i was at a louis tomlinson concert last night & still kept thinking about michael
specifically all the cool music he never got to hear. not that i'm saying his #1 artist would be louis, i just mean in general. sorry to get serious bc i know not everyone wants to hyperfixate on that stuff but man :/ even if he had an old man yells at cloud moment and complained about new music, (which i think he'd maybe be supportive of newer artists, he's so sweet y'know)
idk i just would love to hear his opinions. anyway!
Summary: you and Michael had been friends for as long as you could remember. Best friends. Wasn’t that what best friends did – help each other soothe the hunger and desire? You couldn’t be sure, but you and Michael simply couldn't stop coming to each other's rescue.
Content/Warnings: childhood best friends, practically porn w no plot, 18+ themes (MDNI!), smut, kisses, public oral sex (f!receiving), mentions of cheating, getting caught.
W/c: 1,9k+
Rome, 1977
“Mike, someone will see us...!”
You tried to brush his hands away from the hem of your short linen skirt, which lifted playfully with every gust of wind, exposing patches of your caramel skin. Michael smiled softly, that signature shy grin of his, sliding his hands right back onto your thighs.
“Nobody will see us, we'll be back soon.”
He whispers soothingly, pressing your back against the ruins of an ancient temple dedicated to some Olympian god. The sun-warmed stone heats your spine, which, combined with Michael’s hot breath on your neck, makes you utterly melt in his arms. The nervousness of your absence soon being noticed sends jolts through your body, covering your skin in goosebumps.
“I'm sure Marlon will notice right away… imagine the looks he’ll give us,” you whisper over Michael’s quiet giggling. He just shakes his head as his hands slide up under your blouse. Pleased by the absence of a bra against your chest, he gently rubs your nipples, making you throw your head back in pleasure. Michael takes advantage of this, burying his lips into the crook of your neck.
“Oh God, Mike…” you groan softly, wrapping your arms around his neck. Something hard presses firmly into your thigh, and you unconsciously rub against his cock. He lets out a low whimper, licking up your sweat-dampened neck in a broad, sweeping motion. The salty taste on his tongue drives him crazy, making him shudder and press his groin hard against your hip.
Getting ready for this excursion this morning, you had obvious doubts that even a single outing with your family and the Jacksons would pass without… this. Michael had been overtly hungry these past few days, and you were stepping closer and closer to getting caught red-handed.
Being so close to the Jackson family, you and Michael had been inseparable since childhood – movie nights, sneaking out of the house to wander the city after dark, gossiping about the boys you used to like, and deep, whispered conversations after your very first taste of alcohol. Together, of course.
The older you grew, the more thrilling it became to discover each other from a whole new perspective. The level of comfort between you had always been boundless, allowing you to explore each other's bodies with pure curiosity. Your very first kiss was shared between the two of you, a shy, tentative brushing of lips. But..
“Mike, don’t use your tongue, it’s gross!”
“That’s how adults do it! Come on, you try using your tongue.”
“Ew, no way!”
Such attempts often ended in a pillow fight, which – naturally, you always lost.
Over time, hands began to accompany the kisses, wandering across each other’s bodies and forcing you to shift uncomfortably on the bed from a strange, hot ache between your legs. You watched Michael’s heavy breathing and knew he was feeling the exact same thing.
Once, at one moment you found the boldness to cup his length through his pajama pants. Michael's response was unexpected. He jolted with a sharp cry, and you felt a sudden, warm, sticky moisture spread right beneath your fingertips.
“Mike?.. What’s happening?..”
“I don’t know, but it feels so good..”
When his body finally stopped trembling under your watchful gaze, Michael looked up at you shyly, awkwardly offering a suggestion.
“Do you want me… to help you out… down there?”
He glanced down suggestively as your cheeks burned crimson with embarrassment.
Of course he helped. And it wouldn't be the last time you helped each other out. When Michael went on tour with his brothers, he would call you late at night once everyone else had fallen asleep. You would talk for hours until he started whining about how desperately he missed you. Michael would beg you to tell him exactly how you touched yourself while thinking of him, asking if it made you feel good. Of course, you could never truly please yourself the way he could.
From that moment on, every single family vacation culminated in long, drawn-out kisses in your villa bedroom, before using your hands to bring each other to the edge, both stifling groans to avoid getting caught. It became a routine, entirely normal to you. After all, didn't all friends help each other out like this? He would stick to your side during every walk, the two of you always drifting away from the group, giggling quietly together. Losing sight of you became second nature to both the Jacksons and your parents.
Eventually, this worked perfectly to your advantage.
Inside a museum? You’d wander into a quiet empty hall to steal a few quick kisses from each other’s lips. During a family dinner? You’d sit right next to each other, Michael’s hand softly caressing your thighs, his fingers creeping dangerously high towards your wet panties. It became familiar and expected, almost a routine that passed without any surprises.
And then, out of nowhere, something strange happened. Michael got a girlfriend. You watched his happy face with a sense of confusion as he raved about how wonderful she was. But all your worries vanished away the moment his fingers were inside you right after his story. You had never crossed the line past heavy petting, because Michael didn't intend to “cheat.” And this was just for fun, right? You were just playing around and gaining experience. Nothing more. It was completely normal – you were practically family, and he didn't see you as a “girl” at all.
Yet here Michael is again, sinking to his knees in front of you, bunching up your skirt as you nervously scan the surroundings. Caressing your legs, he nuzzles his cheek against your knees, as if a jealous cat marking his territory with his scent. He lifts up his large, innocent brown eyes, catching your gaze. With a wicked smile, he ducks beneath the light fabric, washing over your damp panties with his hot breath. Resting your spine against the warm stone, you let your eyes shut. A helpless smile blooms on your lips. You absolutely adore this bastard.
Michael presses his lips to the bud of your clit through the sheer fabric of your panties, forcing a sweet arch into your spine. Letting out a low hum, his long fingers firmly cup your buttocks. His tongue glides between your folds, tasting the moisture brought on by the bare thought of having him down there between your legs once again.
Gripping the hem of your skirt in tight fists, you let out a ragged breath. You feel Michael’s cautious touch as he slides the fabric of your panties to the side, breathing in your body's musky fragrance with sheer delight. He uses a finger to spread your thick slick across your pussy and clit, leaving your whole body shivering with heavy anticipation.
“Mike, baby…”
“Mhm?”
You barely hear his quiet question, but you know exactly what he wants to hear. You swallow hard, bracing your hands against the wall behind you.
“Touch me, please, stop… teasing,” you breathe out, unconsciously moving your hips. Accidentally, you brush your clit against Michael’s nose, shuddering from the sudden rush of sensation. He smiles to himself, intentionally nuzzling his nose against your wet cunt, drawing aching moans from you.
“Mike!”
You whimper, biting your lips from the sheer impatience and hot desire pooling between your legs, already on the verge of dripping down your inner thigh. Michael presses his lips to the bead of your clit, sucking gently as your satisfied moans fill the air. He strokes your sweat-dampened legs, adding a faint, tingling touch to the overwhelming sensations. Over the past year, he has memorized exactly how you like it, paying special attention to tender kisses on your most sensitive spots and teasing bites along your thighs.
“Oh, yes… right there… please…”
You twist in his hands, driving your hips against his tongue while stifling your low moans into a tight fist. Suddenly, Michael pushes two fingers into your warmth, eliciting a sharp cry that you immediately choke back with your palm. You glance around in panic, but the waves of pleasure rushing from below completely override your fear.
Michael skillfully moves his fingers within you, stimulating your clit from inside your soft walls. Under the influence of adrenaline and the scorching heat, you know your body won't hold out much longer in this sweet torture. Michael deliberately rubs his nose against your clit, knowing how much you love to ride it. The only thing that makes him love this part of his face.
“God… it feels so incredible… oh, I think I'm gonna…”
You thrust your hips in rhythm as Michael works you over with his tongue and fingers. You can practically feel his grin the moment your walls start throbbing around his fingers. His free hand digs into your thigh with bruising force, eating you out with utter fervor and devotion. Michael's knees are already raw and flushed against the sharp surface of ground with stones, even through his lightweight summer pants, yet he pays it no mind, completely locked onto your pleasure.
His own cock aches with desire, rubbing uncomfortably against the fabric of his boxers and begging for attention, drawing a desperate whine from Michael. Yet he maintains his patient focus on leading you to orgasm, well aware that his reward awaits. Sobbing out praises and pleads, your words dissolve into one continuous prayer dedicated to his tongue and to God, making you feel as if you are hovering at the gates of heaven. Sensing the knot coil deep in your lower belly, you whine helplessly, riding the rhythm of his tongue with slight, helpless hitches.
Hearing your moans, Michael hums in approval, sucking your clit until the very last second, right up until you clamp his head between your thighs, coming violently over his fingers. For a split second, he regrets that he can't see your beautiful face, but the feeling vanishes as he watches, completely mesmerized, as you pulse tightly around his fingers. Your whole body shivers as you grasp blindly for an anchor, desperate to keep your footing on weak, trembling legs. The faint, final moans escape your slick, swollen lips the moment Michael slides his fingers out of your warmth.
Looking down, you watch a drop of translucent, thick moisture trace a path down his hand. Michael deliberately sticks out his tongue to lick the slick from his fingers before sliding both into his mouth with relish, savoring them completely clean. The mere sight causes your thighs to press together once more, fighting back a new wave of arousal.
Rising from his knees, Michael claims your lips without warning, sharing what has quickly become his favorite taste. A moan escapes into the kiss, yet Michael literally swallows the sound down, at that same moment impatiently dry humping your bare hip.
Chuckling against his lips, you give him a gentle push. Glancing around, your eyes meet Marlon’s, who is watching you with a knowing smile. Crimson floods your cheeks, but you place a finger over your lips in a quiet “shh,” pleading with the older Jackson for silence. He flashes a wicked grin, gives a quick wink, and deliberately turns around, steering Jermaine away. A breathless sigh of relief escapes your lips when you turn your attention back to Michael.
“Come on then, hero,” you say, looking at the poor guy, who practically has a silent plea scrolling across his forehead to do something about his arousal before he completely explodes. You giggle, nodding at Michael’s obvious bulge as you pull the bandana off your head to protect your knees. “Pants off. We’ve got a few minutes, honey.”
a collection of all my manager!michael x gn/fem popstar!reader stories. while works are posted out of order, they're sorted chronologically here <3
i. hold the phone! (album)
hold the phone! — reader's first album with manager!michael, a youthful and girly pop album themed around slumber parties, girliness, prank calls, and fun.
what's in the headlines? — the beginning of something amazing. reader and manager!michael form a strong relationship and fun dynamic during this era. michael subtly begins his habit of spending on and spoiling reader. celebratory dinners are hosted by michael for reader every other night.
works for this era:
sugar daddy tendencies
ii. miss connection (album)
miss connection — reader's second album, a return to her girly sound with hints of more mature themes. this album is themed after connections and misconnections, framing reader as cupid.
what's in the headlines? — fame hits hard. everyone is making choices for reader, choosing her look, sound, rival, and even her boyfriend! reader struggles with her love for her new boyfriend and her fondness of her own manager, juggling both men until finally realizing she truly loves michael.
works for this era:
michael's better company, anyways
him & his sexy ass glasses
iii. honestly, (album)
honestly, — reader's third album, a mature exploration of her new self-chosen identity themed around her being the director of her own life.
what's in the headlines? — the messiest era. reader and michael are frequently on and off. both love each other, but fear the consequences of anything permanent. michael reconnects with his ex-wife via co-parenting; reader grows jealous. reader tours this album, selling out stadiums and gaining a reputation for how close she is with her fans.
works for this era:
learning a new lesson (18+)
jealous after an afterparty
it's just the music
iv. intermission (a break in music)
intermission — reader takes a break from music, having established herself thoroughly in the industry.
what's in the headlines? — the resting period. a more domestic time where reader uses her fame to do fun things. reader and manager!michael become official during this era, overcoming doubts and insecurities. reader spends more time with the kids, and the paparazzi and tabloids spread photos of her with them.
works for this era:
none yet!
iv. ask & receive (album)
ask & receive — reader's fourth album. theming tbd.
what's in the headlines? — the victory lap. reader returns to music with a bang. more events tbd.
━ ˙⋆✮ There’s something about mature era!Michael laying on the bed with his back against the headboard, watching you pad around the bedroom in a tiny silk nightgown as you get ready for bed.
You’re telling him about your day and he’s muttering a little “mhmm” and “that sounds nice baby” but he’s hardly listening. Instead, his focus is stolen by the satin material of your pajamas riding further up your thighs with every step you take.
“That the one I bought you?” His question cuts through your rambling, and you stop to find his eyes fixed on the scarlet tinted chiffon wrapped around your body.
“Aren’t they all?” You giggle thinking about the excessive collection of lingerie you’ve acquired since meeting Michael.
He motions you over with the curl of his fingers, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
You oblige, taking a few steps to meet him at the edge of the bed. The gentle pat of his palm lands on the silk stretching across your backside, as he slides a hand around your waist.
“Looks real pretty.” He’s concentrating on the smooth material of your dress as he plays with it between his fingertips.
“Why don’t you just finish up and come to bed.” He lets the silk fall from his fingers, trailing his eyes up your figure until they land on the curve of your lips.
You turn, walking toward the vanity, but not before his hand finds your ass one last time. Fingertips sending you off with a playful swat as his soft chuckle fills the room.
Thank you so much to @ao3herbittersweetness for gifting me these beautiful panels for my WinterGhost fic Dead Ringer! They even look better than how I imagined the scene playing out in my head. I can't seem to look away from them ahhhh
The artist can be found here also!
This is so insane this never happened to me before! So thank you again, @ao3herbittersweetness! You are a joy and forever a wonderful contributor to the Thunderbolts tag :D
Thought to myself: Oh, I'll just bang out a quick one-shot and try writing smut for the first time, and it somehow turned into this monstrosity (sorry for the word count)
Pairing: Avengers!Bucky x Scientist!Reader
Summary: The experimental neurobond was an accident. Getting stuck with Bucky Barnes was just your luck. Now you’re linked—body, mind, and something worse: sexual tension. You’ve got 72 hours to resist him. And every hour, it gets harder to remember why you should...
Warnings: 18+ (mdni!). Explicit Sexual Content. Enemies to Lovers. Forced Proximity. Accidental Neurobond. Shared Dreams. Shared Physical Sensations. Angst. Mutual Pining. Female Masturbation. Oral Sex (f receiving), Dirty Talk, Vaginal Sex. Praise Kink. Creampie. Multiple Orgasms. Post Thunderbolts Setting. Fluff.
Word Count: 16k
You’re three sips into your too-hot coffee when you see him.
He’s leaning against the wall outside Lab 4, all broad shoulders and brooding posture, like some kind of noir detective who wandered into a government facility and refused to leave. Tactical black from neck to boots. That infamous metal arm crossed over his chest like it has something to say and no one brave enough to contradict it.
Tall. Sharp. Sullen.
James Buchanan Barnes.
You stop mid-step. Your brain short-circuits just long enough for the lid of your coffee cup to betray you—a small dribble of liquid lava hits the edge of your hand.
“Shit,” you hiss, wiping it on your lab coat. Not the best look, but frankly, it’s not like he can judge. You have your flaws. He has a kill count.
Captain America’s ex-best friend. The Winter Soldier turned Avenger. The human embodiment of a sealed file. Exactly what your overclocked nervous system needs at seven in the damn morning.
You don’t hate him. That would require too much emotional investment. What you feel is more like… persistent irritation mixed with a healthy dose of distrust. He’s everything you resent about agents: cocky, haunted, prone to unpredictable violence, and somehow still glorified in every agency briefing and classified report.
But more than that—it’s the Budapest symposium.
Two months ago, you were presenting a closed-door session on the ethical implications of biometric surveillance overlays in the field. You’d made a case for data-limited neural interface protocols—no deep emotion-mapping without consent, no unconscious tracking. You had charts. Citations. A damn good argument.
And Bucky Barnes? He was in the back row, arms folded, face unreadable. Before the time even came for questions, he stood up and asked—in front of a dozen international regulators—
“Aren’t you just trying to build a better leash?”
The room had gone quiet. You’d gone cold. Because the worst part was—he hadn’t been wrong.
He walked out before you could answer, leaving you to field the fallout with a thin smile and a throat full of fury. You spent the next week drafting three different sarcastic emails you never sent.
So no, you’re not thrilled to see him outside your lab. Especially not looking like a government-issued mistake you’d almost make twice.
“You’re here,” you say once your voice decides to cooperate. You hold your coffee like a weapon—or a shield. “And scowling. Which I think breaks at least two of our site protocols.”
He turns his head slightly. Those icy blue eyes flick toward you, unreadable behind the scruff and the perpetual shadow of something heavier than war. You’ve read the file. But seeing him again in person is different. Less haunted soldier, more statue carved from tension.
“Security assignment,” he says, voice low and gravel-rough. “I’m with you today.”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
“Protocol says highest-risk assets get an escort during internal breach investigations.”
And by ‘protocol’, he means Val.
You stare at him. “I thought that meant someone like Ava. Or Lena. Not…” You gesture vaguely at all of him. “This whole glowering thing.”
He doesn’t answer. Just steps forward, pushes the door open, and holds it for you with exaggerated politeness—like a gentleman or a prison warden. You’re not sure which is worse.
You walk past him muttering, “I’m not a high-risk asset. I’m a scientist who got stuck in the crossfire of a bureaucratic dick-measuring contest.”
He follows close behind, boots heavy on the linoleum. “You designed a compound that links neural responses across two brains. That’s high-risk by definition.”
You spin on your heel to face him. “It was theoretical. You know what theoretical means, right? No human trials. No deployment. No volunteers. The compound is locked down in cold storage with three redundant containment protocols.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“You sound defensive,” he goads mildly.
Your jaw drops. “I sound correct.”
He raises one eyebrow, expression neutral—which somehow makes it worse. “You always this wound up?”
You glare. “Only when former assassins are breathing down my neck before breakfast.”
He gives the faintest shrug, like it’s not worth arguing. You turn away again, heels clicking faster now as you head for the secure wing, hoping you look more in control than you feel.
God, you haven’t even had time to check your email.
The corridor stretches long and bright and sterile, lined with reinforced doors and retina scanners, every square foot designed to scream classified. You reach the final keypad and punch in your code, a practiced sequence that usually calms you. But this morning it just makes your fingers itch.
The door slides open with a quiet beep—
And the air hits you like a punch to the face.
Your nostrils flare instinctively. Sharp. Acrid. A faint metallic tang riding the edge of the ventilation.
Chemical.
You freeze. One second. Two. Your brain connects the dots a hair too late.
Gas.
“No, no, no—”
You drop your coffee—cup and all—and sprint into the lab. Your eyes lock instantly on the containment cabinet against the far wall. The red emergency light above it pulses in warning, casting the walls in sickly, flickering hues.
The cabinet—where the prototype compound is stored under triple-sealed cryo-containment—is open. Not wide. Just… cracked. A whisper of vapor hisses from its seams like breath from a sleeping monster.
You spin toward the door. “Barnes, get the door sealed—”
But he’s already inside, scanning the room, eyes sharp and military-fast, and it’s too late anyway.
The soft whoomp of emergency ventilation kicks in, the system responding to your alert. You stagger as the remaining aerosolized compound bursts into the air in a rapid pressure release—microscopic particles blooming invisible around you like a deadly fog.
You cough. Once. Twice. The taste hits the back of your throat. And then you feel it.
Not panic. Not exactly. More like a tug just behind your ribs. A subtle wrongness threading through your consciousness like a splinter sliding in the grain.
Not pain. Not fear. Something else. Something other.
You turn—and Bucky Barnes is staring at you like you’ve both just heard the same gunshot.
His pupils are blown. His stance off-kilter. He looks—
Connected. Like he feels it too.
“Oh shit,” you whisper.
Because there’s only one thing in that cabinet capable of inducing a shared neuro-emotive feedback loop between two human brains.
And now it isn’t theoretical anymore. It’s happening.
To you. And him. Together.
—-
You’re ushered into quarantine within six minutes of exposure.
By minute seven, your blood pressure has been taken, your pupils checked, and your ego thoroughly trampled by a flurry of panicked lab techs—and one very smug containment officer who keeps muttering, “Told you this was going to happen,” like your entire life’s work exists solely to vindicate his mediocre career.
By minute ten, you’re sitting on the edge of a cot in Isolation Chamber A, glaring through the reinforced glass at James Buchanan Barnes in Chamber B like you can will his lungs to stop working out of sheer spite.
He, unfortunately, looks fine.
“You don’t look like you’re dying,” he says blandly.
You fold your arms. “Neither do you. Tragic oversight.”
He doesn’t smile. Of course not. He just leans back on his cot with that frustratingly composed, ex-assassin posture. Like stillness is a performance and he’s performing it at an Olympic level.
It makes your teeth itch.
“You feel anything?” he asks, casually. Too casually. As if he’s not currently entangled in a theoretical neural tether that was never supposed to reach human trials, much less him.
You hesitate. “Not really.”
Which isn’t a lie. But it isn’t the whole truth either.
Physically, you feel fine. No nausea. No tremors. No limbic misfires. But there’s something else. A buzz under your skin. Familiar, because you modeled it. Dismissible—until it isn’t.
A quiet frequency, just at the edge of perception. Like pressure. Or breath on the back of your neck.
Mental static. Not yours.
“I feel something,” Bucky says. He frowns—an actual expression—and taps his chest once, distracted. “Not pain. Just… something else.”
You arch a brow. “Let me guess. Low-level irritation and the overwhelming urge to be left alone?”
His eyes flick to yours. “Exactly.”
You scowl. “That’s me, genius.”
He blinks. Then frowns harder. “Shit.”
You groan. “Nope. This cannot be happening. Absolutely not. No thank you.”
You stand up abruptly and start pacing. The cot creaks behind you like it also hates this.
Because this is bad. Not theoretically bad. Functionally. You know what the compound is designed to do—and how unstable it gets at full potency. This isn’t an accident. It’s a worst-case scenario.
The door hisses open.
Dr. Yen, the Chief Medical Officer of your division steps in, tablet already lit, lips pressed thin. You’ve seen that look before. It means the results are in, and you’re not going to like them.
“Vitals are stable,” she says. “No visible cellular breakdown. But limbic scans are confirming cross-resonance.”
You close your eyes. “So it’s real.”
“It’s real,” she confirms. “You’re linked.”
Across the glass, Bucky sighs. “Linked how?”
