangerous.
He didn't hesitate. "Truth."
"What's your favorite part of a woman's body?" you asked, the question a direct challenge.
His posture stiffened, a barely obvious tightening of the muscles in his neck and shoulders.
His jaw clamped shut with a defensive anger that was pure instinct. He looked like a cornered animal.
"Her back," he said, the words clipped and precise. "The curve of her spine. The way it arches when she’s lost in me."
The admission was a raw, wounded thing.
"And the back of her neck," he said, the words clipped and precise, as if ripped from him. "Right where the hairline ends. The skin there is so soft. You can feel the pulse hammering against your lips."
He didn't look at you when he said it.
You felt the heat crawl up your own neck, a phantom echo of the sensation he described, and you knew he knew it. The game was no longer about answers; it was about reactions.
You swallowed, the sound loud in the suffocating silence of the room. The air felt thick enough to drink, heavy with the dust of concrete and the humid, electric charge of two bodies in close proximity, warring with each other. Every nerve ending in your skin was alight, screaming.
"My turn," you said, and the words came out rough, strained. You cleared your throat, a futile attempt to reclaim some composure. "Truth or Dare?"
He brought his focus back to you, his eyes a clash of blue and steel. The defensive anger was still there, banked beneath the surface, but it was warring with something else now.
A grim determination to not be the one to break.
"Truth."
"Does it make you angry," you asked, leaning forward just enough to make the movement a challenge, "that you're answering these questions? Or does a part of you like it?"
He stared at you, and for a long, terrifying moment, you thought he'd refuse. You saw the muscle in his jaw work, a silent battle. The game had become a fight for dominance, a struggle to see who could force the other into a more profound state of vulnerability.
"Yes," he finally bit out, the single word loaded with a conflict that mirrored your own. "Both."
It was the most honest answer he could have given. It was a confession of his own internal war, and it made him seem more dangerous, more real, than any file or report ever could. The arm was a weapon.
The training was a weapon. But this, this struggle within himself, was the true engine of his power.
"My turn." The words were a declaration. He was taking control back.
"Truth," you breathed, the word tasting like surrender.
He leaned in, the slow movement deliberately menacing. The table was a forgotten continent between you. He placed both hands flat on its surface, the right one pale and scarred, the left a seamless, menacing piece of machinery.
The metallic clink as it made contact echoed in the tomb-like quiet.
"You're in your bed," he began, his voice a low, intimate growl that vibrated through the floor and up the legs of your chair, "Alone. You've already touched yourself. What's the last thing you do before you fall asleep?"
The question was an intrusion. went straight to the intimate aftermath, the quiet, private moments of satiation and sleep. He wasn't asking about the act;
The personal, unspoken things you did only when you were completely alone.
You couldn't look away from him. His eyes had pinned you in place, and to look away would be to admit defeat. Your heart was a frantic, trapped bird against your ribs. You could feel the heat in your cheeks, the traitorous flush that announced your every thought to him.
The safe-house walls seemed to be leaning in, pressing the air out of your lungs.
"I roll onto my stomach," you heard yourself say, the voice sounding foreign, distant. "And I press my face into the pillow. To muffle the sound. In case I make any noise."
The admission hung in the air, stark and raw. You hadn't just answered the question; you had given him another piece of your carefully constructed control.
The need for silence, the fear of being overheard, even in the privacy of your own quarters.
A flicker of something moved in his eyes.
Not triumph, but a dark, knowing understanding. He saw you. He saw the cracks in the armor.
"Truth or Dare?" you asked, your throat tight.
"Truth." He didn't even have to think about it.
You mirrored his posture, leaning forward, placing your own hands on the cool metal of the table. You were equals now, two players locked in a high-stakes game.
"What do you do with your other hand?" you asked.
The question was a direct, unapologetic escalation. You were matching him, blow for blow, intimacy for intimacy.
You saw it instantly in the way his pupils dilated, a fleeting loss of composure before he slammed the walls back up. The defensiveness was there, a tightening around his eyes and mouth, but it was manifesting as a challenge.
He held your gaze, and the silence stretched, taut and vibrating with unspoken things.
"It's usually fisted in the sheets," he said, his voice rough, stripped of any softness. "Or pressed against the wall, next to my head."
He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. You could see it, painfully clear in your mind's eye. The tension, the restraint, the battle for control even in a moment of supposed release.
He wasn't just touching himself; he was holding on.
"My turn." His voice was a low growl, reclaiming the initiative.
"Truth." The word was a reflex.
"When you're getting close," he asked, and you could hear the shift in his breathing, a slight hitch he couldn't quite control, "what do you hold onto? The thought, the image, the feeling; what's the one thing that pushes you over the edge?"
This was it. The core of the matter. You were no longer a profiler and a subject. You were two people, trapped in a concrete box, laying bare the mechanics of your own desire.
The air was so thick you could feel it coating your skin, heavy with the scent of dust and him and your own rising arousal.
You took a slow, shaky breath, the motion a battle against the crushing pressure of the room.
"The surrender," you whispered, the confession torn from some deep, hidden place within you, “The moment when it stops being a choice. When your body takes over completely and your mind just goes blank. It's the only true quiet I ever get."
As you said it, you realized how true it was. The absolute, temporary oblivion of orgasm was the one place you couldn't analyze, couldn't control, couldn't think.
It was your own personal armory bathroom, your own dark escape.
You watched him process your answer. He didn't look triumphant. He looked fascinated. And a little frightened, as if he had just seen a reflection of his own desperate need for a reprieve from his own mind.
He leaned back, the movement creating a sudden, aching void between you. The distance was a relief and a loss all at once.
He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of uncharacteristic disarray.
"Truth or Dare?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"Dare." The word was a reckless impulse, a desperate need to push past the breaking point.
His eyes narrowed.
He saw the dare for what it was: a plea. An attempt to force the action, to break the unbearable tension with a physical act instead of another verbal evisceration.
"I dare you," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur, "to keep your eyes locked on mine for the next sixty seconds. No looking away. No blinking more than you have to."
It wasn't what you expected. It wasn't a physical dare, but it was infinitely more intimate.
It was a stripping away of all defenses, a forced, sustained exposure.
You nodded, a tiny, jerky movement.
"Okay," he said, glancing at the vintage clock on the wall. "Now."
And you looked at him. Really looked at him. You saw the exhaustion etched around his eyes, the faint scars on his forehead, the way a stray lock of hair fell across his brow.
You saw the blue of his irises, flecked with silver and gray, and you saw your own reflection, tiny and distorted, in their depths.
