Mean It
Summary: You and Bucky get trapped overnight in the safe house after a mission. Everything should be okay, except he's your ex and thanks to his carelessness, the situation gets a little more complicated.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word count: 7,887
Warnings: Smut (sex pollen, slightly non/con only due to the circumstances but both parties are consenting, fingering, vaginal penetration). Swearing. Angst with a happy ending. (18+ only please).
A/N: This is my submission for @saiyanprincessswanie 2.5k follower challenge. I chose the trope sex pollen. Congratulations, Missy!! You deserve all the love and all the followers. You are truly such an amazing person. Anyways, hope you enjoy this! It was my first time writing sex pollen so hopefully it isn’t awful 😅 Happy reading! 💜💜
A blur of white crystalline flecks swirls against the dark backdrop of nightfall, a taunting dance as you watch through a small window of the safe house. Staring dumbly, you helplessly watch as thick layers of snow blankets over the wooded area. On any other given night you’d find the scene beautiful, mesmerizing even, but not tonight, because this is not how things were supposed to go.
The mission was supposed to take a few hours. A simple in and out plan; get the intel and anything else seemingly worth of value, engage only if needed, and get home. Getting stuck overnight at the safe house was not part of the plan, but it seemed Mother Nature had other ideas when she decided to conjure up the biggest snow storm Eastern Europe has seen in years.
“Fuck me,” you grumble with a sigh, hands perched on your hips.
“As you wish,” a voice from behind replies in a teasing tone.
The comment elicits another sigh, a deeper one this time, full of frustration at the situation and annoyance for who you’re stuck with. Turning on the ball of your foot, you shoot daggers at your partner before rolling your eyes.
Bucky laughs at your exasperation, and it only spurs his teasing on more.
“Could be worse,” he muses, kneeling down in front of the old fireplace. He quickly gets to work on placing a few logs in the center, dousing them with lighter fluid and igniting a match. The room is instantly bathed in a warm, yellow glow.
“No,” you remark sternly, “It cannot be worse. This is my literal nightmare.” Each word is punctuated with the rough shrill of velcro coming undone as you walk away from the window. The sound slices through the air, along with the clicks of buckles before you remove your tactile vest completely and toss it harshly onto the worn couch in the middle of the room. “And to top it all off, tonight is date night.”
“Oh, date night?” Bucky asks in a mocking tone, complete with a faux puppy-dog pout.
Your leather gloves are ripped off your hands and slammed onto a small table by the couch, evidence of your dwindling patience. “Shut up.”
“What?” He chuckles, clearly enjoying the irritation emanating from you. “I just don’t understand what you see in the guy.” He casually walks over to the wooden dining table that sits off to the side.
Another ice cold stare, irritation hardening your jaw and the corners of your eyes. “Enough.”
This time, Bucky rolls his eyes and mumbles something under his breath you don’t quite catch. He turns around to begin sorting through the documents the two of you recovered from the Hydra base.
Gently chewing on the inside of your cheek, you take a moment to watch him and wonder how the two of you ended up here—and you don’t mean snowed in and trapped in a safe house for the night.
The bitter wall of resentment that’s been built up between you over time has left you emotionally drained and, if you’re being honest, deeply hurt. It wasn’t always this way, though. At one time, Bucky was your sole source of all things love and happiness, but he’s always known exactly what buttons to push.
Being partners stuck in a safe house is one thing. Being exes and stuck in a safe house is a whole different ballpark.
You now wish you would’ve agreed with Steve’s initial hesitancies to send you and Bucky on this mission alone, despite your reassurance you’ve both managed to maintain a professional relationship. Which is true.
Flashbacks to the earlier mission attest to that—your seamless fighting styles and communication haven’t been affected by the fallout of your relationship. Each mission is completed smoothly and efficiently with as little damage taken as possible. If only the two of you managed to figure out how to make it work outside the field, too.
“Hey,” Bucky’s voice brings you back to the present, “are you gonna help me with this? I”m not doing all this paperwork by myself.”
“Yes, I’m gonna help,” you grumble, marching over to him and snatching the paper he holds. “I want this done before we leave so we don’t have to worry about it when we get back.” You plop down into a chair, pulling out a Stark tablet from one of the black duffle bags, and begin the tedious task of documenting the details of the mission.
“And why is that?” Bucky questions nonchalantly, taking the seat across from you. “So you can go see what’s-his-face the second we get back?” He leans back in the chair, interlacing his fingers and placing his hands behind his head.
“You know his name,” you reply flatly, not even bothering to spare him a glance.
“Oh, right, Todd.”
“Tom.”
“Whatever.”
Finally, you look up to him from the tablet you hold. “What is your problem with him?” You ask, frustration lacing around the syllables, but there’s a hint of genuine curiosity hidden between the words.
