Warnings: Smut, Sex Pollen, Non/DubCon (because sex pollen), enemies to lovers.
Summary: When an exposure to a strange powder makes you feel as if you're burning to death, your only relief is in the person you hate the most.
A/N: Special thanks to my beta reader @whisperlullaby
We're Gonna Burn Masterlist
“What the hell was that, Barnes?” You practically yell as you push open the front door of the safe house you’d been directed to.
“I don’t know! I’ve never seen anything like it. God, the smell!” He shakes his head.
“It’s burned into my nostrils. All I can smell is that sweet flower smell. You’ve never seen that pink powder?” You throw your things to the floor, looking around the small, remote house.
“No, I’d tell you if I did, damnit! Why do you keep asking?” Bucky growls.
“You’re not the most forthcoming person! Shit, I think you’ve spoken more in the last two minutes than in the three months I’ve known you! Jesus, fuck, I’ve gotta get rid of this smell. I’m so fucking hot,” your voice gets smaller as you speak. You can’t think straight but head towards the bathroom, unzipping your tac suit and pulling it from your arms as you go. You slam the door and lock it. You turn the cold water on full blast and nearly fall over in your haste to get your suit off. The frigid spray helps for a few moments and you revel in it, but soon another type of heat begins to take over. Your clit throbs and when you place your hand between your legs, your wetness coats your fingers. The shower stops bringing relief and instead, the water coursing down your body seems to only make you hornier. You give in to the need that takes hold and circle your clit. It feels amazing and it takes only a couple of minutes for your orgasm to break over you. You bite your lip to hold in the moans, not wanting the asshat on the other side of the door to hear you.
Your body has a moment of relief but then the heat builds again, even quicker this time. You dip your fingers inside of you in a desperate attempt to stop it. The second orgasm you managed to pull did little to help your body and your fingers keep working furiously to bring another in hope of relief. Your moans are spilling from your lips without a care now. You just need to get this to stop. You’re disturbed when the door rattles and a fist bangs loudly.
“Open the door! I need to get in there,” Bucky bellows.
You wanted to scream at him to go away but you could barely form words. You hated the stupid supersoldier from the moment you met him. He questioned your every turn. Whether it was about your skill, experience, or motives. He never lets you get through a single conversation without making you feel like a lesser part of the team.
“Goddamnit, let me in!” He yells more loudly.
Nothing your hand was doing was helping any longer. You couldn’t think straight and, before you can make a move or form a thought, the door splinters open from a kick. A very naked Bucky comes through the door and your eyes widen as you see his cock standing at attention. He steps into the spray of the cold shower and growls. His hand works his cock furiously while his other rests on the tiles. His head falls forward as he lets the cold water fall down his back. You stand behind him, your hand still between your legs.
“Fuck, what’s happening to us?” you whimper as you lean your feverish forehead onto his back. The cool water does nothing to help but where your skin touches his tingles with relief. Abandoning all pride, you press your entire body to his and the fever seems to cool wherever you touch but your clit throbs even harder. Your cunt weeps, begging for attention.You rub yourself against him, your nipples pebbling at the contact with his back.
With a growl, Bucky turns around and you quickly back up to press your back against the wall of the shower. He stares at you, breathing hard.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble in your haze, “I don’t know what’s happening. I’m so hot and-”
You gasp as Bucky bends down, grabs your legs, and drags you up the tiles. You squeal and reach for any handhold as he puts your legs over his shoulders and attacks your clit with his tongue.
“Oh, fuck!” You scream as one hand lands on the ceiling to help you balance and the other buries in his hair. His tongue swirls over your clit expertly. His hands squeeze your ass as he gorges himself on you. It doesn’t take long for you to buck your hips as you come all over his face. As he sets you down, you squeeze your thighs together but your body simply screams that it wants more. You stare at each other, breathing heavily. “It’s not working. Nothing helps,” you whimper, tears forming. It’s obvious by watching him that this is affecting him almost as much as you. His supersoldier serum must be helping him but he was burning just the same.
Bucky sighs as he steps closer to you. He presses his forehead to yours with his eyes closed and whispers, “I think there’s only one thing that’s going to help.”
You put your arms around his neck, “Just do it!” You wrap a leg around his to encourage him and he lifts you up. He presses your back into the wall as he lines himself up with your entrance. He paused there for a second as if he was fighting himself. “Please, Barnes, please! I need it!” You can’t believe you’re begging the man you hate to fuck you but your body was demanding it and if he didn’t you were sure you would burn to death. If you had been thinking straight, you would probably prefer to burn but, at this moment, you wanted nothing more than to be filled.
“Goddamnit,” he whispers as he presses in. Your body bows with pleasure.
“Yes! Yes!” Your voice reverberates off the tile walls as you shout with relief. He begins to pump and your body trembles with each motion of his cock. He grabs your ass as he pounds into you and you know he’s as lost in the meeting of your bodies as you are. Your cunt flutters around him, pulling him in, begging for him to come inside of you. Your rational mind has gone completely silent and you are filled with only carnal lust. Every motion of his hips takes you higher and it’s all you want. “Don’t stop,” you grip his shoulders harder.
“Fuck,” Bucky grunts. He couldn’t stop if he wanted to and, truth was, this was the best thing he’d felt in a long time.
“Oh, God, oh, God, I’m- yes!” You release a long, high-pitched moan as you come. Your pussy grips his cock as his hips stutter. He comes with a long moan that makes you clench around him more firmly. You stay there for a few moments, catching your breath, and blessedly your body finally starts to cool. You release your legs from around his waist and he gently sets you down. You can’t look at him and instead maneuver yourself back under the cold spray. You rinse off quickly and step out of the shower. Wrapping yourself in a towel, you exit the bathroom to find your pack and some clothes. While you rifle through your pack, you feel your temperature creeping up again and then you double over from the intense wave that rolls over you. “No, no, not again,” you whisper to yourself. You look over to the broken bathroom door where Bucky still is and consider your options. Sex had given you the relief you needed but it was short lived. Your mind runs amuck with questions. What the hell was that powder? What was it doing to you? How long would this last? How many times would it take to stop this heat from trying to burn you alive? Was sex really the only relief you would find? Another pang hit and knocked the breath from your body. You were gasping in pain when an arm picked you up around your middle.
He was still wet from the shower and hadn’t bothered to dry off. The pains had hit him and he went to the only place he knew he could find relief. He carried you to the small bed in the house and set you down on your hands and knees. He grips your hips tightly and pauses for a moment as another rush of heat spreads over him, “I need-”
“Just do it,” your words come out in a rush, pressing back into him.
He enters you without preamble. Pulling you back to meet each motion of his hips, his moans give evidence of the pleasure and relief that the connection brings. You reach under you to play with your clit, trying to bring your orgasm on more quickly. Each of Bucky’s swift thrusts has you crying out with pleasure and he moves your hand away to bring you to orgasm himself. He wanted to feel you clench around him as you had before.
“Oh, fuck, just like that,” you whine, “Just like that, don’t- don’t stop, oh, fuck.”
Bucky moans as he feels your cunt flutter around his cock with your orgasm. The sounds you release are a hit straight to his cock and he comes hard, thrusting with each spurt into you. Breathing heavily, you both collapse on the bed. You lay on your side facing away from him while taking stock of your body. The relief you felt with your orgasm was short lived as heat began to build again after only a few minutes.
You feel like crying as your body radiates waves of heat. You turn over to face Bucky. He is lying on his back, his metal arm slung over his eyes, and his right hand fisting his hard cock. You make your decision quickly. Pulling his hand away, you straddle him and guide his cock inside of you. You move your hips slowly, hoping that perhaps if you stretched out the sex, it would keep the pain at bay longer. His hands grip your thighs as you rock slowly, his head is thrown back with eyes tightly closed. You looked at him for a moment and still couldn't believe that of all the teammates this could happen with, it had to be this asshole. When you first met him, you thought he was hot as fuck but as his personality (or lack there of) reared it’s ugly head you found him less and less attractive. Your anger at the situation grew as you rode him and you found yourself leaning forward, chasing your orgasm to just get this over with.
“Oh, fuck,” Bucky bucks up into you, causing you to cry out. He repeats the motion over and over again until your body spasms around him. He comes with a grunt as he watches your face contort with pleasure. You collapse on his chest without looking at him. You wondered if keeping your bodies connected would keep the heat from returning.
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks softly.
You sigh weakly as you felt the now familiar warmth beginning to spread, “I was hoping…” You let out a frustrated grunt, “I was hoping if we stayed touching it would be enough. But it’s starting again.”
“Yeah, me, too,” Bucky acknowledges his own heat building. “It’s gonna be okay.”
“You don’t know that. You can’t know that,” you grouse.
“I think… I think this might be a pheromone or something Hydra created to force procreation. I heard of the experiments but they abandoned it when it didn’t produce the results they wanted.”
“Which was?” You ask as your hips make slow circles. You can feel his cock quickly hardening inside of you.
“Naturally born supersoldiers,” Bucky strains out the words.
“So, we’re gonna have sex until we die or what?”
“Usually wore off in a few hours but until then…” he trails off as he gots lost in the sensations.
“Fuck,” you groan, partially out of frustration, partially from the pleasure his thick cock was producing.
“Basically,” Bucky says and you surprise yourself by laughing at the droll comment. You are even more surprised a second later when Bucky rolls you under him. He buries his face in your neck as he pulls your leg up higher and thrusts. You throw your head back as the pleasure begins to build again.
“Harder,” you whimper.
Bucky complies immediately and you whimper with each stroke. Grabbing onto him, you get lost in the feeling of his cock pounding into you sharply. You were glad that he at least was decent at this. Or was it that whatever the damn contaminant was made everything feel amazing? You were getting close with the steady way he fucked you and words started to pour out of your mouth. You were usually quite vocal in bed but hadn’t wanted to give Bucky the satisfaction. Now, you couldn’t stop yourself.
“Oh, god, it’s so good. Don’t stop, right there. It’s so fucking good. Oh, fuck, fuck, I’m gonna- fuck!” You let out a loud moan as you come hard and Bucky’s hips work even faster as he nears his own end. When he comes on a broken cry, your body revels in the feeling of him emptying himself in you.
The rational side of your brain sounded far away but was still screaming at the situation. In a moment of it managing to take hold, you push Bucky off of you and roll away from him. Breathing heavily, you pray that this is over. Surely, this was enough to satisfy anything. You will yourself to stay cool, to not allow the heat to return, to hold onto any shred of sanity you can find, but despite it all, the heat built again. You felt like screaming but you knew that nothing you did would help. You turn back to Bucky and say frustratedly, “Ready for another round?” You can’t meet his eyes but you knew neither of you could handle the pain and heat. You needed each other.
Bucky turns to you, “Hey.” He waits, wanting you to look him in the eyes but you just stare at his chest. “Hey.”
“What?” You say waspishly, still refusing to meet his gaze.
“Never mind,” he says as he grabs you and pulls your back against his chest. His cock nudges you from behind and you maneuver your hips to allow him entry. His thrusts are quick and sharp but his fingers on your clit are pure magic. He’s learned your body quickly but instead of leading you straight to orgasm this time, he works you to the precipice and then backs off repeatedly. You understood what he was trying to do. He was trying to prolong the sex in hopes of not having to come inside you any more than he already had but it was as if your body only got angrier with each denial.
“It’s not working! Just let me come!” You finally cry out, your frustration having reached its breaking point.
“Say it,” Bucky growls.
You wrack your muddled brain trying to grasp what he wants and latch on to the only word you can find, “Please!”
“No, say my name.”
You would normally reel angrily at a command from him but the effects this powder had on you makes you compliant from need. You stutter as your tongue tries to cooperate, “B- Barnes.”
“No,” he says darkly, “Say it.”
“Bucky,” you grind the word out through your teeth. You had never once called him that. It had always been some variant of his last name. You felt even more vulnerable now.
Bucky doesn’t utter a word but he moves his hips faster and his fingers do their job. When you finally come, your whole body spasms and you scream. The sound was foreign to your ears but the orgasm just kept going. You fluttered around Bucky’s cock, milking him of cum. You stay in that position for the next two rounds of sex. Then you got on top again to give Bucky a break but this time you faced away from him. You couldn’t look at him. When you had rode him to two orgasms and yourself to utter exhaustion, he turned you on your stomach to fuck you again. You lost count of the number of times you had sex. More orgasms than you’d ever had in your life were accomplished and you didn’t have any clue how many times he came. You fucked until you both passed out.
Waking up fourteen hours later, you felt as if you had the worst hangover you’d ever experienced. You glance at the spot Bucky had been in but he was gone. On the table by the bed was a couple of bottles of water, a protein bar, and a bottle of pain reliever. You raised your eyebrow at the items but just shrugged as you tore into all of them. You notice your pack is by the bed and you get up to put clothes on. The first thing you notice is the soreness between your legs but really your whole body hurts. You listen for a moment but don’t hear anything in the house. Peeking out the door, you see the empty living room and slip into the bathroom. You shower quickly, trying not to remember what happened in the small space just yesterday.
You jump when a knock sounds while you are dressing. You call out, “Yes?”
“Exfil will be here in five minutes,” Bucky says through the broken door.
“I’ll be right out,” you say. Your stomach is in knots. You can’t imagine facing him after everything. Would he act like nothing happened or gloat like the asshole he is? You wonder if you will ever be able to look him in the face again. You look at yourself, surprised that you still look the same as you did yesterday because you know you’ll never be the same again. But you didn’t have time to dwell on that. Now, you had a jet to catch.
Part 2
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Written for @stargazingfangirl18's Birthday Bonenanza--HAPPY BDAY, SIRI!--using the scenario prompt ~quick, frantic, secret sex in an almost public place + babe's hand over your mouth to keep you quiet~ and the dialogue prompt "goddamnit, will you just f***ing let me do this for you?" with free use kink for good measure. Why not?
Summary: The extreme drug cocktail you devise to save Steve Rogers has one major side effect.
Warnings for smut 🥴, sorta dub-con because it's like sex pollen, F E E L S, Steve being the most chivalrous gentleman while railing you (do it for your country, babes 🫡), completely unintentional dirty talk from Steve but 😮💨 we'll allow it, Tony being Tony, and--as always-- terrible puns. (There are no mentions of any medical instruments, except an IV, which is not used.) MINORS DNI. This is a mature gift work; see my Light Masterlist for all-age fanfic that is fine for minors. WC 2k
The constant photoflash burns into your retinas obnoxiously, and you’re not even the subject of the paparazzi.
Captain America is alive—all thanks to you—though he could easily have been six-feet under by now. The mysterious infection was so bad and spread so far, the drug regimen you administered constitutes one of the Avengers’ biggest Hail Marys to date, but it’s working. That’s all that matters…to the world. Behind the scenes is a different story.
As Captain Rogers turns to the next hand he must shake, his sharp blue eyes find you, twinged with a familiar fear.
This stupid event scheduled by Stark to boost morale, to show Cap is just fine and back in fighting form, has gone on too long. It’s happening again.
You worried Rogers might not make it when suddenly Stark showed up hours earlier than the initial, planned press conference—because, of course, there’s meet-and-greets, quick interviews, and these damn handshakes. He’s only gone so long between treatments for the last week.
You nod at Cap and make your way in the small crowd back to Stark. You tell him you’ll need a room, somewhere private to put in the IV, and at least thirty minutes to administer the huge dose. Rogers’s super-metabolism makes it necessary to use approximately forty times the prescription average for antibiotics and steroids. In theory, the side effects are well worth his speedy recovery.
Well, the only side effect.
Stark looks horrendously annoyed. “Can’t you just shoot him up with it and be done?” He doesn’t need your lecture repeated though. “Fine, there’s a greenroom thing over there, but you’ve got fifteen minutes at most, you hear me?”
“Twenty-five, Mr. Stark. He’s not a water balloon.”
“Twenty or he can wheel the damn thing around with him.”
You gulp in nervousness, but the problem isn’t Stark’s attitude. Rogers isn’t going to like rushing this. He feels shame enough already.
“I’ll make it work,” you assure the stubborn playboy. If he only knew…
“Good. A team player. We value that here.”
You have no fucking idea how ironic that is, you scream internally, but you follow him to a door off a back hallway, a room that shares a wall with the space all those people are gathered, and thank Stark.
“Oh good, he’s heard the dog-whistle of treat time,” Tony quips, and you swivel to see Cap trailing behind you.
He’s already made his excuses to step away, too. It must be bad.
You’re sure to pull out your props of a saline drip and tubing from your bag while Tony can still see, but you drop the act the instant the door clicks shut.