Yen barely looks up. “Emotionally. Neurologically. The aerosolized bond agent was absorbed via mucosal membranes—eyes, nose, mouth. Maximum contact.”
“You’re saying we’re… what? Reading each other’s minds?”
“Not minds,” you say automatically. “Emotional states. Neural fluctuations. Maybe low-level somatic impulses.”
She nods. “Shared dreams are possible. Mirror physiology. Elevated empathy. Possibly even localized reflex responses.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “So if she stubs her toe, I feel it?”
“Not unless your motor cortex overcompensates. Which is unlikely. For now.”
You sit back down, hard. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Yen gives you a dry look. “No, but your name’s still at the top of the protocol. I believe the phrase you used in your original paper was ‘temporary adaptive tethering of live-state neural patterns via synthetic limbic resonance.’”
You mutter, “God, I hate myself.”
“You invented the scientific version of a psychic handcuff,” Bucky says.
You glare at him. “Trust me, if I could break it off and throw it in a volcano, I would.”
He leans back again, exasperated, like this is just another mission gone sideways. But you see it now—underneath the irritation. Not just annoyance.
Curiosity. Amusement. And something quieter that you can’t place yet.
Dr. Yen taps through her readings. “We’re transferring you to Observation Room One. Together.”
“What? Why?” you ask.
“Because separating you could intensify the neurological drift. The bond is responding to proximity—removing it might trigger feedback escalation.”
You blink. “Escalation?”
“Increased bleed. Emotional volatility. Uncontrolled synching. You remember, the time we tested on mice, one started trying to dig a tunnel with its face when the other was removed.”
You stare.
Bucky sighs. “Great. Can’t wait.”
Dr. Yen continues, already halfway out the door. “I’ll monitor for spike activity. Try not to kill each other.”
The door hisses shut behind her.
You look at Bucky. He looks at you. And just like that, the hum gets louder. Not in the room. In your chest. Like the tension between you has grown teeth.
“Don’t talk to me,” you mutter, grabbing your duffel.
He smirks. “I don’t have to. You’re already broadcasting loud and clear.”
“Then prepare to suffer.”
You follow the guards out of the chamber, still vibrating with dread, loathing, and a pressure you absolutely refuse to call attraction.
He falls in step beside you.
And just before the door closes behind you, you hear him mutter, “Could be worse.”
You don’t look at him.
He finishes anyway. “You could be stuck with Walker.”
—
The room isn’t big. Two cots. One bathroom. A table with bolted-down chairs. A surveillance camera blinking red in the corner like a passive-aggressive metronome. The air’s too cold, the lights too bright, and the fluorescent hum drills straight into the base of your skull.
Everything about the room says safe and neutral. Which really means sterile. A trap.
You sit across from Bucky at the table, arms folded tight across your chest, as if sheer compression might keep your thoughts from bleeding into the air between you.
It doesn’t work.
There’s that tug behind your ribs—low, persistent, off. Not pain. Not even discomfort, really. Just… dissonance. Like your body’s tuned to the wrong frequency and can’t stop resonating. Or, more accurately: someone else is doing the vibrating, and you’re just along for the ride.
Barnes stretches out in his chair like he’s got nowhere better to be, shuffling a deck of cards with infuriating calm. His hands move slow and steady. Like he’s done this before. Like it centers him.
You don’t want to know what he needs centering from.
The silence builds, heavy and electric. Until finally, you crack.
“So,” you say, deadpan. “This is awkward.”
He doesn’t look up. Just keeps shuffling. “You think?”
“You’re taking this very well for someone who just got mentally handcuffed to basically a complete stranger.”
His jaw flexes but he only shrugs. “Not the weirdest thing that’s happened to me.”
There’s no bravado in it. Just tired truth.
You sigh. “God. What a comforting standard.”
He cuts the deck with a flick of his wrist, then holds a card out toward you without even glancing up. You narrow your eyes. Then take it anyway.
Blackjack. Of course.
“Is this how you pass time in high-security quarantine?” you mutter. “Gambling with unwilling civilians?”
“You’re not unwilling,” he replies easily. “You’re just pissed it’s your own fault you’re stuck with me, Doc.”
You open your mouth—then close it again. Because the second he says it, you feel it: a jolt of annoyance. Not just yours. A flicker of his, folded inside something steadier. Something infuriatingly composed.
Your irritation rebounds like a ricochet—hits something calm. Anchored. And softens.
You feel it. His quiet, bone-deep stillness sliding under your skin like heat through a vent. Not comforting. Not invasive. Just there.
You stare at him, breath catching. Then drop the card on the table. “God. This is real.”
He finally meets your eyes. “Yeah. It is.”
“It was just a theory. I never meant for it to get to this… But y’know, Val.”
He jerks out a nod. Your pulse kicks. “You can feel me.”
He nods once. “And you can feel me. Can’t you?”
You don’t answer right away.
Taking stock of what’s resonating through your body. A pressure you want to think is just the room, the strangeness of proximity, the humiliating weight of a containment protocol gone wrong.
But it’s not the room. It’s him.
You can feel his focus when he watches you—that heavy, unblinking heat of attention, like standing too close to a silent engine. You can feel his amusement when you snap at him, like your temper tickles something buried and patient beneath the surface. You can feel the effort it takes for him to stay back—to keep his emotional distance while you’re sitting three feet away. Like he’s building a wall in real time, plank by plank. You can feel him trying not to feel you.
Biting your lip, you take a few deep breaths, trying to calm your rapidly rising pulse. It’s intimate in the worst possible way. The kind that makes privacy a joke and pretending pointless.
Every flicker of discomfort. Of defensiveness. Of attraction—
Wait.
Your stomach flips. That wasn’t yours.
It comes in hot and sharp, a spike of want so visceral it knocks the breath out of you. Frustration tangled with something lower. Needier. You haven’t felt anything like that in months, maybe years.
For one stupid second, you want to crawl out of your skin. And then it’s gone. Or suppressed. Or masked. Or—
“You okay?” he asks.
His voice is lower now. Cautious.
You nod too fast. “Fine.”
You can tell he doesn’t buy it. Doesn’t need to. He probably feels the spike in your chest, the flicker of your pulse when it jumps. You’ve lost your poker face. And not because of the cards. God, you are never going to survive this.
“So we're just stuck here?” you ask, trying to steady your voice. “We just sit here for three days and try not to think about anything incriminating?”
He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That’s not really how brains work. And just a gentle reminder—you’re the one who built this little science fair nightmare.”
You groan and bury your face in your hands. “I am going to kill Dr. Yen.”
“She said it’s temporary.”
“She also said we might share dreams.”
Bucky makes a face. “Don’t dream much anymore.”
“Well, I do,” you mutter. “And I don’t need you wandering through my subconscious.”
A beat.
“You think I want you in mine?”
That shuts you up. Because no. You don’t think he wants anyone in there. Not even himself.
The silence settles again. But it’s not empty.
You can feel his discomfort now. Quiet and low-grade. But there. Wrapped around something denser. Guilt, maybe. Something that sticks. And underneath it—just barely—curiosity.
You sit back, exhaling. “We need ground rules.”
“Like what?”
“Like no thinking about sex. Or trauma. Or childhood pets.”
He snorts. “In that order?”
“Especially in that order.”
You catch the edge of a smile before he looks down again, resuming his slow, steady shuffle. The cards whisper against each other like they’re in on the joke.
You try not to notice how your chest feels a little less tight. How the noise in your head quiets when his focus drifts. How the hum beneath your skin feels less like static and more like something alive, because you’re feeling him. And—God help you—he’s feeling you.
—
The lights never fully shut off. They dim, sure, but the surveillance camera stays on, its little red eye blinking in the corner like it’s watching your soul unravel in real time. The overhead fluorescents are on a slow cycle, just soft enough to lull your brain into thinking it can rest—until the second you close your eyes and they flicker again.
You’re not sleeping. And judging by the restless way Bucky shifts on his cot every few minutes—blankets rustling, jaw grinding—he isn’t either.
The silence is loud. Not peaceful. Not companionable. Just dense. Like the air itself is waiting for one of you to say something that will tip the whole room over the edge.
You’ve tried reading. Tried meditating. Tried breathing exercises, even though you usually hate those with a passion reserved for line-cutters and PowerPoint animations.
None of it helps. Because whatever thin emotional boundary once existed between you and Bucky Barnes has long since dissolved.
His emotions creep into you like fog—quiet, heavy, invasive. You don’t get specifics, not clearly, but the mood is unmistakable. Guilt. Anger. A bone-deep ache compressed into something sharp and humming under the surface.
You feel it. And worse—you can tell he’s trying not to let you.
You roll over for the hundredth time, then give up. Sit up. Rub your hands over your face. The room feels like it’s shrinking. Or maybe it’s just the part of your brain still screaming about boundaries.
From across the room, his voice finally cuts through the quiet.
“You feel that too?”
It’s rough. Quiet. Worn raw from disuse.
You blink into the dim. “The… what? The vague, awful sense that I’m about to start crying for no reason?”
A beat.
“Yeah,” he says. “That.”
You press your fingertips to your temples. “God, is that you or me? I can’t even tell anymore.”
“Me,” he says immediately. “Sorry.”
You shake your head, rubbing your hands down your thighs. “Don’t be.”
And you mean it. Sort of.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask, still not looking up. You’re not sure which one of you will flinch harder at the offer.
He’s quiet long enough that you figure it’s a no. A nerve hit. A wall closed.
Then, “No.”
You nod, the cot creaking beneath you. “Fair.”
A breath passes.
“But I might anyway,” he mutters, so low you almost miss it.
That makes you look. He’s sitting now, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might disappear if he looks hard enough. His vibranium fingers twitch—absent, reflexive.
“It’s like…” he starts, then stops. You wait. “When I was the Soldier, there were days I didn’t feel anything. Years, probably. Just… silence. Nothing in my head but orders.”
You stay still. Hold your breath.
“And then it all came back. All at once. Like my brain had been hoarding it in a box and someone finally kicked it open. And I couldn’t breathe under it.”
The weight of it lands between you like ash.
“And this?” He looks up at last. His face isn’t cold. It isn’t angry. It’s just tired. Raw.
“This feels like that. Too much. Too close. Like I can’t shut the door.”
Your throat tightens. Because you feel it too—his overwhelm, his fear of being seen, his instinct to slam every door before someone gets inside. It isn’t unfamiliar.
His jaw ticks. His eyes stay locked on yours. “And now you’re in my head."
“And now I’m in your head,” you echo.
There’s a beat before a low, dark laugh escapes him.
“Well. Fuck me.”
You smile—tiny, reflexive. “Tempting.”
His gaze sharpens at that. And instantly, you regret it—not because of the joke, but because of the response it pulls.
Want.
It hits like a shock to the chest. Sudden. Warm. Unmasked. Not lust. Not crude. Longing.
You flinch. Inhale sharply.
He looks away fast. “Shit. That wasn’t on purpose.”
You shoot to your feet, pulse kicking. “You’re not supposed to broadcast things like that.”
“I wasn’t!” His voice rises—gritty, strained. “I’ve been locking everything down since this started. But apparently your brain’s running on the emotional equivalent of a glass wall.”
You stare at him, heat rushing up your neck. “Jesus, Bucky.”
“You think I want you to know that I—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching hard. Shakes his head like he’s trying to shove the feeling back down his throat.
You cross your arms tightly over your chest. “I don’t want to feel this.”
“Yeah, well, me neither.”
The silence snaps tight. You stand there, two hearts hammering in unison, locked in some terrible emotional feedback loop neither of you asked for. It doesn’t break. It pulses harder.
“I think I need a wall,” you mutter. “A mental one. Like an internal firewall.”
“I tried that already,” he says. “Didn’t hold.”
You look at him. He’s watching you again. Still. And it’s not anger on his face anymore. It’s grief.
“This is a violation of literally every HR protocol in existence,” you mumble, arms still crossed.
“Good thing I don’t work here.”
You snort. It escapes before you can stop it. And you feel it—that flicker of relief from him. Small. Fleeting. But real.
You sit down hard on the edge of your cot. “I’m not good at this.”
“Neither am I.”
“I don’t want you to feel what I’m feeling.”
“I already do.”
You fall quiet. Because, for better or worse, you’re in this together now. You don’t know what’s scarier—that he can feel your loneliness. Or that you can feel his.
—
You’re dreaming.
You know it without knowing how. It’s the stillness that gives it away. Like the air is too weightless, the light too diffuse—nothing casting shadows, nothing fully real. The kind of hush that doesn’t exist in waking life.
You’re standing in a field you’ve never seen before. It’s not specific. Just green. A meadow with no wind, no scent, no sound. Every color softened at the edges like an unfinished rendering. It doesn’t feel like anything.
And that’s what tells you it’s yours. A liminal space. Peaceful. Barely conscious.
You close your eyes. And that’s when you feel it. A presence. A pulse.
Not in the dream—in you. Tapping against your thoughts like someone knocking softly on the inside of your skull.
Not words. Not movement. Just pressure. Steady. Coiled. Heavy with something unsaid.
Your eyes open. You turn in place, scanning the edges of the field, expecting—Nothing.
But the weight gets stronger. You feel it in your chest. Low. Familiar. Tense.
Bucky.
But you don’t see him. You just know he’s close. Or maybe not even close. Maybe just… bleeding in.
Your dream flickers.
A breeze picks up—impossible in a dream that’s never moved before. The grass ripples once, unnatural and out of sync, like the physics here are starting to break.
Your pulse stutters. And then—
It hits.
The air tears. The color drops. The field vanishes like someone cuts the feed.
And suddenly you’re underground.
A corridor. Narrow. Stained concrete walls. The ceiling is low, the light sharp blue and sterile. The air tastes like iron and rust. You stumble. Your knees scrape. You catch yourself on a wall that shouldn’t be cold, but is. It’s disorienting. Wrong. You know this isn’t your dream.
It’s his.
“Bucky?” you call out.
No answer. But the pressure behind your ribs spikes. You push forward anyway. Each step echoes. Your own, but also—his. Mismatched. Heavy. You turn a corner and see him.
He’s not looking at you. He’s walking in the opposite direction, body rigid, head bowed, like he’s being led. Or dragged.
He’s not dressed like the man you know. No tactical black. No soft tee and boots. Just bare arms and restraints. Fresh bruises. The remnants of blood not his own.
He’s not Bucky. Not here.
You try to speak but your voice fails. He turns the corner ahead. You follow.
The room you enter is stark. Cold. A chair in the center—stripped down and inhuman. Restraints hanging like dead vines. A spotlight fixed directly above it.
He’s standing beside it now, still not looking at you. The air is too still. Too thick. The bond hums so loudly you want to scream. And then he speaks.
“Don’t look.”
You freeze. His voice is quiet. Barely audible. But it’s him.
He still won’t face you.
“Bucky, this isn’t—”
“I said don’t look,” he says again. Sharper this time. A command—not to control you, but to protect himself. To hide. “You don’t want to see this.”
But it’s too late. The dream—his memory—wraps around you like wire. Sharp and invasive. You feel it like it’s your own. Not a picture. Not a scene. A flood.
Pain. Control. The snap of identity stripped away. Screams that echo without sound. The weight of command phrases burned into neural pathways like rot beneath the skin.
You stagger backward. But the bond holds. You feel it all. The moment he gave up trying to remember his name. The moment he forgot why it mattered.
“Please,” he says. He’s still facing away from you. Shoulders tense. Fists clenched.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, tears blurring the edges of the dream.
“This isn’t yours,” he grits out. “You shouldn’t be here.”
You take a step closer anyway. That makes him turn. Not all the way. Just enough for you to see it—his face. Younger. Blank. Terrified.
“I didn’t want you to see,” he gestures to himself. “This.”
“I didn’t mean to,” you say, voice shaking. “I fell asleep and… you pulled me in.”
He winces. Like that makes it worse.
“I tried not to,” he admits. “I’m sorry.”
You reach out, slowly, not to touch him—just to offer your hand. Because right now, you’re in this together. And the bond doesn’t care what either of you want.
His gaze flicks to it. Then to you. His jaw flexes. And he takes it.
The second your fingers touch, the dream shudders. The restraints flicker. The chair vanishes. The floor beneath you cracks—just hairline fractures, like the nightmare is losing hold.
“I’m still here,” you say.
“I know,” he says softly.
And then—
—
You jolt upright in your cot, heart hammering. Breath sharp. Palms sweaty.
Across the room, Bucky sits up just as fast—like something yanked him out of deep water. He’s already breathing hard, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, jaw clenched like it might hold something back if he just bites down hard enough.
You lock eyes. Neither of you speak. Not at first. The air is thick with something raw and invisible. Or the kind of silence that settles after a confession neither of you wanted to make.
He runs a hand over his face. “So. That happened.”
“Yeah,” you rasp.
You don’t say what that was. You don’t need to. You felt it. Lived it. Not as a witness. Not even as a passenger. As a part of him. And now you can’t un-feel it. Can’t shove it into a clean corner labeled ‘his problem’. It’s in you now. In your chest. Threaded through your ribs like something grafted there on instinct.
You shift slightly, fingers curling into the edge of the blanket, grounding yourself in anything that isn’t his memory. But it doesn’t help. The emotional weight is still there, even as the dream fades. A dull ache under your skin. The echo of metal restraints and too-bright lights.
He exhales, rough and low. “I didn’t want you to see that.”
You don’t answer right away. Instead, you lie back slowly, eyes on the ceiling. Cold. Pockmarked. Real. And for the first time since this started, you stop trying to block him out. Because the truth is, you don’t want to. Even now, with the weight of what you saw still lodged somewhere between your lungs. You don’t want to pretend you didn’t see him.
“It’s not your fault,” you murmur. “That I saw it.”
“No. But it’s still mine.”
You turn your head. He’s staring at the floor now, hands braced on his knees, elbows sharp beneath the sleeves of his shirt. His metal fingers twitch slightly. Barely a motion, but it radiates with tension. You feel that, too. Of course you do.
“Do you think if we sleep again…” you start, then trail off.
He finishes it. “We’ll go back?”
You nod once.
He shrugs. “Don’t know. I’ve never had to share a nightmare before.”
You breathe in. Then out. Neither of you moves.
The hum of the overhead lights seems louder now. The surveillance camera ticks faintly in the corner. Somewhere, two hearts beat in rhythm without trying.
“I’m not tired,” you say.
He glances up at you. “Me neither.”
It’s a lie, on both ends. You can feel it in your body. The ache. The heaviness. The way your limbs sink just a little deeper into the mattress. But sleep isn’t safe now. Not when it might mean pulling each other into things neither of you are ready to carry, let alone share.
You sit up again. Curl your legs under you. Bucky shifts to do the same. It’s not planned. It just happens.
No one speaks for a while. And then—
“I’m sorry you had to,” he starts, so quietly it barely lands. “Feel that.”
The words linger, fragile but deliberate. They hang in the air like breath held too long.
Bucky doesn’t look at you. Not right away. His shoulders stay tight, his stare pinned to the floor like he’s trying to unsee what he knows you saw.
You study him. And something shifts in your chest. It’s not sympathy. Not even admiration. It’s deeper than that. Stranger. Something close to awe—and not the clean kind. The complicated kind. The kind that unsettles.
Because now you’ve seen him. Not the soldier. Not the sarcasm and shadow. The person. The fear. The memory. The grief.
And somehow, that makes him feel… real. Not more fragile. Not smaller. Just clearer. You’re seeing him now in a way you hadn’t before. And it’s doing something to you.
Is it the link?
You want to say yes. Want to blame the synaptic bleed, the proximity, the dream. Want to label it as data and side effects and bad timing. But deep down, you’re not sure. Not anymore.
You shift. Your voice, when it comes, is quieter than before.
“Do you have them a lot?”
He stills for a beat too long. Then he exhales, the sound low. “Used to. Nightly. For years.”
You nod, eyes tracing the seam of your blanket. “But not anymore?”
“Not like that,” he admits.
Something in your chest lifts, but only a little.
“So…” you hesitate, careful not to make it sound like anything more than what it is.
“Was it easier this time? With me there?”
This time, he looks up. Direct. Steady. No evasion. His voice is quiet. Almost reluctant. “Yeah.”
You blink. It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t land the way it does. But it does. Because it means something. Or it might. Or maybe it only feels like it does because your brain is lit up on synthetic empathy and shared neural architecture. But still. It means something.
You nod, barely. “Okay.”
You don’t say what’s spinning in your chest: I see you now. I don’t want to look away. I don’t know if that’s you or me or both.
You can feel that he doesn’t want to ask either. Not yet. So neither of you does.
You both just sit there, in the dimmed silence. The bond—a quiet, pulsing presence between your ribs. And this time, you don’t try to shut it out. You just let yourself feel it. Feel him.
—
You wake up suddenly—hot, restless, throat dry. Your skin is flushed. Your pulse a little too fast. Your legs tangled in the blanket like you were shifting more than sleeping. It takes you a second to orient. The cot. The hum of the lights. And the slow burn pulsing under your skin.
You press your palms to your eyes. Shit.
You’re not dreaming anymore, but your body hasn’t gotten the message. Everything feels hypersensitive. Like someone turned up the volume on every nerve ending and forgot to turn it back down.
You exhale. Try to steady your breathing. But then your gaze shifts—and you see him.
Bucky’s still sitting where he was when you drifted off. Back against the wall. He looks calm, but there’s a sharpness in the set of his jaw, a tension in his posture.
He never went to sleep. He’s watching you now. Quiet. Steady. Like he already knows what you’re feeling.
You shift upright on the cot, trying to tamp it down—the warmth low in your belly, the ache that has no business being this loud, this early, in a lab-grade holding cell with your unintentional telepathic security detail.
“Did I…” you start, voice scratchy, “did I fall asleep again?”
He nods, slow. “Around four. You didn’t mean to.”
Your mouth goes dry. “Did you…?”
“No. You didn’t dream loud enough this time.”
It’s a joke. You think.
But then he tilts his head a fraction, brows drawing slightly together. “You feel… okay?”
You hesitate. Because yes. You do feel okay. You feel too okay. Your heart is kicking a little faster than it should and you know without looking in a mirror that your pupils are probably dilated.
There’s no fear. No adrenaline. Just— Want. Need. Aching. And you’re not entirely sure where it’s coming from.
“I feel… weird,” you murmur.
He shifts a little. You feel the ripple before you see it.
“Yeah,” he says. “Same.”
You glance at him again and your stomach flips. Because now that you’re paying attention, you can feel it. The thrum. The tension. That low, slow ache in your bloodstream that isn’t just yours anymore.
You clear your throat. “This doesn’t feel…emotional.”