“No problem,” Bucky replies smoothly with a shoulder shrug. “I just don’t think he’s good enough for you.” He holds your stare, daring you to look away as he speaks with conviction.
There’s a slight quirk to your brow, a sardonic laugh falling from your lips at his words. “What? And you were?”
Bucky’s hands fall to his lap, a tight clench growing in his jaw as he sighs deeply through his nose. He holds your gaze for a moment longer, serious and slightly sad, before he drops it to the table and responds, “Let’s just finish this.”
An hour or so passes, and you’re only halfway through the post-mission reports. You’ve silently cursed Steve for sending you on this mission only once or twice, but you’ve lost count of the times you’ve cursed SHIELD and their repetitive documentation. Bucky, in his typical fashion, has been minimal help with the true detailing of the mission happenings; usually only offering elaborate recalls of his super human abilities.
“You did not take down five Hydra agents with one bullet,” you comment evenly, continuing to type and ignoring his false recounts.
“Sure I did,” he responds. He sits back in the small wooden chair, propping his feet on the table as he tosses a small vial in his hands. “You were looking the other way.”
You suppress an eye roll, placing the tablet onto the table. “Stop fucking around before you break something,” you snap, fed up with his uselessness.
“Will you relax,” he replies calmly. “I’m not going to—“ but the rest of that sentence gets stuck in the back of his throat as he overshoots a toss and misses the glass cylinder.
It all happens in an instant—the vial catches on the tips of Bucky’s fingers, both jumping to your feet, yelling to not let it break. But as the vial crashes to the floor, the red liquid inside spilling onto the aged wooden floorboards, it feels like time slows to a complete standstill.
Silence settles over the cabin then. The faint crackling of the fire is the only noise as you and Bucky stare in shock at the small pool of scarlet. Waiting for something, anything to happen, but nothing comes.
“What the fuck, Bucky?!” You cry, the sound of your voice slicing through the thickened air. “What is wrong with you?!”
“It was an accident!”
“I told you to stop and look what happens! Why don’t you ever listen to me?!”
“Will you just re—“
“Don’t,” you retort, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Do not tell me to relax. We have no clue what was in that vial and now it’s all over the floor, and probably seeping into the air as we speak.” A gasp falls from your lips, slipping through a shaky hand that covers them, as panic begins to settle in. “Fuck, Bucky, we don’t know what was in there! What if it kills us?!” Your eyes grow wide, tears brimming at your lower lash line.
He sighs heavily. “Sweetheart, please take a deep breath. We’re not going to die.”
Any other time the pet name would’ve had you stopping, tossing a snide, and probably hurtful, remark at him to not call you that—that he can’t call you that anymore. But in this moment, it falls on deaf ears, and you unknowingly ignore the squeeze in your chest his terms of endearment always elicit.
“You don’t know that!” You feel a tear slip down your cheek and you step away from Bucky and the stain, beginning to pace in front of the fireplace. “Fuck, this is so bad.”
“Everything is going to be okay,” Bucky begins, reaching for his coat and sliding his arms into the sleeves. “I’m gonna go get the hazmat kit from the Quinjet, and I’ll clean it up.”
Worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, you look to him and nod.
“I’ll be right back.”
You watch as he slips out the front door, a gust of icy wind sweeping through the small living room. Instinctively, you wrap your arms around yourself in an effort to warm yourself and calm your nerves.
Bucky returns not even five minutes later with a hard, black case. In an attempt to save yourself from any of the harmful effects of the liquid, you remain on the other side of the room, and allow Bucky to clean up his literal mess. He removes his coat and places a mask over his face before slipping on a pair of rubber gloves. From inside the case, he pulls out a few microfiber towels and spray bottles. With your thumbnail lodged between your teeth, you anxiously watch him work in silence.
“Okay,” Bucky sighs, dropping the last towel inside a black bag. “It’s all cleaned up.” He gives the floor one last spray before taking the trash bag to the front door and tossing it outside. Then, he turns to you. Concern colors his features, crinkling his brow and softening the corners of his eyes. “Are you okay?”
Still in a slight state of shock, you can only nod, eyes wide in worry.
“Do you feel okay?” He presses, slowly walking towards you.
You quietly nod again.
When he gets about a foot away, he places two large hands—one warm, one cool—on your upper arms. A gentle squeeze from both to ensure you’re still with him, his eyes searching yours. “Y/n,” he tries, “tell me you’re alright.”
Blinking several times, you can feel traces of rogue tears trailing down the skin of your cheeks, but then you’re nodding your head and taking a deep breath. “I’m…I’m okay.”
His hands don’t move, and you would never admit it, but his touch has always been a source of comfort for you. Even now, when you no longer can seek him out for it. With one final squeeze to your arms, Bucky drops his hands to his side and he lets out a breath.