Cap take one step forward to flip the lock, immediately unzipping the fly of his iconic leather suit.
See, the only side effect of the drugs is Rogers gets hard, often, and can’t find relief from his efforts alone. Through trial-and-error, the clear solution has been help—discretely—from the only medical professional allowed around him until his condition improved.
Of course, he fought it. Of course, you wanted to preserve his dignity. Of course, you tried to keep it as perfunctory, methodical, and uninspired as possible, but the thing is, that didn’t last.
The more distant and cold the experience, the faster he became desperate and wanting again, and now you have just twenty minutes to make sure Captain America can hold out for hours.
Steve, you remind yourself. He prefers you not use respectful address when engaging is what he deems entirely disrespectful behavior.
You need to get him off in essentially no time at all, so you’ve decided: go big or go home.
Bag tossed to the floor, you unbutton your pants and shimmy out of everything from shoes to panties, letting the longer tail of your dress shirt barely cover your modesty.
Steve looks dumbfounded. It’s bad enough he has to run to you for a handy every few hours, but this?
“Doc, no,” he breaths.
“I understand the procedure,” you say calmly, echoing his harrowing consent from that first night he needed you.
Steve’s brow furrows in strain. “We shouldn’t…”
‘We’ are way past ‘shouldn’t,’ buddy.
“Can’t ask you to…“ but he also knows time’s a wasting.
He’s already fisting himself, struggling to be the gentleman he never stopped being, which at the moment is a huge problem because both of you need to get through the day—you without losing your job and him without popping a boner on national television.
It’s your job to break him and break him right now.
“Goddamnit, will you just fucking let me do this for you?”
There’s a flat smack on the door.
“Do whatever the lady wants and then get back out here,” Tony yells from the other side. “Put us all out of our misery,” he ends with a grumble.
That is by far the most helpful thing Stark has said in the last week, so you mouth “see” and begin undoing your blouse from the bottom, giving Steve his first peek of you. His hand speeds along his length, adam’s apple bobbing in concentration.
“Here, I’ll make it easy for you,” you whisper. You walk to the far corner of the room, put your hands up, shirt rising over your bare ass, and face the wall. Your voice is soothing, pleading even. “Just take what you need.”
In some ways, you feel responsible for his predicament. You are the prescribing doctor, he isn’t in a relationship where a partner could assist, and he insists no one else know. He doesn’t deserve to be poked and prodded more than necessary, and you can’t give him any other meds in combination. None of it is his fault same as none of it is yours. You only intended to heal him.
Truthfully though, none of this is just about his release anymore, much as you’d like to dismiss your feelings.
You can’t deny, however, that each time the air gets a little thicker with tension, the body language a little more intimate. Steve has kept his eyes open, clutched your free hand to his chest, rolled his hips open, and thrust up into your fist. The greater the satisfaction of his climax, the longer he retains control.
“When this is over…I swear,” he grits out, getting closer word by word until his deep voice is right by your ear.
He tugs your shirt up to dip his fingers between your legs. “Been smelling you for two days. Can’t do anything until—” Steve growls, feeling how slick you’ve become in anticipation “—you’re ready for me.”
His concern washes away when two fingers easily breech you to the knuckle and are immediately replaced by the blunt head of his cock dragging between your folds.
You didn’t expect him to give in so fast. You didn’t expect him to have known this aroused you. The idea he might want to continue, to go further, races down your spine, following the opposite path of Steve leaning into you. His forehead presses your occipital as yours presses the wall. The heat of him makes you arch in luxurious proximity.
Steve fucking forward to enter you in one smooth motion makes you forget to be quiet, but before the whole shout of ecstasy escapes, his hand covers your mouth.
“Shhh, Doc,” he breathes at the base of your neck. “Be good for me.”
That only gets you moaning into the seam of his gloves.
His hips start a staccato rhythm, a second of loud friction for each second of silent, fulfilling pressure.
Steve slips his still wet fingers under your shirt and beneath the cup of your bra to swirl a smooth pattern over your nipple. Instead of voicing your approval, you shove yourself back into him faster.
You notice the muffled chatting of Tony and someone else outside while your eyes roll. The slap of your skin against the Cap suit becomes the loudest thing in the room, but that’s not what Steve minds.
He pulls out and spins you around, pausing to see the cream you’ve created at the base of him drip to the carpet below.
Deep sea eyes meet yours through golden lashes.
“If I can’t hear you…” Steve hoists you up to his waist, threading one arm through the bend in your knee, spreading you wide and diving in swiftly.
Your body curls forward automatically to grasp at him and smother yourself in the leather of his shoulder pad. This pace is much faster, purposeful, utterly unravelling you. The position delivers more range of motion, all of the buildup and less of the noise, with the added benefit of his tool belt nudging your clit repeatedly.
Tony pounds on the door. “‘Bout done in there, guys? Let’s go.” How apt, the unknowing jester.
Steve pants, open-mouthed, against your temple.
You smile but can’t stop your own ruin.
A groan gets buried in your disheveled hair. “Are you…close?” His hips snap brutally. “Are you—“ he sounds wrecked “—you gonna…come on my—uungh.”
You tip over the edge, clutching him tight and fluttering for him in every way. The detonation of your orgasm burns red behind your eyelids like camera flashes, a dirty snapshot for you alone.
“Mercy,” Steve begs, gripping your ass to rut into you, desperate to join. His neck tenses as he spills inside you, pulse throbbing in time with his cock.
He leans against you and the wall, his steady weight stilling your shaky legs. Slowly, your feet are guided to the floor and Steve steps away to wipe away any evidence of his ‘therapeutic treatment.’ His breathing settles much faster than yours, and by the time he’s tucked back in with his suit righted, you’re simply sliding down the wall to catch up.
He hurries over to the small vanity and mini fridge—usually ‘guests’ for speaking (or interrogating) wait here—to bring you supplies.
A box of tissues is set by your side.
“So…” he hands you a bottle of water “…maybe…dinner tonight?”
You set the water down in favor of cleaning yourself, glancing up to offer a reassuring dismissal. “This morning was your last dose,” you remind him. “It should be over soon.”
Steve may not need this anymore, may never need you again, but he doesn’t miss a single beat.
“I’d like—I want to take you some place nice, but…” He chugs his whole water then quickly unclasps the glove on his left hand, rolling up his sleeve, veins jumping over a thick forearm.
“I don’t know what food you enjoy.”
Arguably, he knows a few other things that you enjoy.
There’s another impatient bang at the door.
“I—“ Your heart soars with the soft sincerity of his face, no trace of fear left behind, no hesitation. “I’m gonna need a minute.”
Steve stands, smoothing a hand over his hair. “I’ll lock it behind me…and, um, thank you, Doc.”
It’s the first time he hasn’t apologized this whole week.
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Steve flashes you a dopey smile and shakes his head. “See you out there,” he chuckles.
You can’t be seen when the door opens just enough for Steve to step out, but he makes a show of rolling the suit’s sleeve back down like he really did have an IV infusion, selling the lie like a pro. He keeps Tony talking while shutting you back into your debauched bubble.
Through the wall, you still hear “could you have gone any slower?” followed by a curt, “yes,” and have to stifle a laugh.
“What’d you do, blow a vein?”
You’re picturing an incredibly ironic look on Captain Rogers’ face.
“Just be grateful she puts up with us, Tony…” and their voices disappear down the hall.
His treatment may be finished, but Steve wants you to stick around. He wants you.
Would having dinner with that man really be so terrible? No. Not at all. Even the ‘worst’ of this situation has been a great fucking experience. You don’t want to give that up yet.
fuuuuck i just realized that the future idealized version of myself cant exist without current me being the catalyst for change and doing hard things. has anybody heard about this
also while i’m ranting about gender i always see debate about whether girls are rewarded for being tomboys or not and it’s like. actually girls are rewarded for mirroring whatever the situation demands of them. girls can’t be too prissy and refuse to play in the creek, but girls also can’t show up to girly events covered in mud. girls can’t have makeup art as a hobby or else they’re superficial, but if they never wear makeup they’re a slob and dumpy, etc. it’s not that girls are universally rewarded or punished for being tomboys, they’re rewarded for bending over backwards to always be exactly right for any given situation and punished for breaking those boundaries. so yes a classically pretty girl who cleans up nice is rewarded when she can ALSO be a tomboy. but a girl who is a tomboy all the time is definitely punished for never being able to achieve that prerequisite feminine side. this debate is over now thanks
this is spot on. A woman's masculinity is rewarded as long as it doesn't conflict with being heteronormatively attractive and as long as the masculinity plays harmonising second fiddle to the masculinity of the men around her.
pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader, Coworkers to lovers
summary: You and the Captain are exposed to a heavy dose of sex pollen and he has to figure out a way to tell you.
warnings: Smut in later chapters, use of 'Y/N’, blood, horny thoughts
word count: 1.3k
“Easy, easy.” Steve tells you as he gingerly places you on the bed in the infirmary. The fluorescent lights blind you now that can no longer hide your face in the crook of your Captain’s neck.
You probably shouldn’t have done that, H.R might have some things to say about that if they ever found out.
“Thank you, Steve.” You eek out, squinting up at him.
“Don’t mention it.”
His uniform is caked in dust, maybe ‘caked’ is a bit much. You can still see the dark blue of it. Sweat has carved streaks through the fine dust at his temples. His hair, brown in the soft light of the residential suites of the compound, is now a stark blond. The traitorous fluorescent lights must be shining through it. He looks like he’s got a halo. Your hero has a halo.
You’re staring at him. You quickly avert your gaze and look around the sterile room to keep yourself busy.
Steve’s deep voice cuts through your embarrassment, “Doctor Cho.”
Dr. Helen Cho briefly takes the both of you in and lets out a heavy sigh. The sight of you in this bed with your Captain at your side is a familiar sight.
“Captain. Agent.” She snaps on a pair of blue latex gloves.
“Doctor.” You hope that that’ll put an end to the civilities, because your suit is starting to fuse itself to your sweat soaked compression garments. The sooner you can get checked out, the sooner you can have a nice, hot, luxurious shower. You can smell your body wash already.
“What happened?” Doctor Cho asks before she flashes a piercing white light directly into your pupils. Ouch.
“A building fell on us.” You answer through gritted teeth. You raise your right hand to cover your eyes when Cho moves onto palpating you all over, checking for broken bones.
“No, that’s not what happened at all.” Concern colors Steve’s voice.
“Well, what the hell happened then?” You remove your hand from your face and see that there’s blood on the palm of your hand. Was that there before? You reach for your face again but Steve gently restrains your hand before you can finish your investigation.
“Don’t touch that. A rogue hydra agent bashed you in the head with the butt of his rifle. You don’t remember that?”
“No. I guess not.”
Steve averts his gaze from you and looks to Dr.Cho.
Cho moves to your left side and swipes a rough alcohol pad on the inside of your left arm. She inserts a tiny needle into a vein and places a small strip of adhesive to hold the needle in place. You watch her screw the end of the I.V into the tube leading up to the saline bag at your head.
“She might have a slight concussion. We’ll have to keep her overnight for observation.” She explains casually, cleaning up her station as she goes. If she’s not worried then there’s no reason that you should be either.
“Whatever you think is best, doctor.” Steve says.
Cho rips open another tiny packet and gingerly swipes at your face. The room grows so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. You can’t even hear Steve breathing at your side. He gently squeezes your hand, watching Cho with the eye of a hawk. You hadn’t even realized that he was still holding your hand. But now that you have, your fingers start to tingle. He must have your blood on him. You can see that the blood on his neck is yours and not his like you initially thought.
Damn, you’re going to have to get him something special for Christmas this year. You feel a surge of guilt at having given him a last minute gift last year: A mug from your personal collection.
“Wait, if a building didn’t fall on us then why are you covered in dust?” You raise a shaky hand and childishly point to his soiled uniform. He briefly glances down at himself as if for the first time.
“Oh, I threw my shield at the man that clubbed you and this gas canister that he had on him exploded. Don’t worry about it.” Steve gingerly brushes the top layer of dust off.
“Are you okay?” You try to read the truth in his eyes before he has a chance to school his features. In your Captain’s eyes, he has an obligation to worry about everyone, but no one should dare concern themselves with his well being.
“I’ll be alright, doll-agent. You just focus on getting better.” He pats your hand in the most platonic manner possible and gently lays it by your side.
“I’m going to go up to your room and bring you some clean clothes and toiletries.” Steve awkwardly clears his throat. No, he’s tired. He gets twitchy when he’s tired. That one took you a while to figure out.
“That’s okay, ‘Cap, Nat can do that. You should go shower 'cause I’ve taken up too much of your time as it is.”
Don’t think of him showering. Don’t. That’s unprofessional. Don’t think about hot water cutting rivulets through his abs, dripping it’s way down, down, down…
You shake the dirty thoughts out of your head and give Steve the most innocent smile you can muster.
“Right...Doctor. Cho, keep me updated on her.” His voice is back to being authoritative and detached, and you feel a little colder.
“Yes, Captain.” Cho throws over her shoulder while she flits around you.
Steve turns at the door to give you one last look before nodding to himself and striding out.
A moments of silence passes between you and doctor Cho, you try not to think about how your hand is still tingling.
“He’s quite attentive.” Cho whispers to you.
“Hm?” You return your gaze to the restless doctor.
“Captain Rogers, he cares about you. He looked sick with worry”
Your heart flip flops in your chest, “Well,” you pick at a hangnail “he cares about all of us. He’s a good leader in that way. I couldn’t ask for a better Captain.”
“I’ve never seen him carry anyone else in here.” She opens up a packet of butterfly band-aids and reaches for your head wound.
Steve has carried other people into the infirmary. You can swear that he has.
“Well, I’m more clumsy than anyone else on the team so…” That was pathetic. An awkward, half-assed chuckle escapes you.
“You have a temperature.” Cho announces.
You almost get whiplash from the change in conversation but you’re grateful that you don’t have to continue down that line of questioning.
“Is that normal?” You wonder
She moves to the foot of your bed and picks up your chart to note something down.
“Not usually. I’m not sure that you even have a concussion.” She looks up at you, “How are you feeling?”
You look within your body and find that, overall, you feel completely fine. Other than the sore spot on your forehead, all is well. You don’t even feel feverish.
“I’m good.” You chirp. “As a matter of a fact, I feel great! I feel like I can run a mile.”
You sit up in your bed but the room starts to dim, so you lay your ass back down.
“Okay, maybe a half mile.”
Cho hides a snicker behind her hand, “We’ll keep you overnight for sure. I’ll schedule an MRI for you in the morning, just to be on the safe side, but I think that you should be fine.” She places your chart back into its slot and removes her latex gloves.
“Okay. Thank you, Dr.Cho. And…if Ste-Captain Rogers comes by…” You trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence.
“I’ll let my team know that he’s on your visitors’ list.” She winks at you before swiftly leaving the room.
You curl onto your side and try not to feel too embarrassed.
pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader, Coworkers to lovers
summary: You and the Captain are exposed to a heavy dose of sex pollen and he has to figure out a way to tell you.
warnings: Smut in later chapters, use of 'Y/N’, blood, horny thoughts
word count: 1k
Previous Chapter
Steve’s POV
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what a day. I thought that we would be back home by lunch time, but when was the last time things went the way I expected them to?
The compound is silent, all of its residents either asleep or out having lives. Something that I should look into. Probably. I wonder if Cho has any updates for me. Where is my phone? I can never seem to keep it from wandering off on me. Would Cho text me with an update, or would she call? A call feels more appropriate.
“Hey, Punk.” A voice greets out. I flick the light switch and find Bucky rising from the couch, his pajamas wrinkled up. He must’ve been sleeping out here again.
“Hey, Buck, I can’t really talk. I gotta hit the showers and go check on Y/N.”
“What happened? Is she alright?” Concern colors his face and I feel a little guilty for trying to run out on him.
“No, she’s fine. Doctor Cho thinks that she might have a slight concussion, so they’re keeping her overnight.”
I unzip my uniform down the center and a small puff of dust floats into the air, until it reaches my nose and I have no choice but to let out a forceful sneeze.
“Woah, woah! What is that?” Bucky’s alarmed tone pulls all of my attention away from locating a Kleenex for myself. I have never known him to raise his voice like that. I can see him take a tiny step backward.
“It’s just some residue from an exploded oxygen tank.” Now that I have given voice to my suspicion it sounds ridiculous. I have no way of knowing that it was an oxygen tank. I didn’t even get a good look at it before it exploded…
“Did you touch anyone?” Bucky takes another step backward and I can feel a private panic start to rise in my chest.