You saw the wariness, the intelligence, the profound sadness, and beneath it all, a simmering heat that was directed entirely at you.
The seconds ticked by, each one an eternity. The hum of the lightbulb faded into a distant roar. The only thing that existed was the space between your eyes, a fragile, shimmering thread of connection.
You could feel the heat spreading across your chest, a prickling, suffocating flush.
Your pulse hammered in your throat, a frantic, trapped bird. You wanted to look away, to break the spell, to breathe. But you didn't. You held his gaze, and he held yours.
At forty-five seconds, you saw it. A flicker. A crack in the facade.
His pupils dilated, and the raw, unguarded hunger in his eyes was so intense it was like a physical touch.
At fifty-eight seconds, he looked away.
He broke.
The sound of his harsh, ragged breath filled the room. He slammed his metal hand flat on the table, the CRACK of it against the concrete like a gunshot.
"Fuck," he growled, the word a raw, desperate sound.
You took a shaky breath, your body trembling with the aftershock of the sustained intimacy. You had won. But the victory felt like a defeat, like you had both lost something precious in the process.
"My turn," he said, his voice a low, deliberate murmur. He was taking control, pivoting away from the raw, exposed nerve of Claire and back into the dangerous, intimate territory you had been charting.
"Truth," you whispered, bracing yourself.
He leaned forward again, the metal of his left hand making a soft, ominous sound
The space between you felt like it was shrinking, the walls of the house contracting with every word.
"My turn," he said, his voice a low, rough grate of sound. He hadn't moved, hadn't blinked. The intensity of his focus was a physical weight pressing down on you.
You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry as dust. "Truth."
He leaned forward just a fraction more, the movement infinitesimal but loaded with intent.
"Have you ever," he began, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur that felt more invasive than a shout, "faked an orgasm?"
The question was a brutal recalibration.
He had taken your raw, emotional cruelty and answered it with a cold, clinical, deeply personal sexual inquiry. He was dragging the conversation out of the trauma of the past and back into the charged intimacy of the present, back onto the dangerous ground you had both been treading.
You felt a flush of heat, angry and embarrassed, creep up your neck. The rules were the rules. No lying.
"Yes," you said, the word clipped and tight. It felt like an admission of failure, of dishonesty.
His eyes narrowed, dissecting your one-word answer. "Why?" he pressed, the single word a scalpel.
He was taking his allotted question and using it to dissect yours.
You let out a shaky breath, the sound loud in the oppressive silence. "Because I was tired," you admitted, the words tasting like ash. "Because it was easier than explaining why it wasn't going to happen. Because I wanted it to be over."
Each reason was a small, pathetic confession, and you hated him for forcing you to voice them. You hated him more for the look of dawning understanding in his eyes.
He saw you. He saw the lie of your control, the desire to just end an uncomfortable situation.
He saw the weakness.
"My turn," you said, your voice strained, desperate to wrest back the power. "Truth."
"New rule," Tony said. "Anyone with access to classified ops gets a behavioral reassessment. Barnes, congratulations. You're first."
Bucky’s jaw tensed as he clenched his back molars.
“What the hell does that even mean and why am I first, Stark?” He asks.
Steve went to say something but Tony raised an arm and spoke over him, tossing a folder out in front of him onto the glass table.
“Listen, Control-Alt-Delete,” Tony starts. Sam made a face at the nickname and you held in a snicker. Bucky continued to look unamused, “It’s being done in alphabetical order; and you being B are up first, so don’t take it personally. It’s not.”
“And what it means is,” You start, trying to compose yourself from the laughter trying to fight its way through your throat. Bucky gives you a glare through his bright blues and you look away and towards the screen, “There’s a lot of cases right now that are attacking specifically at people’s weaknesses. We need to have a record of what usually is each persons worst triggers or such so when we choose the roster for said mission, we are choosing carefully. We don’t want to put someone in a situation that can compromise them or the safety of others.”
“So tests. You want to run tests.” Bucky says with a straight face.
“They want to asks questions and see how each person reacts differently. There’s nothing physically involved. It’s all psychological, but tactical. It’s nothing that should make you or anyone else uncomfortable,” Tony says, but he looks back down at the folder in front of him, “But the questions will be done of course in a safe environment, we have a safe house ready. And questions will be asked by our lovely and wonderful friend here,” He squeezes you tight around the shoulders, “Y/N.”
You feel his eyes on you. They’re heavy and accusing.
You glance across the table, only to find him watching your every move. His expression is unreadable, but his jaw has gone rigid. He doesn't look annoyed exactly. If anything, he looks guarded. Like he's trying to decide whether he should be offended or worried.
You look away first, and hope that the next few days will go over smoothly.
See, you weren’t exactly on talking terms right now.
You enjoyed late fall. It was that perfect weather; not too cool, but not warm. Just right enough to finally dressed in a way that you could fool others into thinking you had money.
You pulled your coat a little tighter around yourself as you climbed the subway steps steps onto Christopher Street, the cool October air immediately carrying the smell of roasted chestnuts, street pretzels, and ammonia.
Somewhere across the street, a saxophone player was on the corner, lazily working his way through I Left My Heart in San Francisco while people hurried past without realizing they were getting a free concert.
New York always had that pre-Christmas energy around this time of the year. The one where it felt like you could tell it was approaching.
You felt a buzz against your leg. You pulled out your phone.
Sam-O: We're already here. Steve's pretending he isn't hungry. Hurry.
You smiled to yourself.
You picked up your pace.
The restaurant was only another block away, tucked between a bookstore and a tiny wine shop someone probably paid half your spleen for in price just to get three customers a day.
Warm orange light spilled through the front windows onto the sidewalk, and as soon as you stepped inside, the noise of Manhattan gave way to something softer and warm.
Frank Sinatra drifted quietly through hidden speakers.
Wine glasses clinked together.
The comforting smell of garlic, basil, butter, and fresh bread wrapped around you almost immediately, making you realize you hadn't eaten since lunch.
The well-dressed hostess looked up from her podium and smiled.
"Meeting a group?" She asks politely.
“Hi, Yeah. The reservation should be under Rogers." You reply with a mirrored smile.
You could still feel some of the static on wool coat and you hoped the next piece of metal you touched wouldn’t shock you. The only thing you hated about this time of year really was the non-consensual electric shocks.
Recognition crossed the hostess’ face almost instantly at the name.
"Oh, yes. Right this way."
You followed her between closely packed tables dressed in bright white linen and flickering candles, weaving past couples sharing bottles of wine until the room opened into a larger section near the windows overlooking the street.