“Maybe we should call it a night.”
Bucky turns to walk back over to the table to begin collecting the files and tablet, sliding them into a bag. A weight still sits on your shoulders, your feet like lead, holding you in place by the fire. It heats your legs; the warmth seeping through the fabric of your tact pants, and it would be unbearable, except, you’re more concerned with the heat spreading from within.
“Y/n,” Bucky softly calls out to you, “bed?”
“Ye—yeah,” voice sticking, you clear your throat and try again, “Yeah, bed.” Without giving Bucky another glance, you sweep a shoulder against him. When you reach the door to one of the bedrooms, it shuts with a definitive slam.
On the other side, you stand with your back against the wooden slab, chest heaving as you try to ignore the obscure feeling that something is off. Instead, you kick off your boots and crawl into the bed. Normally, you would’ve whined and complained about the hard mattress and scratchy sheets, but your mind is miles away from this small cabin. It isn’t until you hear the distant sound of the other bedroom door closing that you attempt to get some sleep.
______________________________________________________________
It’s hot. So unbearably hot.
Your shirt and tact pants were discarded hours ago, leaving you only in your underwear and tank top; the blankets kicked off soon after. Even with the single window open in the middle of a snow storm, your body is still on fire. Sweat soaked through the thin sheets, dampening the fabric an uncomfortable amount. And as you continue to toss and turn, limbs thrashing from discomfort, you realize the sheets aren’t the only thing that’s damp.
You tried to ignore it. Tried to forget and tell yourself that’s not what this is. But as the minutes ticked by and your body grew hotter and hotter, the aching between your thighs screamed at you that this is definitely what you so desperately wished it wasn’t.
A fucking sex tonic.
Of course the one vial Bucky had to fuck around with consisted of a serum designed to make its recipients sexually aroused beyond reason; a feral experience until the ache is satiated.
You almost had enough sense to chastise yourself for not recognizing it sooner. The serum was only a myth until Steve and Nat found remnants of it on a mission a few months ago. Bruce was able to run some tests on it, and the findings even made the Hulk squirm.
But your mind is clouded with unquenched desire, the ache between your legs radiating into your lower abdomen now. A throbbing cramp has you curling over into the fetal position, a weak sob wracking through you as you press your face into the damp pillow, willing it all to stop.
From what you can remember of Bruce’s presentation, your options are very limited. You could wait for the serum to run its course, with the small chance it won’t send you into a pain induced coma. You could try to satiate the need yourself, but he warned this could also have a counter-effect, making the pain so unbearable you end up in a coma anyways. Or, and really what seems to be your only option, you engage in coitus.
Another cry rips from your lungs, the piercing pain continuing to uncomfortably pulsate under your skin, as you realize the only person who could help is the last person you would want to ask. Instead, you have a brief moment of lucidness and you allow your stubborn nature to take over.
Slowly, you shift to lay on your back, tears slipping out of the corners of your eyes and trailing down your temples. With a shaky hand, you slide it under the elastic of your underwear in search of some relief. The fabric, damp and tacky with your arousal, brushes against your knuckles, but the second the pad of your middle finger touches your swollen clit, a sharp sting shoots up your body. It rips you apart, like a knife stabbing mercilessly at your insides and slicing you open; punishment for not doing what the serum is designed for.
A pitiful whine falls from your lips followed by a cry. It’s the only thing you can do as you roll back onto your side, pinching your legs together. The lust induced fever reaches unbearable heights, your consciousness waning when a new prickling sensation of needles all over your body takes over. It immediately has you resenting your stubbornness.
Then, a rough, almost desperate, knock breaks you from your thoughts. Through your delirium, it takes you a moment to gauge if it was real or not. But when you hear it again, you deduce it wasn’t a hallucinated side-effect of the serum.
On trembling limbs, you manage to get out of the bed. As you stand upright, you take a moment to grasp the nightstand. Dizziness swirls around your head, the room spinning as you attempt to discern up from down before taking the five, agonizing steps to the door.
With great effort, you turn the knob and pull the door open. On the other side, Bucky appears. Through blurry vision you can see he’s drenched in sweat, too. His long hair sticks to the sides of his face as a sheen of sweat glistens off his forehead. A flush like a blooming rose stains the shiny skin across his chest, reflecting off the moonlight as it rises and falls in rapid motions.
He clenches his hands into fists, but overall, he seems in a bit more control of his body than you, most likely in due part to the other serum that flows through his veins. But when you meet his gaze, there’s a burning, untamed desire spiraling in the depths of blue, blowing his pupils wide, and you realize his control is holding on by a feeble thread.