“Is it poisonous? Deadly? Buck, please tell me it’s not deadly.” I can’t help but reach for him but he bounds into a back flip over the couch. That was unnecessary. He stands to his full height, now halfway across the room, and schools his face into a neutral expression. That’s never good.
“Just answer the question, Steve. Did. You. Touch. Anyone?”
“Y/N…I had no choice, I had to carry her out of the building. Is that bad? Will she be okay?”
Bucky scores his fingers through his hair and blows out a sharp exhale.
Did I kill her? I should go check on her right now, because if it’s bad news for me…”
“I have to go.” I zip up my uniform and go to grab my keys. Where are my damn keys?
“Steve! It’s not deadly, Y/N will live. But, buddy you’ve been dosed with,” He clears his throat, averts his gaze, “sex pollen. And now Y/N has been too and prolonged physical contact after exposure causes…a sort of, um…”
He’s at a loss for words. I’m at a loss for words. Sex pollen. Y/N and I have been exposed to fucking sex pollen.
“A sort of what, Buck?” I can’t feel my feet anymore.
“Bond. And the pollen is stronger if you’re bonded. With your pre-existing, shall we say, feelings? I imagine that the effect will be magnified tenfold.”
Tenfold.
Bucky plops himself on the couch, his head in his hands. I don’t even have the energy to do the dance of denying my feelings for Y/N right now. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.
“How do I fix it?” I hear the words echo through the room and my throat sticks to itself when I try to swallow down my panic.
“You have to...you and Y/N have to…you know.” He does a vulgar gesture with both of his hands and all the blood in my body rushes to my face. I unzip my uniform again and take it all the way off. The damn thing was suffocating me.
Y/N and I have to have sex or else we’ll…
“What will happen if we don’t…?” I repeat the vulgar hand gesture.
“Oh, you don’t want to find out, Steve.” Bucky rises from his seat and takes a tentative step towards me.
“Damn it, just tell me!” I shouldn’t yell, why did I yell? Bad Captains yell. I should apologize. Where’s Y/N? I should find her, make sure that she smells as delectable as I remember. My dick twitches at the thought of feeling the heat radiate off of her neck, warming my face before I run my tongue up her neck to her ear. I wonder what she tastes like.
“Steve. Steve! Steve! Focus on me, bud. If you two don’t…take each other to pound town,” we both wince at the word, “sorry, heard it as soon as it came out. If you two don’t…you’ll spend two weeks being deliriously horny. When it happened to me—God this is embarrassing—I fucked every person that I made eye contact with for longer than 5 seconds. Hydra made sure to keep the person I had bonded with away from me. I tore down the facility looking for him but…By the time I came down from the drug, I had lost 40 pounds from all of the…cardio.” His voice trailed off.
I let all of the information sink in.
“Jesus Christ, Buck. That can’t happen!” I’m yelling again, damn it.
“I know, which is why you need to talk to Y/N ASAP. You’ll probably want some privacy while you two…work this out.” Buck smacks his teeth and rocks back and forth on his heels, his hands tucked into his armpits.
I have to tell Y/N that we have to have sex. I’m sure that’ll go over well. “Hey Y/N, it’s me, your, Captain. Listen, I need you to put your hot little mouth on my cock and suck until I cum down your throat. Then I need you to lay in my bed and let me hear all the different sounds you make while I fuck you to tears.”
My God, these compression pants are restrictive.
Bucky snaps his fingers in my face and draws me out of my reverie.
“Steve, did you just have a nasty day dream about Y/N? Because if so then that means that the clock is ticking. You gotta move, bud. Now.”
pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader, Coworkers to lovers
summary: You and the Captain are exposed to a heavy dose of sex pollen and he has to figure out a way to tell you.
warnings: Smut in later chapters, use of 'Y/N’, blood, horny thoughts
word count: 2.5k
“Easy, easy.” Steve tells you as he gingerly places you on the bed in the infirmary. The fluorescent lights blind you now that can no longer hide your face in the crook of your Captain’s neck.
You probably shouldn’t have done that, H.R might have some things to say about that if they ever found out.
“Thank you, Steve.” You eek out, squinting up at him.
“Don’t mention it.”
His uniform is caked in dust, maybe ‘caked’ is a bit much. You can still see the dark blue of it. Sweat has carved streaks through the fine dust at his temples. His hair, brown in the soft light of the residential suites of the compound, is now a stark blond. The traitorous fluorescent lights must be shining through it. He looks like he’s got a halo. Your hero has a halo.
You’re staring at him. You quickly avert your gaze and look around the sterile room to keep yourself busy.
Steve’s deep voice cuts through your embarrassment, “Doctor Cho.”
Dr. Helen Cho briefly takes the both of you in and lets out a heavy sigh. The sight of you in this bed with your Captain at your side is a familiar sight.
“Captain. Agent.” She snaps on a pair of blue latex gloves.
“Doctor.” You hope that that’ll put an end to the civilities, because your suit is starting to fuse itself to your sweat soaked compression garments. The sooner you can get checked out, the sooner you can have a nice, hot, luxurious shower. You can smell your body wash already.
“What happened?” Doctor Cho asks before she flashes a piercing white light directly into your pupils. Ouch.
“A building fell on us.” You answer through gritted teeth. You raise your right hand to cover your eyes when Cho moves onto palpating you all over, checking for broken bones.
“No, that’s not what happened at all.” Concern colors Steve’s voice.
“Well, what the hell happened then?” You remove your hand from your face and see that there’s blood on the palm of your hand. Was that there before? You reach for your face again but Steve gently restrains your hand before you can finish your investigation.
“Don’t touch that. A rogue hydra agent bashed you in the head with the butt of his rifle. You don’t remember that?”
“No. I guess not.”
Steve averts his gaze from you and looks to Dr.Cho.
Cho moves to your left side and swipes a rough alcohol pad on the inside of your left arm. She inserts a tiny needle into a vein and places a small strip of adhesive to hold the needle in place. You watch her screw the end of the I.V into the tube leading up to the saline bag at your head.
“She might have a slight concussion. We’ll have to keep her overnight for observation.” She explains casually, cleaning up her station as she goes. If she’s not worried then there’s no reason that you should be either.
“Whatever you think is best, doctor.” Steve says.
Cho rips open another tiny packet and gingerly swipes at your face. The room grows so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. You can’t even hear Steve breathing at your side. He gently squeezes your hand, watching Cho with the eye of a hawk. You hadn’t even realized that he was still holding your hand. But now that you have, your fingers start to tingle. He must have your blood on him. You can see that the blood on his neck is yours and not his like you initially thought.
Damn, you’re going to have to get him something special for Christmas this year. You feel a surge of guilt at having given him a last minute gift last year: A mug from your personal collection.
“Wait, if a building didn’t fall on us then why are you covered in dust?” You raise a shaky hand and childishly point to his soiled uniform. He briefly glances down at himself as if for the first time.
“Oh, I threw my shield at the man that clubbed you and this gas canister that he had on him exploded. Don’t worry about it.” Steve gingerly brushes the top layer of dust off.
“Are you okay?” You try to read the truth in his eyes before he has a chance to school his features. In your Captain’s eyes, he has an obligation to worry about everyone, but no one should dare concern themselves with his well being.
“I’ll be alright, doll-agent. You just focus on getting better.” He pats your hand in the most platonic manner possible and gently lays it by your side.
“I’m going to go up to your room and bring you some clean clothes and toiletries.” Steve awkwardly clears his throat. No, he’s tired. He gets twitchy when he’s tired. That one took you a while to figure out.
“That’s okay, ‘Cap, Nat can do that. You should go shower 'cause I’ve taken up too much of your time as it is.”
Don’t think of him showering. Don’t. That’s unprofessional. Don’t think about hot water cutting rivulets through his abs, dripping it’s way down, down, down…
You shake the dirty thoughts out of your head and give Steve the most innocent smile you can muster.
“Right...Doctor. Cho, keep me updated on her.” His voice is back to being authoritative and detached, and you feel a little colder.
“Yes, Captain.” Cho throws over her shoulder while she flits around you.
Steve turns at the door to give you one last look before nodding to himself and striding out.
A moments of silence passes between you and doctor Cho, you try not to think about how your hand is still tingling.
“He’s quite attentive.” Cho whispers to you.
“Hm?” You return your gaze to the restless doctor.
“Captain Rogers, he cares about you. He looked sick with worry”
Your heart flip flops in your chest, “Well,” you pick at a hangnail “he cares about all of us. He’s a good leader in that way. I couldn’t ask for a better Captain.”
“I’ve never seen him carry anyone else in here.” She opens up a packet of butterfly band-aids and reaches for your head wound.
Steve has carried other people into the infirmary. You can swear that he has.
“Well, I’m more clumsy than anyone else on the team so…” That was pathetic. An awkward, half-assed chuckle escapes you.
“You have a temperature.” Cho announces.
You almost get whiplash from the change in conversation but you’re grateful that you don’t have to continue down that line of questioning.
“Is that normal?” You wonder
She moves to the foot of your bed and picks up your chart to note something down.
“Not usually. I’m not sure that you even have a concussion.” She looks up at you, “How are you feeling?”
You look within your body and find that, overall, you feel completely fine. Other than the sore spot on your forehead, all is well. You don’t even feel feverish.
“I’m good.” You chirp. “As a matter of a fact, I feel great! I feel like I can run a mile.”
You sit up in your bed but the room starts to dim, so you lay your ass back down.
“Okay, maybe a half mile.”
Cho hides a snicker behind her hand, “We’ll keep you overnight for sure. I’ll schedule an MRI for you in the morning, just to be on the safe side, but I think that you should be fine.” She places your chart back into its slot and removes her latex gloves.
“Okay. Thank you, Dr.Cho. And…if Ste-Captain Rogers comes by…” You trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence.
“I’ll let my team know that he’s on your visitors’ list.” She winks at you before swiftly leaving the room.
You curl onto your side and try not to feel too embarrassed.
pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader, Coworkers to lovers
summary: You and the Captain are exposed to a heavy dose of sex pollen and he has to figure out a way to tell you.
warnings: Smut in later chapters, use of 'Y/N’, blood, horny thoughts
word count: 1.3k
“Easy, easy.” Steve tells you as he gingerly places you on the bed in the infirmary. The fluorescent lights blind you now that can no longer hide your face in the crook of your Captain’s neck.
You probably shouldn’t have done that, H.R might have some things to say about that if they ever found out.
“Thank you, Steve.” You eek out, squinting up at him.
“Don’t mention it.”
His uniform is caked in dust, maybe ‘caked’ is a bit much. You can still see the dark blue of it. Sweat has carved streaks through the fine dust at his temples. His hair, brown in the soft light of the residential suites of the compound, is now a stark blond. The traitorous fluorescent lights must be shining through it. He looks like he’s got a halo. Your hero has a halo.
You’re staring at him. You quickly avert your gaze and look around the sterile room to keep yourself busy.
Steve’s deep voice cuts through your embarrassment, “Doctor Cho.”
Dr. Helen Cho briefly takes the both of you in and lets out a heavy sigh. The sight of you in this bed with your Captain at your side is a familiar sight.
“Captain. Agent.” She snaps on a pair of blue latex gloves.
“Doctor.” You hope that that’ll put an end to the civilities, because your suit is starting to fuse itself to your sweat soaked compression garments. The sooner you can get checked out, the sooner you can have a nice, hot, luxurious shower. You can smell your body wash already.
“What happened?” Doctor Cho asks before she flashes a piercing white light directly into your pupils. Ouch.
“A building fell on us.” You answer through gritted teeth. You raise your right hand to cover your eyes when Cho moves onto palpating you all over, checking for broken bones.
“No, that’s not what happened at all.” Concern colors Steve’s voice.
“Well, what the hell happened then?” You remove your hand from your face and see that there’s blood on the palm of your hand. Was that there before? You reach for your face again but Steve gently restrains your hand before you can finish your investigation.
“Don’t touch that. A rogue hydra agent bashed you in the head with the butt of his rifle. You don’t remember that?”
“No. I guess not.”
Steve averts his gaze from you and looks to Dr.Cho.
Cho moves to your left side and swipes a rough alcohol pad on the inside of your left arm. She inserts a tiny needle into a vein and places a small strip of adhesive to hold the needle in place. You watch her screw the end of the I.V into the tube leading up to the saline bag at your head.
“She might have a slight concussion. We’ll have to keep her overnight for observation.” She explains casually, cleaning up her station as she goes. If she’s not worried then there’s no reason that you should be either.
“Whatever you think is best, doctor.” Steve says.
Cho rips open another tiny packet and gingerly swipes at your face. The room grows so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. You can’t even hear Steve breathing at your side. He gently squeezes your hand, watching Cho with the eye of a hawk. You hadn’t even realized that he was still holding your hand. But now that you have, your fingers start to tingle. He must have your blood on him. You can see that the blood on his neck is yours and not his like you initially thought.
Damn, you’re going to have to get him something special for Christmas this year. You feel a surge of guilt at having given him a last minute gift last year: A mug from your personal collection.
“Wait, if a building didn’t fall on us then why are you covered in dust?” You raise a shaky hand and childishly point to his soiled uniform. He briefly glances down at himself as if for the first time.
“Oh, I threw my shield at the man that clubbed you and this gas canister that he had on him exploded. Don’t worry about it.” Steve gingerly brushes the top layer of dust off.
“Are you okay?” You try to read the truth in his eyes before he has a chance to school his features. In your Captain’s eyes, he has an obligation to worry about everyone, but no one should dare concern themselves with his well being.
“I’ll be alright, doll-agent. You just focus on getting better.” He pats your hand in the most platonic manner possible and gently lays it by your side.
“I’m going to go up to your room and bring you some clean clothes and toiletries.” Steve awkwardly clears his throat. No, he’s tired. He gets twitchy when he’s tired. That one took you a while to figure out.
“That’s okay, ‘Cap, Nat can do that. You should go shower 'cause I’ve taken up too much of your time as it is.”
Don’t think of him showering. Don’t. That’s unprofessional. Don’t think about hot water cutting rivulets through his abs, dripping it’s way down, down, down…
You shake the dirty thoughts out of your head and give Steve the most innocent smile you can muster.
“Right...Doctor. Cho, keep me updated on her.” His voice is back to being authoritative and detached, and you feel a little colder.
“Yes, Captain.” Cho throws over her shoulder while she flits around you.
Steve turns at the door to give you one last look before nodding to himself and striding out.
A moments of silence passes between you and doctor Cho, you try not to think about how your hand is still tingling.
“He’s quite attentive.” Cho whispers to you.
“Hm?” You return your gaze to the restless doctor.
“Captain Rogers, he cares about you. He looked sick with worry”
Your heart flip flops in your chest, “Well,” you pick at a hangnail “he cares about all of us. He’s a good leader in that way. I couldn’t ask for a better Captain.”
“I’ve never seen him carry anyone else in here.” She opens up a packet of butterfly band-aids and reaches for your head wound.
Steve has carried other people into the infirmary. You can swear that he has.
“Well, I’m more clumsy than anyone else on the team so…” That was pathetic. An awkward, half-assed chuckle escapes you.
“You have a temperature.” Cho announces.
You almost get whiplash from the change in conversation but you’re grateful that you don’t have to continue down that line of questioning.
“Is that normal?” You wonder
She moves to the foot of your bed and picks up your chart to note something down.
“Not usually. I’m not sure that you even have a concussion.” She looks up at you, “How are you feeling?”
You look within your body and find that, overall, you feel completely fine. Other than the sore spot on your forehead, all is well. You don’t even feel feverish.
“I’m good.” You chirp. “As a matter of a fact, I feel great! I feel like I can run a mile.”
You sit up in your bed but the room starts to dim, so you lay your ass back down.
“Okay, maybe a half mile.”
Cho hides a snicker behind her hand, “We’ll keep you overnight for sure. I’ll schedule an MRI for you in the morning, just to be on the safe side, but I think that you should be fine.” She places your chart back into its slot and removes her latex gloves.
“Okay. Thank you, Dr.Cho. And…if Ste-Captain Rogers comes by…” You trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence.
“I’ll let my team know that he’s on your visitors’ list.” She winks at you before swiftly leaving the room.