You spotted your friends before the hostess even stopped walking.
Steve was exactly where you'd expected him to be, right at the end like a dad. Sam was halfway through telling a story with enough exaggerated hand gestures to qualify as some weird dance.
Natasha looked painfully amused by something Sam had just said.
And Bucky was laughing. Not the polite chuckle he gave strangers or the dry, sarcastic laugh that usually followed one of Sam's terrible jokes. A real one.
His head tipped back slightly, his shoulders relaxed, his entire face softer than you'd seen it in weeks.
For a moment, you simply stood there watching.
It suited him well.
Then you noticed the woman sitting beside him. Dark brown hair fell in loose waves over the shoulders of a forest-green sweater, and a delicate gold necklace caught the candlelight every time she turned her head. She was stunning.
She looked comfortable and like the kind of person who smiled with her whole face.
One of her hands rested lightly against Bucky's forearm as she laughed at something Steve had said.
It wasn't possessive. You could tell by it how familiar and comfortable they were with each other.
Your stomach gave the smallest, strangest little tug, and it makes you falter your step for just a second. Nobody would’ve noticed unless they were really staring at you.
You hadn't known he was seeing anyone.
Before you could think about it any longer, Bucky looked up.
The moment he spotted you, his expression brightened.
You smiled despite yourself.
"I was beginning to think you'd all started without me." You say after clearing your throat.
"We thought about it," Sam called from across the table. "Steve said we had to wait because apparently that's what nice people do."
"It is," Steve replied without missing a beat.
Bucky was already on his feet by the time you reached the table. “You made it." His voice is low and smooth.
"Barely. The subway was a hot mess today. Almost got stabbed twice again and then the N train was delayed because of a fire,” you mumble mostly to yourself, still pissed at the horrible day you were having.
He lets out a chuckle and reaches for your coat without thinking, “I got it."
Your fingers brushed for the briefest second as you handed it over.
Neither of you reacted. It was such an ordinary thing that nobody else would've noticed.
Except the woman beside him did.
She smiled warmly as Bucky draped your coat over the back of the empty chair next to his.
"So you're Y/N.” Her voice was sweet.
You looked between her and Bucky.
"I am."
Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost shy, “This is Claire."
She stood and offered her hand.
"It's really nice to finally meet you. I've heard a lot about you."
You laughed as you shook it, “Oh?"
Claire nodded enthusiastically.
"I know you always beat Sam at poker."
"I don't always beat him." Sam looked offended but simultaneously surprised.
“Thank you." He replies.
"Sometimes he cheats." You mumble, trying to hide the smile.
Within five minutes, she felt less like someone's date and more like she'd been joining these dinners for months. You liked her.
Which somehow made that strange little feeling in your chest even harder to explain. Claire was beautiful.
Not in the kind of way that made people stop and stare right away when she walked into a room, but in the sort of effortless way that only became more noticeable the longer you looked at her. Like an effortless model or one of those girls on instagram in the friends group you would find yourself comparing yourself to.
Her dark hair fell in soft waves just past her shoulders, catching warm amber highlights beneath the restaurant lights, and her green eyes were bright with confidence.
Shit.
She wore a cream-colored blouse tucked neatly into dark trousers, a tailored camel coat draped over the back of her chair, and a pair of simple gold earrings that moved every time she laughed. Nothing about her felt overdone. Expensive, maybe. Elegant, definitely. But comfortable in her own skin.
You understood why Bucky liked her.
She wasn't intimidating. She wasn't trying to prove anything. She was nice.
Bucky pulled your chair out before you could reach for it yourself.
It happened so naturally that he probably didn't even realize he'd done it. You smiled your thanks as you sat down, and he gave the back of your chair a light push before settling into his own seat again.
Claire looked briefly toward Bucky before turning back to you. "I've heard your name come up more times than I can count."
Your eyebrows lifted, a bit surprised.
“Really?" You ask.
Bucky also reached immediately for the basket of fresh bread the waiter had just placed on the table.
"Don't listen to her." Bucky says, avoiding eye contact with you and Claire.
Claire rolls her eyes, ”I'm serious." She says chuckling.
Bucky tore a piece of bread in half, clearly hoping the conversation would move on. He leaves half in the basket and places the other half on his tiny plate.
"You've told me about movie nights," Claire continued looking at him, counting on her fingers. "Game nights. The mission in Prague where Sam almost got arrested because he tried to flirt with a police officer."
"I was being charming.” Sam interrupted from further down the table.
"You were being arrested," Natasha corrected, “By the damn CIA.”
There’s not time for you to react.
The waiter returns with a bottle of red wine, carefully filling each glass before taking drink orders from everyone else.
Sam immediately requested the most complicated cocktail on the menu simply because he liked saying the name.
A Lonely Island Lost in the Middle of a Foggy Sea or something.
When the waiter reached Bucky, he glanced toward Claire.
"The usual?" he asks sweetly.
She smiles. He tells the waiter her order and then adds, “I'll have the same, thank you.”
The waiter nodded before turning to you.
"And for you?”
You looked briefly over the drinks menu before closing it again. You let out a long deep breath.
"Old Fashioned." You say quickly and bored.
Sam looked horrified.
"You drink whiskey now?"
“What’s it to you, Wilson?” You say without looking up, and instead digging in your bag for your phone.
"You've hidden this from me." He sounds offended as he says it, a dramatic hand to the middle of his chest.
"You'll survive." You mumble with a tiny smile on the edge of your lips.
As the waiter disappeared again, conversation drifted effortlessly from one subject to another.
Natasha made an entirely unnecessary observation about Tony's inability to arrive anywhere on time. Apparently he was coming? You weren’t even aware.
Sam insisted he could beat every person at the table in some kind of game despite evidence that that was not accurate at all.
Through all of it, Bucky listened more than he spoke as usual. You'd noticed that about him a year or so ago.
He wasn't quiet because he had nothing to say. He simply liked listening. He was introverted.
Hell, so were you.
Every now and then he'd glance toward whoever was talking, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth before disappearing almost as quickly as it arrived.
When Claire spoke, he gave her his full attention without interrupting once. It was attractive.
When Steve was telling a story about an embarrassing training exercise from years ago, Bucky laughed before Steve even reached the punchline, having clearly heard it enough times to know exactly where it was going.
There was something comforting about watching him like this. Relaxed and present.
He wore a white dress shirt beneath a worn brown leather jacket you'd seen him throw on countless times before. The sleeves were pushed carelessly to his forearms, exposing the seam where polished vibranium disappeared beneath it.