Seeing him ignites a new fire within you, and it takes you back to before. To a time when things were simple, and there were no defensive walls between you. To a time when you called him yours.
It forces you to let your guard down, and you nearly fall into his arms, whining, “Bucky…”
He catches you, scooping you into his arms and carrying you back to bed. Gently, he lays you atop the drenched mattress, his sinewy figure hovering over yours. He’s close, so close, and that fact alone is enough to make you lightheaded.
A blinding wave of lust crashes over you when you’re hit with a scent that you can only describe as him; musky with a hint of spice. But there’s a trace of something tangy you pick up on, and when you glance to the bulge in his boxers, you know it’s his arousal. The thought induces an uncontrollable throb to pulsate through your core, its effects rippling with pain and you cry out instinctively.
Bucky can only stare at you as he assesses the situation. He’s in his own world of discomfort, you’re sure of it. He can smell you on any normal given day, so you can only imagine what kind of restraint he’s using in this moment when his senses are in overdrive.
“Sweetheart, please tell me you didn’t try to touch yourself,” he pleads when he realizes how much agony you really are in.
Sobbing, you can only nod. A pattern of crescent moons indent into the clammy skin of his back as you dig your fingers into it, an attempt to hold onto something to ground yourself and take the pain away.
He lets out a sigh, one you think is mixed with slight frustration at your refusal to never ask him for help and genuine concern over your wellbeing.
“Please,” you cry again. “Help me.”
Biting through his bottom lip, Bucky can taste copper. His hands clutch at the sheets on either side of your head. The whirs of his left arm fill the heated space as it incessantly grinds from tension; the muscles of his right arm almost bulging out of their flesh confines. A rush of conflicted emotions scatters over every inch of his face; desire, guilt, a tortured sadness, love.
He wants to help you. Hell, he needs help himself, but even through the fierce blaze of pain his body is going through, his moral compass remains strong, and he doesn’t want to make you do anything you would regret.
“I don’t want…I can’t…” he stammers. “You’re with somebody else.”
“Bucky, I don’t give a fuck about that!” You scream, finding your voice through the pain. “If this doesn’t stop soon, I’ll kill you myself before this fucking serum can do it.” Sweat continues to build along your hairline, beading and dripping. Gripping his face, you hold him an inch away to ensure he hears you loud and clear. “I need you.”
The remaining shreds of hesitancy and decency Bucky clung to instantly flies out the open window, catching in the freezing wind and lost to the blizzard. With a firm hand, Bucky reaches behind your neck and crashes his lips to yours. The cool metal of his hand alleviates some of the feverishness, a brief moment of respite, but it’s the feeling of his lips moving against yours, the knowing of what’s to come, that brings you most relief.
A light brush of his clothed erection against your leg has Bucky on the verge of crying, skin crawling with need. His symptoms started after yours, he deduced by the looks of your state when you answered the door, but it doesn’t mean he’s in any less anguish. Everything from the angry red tip of his cock to the sensitive skin around his sac aches in the most unpleasant way.
Leaning closer to you, Bucky rests his chest against yours, only feeling slightly satiated as his body begs for more. But the pressure has you pulling back, sucking in a pained hiss through clenched teeth.
“It hurts,” you whine, eyes scrunched closed in hopes to mentally will the pain away.
Bucky glances down to your covered torso. Through the thin fabric of your tank top, he can see your peaked nipples straining against the white cotton. Without another thought, he slides his hands underneath and removes it one quick motion. In the next, he swirls his hot, wet tongue over one bud before encasing his lips around it, gently sucking at the needy flesh.
“Ahhh!” You cry breathily.
Desperate fingers tangle in his sweaty locks, pulling at the scalp as he tends to one breast then the other. The ache in your abdomen is beginning to subside, but it’s still not enough. Instinctively, you start bucking your hips up to meet his.
“I need it, please. I need you,” you whine into the top of his head, taking a deep breath as his delicious pheromones continue to invade your senses.
Stopping his motions, Bucky brings his lips back to yours for another bruising kiss. His flesh hand immediately begins to descend over your stomach, slipping under the hemline of your panties. He feels how wet you are; how incredibly, impossibly wet you are, and his cock jumps in his boxers at the feel of your warm arousal covering his digits.
This time when your clit is touched, there is no shooting pain, only a blooming sense of relief, and it sends a wave of goosebumps over your entire body. A choked moan sticks in your throat, tears welling in your eyes and spilling out.
“Yes,” you sigh.
Fingers still twisted in his hair, Bucky tends to your neck with sloppy kisses, the short hairs of his stubble scratchy against your skin. Small ripples of satisfaction pulse through your core at Bucky’s continued ministrations, the squelching sound of two thick fingers moving in and out of your heat condenses the heavy air. But it only lasts a few minutes before your body is burning up again; twisting your insides and reprimanding for not giving it what it needs.