You curl onto your side and try not to feel too embarrassed.
summary: he’s infected. he warns you it’s dangerous. you stay anyway. now he’s on his knees, aching, and you’re the only thing that’ll fix it.
warnings: SMUT, dubcon (sex pollen), oral m!receiving, unprotected p in v, rough sex, multiple orgasms, masturbation m!receiving, unintentional edging/orgasm denial, whiny/needy bucky (like he’s actually in pain he needs it so bad), use of pet names, dirty talk, slight love confession, soft aftercare, lmk if i missed any!
a/n: i truly think ive read every bucky sex pollen fic ever so naturally i had to write my own
The mission was supposed to be routine.
Low risk. In and out. Just recon.
You’d both heard that one before.
The two of you moved silently down the dim corridor of the abandoned HYDRA research site, your flashlight sweeping over long-forgotten computers and dusty floor tiles. Bucky walked slightly ahead, always putting himself between you and any potential threat. You pretended not to notice.
“How much longer do you think we’ll need?” you whispered, your voice echoing softly in the stillness.
“Just need to tag the central drive,” Bucky replied, eyes scanning the shadows. “Won’t take long. Then we’re gone.”
You nodded, but something about the place had your nerves humming. It was too quiet. Like it was holding its breath.
A few more steps, and you paused. The air shifted—barely perceptible, but strange. Heavier. And there was a smell. Sweet. Tangy. Faint, but unmistakable.
You wrinkled your nose. “Do you smell that?”
Bucky stopped mid-step. He turned slowly to look at you, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Shit,” he muttered. “Yeah. I do.”
“What is it?” you asked, frowning.
But Bucky was already moving. “We need to get out of here. Now.”
“Wait—what? Why?”
He didn’t answer at first, just grabbed your wrist and started pulling you back down the hall the way you came. His grip wasn’t rough, but it was tight. Urgent.
“Bucky, talk to me—what the hell is going on?”
“I’ve smelled this before,” he said tightly, not looking at you. “Not here. Somewhere else. A long time ago.”
The hallway stretched behind you like a tunnel, narrowing under the flickering emergency lights. You followed him, heart pounding. “What is it?”
“Sex pollen,” he said, barely above a whisper.
You blinked. “Come again?”
“It’s not a joke,” he snapped, more from stress than anger. “HYDRA used to weaponize this stuff. One of the compounds they developed… it’s airborne, subtle, hits the bloodstream fast. It doesn’t affect everyone, but when it does—”
He broke off, jaw clenched, and you could see the muscle ticking in his cheek.
You swallowed hard. “Have you—”
“Yes,” he cut in. “Once. It was… bad.”
You didn’t push for details. The way his voice dropped told you more than enough.
Outside, the forest loomed dark and quiet through the broken door ahead. But as you reached it, a steel beam crashed to the floor behind you, blocking the exit. You both jumped, instinctively ducking into defensive stances.
“Shit,” you whispered.
Bucky moved forward and tested the obstruction. It wouldn’t budge.
He looked back at you, breath shallow. Sweat beaded at his temple despite the cold. “We’re not staying here.”
But the building had other plans.
When you tried the alternate routes—the lab’s north hallway, the roof access hatch—each one was caved in or sealed off by the earlier collapse. The compound wasn’t just abandoned. It was booby-trapped. The scent in the air was growing thicker now, almost syrupy, leaving a strange heat on your tongue every time you inhaled.
“I don’t feel anything,” you murmured, leaning on the railing beside him as you paused to think.
“You wouldn’t. Not everyone reacts,” Bucky said quietly. “And if you haven’t by now, you probably won’t.”
You looked at him—really looked at him—and noticed what he was trying to hide.
His shoulders were tense, his breathing faster than it should’ve been. He wasn’t sweating from exertion. His pupils were blown wide, and his fists were clenched so hard his knuckles were white.
“Bucky,” you said gently. “You’re affected, aren’t you?”
He didn’t answer at first. Just lowered his eyes.
“I can handle it,” he muttered. “I just need space.”
Your throat went dry. “You want me to leave?”
“I want you safe.”
You stepped closer, but slowly. Carefully. “I’m not leaving you.”
Bucky looked up sharply, and there it was in his eyes: fear. Not for himself. For you.
“You don’t get it,” he said hoarsely. “This stuff… it doesn’t wear off fast. It builds. Messes with your head, your instincts. If it takes hold, I won’t be thinking straight. I won’t be able to—”
He broke off, turning away from you and scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You don’t know what I’m like when I lose control.”
You watched him in silence for a long moment. Then: “You haven’t hurt me yet.”
He let out a bitter laugh, but it cracked in the middle.
“Don’t test that,” he whispered.
You shook your head. “I’m not. I’m staying because I trust you. And I know you’re still in there. You’re already fighting it.”
He turned to face you fully, chest rising and falling hard. “You don’t understand. It’s not just wanting someone. It’s needing. The kind of need that drowns everything else. If I touch you—”
“Then we won’t touch,” you said softly. “We wait it out. Together.”
Bucky took a step back. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I’m not. I’m making a choice.”
He opened his mouth to argue again, but stopped.
Something flickered in his eyes—something that looked a hell of a lot like longing. Raw and unspoken.
You gave him space. You didn’t reach for him. Just sat on the edge of a metal crate, folding your hands in your lap, trying to act calm even though your heart was thundering.
You could feel it in the air now. That charged tension. Thick as smoke. It wasn’t touching you like it was touching him, but it made the space between you feel thinner, more fragile. One wrong move and it would snap.
Across the room, Bucky paced like a caged animal.
And every few seconds, his eyes drifted to you. Hungry. Guilty. Haunted.
You knew this was only the beginning.
⸻
An hour passed. Maybe more.
The scent in the air had dulled your hunger, your sense of time, even the urge to speak. You sat in silence on the cold floor of the lab’s storage room, your back pressed to a cracked support beam, watching Bucky unravel.
He’d stopped trying to pretend he was fine.
His jacket was long discarded, his shirt clinging to his sweat-slicked chest. Veins stood out along his arms and neck. He kept pacing, breathing shallow, jaw clenched so tight you thought he might crack a tooth.
You didn’t speak. You knew he couldn’t take conversation right now. The smallest sound made him twitch.
He moved like he was walking the edge of a cliff—aware that every step might send him plummeting. Muscles pulled taut beneath his skin. His metal hand flexed and unflexed at his side like it didn’t know what else to do.
And his eyes—God, his eyes—flicked to you with such force it made your breath catch.
Not lust, not fully.
Need.
Desperate. Consuming. Agonized.
He cursed softly, dragging a hand over his face before disappearing into the adjoining room. You waited, heart pounding, body frozen in place. He didn’t shut the door, just stepped around the corner—out of view, but not out of earshot.
You listened to the sounds of him moving. The rustle of fabric. A breath drawn through clenched teeth.
Then—
A low, choked sound. A broken gasp.
You realized, with dawning horror, what he was doing.
You turned your face away, pressing your hand to your mouth.
It wasn’t the act itself. You weren’t embarrassed. What hit you was the sound of it—like he was being torn apart. Pain colored every breath. He wasn’t enjoying it. He wasn’t even chasing relief.
He was begging for it. And not getting any closer.
“Fuck,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Fuck. No—”
A sharp thud—his fist hitting the wall.
You stood slowly, heart aching, and took one cautious step toward the doorway. “Bucky?”
“Don’t—” His voice was ragged. “Don’t come in here.”
“I’m not. I just—”
“Please.”
You stopped.
He was breathing hard again. You could almost hear him trying to ground himself, but it wasn’t working. The pollen had burrowed deep. It wasn’t letting go.
Another minute passed.
Then he emerged.
His shirt was half-unbuttoned, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were glassy with frustration—tears at the corners, not from emotion, but from overwhelming physical strain.
You met his eyes. You didn’t look away.
Bucky swallowed hard. “It doesn’t work.”
“I know,” you said quietly.
His voice was barely audible. “It only makes it worse.”
You took a breath. “What can I do?”
His jaw twitched. “You already are. Staying away. Staying safe.”
You took a step forward.
He took one back.
“No,” he said, voice sharp. “Don’t. I can’t—” He looked at the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m not okay, and I don’t want to be the kind of man who hurts someone just because he can’t stand the way his own skin feels anymore.”
The words cut through you.
“You’re not that man,” you said. “You never have been.”
He laughed bitterly. “You didn’t see what I just tried to do.”
You moved slowly, deliberately, and sat back down. Close enough that he knew you were there. Far enough that he could breathe.
His shoulders slumped. He slid down the wall opposite you, legs bent, head in his hands. You noticed him shiver, like the heat crawling under his skin was unbearable.
He whispered, “It hurts.”
And that broke you.
You wanted to touch him. So badly. Wanted to hold his hand, stroke his hair, kiss the pain off his mouth. But he was curled up like a wounded animal, pride cracking under the weight of need he couldn’t control.
The silence thickened. The air between you pulsed with want, but heavier than that was the aching restraint. He was fighting it. Fighting for you.
After several minutes, he looked at you again. Really looked.
“I’m trying,” he said hoarsely. “But I don’t know how much longer I can.”
You nodded. Your voice was gentle. “Then we’ll take it minute by minute.”
His eyes fluttered closed, and he exhaled like it cost him everything.
The silence in the room had a pulse.
It beat with his breath. With yours.
Slow and thick and unbearable.
Bucky hadn’t moved in nearly fifteen minutes, but you could see the tremble in his hands now. His skin gleamed with sweat. Every breath rattled deep in his chest. He didn’t look at you anymore, didn’t dare. He knew what would happen if he did.
He was so deep in the pull of it now, you wondered if he could feel anything but the ache. His body had started reacting to you in waves—tiny stutters of movement, involuntary flexes of his thighs, his hands, his jaw every time you shifted.
And you weren’t doing anything.
You were just sitting there.
But to Bucky, that was enough to make him sweat like he was burning from the inside out.
He finally broke the silence.
“This was a mistake,” he rasped. “You should’ve left.”
Your heart cracked, but your voice stayed steady. “I wasn’t going to leave you like this.”
His head dropped back against the wall, and he let out a strained breath.
“You don’t get it,” he said, his voice rough. “It’s not just that I want you. It’s that I can feel every second you’re not touching me like a scream inside my skin. It’s like drowning.”
You stood, slowly. Walked across the room and sat in front of him—just out of reach. His eyes followed every step like they physically hurt.
“You think I don’t want to touch you too?” you said softly. “You think it’s just you suffering right now?”
Bucky swallowed hard. His eyes finally lifted to yours.
“You’re not the one whose hands shake every time you breathe,” he said, his voice a broken whisper. “I want to tear my skin off just to stop feeling. I’ve had this happen before, I know how it ends.”
Your eyes widened. “You’ve—before?”
He looked away. “Years ago. On a Hydra op. They used it on me. Weaponized it. They’d toss it into air vents, pipe it into prisoner quarters, see who’d crack first.”
“Oh my god.”
He nodded once, stiff. “You think this is bad? Back then, they didn’t even care who it happened with. They just wanted results. Wanted to see how long before the asset broke.”
You reached for him—then stopped yourself. But he saw the movement. Saw the ache in your eyes.
“I got out before anything happened,” he added. “That time. Barely. I chewed through a fuckin’ steel door with my arm to escape before it hit full peak.”
You swallowed. “And this is the same formula?”
He gave a bitter laugh. “Stronger. Stark ran tests last time. He said this strain’s twice as potent and designed for targeting specific attachment cues.”
You blinked. “Attachment cues?”
He gave you a long, tired look. “People the infected already want.”
Your breath caught.
Bucky saw it. Saw the realization hit your face.
“That’s why it’s only affecting me,” he said quietly. “You didn’t get hit with it because it’s me that wants you. Not the other way around.”
“Don’t say that,” you whispered. “You don’t know how I feel.”
His eyes darkened. His voice dropped to a hoarse growl.
“You’d be feeling it if you wanted me half as much as I want you right now.”
You flinched, not at the anger—there wasn’t any—but at the need underneath it. The ache. The fucking agony of being so close to someone you craved with every breath and knowing that touching them could shatter everything.
He looked down at his hands. The metal one clenched into a fist. The flesh one twitched—he was losing control of it in microbursts, shaking with restraint.
“Earlier,” he said, voice raw. “When I tried jerking off? It made it worse.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just listened.
“I didn’t think that was possible. But it’s like… it’s not about the act. It’s you. My body knows it’s not you. So it just—” He shook his head. “Punishes me harder.”
A beat passed.
You whispered, “What happens if you don’t… if we don’t—”
“I won’t die,” he said. “But it’ll feel like it.”
Your heart ached. “And you’d go through that… just to protect me?”
His eyes lifted to yours again, and they were glassy now. A little wild.
“I’d rather rip my goddamn arm off than touch you in a way you didn’t ask for.”
You couldn’t stay where you were anymore. You crossed the space between you on your knees, stopping just before your legs touched his. He looked like he was bracing for impact.
“I trust you,” you said gently. “I’m asking. I want to help you.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “That’s not how this works.”
“Why not?”
His voice cracked.
“Because when you touch me—when you kiss me—I won’t be able to stop. I’ll take and take until you can’t breathe, and then I’ll keep wanting more. I don’t want to use you.”
“You wouldn’t be.”
“You don’t know that.”
He leaned forward, eyes wild, chest heaving.
“I want to fuck you until I forget my name,” he whispered. “I want to mark you up so deep everyone knows you’re mine. I want to taste you, ruin you, own you—”
You gasped, eyes going wide.
He slammed his mouth shut, like the words had escaped without permission.
You sat there frozen, stunned into silence, heat rising up your neck.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yes,” you breathed.
He blinked.
Your voice trembled. “Yes. I want that. I want you.”
A beat.
Then another.
And then Bucky let out the softest, saddest sound you’d ever heard.
A choked little groan, like his soul had just cracked open.
He dropped his head to your shoulder—not touching you anywhere else, not even leaning into you. Just resting his forehead there, breathing like he was dying.
Because he was.
⸻
Bucky stayed like that—forehead pressed to your shoulder, body shaking, breath hot and ragged.
You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
You let him have this moment, because you could feel how hard he was fighting himself.
Not to beg.
Not to snap.
Not to break.
His voice, when it came, was hoarse and nearly silent.
“Every part of me is telling me to grab you. To push you down and make you mine. To fuck you until I stop hurting.”
You swallowed. His breath was against your collarbone now.
“But I don’t want you scared of me. I don’t want you thinking this was just the serum.”
You shook your head gently, brushing your lips against his hair. “I’m not scared of you.”
He groaned softly—like even that was too much.
“I can’t even think straight,” he whispered. “It’s like… everything that makes me human is on fire. And the only way out is you.”
Your chest ached. Your thighs pressed together without meaning to.
“Tell me what you need,” you said.
He laughed—dry, broken, bitter. “I need to be inside you so deep I forget who I am.”
You felt your body shudder.
“I need your hands on my chest, my back, my face. I need to feel you wrap around me, claim me—make this stop.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
He finally lifted his head. His pupils were huge, his mouth parted, his jaw clenched tight enough to tremble. A bead of sweat slipped down his temple. His hair was damp.
“Bucky,” you whispered.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” he rasped.
“I want you to say it,” you said. “I want you to stop pretending you don’t need this.”
“I’ve already tried—” He bit the inside of his cheek. “I tried to take the edge off. It didn’t work.”
You looked down between his legs—and your throat went dry.
The bulge in his pants was obscene now, the fabric stretched tight with pressure. He looked painfully hard. You wondered how long ago he’d tried, how long he’d suffered since.
“What happened?”
He leaned his head back against the wall, shut his eyes.
“I touched myself. I thought if I could just come, it’d stop. But my body—my brain—it knows. It knows you’re here. And it knows that if it’s not you touching me, it doesn’t count.”
You were already crawling closer before you could stop yourself.
Bucky tensed, but didn’t stop you.
You knelt between his spread legs. He still didn’t touch you—his fists were clenched at his sides, white-knuckled, arms shaking with restraint.
You brought your hand to his thigh, hovering just an inch above the fabric.
“Can I touch you?”
He opened his eyes. They were tortured.
“Please,” he breathed. “But slow. I’m close. I—I don’t want to come just from you brushing me.”
You nodded and let your hand press to his thigh. His muscles jumped beneath your palm.
“You’re so warm,” you whispered.
He gave a strained laugh. “That’s not warmth. That’s burning.”
You slid your hand a little higher. Still not to where he was hard, still gentle. His hips jerked slightly, but he locked himself down with a hiss of breath.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “That already feels better.”
“You’re really not gonna hurt me,” you said. “Even like this, you’re still holding back.”
He looked at you, agony and adoration bleeding into one expression.
“I always hold back,” he said. “With everyone. But especially with you.”
Your breath hitched. “Why?”