“No,” he agrees. His voice is lower now. Rough. “It feels physical.”
Your breath catches. You both look away at the same time. The air thickens.
And then the door hisses open.
Dr. Yen steps in like a fire alarm, holding her tablet like a shield. “Morning,” she says briskly. “Vitals check.”
You sit still while she scans you. Bucky does too. Her eyes narrow slightly as she reads, her mouth pressing into a thin line.
Then she sighs. “Okay. So. Bit of a development.”
You wince, already bracing for whatever comes next.
“The bond’s progressing faster than expected. Your convergence scores are spiking well ahead of baseline. You’re already presenting signs of full-spectrum neural and somatic reciprocity.”
You blink. “Somatic?”
Yen nods. “Body-based responses. Sympathetic systems syncing. Neurochemical fluctuations. Endocrine bleed.”
You just stare.
Bucky crosses his arms. “Translation?”
“You’re not just feeling each other’s moods anymore,” Yen says. “You’re reacting to each other’s hormones.”
You freeze.
“So this…?” you ask, gesturing vaguely to your whole overheated, vibrating situation.
She nods. “Elevated oxytocin, dopamine, serotonin—both of you. You’re experiencing mutual physiological… arousal.”
You swear under your breath. Bucky exhales through his nose, sharp.
Yen scrolls. “This is accelerating. You may experience projection next. Sensory cross-talk. Physical feedback from imagined stimuli.”
You and Bucky don’t move.
“You mean—” you start.
“Yes,” she says. “If one of you starts thinking about something… the other might feel it.”
You shut your eyes. Hard. Bucky shifts.
Yen closes the tablet. “We’re working on a counter-agent. In the meantime—stay calm. Avoid escalation. Try not to, y’know, spiral.”
She gives you both a tight smile that’s not a smile and ducks out the door.
The moment it hisses shut, silence slams back into place. You don’t look at him. He doesn’t look at you. But you feel each other. Your blood still buzzes, warm and quick, like something is sparking just under the surface.
“I need a cold shower,” you mutter.
“If you’re feeling what I’m feeling,” he says, voice low and tight, “that’s not gonna help.”
Neither of you laughs. Because it’s not funny anymore.
You don’t move and neither does he. You stay on opposite cots, both too still, both too aware. You can feel the bond buzzing like a live wire behind your ribs—no longer subtle, no longer background noise.
Not just his mood. Not just tension or restraint. His thoughts. Vague, half-formed shapes brushing up against your mind like fogged glass. You don’t get detail, not really—but there’s pressure behind it. Focus. Heat.
You swallow. Hard.
He shifts again, one leg stretching out, and your eyes flick to the motion without meaning to. Just his hand. Just his thigh. Just some insane amount of muscle in a pair of extremely not regulation sweatpants. And that’s when it hits you. A spike of awareness.
Low. Sharp. Direct.
Not yours. Yours now, but not originally.
Your breath stutters. Because that wasn’t your thought. That was his. You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help.
Now you can feel it more clearly: the way his thoughts catch on your bare legs, on your neck, on the way you just bit your bottom lip without realizing it.
The image forms before you can stop it. Your body reacting to his body. His gaze. His mind. A flash of heat coils low in your stomach. You shift suddenly. Sharp, fast, like that might reset something. It doesn’t.
He feels the shift in you. You know he does. You feel his whole body tense in response. The link thrums, nearly audible in your skull.
“Stop,” you whisper, breath catching.
“I didn’t mean to,” he says, voice hoarse.
You press your palm to your sternum. It’s like trying to press out a heartbeat that isn’t even yours.
“I can feel it when you look at me like that,” you mutter.
“I’m trying not to,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Well, try harder,” you snap—but it’s shaky, breathless.
Your thighs press together unconsciously. And that, he feels. He lets out a breath—low, ragged, like it hurts to hold it.
“Don’t do that,” he says.
“Don’t what?” you snap, voice high and tight.
“That. The thing with your legs.”
You go still. And the heat spikes. The thought now forming in your head is yours. It’s real. Immediate. Something to do with him between your knees, his hands on your hips, his mouth at your throat. The sound he’d make if you pulled his shirt off. The look in his eyes when—
He jerks upright like he’s been electrocuted.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.
You slap a hand over your own mouth, mortified. “I didn’t mean to think that.”
“I know,” he growls.
And still—your body pulses. That awful, exquisite feedback loop. Want ricocheting back and forth until you don’t know whose it was to begin with.
You drag your blanket up like its armor. “We can’t do this.”
“No,” he agrees immediately. “We can’t.”
You lock eyes. And don’t look away.
The silence that follows is different now. Charged. Taut. It’s not that the attraction is new. It’s that there’s nowhere left to hide it. No denial. No wall. Just each other. You lie back slowly, exhaling through your nose. Trying to calm your heart. Trying not to think of him. It doesn’t work.
Bucky’s breathing is heavier now. Not dramatic—but deeper. Controlled. You feel it against your own skin. You know—you know—he’s thinking about you too. But neither of you moves. Not yet.
Your heart won’t settle. It keeps pushing against your ribs like it wants to say something first. And then, before you can stop yourself:
“You drive me insane.” The words hang there. Blunt. True.
Bucky shifts slightly on his cot, but doesn’t speak.
“Not in the way you’re thinking, but okay—in that way too.” You pull the blanket tighter around you, trying to hold your voice steady. “You’re cold. Condescending. You don’t say anything unless it’s to poke a hole in something I’ve spent months building.”
His mouth twitches. “You’re a scientist who’s not used to people poking holes?”
“I’m not used to people doing it like you.” You glare at the ceiling. “You just—show up. And stare. And judge. And then disappear before I can even argue back.”
He exhales through his nose. “And you like arguing.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It feels like the point.”
You turn your head and look at him. “You didn’t even stay for the full hearing. Just blew it up and walked out.”
He meets your eyes. “Didn’t need to.”
Your chest tightens. “God. You’re impossible.”
There’s a long pause.
And then he says, quieter: “You were right, though. About the link. About what it could be.”
You blink.
“I didn’t go to that hearing to get in your way,” he says. “I went because what you said scared the hell out of me.”
“Right,” you mutter. “Thanks.”
He shakes his head. “No. I mean—it was good. You were right. You had every angle covered. You didn’t flinch. And the more I thought about it afterward…”
His eyes lift to yours.
“About you.”
Your stomach flips.
He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “So when Val mentioned they needed an internal breach detail at the site—”
“You asked for this assignment,” you state, stunned.
He nods once. “Yeah.”
Silence stretches again—but now it’s different. There’s heat in it. Yes. But also something else. Something real.
Your head falls to your hands in defeat. “I don’t want to like you.”
“Yeah. That’s not working out too well for me either,” Bucky mutters lowly.
You peek up at him through your fingers. “This is a disaster.”
His mouth twitches. “A highly classified, emotionally compromising disaster.”
You stare at him. And he stares right back. Something hums between you, low and molten. Not as sharp as before—but deeper now. Grounded in knowing. Seeing. Feeling. Your eyes flick to his mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough to make it dangerous.
He sees it. Of course he does.
“Don’t,” he says softly.
“Don’t what?”
“That.”
You blink, innocent. “Look at you?”
“Look at me like that.”
You tilt your head, heart pounding. “Like what?”
“Like you want to see what else I’m hiding under these very official sweatpants.”
You suck in a sharp breath. A flush climbs up your neck before you can stop it.
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re imagining things.”
“You’re broadcasting things,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges. “Loud.”
You shift on the cot and feel his breath hitch now.
It’s too much. Too close. And it’s not the bond anymore. Not entirely.
“You think about it too,” you say quietly.
He nods, once. “All the time now it seems.”
You don’t know if you want to slap him or kiss him—or let him press you back against the wall and do everything you’ve already imagined and more.
“So what the hell are we supposed to do about it?”
He smiles—just barely. It’s crooked. Dangerous.
“Nothing reckless.”
You lift a brow. “You’re telling me not to be impulsive?”
“I’m telling you not to do anything you’ll regret.”
You lean forward, like you’re settling into something casual. But you know what you’re doing. You can’t help yourself. You know he can feel it—your heat, your hunger, your restraint wrapped in silk.
“Then maybe stop giving me reasons to want to,” you murmur, voice light. Teasing.
His jaw ticks. His eyes darken. The silence that follows is sharp. Not a pause. Not a delay. A held breath.
You smile, small and smug, and stand up slowly—too slowly.
“Anyway,” you say, heading toward the small attached bathroom, “I’m going to take a cold shower and try to remember I’m a professional with several advanced degrees.”
You stop in the doorway. Look back over your shoulder, just enough to make sure he’s still watching.
He is.
“Try not to think about me while I’m in there,” you add, voice all fake innocence. And then you shut the door behind you.
—-
The water is cold. Brutally so. You step into the spray like it’s punishment—hands braced against the tile, jaw locked, breath held.
Because you’re still trying to wrap your head around the words that just tumbled out of your mouth a minute ago and why the fuck you even said them. The heat in your body needs to burn off or be drowned, and freezing water feels like your last rational defense.
It doesn’t work.
You gasp as it hits your skin—tight, cutting, and sharp. Your nipples pebble instantly. Your muscles tighten. But the cold doesn’t pull you out of it. It sharpenes it.
Every drop feels like a shock, like a wire pulled taut under your skin. Your thighs clench. Your breath trembles. Because Bucky is still out there.
And you can still feel him. Not with your hands. Not with your eyes. But with your mind. Your body. The thread still connects you. Hot under the cold. Deep under the logic. It pulses low in your belly, electric and alive. Dragging your thoughts right back to him.
You try to redirect—try to count the tiles on the wall, name the amino acids in a protein chain, recite your grant proposal backwards.
But your body betrays you. Your hips rock, searching for friction that doesn’t exist. Your hand drags down your chest without permission, sliding over wet skin, slick nipples, the curve of your stomach.
And suddenly he’s there. Not really. Not consciously. But you feel him. Watching. Wanting.
And worse—you want him to.
You bite your lip, hard. Try to shut it down. But your hand keeps moving. Between your thighs now. Water trailing down your skin like a thousand fingertips. The ache blooming sharp and impossible. You press your palm to yourself, just for a moment. Just to quiet it.
But something flares like it’s hungry too.
Your legs almost buckle. Shit. Shit. He felt that. You pant against the tile, eyes squeezed shut.
You can feel his attention spike like a spotlight behind your eyes—his breath, his pulse, the jagged edge of his restraint grinding against yours. You try to pull back. You try. But now you’re imagining it.
The wall behind you pressing into your shoulder blades. His mouth dragging heat up your neck. One hand on your hip—no, both hands. One flesh, one metal, holding you still while he whispers how much he’s been thinking about this.
How he knew you were going to touch yourself in the shower. How he wanted to be the reason you couldn’t help it.
Your breath hitches. A whimper escapes you. Just a sound, high and desperate and real. A surge.
The sensation that hits you is dizzying—like your nerves are suddenly on fire, like your own want is being echoed back tenfold.
You slap the water off fast, heart hammering. Your skin prickles as the cold air licks over it. You lean your forehead against the tile, panting. You’re shaking. Not from the cold. Not from fear. From restraint. From everything you didn’t let yourself do. And everything you know he felt anyway.
You press your hands over your face.
“Fuck.”
You stay like that for a long moment. Trying to breathe. Trying to pull yourself back into your body. Into the present. But even now, with the water off and your hands gripping the edge of the sink, you can feel the bond pulsing low behind your navel like it’s waiting. Like he’s waiting. And worst of all— You’re thinking about opening the door.
You want to know if he’s sitting there as wrecked as you are.
But you don’t yet. You reach for the towel. Wipe your face. Pull it tight around your body like it might hold you together. And you promise yourself you’ll be calm when you step back out there.
You wait a full minute before stepping out of the bathroom. You make sure your skin is mostly dry, your breathing sort of steady, and your towel tightly secured like a barrier that might still mean something. You open the door like you’re composed. You’re not. But it doesn’t matter.
Because the second you step into the room, you know. Bucky’s posture is wrecked. No more monk-like stillness. No more composed soldier routine. He’s pacing. Shoulders tense. Shirt clinging to him in places like he’s been sweating. His jaw is tight. His hands—both of them—are curled into fists like he’s holding back from breaking something. Or doing something.
His head snaps up the second he sees you. And then—he stops moving altogether. Freezes.
You feel it before he says a word: the punch of arousal, the crash of restraint, the friction of denial and desire grinding together behind his ribs like a blade.
His eyes sweep over you. Just once. Slowly.
The towel. The water still glistening along your collarbone. The flush on your cheeks that has nothing to do with temperature.
You feel his restraint falter—just for a breath—and it slams into your chest like a jolt of electricity.
“You…” he says, then stops. Swallows. His voice is hoarse. “That wasn’t fair.”
You blink, playing innocent. “What wasn’t?”
He steps forward once. Not touching. Not even close. But the bond pulls at you like gravity.
“So you felt that,” you say lightly, trying not to lose your footing on the slick edge of this moment.
He lets out a sharp breath. “You think I somehow didn’t feel that?”
The tension crackles between you—raw and thick and already past the point of pretending.
“I tried to shut it down,” you murmur.
He laughs. Just once. Bitter and breathless. “Yeah, I could tell ya tried really hard, sweetheart.”
You grip the edge of the towel a little tighter. “So what, you just sat there and…?”
His gaze drops to your mouth. And stays there.
You feel the burn of it behind your knees, in the pit of your stomach, deep between your thighs where the ache hasn’t fully gone away.
Your voice comes out smaller than you mean for it to. “And?”
His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare. You feel him fighting it again—fighting you. But he doesn’t lie.
“I wanted to come in there.”
The breath leaves your lungs in a shudder.
“I wanted to touch you,” he says, stepping closer. His voice drops lower. “Everywhere you were touching yourself.”
You swallow hard.
“But I didn’t,” he adds roughly.
You look up at him. “Why?”
His eyes search yours. Not angry. Not even pleading. Just—holding back.
“Because if I had…” He exhales, jaw tight. “I wouldn’t have stopped.”
The silence that follows isn’t empty. Your body hums. Your fingers dig into the towel like it’s the last shield between you and a decision you might not be ready to unmake. And all you can do is whisper:
“…Okay.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch you. But something shifts in his posture—like he’s caught between instinct and decision, body wired forward even as his mind throws up a stop sign.
You see it all happen. The way his eyes flick to your mouth. The way his breaths become deeper. The way every muscle in him says yes while the rest of him fights to say no.
And then, finally—he steps back. One short, sharp step. Like distance will save either of you.
“Shit,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “We can’t.”
Your heart punches your ribs. “Why not?”
He doesn’t look at you right away. Just shakes his head, pacing once, hands flexing.
“You just came out of the shower like that, thinking what you were thinking, and I—” He stops. “I felt everything. You know that, right?” he repeats yet again.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know. And that’s the fucking problem.”
You blink. “So what, now you’re mad about it?”
“No,” he snaps. “I’m not mad. I’m trying not to lose my goddamn mind.”
You fold your arms over the towel. “You think this is easy for me?”
“I think our minds are so fried that we can’t tell what’s ours and what’s this,” he bites, gesturing between you two. “And if I touch you right now, I don’t know whose choice I’m making. Yours, mine, or the damn compound’s.”
That stops you. Because he’s right. Because you don’t even know anymore.
His voice drops. Still rough. Still wrecked.
“I’m not gonna take advantage of something that’s most likely not real. Not with you.”
You shift your weight, heartbeat hammering. You want to argue. You want to push. But part of you respects the hell out of it. So you just nod once. Clipped.
“Fine.”
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like restraint in physical form.
“Fine.”
And that’s it. You don’t close the distance. You don’t say anything else. You just turn away, heart still racing, skin still hot, towel still clutched like armor, and try like hell to pretend your body isn’t already halfway to betraying you again.
—-
Just perfect. Now there’s only a few more hours of pretending you’re not fully horny for the government-assigned menace in the corner.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the cot, earbuds in, blasting white noise loud enough to drown out your own thoughts—and hopefully his. It doesn’t work.
You can still feel him pacing. The slow, deliberate kind, like he’s working something out of his system. Like he’s hunting a problem he can’t solve. You can feel the heat of his attention every time your shirt rides up when you stretch. Every time you shift just a little too far sideways and your thigh brushes bare against cool air.
Every time your breath catches and his does, too. You know what he’s thinking. Or trying not to think.
So you decide to mess with him.
You think louder—sweet and smug, like you’re painting it across the bond on purpose: That shirt looks really good on you, soldier.
He flinches. Physically. And then stops pacing.
You smirk, tug the hem of your shirt down with exaggerated innocence. Small victories.
But then he drops to the floor and starts doing pushups. Which is so not fair.
You glance over and immediately regret it. His shirt stretches across his back like it’s apologizing to no one. Sweat clings at the collar. His arms flex, contract, flex again—slow and steady. Every controlled breath pushes heat through the bond.
You are trying to read a report. You are actively attempting productivity. But it’s hard when every line blurs around the mental image of his hands braced on either side of your head. You close the file. Try again.
He switches to pull-ups on an overhead bar. You throw your tablet at the wall.
“You’re doing that on purpose.”
He doesn’t stop. “Doing what?”
“Weaponizing your arms.”
His mouth twitches. “Maybe I’m just trying to stay in shape.”
You scowl. “This is psychological warfare.”
“You started it.”
You grab a pillow and launch it at his head. He dodges without breaking rhythm.
“Unbelievable.”
Later, you fall asleep. Not on purpose. Just long enough for your body to betray you. The dream is hot. Too hot. Lips at your throat, a mouth on your hipbone, hands everywhere you shouldn’t want them. You wake up gasping, sweat pooling at the base of your spine.
And he’s watching you. Sitting in the corner, arms folded, expression like stone. Except for his eyes. His eyes are a slow burn. He doesn’t say anything. But you feel it. The echo of your dream still pinging between you. Not graphic—just emotional residue. A leftover ache.
And maybe the worst part is: you feel his too.
The loneliness under it. The way he felt it right along with you. The part of him that wanted it to be real. To be his hands. His mouth. His weight on top of you instead of the memory of a shared hallucination. You shift on the cot, heart still pounding.
“Did you…?” you ask.
He doesn’t move. Just nods once. “Yeah.”
You pull your knees to your chest and try not to shake.
Five hours in, you almost lose it.
You’re pretending to read again. You’re biting the inside of your cheek to keep your breathing steady. He’s sitting on the other cot now, towel around his neck, shirt wrung out and tossed somewhere in the corner like it wronged him personally. His skin is flushed. His forearms are braced on his knees. His head is tipped back slightly.
You can feel it through the bond—he’s trying not to think about how your skin looked glistening after the shower. Trying not to remember the sound you made. You try to be good. You really do. But then you snap.
“You have to stop thinking about my mouth.”
You don’t even look up. You don’t have to. There’s a long pause.
“I’m not,” he says.
You glance over. He’s biting his lip. You both groan.
He covers his face with one hand. “Okay, you have to stop doing the thing with your tongue.”
“What thing?”
He waves a hand vaguely. “That thing you do when you’re concentrating. You lick your bottom lip slowly like you’re trying to kill me.”
You throw a blanket at him. He catches it with a smug little grin, but you feel the way his chest tightens under it. The way he’s fighting not to lean into the tether—into the pull of you.
You flop onto your cot face-first. “This is the worst horny hostage situation I’ve ever been in.”
“Been in many?”
You scream a muffled “FUCK” into the mattress.
His chuckle is low. Rough. Warm.
It rolls down your spine like a confession you weren’t ready to hear. And when your hand slips between your thighs a minute later, just to relieve the pressure, just to breathe, you feel his breath hitch in your mind.
“Stop.” His voice cuts through the air, hoarse. Strained. Not angry—pleading.
You freeze. But don’t pull away.
“I can’t,” you whisper.
A pause. Heavy. Loaded.
“You can.”
You roll your head toward him, half-lidded, flushed, and exhale: “Then say it.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Tell me not to touch myself,” you say. “But say it like you mean it.”
You feel his restraint buckle. The desire choking the back of his throat. You move your hand again, slow, under the blanket. The wet slide of your fingers deliberate.
“You already know what I’m thinking,” he grits out.
“Say it anyway.”
He’s still across the room, sitting rigid on the cot, fists clenched on his knees like it’s the only way to stop himself from moving.
You close your eyes and moan—quiet, bitten-off. You can’t help it.
And that’s when it breaks him.
“God,” he growls. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
“I have some idea,” you tease back and squeeze your eyes shut.
And in your mind, you can feel a switch flip in his.
There’s a sudden metallic crack—a sharp, violent sound that echoes off the walls. Your eyes fly open. The security camera in the corner is shattered—glass fractured, wires exposed, the red recording light extinguished. His chest is heaving, fists clenched like he didn’t even think before moving.
“I want to be over there,” he rushes out hoarsely. “I want to rip that sheet off and watch you fall apart for me.”
Your breath stops but he keeps going, like his tongue is unable to stop.
“I want your legs open. Want your fingers soaked because you were thinking about my mouth.”
He rises, takes one step forward, then stops himself—grabbing the edge of the table like it might anchor him. You whimper.
“I’d put my hand between your thighs,” he says, lower now. Rougher. “Press my fingers into you until you begged me to fuck you.”
Your mind hums, white hot. You feel it in your ribs, your spine, your throat.
“You’d take it, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs. “All of it. My fingers, my cock—”
You cry out softly, thighs twitching, chasing friction.
“I’d have your back arched and your hands in my hair and you wouldn’t even be able to say my name without sobbing.”
You grind down harder now, pulse pounding in your ears. You feel him feeling you—his hips twitching, cock hard and aching, brain flooded with everything you’re giving him.
“Touch your clit,” he commands.
You do. Gasping. The pleasure punches through your body like a current.
“Just like that,” he says, voice shaking. “Rub slow. You don’t need to come yet. I want to hear you say what you want.”
“You already know,” you choke out.
“Tell me, doll,” he says again, dark, wanting. “Tell me how wet you are.”
You almost sob. “So wet—Jesus—Bucky—”
“That’s it,” he says. “Let me hear it. I want every filthy sound you’ve got.”
You move faster, breath catching, the heat coiling tight and hard and close.
“I’d eat you out so slowly you’d scream. Then fuck you with my fingers until you begged for more. You want that?”
“Yes.”
“You want my cock?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to come in you, fill you, make you feel it for hours?”
Your whole body locks—back arching, legs tightening—
And you shatter.