A silver chain rested just barely visible against the collar of his shirt whenever he leaned forward, and a day's worth of dark stubble softened the sharp line of his jaw. He had cut his hair short again recently, similar to when he had been working with his other friends Yelena and Bob.
At some point during the conversation, he reached for the pepper flakes sitting between you without looking.
"So that's where they went," you said.
He blinked.
"Huh?"
"I've been looking for those for like five minutes.” You say, seriously.
He tries to keep down a snicker, eyes darting back and forth between you and the flakes.
"They were right here, YN.”
You gave him a glare. “You really think I wouldn’t have noticed if they were there?”
He looked at you shocked, “I don’t know what you can’t and can see with your eyes. They’re your eyes.”
Claire looked between the two of you before chuckling.
"Do you two always argue like this?"
"No."
“Yes."
You both answered at the exact same time, keeping eye contact.
Claire shook her head, smiling into her wine. "I can see why everyone says you two are impossible."
Bucky's shoulders relaxed as he leaned back in his chair.
You caught the faint scent of his cedar-and-sandalwood cologne as he shifted beside you, mingling with leather from his jacket and the comforting aroma of fresh bread and garlic that filled the restaurant.
It wasn't a scent you consciously associated with him until moments like this—close enough to notice, familiar enough that your brain quietly stored it without you realizing.
Across the table, Claire watched the two of you for a brief second before lowering her eyes to her wine.
The food arrived a few minutes later, carried out on oversized ceramic plates that barely fit on the crowded table. Bowls of pasta disappeared into the middle alongside baskets of warm ravioli, grilled vegetables, and enough parmesan to make Steve quietly question whether they'd ordered for six people or sixteen.
Sam answered by stealing a meatball from Steve's plate before anyone had even picked up a fork.
"I hate all of you," Steve sighed.
Natasha twirled pasta around her fork.
"I have a hero complex, Bitches.” Sam says.
"You absolutely do." Nat responds.
As everyone continued debating, the waiter stopped beside the table to refill water glasses.
Without looking up from his conversation with Sam, Bucky reached across the table and slid your water a little closer before the waiter had a chance to lean awkwardly over your shoulder.
It was such a small thing that you almost didn't notice it.
Except, he’d done it automatically. To a point where it almost made your throat form a knot.
The waiter thanked him, topped off your glass, and moved on.
You glanced toward Bucky. "Thanks."
He looked genuinely confused
"For what?"
You motioned with your head.
"The water."
He followed your gaze before realizing what he'd done.
"Oh." He shrugged. "You were talking.”
You held in a laugh.
"As opposed to...?"
He glared at you, ”As opposed to making the poor guy doing gymnastics."
You snort. “Mmm. You have a surprisingly vivid imagination."
Claire watched the exchange with a soft smile, ”You really do take care of people without thinking about it, don't you?"
Bucky blinked. "What do you mean?"
She nodded toward the water glass.
"You've done little things like that all night.” He frowned slightly, looking from her to you as though trying to remember. "You gave Steve the bread because you knew he'd never reach across the table.” Steve raised an eyebrow, ”You handed Bruce the salt before he asked for it.” Bruce looked down at the shaker beside his plate, ”And,” Claire smiled, "you've moved Y/N's chair in every time she's gotten up."
You looked at Bucky.
He looked almost embarrassed.
"I don't," He rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't think about it."
"I know," Claire said gently. "That's why I noticed, silly."
A faint pink crept up the back of Bucky's neck.
Sam, naturally, couldn't leave it alone.
"Our Buck's a gentleman."
"I don't know about that." Bucky mumbles, trying to dig back into his pasta.
"Oh, c'mon," Sam grinned. "You practically tucked her chair in."
"I pushed it in."
"You tucked it."
"I absolutely did not tuck it." Bucky.
"You tucked it emotionally." Sam.
"What does that even fucking mean?" Bucky.
"It means you're eighty years old." Sam.
"I'm one hundred and—" Bucky.
Steve cleared his throat. "Don't."
Bucky sighed dramatically.
He looked over at you, and for a second the rest of the table faded into the background.
It wasn't a long look. Barely two heartbeats. Just enough for the corners of his mouth to lift.
"You think you're funny."
"I know I am." You looked toward Bucky, "I could stop talking to you." He met your eyes. The smile on his face softened into something quieter.
“I don't think you'd like that very much." He whispers.
Your reply caught in your throat for the briefest moment.
Something passed between the two of you then.
So fleeting that neither of you could have named it.
It was gone almost as quickly as it appeared, swept away by Sam loudly announcing that dessert menus had arrived and that anyone who ordered without sharing would be considered a traitor to the team.
You reached for your water again.
Across the table, Claire lowered her gaze to her plate. The smile was still on her face, but this time, it didn't quite reach her eyes.
Dessert menus made one slow lap around the table before ending up in Sam's hands, who studied the page with the concentration of a man making a life-altering decision.
"I refuse," he announced solemnly, "to live in a world where we only order one dessert."
Steve didn't even glance up.
"We're ordering more than one." Steve says. Sam smiles wide.
The waiter returned, scribbling down an order for two tiramisus, a warm chocolate cake "for the table," according to Sam, though everyone knew exactly who intended to eat most of it, and an espresso affogato that Natasha insisted she'd be sharing with absolutely no one.
Claire looked around at everyone, her gaze lingering for a moment before returning to Bucky. "I get it now."
"Get what?"
"Why you always come home happier after these."
The sentence settled quietly over the table. You hadn't realized she'd said always. Always.
Meaning she'd been around long enough to notice.
You found yourself doing the math without meaning to. It had to have been four months? Maybe closer to five.
Claire looked comfortable here now. Comfortable enough to tease Sam.
Comfortable enough to roll her eyes whenever Tony inevitably texted that he was "five minutes away."
You smiled to yourself. She was good for him. That thought should have been simple. Instead, it landed somewhere in your chest and stayed there a little longer than you expected.
Not because you wished it were different.
Just because you hadn't realized how important it had become to you to see Bucky happy. Across the table, Claire reached for Bucky's hand beneath the edge of the tablecloth.
It wasn't dramatic.
She simply threaded her fingers through his for a second while the conversation continued around them.
Bucky looked down instinctively before giving her hand a gentle squeeze. It was affectionate.
The kind of gesture shared by two people who had quietly settled into each other's lives.
Claire smiled.
"So,” she asked, turning toward him. "Are you finally going to come to my school's fundraiser next Saturday?"