His voice cracked.
“Because I knew that if I ever touched you the way I wanted… I’d never be able to stop.”
He leaned forward slightly, nose brushing your temple, breath hot at your ear.
“You don’t get it,” he whispered. “You’re not just the antidote. You’re the fucking trigger. I’ve been half in love with you for months. And now every part of me wants to bury myself in you so deep you never forget how I feel inside you.”
You whimpered.
Bucky growled, pulling back fast, his fists slamming against the floor.
“Shit—I didn’t mean to say that—I didn’t—”
“Bucky,” you gasped, “look at me.”
He did. Wild. Wrecked. Near feral.
You climbed into his lap slowly, straddling him without grinding or teasing—just being there. His whole body tensed, cock straining beneath you, twitching in his pants.
“Is this okay?” you asked.
His hands hovered near your hips, but didn’t touch.
“I don’t know,” he rasped. “I’m scared I’ll lose it. I’m scared I’ll grab you and not stop. I’m scared I’ll hurt you.”
“You won’t,” you said. “I know you won’t.”
“I don’t trust myself.”
“I trust you.”
He made a soft, broken noise—like he was trying not to cry.
“Tell me what to do,” you whispered. “Tell me how to help.”
His hands finally landed on your hips—light and trembling.
“Just… stay with me,” he said. “Don’t leave. Even if I break.”
You leaned in and pressed your forehead to his.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He shuddered beneath you.
“I want to taste you,” he whispered, voice raw with hunger. “I want your thighs on my shoulders, your hands in my hair. I want your skin under my tongue, your legs wrapped around me while I fuck the pain out of both of us.”
You whimpered and your hips twitched by accident. His jaw clenched—hard.
“Don’t move,” he hissed. “Fuck, doll, I’m gonna come just from you being here.”
You stilled.
He closed his eyes, trying to calm his breathing.
“I’ve never wanted anything so bad,” he whispered. “And it hurts. I didn’t know it could hurt this much.”
You brushed his hair back from his face. His expression was wrecked—tormented, desperate, holding on by threads.
“Then let me help,” you whispered.
He looked at you. Really looked.
And for the first time, you saw something break.
Not in fear.
Not in control.
But in surrender.
Bucky was panting beneath you.
Not softly—not like someone turned on. Like someone wounded, like a man on the battlefield bleeding out, like he was praying to survive the next ten seconds.
“I can’t… I can’t breathe right,” he murmured. “It’s like my lungs forgot how unless you’re touching me.”
You slid your hands up his arms slowly—reassuring, grounding.
“I’m right here,” you whispered. “You’re not alone in this.”
He leaned forward again, his forehead resting against your collarbone this time, the tip of his nose brushing over your skin.
“I don’t know how long I can keep fighting it,” he said. “You don’t understand what it’s like.”
“Then stop fighting,” you whispered. “Let me take care of you.”
He laughed—a low, pained sound that melted into a moan.
“I’m not even inside you and I feel like I’m gonna die.”
His hips twitched under you. Not thrusting—just a reflex, a cry for relief. You felt him—thick, rock-hard and straining against his jeans. He must’ve been leaking for hours. Your thighs clenched instinctively.
You moved your hips—just barely. One slow roll, not even direct pressure, but enough to make him gasp.
“Jesus—fuck—don’t—” he begged.
“Shhh,” you whispered. “Easy, Bucky. Let me help you.”
Another gentle grind. His hands grabbed your hips hard, trembling—but not to stop you. Just to anchor himself.
“You don’t get it,” he hissed. “I’m gonna come in my fucking pants like a teenager—”
“I don’t care,” you said. “Let it happen. You’ve been holding back too long.”
A desperate little whimper escaped his throat. His jaw was clenched, his head thrown back now. You reached up and brushed your fingers through his hair—his favorite thing, usually—and his whole body jerked like he’d been shocked.
“Please,” he said. “Please, just a little more—fuck—please—”
You rocked against him again, just a little harder, just enough pressure for both of you to feel it.
His body snapped.
He grabbed you—carefully, still careful—but pulled you flush against him, letting his forehead drop to your shoulder again, and humped up against you once, twice, three times, his cock dragging up between your folds through the layers of clothing.
He was soaked.
“Bucky—”
“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I can’t—I need—need it—can’t think—”
“Come for me,” you whispered, voice firm, lips at his ear. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. Let it happen.”
That undid him.
He let out a guttural moan—raw, feral, completely undone—and his hips ground up into you again, erratic now. You felt the first pulse through his cock. His body locked up, and then…
“F-Fuck—!”
Hot. Wet. So much. Even through his pants, you could feel it as he came violently, grinding into you, clinging to you like a lifeline. His whole body was quaking.
You held him while he shook through it. You didn’t stop touching his hair. You didn’t flinch when he whimpered against your skin. You just let him go.
It lasted longer than you expected—waves of desperate, aching release. Even when the worst was over, he kept rutting softly, hips twitching, trying to milk every drop of relief from the contact.
Then—finally—his breath began to slow.
He went limp against you.
For a minute, neither of you spoke.
You just stayed there—your thighs sticky from his release through the denim, his arms wrapped around you, your lips pressed to his temple.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice ragged and exhausted.
“Don’t be.”
His fingers tightened on your waist. “You didn’t sign up for this.”
“I chose to be here,” you reminded him.
He nodded faintly. “I don’t think it helped, though. The serum—I still feel it. I thought maybe if I came it would… I don’t know, reset something.”
You pulled back to look at him.
He looked wrecked.
His hair was damp, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly parted and lips swollen from biting them too hard. There were tears in the corners of his eyes.
“I feel a little better,” he admitted. “But it’s still there.”
“How bad?”
“Like I haven’t touched myself in weeks,” he muttered. “Except now every nerve in my body is screaming your name.”
You felt heat flood your body.
“I’m gonna take these off,” you said softly, tugging at his shirt, “and you’re gonna let me help you through this.”
His eyes fluttered open, stunned. “You—you mean—”
“I’m not saying we fuck right now,” you said, firm but gentle. “But if your body’s still suffering, then we’re not done. And I’m not leaving you like this.”
You grabbed the hem of your own shirt, pulled it off, then reached for his.
“Trust me?”
“More than anyone,” he whispered.
You helped him undress slowly. When his pants came off, the evidence of his climax soaked the fabric. You tossed them aside without judgment.
Bucky lay there now, bare to the waist, hard again, cock twitching faintly, swollen and flushed and leaking already despite just having come. He looked embarrassed by it—but you leaned down and kissed his cheek.
“It’s okay,” you said. “You’re not in control. But I’m here. We’ll get through it together.”
He gave you a look that almost broke your heart.
“You’re so fucking good to me,” he whispered.
You smiled, kissed the corner of his mouth. “Lie back. I’m gonna take care of you.”
⸻
The next time he came, he didn’t even want to.
You had your back against the cold wall of the containment chamber, legs spread, and Bucky was curled up between them, head on your chest, panting like he’d run ten miles. Sweat rolled off his temples. His back was tense. His cock — red, swollen, leaking — was still pressed against your inner thigh.
He’d already come once — thick, helpless spurts across the concrete floor — but it had barely dented the pain. His body was still demanding, still begging.
“I don’t know what to do,” he groaned into your shirt. “I don’t—why won’t it stop?”
You cupped the back of his neck. “Because it’s not about finishing. It’s about needing.”
“I tried—before you came in—I tried to get it out—jerked off until I couldn’t breathe—but it didn’t help. I came and I still wanted to fuck —”
“I know,” you whispered. “I know, baby.”
His hips shifted. His cock slid hot and slick against your thigh.
He sobbed.
You swallowed your own panic. You could feel the strain in his muscles, the tension that vibrated under his skin like he might split apart.
“I can’t fuck you,” he rasped, pulling back enough to look you in the eye. “You get that, right? Not like this. Not until I know I can stop.”
“You won’t hurt me,” you said. “I trust you.”
He shook his head. “I don’t.”
You let your hands slip down to his hips. His skin was burning up, soaked through with sweat. He looked ruined — flushed, eyes glassy, hands trembling with restraint.
“Then let me help another way,” you whispered.
Bucky didn’t speak. Just nodded, barely.
You guided him off you slowly. Laid him flat against the floor — rough concrete beneath him, the thin blanket from the cot crumpled under his back. His hands hovered awkwardly in the air until you took one and placed it at his side.
You knelt beside him. His cock stood red and angry against his stomach.
You leaned down and kissed the tip.
He cried out — full-body, involuntary, like his nerves were misfiring.
“I c-can’t,” he gasped. “I’m gonna lose it—”
“You already did,” you whispered. “So let me take the pieces.”
You wrapped one hand around the base of his cock. Warm, slick. Twitching.
You kissed him again, just under the head.
He whined — high and desperate — and it lit something inside you.
You took him into your mouth.
He jerked so hard his back left the floor. His metal arm hit the wall with a sickening clang.
“No—no, I—fuck, it’s too much—”
You pulled off just enough to speak. “Tell me to stop.”
He looked down at you — eyes huge, soaked — and said nothing.
You took him back in.
You worked him slowly. Sucking, stroking, dragging your lips along the swollen shaft as if he hadn’t just come an hour ago. You knew how sensitive he was. You could feel it. Every twitch, every jolt of his thighs, every clench of his abs as he tried to hold it back.
“I want it,” you whispered, mouth still brushing him. “Come for me again, Bucky. Let me feel it.”
“I’ll break,” he whimpered. “I’m gonna break—”
You sucked harder.
He shattered.
He came with a strangled noise — no warning, no words — just a ragged, throat-torn cry that echoed off the sterile walls. You swallowed him down, every drop, holding him with one hand as his hips bucked, his body convulsed. He was twitching, gasping, shaking beneath you like he’d just had a seizure.
When you pulled off, he was glassy-eyed. His chest heaved. His legs were still trembling.
But he was still hard.
Still leaking.
Still burning.
“Still?” you whispered.
He nodded miserably.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice raw. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
You kissed his thigh. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”
“It’s not stopping,” he choked out. “Nothing’s working. I keep thinking if I come again, maybe—maybe—but it just makes me need you more. I need—fuck, I need to be inside you so bad, it’s like something’s wrong in me—”
You moved slowly, crawling up to sit across his lap, keeping his cock pressed to your folds but not letting it in.
“You’re not broken,” you whispered. “You’re just overwhelmed.”
“Hurts,” he muttered. “Hurts so bad.”
“Then I’ll stay right here until it doesn’t.”
He blinked, looking up at you like you were light in a storm.
You started to grind against him — not hard, not fast — just dragging your slick folds over him, your clit brushing his shaft. His hands flew to your hips, trying to hold still, to not thrust.
“Don’t,” he gasped. “I can’t—if I move, I’ll—”
“You can,” you said. “You will. I want it. All of it. All of you.”
His head dropped back. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Not a bad way to go.”
And then he broke again.
He came a third time, sobbing your name, his come hot and wet across your thighs, thick and heavy and never-ending. It was everywhere — on you, on him, on the floor. His body bucked, twitched, sagged.
You collapsed onto him, both of you breathing like you’d run for miles.
Silence, finally, as his cock finally softened just a little.
His eyes were half-lidded. “Still there,” he whispered, hand twitching toward you. “Not as bad. But not gone. I don’t think it ends until…”
“Until?” you asked softly, brushing sweaty hair from his eyes.
“Until I’m inside you,” he whispered. “Real. Deep. Not just for release. For connection.”
You kissed his jaw.
“Then that’s what we’ll do.”
He looked terrified.
“But I need you to ask me,” you said. “When you’re ready.”
His lips parted. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I know.”
“I’d die if I did.”
“You won’t.”
His cock stirred again.
“Next time,” he breathed. “Next time, I need to be inside you.”
You kissed his lips.
“I’ll be ready.”
⸻
You were both so quiet.
The air buzzed with what wasn’t being said — the pounding tension between your legs, the ache in your core, and Bucky’s need still crackling in the space between your bodies like static.
He’d come so many times. It hadn’t been enough.
Not for him.
Not for you.
Now you were both kneeling on the floor — his back propped against the cold wall, you straddling him, clothes tugged out of the way but not removed, the tension between you so taut it felt like breathing too loud might snap it.
“I feel like I’m going to die,” Bucky whispered, resting his forehead against yours. “Not just because I want to fuck you… but because I’m scared I will. Like if I let go—really let go—it’ll be too much.”
Your fingers were in his damp hair. You held his face in your palms like something fragile, something worth saving.
“Let me take it,” you said. “You won’t lose control.”
He shook his head against you. “You don’t understand what it’s like inside me right now. It’s tearing me apart.”
“Then give it to me, Bucky. All of it.”
You took him in your hand again — already semi-hard, already twitching. Just the touch made him groan deep in his throat.
“I don’t want to break you,” he murmured.
“You won’t.”
“You’re not afraid of me?”
You leaned in, mouth brushing his ear. “Never.”
That’s when he gave in.
He didn’t say yes — didn’t need to. He just sank his metal hand into the back of your thigh, the other resting firm on your hip. You felt his cock pressing up again, hard and hot and ready, and you lifted just enough to line him up.
Your slick made it easy — but your nerves made it slow.
“Breathe,” he whispered. “Please. Just breathe for me.”
You nodded.
You sank down.
And oh god—
It wasn’t gentle. Not at first.
Not when he was so thick and hard and desperate. His cock pushed in with a stretch that made your breath catch, your hips stall.
His head thudded softly against the wall. “You’re so fucking warm.”
You grabbed his shoulders, nails biting into flesh, and bottomed out slowly — inch by inch, until he was fully buried inside you, until there was no space left between your bodies, until your legs trembled from the pressure.
Bucky made a broken sound in your neck — part relief, part agony.
“Fuck—” he whispered. “I’ve wanted this—wanted you—so long. I thought about it all the time. Touched myself thinking about you—every night—felt so guilty—”
“Don’t,” you breathed. “You’re here now. I’m here.”
You stayed there a moment, just… letting him feel you.
Letting the heat of your body melt into his.
Letting the intensity settle.
Then you started to move.
Slow. Careful. Up just a little — then down. Your body swallowed him so perfectly he groaned like it physically hurt.
“Can’t believe you’re real,” he said. “You’re mine. You’re mine—”
You kissed him, silencing the spiral. Tongue sliding over his, hands cupping his jaw. And when you moved again — a little faster, grinding down instead of lifting — Bucky’s moan vibrated straight into your mouth.
His hands gripped your hips hard, guiding your rhythm even when his brain felt too scrambled to think. His eyes never left your face. He watched you ride him like he was seeing the sun rise for the first time — wide-eyed, reverent, and a little bit undone.
“You feel so fucking good,” he breathed. “I—I can’t—shit, I’m not gonna last—”
“You don’t have to.”
“But you—”
“Let me finish you, Bucky,” you whispered.
His hips surged up — just once — and your breath hitched at how deep he went.
He was so far inside you it felt like he was lodged behind your ribcage.
“Again,” you begged.
He thrust up again — harder this time — and you cried out, fingers scrambling at his chest. It wasn’t graceful anymore. It was raw. Bodies slamming together in rhythm. The slap of your thighs, the wet drag of your folds, the sound of his groans getting louder.
You were chasing something now. So was he.
“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—inside—” he gasped.
“Do it,” you said. “Fill me. I want it.”
“You’ll be dripping with it—”
“I don’t care.”
And that did it.
He snapped.
His body seized — whole frame tensing so violently his metal hand crushed the edge of the wall behind you. He was panting, almost growling, as he spilled inside you. Hot and thick and so much you felt it flood you immediately, leaking down your thighs, making a mess of both your clothes and the floor.
You came with him — loud and sudden, spasming around him, mouth open in a wordless cry as your vision blurred. Your muscles locked, shaking as he throbbed inside you, each pulse sending another wave through your body.
It took minutes — long, ragged minutes — for either of you to move.
You collapsed against him, face buried in his neck, and he held you like you might vanish.
He was crying. Just a little.
Silent tears streaked through the grime on his cheeks.
“You okay?” you whispered.
“I feel like myself again,” he said. “For the first time in hours.”
You kissed the tears off his face.
“I didn’t hurt you?”
You smiled. “Not even a little.”
His lips found yours again — this time soft, slow, tender.
Not a kiss of need.
A kiss of thank you.
A kiss of I love you, without saying it out loud.
⸻
Bucky didn’t move at first.
You stayed curled against him, both of you still tangled in your half-removed clothes, his cock softening inside you while the mess between your legs dripped down and pooled beneath you.
There was no bed. No softness.