White-hot pleasure rips through you, shattering like glass behind your ribs—louder and deeper than anything you’ve ever felt. It’s not just the orgasm. It’s also his body responding to yours, his want echoing through every nerve ending like a second heartbeat.
You can feel what you’re doing to him. The hunger. The ache. The way his restraint unravels with every sound you make, every twitch of your fingers.
The bond lights up like an explosion—flooding both of you. There’s no separation. No inside or outside. Just youandhimyouandhimyouandhim in one long, gasping pulse of release.
His groan is feral. Raw. Wrecked. You’re still trembling when you open your eyes. And he’s right there.
Closer than he was. Right in front of you. Breathing hard, eyes dark, hands clenched like it took everything in him not to touch you. Not to throw himself into the wreckage and keep going.
He’s about to move. About to drop to his knees. About to make good on every filthy promise he just breathed into your bones—
Then a chime sounds at the door.
You both freeze. A beat. Then Dr. Yen’s voice comes crisply over the intercom.
“Just a heads up—I’ll be entering the room in ten seconds for dampener prep. Try to look less… elevated.”
You let out a strangled noise and yank the blanket over your face, legs still shaking.
The door hisses open. Light spills in. Footsteps. Dr. Yen walks in like she didn’t just catch you mid-meltdown.
“Good evening,” she says, clipboard in hand, eyes respectfully trained downward. “Time for neural dampener administration.”
Bucky turns away like he’s been gut-punched. You lie there in silence, half-covered, half-exposed, pulse still thundering.
Dr. Yen pauses. Looks up.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t just watch both your biometric readings spike like you ran a marathon while getting tased.”
You groan louder.
She sighs. “I’ll return in ten minutes with the equipment. Maybe try some breathing exercises.”
She turns and walks out, boots clicking.
The door shuts, and the silence she leaves behind could crush a mountain. You’re both wrecked. Glowing. Silent. Not comfortable. Not even heavy. But pressurized. You shift on the cot. Pick at the edge of the blanket, like you’re unthreading a thought. You cough once. Clear your throat.
“So…” you say. Then instantly regret it.
Bucky doesn’t look up from where he’s now sitting, arms braced, jaw tight. His eyes are fixed on some invisible point across the room.
You try again, softer this time. “That was… intense.” Still nothing.
You roll your eyes at yourself. “God, sorry. That sounded like the end of a bad first date.”
Finally, his voice cuts through the silence. Low. Flat.
“I shouldn’t have said what I said.”
You blink. “What, the part where you told me everything you wanted to do to me while I was—?”
He exhales sharply. “Don’t.”
You pause. Watch him. “Why?”
“Because it wasn’t fair,” he mutters. “I didn’t have to make it worse.”
“You didn’t make it worse.”
He glances at you. Briefly.
And you feel it—what he won’t say. The guilt. The self-loathing. The fear that he wanted it more than he should’ve, and the shame that he let himself say so.
You try to keep your voice light. “It hasn’t been all bad, you know. Feeling like this.”
Something flickers in him—shame, maybe. Sadness. But it’s gone before you can name it.
“It’s not real,” he says. “You know that.”
You shift again. “You think I can’t tell the difference?”
“I don’t know, Doc. But you should. You wrote the fucking book on it!” He’s not angry. Just tired.
“You’re reacting to a synthetic neurochemical tether.” He says it like he’s quoting a file. “It wires your empathy straight into mine and floods your body with cross-sensory feedback. Of course it feels like something.”
“Yeah,” you say. “It feels like you. Like… warm static. I didn’t think I’d get used to it, but I have.”
His jaw clenches.
Something bracing inside him tickles through your bones. Like he’s locking the door before you even finish knocking.
You hesitate, before adding, carefully, “Maybe that’s not so terrible.”
He turns toward you now, finally, and there’s something in his face—tired, closed off, already half gone.
“Look,” he sighs. “In a few hours, you’re going to feel normal again. This’ll wear off, we’ll detox. And you’ll go back to thinking I’m a prick.”
You stare at him. “Is that really what you think I’m going to walk away with?”
“It’s what I’ll walk away with,” he says.
How certain he is bounces back at you. The way he’s already convinced himself this was a mistake. Not just a misstep, but a flaw in his wiring. Something he’s trying to undo before it’s too late and your resolve starts to melt.
His voice softens, but not in a comforting way. In that quiet, beaten-down way that says he’s already written the ending and doesn’t want to hear another version.
“I crossed a line,” he says. “And you’re going to wake up tomorrow and wish I hadn’t.”
You feel it. In your ribs, your throat, your teeth. Not the tension from before—but a dull, hollow echo of finality. He believes this.
You don’t answer. There’s nothing left to say that won’t bounce off the wall he’s putting back up. You nod once. Slowly. Then lie back on the cot and turn your face to the wall. The link hums faintly behind your ribs—tender, uncertain. But you don’t follow it. You just let the silence settle between you again. Thicker than before. Colder. Final.
—
You’re sitting across from him when the door opens. Same cots. Same sterile walls. Same ten feet of silence between you. You haven’t looked at him but you still feel him linked. Quiet, almost gentle now. Like it knows it’s dying. A breath too deep. A flicker of guilt. A spike of regret. It doesn’t matter that he won’t meet your eyes.
Dr. Yen steps into the room with her tablet in one hand and a hard-sided case in the other. She’s in scrubs this time. Hair tied back. Movements clipped and practiced.
You don’t speak. Neither does he.
The case opens with a soft click. Two injectors inside, small and sleek. She pulls one out and checks the dosage.
“Once administered, the dampener will suppress all synthetic limbic resonance. You’ll feel a shift within thirty seconds. Disassociation. Numbness. Maybe a little nausea.”
You exhale through your nose.
“And then?”
She meets your eyes. “Then the link breaks.”
You nod. She walks to you first.
“Roll up your sleeve,” she says gently.
You do. The motion feels surreal—like you’re watching yourself from somewhere outside your body. She presses the injector to the soft skin inside your elbow.
You take a breath, hold it. Click. A whisper of compressed air. Cold floods your arm instantly—icy, clinical, creeping up your bicep like frostbite. It spreads into your shoulder, your neck, your spine.
And then—
Something inside you flickers. The hum. The warmth. Him. It begins to fade. Not all at once. It drains. Like light slipping out of a room. Like someone slowly turning the volume knob on a song you didn’t know you’d memorized. You feel the difference before you can process it. Your thoughts stop echoing. Your heartbeat feels… alone.
Bucky says nothing when it’s his turn. He doesn’t ask what it’ll feel like. He doesn’t hesitate. Just rolls up his sleeve, still pitched forward. Dr. Yen administers his dose with quiet efficiency. Click. Hiss. And then it’s quiet again. Except it’s not the same.
Because now, the silence is dead. No hum. No pulse. No emotional feedback or flicker of awareness. No him. He’s still there, physically. Still sitting across from you. Still wearing the same black T-shirt, the same unreadable expression. But you can’t feel him anymore. And the absence hits harder than you expect.
Dr. Yen checks the readings on her tablet. Taps a few buttons. Then nods.
“That’s it,” she says. “Connection is terminated.”
You nod, slowly. There’s a ringing in your ears that wasn’t there before.
Yen doesn’t linger. She packs up and walks out without another word. The door hisses shut behind her. And that’s it. It’s over.
You look at him. He’s not looking at you. There’s no warmth where your chest used to light up every time he almost met your gaze. Now it’s just empty space. You wait. A beat. Two.
He finally stands. Moves like he’s stiff. Or maybe he’s just trying to control the way his body reacts now that you can’t feel it.
His eyes flick toward you, just once. And then away.
At the door, hand hovering near the panel, he pauses. Just long enough to let hope get in one last swing.
“You’ll feel like yourself again soon.”
You blink. Straighten slightly. But before you can respond, he’s already gone. The door shuts behind him. And this time, you feel nothing at all.
—
Two weeks later and you definitely don’t feel like yourself again. Everyone said you would. That the dampener would work, that your neural pathways would recalibrate, that within a few days you’d forget what it felt like to share your mind with someone else.
They were wrong. The silence is worse than the bond ever was.
It isn’t just quiet—it’s hollow. There are no phantom thoughts, no flickers of static behind your ribs. No heat curling in your stomach when someone else walks in the room. You’re not buzzing anymore. You’re just… still.
You’ve tried to distract yourself. Buried yourself in lab reports. Filed updates. Pretended the whole thing was a chemical anomaly that didn’t matter.
You haven’t heard from him. You haven’t reached out, either.
Mostly because you’re not sure what you’d say—and partly because the last time you saw him, he all but told you that everything you felt was fake. You were still deciding whether to be mad or hurt when Valentina Allegra de Fontaine’s name lit up your encrypted line.
And now here you are. Walking into the new Avengers Tower for a mandatory debriefing.
You strut through the sleek white corridor with polished concrete floors, reinforced glass walls, surveillance cameras tucked into every corner. A place designed to look like freedom and security, while quietly reminding everyone who’s in charge. And Val’s definitely in charge.
You press your thumb to the biometric reader. The door clicks open. And then you’re in the room.
Seven chairs. One long table. Your team’s already there—Dr. Yen, Dr. Deenan, and Dr. Morales, seated stiffly with laptops open and half-expressed concern on their faces. You nod to them, then catch sight of the others.
The New Avengers. Ava’s leaning back with her boots up on the chair next to her, scanning her phone like she’d rather be anywhere else. Yelena twirls a pen in her fingers while whispering something to Bob, who stifles a laugh. Alexei ie eating something from a foil pouch. John Walker’s in full uniform, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he’s waiting to be pissed off.
And at the head of the table—Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. She smiles when she sees you. It doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Doctor,” she purrs. “Right on time. We were just getting to the fun part.”
You arch an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize this was a party.”
Val gestures to the empty seat across from her. “Take a load off.”
You sit. The chair’s cold. So is the room.
She taps her tablet, and the wall monitor comes to life—schematics, biofeedback logs, simulated overlays of two bodies in sync.
Yours. And his. Your heart gives a tiny, involuntary jolt.
“We’ve reviewed your data,” Val says. “The bonding agent was more successful than projected. Real-time empathic mirroring. Linked adrenaline response. Even synchronized aggression modulation. Fascinating.”
You glance at your team. No one meets your eye.
“Fascinating doesn’t mean safe,” you say.
“No,” Val agrees, tapping to the next slide, “but it does mean viable.”
Your stomach drops.
She keeps going. “We’ve had early conversations with R&D. We think we can refine it. Pull the limbic entanglement into tighter constraints. Give our agents an edge in the field. Total tactical unity. Real-time mental synchronicity in squads of two to five. Imagine it.”
“I’d rather not,” you say flatly.
Val tilts her head. “That’s surprising. You invented it.”
You cross your arms. “I invented a theory. Not a weapon. That compound was never designed for field ops. It was meant to test artificial empathy synthesis in high-stress environments. I never signed off on deployment.”
“You didn’t have to,” she replies, sweet as poison. “You tested it. That’s what matters.”
Your jaw tightens. “What do you want from me?”
Val smiles.
“I want you to stabilize it.”
The room goes quiet.
You don’t answer.
Because your fingers have curled into fists under the table, and the muscle in your jaw is working too hard.
Val’s smile sharpens. “Don’t make that face. You’re not the first brilliant mind to regret what they’ve built. That’s why we’ve brought in oversight.”
You glance around the table, pulse ticking higher. “This is oversight?”
Val gestures lazily toward the door. “Speak of the devil.”
It opens. He walks in. Bucky.
Same stride. Same black tactical pants. Same expression that says he’d rather be anywhere else. But not quite the same. Tighter. Like something inside him is coiled and hasn’t uncoiled since the dampener. You sit straighter without meaning to. He doesn’t look at you. Just nods to the room like it’s a formality. Takes the seat across the table from you, beside Ava, who gives him a quick look. You can feel the space between you stretch like a fault line.
Val keeps going, too casual.
“As most of you know, Sergeant Barnes was one of the two bonded during the prototype incident.”
No one speaks. Ava tilts her head, intrigued. Alexei is still chewing. John looks like he’s waiting to laugh. Bob’s the only one scribbling anything down.
Val turns toward Bucky, her voice silk-wrapped steel. “You submitted a full statement. Care to summarize for the room?”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
“It’s not stable.”
“Define ‘not stable.’”
He looks directly at her now. “There’s no shut-off switch.”
Val smiles like she’s waiting for that. “The dampener worked.”
“Eventually.”
You feel a tug in your chest—but not from the bond. Just memory. Just him.
Val leans back. “Let’s talk about the psychological aftermath.”
You freeze. So does he.
“I read your report,” Val continues. “There were some… interesting observations. About your partner.”
You glance at him, breath catching. He doesn’t speak. Val does.
“‘Responsive. Precise. Too quick to hide discomfort behind sarcasm. Wants to be in control but softens under pressure. Harder to ignore than expected.’”
You stare at her. Then at him. He’s not meeting your eyes. His jaw is tight.
Val keeps reading, but her eyes are on you. “‘I think she felt it too. I think we both wanted it to stop, and neither of us wanted it to stop.’”
The room is silent. No one breathes.
She closes the file with a tap and smiles. “Romantic. Almost poetic.”
Bucky shifts in his chair. “That wasn’t meant for discussion.”
Val keeps going, tapping her tablet again. “Of course, Sergeant Barnes wasn’t the only one who filed a report.”
Your eyes narrow. She scrolls casually. “Let’s see here…”
Your team shifts awkwardly. Ava raises an brow. Walker leans back, already skeptical.
“Ah—found it,” Val says, lips twitching. “‘Post-dampener vitals returned to pre-bond baseline within 48 hours. No lingering physical effects. Subject reports successful cognitive decoupling.’” She glances at you. “Very clinical so far.”
You say nothing. Your throat is tight.
Val continues reading, voice just loud enough to carry. “‘Subject notes difficulty adjusting to emotional silence. Persistent phantom resonance. Reports occasional insomnia, sensory misfires, and…’” She slows. “‘…a recurring sense of loss with no identifiable origin.’”
You feel the breath leave your lungs.
Val looks up, smile gone. Her tone shifts—mocking, just slightly. “‘It’s strange. I should be relieved to have myself back. But some part of me feels like it’s still looking for him.’”
The silence in the room shifts. Heavy. Sharp. Bucky turns to look at you. Not subtly. Not just a glance. He looks at you like you’ve just said something dangerous. Like you’ve handed him a key he didn’t know he was allowed to touch.
You look back. And for the first time since the bond broke—you really see him seeing you.
But then his expression shutters. Clean. Cold. Gone. Like he’s pulled the wall back up in one brutal breath.
Val closes the file with a flick of her fingers.
“Well. This answers my question. If it worked that fast on two unsuspecting individuals—one emotionally distant, the other the one who wrote the damn rules about boundaries—what do we think it’ll do to a trained field team under fire?”
You exhale through your nose. “You’re not trying to refine it. You’re trying to weaponize it.”
Val shrugs. “Tomato, tomahto.”
Your pulse spikes. “You want to use forced bonding as a tactical tool. You want soldiers to feel each other die in real time, feel pain that isn’t theirs, emotions that aren’t theirs—”
“They’ll be trained.”
“They’ll be broken.”
Now the room shifts. Ava sits forward. Yelena’s brow lifts. Even Walker glances sideways at Val.
Val only smiles. “Everyone breaks differently, doctor. That’s the point.”
You can’t help it. You turn to Bucky. He’s looking down. Still silent. Still locked. But you know that posture. You’ve felt it. The way he retreats. The way he steels himself before walking away.
Val’s voice cuts back in. “Final reports are due in forty-eight hours. Including yours, Doctor. Whether you cooperate or not, this is moving forward.”
You don’t answer. She rises. The others begin to move.
But Bucky doesn’t. Not until the last chair scrapes back. Then he stands. And walks out without looking back. This time, you don’t hesitate.
You catch him in the hallway just outside the briefing room.
“Barnes.”
He keeps walking, boots steady on the polished floor like you’re not behind him, like he didn’t just bolt from a public dissection of your most private thoughts. You pick up the pace.
“I said—”
“Don’t,” he mutters without turning. “Not here.”
You follow anyway. Right past the security checkpoint. Into the common area of the residential wing.
Then you hear them. Voices behind you—low, not subtle. Bob. Alexei. You’d bet money Walker’s loitering just out of view, arms crossed and dying for gossip.
“Wow,” Yelena says from behind the coffee bar. “Very dramatic storm-off. Ten out of ten.”
Bucky still doesn’t stop. You catch up beside him, matching his pace. “You’re seriously going to act like none of that meant anything?”
“I’m not doing this in front of an audience,” he snaps, still not looking at you.
You ignore it. “What did you think was going to happen? You walk away and I just go back to being a line item in your report?”
He reaches the end of the hallway. Stops. Jaw locked. Hands at his sides.
“I’m not doing this,” he says again, quieter now. Less sharp. More tired.
You hesitate. And then you say it—just low enough for him to really hear it.
“Bucky, please.”
His head turns. Slow. Measured. Like he didn’t expect you to use his name. Like it broke through something.
You stare up at him. One beat. Two. And then he grabs your wrist—not rough, not rushed—and pulls you with him through the nearest door.
His quarters. The lock clicks behind you. He doesn’t let go. You’re both breathing too hard for how little either of you has moved. His fingers tighten around your wrist.
“I don’t need a debrief,” he says flatly. “Whatever Val’s hoping you’ll get out of this—”
“Don’t do that,” you say.
His shoulders go rigid. “Do what.”
“Shut me out.”
He finally turns. And the look on his face makes your heart falter.
He’s not angry. He’s gutted.
“I told you, once this wore off—”
“I didn’t say it because of the link,” you snap. “I said it because it’s true.”
He shakes his head. “You think it’s true. Because it’s recent. Because you’re still sorting it out.”
“No,” you say. “I said it because I miss you. Because I can’t sleep. Because the silence feels worse than the noise ever did.”
He goes quiet. You take a step closer.
“And don’t tell me it’s not real. Don’t tell me it’s just feedback. I’ve been through every model of post-synthetic resonance in the literature. This isn’t detox.”
Bucky stares at you like he wants to believe you. Like he’s aching to. But the wall is still up. Tighter than ever.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “You’re going to walk out of here and get over it. And I’m going to remember everything I said. Everything I wanted. And wish I hadn’t said a goddamn word.”
That knocks the air out of you. You feel the urge to step back—but you don’t. You root yourself there.
“I’m not over it,” you say, quietly. “And I don’t want to be.”
He looks at you. Really looks. And something shifts in him. But he still doesn’t move. So you step closer. Not too close. Just enough to make it clear you’re not afraid of the space between you. Not anymore. You don’t touch him. Not yet.
“I’ve spent two weeks trying to shut you out of my head,” you murmur. “Pretending I didn’t miss you. That I wasn’t checking every hallway and every email, wondering if you’d say something.”
He exhales sharply through his nose and looks down.
“And when you didn’t,” you add, voice tighter now, “I told myself you were just being careful. That you were trying to do the right thing.”
A pause. Then, lower.
“But maybe it was just easier for you.”
That hits. You see it—right in his eyes. Still, he doesn’t speak. So you finish it.
“Either you felt what I felt or you didn’t,” you say, chin lifting. “But don’t stand there and act like it was just some side effect. Like all of it—everything between us—was just my body misfiring.”
You take a final step closer to him.
“I know who you are now—not just the version you show, not the file, not the soldier. You. I felt every part you tried to hide. And it only made me want you more. And if that was all fake, I don’t know what the hell is real anymore.”
That’s when he moves.
It’s not gentle. It’s not rehearsed. It’s like something inside him snaps, and before you can take another breath, his hands are in your hair, his mouth crashing against yours like he’s been holding back for years—not weeks.
You stumble into him with a gasp, grabbing the front of his shirt like you need it to stay standing. His kiss is rough, hungry, almost frantic—like he’s trying to erase the silence with his teeth.
He spins you, walks you backwards until your shoulders hit the door, and then he’s bracing one arm beside your head, the other sliding down to your hip like he needs to feel you, all of you, right now.
You kiss him back with everything you’ve been holding in. Anger. Frustration. Hunger. Something dangerously close to relief. He pulls back just long enough to look at you, lips swollen, breathing hard.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says, hoarse.
“Yes,” you whisper, dragging your fingers down the line of his stomach. “I do.”
His mouth reclaims yours. This time, the kiss is slower. Hungrier. Less desperation, more purpose. His tongue traces the shape of your lips, parting them before diving in. His hands move, rough and reverent. Skimming your jaw, down your neck, across your chest. They slide beneath your shirt, palms splayed wide like he’s trying to cover all of you at once, like he can’t decide what to touch first. You feel the heat of him through every inch of fabric, and it lights you up from the inside.
He hesitates Just a little. Like it costs him something to stop. A breath caught in his throat. Fingers curling into fists where they’d just been on your ribs. Everything is vibrating with want. No bond. No compound tether. Just this. Just him. And he’s shaking. Not visibly. But you feel it in his breath. In the way his hands flex when they grip your hips. Like he’s holding back with every ounce of control he has left.
“You sure?” he rasps, low and wrecked.
You nod. He doesn’t move. So you press your mouth to his ear.
“Bucky,” you whisper. “I’ve been sure since I looked you in the eye and told you not to think about sex.”
He exhales, a bit shaky, but lifts you, guiding you backward toward the bed. Walking you slow and blind, like he’s memorized every inch of you and he’s finally getting to touch what he learned.
You hit the mattress. He’s on you a second later, crowding you down with the weight of his body, the strength of his stare.
“Don’t move,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your cheek. “I want to see you.”
Your heart stutters as he starts to undress you. Slow at first, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. Fingers dragging over skin with intention. Mouth kissing every new inch he uncovers.
“You’re fuckin’ beautiful, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”
You whimper, hands reaching, but he pins your wrists lightly to the bed.
“Let me,” he says. “You’ve had your hands on yourself enough, haven’t you?”
Your face burns but your thighs twitch. He clocks it.
“Oh, you liked that,” he murmurs, voice like velvet. “Liked making me feel it. Every fuckin’ second.”
“Bucky—”
“You wanna know what it did to me?” he asks, trailing his fingers down your stomach, your hip, your thigh. “The way you touched yourself? Knowing I couldn’t stop you. Couldn’t help you. Couldn’t taste you.”
Your breath hitches as his lips graze your inner thigh.
“I almost lost it, doll.”
He groans as he spreads you open, thumb teasing, mouth following. He’s slow at first. Too slow. Licking soft circles like he’s memorizing the shape of your pleasure.
And then he dives in.