“Bucky.”
Releasing the hold you have on his hair, your hands trail down his sides to his lower abdomen. The bristly hairs below his naval tickle your palm as you slip a hand under the elastic of his boxers. His cock is achingly hard when you wrap your fingers around it, thick and heavy, velvety soft in your hold. It’s the hardest you’ve ever felt and you wonder how he’s been able to restrain himself for this long. Gently, you sweep your thumb over the weeping tip, his pre-arousal hot and sticky.
A guttural groan, deep and pained, erupts from his chest, reverberating against the skin of your neck. Bucky shudders on top of you, body going slightly limp as he allows himself to bask in the brief moment of respite. God, he missed being touched by you.
“Please.”
Finally, Bucky picks his head up. His eyes are wide, a crazed, animalistic look glazing over the usual calm ocean blue, but there’s a flash of concern that cracks through.
“Are you ready? I don’t wan—“
“Yes, I’m fucking ready,” you grit out. “Now stop acting like you aren’t also dying for this and fuck me already.”
In a blur of heady movements, Bucky removes his boxers and rips your panties off, leaving you both stark naked together for the first time in a long time. Settling between your thighs, Bucky lines himself up at your entrance, your core already throbbing in anticipation. He easily sinks in, a chorus of moans breaking out when he passes the threshold, the first sense of real relief you’ve both felt all night.
When he bottoms out, it's the fullest you’ve ever felt. It’s an unexplainable feeling that has you wanting to claw your skin off at how amazing the sensation is; the ache almost satisfied.
Bucky nearly collapses on top of you. Also momentarily blissed out from the euphoric sense of relief, his forearms catch himself just before he crushes you with his weight. You’ve always been tight, but this, this has his toes curling and fingers gripping desperately at the headboard, willing himself to keep it together and not manically drive into you.
“Fuck,” he groans, and you can feel his body trembling against yours.
Nails dig into the slick skin of his lower back, pulling him into you briefly before demanding, “Move.”
Without having to be told twice, Bucky lets go and retracts his hips before relentlessly pounding into you. A scream rips from your lungs, and you think you could be on the verge of passing out. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes around the room, blending with muffled grunts and strangled moans.
“Always so tight,” Bucky groans against your open mouth. “So good for me.” He peppers kisses over your face, wiping a gentle hand over your forehead to remove some of the sweat that’s built up before using it to cradle the back of your head.
Your body is alight with a tingling desire, tuning you into every minute feeling; each veiny ridge of his cock drags against your silk walls, the coarse hairs at the base tickling your slick folds each time he reaches the hilt, a delicious full pressure filling you up. It creates a burning friction that has you already clenching around him, and your only reaction is to bury your face into his neck, nipping at the flesh there.
Bucky growls, his chest vibrating against yours. Blindly, he reaches for your right thigh with his metal hand, hiking it high over his hip. The new, deeper angle has you pulling your mouth away from his neck to blissfully cry out. The springs of the cheap mattress continuously prod at your lower back as Bucky shifts his weight to increase the force of his thrusts.
Above you, Bucky is teetering on the edge of losing all control and giving in to the innate primal urge clawing its way out, begging to be released. But the super soldier serum allows him to keep one hand on the wheel, and he’s grateful for that. At least one of you can keep a semi-level head in this situation—one that he’s to blame for. As he watches you, though, squirming under him from uncontrollable need, feeling you clench down around him over and over again, whimpering in a blissed out daze, his willpower is faltering.
With every rough snap of his hips, he feels you getting closer, the tip of his cock repeatedly hitting the sweet spot inside you. He’s mindful to not leave any marks; a partly coherent piece of him still aware enough to not leave any physical traces on you of this god awful event. The vibranium grip he has on your thigh loosens.
He’s careful to not leave a mark, but he lets you. From the bruising kisses already purpling on his neck to the harsh red lines scratched down his back, he lets you. And he silently curses the serum’s rapid healing effects, knowing he’ll only have these reminders for a short while. To remind him when you were his again, even if it isn’t in the way he wanted, he could still fool himself.
Two trembling arms snake around Bucky’s neck, your quivering thighs tighten against his hips. There’s a new throbbing ache, a building soreness, between your legs, but this time, it’s welcomed. Your insides begin to twist, the chord of pleasure straining for release.
Bucky momentarily frees your thigh from his hold to slip his metal hand between your sweat covered bodies. The typically cool metal is hot against your swollen clit as he rubs generous circles over it, pushing you closer to the edge of euphoria.
“Don’t stop,” you pant against the shell of his ear. “Please don’t stop.”