Just the floor, his arms around you, and the buzzing silence in the aftermath.
You stroked your fingers gently through his damp hair. It clung to his forehead in sweaty curls, and his chest rose and fell beneath yours like a storm still receding. Every now and then, his grip around your waist would tighten — like he had to confirm you were real.
“I’m here,” you whispered into the curve of his neck.
“I thought I was gonna lose myself.”
“You didn’t.”
“I came inside you—fuck—too much—are you okay?”
You nodded, nuzzling into him. “I’m okay. Really.”
He groaned, like he didn’t know whether to cry or curse or hold you tighter. Maybe all three.
“I shouldn’t have let it happen,” he mumbled. “Should’ve pushed you away.”
“But you didn’t,” you whispered.
His voice cracked. “Because I’m weak.”
You lifted your head then, met his eyes, and cupped his jaw in both hands. “No. You’re not weak. You’re human. You warned me. You tried. You never stopped thinking about protecting me — not once.”
He blinked at you. His pupils were finally normal. His breathing calmer. But his eyes…
They were glassy.
You leaned in, brushing your lips against his gently — not with heat this time. Just a simple kiss. One that tasted like salt and closeness and everything you’d both been too afraid to say.
“I stayed,” you said softly. “I made that choice. You didn’t take anything from me. I gave it to you.”
He swallowed hard. His voice came out low. “You gave me more than I deserve.”
You shook your head. “You deserve peace. You deserve softness. You deserve someone who wants to be the one holding you when you’re not okay.”
He looked like he was going to cry again.
So you kissed his cheeks instead — both of them — and whispered, “Come on. Let’s get cleaned up.”
You helped him ease out of you slowly, gently. Your thighs were sticky, soaked with his release. He hissed at the sensation — not out of desire this time, but raw oversensitivity. You both winced when you saw the mess between you: your clothes ruined, skin slicked and shining in the harsh light.
There were a few scratchy towels folded in a bin by the wall — probably left there by whoever prepped the room in case something like this happened.
You wet one under the tap, came back to him kneeling, flushed and quiet, waiting for you.
You cleaned him first — gently wiping him off, the stickiness between his thighs, the remnants of you on his skin. You were slow, careful, watching his face the whole time in case he flinched or pulled away.
But he didn’t.
He let you.
Then he cleaned you.
With shaking hands, he knelt in front of you and murmured soft apologies as he worked — wiping the slick from your inner thighs, dabbing carefully between your legs, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” like he still didn’t believe you weren’t angry.
“You’re not hurting me,” you promised.
“I know. I just… I feel like I don’t deserve to touch you. Not after what I was thinking in that corner.”
Your brows knit together. “Bucky—”
“I wanted to take you. Wanted to come so bad I didn’t care how. I’ve never… I’ve never been that far gone. Not even after Hydra. It scared the shit out of me.”
You knelt down in front of him again and placed your hand over his heart. “But you didn’t touch me until I said yes. You waited. Even when it hurt.”
“I wanted you,” he said, voice cracking. “But I didn’t want to want you like that.”
“And now?”
He looked at you like you were sunlight after a winter that lasted years.
“Now I just want to be near you,” he said. “Touch you when it’s not about needing. Just… wanting. Loving.”
You both stilled at that word.
He looked down fast, like he hadn’t meant to say it. Like it slipped out before he could catch it.
You didn’t push. You didn’t say it back.
You just leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his.
And that was enough.
Eventually, you both changed into the spare clothes folded in a crate by the wall — grey cotton shirts and loose sleep pants, both far too big, but dry and warm. You bundled the soiled ones and left them near the drain.
The room didn’t have a bed, so you laid a fresh blanket down in the corner — still on the floor, but now wrapped around each other. You fit together easier now, bodies limp and pliant, exhaustion making everything heavier.
Bucky buried his face in your hair and didn’t let go for a long time.
You both dozed there — not fully asleep, not fully awake. Just… together.
And when he finally spoke again, his voice was soft and real and bare.
“I want to kiss you again.”
You smiled, already tilting your face up to his. “Then do it.”
This time, his lips were slow. Sweet. And when he kissed you, it wasn’t a thank-you.
Summary: Weeks apart on separate missions leave you and Bucky Barnes aching, desperate, and one heartbeat away from unraveling. The reunion? Eighteen hours of pure, breathless release.
Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, multiple rounds, overstimulation, edging, mutual desperation, shower sex, window sex, kitchen counter sex, use of restraints (soft), masturbation mention, lingerie tease, squirting (f), super soldier stamina, mild teasing from tb* members
It started like any other assignment.
A sharp morning. Polished boots. Steel chairs arranged around the Watchtower’s mission table. The kind of day where even the light felt clinical—too white, too bright, too final.
Valentina entered with a clipboard in hand and that usual glint in her eye, the one that said she already knew something you didn’t want to hear.
“Barnes, Yelena, Alexei, Bob—Bucharest first. Bogotá by week three. Rotating safehouses. No crossovers.”
You stiffened.
“Walker, Ava, and…”
She looked straight at you.
“You—Algeria. Then east through Istanbul. Targets on the move. You’re expected to stay mobile and out of range.”
The silence afterward said everything.
That pause before your name wasn’t a slip.
It was surgical.
Across the table, Bucky’s jaw tensed. He didn’t look at you, but his shoulders rolled tight. His metal hand flexed once, resting flat on the table like he was physically grounding himself.
This wasn’t routine.
This was designed.
The room shifted. Teams gathered their gear. Orders confirmed.
But neither of you moved.
Bucky brushed your fingers beneath the table—the kind of small, hidden touch that wasn’t meant to say goodbye. It was a promise.
We’ll find each other.
However we can.
—
Packing was mechanical.
Weapons, suits, coordinates, clearances.
Everyone was buzzing around the hangar level, focused on countdowns and jet fuel. But Bucky caught your wrist with a glance that made your breath hitch—then gently steered you down a side corridor.
He didn’t stop until you ducked into a quiet auxiliary room—once used for archive storage, now mostly forgotten. The lights were dim. A narrow bench ran along the wall. A few old mission files sat boxed in the corner.
He shut the door behind you.
“Just for a minute,” he said, voice low. “Just wanna be where you are.”
You barely nodded before he pulled you into his chest. He held you like he needed it—not tight or desperate, but complete. His warmth poured into you as you buried your face into the space between his neck and shoulder.
You ended up straddling his lap on the bench, both of you half-armored, half-undressed—hands roaming like you were trying to memorize every line, every scar, every breath.
“I hate this,” you muttered into his neck.
“I know.” His voice was steady. Anchoring. “But we’ll be okay.”
His mouth found the slope of your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then lower—teeth grazing before lips closed around your skin and sucked.
You gasped—part surprise, part pure heat.
“Bucky—”
“Gonna leave a few. Let ‘em wonder how many more are where they can’t see.”
He left another. And another. The bruises bloomed warm beneath your skin—high enough that your tactical suit wouldn’t cover all of them.
When he pulled back to look at you, his pupils were blown wide, lips kiss-bitten and breath ragged.
“You’re mine,” he murmured. “Even if they split us across the damn planet.”
You ran your hands up under his shirt, nails scratching lightly across his ribs—grounding yourself in the solidity of him.
“You’ll text me when you can?”
“Every chance I get.”
“Even if it’s just one word?”
“Even if it’s just a photo.”
You smirked. “Of what?”
He grinned, leaning back like he had all the time in the world—even though you both knew better.
“I’m waiting for boob pics, love. Minimum one per timezone.”
You laughed into his neck and kissed his jaw, soft and smiling.
“You’re such a menace.”
“You love it.”
“Unfortunately.”
When the comm finally buzzed for final departure prep, you lingered another moment, forehead pressed to his.
“We’re good?”
“Always.”
And then you slipped out—his warmth still clinging to your skin, and his hickeys hidden beneath your collar like the loudest secret in the world.
—
The first few days weren’t unbearable.
Busy hours blurred the worst of it—briefings, drone recon, field scans. The kind of missions that demanded your hands stay full and your focus sharp. You told yourself it helped. That staying in motion kept the ache at bay.
But the nights were something else entirely.
By the third night, sleep wouldn’t come. The cot beneath you was too narrow, too cold. You rolled over instinctively and reached for the other side—empty. Your palm flattened against the mattress like it could summon him there.
It didn’t.
You’d already stripped out of your tactical suit, skin flushed from a lukewarm shower and a restlessness that refused to settle. The mirror over the sink caught your reflection just as the last of the sun dipped beneath the window—warm dusk light casting gold across your damp collarbone, your bare shoulder.
You grabbed your comm. Lifted your phone.
Pulled down your undershirt just enough to let the neckline dip low—sweat clinging to the curve of your breasts, a faint bruise from his mouth peeking out beneath the edge of the fabric.
The angle was deliberate.
Head tilted back. Lips parted. Not a full reveal. But it said everything.
Still thinking about the way your hands fit around my waist.
Bet you’d wreck me if you were here.
You hit send before you could talk yourself out of it.
—
His reply came six hours later. No text. Just an image.
The lighting was shit—whatever rooftop he was on barely lit by the glow of city spill—but it didn’t matter.
He was shirtless.
Dog tags heavy and low over his chest.
Hair a little messier than usual, as if he’d just run a hand through it before taking the shot.
But the part that made your thighs press together?
His sweatpants.
Slung low. Way too low. Obscene, really—the waistband clinging just above the vee of his hips, and beneath it? A thick, unmistakable bulge pressing upward. Not subtle. Not suggestive.
Hard. Veined. Heavy. Angry.
Like he’d taken the photo mid-thought, right before palming himself. Like maybe he had.
Your name was probably still on his tongue when he snapped it.
You sucked in a breath, cheeks hot, and held the screen to your chest like it could warm the parts of you he was supposed to be touching.
This was manageable, you told yourself.
Just teasing. Just playing.
It would pass.
—
It got worse.
What started as playful—just a little edge, a little fun—turned into something raw. Unbearable. Every picture, every breathy message only twisted the knife deeper.
Bucky cracked first.
The signal finally held long enough for him to send a voice note.
You were mid-gear check when it came through, tucked into a corner of the safehouse with your earbuds in.
“Woke up with my hand around my cock,” he rasped, voice low, wrecked. “Thought it was you at first. Swear to God, I could feel you there. Your breath on my neck, your legs wrapped around me. Then I realized I was alone again.”
A pause. A harsh exhale.
“And fuck, baby… I nearly lost it.”
You played it three times.
Nearly dropped your comm on the third.
—
You didn’t just tease back. You retaliated.
The next photo was a mirror shot—deliberately filthy. You stood in the dim light of your bunk, chest bare, your breasts fully visible this time, no shame. One hand was sunk into your panties, fingers clearly pressing against the soaked fabric. The other held your phone steady, angled to catch the full view: your messy hair, parted lips, heavy-lidded eyes, and the slick glint of sweat on your chest. No caption. Just raw hunger in pixels.
This help you sleep tonight? Or should I take more?
He didn’t respond immediately. But when he did, it was short.
You’re not playing fair.
My cock’s been hard since sunrise. Haven’t touched it. Saving every second of this for you.
You sent a quick clip later—just a few seconds long. You didn’t even speak in it.
Just six seconds. The camera angled low—your hand slipping beneath the blanket between your thighs. No real view, just the movement. The blanket shifted slightly with every circle you traced over your clit. Soft moans escaped—broken, breathy, like you were trying to stay quiet. Then a whimper—his name, trembling from your lips. No skin shown. No climax caught. Just the sound and the hint and the promise of you falling apart.
Bucky watched it on repeat like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
—
Then came Ava.
You’d crashed hard that night—exhausted, sweaty, and stripped down to just your lingerie. The maroon lace set he liked. The same one he’d picked out. It had become a habit—wearing it when you missed him. A reminder. A tether.
Ava had been reviewing footage by the window for perimeter movement when she caught it.
The camera was focused outward. But the mic had picked up your sleep sounds in the background.
She wasn’t trying to be cruel when she played it back.
She just raised an eyebrow and pressed play—a grin tugging at her lips as the soft moans filled the air. You were murmuring his name. Restless. Breathless. Like you were dreaming of him—no, feeling him.
Your voice cracked on the last word, a sharp gasp like you were right on the edge.
You could’ve died.
“Jesus,” Ava had laughed, not unkind. “Want me to send it to him? Y’know, for motivation?”
You didn’t answer fast enough. She already hit send.
—
He didn’t laugh.
He didn’t even text back. Just disappeared for a few hours.
Locked himself in the bathroom of the Bogotá safehouse, palms braced on the sink, sweat dripping from his temple to his jaw. The floor was cold. His cock throbbed painfully in the tight grip of his tactical jeans, already slick with precum from the sound of your voice in his ear—played over and over again like a goddamn drug.
He groaned low, forehead resting against the mirror as he finally undid his fly—reached in and freed himself with a hissed curse.
Hard. Angry. Red at the tip and twitching. His hand flexed uselessly beside him, trembling from restraint.
He closed his eyes and whispered, “Fuck, baby… what are you doing to me…”
But he didn’t stroke.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t dare.
Not without your hands.
Not without your thighs tight around his hips.
Not without your voice whispering that he could let go.
So he tucked himself away again—biting down hard on the side of his fist until it bruised, his pulse roaring like a storm.
Later, when the signal held again, he finally texted:
This was supposed to help.
All these videos. These fucking pictures.
It’s making everything worse, doll.
I need you so bad, I swear I’m gonna lose my mind.
—
He stopped sleeping properly.
The circles under his eyes were darker now, sharp enough to draw questions if anyone had the nerve. His mouth was constantly pressed into a tight, agitated line. The usual post-mission calm he carried—that calculated, steady presence of command—was cracking.
Every time he sat down to write up route plans, his hands twitched. His left hand—the metal one—wouldn’t stop flexing. Clenching. Releasing. Like he was trying to ground himself in anything that wasn’t your voice moaning his name.
The last time he tried to issue orders midbriefing, he nearly snapped a comm tablet in half.
“Safehouse Delta’s too close to the highway,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ll reroute south. Four klicks. We’ll—”
He trailed off.
Everyone stared at the map table, then at Bucky—who was clearly no longer looking at anything but the wall. Or rather, through it.
His jaw clenched again. He tried to redirect.
“We’ll send Bob first to—”
But Bob was already looking sideways at him.
“You gonna pass out?”
“No.”
“You look like your brain’s buffering.”
“I said I’m fine.”
But his voice had cracked. Just slightly.
Yelena leaned back in her seat with a dramatic sigh, chewing on the end of a protein bar like this was better than Netflix.
“Alright,” she announced loudly, “I’m just gonna say what everyone else is thinking.”
Bucky didn’t even turn his head.
She kept going.
“You’re clearly about three days from spontaneously combusting from blue balls. You’ve been staring at walls, misreading maps, and grinding your teeth like it’s a fetish. Which—respectfully—gross.”
Alexei smothered a laugh. Bob coughed loudly into his fist.
“You need to jerk off or jump off a building,” Yelena finished, deadpan. “Pick one.”
Bucky finally looked up.
His eyes were bloodshot. His voice was tight when he replied.
“I’m not jerking off.”
That shut them up.
Yelena blinked. “…Okay. That’s not where I thought that was going.”
“I’m saving it. All of it.” His hand twitched again. “She deserves every goddamn second of it.”
A pause. The silence stretched—not awkward, just charged.
Even Alexei nodded solemnly, as if that was the only acceptable answer.
Yelena rolled her eyes but muttered, “Romantic. Disgusting. Continue suffering, I guess.”
—
Later that night, Bucky paced the rooftop alone. Fingers twitching. Breath uneven.
He pulled up your last photo again.
Your hand between your thighs. Lips parted. That little text below it:
I’d spread for you right here on this cot if you were with me.
He groaned into his palm.
Pressed the heel of his hand against the painful bulge in his pants.
Didn’t move. Didn’t stroke. Just gritted his teeth and endured.
“You better be ready for what I’m gonna do to you,” he muttered into the dark.
—
It was just after 7:00PM when the jet touched down.
The sky above the Watchtower was bruised in golds and fading gray, clouds curling low like dusk had rolled in too early. Your shoulders ached. Muscles stiff from too many hours strapped in gear, too many days sleeping with one eye open.
Your boots hit the floor with more weight than usual—the kind that didn’t come from exhaustion alone. It was something else. Something thick in your chest, pressing behind your ribs.
Inside the compound, it was unusually quiet.
Operatives passed by in pairs. Brief nods. No chatter.
Ava veered off toward medical, threw a wink over her shoulder, and mouthed, “Go get your man.”