Moans into you like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Holds your thighs apart, firm and unrelenting, while his tongue works in perfect rhythm. Watching you. Murmuring praise between licks and gasps. Your hips twitch, a whimper slipping through your clenched teeth.
“Already?” he murmurs, breath hot against you. “You that close, sweetheart?”
You try to answer, but it’s useless.
“God, look at you,” he groans. “So fucking wet.”
You arch up in response, gasping.
“Needy little thing,” he laughs, brushing his fingers through your folds. “Bet this is all you’ve been thinking about the past two weeks, huh?”
He plunges a finger inside of you and curls, as do your toes while you rasp out.
“Bucky, please!”
“You gonna fall apart for me, doll?” he murmurs against you, the words so filthy and tender they almost make you cry. “I want it. Want to feel you shake. Want to taste every bit of it.”
He flicks his tongue in tight circles, then flattens it low and slow. Adding another finger to your weeping core. Your hips start to shake, lifting off the bed. He feels it and grips you tighter.
“Don’t fight it,” he gasps into you. “Don’t you fucking dare. That’s mine.”
He sucks hard—just once—and your vision whites out. You try to warn him. A gasp, a stuttered breath, a twist of your hips. But it’s already too late. You come with a cry, fists clutching the sheets, legs locked around his shoulders, everything inside you unraveling at once.
It’s too much. Too sharp. Too good. And he groans into you like he’s the one coming. You’re limp, gasping, still shaking—and he’s still there, mouth wet, fingers brushing your hip.
“Shit,” you breathe. “That was…”
He kisses the inside of your thigh. Then again, a little higher.
“You’re not done yet,” he says, voice thick with hunger. “Not even close.”
He keeps going, softer now—just enough to draw the aftershocks out of you, murmuring things you can barely hear over your own heartbeat.
“So perfect. So fuckin’ sweet”
You blink through the stars behind your eyes, chest rising in fast, uneven bursts.
“Bucky—”
He finally comes up for air, his eyes are darker with something deeper than just heat as his gaze locks on yours. And for a second, neither of you moves.
You’re still panting, still wrecked from his mouth and fingers, but there’s something in the way he looks at you now. Like he’s trying to memorize you, even as his restraint starts to crack again.
“Still with me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice hoarse.
You nod, breath caught in your throat.
“Good,” he says, fingers sliding up your sides. “Because I’m not done learning how you fall apart.”
You whine when he pulls away. But when his own shirt comes off, followed by the rest, your breath stutters—because even now, with the link broken, you’re still wrecked by your need for him.
Not like before. Not a shared mind or emotion. But like muscle memory. Like your skin knows him now. His mouth tilts up—barely a smile, more like relief bleeding through restraint.
Then he climbs your body like he owns it, skin dragging over skin. Not rushing. Savoring. Like he’s been starving for you and doesn’t want to miss a single fucking bite. His chest brushes yours—bare, flushed—and you both exhale hard, the contact so electric it knocks the air from your lungs.
You reach for him, aching, but he catches your wrists—not to stop you. To feel you. To anchor himself. His thumbs press into your palms, grounding hard.
“You still want this?” he murmurs.
You nod. But that’s not enough. Not for either of you.
“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you.”
He kisses you like he means to brand it into you, deep and claiming. His whole body comes down over yours, pinning you into the mattress with his weight like he’s trying to fuck the memory of him into your bones.
His hand trails down your side, over your hip, gripping your thigh with purpose. Holding you there, keeping you open for him.
“You feel that?” he whispers against your jaw, slowly dragging his cock against your sensitive heat. “That’s real. Not chemicals. Not the compound.”
You nod again, blinking up at him.
“I felt you before, doll,” he murmurs, pressing the head against your entrance. “But now? Now I get to have you.”
Then he pushes in slowly. Inch by inch as it steals the air from your lungs, not realizing how you could ever feel this full. He’s everywhere. It’s not artificial. It’s just him. Just this. And it’s overwhelming in a completely different way.
“God, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he groans, as his hips finally meet yours. “Like you were made for me.”
He moves slow at first, watching your face, chasing every gasp, every arch of your body. Letting you relax into the stretch as he drags himself in and out of you. Your body answers him before your mouth can. Nails digging into his shoulder. The pressure already building, faster this time, hotter. And he feels it, responding with a low, rough growl in your ear.
“Got used to feeling everything,” he murmurs. “Now I’ve gotta earn it. Every sound. Every twitch of those perfect fuckin’ hips.”
You can’t even speak. You moan, hips tilting up, greedy for more.
“That’s right,” he breathes, rougher now. “Show me.”
He rocks into you again, harder this time. You gasp, cry out softly against his shoulder.
“Bucky—please—”
“You begging already?” he groans, continuing to pound you deeper into the mattress. “Thought I was just a side effect.”
“You weren’t.”
He freezes, just for a moment. Kisses you again, softer now, but more desperate.
“Say it again.” His forehead presses to yours.
You touch his face, thumb brushing the hard line of his jaw. “You weren’t.”
He exhales like it hurts.
“You gonna come for me again, sweetheart?”
You whimper, helpless as your walls begin to flutter around him.
“Yeah, you are,” he breathes. “I can feel it. So tight around me already.”
And the way he looks at you—wrecked and reverent and just this side of feral—makes your whole body stutter. You want it. Want to be ruined by him. Claimed by him.
You tighten around him again, and his hips snap harder. His hand slips between your bodies. Finds your clit. Zeroes in without mercy.
“Give it to me,” he whispers into your throat. “Let me feel you fall apart.”
It hits like a freight train—loud and messy and devastating. Your back arches, your breath catches, and you cry out his name like it’s the only word you’ve got left.
He fucks you through it—long, dragging thrusts that keep you trembling. Your body’s oversensitive now, every nerve frayed, but he doesn’t stop. Keeps going, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
“Bucky,” you moan, hand in his hair, nails dragging over his scalp.
He breaths into your mouth—kissing you like he’s starving.
“You drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he pants. “You know that?”
You whimper, thighs shaking.
“I tried to keep it together,” he growls, voice ragged. “I tried—”
Every thrust is brutal now. Precise. Shattering.
“Fuck,” he breaths. “When you were—”
“Buck—”
He kisses you again, biting your lip. His hand moves between you again, thumb rubbing fast and perfect.
“God, baby—” His voice cracks. “You’re gonna make me fuckin’ lose it.”
“Then lose it,” you whisper. “I want you to.”
He growls your name, broken and wrecked, hips jerking once, twice—And you shatter. It slams through you—raw, loud, everything burning at the edges. Your body seizes, clenching around him, sobbing his name as you fall apart in his arms.
He buries himself inside you. You feel the heat. The flood. The way he tries to hold himself together and can’t. He’s trembling over you, muscles locked tight, jaw clenched as he pulses deep in you, riding it out with a low, wrecked moan.
You’re both gasping now. Shaking. Tangled up and clinging. And still—he doesn’t pull away. He stays. Forehead to yours, still buried deep, arms wrapped around you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.
“I’ve never thought—” he starts, voice ragged. “That wasn’t just—”
You touch his face, soft now. “I know.”
Because you do. This wasn’t adrenaline. Wasn’t science. Wasn’t the bond. It was him. It was you. He lifts his head slowly. Looks at you like he’s still afraid to believe it. So you cup his face, kiss his temple, and whisper, “Don’t you dare vanish on me now.”
His throat works, jaw clenches. But he doesn’t run.
He stays right where he is. Wrapped around you.
—-
The room is warm. Quiet. You’re lying on your back, one leg tangled with his, the sheets kicked halfway off the bed. Bucky’s fingers skim slow circles over your hip, like he hasn’t figured out how to stop touching you yet. Or doesn’t want to. You stare at the ceiling.
“Tell me again how this wasn’t a terrible idea,” you murmur.
He huffs out a laugh. “It was a terrible idea.”
“Oh, good,” you say. “So we’re on the same page.”
He shifts, rolling just enough to look at you. His hair is a mess, his chest still rising a little fast, like he hasn’t fully come down. There’s a smudge of dried sweat at his temple and your teeth marks fading on his neck, and you have the completely inappropriate urge to kiss both.
“Can’t believe I got to sleep with the woman who called me a glorified blunt object,” he says dryly.
You smirk. “Wasn’t planning to sleep with the guy who implied my life’s work was an emotional leash.”
“Touché.”
You sigh. Close your eyes for a second. The weight of it all—what came before, what you just crossed into—settles somewhere behind your ribs. He’s still watching you when you open them again.
“I’ll deal with Val,” he says suddenly. “If she tries to pull anything with the compound, I’ll shut it down.”
You blink. “You’re serious.”
“I usually am.”
You study him for a beat. “You don’t have to fight my battles, Barnes.”
“No,” he says. “But I want to.”
Something about the way he says it. Casual and quiet, like it isn’t a big deal, makes your stomach tighten. He’s not pushing. Not performing. He just means it. You shift closer, resting your chin on his chest. “You know, if you’d told me two weeks ago I’d end up in your bed—”
“You would’ve laughed in my face.”
“I did laugh in your face.”
“You told me I looked like a government-issued mistake.”
You snort. “Well. You kind of did.”
He smirks, fingers brushing a line along your spine. “Still think I’m a mistake?”
You glance up at him. He’s smiling, but it’s tentative. Like he’s not sure if you’ll dodge or hit back. So you lean up, kiss him—soft, but real. Honest.
“Maybe not a mistake,” you whisper against his mouth. “Maybe just… statistically improbable.”
He laughs against your lips. You both fall back into the pillows, tangled up and far too warm, but neither of you moves.
Eventually he murmurs, “This thing between us—whatever it is—it’s real now, right?”
You stretch a leg over his, sighing. “I mean, if it’s not, then I’m still having incredibly vivid sex dreams while awake.”
“That’s flattering.”
“That’s science.”
He kisses your forehead and mumbles, “Then let’s see what happens without science.”
You let that settle. No neurobond. No link. No forced proximity. Just choice. You curl in closer. And this time, when you breathe him in, you don’t feel afraid.
Just steady. Just… okay. You smile. And he feels it.
synopsis: You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple at a luxury retreat crawling with secrets, soft lighting, and surveillance. The mission’s simple: blend in, get intel, get out. But somewhere between fake kisses, shared beds, and bathhouse steam, the line between pretending and wanting starts to blur—and when the op goes sideways, the only person you can trust is the man you were supposed to hate.
content warnings: 18+ bottom male reader, explicit sexual content (handjob, oral, p in a, overstimulation), enemies to lovers dynamic, violence and brief fight scenes, power imbalance (mission/cover-related), public intimacy (bathhouse, massage scene), handcuffs (implied kink and tactical use), emotional repression, mutual denial, mild voyeurism (surveillance themes).
word count: 5.1k (I've learnt how to write smut again yipeee)
The last time you were this close to Bucky Barnes, he’d slammed you into a concrete wall and called it “team-building.”
Now he was standing beside you in a knit sweater, holding a duffel bag and scowling at a bowl of complimentary potpourri, as if it personally offended him.
The Edelhaus Retreat did not suit him. Not the soft lighting. Not the muted jazz trickling through unseen speakers. Certainly not the host with the lavender scarf and fake accent who had just welcomed you to your week of rekindled intimacy.
“Couples therapy,” Bucky muttered under his breath, jaw tight. “Seriously?”
You didn’t look at him. You were too busy smiling at the receptionist like your fake marriage wasn’t already circling the drain.
“It was this or a fake honeymoon cruise,” you said. “Personally, I didn’t trust you near that many piña coladas.”
He shot you a sideways glare. You returned it with a grin that showed just enough teeth.
The mission file had been clear: embedded intel suggested that a major buyer was using Edelhaus as a meeting point to exchange encrypted biometric data on Thunderbolts agents. You’d been chosen because you could fake charm. Bucky had been selected because he didn’t do charm, and that apparently made him less suspicious.
The “undercover couple” thing? That was someone’s idea of a joke.
Or a punishment.
Maybe both.
✧✧✧
Your suite was on the third floor. Private balcony. Heated floors. The fireplace was already lit when you walked in.
And, of course, one bed.
A massive one, with too many pillows and a note on the nightstand that read Welcome back, Mr. and Mr. Barnes. We hope the healing begins tonight.
You dropped your bag with a heavy thud. “Charming.”
Bucky stood in the doorway like the room offended him on a spiritual level. “You gonna make it weird, or can we get through this without the usual commentary?”
You turned. “This is me restraining myself.”
“You’re doing a bad job.”
You stepped toward him, slowly. Smiling, friendly, murderous. “Listen, Barnes. I’m not the one who broke a guy’s wrist last week because he said you had ‘resting murder face.’”
His metal fingers twitched where they rested at his side—silent, gleaming, and just slightly clenched.
“He was wrong?” he asked, tone low.
“No,” you admitted. “But some of us use words.”
“Some of us use results.”
You laughed sharply. “God, you must be fun at dinner parties.”
There was a silence after that. A beat too long.
Then, quietly:
“Which side of the bed do you want?” he asked, eyes still on the window.
You blinked.
“What, no threats? No passive-aggressive ‘you take the floor’ speech?”
“Just pick a side.”
You hesitated. Then moved toward the left, throwing your jacket onto the mattress.
Bucky said nothing, just walked to the opposite end of the room and started unpacking with clinical precision. Toothbrush. Socks. Knife.
The dull thunk of metal against wood as he set down a prosthetic care kit.
You watched him for a moment longer than you should’ve.
It wasn’t attraction. Not exactly.
Just—curiosity. Frustration. That permanent weight in his shoulders, the way he never quite let go of the tension in his jaw. He was made of control and violence barely leashed, as if you looked at him too long, something might break. Maybe in him. Maybe in you.
You turned away. Sat on the bed and muttered, “Think we’ll make it through the week without strangling each other?”
Bucky didn’t look up. “I give it three days.”
You grinned. “Optimist.”
✧✧✧
The room smelled like eucalyptus and vaguely overpriced essential oils.
A diffuser hissed from the corner like a tiny, passive-aggressive snake. There were knitted throws folded over armchairs, a “gratitude bowl” by the window, and a chalkboard on the wall with a looping message that read:
"Welcome to Day One of Your New Forever."
You were already considering lighting it on fire.
Bucky sat beside you on the loveseat, legs planted, arms folded, expression blank. He was wearing that stupid oatmeal sweater again—the one that made him look irritatingly approachable—and staring so intently at a ceramic owl on the bookshelf that you wondered if he was trying to will it to explode.
You smiled thinly. “You look like you’re enjoying this.”
He didn’t even blink. “I’ve had dental surgery that was more relaxing.”
Across from you, Dr. Elise Monroe—licensed marriage therapist, facial expressions carved from granite—was jotting notes in an elegant leather notebook.
She looked up, eyes mild. “Let’s talk about communication.”
Here we go.
“What’s something your partner does that frustrates you?” she asked.
A beat of silence. You started to speak.
“He talks too much,” Bucky said, deadpan.
You turned your head slowly. “He grunts at furniture.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched.
Dr. Monroe didn’t react. “Interesting. Do either of you feel seen by the other?”
Bucky gave you a sideways glance. “I feel surveilled.”
You smiled brightly. “He stares like I owe him money.”
“Do you feel emotionally supported?”
You both said, at the same time:
“No.”
✧✧✧
You were halfway through a passive-aggressive worksheet called ‘Touch-Based Reconnection’ when Bucky leaned over and whispered, “I can’t believe this is our job.”
You didn’t look up. Just muttered, “We’re here to sell it, remember?”
“To whom? Her?” His eyes flicked toward the therapist. “She already hates us.”
You smirked. “Then act like you love me a little harder.”
He went still. You could feel it through the cushion between you—the sudden shift in his posture. Not tense. Not angry. Just…off-balance.
You didn’t press.
Because the mission was real, even if no one else in this stupid spa knew it. Somewhere in this tangle of yoga classes, massages, and fake intimacy, there were answers. Intel. The Thunderbolts weren’t the most subtle team in the world, and you were the only two who could fake domestic without scaring off the rest of the retreat.
So for now?
You were married. You were in therapy. You were trying.
Kind of.
✧✧✧
Dr. Monroe closed her notebook and said, “We’re going to try a simple exercise. Stand facing each other.”
You both groaned at the same time.
“Hands up. Palm to palm,” she said.
You sighed. Bucky stood stiffly. Your hands met, awkward and dry, his vibranium fingers cool against your skin.
Dr. Monroe spoke softly. “Now, I want you to look each other in the eye and say: ‘I want to be understood.’”
You stared up at him.
He stared back down, unmoving.
You exhaled first. “I want to be understood.”
Bucky was quiet for a second too long.
Then, with a voice so low you barely heard it: “I want to be understood.”
Your fingers were still touching.
And for a split second, neither of you was faking it.
✧✧✧
The Edelhaus bathhouse smelled like citrus, cedarwood, and secrets.
Steam curled from sunken stone pools fed by mineral springs, diffusing the light into a soft, opalescent blur. Everything was warm marble and flickering candlelight, the kind of rich, cultivated calm designed to make you forget you were being watched.
You hadn’t. Not for a second.
There were cameras. You could feel them behind the mirrors, tucked into corners, somewhere beneath the low hum of spa music.
The mission files had confirmed what you already suspected: Level 4 wasn’t just for luxury. It was where the real data extraction happened. Therapists were trained to coax things out of people they didn’t even realise they were saying. Hidden mics. Heat-sensitive tracking. Eye movement analysis.
All of it buried under massages and vulnerability exercises and cucumber water.
“Take a deep breath,” said the staff member beside the pool, smiling like a cult leader on a cruise. “Let it all go.”
You glanced at Bucky. He looked like he’d rather be stabbed.
✧✧✧
There were four other couples in the Level 4 program, each as curated as a photo op: one older gay couple in tailored robes, a pair of influencers doing slow-breathing selfies, two corporate execs with matching jawlines, and a silent, intimidating duo who hadn’t spoken all day. One of them wore a ring with an embedded micro-gem scanner you’d flagged immediately.
This wasn't just therapy. It was surveillance.
The attendant offered you each a small, carved stone.
“A cleansing ritual,” she said sweetly. “To hold during your confession.”
“Confession?” Bucky muttered, low.
You elbowed him. “Go with it.”
“Each partner will share something they’ve never told the other,” she continued. “In the pool. Eye contact. No interruptions.”
You stared at her, then the hot spring, then Bucky. “So... spiritual waterboarding.”
Her smile didn’t waver.
✧✧✧
You stepped into the water first, careful not to slip on the marble because that would be a stupid way to die. The heat licked up your spine, steam curling around your throat like silk. It should’ve been relaxing.
Then Bucky took off his robe.
You didn’t look.
You really didn’t look.
You looked.
It was a flash. A mistake. A full-body snapshot your brain took without permission and immediately carved into the back of your skull like a Renaissance painting with way too much emotional damage.
Scarred thighs. Strong hands. That long, lean back lined with tension, he didn’t even know how to let go of. The shimmer of his metal arm, already beaded with condensation. The very naked, very rude reality of James Buchanan Barnes stepping into the bath like it wasn’t a war crime.
You stared straight ahead. Dead ahead. Into the steam.
Into God’s indifferent eyes.
He sat across from you with all the casual grace of someone who had absolutely never cared what anyone thought of his body.
You wished you had goggles. Or blindness.
He shifted, water moving with him, heat rising like a threat.
“You good?” he asked.
“Yup,” you said. Voice an octave too high. “Totally fine. This is all extremely normal.”
He raised an eyebrow.
You refused to meet his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve seen better.”
“Sure.”
“Like. On statues. In museums.”
“Right.”
You coughed into your fist. “Anyway. Emotional vulnerability time.”
And he smirked—smirked, the bastard—like he knew. Like your brain had tripped over itself and left your soul face-down in the dirt.
You hated him. You really, really hated him.
And you were definitely not thinking about anything below the waterline.
He sat across from you in the spring, steam curling between you like breath. For a moment, the world felt muffled. Too close.
Someone coughed behind you. The air changed. Eyes were on you now.
It was time to perform.
✧✧✧
You adjusted in the water, faced him. “I’ll go first.”
Bucky blinked. “You sure?”
You nodded, looking him dead in the eye. And said:
“I think you judge people before you know them, and then punish them for not living up to who you decided they are.”
There was a long pause. The stone warmed in your hand.
You weren’t smiling.
Bucky stared back, face unreadable. Then he said, slowly, “I think you hide behind sarcasm because if you ever said what you really meant, people might actually believe you.”
Silence. The steam thickened.
You almost looked away.
Almost.
But you didn’t.
✧✧✧
Later, after the ritual ended and robes were handed out and the candles blown out one by one, you walked back to the suite in near silence. The sky outside had gone black, the snow glittering like sugar under the moon.
Inside, the bed was still unmade. The fire was still warm. The pillows had shifted from last night—his on the right, yours on the left, as if some invisible line had been drawn.
You changed in the bathroom, dried your hair with one of those stupid embroidered towels. When you came back out, Bucky was already in bed, facing away.
You hesitated at the doorframe.
“That thing you said,” you said quietly.
He didn’t move.
You exhaled. “Was it part of the cover?”
A pause.
Then: “No.”
You didn’t answer.
You just slid into bed next to him, one inch closer than the night before.
✧✧✧
You didn’t sleep well that night.
Maybe it was the heat of the spring still stuck to your skin, or the weird softness of the mattress, or the fact that Bucky Barnes was three feet away, breathing like he wasn’t ruining your entire night by existing.
You were hyper-aware of every shift of weight on the bed. Every exhale. Every stretch of silence where he might’ve fallen asleep, except you knew he hadn’t.
Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.
At some point, you ended up on your back, staring at the ceiling, counting the slow press of your own heartbeat.
You weren’t thinking about the bath. Obviously not. That was the mission. Surveillance. Forced intimacy. Not real.
Not him sitting there bare in the steam like a carved accusation.
Not the water rolling down his collarbone. Not the—
Nope. No.
You rolled over and buried your face in a pillow like it owed you money.
✧✧✧
The next morning, you were both called into a “Partners Harmony Seminar.”
It turned out to be couples’ yoga.
The kind with guided touch, breathwork, and a horrifying lack of personal space. The instructor, a man named Rune who looked like a sentient crystal, greeted you both with folded hands and far too much eye contact.
“Trust begins with the body,” Rune intoned, handing you both rolled towels. “Today, we learn to surrender control.”
Bucky looked like he’d just swallowed a nail.
You muttered, “Bet you’re great at surrendering.”
“Keep talking,” he said under his breath, “and I’ll surrender you off this balcony.”
The first pose involved sitting back-to-back, legs crossed, hands resting on each other’s knees. His palms were warm. His thigh brushed yours.