It takes only a few more rapid thrusts before your skin begins to prickle with the sensation of pins and needles. A contradiction of pain and pleasure emanating from your core, overwhelming you as the chord snaps and your entire body engulfs in flaming elation. It ceases your breathing, has your eyes rolling into the back of your head, vision blurred and whited out.
“Fuck, yes!” You cry out between strangled sobs, arms and legs securing firmly around Bucky.
Tightly clenching around him, Bucky nearly chokes on air, the tightest you’ve ever been, and he’s determined to reach his own release. His skin is on fire, body blazing with need and his rational mind slips as he finally gives in. Viscously snapping his hips into you, he’s so close he can almost taste it. A wild rush courses through him, egging him on and clouding his mind.
“My best girl,” he pants by your ear, face buried in the pillow you rest on, “my only girl.”
He continues to pound into you, his thrusts faltering every now and then when he feels a fluttering aftershock of your orgasm. “Love you,” he breathes between nips and kisses along your slack jaw, one hand gripping the back of your neck, the other gripping onto the underside of your thigh again, “so much.”
The words dissolve into the mist of your sex fueled haze and they’re quickly forgotten about as you blindly agree you love him too. He bites down gently on the skin of your shoulder, a feral growl reverberates through his entire body as he releases inside you, and he forces himself in as deep as he can go. So much for not leaving any marks.
The two of you stay like that for a moment, bodies trembling and hearts thundering wildly in your chests, competing against one another as you come down from the intense high. Like a thick fog, the lustful intoxication of the serum dissipates, clearing your minds and allowing the harsh reality of the situation to settle in.
A chill fills the room, a breath of wind spilling in from the open window, causing you to shudder beneath him. It’s the only thing you can really feel as a numbing after effect consumes you.
Bucky feels you slightly shaking and lifts up, letting go of your thigh and you let it limply fall to the mattress. Resting on one hand, Bucky uses the other to grip the base of his cock, slowly removing it from inside you. You both watch as he reappears covered in your mixed juices. Pained hisses cut through the silence when he’s fully out, taking a piece of you with him; or maybe it’s one he’s always had. An uncomfortable emptiness leaves you feeling hollow in more ways than one.
Then, Bucky is looking to you. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” He searches your eyes for any indication that you’re in any form of discomfort.
You don’t respond; only stare blankly up at him for a moment before sliding your legs out from under him and gently push off the bed. Silently, you gather your clothing that was discarded in a feverish state of pain and desire, not even bothering to take the time to search for your underwear Bucky carelessly threw somewhere. As you move around the room, the warm stickiness of his spend begins to trail down your inner thigh, hastening your effort to get cleaned up. Without another glance in his direction, you slip out of the room and into the bathroom across the hall.
Cool, refreshing water cascades over your skin, simmering the boil of surging emotions inside. Anger at Bucky’s carelessness; guilt at cheating on your partner; and confusion at the newfound adoration you thought was buried long ago, when you and Bucky decided it was no longer working between you.
It’s difficult for you to discern when your feelings towards Bucky started blossoming again. You could easily brush it off as a lingering side effect of the serum—a slight emotional attachment to the person who took your pain away. But you know it’s so much more than that. If anything, tonight has brought to light all the feelings you’ve been trying to suppress for far too long.
Moments of catching yourself staring longer than you should; being secretly excited when assigned on missions together, despite outwardly protesting your discontent for the situation; nights spent wondering about the what ifs and could have beens.
The raging storm of confusion elicits a deep frustrated grumble. Slipping your head under the running water, you pray for it to help make sense of everything swirling around inside it.
The pipes squeak and groan as you cut off the water, drying off and redressing. But before you slip your shirt back on, you catch sight of a reddened mark on your right shoulder in the mirror. Grazing light fingers over it, you harshly bite down on your bottom lip to stop the threat of tears. Quickly, you drag your shirt over your head and cover it up, trying to forget that Bucky had been yours once again, if only for a moment. But there’s still a dull ache throbbing between your legs, radiating up into your chest and clamping around your heart, and you pull on every fiber in your being to not cry at the thought of it.
Opening the bathroom door, you peek out into the hallway, searching for any sign you’re not alone. When you don’t see one, you step out but stop before going back into your room.
The door hangs open, a clear view of tangled sheets and a fading imprint on the mattress the only remaining signs of what just occurred. The ache slightly intensifies the longer you stare at it. Instead, you opt to sleep on the couch in the living room.
The fire burned out hours ago, the room only illuminated now by the bright moon hanging outside the window. Laying on the couch, a numbness settles over your body, glassy eyes staring at the pulsating glow of the small pile of embers. Only a few minutes pass before you finally cave, crumbling into yourself as you allow the new wave of internal pain to take over, and you cry.