Bucky's expression faltered.
"The one at the gallery?"
She nodded.
"I," He hesitated. "I don't know if I'll be back in time."
The disappointment on her face was genuine, "You said that last week. You've missed the last two."
A flicker of guilt crossed his face, "I've been working, Claire. You know it’s not on purpose."
A few seats away, Steve caught Bucky's eye. "You alright?"
Bucky looked up almost immediately.
"Yeah."
Steve held his gaze for another second.
Then nodded.
"Okay."
They had known each other long enough to recognize when something was being left unsaid.
By the time the dessert plates were little more than smears of chocolate and powdered sugar, the restaurant had grown noticeably louder.
The dinner rush had settled in around them, conversations blending together beneath the steady hum of jazz and clinking glassware until the room felt warm in every sense of the word.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan glowed against the darkening sky. Headlights streamed endlessly down the avenue below, pedestrians hurried past with shopping bags swinging at their sides, and somewhere farther down the block, the blue glow of a theater marquee painted the sidewalk in light.
Tony finally burst through the front doors nearly an hour late, dramatically apologizing to absolutely no one while claiming he'd been held hostage by engineers who refused to appreciate genius.
"You forgot," Natasha said flatly.
Within minutes, Tony had stolen half of Sam's tiramisu, ordered an espresso he insisted was "medicinal," and somehow redirected the conversation toward whether artificial intelligence could ever appreciate good wine.
Everyone argued over one another in the way only close friends could, voices overlapping, interrupting, laughing before anyone had even finished telling the story.
You found yourself just watching and slowly disconnecting.
There was something strangely comforting about evenings like these. For all the headlines and press conferences and impossible missions, moments like this reminded you that they were just people.
Steve still cut everyone's desserts into equal portions without thinking. Sam still complained every time he lost an argument despite somehow starting most of them. Natasha pretended not to care that everyone eventually stole bites from hers anyway.
Bucky sat angled slightly toward Claire now, listening while she told Tony about one of her students who had proudly submitted an entirely blue self-portrait and then Bucky interrupted her.
“You're usually trying to convince me to watch documentaries." She says.
"They're interesting and educational."
"They're narrated by British men whispering about penguins." She pouts.
He smiled—a real one, small and private.
"You loved the penguins. You cried."
"I absolutely did not."
"You absolutely did." Claire's expression softened immediately. "You cried when the little one got separated."
She leaned toward him without another word, her fingers curling briefly around the collar of his leather jacket before pressing a gentle kiss against his lips.
It was the kind of quiet affection shared by two people who had long since grown comfortable with one another.
When they pulled apart, Bucky rested his forehead against hers for the briefest second.
"So," Claire murmured, "are we still arguing about penguins when we get home?"
"We absolutely are."
She laughed.
You looked away before they noticed you smiling. For reasons you couldn't quite explain, the sight settled warmly somewhere inside your chest.
Maybe because after everything Bucky had survived, it was nice to see him with someone who looked at him as though none of his scars changed the way she saw him.
He deserved that. He deserved normal.
The natural winding-down of the evening began almost immediately. Credit cards appeared on the table despite Tony loudly insisting he was paying, only for Steve to remind him he'd arrived after dessert. Chairs scraped softly against the hardwood floor as people stretched and reached for coats.
"I'll be right back," Claire said, pushing her chair in. "Restroom."
"I'll save you the last bite," Bucky teased, gesturing toward the untouched corner of chocolate cake she'd abandoned.
She narrowed her eyes playfully.
"You better."
She gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze as she disappeared between the tables toward the back hallway.
A minute later, Sam stood as well and looked right at you.
"Come on."
You looked up, a bit caught off guard.
"Where are we going?" You ask.
"The bar."
"We're in a restaurant, Sam.”
"They've got a bar, dipshit.” He grinned.
You laughed under your breath and followed Sam toward the polished walnut bar near the front of the restaurant, where the bartender was already shaking cocktails beneath rows of hanging crystal glasses.
The two of you leaned against the counter while waiting, watching the organized chaos unfold around you.
Sam accepted his drink with a satisfied nod before turning to you.
"So..."
You immediately groaned. “No."
"I haven't asked anything yet." He laughs.
"You've got that face." You groan, turning away.
"What face?"
"The face that means you're about to involve yourself in my personal life."
"I care."
"You're nosy."
He took a sip of his drink, studying you over the rim of the glass, "You know, Barnes seems good.”
Not this again.
Your eyes drifted automatically toward the dining room.
Bucky was still at the table, talking with Steve while absentmindedly turning Claire's abandoned dessert fork between his fingers.
"Yeah," you said quietly. "He does."
Sam followed your gaze. "I'm glad."
"So am I."
He nodded once, apparently satisfied with your answer, and clinked his glass gently against yours.
"To fewer world-ending missions."
By the time the two of you wandered back toward the table a few minutes later, Steve and Bruce had already disappeared outside to wait for everyone else.
Natasha was scrolling through something on her phone.
Bucky looked up as you approached.
"Claire still not back?" You ask.
He frowned.
"Not yet." He checked his watch. “Huh."
Before anyone could say anything else, Claire appeared from the hallway, weaving between tables with an apologetic smile.
"Sorry," she said as she slipped back into her chair. "There was a line."
"No worries," Bucky replied.
Claire looked down at the untouched corner of chocolate cake still sitting on her plate.
"I knew you wouldn't let anyone touch it."
He smiled, shaking his head to himself.
For a few more minutes, conversation picked back up as though nothing had interrupted it. Steve and Bruce were discussing a new training schedule at the compound, Tony had somehow convinced the waiter to bring him another espresso despite everyone insisting they should leave, and Sam was trying (unsuccessfully) to persuade Natasha to join him for karaoke the following weekend.
Claire laughed at something Sam said, but this time the sound didn't linger.
She glanced toward Bucky, just once.
It was quick enough that nobody else seemed to notice except you.
There was something different in her expression now. Not anger or sadness. Resolve?
The kind of look someone wore after making a difficult decision. She reached beneath the table, resting her fingertips lightly against Bucky's wrist.
He looked down before meeting her eyes.
"Hey," she said softly.
"Yeah?"
She searches his eyes for just a moment, almost debating with herself.
"Can I steal you for a minute?"
The smile on his face faded quickly. "Everything okay?"
She gave a small nod.
"I just want to talk."
He searched her face for another second. Then nodded once, "Yeah. Of course."
He pushed his chair back and stood, instinctively reaching for her coat before realizing neither of them needed it. Claire smiled faintly at the gesture anyway.