You didn’t smile. Not yet.
Not until your fingers brushed the key panel of your shared room, and the door clicked open beneath your touch.
Something shifted the moment you stepped inside.
The air smelled like candle wax, clean linens, and something warmer underneath—musk and sandalwood, with a trace of vanilla. The room glowed gold in low light. Flickering candles burned on the desk, by the bed, and one small one beside the bathroom mirror.
It was quiet. But not empty.
He was there.
And the second he saw you, his face lit up.
“Hey,” Bucky breathed, already halfway to his feet. His voice was low but clear, as if speaking pulled breath right back into his lungs. “You’re home.”
That ache—the one locked in your chest—snapped clean open.
You dropped your duffel just as he reached you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, your cheek pressed against his collarbone. He smelled like soap and steel and something distinctly him—warm skin, freshly showered, a hint of cologne that clung to his shirt.
He didn’t devour you. Didn’t grope, didn’t rush.
He just held you.
One arm around your back, the other cradling the back of your head. His lips brushed the top of your hair.
You clung back like it might hold you together.
His hand ran slowly down your spine. You could feel the control in it—the way his chest rose hard against yours, like he was barely keeping the rest of him contained.
“I changed the sheets,” he murmured softly. “Lit a few candles. Put your shampoo out. Thought maybe you’d want a hot shower first.”
Your heart cracked, melted, rebuilt itself.
You nodded against him, cheek brushing the curve of his neck.
“You remembered.”
“Of course I did.” His smile touched his voice, even as his hand lingered low on your back. “You always say you wanna feel clean before we get dirty.”
That earned a small laugh from you—quiet, but real.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, cupping your cheek in one hand. His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye, like he was checking you for damage.
“I missed you,” he said. “Like breathing stopped.”
You kissed him, soft and slow—lips barely parting, just enough to feel the warmth of him beneath the quiet.
“Missed you more.”
He didn’t rush you when you stepped out of your gear. Just watched with quiet reverence, helping peel the layers off your shoulders and arms. He kissed your shoulder once—right over the old bruise he left weeks ago—and whispered:
“I’ve been thinking about this moment for 36 days. But I’m not rushing it. Not until you’re ready.”
Then he took your hand, kissed the inside of your wrist, and nodded toward the bathroom.
“Go on. I’ll be right here.”
—
You hadn’t even closed the door behind you.
The steam was already thick, curling from the shower where hot water slammed against tile. You peeled your clothes off slowly, shaking the last of the travel dust from your skin, limbs heavy from the mission—but your chest felt lighter. He was here. You were home.
You stepped into the spray and let it hit you.
Heat flooded your shoulders. Rolled down your spine.
The ache you’d ignored for weeks cracked wide open across your bones.
You arched slightly under the pressure of the water, fingers dragging slowly down your stomach. Your thighs pressed together at the memory of his voice—his lips on your neck, his hands gripping your hips like they belonged there.
You knelt briefly to grab a bottle you knocked over. Bent forward. Stretched.
And then—
“Mmh…”
Just a sound. A breath.
But it came from somewhere deep—unconscious, raw, and aching. It slipped from your throat like his name was caught beneath it.
The floor creaked.
You turned, startled—and everything inside you tightened.
He was there.
Bucky Barnes. Standing in the doorway of the bathroom like something ancient and carved from firelight. His chest rose fast, hard, like he’d sprinted across the room. Hair damp with sweat, not water. Shoulders tight. Fists clenched at his sides.
And he was naked.
Completely.
You hadn’t even heard him undress. But there he stood—broad, solid, his cock achingly hard and already slick with precum, flushed dark and twitching with every strained breath he took.
His eyes drank you in.
Steam wrapped around his body, clinging to every line of him. You watched his jaw twitch, chest heave. His cock twitched again—another thick drop of precum beading at the tip.
“Baby…”
His voice cracked. A breath. A prayer. Hoarse and wrecked.
“Please…”
“Please stop torturing me.”
But he didn’t move. Not yet.
Like he was waiting for your permission—even now, even while unraveling at the seams.
You reached for him.
One hand. Simple. Open. You pressed your palm to the center of his chest—felt the hammering heartbeat beneath it, the way his breath hitched.
He whimpered.
The sound broke from his lips like it had been fighting its way out for days. He stepped forward, cupped your waist, then your jaw, thumb trembling against your cheek.
“You’re real,” he whispered. “Fuck—you’re here.”
You smiled softly. Nodded.
He stepped into the shower with you—no hesitation this time.
The water soaked him instantly, but he didn’t care. He was already soaked in you. The scent. The need.
His hands were everywhere. One warm, the other metal, both reverent. They dragged up your spine, gripped your hips, held your face like it was holy.
“Missed you,” he rasped between frantic kisses.
“Missed your mouth. Your voice. Your thighs. The way you sound when I’m inside you—fuck, baby, I’ve been dying.”
Your back hit the tile with a dull thud. His body pressed into yours, all solid heat and desperation.
His cock bumped against your stomach—hot, heavy, leaking.
He gasped. “Touch me… please, just—let me feel you.”
You did more than touch.
Your hand curled around the base of him, felt him throb in your palm. He swore low against your neck, forehead pressing to yours as his hands skimmed lower, between your thighs.
“Jesus, sweetheart—”
His fingers slid through the slick between your legs.
“You’re soaked…”
He groaned. Slid two fingers inside you.
You gasped, walls clenching hard around the intrusion.
“Fuck,” he hissed. “Tight… tighter than I remember. You really waited for me?”
You bit his jaw. “I didn’t even let myself finish, Bucky. You ruined me.”
That was all it took.
He gripped your thighs, lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing, and pinned you to the shower wall. You wrapped your legs around his waist, arms around his neck.
“Hold on to me,” he breathed. “That’s it… Good girl.”
He lined himself up. Slick head pressed against your entrance. And then—
He sank in.
One thrust. Deep. Full.
You both cried out—voices echoing in the tile and steam.
The stretch. The heat. The sudden, perfect fullness.
He fucked into you with short, desperate thrusts—buried all the way, hips snapping with precision. You met him every time, nails clawing his back, gasping against his mouth.
Your orgasm ripped through you without warning—sharp, wet, loud.
“James, I—I’m coming!”
“I’ve got you. Let go. Soak me, baby.”
You did. You clenched so hard around him he almost collapsed.
He followed seconds after—buried deep, groaning your name as he came hard inside you, hips jerking, forehead pressed to your shoulder. His body trembled with the force of it. He held you there, still wrapped around him, his cock twitching inside your pulsing heat.
“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Not letting you out of this room for days.”
You kissed him through the fog, smiling against his lips.
“Good. I’m not going anywhere.”
—
Your legs were still shaking when he carried you out of the bathroom.
No towel. No words. Just the heat of his arms around you, the steady thump of his heart against your ribs, and the way the air between you still crackled like static. You smelled like him. He smelled like you. It wasn’t over. It had only begun.
He laid you on the bed like something sacred.
Candles glowed around the room, casting golden halos over damp sheets and flushed skin. The maroon lace slip sat untouched where he’d left it—delicate, sheer, wicked.
You reached for it with trembling fingers.
But Bucky caught your wrist gently. “Let me,” he said.
His voice was lower now. Hoarse. Reverent.
He lifted the slip over your head slowly, letting the lace fall like a whisper down your body. It hugged your hips, clung to your breasts just enough to tease—translucent and sinful. His lips brushed your spine as he adjusted the straps, hands shaking.
“I thought about this every night,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder.
“Fantasized about it. About you, straddling me in this. Had to lie there with my fists clenched, cock aching, just—breathing through it. Didn’t touch myself. Not once.”
His voice cracked. “Didn’t want to waste a single drop that wasn’t for you.”
You whimpered.
He hovered above you now—fully naked, flushed, his cock already hard again. Veined and glistening, twitching with the pulse of how badly he needed to be inside you.
But he didn’t rush.
Didn’t even move until you cupped his jaw and pulled him down into a kiss.
Mouths met softly, then harder.
Tongues sliding slow.
His body sinking into yours, heat to heat, heartbeat to heartbeat.
You grabbed the back of his neck and whispered against his lips, “Come here. Let me ruin you.”
He groaned, deep in his throat, and you flipped him onto his back, straddling his hips with shaking thighs. The lace slip rode up your thighs, leaving nothing in the way when his cock pressed hot and heavy against your dripping heat.
“Fuck, baby,” he gasped. “You’re soaked through.”
You leaned down, your breasts brushing his chest, and ground your hips against his length. “You did this,” you whispered. “With every text. Every picture. Every breath.”
He was gone. Let you take full control.
You gathered the hem of the lace slip, just enough to bare yourself to him, and guided him in—sinking down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until he was buried to the hilt.
Both of you moaned, raw and open, mouths slack with need.
“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, head thrown back, fists clenched in the sheets.
“Still so tight, baby. Still fucking perfect.”
You started to move—slow at first, grinding your hips in deep, lazy circles that dragged the tip of his cock right against your most sensitive spot. His hands clamped hard on your thighs, trying to keep his control, but you didn’t make it easy.
“You gonna come again just from riding me?” he asked, breathless.
You nodded. “Already close.”
He groaned, slipping one hand between your bodies to rub firm, precise circles over your clit.
“There you go… let me feel you. Let go for me.”
And you did.
Your second orgasm hit like a goddamn wave—crashing through your spine, stealing your breath, squeezing around his cock so tight he choked on a moan.
He didn’t last much longer.
You kept grinding, whispering filth into his ear—how full he made you feel, how wrecked you were for him, how you still weren’t done.
That tipped him.
He came hard with a strangled moan, cock pulsing deep inside you, hips jerking as he flooded you for the second time. His arms locked around your waist as he gasped into the crook of your neck, trembling from the force of it.
You stayed like that, slumped against his chest, bodies stuck together with sweat and slick and heat.
“You alright?” he asked, voice scratchy.
“I’m feral,” you whispered back. “And I’m not finished.”
He chuckled, still panting. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not tapping out anytime soon.”
—
Later.
The wine sat untouched on the desk.
The lace slip lay discarded in a crumpled pile on the floor.
The candles had burned halfway down, wax pooling thick at the base.
And you?
You were flushed. Sweaty. Trembling.
Knees sinking into the mattress as you straddled his thighs once more, this time with your back to him—hips hovering, your whole body tingling.
He leaned against the headboard, sweat shining on his chest, watching you like a man possessed.
“You sure?” he rasped, voice ragged and frayed.
You didn’t answer.
You just reached back, gripped his cock at the base, and lowered yourself onto him slowly—inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt inside you.
Both of you moaned. Loud.
Deep.
Almost pained.
Your hands braced against his shins behind you for leverage, thighs spread wide as you rode him hard—your ass slapping against his hips, slick and flushed with every bounce.
“Oh, fuck—”
His hands gripped your waist like he was anchoring himself.
“Jesus, sweetheart—you’re still so fuckin’ tight…”
You started to move—slow, heavy grinds, rolling your hips like you needed every inch of him rooted inside you. Bucky gasped behind you, his hands traveling from your hips to your thighs to your breasts, groping, squeezing, completely feral.
“You ride me like it’s the only thing keeping you alive,” he growled.
“Look at that ass—fuck, I can see it bounce every time you fucking slam down.”
You moaned—head tilted back, chest rising and falling—sweat glistening between your breasts.
And then—his fingers slid between your thighs from behind. Two of them, circling your clit with ruthless precision.
“I wanna feel you come again, baby. Let me feel you fucking gush on my cock.”
Your thighs trembled. Muscles locked. Your core started to spasm.
“Bucky, I—I think I—fuck, I’m gonna—”
“Do it. Come on, baby. You’re dripping, you’re so fucking close—let it happen.”
You broke with a cry.
Legs shaking. Hands digging into his thighs.
Your pussy clamped down hard, and then it hit—
You squirted.
Hard.
Hot wetness sprayed between your thighs, down over his cock, soaking the sheets. Bucky let out a strangled moan, clutching your waist like he was going to lose his mind.
“Goddamn—fuck, look at you. You’re gonna make a fucking mess, aren’t you, baby?”
He didn’t stop.
He snapped his hips up into you, relentless now—grinding deep as your soaked cunt fluttered around him, so overstimulated your vision blurred.
“Still want more?” he panted, thrusting up again, angling perfectly.
“I can feel how much you need it. So greedy for me—so fucking full of my cum, and still not satisfied.”
You couldn’t answer. You just moaned, nodding wildly, nails dragging down his thighs, thighs shaking uncontrollably.
“That’s it,” he whispered, his breath hot on your shoulder as he leaned forward, one hand now wrapped tight around your throat.
“You gonna come for me again? Gonna make a mess on my cock one more time?”
“Yes—James, please—”
And you did.
A second wave slammed into you.
You screamed, back arching, body locking as you squirted again—wetter this time, gushing down over his balls, onto the sheets, soaking everything beneath you.
Bucky lost it.
“Shitshitshit— I’m coming—fuck, baby—I’m—”
He grunted, jerking up into you with three final brutal thrusts as his cock pulsed deep inside you, filling you again, so hot you felt it flood your walls.
You collapsed forward onto the mattress, his arms catching you just before you slumped completely. He held you tight from behind, your body still twitching, both of you covered in sweat, slick, and release.
“Holy fuck,” he breathed, voice dazed, completely gone.
“You just… soaked me, baby.”
You half-laughed, half-whimpered. “I couldn’t help it. You broke me.”
“Good,” he growled, kissing your neck. “You can break me next.”
—
You should’ve been done.
You should’ve been shaking, satisfied, breathless from three rounds and nothing left to give.
But you weren’t.
The ache still lived in your bones.
The emptiness still throbbed between your legs.
And when Bucky’s lips brushed your temple—slow, tender, trembling—you felt it in him too.
He needed more.
You both did.
The sheets beneath you were damp. Your thighs were slick. Your chest rose with every sharp breath, nipples flushed and sensitive, body still twitching from your last orgasm. And still… the hunger hadn’t dulled.
“You okay?” he whispered against your throat.
“No,” you rasped, voice cracking.
“I need you again. Right fucking now.”
Bucky exhaled a shaky breath. His cock twitched against your thigh—already stiffening again.
“Jesus, doll… you’re insatiable.”
He kissed your jaw. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
Then he shifted—slow but deliberate—and suddenly, your wrists were gathered above your head. You gasped at the motion, but his grip was careful, tender. He reached for the discarded shirt at the foot of the bed and looped it around your wrists—soft, warm, not tight.
“Just wanna keep you here,” he murmured, kissing your palms one at a time.
“Let me take care of you.”
Your stomach fluttered. Your thighs clenched.
And when he dropped between your legs, your breath hitched so hard your back arched off the bed.
“James—”
“Shhh,” he purred, brushing his stubble along the inside of your thigh.
“Gonna keep you right here, sweetheart. Gonna make you come until your body forgets what rest feels like.”
His tongue dragged through your folds—slow, warm, filthy.
The first flick over your clit sent your hips off the bed—but he was already holding you down, fingers firm, spreading you open like he was fucking home.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he growled into your cunt, voice rough with disbelief.
“Jesus, baby, you taste like both of us… fuck. You’re perfect.”
He devoured you.
Long, slow licks that lapped up his own cum still leaking from you. Wet, obscene noises filled the room—every slurp, every moan against your pussy like it was the only thing that ever mattered.
You whined. Cried out. Legs trembling.
His mouth worked faster, tongue flicking your clit with maddening precision—soft then hard, gentle then firm, always changing, always knowing exactly how to ruin you.
“Bucky—fuck—baby I—”
Your voice broke.
Your hips bucked.
You were so close again, already, already—
He pulled back.
“Not yet,” he rasped, lips wet and eyes dark.
“Not until you beg for it.”
You sobbed—from the overstimulation, from the ache, from how badly you needed to fall apart.
“Please—please, baby, I can’t—just let me—let me come, please—!”
That broke him.
He groaned, deep and guttural, and latched onto your clit with his mouth wide and relentless—tongue flat, dragging fast and rough, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs.
You exploded.
A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm hit like a strike of lightning—your whole body shook, fists clenched, toes curled, thighs trembling. You gasped so hard your ribs ached. The headboard thudded behind you.
“Good girl,” he murmured, voice soaked in reverence.
“One more, baby. Just one more for me.”
You didn’t even get to respond.
Didn’t even breathe.
Because his tongue never stopped.
He kept sucking—soft at first, then harder—until another wave curled sharp behind your ribs. You sobbed his name, pulled at the binds, tried to run but couldn’t move.
You came again.