You were definitely not aware of how solid his back felt against yours. Or the slow rhythm of his breathing. Or the fact that his thumb kept flexing like he didn’t know what to do with it.
It wasn’t intimate. It was tactical. You were blending in. Selling the role.
You leaned back just a little more. He didn’t move away.
✧✧✧
Later, after a very confusing partner pose that ended with your arm under his and both of you face-down on a mat, you were walking back toward the main building when someone called out—
“Mr. Barnes?”
You both turned.
A man was walking toward you. Sharp suit. Designer glasses. Hands behind his back like a polite serpent.
He smiled. “Still haven’t worked out who gets to keep the name, I see.”
You recognised him instantly: Carlo Veidt, tech consultant to several defence contractors. Civilian on paper. Ghost on the dark web. The man who shouldn’t have been here.
But he was smiling.
“I was hoping to see you again,” he said. “Both of you. You made quite an impression last time.”
Bucky’s voice was smooth and cold. “That so?”
Carlo’s eyes flicked between you. “It’s rare to see something real in a place like this. I’d love to talk more.”
You gave a rehearsed laugh. “We’re all about real.”
“Dinner, then,” he said, still watching Bucky. “Tonight.”
And with that, he left.
You didn’t speak until the elevator doors shut.
Then you said, “He made us.”
“No,” Bucky said quietly. “He made me.”
That night, there was only one change in your routine.
When you got into bed, Bucky didn’t turn away this time.
And neither did you.
✧✧✧
Dinner was held in the mountaintop lounge: dim lighting, panoramic views of the snow-drenched valley, and a jazz trio playing something low and slippery in the corner.
You hated it immediately.
Bucky looked unfairly composed in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled just enough to show a sliver of the metal arm. His hair was pushed back like he hadn’t tried, which meant he definitely had. You had no business noticing that.
Carlo Veidt was already seated, sipping something gold and ancient. He stood as you approached, hands outstretched like this was a reunion.
“Mr. and Mr. Barnes,” he said with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “You look well.”
Bucky didn’t speak. Just sat down slowly beside you, close enough that his thigh touched yours. Warm. Solid. Anchored.
You leaned in, playing the role. “We’ve been working on ourselves.”
Carlo’s smile sharpened. “Have you?”
✧✧✧
The conversation was a test.
Not a casual dinner, not a friendly chat—just layers of subtext and smiling knives. Carlo asked about trust. About power. About vulnerability. All while swirling his drink and watching you both like you were bugs under glass.
You matched his tone. Played flirty, a little bored, touched Bucky’s knee once just to see if Carlo flinched.
He didn’t.
But Bucky did.
Not much. Just a shift. A breath. Like he wasn’t expecting you to do it.
He didn’t pull away.
It happened near the end of the night, over dessert.
Carlo said something like, “And what do you think love is, Mr. Barnes?”
And Bucky didn’t answer with sarcasm.
Didn’t deflect.
He turned to you—looked at you like he was trying to remember the lines—and said, clear and low:
“It’s showing up when you don’t want to. Even when it’s easier to run.”
You blinked. Forgot your own breath.
That wasn’t in the script.
Then his hand slipped into yours under the table.
And held.
✧✧✧
The walk back to the suite was silent. Tense. Something unspoken is thick in the air between you, like static.
You opened the door. He followed.
And then you said it. Too sharp. Too fast.
“You didn’t have to touch me like that.”
He stopped in the middle of the room. “It sold it, didn’t it?”
“That wasn’t selling it.”
His jaw flexed. “Then what was it?”
You stared at him. “You tell me.”
Silence.
Then, softer: “Was any of that real?”
A beat.
“Does it matter?”
✧✧✧
Later, you stood by the fireplace, trying to breathe past the knot in your chest.
He came up behind you.
You didn’t move.
His hand touched your waist, light, uncertain. Not demanding.
You turned. Not fast. Just enough to face him.
The look in his eyes wasn’t angry this time.
It wasn’t even guarded.
It was something else. Something hot and scared and wanting.
Your mouth was dry. “This is a bad idea.”
His voice was low. “I know.”
You said it again.
And then you kissed him.
Hard.
And he kissed you back like he’d been waiting all damn week.
His mouth crashed into yours again—hotter this time, hungrier.
You’d kissed before. For show. For optics.
But this wasn’t for them.
This was personal.
His hands found your face like he didn’t trust it was real, thumbs rough against your jaw. You let yourself lean in, just enough to press your chest to his, and the contact lit a fuse up your spine.
The next kiss was uglier. Teeth. Breath. Frustration.
Like you hated him just a little less now, and it made everything worse.
You walked him back without thinking, half-shoving him into the wall by the fireplace. He grunted, low and surprised, and then tugged you forward by the waist—his grip bruising, desperate. That metal hand was cold through the fabric of your shirt, and when it slid up your ribs, you choked on air.
“Still pretending?” you breathed.
“Shut up,” he said, voice wrecked.
You kissed him again, harder. One of you bit the other. Maybe both. His shirt came off. Yours too.
There was no grace in it—just hands and heat and need, like you were both trying to get rid of the distance you’d built between you.
The bed creaked. Your knees hit it. He dragged you down with him, all strength and tension and that impossible mouth on your neck like he wanted to mark something.
You made a sound you didn’t mean to.
He froze.
You opened your eyes—breathless, strung out, half-naked in his arms—and said, “Don’t stop.”
And he didn’t.
His mouth found yours again, slower this time. Like he needed to taste it properly, like the heat wasn’t enough unless he drowned in it.
He moved over you—one hand braced beside your head, the other dragging down your chest, calloused and hungry and not the least bit careful. His fingers dug into your skin like he wanted to leave marks. Like he didn’t care who saw.
You kissed him like you wanted to prove a point.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your neck, voice low and rasping. “Why didn’t we do this sooner?”
You laughed—short and wrecked and barely there. “Because I hated you.”
His hand slipped lower. You inhaled sharply.
“Still do?” he asked.
Your hips arched up into him. “Ask me again when I can think.”
That earned a groan—a real one, deep in his throat, full of want. He kissed his way down your chest, teeth catching on skin, and you gripped the back of his neck like you’d fall apart if you didn’t.
The room tilted.
Clothes disappeared. Logic, too.
The last thing you remembered clearly was the sound he made when you pulled him in closer, like he hadn’t expected you to want him like that. Like something in him cracked wide open.
He buried his face against your shoulder, chest heaving.
“You sure?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.
You nodded, already half-gone. “Bucky. Yes.”
And then he moved—slow at first, like he wanted to feel every inch of it, like the moment would shatter if he wasn’t careful. Like he was still giving you time to say no.
But you didn’t.
You couldn't.
You just pulled him closer.
His breath hitched against your throat, low and guttural. One hand braced by your head, the other trailing down your side like he was memorising it, gripping your hip, grounding you.
And when he finally pushed in, all of him, deep and sure and devastating, your body answered before your brain could.
You gasped—sharp, helpless. Eyes slamming shut.
He stilled. Completely.
Chest heaving. Forehead resting against yours.
“Tell me,” he whispered.
And you did.
With your voice.
With your hands.
With every sound you couldn’t swallow down.
It wasn’t careful anymore after that.
It was teeth and sweat and low, broken noises in the dark—fingers digging into muscle, skin against scarred metal, the sharp rhythm of two people who should’ve known better but never stood a chance.
You told him not to stop.
He never did.
His hand slid down your body, fingers tracing the curves of your muscles. He leaned in to capture your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth to taste you fully. You could feel the heat of his body pressing against yours, his hardness evident even through the layers of clothing that separated you.
Bucky chuckled, the sound low and wicked. "Not yet, love. I'm going to take my time with you."
He reached over to the nightstand, grabbing the lube that had been left there for… couple activities. He coated his fingers generously, his eyes never leaving yours as he brought them back to your entrance.
You gasped as he pressed a single finger inside you, the sensation foreign but not unwelcome. He worked it in and out slowly, teasing you with shallow thrusts that left you aching for more.
"That's it," he purred, adding a second finger and scissoring them inside you to stretch you open. "You're so tight, baby. I can't wait to feel you around my cock."
You moaned, your head falling back against the pillow as you savoured the feeling of his fingers moving inside you. He curled them just right, hitting that sweet spot deep within you that had you seeing stars.
"Fuck, right there," you gasped, your hips rocking against his hand in search of more of that delicious sensation.
Bucky chuckled, continuing to work you open with his fingers. After a few moments, he pulled away, leaving you feeling empty and wanting.
But before you could protest, he was shifting down the bed, positioning himself between your legs. He leaned in, his breath hot against your aching cock.
"Let me taste you," he murmured, his tongue darting out to lick a long stripe up your length.
You let out a low moan, your head falling back against the pillow as you lost yourself in the sensation. He took you into his mouth, his lips wrapping around the head of your cock as he began to suck.
His hand came up to wrap around the base of your shaft, working in tandem with his mouth as he brought you closer and closer to the edge. You could feel the pressure building in your lower belly, your release approaching rapidly.
Just as you were about to come undone, he pulled away, leaving you gasping and frustrated. You opened your eyes to see him smirking up at you, a wicked glint in his eye.
"Not yet, pretty," he purred, crawling back up your body. "I'm not done with you yet."
He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your. You let out a low moan, your hips bucking up in search of more of that delicious pressure.
He teased you for a moment, just the tip breaching your entrance before pulling away. You growled in frustration, your hands fisting in the sheets beneath you.
"Bucky, please," you begged, your voice strained with desire. "I need you inside me."
He grinned, finally pushing forward to sheath himself fully inside you with one smooth thrust. You let out a low moan, your back arching off the bed as you savoured the feeling of being so deliciously full.
He began to move, his hips rocking against yours in a steady rhythm. You met each of his thrusts with your own, the room filling with the sounds of skin against skin and low, guttural moans.
The pleasure built with each passing moment, your bodies moving together in perfect sync. You could feel the tension coiling tight in your lower belly, your orgasm approaching rapidly.
Bucky leaned down to capture your lips in a heated kiss, swallowing down your moans as he continued to pound into you. He reached between your bodies, his hand wrapping around your aching cock and stroking in time with his thrusts.
It was too much, the overstimulation sending you hurtling towards the edge. With a few more well-placed strokes, he sent you over, your body tensing as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you.
He followed shortly after, his body shuddering above you as he came deep inside you with a low, guttural moan.
✧✧✧
You lay there after, both of you silent. Breathing. Sweating.
You didn’t touch. Not yet. But the air between you had changed.
“You still think it doesn’t matter?” you asked, voice quiet.
He didn’t answer right away.
Then, softly: “No. I think it matters too much.”
✧✧✧
The Ceremony took place on the top floor of the resort—an open-concept temple of white stone and glass, full of soft candlelight and couples in pale silk robes, like a damn cult that smelled like bergamot.
The final ritual was meant to be symbolic: partners “laying bare” their souls in front of one another.
But underneath the woo-woo language and therapeutic ambience was a full-scale data extraction.
Hidden in the ritual was a tech system: low-frequency neuro-mapping, paired with heat-responsive skin sensors and proximity-based AI to pull “emotional vulnerabilities” from surface memory. It didn’t read minds. It read reactions. Facial tics. Pupillary response. Muscle tension.
Your files called it the Haruspex Protocol.
The market called it a billion-dollar blackmail machine.
And now it was online.
✧✧✧
You and Bucky stood on the platform, robes cinched at the waist, fingers loosely twined in front of an audience pretending not to watch. A soft voice prompted you through the Ceremony:
“Speak your truth. Share your secret.”
Your heart pounded. Not from fear. From what you knew was coming.
You looked at Bucky.
He looked at you.
And then, under your breath:
“They’re uploading it now.”
He didn’t blink. Just whispered back: “Where’s the receiver?”
You flicked your eyes to Carlo, standing near the back with a champagne flute in one hand and a tech ring on the other. The same one from the bathhouse.
“The ring,” you said. “We need it.”
✧✧✧
It happened fast.
Carlo caught your glance and smiled. A soft, knowing smile. Like he knew exactly what you were.
You broke first.
Leapt from the platform, crowd parting with gasps. Bucky followed a beat later, knocking down a decorative arch with one arm and sending flower petals everywhere like the world’s most violent wedding crash.
Security moved.
You hit Carlo hard—hard enough to dislodge the ring and drive him into the polished floor. He hissed, trying to reach for something hidden in his robe.
Bucky got there first.
You don’t remember the blow, just the sound of it. Crunch and wet.
The ring skidded across the floor, blinking red.
You grabbed it.
✧✧✧
Thirty minutes later, the uplink was dead.
The data was erased.
Carlo unconscious. The guests scattered. Edelhaus was officially shut down for “renovation” by an unnamed corporate entity with a suspiciously Thunderbolt-shaped logo in the footer.
You sat on the edge of the now-empty hot spring, still damp from the chaos, breathing hard.
Bucky dropped down beside you. Robe torn. Hair a mess. Lip split.
You were both quiet.
Then you looked at him. Really looked.
“Was any of it fake?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then, softly: “No.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “Guess we blew our cover.”
He glanced at you sideways. “I don’t think I want it back.”
You swallowed. “So now what?”
Bucky leaned in.
Not for a kiss. Just enough to rest his shoulder against yours.
“We figure it out,” he said. “Together.”
✧✧✧
Somewhere underground, in a windowless office that smelled like espresso and bureaucratic rot, Valentina Allegra de Fontaine snapped her gum and tapped a pen against a file folder labelled:
THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader
Summary: Bucky Barnes has messed up big time ... he just doesn't know it until he sees you and realises he really should've checked his texts.
Warnings: There are very subtle mentions to reader having some issues mentally but nothing specific is mentioned other than her being very guarded and angry. This is inspired by and takes place during a scene from the Thunderbolts movie! It has direct spoilers for the film! If you haven't seen it and don't want to be spoiled, don't read this one yet.
Word Count: 1.9k.
A/N: It has been three whole years since I wrote for Bucky Barnes. Thanks to Thunderbolts, I am so back 🥰. I had this idea for the movie when I saw it again yesterday and I plotted most of it out at work today. I'm really happy with how it turned out so I hope that you will all enjoy it. More Bucky fics coming soon – as well as more Bob and Joaquín too! 💗 Requests are always open.
Bucky realises he’s made a mistake pretty quickly.
In his defence, he isn’t very good at checking his phone – especially now that he’s a congressman and he has even less time on his hands than usual. But he’d been worried about Mel, the assistant of Valentina, and had figured that by tracking her phone like she’d asked, he might have a better chance at finally taking Valentina down.
If he had read his texts, though, he would’ve seen one from you. Valentina says I have one last mission and my contract is up. I’m on my way. Have a bad feeling about this one though. Can you track me?
Yeah, he’s messed up.
He’s even more certain of that when he’s pulling the unconscious bodies of Ava Starr, Yelena Belova, John Walker and Alexei Shostakov out of the limo he’d blown up and he finds you with them. Thankfully, you’re not injured.
When you come to, the first thing you see is Bucky, sitting opposite you with his eyebrows knotted in worry. For a moment, everything is fuzzy and you’re not sure how you got here – and then everything comes back to you.
You’d been trying to outrun Valentina’s men who’d been coming after you after your escape when Bucky had shown up. Everyone in the car had been more than excited and you’d felt relieved – he’d seen your text and he’d come to save you – until he’d practically blown the limo up with you inside of it.
“What the hell, Bucky?” You blink, squeezing your eyes shut briefly as you adjust to the light in the room. You look around, seeing the others all sat nearby – tied up, some of them even restrained with pieces of metal that Bucky had wrapped around them.
It’s when you see them tied up that you realise you’re not.
“Doll,” Bucky starts, his voice soft. “Listen, I–”
“Do not ‘doll’ me,” you shake your head. “So, blowing up our car and almost killing me is okay, but you draw the line at tying me up?” You motion to the others and then to yourself.
Bucky sighs. He knew you’d be mad, but this is another level of mad. He understands – of course he does, you’d nearly died. But regardless, he’d hoped you’d be a little more lenient. “I didn’t even know you were in the car.”
You raise your eyebrows and scoff. “I text you and say hey, this mission feels wrong and you don’t think twice? Am I talking to Bucky Barnes right now? What happened to the guy that ran seven red lights two months ago when I got into a minor car accident just to make sure I was okay?”
He stands up and runs a hand through his hair, walking a few steps away from you. Behind him, you stand up as well, crossing your arms over your chest and staring him down – like you do very well. Bucky knows that you can be stubborn when you want to, but this is the next level to that. He loves your stubborn side. He loves this side of you as well… but he hates that it’s him that the anger is directed at.
This is not the you that he’d been tangled in the sheets with only a few nights ago. This is not the you that had kissed him goodbye before he’d headed off to work last week. This is the you that he’d seen the first time he ever met you. Strong, guarded as hell and pissed off at the world.
“You texted me?” He mutters, and then regrets the words the second they’re out of his mouth. He resists the urge to pull his phone out of his pocket and check his unread messages.
For a second, you just stare at him, and then you start laughing. “I texted you? Are you serious right now?” You exclaim, turning away from him and shaking your head. “No, why on earth would I text my boyfriend when I was going into a potentially life threatening situation set up by Valentina Allegra de Fontaine? I’ll remember that for next time and keep it to myself, since you’re apparently too busy to check.”
“Well, would you have even read my message if I had replied? Considering you were on a mission? Yeah, I don’t think so,” Bucky can’t help but bite back a little.
“No, probably not,” you admit. “Because I don’t have a phone anymore – it fell out of my pocket when I was running for my life back at the vault and then it got incinerated, like I would have if it had been even one second later!”
Your voice is raised even louder now, basically yelling at Bucky, though you hate to do it. You and Bucky never fight like this, not really. But this whole situation has gotten under your skin and you can’t help but be mad at yourself for thinking Bucky had come to save you, when in reality he was just there to kidnap the others for some unknown reason.
Unsurprisingly, there’s nothing that Bucky can say to that. He stares at you, eyes wide as the full gravity of the situation settles on his shoulders. You’d almost been incinerated. And then Bucky had almost killed you himself. Was there any coming back from this?
In the silence, you hear a cough and both of you turn to look over at the others, all of whom are now awake and sitting upright, watching the two of you. How much of your argument had they heard? You wince internally and start to walk towards them.
“You either untie them, or you tie me up with them,” you say, sitting down beside Walker.
Walker looks over at you, a confused look on his face. He obviously had no idea that you’re with Bucky, even though the two of them know each other. You try to ignore the feeling in your stomach, the one that says that maybe Bucky means more to you than you do to him, especially since Walker doesn’t even know about you two.
Bucky thinks it over for a moment before shaking his head and walking over to you again. He crouches down beside you and decides he’s going to try again – even though the eyes of every other person in the room are focused on him. He reaches up to try and tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear but you bat his hand away.
“I’m not tied up so I can still tuck my own hair behind my ear, Barnes.”
You turn away from him, looking over at Ava and Alexei.
“This is your boyfriend?” Ava asks, looking between the two of you. “Girl.”
The one word says everything. You almost laugh at her.
It doesn’t take long for Bucky to make his decision. He stands up again and then beckons for you to stand up as well. “Stand up and let me tie you up, then,” he says, hoping that he sounds as nonchalant as he is intending to be. Even though not one part of him is actually intending on tying you up. It’s true – he draws the line at that.
You stand up and one second later, Bucky has picked you up and thrown you over his shoulder. You yelp, hitting his back as he walks out of the room, leaving the other four alone. “Bucky, what the hell are you doing!?” You exclaim.
He pushes the front door of the garage open with a foot and then kicks it closed behind him. Once he sets you down on the ground outside, you move to push him, but he’s quick to grab your wrists and place them gently on his chest instead. You’re mad, but he’s not going to let you hurt him, or accidentally hurt you more than he already has.
“I’m not continuing this argument inside in front of all of the others,” he says, nodding his head towards the garage and trying to focus on the feeling of your hands on his hands and the pressure of them on his chest. You’re here. You’re alive. He didn’t kill you. Nor did Valentina.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” you shake your head and try to pull your hands away, but his grip is too strong. “I’ve said everything that I needed to say in there, Bucky. I asked for your help, you almost killed me yourself. It’s clear enough.”
“You said what you said, but you barely let me get a word in, doll.”
You shrug your shoulders and look away from him, focusing on the mountains in the distance and wonder how long it’ll take the others to get free so you can all get the hell out of here. Even though a small part of you, the part of you that isn’t clouded by your anger right now, wants nothing more than to wrap your arms around Bucky’s body, bury your head in his chest and feel his arms around you.
“I’m sorry I didn’t see your message,” he begins, hoping you’ll let him talk. “I’ve been so bad with anything that’s not work these days and trying to bring down Valentina that I’ve put everything else to the side. I shouldn’t have put you there too.”
“Yeah,” you mutter, still unable to look at him.
“I didn’t know you were in that limo when I blew it up. I just knew that there were people in there that could help me bring down Valentina once and for all and I was going to stop that limo at all costs,” he explains. “You don’t know how terrified I was when I saw you were inside of it. I swear, I spent five minutes just checking to make sure you weren’t injured before I brought you all here. I couldn’t bring myself to tie you up after all that, doll.”
“Likely story,” you huff under your breath, as if the thought of him checking you over to make sure you were okay doesn’t make your heart beat faster and your fingers, still pressed to his chest, itch to pull him closer to you.
Bucky removes one of his hands from yours and carefully reaches down to cup your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. You try and restrain yourself for a few moments before eventually meeting his eyes. Just looking in them tells you that he’s speaking the truth.
“I would never do anything knowingly to hurt you, doll,” he says.
“I know,” you reply, voice soft as you try not to lean too much into his hand.
“Then do you forgive me?”
“No,” you shake your head, but in the progress, you can’t help but relax into his grip a little. You let out a sigh, your eyes fluttering closed at the feeling of his hand on your face. “I don’t forgive you yet, Bucky. I need time.”
Bucky nods and lets out a small breath of relief. “I’ll take it.”
You remove one of your hands from Bucky’s chest and place it over the hand that’s still on your jaw. “We need to talk,” you start. “Not you and me, all of us. There are things that happened down there in that vault that you need to know about before we go after Valentina, if we can even get the others to join us.”