"We'll be right back," Bucky said to the table.
Sam barely looked up from whatever story he was telling.
The conversation carried on without missing a beat as Bucky and Claire disappeared toward the quieter hallway at the back of the restaurant.
You watched them for only a second before turning back toward Sam, who was already waving an empty glass in your direction.
"I need another drink."
“Already?” You laughed, shaking your head. "Fine. One drink. Then we're actually leaving."
The two of you wandered toward the restaurant's small bar, squeezing between crowded tables while the bartender worked his way through a line of waiting customers.
Sam immediately became distracted by a discussion about bourbon with the attractive man sitting beside him, leaving you to lean against the polished wood counter, absently watching the restaurant around you.
You found yourself glancing toward the hallway once. Then again.
You weren't sure why.
Maybe because Claire had seemed different. Maybe because Bucky hadn't looked entirely convinced when she'd said everything was okay.
Or maybe because, after months of profiling strangers for a living, your brain had developed the frustrating habit of noticing tiny changes in people you cared about.
"You zoned out.”
You blinked.
Sam was holding out your Old Fashioned.
"Oh."
He frowned at you suspiciously and then to the hallway behind you where you had been looking.
"You alright?" He asks.
A long sigh later you respond, "Yeah." You accepted the glass with a grateful smile, "Just tired."
He nods.
"You've got that look."
"What look?" You ask.
"The one where your brain won't shut off."
He clinked his glass gently against yours.
"Come on. Let's rescue Steve before Tony starts another argument."
The two of you made your way back toward the table.
You set your drink down. "I'm gonna wash my hands before we head out."
Steve nodded absentmindedly. "The restrooms are back there."
You turned toward the hallway, the music fading with every step until all that remained was the distant clatter of dishes from the kitchen.
The corridor was quiet; too quiet.
As you passed the women's restroom, another door farther down caught your attention.
The family restroom.
It was closed. At first, you meant to keep walking. Then you heard it:
"Claire." Bucky's voice. It was soft, barely audible through the door.
Without thinking, your steps slowed.
You don't know why you stop.
Maybe it's because you recognize their voices.
Maybe it's because Claire sounds different than she did only minutes ago, the warmth that had colored her voice all evening replaced by something quieter. More fragile.
Whatever the reason, your feet refuse to move.
The hallway suddenly feels impossibly small.
The restaurant continues around you as though nothing has happened. Plates clatter somewhere behind the kitchen doors. Someone laughs loudly near the front of the restaurant. Sinatra still hums faintly through the speakers overhead.
Life goes on.
"Buck." Claire's voice is soft enough that you almost miss it, "I just need you to be honest with me."
Silence.
Not the comfortable kind but the kind that stretches just long enough to make your stomach knot.
"I am."
"No." You can hear the sad smile in her voice, “You’re not.”
You lower your eyes to the floor.
The patterned tile blurs slightly beneath your gaze. You should leave. God, you should leave.
"I don't know what you want me to say."
"I want you to stop pretending everything's okay."
"It is okay."
"It isn't."
"It's been a stressful month."
"It isn't just this month, and you know it." Another silence. Longer this time. "So tell me when it started." Nothing. "When did you start pulling away from me?"
"I didn't, Claire. God, I’ve just been busy."
"You've always been busy." Claire's voice remains impossibly calm. "You've been busy since the day we met." A faint rustle follows, as though she's shifted her weight. "I knew what your life looked like when we started dating. This isn’t me being naive. I get it. I never asked you to quit being an Avenger," Claire continues quietly. "I never asked you to stop taking missions. I never asked you to become somebody else. But why does it feel like I have to beg for pieces of you?"
Your chest tightens. You think back to dinner.
The fundraiser. The way she'd smiled when he promised he'd try. The apology that came before she'd even asked for one.
How hadn't you noticed?
"I call,” Claire says, her voice beginning to shake. "Sometimes I call just because I miss you. Even text.” Another long pause. "And half the time you don't answer."
"I'm working. I can't always have my phone. I can't always tell you where I am. You don't understand the kind of—"
"No, Buck." Her voice cracks for the first time. "Stop." Silence. "I'm not asking you to explain classified missions." Another breath. “Even when you're sitting next to me on the couch," She stops, as though forcing herself to continue, "it still feels like you're far away. It’s not just the calls.”
You swallow hard.
The words settle heavily in your chest because you know exactly what she means.
Not because you've experienced it.
Because you've seen it. At briefings, movie nights, training sessions. He would disappear.
His eyes would lose focus for a heartbeat and his shoulders would tense. His breathing would change so subtly most people would never notice.
Most people. You noticed.
It was your job to notice.
Only somewhere along the way, it had stopped feeling like your job.
"I don't know what you want from me," Bucky says quietly.
"I want the truth."
"You have the truth, dammit.”
"No." Claire exhales shakily. “Those are excuses."
A long silence follows. You hear something scrape softly against the floor. Maybe one of them has sat down. Then Claire speaks again. "So I'm just going to ask." Her voice is barely above a whisper now, "Do you still want this?"
The question hangs in the air so long that your pulse begins pounding in your ears. You don't realize you've stopped breathing until your lungs start to ache.
Finally,
“Yeah." Relief floods your chest so suddenly it almost makes you dizzy. Of course he does. Of course, ”But,” he continues. The relief disappears just as quickly, “I don't think I should."
Claire lets out the smallest, saddest laugh you've ever heard, “I've been waiting for you to say it. You've been trying to make me end this for weeks."
“Hey, stop,” Pause, “No, I haven't."
"You have."
Their voices pick up a bit in volume but not too much. Just less of that whispers
“Stop telling me what I think and what I feel, when I’m able to do that for msyelf. I would never—"
"You don't return my calls." His silence answers her., “You cancel plans. You leave before I wake up. You kiss me like you're damn apologizing." Your heart twists. "And every single time I ask if something's wrong, " Claire's voice finally breaks, “you look at me like you're already saying goodbye to me."
Bucky exhales, the sound rough enough that you can almost picture him dragging a hand over his face.
"Jesus Christ, Claire."
You close your eyes.
Some instinct deep inside you whispers that whatever comes next is going to change everything.
The silence stretched so long that you wondered if he'd answer at all.
When Bucky finally spoke, his voice sounded tired in a way that had nothing to do with the late hour.