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A soft weighted sensation stirs you from your sleep the next morning, and you have to quickly reach out to stop the blanket that covers you from slipping onto the floor. Gripping it, your brows knit together as curious eyes scan over the fabric. You don’t recall getting the blanket at any point during the night, and you slowly sit up to place it on the cushion beside you.
The front door opens, and you snap your head in the direction to see Bucky’s large figure appearing in the room, stomping his feet to rid his boots of snow. Instinctively, your eyes squint from the brightness of the sun reflecting on the whiteness outside, raising a hand to shield it. When Bucky catches sight that you’re awake, he stops his motions and stares at you.
His cerulean eyes are always brighter in the morning, something you remember from before, but no longer allow yourself to bask in. This morning, however, they’re a sad shade of grey; dull, puffy, and slightly red around the rim. A flicker of remorse flashes across his features as he notices your own disheveled state.
He uneasily clears his throat, dropping your gaze to remove the gloves from his hands. “The Quinjet is all packed. I figured you’d want to leave as soon as possible.” He clutches both gloves in one hand, looking to you once again. “I’m ready when you are.”
Blinking away the tears that burn the back of your eyes, you nod your head. “Okay.”
Almost like a hangover, you’re still a bit lightheaded from the after effects of the serum and your night of crying, wobbling a bit when you stand on two feet. In hopes to steady your equilibrium, you press the base of your palms into your eyes, taking a few deep breaths.
“Are you okay?” Bucky softly asks, voice ripe with worry.
“I’m fine.” The words scratch their way out, your throat sore from
Without another word, you collect your belongings and rush out to the Quinjet, leaving Bucky to follow behind you. Settling in, you choose to sit as far away from him as possible, your skin already crawling at the prospect of sitting in an uncomfortable silence for the next four hours with your ex-boyfriend.
Your ex-boyfriend who you reluctantly had between your legs no less than eight hours ago.
The faint throb returns, constricting your chest, and you shift to turn away from him. Even from the pilot’s seat, you can feel Bucky’s stare burning through you. You shift again, curling your legs up and tucking an arm under your head in an attempt to get comfortable enough to hopefully fall asleep, and ignore the awkward tension brewing between you.
Once you’re finally back at the Compound, you can’t get off the Quinjet fast enough. As you land, Bucky rhetorically tells you he’ll finish up the rest of the post-mission paperwork, ensuring you won’t have to worry about it. You only nod before leaving him alone to retreat back to your room.
Five long days pass in a blur.
Nat came to check on you soon after you returned home. You internally debated telling her what happened, but the more you tried to keep it to yourself, the more it ate away at you. Once the initial shock wore off, she insisted you go to the med lab to get checked out, and then asked what you were going to do now.
You could only answer honestly when you said, “I don’t know.”
You knew you had to talk to Tom. The thought alone created a rock of dread that sat heavy in your stomach, but it was nothing compared to the thought of having to talk to Bucky.
It’s on the sixth day you finally manage to muster up enough courage to talk to the man you’ve been avoiding for almost a week. You haven’t seen Bucky since you returned home, mindful to keep your distance and you’re sure he tried to keep his, too. A few times you heard him coming and going from his room, and you think there was one night he lingered outside your door before he decided against coming to you.
The sound of his door closing breaks you from your thoughts, head snapping in the direction of the wooden barrier currently between you. Gently chewing on the inside of your cheek, you ponder for another moment before you ultimately decide to just get it over with, rip the metaphorical bandaid off and be done with it. Standing up from the chair you sit on, you take a deep and go to him.
Hesitantly, you raise a fisted hand to his door, knocking softly. You wait, your fingers wringing together as anxiety curdles in your stomach, and you almost turn to leave, but the door suddenly whips open. Bucky stands before you with a slight dip in his brow, eyes uncertain as he regards you, waiting for you to speak.
“Um,” you begin, voice low and shy, “can we talk?”
He remains silent, stepping to the side to open the door for you to enter. You falter, taking a step before second guessing if this is even a good idea, and you almost run back to your room until you stop yourself. Stop being dumb.
Bucky closes the door once you’re inside, and you’re suddenly hyperaware of the fact you’re alone with him once again when he turns to face you. Goosebumps prick at your skin, the anxiety twisting your insides that much more.
“How are you?”
The weakness of your voice has you internally wincing. You’ve been with this man countless times before, fought with and against him, and all of a sudden you’re a fragile mess before him? No, you’re stronger than that. Pulling your shoulders back, you raise your chin as you wait for him to respond.
“I’ve been better,” he replies evenly.
You slowly nod. “I assume you went to see Bruce,” you begin, and continue once he confirms, “and I assume everything was okay?”
He nods.