“Okay,” Bucky agrees. “Just one more thing.” He leans down and presses his lips to your forehead before dropping his hand from your jaw and stepping back away from you, clearly wanting to give you space even though you hadn’t asked for it. The thoughtfulness makes your heart swell in your chest. “C’mon doll, let’s go.”
pairing: john walker x fem!reader
summary: you’ve been undercover at plenty of events before. but this is the first time you’ve had to do it while resisting the urge to climb john walker like a tree. (spoiler alert: you do not resist)
tags: sam’s avengers!reader, spy!reader, bombshell!reader, strangers to lovers, instant attraction, john’s thunderbolts glow up needs to be studied because (and i cannot emphasise this enough) damn
warning(s): sabrina carpenter levels of horniness, reader wears a dress and heels, suggestive content (no smut just some spice lol)
word count: 6.2k
note: based on the sabrina carpenter song of the same name. this one is for all the lovely people who hyped me up when i made this post teasing this fic. i appreciate you all 🫶🏻
masterlist
Valentina’s gala had the kind of budget you only ever saw in Bond films and billionaire divorces: chandeliers dripping crystals, champagne flowing faster than tap water in most cities, a string quartet sawing away like they feared for their lives. Which, knowing Valentina, they probably did.
You had to admit, grudgingly, that the woman knew how to stage a spectacle. If you didn’t hate her guts, you might’ve given her props for putting on such a swanky event.
A waiter passed with a tray of champagne, and you accepted a flute like you belonged. The gown helped. Floor-length, slinky enough to earn second glances, heels sharp enough to qualify as weaponry. This was your job: blend in, dazzle, be the distraction if you had to.
“Status check?” Joaquín’s voice buzzed in your ear, familiar and excited.
“Currently blending seamlessly with the rich and powerful,” you murmured into your comm, lips barely moving. You gave the waiter a gracious nod as he drifted past. “Also, I may need hazard pay. Someone’s great-grandfather just winked at me.”
“You’re welcome,” Joaquín shot back. “I hacked your invite list slot next to the fun donors.”
“Fun is not the word I’d use. Predatory, maybe.” You sipped the expensive champagne and did a casual-looking sweep of the room.
“You sound stiff. Nervous?” Joaquín was a lot like a brother to you, and that included the annoying teasing.
“That’s the dress, I don’t get nervous,” you reminded him.
His chuckle softened into the more serious tone he reserved for work. “Keep your eyes open. Valentina’s pulling in half her contacts tonight, so he should be around here somewhere. If we’re lucky, you’ll find him before dessert.”
“And if we’re unlucky?” you asked lightly.
“Then you’ll do what you always do. Smile, improvise, and somehow walk out without a scratch.”
You smirked into your glass because Joaquín wasn’t wrong. The truth was, you’d always had your footing, even in rooms like this where the air smelled like money and ulterior motives. Confidence wasn’t just your armour, it was a second skin.
You were halfway through debating whether or not to start talking to people to blend in better when you saw him. At first glance, you assumed he was just another rich donor with a security clearance fetish. Then he turned, and you nearly choked on your champagne.
When did John Walker get hot? And no, you were not saying that lightly.
Last time you’d seen him, he’d been clean-shaven, hair regulation-short, jaw set like someone had carved it out of stone. A man so polished he squeaked. The kind of man you didn’t look at twice unless you wanted a lecture about “duty” or “protocol.”
Now? The universe must have gotten horny-drunk and rolled out a cosmic rebrand that was designed just to get to you.
The beard should’ve been illegal. Not full lumberjack, but just enough to rough up that all-American jawline. The hair was slightly longer, like he’d missed a couple of regulation trims, and you didn’t mind one bit. And the suit—dear God, the suit—hugged his broad frame in a way you were jealous of.
You would’ve remembered if John Walker looked like that last time you saw him. You prided yourself on your memory. Names, faces, floor plans, door codes. But this required a triple-take.
You told yourself it was just the spy in you, cataloguing details for later. But the catalogue was starting to feel suspiciously like a sexy fantasy, imagining big hands gripping your hips, a broad chest pressing you into a wall, that jawline scraping along the inside of your thighs.
Professional? Absolutely not. But your brain wasn’t exactly taking the professional route tonight. And because the universe loved irony, that was the exact moment his eyes found you.
John hadn’t been scanning the room for anyone in particular. He was too busy looking like he wanted to be anywhere else. But then his eyes caught yours, and then came the double-take. His gaze flicked down the line of your gown, back up to your face, and then down once more before dragging away. It was what you called the guilty man’s swivel.
That made you smirk. If John Walker was trying not to look aroused, he needed a lot more practice.
He’d separated himself from the crowd and stood by the bar, a lone figure nursing a glass of caramel-coloured alcohol. Bourbon, if you had to guess. He seemed like the type. His beard had a reddish tint, and the line of his shoulders said he was only half at ease. Not slouched but not rigid, caught somewhere between soldier and man.
You crossed the floor with the kind of casual elegance that only came from years of practice. John didn’t notice until you were leaning against the polished wood beside him, close enough to smell the bite of bourbon mingling with his aftershave. Woodsy, expensive, but not quite hiding the undertone of nerves.
“You know,” you said, letting your voice drip with mischief, “that’s a dangerous look you’re working with. Guess I should’ve expected you’d look good out of uniform.”
John’s head turned at once, sharp but wary. Those eyes, bluer up close than you remembered, narrowed just a fraction. “Excuse me?”
You tilted your champagne glass toward his jawline, letting your gaze linger a touch too long. “I didn’t mind the squeaky clean soldier look, but this is definitely better. Less Captain America, more Captain Unzip-My-Dress.”
In your comms, you heard Joaquín suppress a laugh. “Are you flirting with John Walker?! I literally can’t with you…”
John’s mouth twitched, defensive but betrayed by the smallest curve of a smile. “It’s just a beard.”
“Sure it is.” You sipped, letting the bubbles kiss your lip before speaking again. “And I’m just a girl in a dress. Doesn’t mean people aren’t staring.”
The tips of his ears went pink. John’s throat shifted when he swallowed, and you were annoyingly aware of how broad his chest was under that suit. How easy it would be to undo his tie, drag it down that chest, watch his composure shred thread by thread…
He huffed, looking down at his glass. You’d rattled him, and you liked it.
“D’you always offer strangers opinions on their facial hair?” he asked.
“Only if it takes up all my attention,” you said sweetly.
You let a moment of silence stretch between you. John Walker hadn’t had women flirt with him in the last couple of years, and you liked watching him squirm. The sounds of the gala filled the quiet; clinking glasses, someone’s too-loud laughter carrying across the floor.
Your instincts ticked through the signs automatically. The way his fingers gripped his glass too tight, like he needed something to keep him anchored. The subtle flex in his jaw each time you spoke, muscle working under skin. The nervous shift of his neck as a flush crept up the skin there.
Then there was the flicker of heat when his eyes couldn’t help but find you again. Like his body had already decided before his brain could catch up. You knew that look. You’d seen it in alleyways, in hotel rooms, in the sharp intake of breath just before someone kissed you like they’d been starving for days.
John wasn’t the only one. The sight of him this close—the warmth rolling off him, the steady thrum of restrained energy under that suit and tie—had your stomach warm in a way you hadn’t expected.
Your brain was already sketching out scenarios. John pinning you against the bar, his hips pressing into yours, his hand tangled in your hair. Not the mission, you reminded yourself, but oh, what a very welcome detour.
“You’re staring,” John muttered finally.
“Am I?” you mused, tapping a finger against the bar. “Maybe I’m just deciding whether you’re the same John Walker I remember.”
That got his attention. His head lifted, brow furrowed. “Do I know you?”
“We met once upon a time,” you said vaguely, swirling the bubbles in your glass. “You had a different haircut, more of that good old-fashioned military restraint. You were busy chasing anarchists, so I doubt I made an impression.”
John blinked, confusion softening into something a little sheepish. “Sorry. I met a lot of people back when I—” He hesitated, grimacing. Back when I was Captain America.
“Convenient excuse,” you teased. “Don’t worry. I don’t hold it against you.”
That earned you a huffed laugh, reluctant but real. His defences bent just enough for a grin to slip through. “Are you always like this?”
“Yes,” you said simply, lowering your voice just a notch. “When I meet someone interesting.”
John finally looked at you. His gaze slid languidly down the line of your gown, lingered at the shape of your hips, then snapped back to your face like he’d been caught doing something unbecoming.
Red tinged his cheeks. It made you think of another scenario where he might be flushed. You saw a preview of him looking down at you in bed, breath rough, hand braced on the headboard. The heat pooled low in your stomach, not at all unwelcome.
John Walker wasn’t supposed to be this gorgeous, but here you were. Leaning in close enough to hear the breath catch in his chest when you brushed your fingers against his wrist, and imagining what his breath would sound like between kisses.
You let him stew in the intensity of his own intrigue for a beat, then raised your glass. “To new beginnings.”
John blinked at you, a little dazed. After a beat, he raised his bourbon to meet you in a tentative toast. “To new beginnings,” he echoed.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
He still looked faintly rattled from your toast, like the bourbon had gone straight to his bloodstream. You knew the serum didn’t let him get drunk, so it had to be your effect on him. His fingers tapped once against the rim, then stilled like he’d ordered himself not to fidget.
“So,” John said, clearing his throat. His voice was deeper than it needed to be, like he was forcing it steady. “You said we’ve met. When was that, exactly?”
You hummed, feigning thought. “Oh, a few years ago in New York City. I think it was during that business with the Flag Smashers.” You let your finger trace the rim of your glass, slow and suggestive.
His brows drew together, suspicion threading the blue of his gaze. Then, his eyes lingered on your hand’s tantalising movement a second too long. “That was—” John hesitated, jaw flexing tight. “That was a rough time.”
“I wasn’t too close to the action.” You gave him a smile that didn’t explain anything. No need for him to remember you standing shoulder to shoulder with Sam and Bucky. Best to keep that little detail tucked away.
He seemed to accept the half-answer, though his mouth pulled taut. “Sorry if I don’t remember. I was a little tied up at the time.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” you murmured, letting your knee brush his as you adjusted your stance. You didn’t step away. Neither did he. “I guess I just have one of those forgettable faces.”
His gaze skimmed you now. Your throat, the curve of your mouth, the neckline of your dress. John shifted, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. “And what do you do now? What brings you here tonight?”
“Supporting the cause.” You motioned toward the stage, where Valentina was droning on. “It’s always fun to see who’s trying to save the world in a tux.”
“That’s vague,” John said, narrowing his eyes.
“Occupational hazard,” you replied sweetly. You let your fingertips graze the back of his hand on the bar as you set your glass down.
His hand twitched but didn’t move. It was just as big as you’d hoped. Your brain was already spiralling: his hand gripping your hip, tugging you flush against him, those broad shoulders pressing you down against polished wood, his voice rasping, stay still as he…
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to drag yourself back.
“God, you’re shameless,” Joaquín complained in your ear, and you had to stop yourself from laughing outright.
John, mercifully, thought your grin was for him. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing,” you lied smoothly. “Just thinking how odd it is that nobody else has scooped you up yet.”
He looked down, giving a faux smile. “Not really the most popular guy in the room, am I?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” You leaned in, close enough that your perfume wrapped around him. His eyes shut as he inhaled sharply, like he couldn’t help himself. “You look like you could throw me over your shoulder and run half a mile without breaking a sweat. It’s disarmingly sexy.”
The tips of John’s ears went scarlet again. His eyes snapped to yours, then away again, like he couldn’t decide if you were joking. You weren’t. In fact, you were very busy imagining exactly how it would feel if he did throw you over his shoulder.
“You can’t seriously be fantasising about this guy right now,” Joaquín hissed, his voice tinny through the comm.
“Shh,” you murmured as you took a sip of champagne.
“You’re trouble,” John muttered, almost like he meant it as a warning.
“Oh?” You brushed your hand against his forearm, delighted to feel him tense under the touch. His skin was hot through the fabric, the muscle rigid, straining.
John’s lips parted, then shut again, as if he had to physically bite back a response. Military training, public disgrace. The man was hardwired to keep himself contained. No doubt Valentina kept a tight ship.
But his body was already telling you everything you needed to know. His grip on the bourbon glass was tight enough to whiten his knuckles, and his knee was still pressed into yours.
Your brain obligingly supplied a picture of those same knuckles pressing into your hips, holding you down. His breath was hot against your neck as he muttered something filthy he’d deny the next morning. Where all of this was coming from, you weren’t sure. But you were determined to see if you could make any of it come true.
John exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was steadying himself. His gaze flicked to your mouth, then away. Then back again. He was losing the battle. God, what would he look like when that restraint finally snapped? Or when he stopped caring about who was watching?
You leaned in, your lips nearly brushing his ear. “Careful, John Walker. I think you might actually like trouble.”
His breath caught, audible this time.
The gala hum was louder now, the clink of champagne flutes and laughter ricocheting off crystal chandeliers. The string quartet had transitioned into something sultry enough to be mistaken for a slow jazz number. Music and mingling pressed around you, but all you felt was John’s eyes when he finally set down his glass.
“Do you dance?” he asked suddenly, like he’d had to wrench the words out of himself.
Your brows arched. “Depends. Is that an invitation?”
The faintest twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Could be.”
Joaquín groaned in your ear. “Oh no. Don’t you dare—”
“Hiding in plain sight, fly boy,” you murmured under your breath, already slipping your hand into John’s when he offered it.
His palm was warm, callused, and immediately fired off images you had no business entertaining in the middle of a charity event. John led you through the crowd with unconscious ease, parting people like a tide. His hand shifted to your lower back, and he instinctively angled his shoulder between you when a sudden flash came from the photographers by the entrance. Protective and dangerously attractive.
On the dance floor, John hesitated a half-beat. You pressed closer, guiding his hands into place. One settled against your waist, hot through the fabric of your dress. The other clasped yours, his grip careful but firm.
“Relax,” you teased, catching his eye. “It’s just moving in time to the music. I promise it’s not a combat exercise.”
John’s jaw worked, but then he actually moved. Hesitant at first, then surprisingly smooth, his steps solid and sure. His body knew what to do even if his brain thought otherwise.
“See?” you murmured. “Not so bad.”
“Not sure I’d call this my natural habitat,” he muttered, a hint of rough amusement threading through.
“You’re doing just fine.” You let your thumb graze his palm. “Better than fine, really. I’d almost think you’ve been hiding this side of yourself.”
John’s gaze shifted to yours, blue eyes sharp, like he wasn’t sure whether to be suspicious or flattered. “What side’s that?”
“The one that knows how to take the lead,” you said, letting the word curl into something more suggestive.
You indulged the way John’s hand flexed against your waist, resisting the urge to pull you closer. His body was solid, pressed to yours, broad chest rising and falling against your shoulder. And your mind went straight off the rails: that same chest pushing you down into silk sheets, his weight anchoring you, that careful grip on your waist turning into something rougher, possessive—
You swallowed, forcing a smile to cover it. “Careful, John. Keep moving like that and people might think you’re enjoying yourself.”
His lips twitched again. John didn’t quite smile, but the tension in his shoulders eased. “Maybe I am,” he admitted quietly.
You covered the lurch of your heart with a grin, bumping your hip against his as the tempo shifted. “See? Now you’re catching on. Next thing I know you’ll be dipping me.”
His hand at your waist tightened, just slightly, like he was considering it. John Walker was unravelling, and you were more than happy to help pull the thread.
“You’re trouble,” he said again, but this time there wasn’t much heat in it. It sounded more like wonder.
You tilted your chin up, meeting his gaze fully. “I’d certainly like to be in trouble with you.”
The music smoothed into a graceful number that begged for something slow and close. John’s hand had steadied at your waist, his palm broad and warm, firm enough to make your stomach flutter. His eyes flicked down to yours, then away, as though every glance was dangerous.
Finally, his voice rumbled low, almost drowned by the swell of the quartet. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
John’s jaw flexed. “Flirting with me.”
Your smile curved slyly. “Is that what I’m doing?”
“You know it is.” His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you imperceptibly closer. John’s voice was rough, steady, but edged with something raw. “I know what people think of me. I’ve read the articles; the jokes about the B-vengers, the mistakes I’ve made. So why would you come anywhere near me?”
For a beat, your heart caught at the vulnerability in his tone.
“John,” you purred, leaning close enough that your lips nearly brushed the shell of his ear. “If I cared what other people thought, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be in your arms. And I certainly wouldn’t be imagining all the ways this night could end if you stop worrying about everyone else and just…” You let the pause stretch, edging your mouth towards his jaw. “Take what you want.”
“Jesus Christ,” John groaned quietly.
Filled with disgust, Joaquín echoed, “Jesus Christ.”
One second, you were swaying in rhythm. The next, John’s hand slid firmly down to your hip, his other clasping yours tighter. He spun you with surprising grace, then caught you cleanly in his arms, dipping you back in a long, practised motion that stole your breath. The room flipped, but all you felt was his arms, steady and strong, holding you.
His face hovered inches above yours, his breath mingling with yours. You licked your lips before you could stop yourself, and his eyes darted down to the motion.
“Careful,” John muttered, voice strained as he helped you upright.
“I wish you’d be less careful,” you shot back shamelessly, your lips just a breath away from his.
The heat in John’s gaze darkened, his jaw tight, his mouth hovering a fraction from yours. Every muscle in him screamed restraint, but the raw hunger was right there, barely caged.
You arched slightly into his hold, reckless, taunting. “If you keep looking at me like that, I might think you’re about to kiss me.”
“Maybe I am,” John rasped.
The world narrowed to his mouth, his breath, the dizzying heat curling low in your belly. His nose brushed yours, so achingly close, and your pulse hammered in your throat as if it might leap out of your skin to meet him.
Joaquín’s voice was a strangled whisper in your ear. “Don’t. Don’t you dare. I swear to god, I’ll turn my comms off.”
But you barely heard Joaquín. Because John had pulled you in, his body flush with yours, and his lips were hovering a heartbeat away from setting you on fire. For one perfect moment, you almost forgot there was a mission at all.
“Come on, John,” you teased, your lips slightly grazing John’s as you spoke. Your eyes were lethal despite your honeyed tone. “Just let go. How bad could it be?”
Something flickered in his gaze, hesitation mixing with the kind of heat that sent tingles down your spine. His jaw flexed, like he was fighting himself. “I don’t exactly do this kind of thing often.”
You weren’t feeling patient tonight. “I need you so badly,” you added softly, almost whining. John’s brows shot up, and you followed it with the knife twist. “Please? When did you get so hot?”
That did it. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.” John rasped, voice low, rough.
“Oh, I think I do,” you countered, shamelessly. “And I think you want it too.”
John caught your forearm, his palm hot where it wrapped around your skin, and tugged you off the dance floor. His grip was firm but not unkind; insistent and possessive. Your heart kicked up a notch, excitement thrumming through your veins as he cut a path through the crowd.
Your heels clicked over marble as you let him pull you along, and you couldn’t help the breathless laugh that bubbled out. “John Walker, man on a mission. I like this side of you.”
He didn’t answer, just threw a look over his shoulder that had your knees loose. His eyes burned, wild and wanting, and you wanted to be caught in that fire. The crowd blurred around you. John didn’t stop until he found a secluded corner past a marble column, dimly lit, the thrum of music muffled by distance.
And then he turned.
Your back hit the wall, cool stone against your bare shoulders, a jolt that made your breath catch. John’s body caged you in, heat rolling off him in waves. One hand pressed to the wall by your head, the other sliding firm against your waist, pinning you there without a word. You barely had time to gasp before his mouth crashed onto yours.
He was sharp and hungry, teeth grazing, lips parting like he’d been starving for this all night. You felt the drag of stubble against your skin, rough and perfect, and the way his chest pressed flush to yours, solid muscle caging you in. His kiss tasted of bourbon, smoky and hot.
You made a soft, involuntary sound into his mouth, half-plea, half-victory.
The sound you made seemed to snap something in him. Suddenly, John was everywhere—his mouth devouring yours, his body pressing you harder into the wall like he wanted to stamp you into the stone. His hand left your waist to grip your thigh, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp as he hiked your leg up against his hip.
You broke from his lips for half a second, breathless. “John—”
“Don’t say my name like that,” he growled, voice wrecked, before dragging his mouth down your throat. His teeth grazed your pulse point, and you swore you felt him smirk when you arched.
“Oh, I’ll say it however the hell I want.” You tangled your fingers in his hair and yanked, sharp enough to make him groan into your skin. The sound vibrated against your collarbone, low and filthy.
John kissed you again, messier this time, tongue pushing past your lips like he had to taste every part of you. He kissed like a man who’d gone without for too long, all need and no finesse, but you didn’t care. You bit his lower lip, tugged until he groaned, and then swallowed the sound like it belonged to you.
“You’ve been teasing me all night,” he rasped against your mouth, voice dark and uneven. “Do you know what you do to me?”
You laughed softly, wickedly, rolling your hips against the hard line straining his tuxedo. “I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
His grip tightened, a shudder ripping through him, and you swore you felt him whine into your kiss. That was delicious. You did it again—grinding, slow and deliberate—while your hand slid down his chest, feeling muscle twitch under your palm.
John broke the kiss with a gasp, forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Maybe,” you teased, ghosting your lips over his, not quite kissing. “Or maybe I’ll make you beg.”
The way his eyes darkened was lethal. He kissed you again, harder, teeth clashing, and this time his hands roamed—spanning your ribs, your waist, the curve of your ass like he needed to memorise every inch. You couldn’t keep quiet; every little gasp and moan muffled into his mouth.
For a moment, you thought about Joaquín still in your ear, listening to every filthy noise you made, and almost laughed. Until John’s thumb stroked the inside of your thigh and the thought scattered into static.
“You taste like heaven,” John muttered into your mouth, his words more breath than sound.
“And you,” you panted back, clawing at his shoulders, “taste like exactly what I want.”
The kiss turned molten again, all lips and tongue and teeth, your head spinning with heat and hunger. He wasn’t careful anymore. Neither were you. His control had finally cracked, and you weren’t about to let him rebuild it. You tugged at his hair until John groaned, pressed closer until he whined again, shameless.
Your fingers curled into John’s tie, tugging the silk free, hungry for more of him. The knot slipped loose, his chest rising unevenly against yours as you worked at the first button of his shirt. His breath hitched, lips dragging across your jaw, stubble scraping your skin.
Then, the world jolted. A metal hand shoved between you and John, wrenching him back. The force knocked your shoulder hard against the marble. You gasped, blinking up to find Bucky Barnes towering over you, eyes storm-dark, grabbing your forearm.
John reacted instantly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he barked, fury rolling off him. “Let her go.” His grip closed around Bucky’s wrist, trying to yank him back.
Bucky ignored him completely. His gaze cut straight to you, unyielding.
“Really?” you snapped, pulling your arm back yourself. “That’s how you say hello after months? By dragging me away like I’m some asset?”