"You want the truth?" He let out a slow breath, “The truth is that every day I wake up and hope today's the day I stop feeling like I'm pretending.” Claire didn't answer, “I keep waiting for this to get easier." A humorless laugh escaped him. "For me to wake up one morning and not have to think about every goddamn thing I do before I do it. Every room I walk into. Every stranger that looks at me for a second too long. Every nightmare. Every mission. Every phone call."
"You don't have to be perfect, Buck."
"I'm not trying to be perfect!”
"Then what are you trying to be?"
His answer came almost immediately. “Enough." The word hit you somewhere behind your ribs, "I just,” He exhaled sharply. "Fuck, Claire. I'm fucking exhausted." His voice hardened.
"I know you're tired."
"You know I'm tired," he corrected quietly. "You don't know what it feels like. I spend every day trying to be somebody people don't have to worry about."
"You don't have to earn being loved."
He laughed again, bitter this time.
"That's easy for you to say."
"It's true.”
"It doesn't fucking feel true."
The hallway seemed to shrink around you.
"I love you," Claire said softly. "I'm standing here telling you that. Her voice broke again. “Listen to me." You found yourself leaning ever so slightly toward the door without realizing it, “I love you," she repeated. "Not because I think you need fixing. Not because I pity you. Not because I don't know who you are. I love you because I know who you are." Silence, “So why isn't that enough?" Bucky didn't answer, “Tell me why it isn't enough."
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"Because someday you'll realize you were wrong."
"No."
"You will."
"I won't."
"You fucking will." The words came out sharper than anything he'd said all night, “You'll wake up one day and you'll be forty, or fifty, and you'll realize you've spent years loving a man who still can't sleep through the goddamn night."
"I don't care."
"I do. I care.”
Another long silence settled between them before Claire spoke again, quieter now.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Yeah."
"You don't have to answer if you don't want to.” He didn't respond. “You've changed around me.” You could almost picture him rubbing the bridge of his nose the way he always did when he was frustrated, ”This isn't about us anymore."
"It is entirely about us." him.
"No." her.
A chair scraped faintly across the floor. Then Claire asked the question that made your pulse stutter.
"Can I ask you about Y/N?"
Every muscle in your body locked. No. Please.
Don't.
Bucky answered almost instantly.
"What about her?" There wasn't anger in his voice, just confusion.
Claire hesitated. “I watch you with everyone.” Silence. “Steve. Sam. Nat,” A beat, “And her."
You stared at the floor so hard the pattern in the tile began to blur again.
"I don't understand," Bucky said.
"I'm not accusing you of anything."
"It sure as hell sounds like you are."
"I'm not."
"For fuck's sake, Claire..."
"Please just let me finish." Another pause. "You know what I noticed tonight? You laughed."
He gave a quiet, confused huff. "What?"
"You laughed."
"I laughed with you."
"You did." She wasn't arguing, "You kissed me. And I know you love me." Your heart lurched, “But..." Claire's voice softened into something almost unbearably sad, "when Y/N walked through that door tonight,” You squeezed your eyes shut, "you smiled before you even realized what was happening." Silence. "You stood up before anyone else. You took her coat."
"You are seriously reading into this?"
"No."
"You are."
"I'm really not."
His frustration finally cracked through. “Jesus hell—“
“—You don't even know you do it."
"I was being polite!"
"You always are."
"Then what the hell are we talking about?"
"We're talking about the fact that you're different around her."
Another pause, "How?"
"You breathe." The hallway fell completely still. "You argue with her, you let her tease you, you let her see when you're having a bad day, you don't apologize for existing." Your chest tightened painfully. Claire's next words were so quiet you almost missed them, “I don't think you're in love with her.” Bucky didn't speak, "I don't." She sounded certain, “I think you're the version of yourself you've always wanted to be when you're around her."
The silence that followed was deafening.
When Bucky finally answered, there wasn't anger anymore.
Only exhaustion.
"Y/N has nothing to do with this."
"I know she doesn’t."
"Then stop saying her name."
"I'm saying it because I think she sees you." Another pause, "and I don't think you know what to do with someone who does." Your stomach sank.
For one impossible second, you forgot about the restaurant, the hallway, even Claire.
All you could think was that if Bucky ever found out you'd heard this how could either of you ever pretend this conversation had never happened?
“Do you love me?” Claire.
The answer came immediately.
"I do."
Your eyes drift closed.
Of course he did.
You'd seen it all evening—in the way he'd reached for her coat before she'd even asked, the absent-minded kiss he'd pressed against her temple while everyone laughed over dessert, the quiet way his expression softened every time he looked at her.
None of it had been forced. None of it had been an act. He loved her.
So why did hearing the words out loud feel like someone had quietly wrapped a hand around your heart?
The ache settled beneath your ribs before you could make sense of it. You told yourself it was because you hated watching people hurt each other. Because Claire was kind. Because Bucky deserved to be loved after everything he'd survived.
Because this whole conversation felt unbearably intimate, and anyone standing where you were would feel the same heaviness pressing against their chest.
Wouldn't they?
"God,” Claire let out a shaky, broken laugh. "I almost wish you'd said no."
Bucky swallowed.
"So do I."
A strange wave of relief washed over you before guilt crashed into it almost immediately.
Relief?
Your stomach turned.
Why would you feel relieved?
He'd just admitted he loved her. He'd just shattered her heart anyway. There was nothing to celebrate, nothing to be thankful for. If anything, hearing him say he still loved her somehow made this even crueler. It meant neither of them had stopped loving the other. It meant love simply wasn't enough.
The realization sat heavily inside you.
It scared you more than you wanted to admit.
"If you love me,." Claire whispered, her voice splintering under the weight of the question. "why are you doing this?"
For several long seconds, there was nothing.
You pressed your shoulder more firmly against the wall, suddenly aware that your breathing had become shallow.
You spent your days helping people untangle the things they refused to say out loud. You listened for what lived underneath the words, for the fear hiding beneath the anger, the grief disguising itself as indifference.
But standing here, listening to Bucky quietly dismantle the life he'd started to built with someone who loved him, you couldn't find a single explanation that made any of this hurt less.
"If I walk out that door,” Claire stopped.
You could almost picture her searching his face, desperately hoping she'd find something worth holding onto, "are you coming after me?"
Your heartbeat became deafening.
Without realizing it, you found yourself silently pleading. Please.
Say yes.
Tell her she's wrong.
Tell her you're scared.
Tell her you're angry.
Tell her you're not ready.
Tell her anything.
For reasons you couldn't begin to explain, you wanted him to.
More than that, you needed him to.
The silence stretched until it became almost unbearable.
Then, "No."
The word landed with terrifying gentleness.