“That’s good.” You pause to rub your lips together, crossing your arms self-consciously over your midsection. “I told him the tonic took a few hours to take effect, so he thinks it might’ve been old.” Another pause before you sarcastically add, “Still potent once it starts working.”
Pinching his lips together into a thin line, Bucky doesn’t say anything. You notice the dull blue of his eyes, reminding you of the sad, stormy grey they were the morning after in the safe house.
Swallowing thickly, you briefly look away as your brain scatters for something else to say. With your mind distracted by other things, and in your haste to get this whole ordeal over with, you gave little thought to what you would say to him. You open your mouth to say something, what—you aren’t sure—but Bucky beats you to it.
“I really am sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean for any of that to happen.”
There’s a sadness that pulls at the corners of his eyes, a sincerity in his voice, but his words flip a switch inside you. No longer a lost, fragile mess, red begins to cloud your vision, anger seeping into your veins.
“Oh, so you’re finally taking ownership for your actions?” You spit. “That’s nice.”
Bucky lets out a frustrated sigh, rolling his eyes as he looks to the ceiling. “Please don’t do this.”
You choose to ignore him, continuing with your verbal assault and unsubstantiated accusations. “Or did you do it on purpose? Trying to get back in my pants again to prove some kind of sick point that I’ll always be yours? Is that it?”
Incredulity creases Bucky’s brows, his eyes widening at your outburst. “What are you talking about?” He asks, annoyance threading through his rising voice. “How was I supposed to know what it was?”
Clenching your back teeth, you shake your head at him. “Forget it,” you begin, moving to step around him. “Forget I even came here. This was stupid.”
You only make it halfway to the door before Bucky is grasping your upper arm, stopping your movements and swinging you back around to face him.
“No,” he firmly states, “you came here to talk, so let’s talk. This isn’t gonna be like before. I’m not going to let you run away from this.”
“From what?”
“Us.”
A tense silence falls between you, chests heaving as you stare each other down. Finally, Bucky speaks again, releasing your arm and dropping his gaze to the floor.
“What did your boyfriend say?”
Taking another hard swallow, your voice is low when you respond, “We’re not together anymore.”
Bucky swiftly picks his head up to look at you, guilt shining over his pleading eyes. “Please don’t tell me he broke up with you because of my fuck up.”
“No,” you sigh, eyes downcast to the floor. “I broke up with him.”
There’s a brief pause as Bucky processes your words. “Why would you do that?”
The question is simple, but the answer has left you in a tangled mess of emotions. “Because,” you pause, taking another deep breath, “because I realized something.”
“What?”
Gazing back to Bucky, you choose to ignore your conflicted answer, and instead ask him a question of your own. A question you hope will help bring you some form of peace. “Did you mean it?”
“Mean what?” His voice is low, nearly a whisper.
Taking a moment to gather your thoughts, steeling your frenzied nerves, you finally respond, “When we were…together, you said you loved me. Did you mean it?”
Bucky’s eyes widen in surprise, clearly not expecting you to bring that up. It was a slip of the tongue, spoken in the heat of the moment as he was overcome with a crazed desire. He didn’t think you heard it, or at least, didn’t really comprehend what he was saying, but he did mean it. He’s silently loved you from afar every single day since he let you walk away, always too afraid to admit it out loud to himself, and to you.
But he does. He loves you and he means it, every word. And in this moment, he’d rather ingest the sex tonic all over again, allow it to destroy him, than let you slip away a second time.
“Yes,” he replies, voice strong and full of conviction. His eyes hold your stare, watching as they gloss over with unshed tears. “I meant it.”
The confession has a breath catching in your throat. The raging war of confusing thoughts and feelings comes to a cease fire, your inner turmoil surrendering as everything falls back into place.
Without an ounce of hesitation, you reach out for him. Both hands grasp along his jaw, lips crashing onto his. Bucky reacts instantly, gripping your waist to pull you in. His lips are fierce against yours, desperate like a man starved, and his tongue slips out seeking yours.
The kiss is a bittersweet taste of resentment and longing. Tongues gliding against one another as you both forgive and remember what it’s like to be together again. It tastes like home.
Breathless, you pull away, eyes searching his—no longer dull and conflicted, they shine bright with a spark of hopefulness.
“I’m sorry, too,” you softly say, “and I’m willing to try again if you are.”
Bucky lets out a deep, pleased sigh, the beginnings of a smile curling the corner of his mouth. Tenderly, he places a chaste kiss to your lips, your cheek, and wraps two strong arms around you, securing you into a tight embrace.
“I missed you,” he says, the words muffled, his lips pressed against your shoulder.
The beating of your heart stutters at his admission, a pleasant flip in your belly, because you’ve missed him, too. So much, and more than you allowed yourself to admit.
Tightening your arms around his neck, you softly tell him, “I love you, too.”
And you mean it.