John’s head whipped between you, confusion etched across his face. “Wait. You two—”
“Yeah, we know each other,” you bit out, eyes still locked on Bucky. “I practically grew up with Sam. We’ve been working together for years—I thought Bucky and I were friends.” For the first time, Bucky’s expression faltered. “Is this seriously what it takes for you to talk to me?”
Bucky said your name gently, and John blanched. He only just realised you’d never introduced yourself to him. Of course, he recognised your name. You were a spy, the kind who’d toppled governments before working with the old Avengers. He’d met you briefly in New York City when you saved his life.
He couldn’t believe he didn’t recognise you.
“You could’ve just called, Bucky,” you went on angrily. “Or at least picked up the damn phone when I called. But no, you disappear, you ignore me. You have this petty, stupid back-and-forth with Sam—and what, you think that makes everything okay? You think ditching us is easier than facing the people who give a damn about you?”
John glanced between you both, stunned, still breathing hard.
Bucky’s mouth tightened. “This isn’t the place—”
“Oh, screw that.” Your voice cracked sharply across the marble. “You’re gonna listen, because I’m done with your bullshit! Sam went through hell to pick up that shield, and you know how much it meant to him to restart the Avengers. Steve and Sam broke every law in the damn country for you, Bucky! We stood by you when the world branded you a monster, and now you’re running errands for Valentina de-god-damn-Fontaine?”
Bucky’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t argue.
Your chest heaved, heart pounding, words cutting sharper with every breath. “After everything, you’re just a part of a government-sanctioned team calling themselves the New Avengers? You’re supposed to be Sam’s family! How could you still fight him on this after everything?”
Silence. Music drifted faintly from the ballroom beyond, muffled laughter and champagne chatter, oblivious to the storm in the corner.
John just stood there, frozen. His shirt hung half-unbuttoned, tie dangling loose, hair mussed from your hands. The flush on his face hadn’t cooled, only now it was from embarrassment rather than desire. His eyes darted from you to Bucky, only just realising the scale of the fight he’d wandered into.
Oh. Of course.
It clicked with brutal clarity. The way you’d teased him, the way you’d kept things vague, the way you hadn’t let him pin you down with a straight answer. You hadn’t been flirting with him because you wanted him. He’d just been a prop, a convenient cover. Something to lean on while you made your real play at Bucky.
“Right. Well,” John muttered, voice sharp with bitterness, “guess that explains it. I’ll just—” He gestured vaguely toward the party, a sardonic half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Get out of your way now that I’ve served my purpose.”
You turned on him so fast it almost made him jump. “Oh, no you don’t. You stay right there, handsome. I’m not even close to being done with you.”
John blinked. Once. Twice. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again without sound. The words didn’t compute. Hope sparked in the blue of his eyes.
Bucky grimaced. “Seriously?”
You swung a glare his way. “You don’t get to judge.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched, but you softened before he could shoot back. You sighed, your shoulders loosening as you stepped in and wrapped your arms around him. His body went rigid with surprise.
“I know this isn’t what you planned,” you murmured. “And I know it’s not easy. I just want my family back together again.” You pulled back enough to meet Bucky’s eyes. “We can make room on our team for the New Avengers. I just don’t want you guys fighting anymore. Please, Buck. Just call if you need me, okay? Joaquín had to pull some serious espionage to get me on the list tonight, and you know that’s supposed to be my job.”
Something in Bucky’s gaze eased off. He let out a breath and then hugged you back. His chin dipped against your hair. “I’ll do better,” he said gruffly. “For what it’s worth, I want to fix things too.”
When Bucky pulled back, catching sight of John, his expression twisted like he’d bitten into something sour. “But, yeah. Ew. This is like my little sister hooking up with my weird friend.” He jabbed a thumb toward John without looking. “I have to go before I throw up.”
And with that, he slipped into the crowd, vanishing the way only Bucky Barnes could.
You turned back to John. He was still standing there, shirt undone, tie crooked, hair sticking up from your fingers. “So all of this,” he motioned between the two of you, “That wasn’t about him?”
“No,” you said firmly, stepping closer. “That was about you being ridiculously hot. And unless I misread things, I’m guessing the feeling’s mutual.”
The corner of John’s mouth curved, a real smile finally breaking through. “Yeah, the feeling’s definitely mutual.”
Your hands smoothed down the front of his shirt, slow and deliberate, grazing each button as if you hadn’t been halfway through undoing them minutes ago. The fabric stretched over a muscle that had no business being that solid. You felt him swallow beneath your touch, his Adam’s apple bobbing like he was fighting to keep his balance.
“So,” John rasped, his voice pitched lower than before, like he’d had to drag it up from somewhere deep. “You’re a spy?”
You hummed, not looking up at him as your fingers slid to his undone tie. You tugged it loose the rest of the way, folded it without hurry, and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. The gesture was domestic and filthy at the same time, and John’s eyes tracked every second of it.
“Guilty,” you murmured, brushing invisible lint from his lapel as if you hadn’t just been pinned against stone, kissing him breathless.
John shifted, clearly trying to redirect the heat crawling up his neck. “What are you then? Red Room? S.H.I.E.L.D.?” His voice cracked just faintly on the last word, like it took a lot of effort to focus.
You gave him a look, raised brows, sharp and offended. “S.H.I.E.L.D. was a government agency,” your tone dripped with disdain. “I like to fly under the radar more than that. My training was a little… off the books.”
The way you said it—low, conspiratorial, a ghost of a smile tugging your lips—made John’s pupils blow wide. He exhaled sharply, and you caught the flicker of want and envy across his face. John Walker was everything official, stamped, and sanctioned. You were everything he wasn’t: unbound, unsupervised, untouchable.
It was driving him crazy.
His jaw flexed. His hand covered yours where it lingered against his chest, and the contact felt like a spark. He was trying so hard to stay upright, to keep his head.
You softened, just a little, sensing the turmoil grinding beneath that square jaw. “For the record,” you said, smoothing the line of his collar. “I never planned this.” You tilted your head, letting your fingers graze lightly down his sternum until John drew in a sharp breath. “Joaquín and I just wanted to snap Bucky out of it. Find a way to compromise before this all gets messy.”
“I respect what the New Avengers are trying to do. But Valentina?” You shook your head. “It’s not her mantle to hand out. And whether any of you like it or not, we’d be a stronger team together.”
No one had ever said something like that to him without a smirk, without a qualifier, without making it about Steve Rogers. You weren’t mocking, you weren’t hedging. You were laying it bare. Your conviction was the sexiest thing he’d ever witnessed.
John let out a low laugh, breathless, disbelieving. “You really know how to mess with a guy, don’t you?”
“Only the ones worth messing with.”
Your brain, of course, already sprinted ahead. His hand over yours meant his hand on your thigh, pressing you open. His mouth on yours again meant his mouth lower, slower, anywhere you’d let him. It was obscene, the things you pictured with his heart beating under your palm.
“John Walker,” you whispered, letting the syllables curl like smoke. “You look like you’re about to crumble.”
He laughed again, almost a groan. “ And whose fault is that?”
“Mine.” You smiled, sultry and satisfied. “And I’m not sorry.”
“So, mission accomplished?” he asked, almost teasing.
“I don’t start things I can’t finish,” you replied. Your hands tugged at his lapels again. It was as if you couldn’t decide whether to fix him up or strip him further down. “And now that it’s over, I’d really like to get out of this dress.”
That snapped his focus. His gaze dragged down your body with zero apology, taking you in with the same hunger he’d been fighting all night. John’s eyes burned, lingering on the sensual neckline of your dress, on the sweep of your bare shoulder, the way it highlighted every curve. You saw his throat bob.
“That’s a shame,” he said, voice husky and reverent. “I really like it.”
You leaned in, brushing your mouth just shy of his. “I think you’ll like helping me out of it even more.”
For a second, he didn’t move. He looked like he was deciding if he was hallucinating the entire exchange. Then John Walker, all six-foot-one of muscle and chaos, caught your wrist and pulled you with him. This time, it wasn’t into a secluded corner, but toward the closest exit.
note: i never do tag lists but i appreciate all the people who commented on and reblogged my post so i wanted to tag you all in case you still wanted to read it!! here goes
warnings: 18+ MDNI, dubcon (drunk sex), alcohol mentions, sub!bucky, soft dom!reader, roomies, cunnilingus & fingering (B receiving), insecurities, dirty talk, petnames (baby, good boy, puppy...), squirting, happy trail, bush (it's there i promise), NO BETA (sorry)
(wc: 2.9k)
a/n: my babyboy !! this was supposed to come out on the fifth but the anxiety has been sitting in my stomach for too long and i dont want to give a fuck anymore so here you go !!
i just wanna say a special thanks to @scariffs for your tboy!clark drabble because it awakened something in me.... and also a big thanks to those in TBC for pushing me to put my thoughts online :))) <33
it started with a confession.
Saturday night, watching one of those shitty blockbuster movies with a ten dollar budget and barely a dream, and a bottle of vodka, each. an odd ritual that started the night you moved in together.
his voice was slurred, hoarse from the sting in his throat. "y'know… i haven't, like, had sex with, like, anyone since taking testosterone."
that made you pause. three years this man had been on T, three years this man hasn't been intimate with anybody. "like anyone?" the question came like as a surprise to the both of you, but your vodka sloshed brain cant keep serious for even a second. "not even your own fingers?"
bucky scratches the back of his neck. muscles flexed on his bicep, dark hair coursed under his arm, soft veins gouging through the soft skin — god, you couldn't help but gawk at the sight. "well…"
"seriously?"
"no! no, fuck no, it's just," you cock your head to the side, you couldnt help the soft smile finding it's way on your lips as your watch the man fumble his words. he's so cute when he's tipsy. Pupils dialated, soft shine of sweat on his cheekbones, and that adorable flush of blush — you've complimented him in these states but, due to both of your drunkenness, he chalks it up to the alcohol talking. "I'm a lot more sensitive! it's a lot, its… overwhelming,"
you nod, eyes never leaving his as he looks anywhere but you. the two of you sit in charged silence, the hum of the movie droning onwards faint in the background as you think. what should you say? tell him 'hey Buck, we've been roomies for a year now, friends for way longer, let me eat you out? promise I'll be gentle.'
"i mean, of course I've touched myself — and let others touch me — but… just not as much as i used to—"
"bucky," you whisper. his head lolled to face you, a little crooked from the dizziness, eyes low and glassy, the low lights of your joint living room catching like two little suns in his pupils, swallowing up the light oceans of his irises. you cant help but sigh at the sight, elbow resting on your knee, fist under your chin.
you take him in fully. layed out on the sofa, legs dangling off the edge, parted wide — just enough to let yourself wonder—, hands clasped lazily together over his crotch. he looked regretful. you knew he was a bit of a blabbermouth when under the influence, but he's never been one to be so… open. so you speak.
"can i ask you somethin'?" the words come softer than you hope for, similar to encouraging a stray into your arms, delicate and tender in the odd predicament of vodka induced haze, but he notices. cheek mushed into the fabric making him look softer than he puts on. he lets out a short muffled 'm'yeah', swallowing thickly.
"can i eat you out?" straight to the point. you're really not sure if its pure eagerness or the vodka coursing through your veins but now its out in the air, might as well let it lie, let it steep, let it run its path.
Bucky lets out a soft scoff and wets his lips, "you're fuckin' with me." but you shake your head defiantly, lips pursed into a pout and the smallest echo of a smile on the corner of your mouth.
"nope." you say popping the P for extra emphasis, but Bucky doesnt budge, not just yet. he hides his face in his palms, the tidge of red already dusting the tips of his ears and you can see the strain of a smile from the confines of his hands as he scrubs his face.
"you're just drunk."
"so are you, Bug."
"that doesnt make it any better, doll."
you think on it for a second, a hum catching in your throat as you look away from his adorably flushed face.
"i mean, Bucky, if you dont wanna we dont have to—"
"i never said that," the charged silence envelopes you both once again. the drone of the movie in the background is the only thing tethering you both to the real world beyond the two of you. it makes you shift in your seat, shuffling the tiniest bit closer to the boy beside you. "i just," he wets his lips once more with a sigh, his eyes set on his lap like he's battling inside his head. but he shakes his head with a shrug, turning back to you, eyes bright and pure.
"fine."
"fine?"
bucky smiles softly, that soft turn of the edges of his lips as he pats his lap once, twice. "C'mere." he mumbles with a quiet chuckle. watching as you fumble in your seat, drunkenly stumbling your way over his legs from the other side of the couch. you dont waste time, bracketing both his thighs with your knees, trying not to lay all your weight on him.
Your hands find his shoulders, kneading into the fabric of his shirt to try and calm the both of you.
the look he gives you is that of a puppy. pure devotion and love wrapped in a quiet innocence of new opportunities and light. he's always thought you were beautiful, gorgeous even — but seeing you in his lap, under the haze of warm lamps, stars in your eyes, he's never felt closer to what feels like heaven in his life. if he could devote his life, his body to you and you only, he'd do it in a heartbeat.
"Bucky?" you whisper into the air between you, heavy with something you could hardly name, nor care about within the lap of your roommate.
his gaze never falters, neither his smile. his soft, boyish, precious "yeah?" if you could you'd keep it all to yourself. jar it. a picture isn't enough, it'll never be enough.
"kiss me."
and he complies.
his hands snake up your body, the contrast between flesh and prosthetic stark on your clothed skin as he skims your waist, up to your neck. keeping his weight on the soft hairs of the back of your head, you nod as if he was asking for permission. and he finally pulls you in delicately.
the touch stayed featherlight. slow, timid, soft grazes to simple pecks, testing the waters of friendship and closeness. your hands flat on his chest, fingers pinching at the fabric of his dark raglan shirt, grounding yourself as the touch deepens. Bucky's hands brushed lower to the fabric of your jeans and rubbed up and down your thighs, the denim catching his palms making his skin fuzzy in a way — easing his mind and body with your own. his soft stubble catching around your lips, ticklish, making you smile and sigh into him.
Soon enough, you both fall into a rhythm, and his own touch moved upwards, grazing over your hips to your waist, squeezing the flesh as he moves you closer — chest to chest. you gasp against him, the soft sound swallowed as he took entry. it was clumsy, messy, spit strings against the two of you as you part back for a second to catch your breath, ultimately coming back for more, addicted to the taste of him, the feel of his tongue against yours.
you couldn't help yourself. slowly moving down his body, shuffling yourself onto the floor as you peck gentle trails from the corner of his mouth, to his jaw and to his jugular. pushing the fabric of his shirt up his abdomen, not fully off his body, just enough to find his belt, and you see the thick trail of fuzz from his bellybutton down into his baggy jeans. you couldn't help but gawk as you knelt down, staring at the corse hair of his happy trail.
"I-I, uhm," his hands fiddle at his sides, opening and closing with anxiety. "It's been a while."
you're quick to shut him down, fingers tracing the hair, soft touches up and down on your fingertips, staring dumbstruck. "God, you're so pretty, Buck." Something awakened inside you.
Bucky's hips stutter as you stalk, your cold fingertips mixed with the sensitive follicles releasing a new wave of arousal within his boxers, as well as a quiet whine. you smile as you watch him.
"you like that, baby?" his mouth parts in a sigh. lips pink and wet from your own, tongue threatening to spill out as he bucks once more with a shaky nod.
"hmm… mhm…" Bucky hums, biting his lip until the skin blanches trying to contain the sweet, needy whimpers.
a tut finds it's way out of your mouth, a vexed suck of your teeth as you watch him twitch at the soft grazes of your fingertips. moving tauntingly to skim the denim of the waistband of his jeans and finally to play with his belt buckle.
"Bucky, y'gotta use your words, baby," you caress the skin of his hips once again. a shaky sigh escapes his lips, forming into a whine much to your pleasure. "you do want this right?" placing your head onto his thigh, trailing your fingers over this clothed cunt, "you want me to eat you out? want me to eat this pretty pussy, right?"
Bucky lets out a bark of a laugh, irritated and undoubtedly turned on, "fuck, i didn't know you were such a bitch," the heels of his hands dig into his eyes, letting out a sharp sigh as you keep trailing around the one place he yearns for your touch. "fuck, i wan' it so bad… please, you got no idea, doll, hmph — please."
"atta boy, bucky," voice a saccharine murmur, finally starting to unbuckle his pants. Bucky lets out a relieved groan, his own hands coming down to swat your own away to pry the barrier away from between the two of you.
you smile at his antics. you never knew he'd be so feeble, so needy, you can feel yourself flutter around nothing as you watch him unzip his pants before shucking them down his legs with his plaid boxers, throwing them behind you with only two thoughts — you and that godforsaken mouth.
"desperate, are we?" you tease as you watch him move from your view. Bucky lets out a sharp exhale, eyes a little wide as to say 'tell me about it', as he shuffles back into position.
"Doll, you got no idea."
there he sat. Bucky Barnes, good friend, roommate, sat naked from the waist down on your couch. his knees were spread, hands pinching at the fabric of his shirt just over the goods. his face flushed a deep crimson as he watched you stare, a strong smirk on your face, eyes glued to his pussy like it was an oasis and you were a starving man — and that you might as well have been for this boys cunt.
the rush of reality caved into your chest as you stared. Never taking your eyes off of him, you let out a soft chuckle, startling him. Bucky begins to shuffle in his seat with a groan before you bring your hand to his knee.
"G-god, c'mon — you cant just laugh!"
you squeeze his knee reassuringly, the smile still at the edge of your lips as you bring yourself closer to him.
the squeezes turn to strokes, pinching at his skin gently at the tops of his thighs were his hip met. "Hey — no, i just find this whole thing a little…" you gesture broadly, but bucky knows exactly what you mean. of course he knows what you mean.
the boy nods with a boyish smile. "Crazy,"
the silence settles once again. your eyes meet for a moment, his blues on yours, absolutely swallowed up by the vast darkness of desperation — so you pat his leg.
"c'mon buck, leg up."
his knee plants over your shoulder, the other sprawled out to the side, your own hand on the inside of his knee, holding him open.
God, he was beautiful. "There he is." you murmured teasingly as he opened himself bare to you.
he groaned into his palm, both hands over his face trying to hide himself from the shame. "Jus' get it over with, doll."
but you just cant get enough.
"what do you say, bucky?"
you could feel his eyes roll from down there, he exhales a sigh before moving his hands to your hair. gathering the tendrils into his palm into a makeshift ponytail.
"please?"
so you get to it.
pushing his leg further up the couch, your other squeezes his knee as reassurance as you watch his petals spread — pink, glinting in the soft light. inviting you to taste.
you trace the tip of your tongue first from his pulsating hole to his puffy clit. gathering his own slickness, only to mingle it with your own spit. his flavour was an amalgamation to your senses, sitting low in your stomach as it settled on your tongue. that usual heady sweetness, now mixed with a tang of salt. Bucky's head leaned back with a thunk, body tensing with your upwards movement, releasing a groan you can only assume was a mix of relief and appreciation. what a good friend you are.
you dove back in for more, the weight of his flavour, of his scent eased into you deep, digging itself it's own little home inside you. he's ruining you for anyone else.
your tongue lapped at his heat, flat against his lips as your grazed his swollen bud with each passing flick. he groaned and writhed with each movement of yours, the feeling not foreign, just unfamiliar. Bucky's head rolled to the side, eyes watching you taste all of him. his free hand moved to his mouth, biting down at the knuckle like a vice as you tease the edge of his clit. each brush a divine torture.
"Buck," you hum against his lips, the overstimulation of senses coursing through his body with your vibrations, thighs trembling as you pick up the pace with your tongue. "You taste… so fuckin' good."
he couldn't talk. the only thing he could barely string together were the pathetic mumble of hums. bucking his hips into your face, you let his knee go to hold him down by his belly, fingers twirling amongst his happy trail. you could barely think, brain too fucked in with bucky's pussy, you latch onto his clit without another thought. the sensation immediate for the poor guy as he thrusts into your face once more, mouth agape.
"O-oh, fuck!"
your hand that was once holding his leg open find his entrance, teasing the slick hole before easing in deep to the knuckle, curling with intense precision.
"D-doll, come —hah— c'mon, this isn't fair." he whines. bucky's fist clenches in your hair with the dual penetration, finger and tongue, he can feel his release edge closer.
his walls clench around you in quick succession, not finished just yet, a warning of such. you mumble into his cunt soft praises, keeping him in the moment. "Being so, so good Bucky, yeah?"
stroking the corse hair of his abdomen, you continue your quiet ramblings, all the while adding a second finger, curling against his gummy walls tantalisingly. "Gosh, you're such a good pup aren't you… can you tell me..? tell me how good of a puppy you are?" you suck with each pause, bobbing your head, working him like you're sucking a dick. it drove him crazy.
your words, your mouth, your fingers. it was all too much and too little all in one. the coil tightening inside of him quickly.
"I-I'm—hmph," he could laugh at your words, he would if his senses weren't filled with you and only you. his thighs trembled around your head, hips bucking with each pulsing draw of your lips and tongue and fingers. the fuzz on the insides of his thighs tickling your cheeks as you work. "I'm a good pu-puppy, o-oh! shit, doll, I'm so good, I'm so fuckin' good!"
it simmered low in his spine, weaving its way through every nerve ending. but something felt… different.
heavier.
"h-holy shi— wait! oh, oh!"
you gasped around his clit as he gushed around your fingers and chin. translucent, a tinge of milky white as it calms, trailing out of his clenching hole in a soft stream. he tasted good, so fucking good. the slurps of your mouth caught him off guard as you kept working at him. drinking him up like it was your dying wish.
easing your fingers to a slow pump, working him through his high. you lapped at his clit with gentle rolls, gathering the slick around your tongue, burrowing it into your memory.
bucky flopped back against the cushions panting, eyes wide, mouth agape as he watched you ease off of him. fingers and face glistening with the remnants of his release, and your smile, your goddamn fucking smile. proud and blessed, like he had just baptised you.
your own chest heaved in quick succession, close with his as you bring your fingers to your mouth, sucking messily, gathering the remaining liquid from your chin to your mouth greedily — and he stared, wide eyed with adoration. and maybe a bit of disgust as he watched you slurping up his mess like it was nothing.
"my puppy did so well, huh?" you cocked your head playfully, voice soft and croaky. he responds with a throaty whine. rung out and undoubtedly fucked, mentally and physically.
you both sit in silence for a while after you clean him up with some spare tissues and practically force a glass of water into his hand. once he finally finds his voice, he whispers to the ceiling. "we're doing that again sometime."