You stared at the brass handle until the edges of it blurred. It shouldn't feel like something inside you had just broken.
This wasn't your relationship. This wasn't your goodbye.
You had no claim to the grief rising unexpectedly in your throat.
And yet, standing alone in that narrow hallway, listening to the quiet aftermath of someone else's heartbreak, all you could think was how desperately you wished the answer had been different.
The handle turned.
Your heart lurched.
No.
No, no, no.
You stumbled back a step so quickly your heel caught against the edge of the wall.
Too late.
The door swung open.
Claire stepped into the hallway first.
For a second, she didn't see you.
Her head was lowered, one hand hurriedly wiping beneath her eyes before taking a slow, shaky breath.
Then she looked up. She froze.
The confusion on her face lasted only a heartbeat.
Her eyes drifted to the restroom door behind her.
Then back to you.
You watched the realization settle over her with heartbreaking slowness.
Your face burned.
Every instinct screamed at you to disappear.
"Claire..." The word barely made it past your lips “I—" Your throat tightened, "There isn't,” You shook your head helplessly, already feeling tears sting the corners of your eyes. "I came to use the restroom. I just,” Your voice cracked.
Claire simply looked at you. There wasn't anger in her expression.
If anything, that somehow made it worse.
She looked tired and heartbroken. Like she didn't have enough left in her to be angry with anyone anymore.
Her eyes searched yours for several quiet seconds. You couldn't tell what she was looking for. Whether she was trying to figure out how much you'd heard.
Whether she'd remembered saying your name. Whether she'd already decided it didn't matter.
A tear slipped down her cheek before she brushed it away. She looked back toward the door for only a moment.
When she turned to you again, her expression softened.
"Take care of yourself." She walks away.
Not him. Yourself.
Before you could answer, before you could ask her what she meant, footsteps sounded behind her.
You looked up.
Bucky stopped in the doorway so abruptly it was almost as if he'd walked into a wall.
Every bit of color drained from his face.
His eyes landed on you.
Then on Claire’s back. Then back to you.
His entire body went still.
Neither of you spoke. Your pulse pounded painfully in your ears. Bucky looked back at you.
Really looked at you.
His breathing became uneven.
His jaw tightened so hard you thought you heard his teeth grind together.
"You fucking heard it." It wasn't a question. It was horror. Pure, unmistakable horror.
"Buck..."
"How long?" His voice was rough enough to scrape. "How long were you standing there?"
You opened your mouth. "I came to use the restroom." He stared at you, "I heard your voices and I froze."
"You froze."
"I know how that sounds."
He let out a short, hollow laugh, dragging a hand over his face. Silence settled heavily between you.
"I should've walked away," you said quietly. "I know that."
"For fuck's sake,” He wasn't looking at you anymore. He was staring at the floor, pulling on his short hair with his flesh hand, ”This is a fucking nightmare."
The words weren't cruel. If anything, they sounded defeated.
"I never meant to. I couldn't make myself leave."
His eyes snapped back to yours. For a split second, anger flashed across his face.
"So you stayed." The accusation hung in the air.
"I didn't know what to do.”
He took a terrifying step towards you.
"You walked away from every goddamn briefing where people started talking classified before."
"I know."
"So why the hell not this time?"
The question hit you like a punch.
You didn't have an answer. Because you didn't know. Because somewhere between hearing Claire say, I love you, your feet had simply refused to move.
Your silence answered him.
He watched your face for another long moment.
Whatever anger had been there disappeared almost instantly.
It left behind something infinitely harder to look at; humiliation.
"Shit." The word came out so quietly it barely sounded like a curse. He closed his eyes, “You heard all of it."
You couldn't lie. Your eyes filled.
"I'm sorry."
Another long silence.
He gave a slow, defeated shake of his head.
"Goddamn it." He laughed once under his breath.
There wasn't an ounce of humor in it.
"Buck—"
"No."The single word wasn't angry. It was exhausted, “I can't.” He swallowed hard, unable to meet your eyes for more than a second, “I can't do this right now."
For a moment, it looked like he wanted to say something else.
An explanation or an apology. Maybe even ask what you'd heard.
Instead, he looked away.
Without another word, he stepped around you and disappeared down the hallway.
The silence he left behind somehow felt even louder than the conversation you'd just overheard.
Present
“New rule," Tony said. "Anyone with access to classified ops gets a behavioral reassessment. Barnes, congratulations. You're first.”
{… the questions will be done of course in a safe environment, we have a safe house ready. And questions will be asked by our lovely and wonderful friend here,” He squeezes you tight around the shoulders, “Y/N.”}
The steady hum of the engine filled the space between you, interrupted only by the occasional sound of the driver's radio from somewhere beyond the privacy partition separating the front seats.
Across from you, Bucky sat with his forearms resting loosely against his thighs, his attention fixed somewhere near the floor instead of the scenery passing outside.
He hadn't acknowledged your presence once. Not while gathering his things in his room. After everything that had happened outside that restaurant, perhaps you shouldn't have expected anything different.
A full week had passed, yet the memory remained as vivid as if it had happened the night before. You still remembered the sound of Claire crying behind the restaurant door. Bucky's voice breaking when he admitted that love wasn't the problem. The look on his face when he stepped into the hallway and realized you'd heard every word neither of them had ever intended another person to hear.
Since then, the two of you had become experts at existing around one another without ever truly interacting.
It wasn't hostility. If anything, the distance felt almost painfully polite, as though neither of you knew where to begin after the humiliation of that night and had silently agreed that saying nothing was somehow easier.
You weren't entirely convinced it would stay that way for much longer.
In less than an hour, the two of you would arrive at a secluded safe house where, for the next day, your only responsibility would be sitting across from one another in a room designed for complete honesty.
Hi guys! i’ll continue updating this week with the chapters I already have done. Sorry I didn’t update too much Friday-Sunday. I don’t work on weekends and instead like to spend all time with my baby girl and my hot hubby. But I didn’t forget you. 😊❤️
Hi! I remember reading your work on wattpad at least half a decade ago 😂 Never Again just popped up on my dash the other day and I wanted to tell you how much I’m enjoying it… almost at the point where they meet!
HI! Oh BABE it's about to get REAL. I hope you enjoy it. Please let me know your thoughts on it!
I'll be adding the "next chapter" to the end of all the chapters now so it's easier for you guys to navigate. Sorry I hadn't had the chance to yet. I had most of these chapters already written so that part is easy and it's why they are coming out fast, but I haven't had time to do the technicalities. Doing it now!