Harder.
Legs seizing, slick gushing between your thighs, soaking his face, your body curling from the sheer force of it.
He kissed your trembling thighs through the aftershocks.
Pressed his forehead to your belly.
“You okay?” he whispered.
“I don’t even know where I am,” you panted.
“And I think I like it.”
—
Later—
Maybe thirty minutes.
Maybe five.
Time had stopped meaning anything.
It warped, curled, bled together beneath the hum of overstimulation and breathless ache.
You lay curled on your side, one leg bent, sheets tangled around your calves. Sweat cooled on your skin in sticky rivulets. Your breathing had started to even out, but your body still pulsed from the inside—too full, too stretched, too tender to be still.
And then—
The mattress dipped behind you.
You felt his warmth before you felt his hands.
He slid in close—chest to your back, thighs pressed to yours, breath curling against your neck.
His lips brushed your shoulder.
“Still want me?” he asked, voice soft as fog.
You answered with a sigh. Reached back without looking, your palm wrapping around the hard length of him, thick and hot and already twitching against your fingers.
“Always.”
You rocked your hips back, slotting yourself perfectly into him.
He kissed your spine.
Tucked his face into the crook of your neck, and whispered like a man undone.
“I’ll never stop wanting you.”
One hand lifted your top leg, just slightly—fingers gliding over your thigh. His other arm wrapped low around your waist. You felt the weight of him, the warm press of his tip teasing at your entrance—slow, so fucking slow—until he finally pushed inside.
“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, as if the heat of you had burned him.
“You’re still tight. Still fluttering around me.”
You whimpered.
He thrust deep.
Steady. Gentle.
Every movement an unspoken prayer.
No rhythm. No pace. Just a rolling, molten motion—his cock dragging deep and slow, slick with everything you’d already shared, stroking right against the spot that still trembled.
“I could live here,” he breathed. “I want to live here.”
Your hand gripped his forearm where it wrapped across your middle. He pulled you back against him with every gentle thrust, grounding you in the heat of his body, his breath stuttering where it ghosted along your neck.
“You’re so good to me,” he murmured. “So fucking good.”
“Still feels like a dream,” you whispered.
“Then don’t wake up. Just… stay right here. Let me have you like this.”
Your eyes fluttered shut. Tears stung, soft and sudden. It wasn’t pain—it was too much pleasure. Too much love. The way he moved inside you like your body was a temple. Like every inch of you was his.
“Tell me you’re mine again,” he whispered, voice breaking.
You choked on a moan.
“I’m yours, James. Always.”
You came first—slow and quiet. A gentle quake that rippled from your core outward, your body trembling against him as your inner walls clamped down tight. You gasped softly, a sob in your throat, your hands fisting in the sheets.
“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder.
“Let go, doll. Let me feel you.”
He wasn’t far behind.
He buried himself deep, groaning low into your hair, his whole body taut as his release surged inside you again—slow and warm, his cock pulsing deep as he held still, hips locked to yours.
You lay there, body slack and soft, his cock still inside you.
He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.
His fingers traced lazy shapes on your belly, his lips pressing soft, almost absent kisses to your damp shoulder, your neck, your cheekbone.
“You okay?” he asked eventually, voice quiet.
You nodded.
“I think I’m in love with you again.”
He smiled against your skin. “Good. I never stopped.”
—
Your body was trembling again.
Not with the sharp, writhing spasms of climax—but the deeper, low-grade tremor of exhaustion.
The kind that came after too many orgasms and too little rest.
Muscles fluttering, breath short, limbs weak. You felt boneless and heavy, like your body had melted halfway into the mattress.
And yet—
Your core still throbbed.
Your nipples still ached.
Your cunt still ached for him.
He noticed. Of course he did.
Bucky sat back on his heels beside you, eyes trailing over your form with something like worship—something like worry.
His hand reached out slowly. Brushed your sweat-slicked hair off your forehead. Pressed a soft kiss there.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice gentling. “You with me, sweetheart?”
You nodded once, eyes glassy. Your throat was too dry to speak right away.
“Breathe for me. C’mon.”
His thumb stroked your cheek.
“You look wrecked.”
“I am…”
Your voice came out hoarse.
“I’m so tired.”
That broke his heart a little—you could see it in the way his brows creased. His jaw clenched like he was trying to talk himself down from his own feral hunger.
“Then let’s stop, okay?” he offered softly. “Let me clean you up, hold you for a bit. You need rest.”
But your hand was already moving.
Shaky, slow—but determined.
You reached between his legs and wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock.
Still hard.
Still thick and flushed and leaking at the tip like he’d never finished.
His breath caught.
“Baby—”
“Don’t stop,” you whispered, tears suddenly springing to your lashes.
“Please, don’t stop. I need you.”
He looked stricken.
“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he murmured. “I don’t wanna take too much.”
“Then be gentle,” you gasped, stroking him slowly.
“But don’t pull away. I need more. I want you again. I want you.”
His restraint cracked like glass.
With a low, ragged sound, Bucky leaned down to kiss you—soft, shaky, like a prayer being answered. He whispered against your lips.
“Tell me when to stop, baby. Or I won’t.”
You nodded.
Wrapped your arms around his neck.
Pulled him into you.
He guided your legs open with reverent hands—watching your face the entire time, watching for any flinch or hesitation. You were sensitive. Sore. Spent.
But not done.
“I love you,” he said quietly, kissing the inside of your thigh.
“So much it hurts.”
You barely had breath left to answer.
“Then have me,” you whispered. “Take what’s already yours.”
His cock slid into you slow—so slow—inch by inch, the stretch deep and aching, but your body welcomed him like he’d never left.
He moaned into your throat.
“Fuck, baby… still so tight. I can feel your pulse around me.”
He moved gently. Just the slow grind of his hips, the full drag of his cock over soaked, sensitive walls. His hand slid under your back, pulling you flush to his chest.
“You tell me when to stop. You hear me?”
“Don’t stop,” you whimpered. “Just keep giving me all of you.”
And so he did.
With every thrust, he kissed you. With every shift of his hips, he whispered your name. His fingers stroked your side, your hip, your waist—every inch of skin he could reach. You shook beneath him, moaning soft and high each time he bottomed out.
“You’re incredible,” he rasped. “You’re still taking me like it’s the first time. My perfect girl.”
Your orgasm crept in like fog, soft and wet and overwhelming.
You came with a shuddered cry, barely able to hold him, but your body squeezed around him tight—fluttering, spasming, claiming him all over again.
“That's my girl,” he whispered, voice shaking. “So fucking good for me.”
And then he followed—hips stuttering, forehead pressed to yours as he groaned your name like a benediction. His cock throbbed deep inside, spilling more warmth into the mess already flooding between your legs.
He collapsed next to you, immediately pulling you into his arms. Your body was trembling. His thumb stroked your cheek.
“No more unless you ask,” he murmured against your hair.
“I’ll only give you what you want.”
—
The sky was beginning to lighten.
A dusky indigo bled into grey, softening the skyline behind the Watchtower’s windows. But inside the room, time was a blur of candlelight, heat, and the thick, dizzying scent of sweat and sex.
You couldn’t remember the last time you’d fully caught your breath.
Your whole body felt glass-thin. Shivering. Sensitive. The sheets clung to your skin with sweat, and your legs barely worked. But the ache was still there. Nestled low. Pulsing. It didn’t fade.
Bucky’s palm slid over your thigh—soft, slow, as if testing your response.
His voice came a moment later, raspy and hesitant. “Sweetheart… we can stop. You need rest. I can wait.”
But you turned to him, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. Your fingers found his, laced through them.
“I want more,” you whispered. “Please… take me there.”
He exhaled like you’d just saved his life.
Guiding you gently toward the windows—your legs shaky, but moving—he kissed your shoulder and whispered, “I’ll be gentle. Just let me see you.”
The whole room swam around you, golden in candlelight and glimmering sweat.
The skyline stretched before you. Towering buildings, distant lights. No eyes. Just your reflection—flushed, ruined, hair damp and tangled across your shoulders.
“Fuck,” Bucky exhaled when he saw you.
“Look at yourself, baby. Look what I’ve done to you.”
You braced your palms against the cool glass, breasts pressing to it as your body arched. The contrast of heat and chill made you gasp. Bucky moved in behind you, spreading your thighs with his knee. One hand on your hip. The other wrapped around his cock, dragging the head through your soaked folds.
“Still dripping,” he muttered. “Even now. Jesus, you never stop, do you?”
“I need it,” you whispered. “Still need you.”
He didn’t make you wait.
Not this time.
He slid into you with one deep, brutal thrust—your bodies colliding with a smack so loud it echoed off the glass. Your moan fogged the window instantly, your hands flattening harder against it.
“Bucky—fuck—”
He set a hard rhythm, pulling your hips back to meet every thrust, the wet sound of your bodies filling the room. You could barely stand, legs shaking, forehead pressed to the glass.
“That’s it. Just like that,” he groaned. “So fucking perfect like this. My girl. My pussy.”
His hand slid around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, grounding. His mouth hovered by your ear.
“You were made for me,” he said. “Fucking built for this.”
“Harder,” you begged. “Please—please don’t stop.”
“Look at your reflection,” he rasped. “Look how good you look. Look how you’re taking me.”
You opened your eyes—and the sight of yourself, cock-stuffed, sweat-slick, wild-eyed, flushed and wrecked against the window, nearly sent you over the edge.
He thrust harder. Faster. Your thighs trembled violently.
“Gonna come,” you sobbed. “Can’t—Bucky—I can’t hold it—”
“Then don’t,” he growled. “Come for me, baby. Come with the whole fucking city watching.”
You shattered.
Legs giving out.
A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm slammed through you like lightning. Your vision blurred. Your body buckled. Bucky caught you before you hit the ground—arm locking around your waist as he kept moving, groaning into your neck.
“Fuck—fuck—gonna fill you again—”
His hips snapped hard, once, twice—and then he came with a guttural sound, spilling inside you with a heat that pushed out around the edges. His head dropped to your shoulder, body shuddering as he emptied himself again.
You stood there for a long time—pressed to the glass, panting, twitching. Your hands limp against the windowpane. Bucky held you like you were breakable.
“You okay?” he whispered.
You nodded faintly.
“Good. ‘Cause we’re not done.”
—
The sun was climbing now.
Pale gold spilled across the Watchtower skyline, casting long streaks of light onto the floor like it was forgiving the sins you were still committing.
Your whole body ached—but not in the way that begged for rest.
It was a deep, needy pulse. Faint, but still there. A hunger that wouldn’t let go.
You stumbled barefoot into the kitchenette, still bare, still slick between your thighs, wearing nothing but Bucky’s hickeys. Your hair was tangled. Your lips were swollen. Your legs trembled with every step.
Your hand landed on a protein bar. You peeled it open with shaking fingers and leaned on the counter for support.
“You better be looking for food,” you said over your shoulder, breathless and hoarse.
You heard the footsteps.
But they didn’t head for the fridge.
Bucky’s body pressed into you from behind—solid, burning hot, and still hard. He slid one arm around your waist, the other reaching up to gently move your hair aside so he could press a kiss to your neck.
“I am hungry,” he rasped, his voice low and feral.
“Just not for that.”
“Bucky,” you groaned, half-laughing, half-destroyed. “I can’t even feel my legs—”
“Good,” he whispered. “You don’t need ‘em.”
Before you could blink, he bent you over the kitchen island.
Your palms slapped down on the cold countertop, and you gasped as your bare nipples brushed the smooth marble.
You didn’t even get the chance to speak.
He lined himself up and pushed in fast—no prep, no warning, just the slick glide of his cock stretching you open again, sliding back into your wrecked body like it was home.
“Fuck, Bucky—!”
“Still so wet,” he growled behind you.
“Still squeezing me like you want more.”
His hands slid to your hips, gripping tight, pulling you back against him with every hard thrust.
This wasn’t slow.
This wasn’t tender.
It was filthy, frantic, barely-in-control fucking. Not because he didn’t care—but because he still needed you that badly.
The sound of skin slapping echoed in the tiny space. The sticky squelch of your soaked cunt taking him again and again filled the air. Your moans bounced off stainless steel and tiled walls.
You dropped your head onto your forearm.
“We… already did this—eight times,” you whimpered.
“I know,” he growled, fucking into you deeper.
“And you’re still fuckin’ perfect. Still taking it all.”
“You’re gonna kill me—”
“Then what a fucking way to go, sweetheart.”
He slid a hand around your front, fingers seeking out your clit, stroking with maddening precision. The way he touched you was still worshipful—even in this chaos.
Your whole body clenched.
“You want one more?” he asked, voice thick, rough, hungry.
“You got one more in you for me, doll?”
“Yes—yes—please—just one more—!”
You came hard. Your scream was ragged, echoing through the kitchen, and your knees nearly gave out from the force of it. The overstimulation blurred your vision with white-hot static, but your body still took every inch of him.
Bucky groaned deep and low, hips jerking as he spilled inside you one last time—his cock pulsing, his chest pressed to your back as he moaned your name like a blessing.
He didn’t sag against you. Didn’t drop.
He stayed upright, body still buzzing, cock still twitching inside you. You could feel him—full, ready again. You were the one shaking. Not him.
“Jesus Christ,” you whispered. “You’re still hard.”
“Told you,” he murmured, breath warm against your ear.
“I could do this for days.”
“James…”
He slid his arms around your waist from behind and pulled you upright, holding you there with his cock still buried deep.
“I’ll stop if you need me to,” he whispered.
“Just say the word.”
You leaned your head back against his shoulder, heart thudding weakly.
“…I think my soul already came twice.”
Bucky laughed softly. Kissed the crown of your head.
“Rest, baby. I’ll still be here when you wake up. Hard as a fucking rock.”
—
You didn’t know what time it was when you finally woke.
Only that the light outside was warmer. Honey-gold, slipping through the windows in slow streaks. The world felt distant. Blurry. But the weight behind you wasn’t.
Bucky’s arm was still around your waist, his chest pressed along your back. Warm. Steady. His breath ghosted over the back of your neck in a soft, familiar rhythm.
Your body ached in the best ways—sore thighs, puffy lips, bruised hips—but it was the ache in your chest that hummed the loudest.
You blinked. Shifted slowly.
He stirred.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice still sleep-rough.
“You okay?”
You turned to face him—carefully, slowly—and found his eyes already open, watching you.
“Mhm. Everything hurts,” you whispered. “In a good way.”
Bucky smiled. Just a little. One of those soft, private smiles he saved for no one but you.
“Told you I’d wreck you.”
“You did. Multiple times.”
He chuckled, then leaned forward to kiss you.
No tongue. No hunger. Just warmth. Lips brushing yours with slow reverence, like he was re-learning your taste now that the storm had passed.
You melted into it.
Pressed your forehead to his.
His fingers traced lazy lines across your spine, slow and aimless.
“Missed this,” he whispered. “Missed you.”
You whispered it back. Quiet. Honest.
Then let the silence settle over you both for a while—safe, sacred, slow.
Eventually, after a second nap and a shower where no one tried to fuck anyone against the tiles (God bless you), you both managed to drag yourselves into clothes and make your way toward the common area.
Bucky wore a black tee and gray sweatpants that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. You were in a loose hoodie and biker shorts—though judging by the soreness between your thighs, sitting might be a challenge.
His arm was around your waist the whole walk.
Your legs still wobbled slightly, and he adjusted his pace to match yours. Not a word about it. Just his warm palm pressing steady against your hipbone like a grounding wire.
—
The squad was already gathered around the Watchtower’s long dining table.
It was pasta night.
Yelena sat at the end, spooning pesto onto her plate with war-like intensity. Ava nursed a glass of wine. Bob looked half-asleep. Alexei was double-fisting garlic bread.
John Walker looked up the moment you stepped into view.
“Oh look,” he said dryly. “It lives.”
You flipped him off without stopping.
“Someone got their back blown out,” Ava added sweetly, raising her glass.
Hey, ya'll! I've completely repaired all of the links to my fics, this is the new official master list of my fics. If you run into any issues, please feel free to reach out <3
A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves, you are so amazing🩷 I hope you like this chapter as well! 🥰 And please let me know what you think! 🩷
Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader
Summary: Having a high pressure job has its consequences.
Warnings: Explicit language, panic attacks.
Word Count: 4.9k
Series Masterlist
The news of the breakup spread like wildfire.
To be honest, you hadn’t expected anything different. This had to be one of the rare times that Caleb hated being in PR because even you could tell that he was working way too hard.
And of course, your name had been brought up multiple times, but so far there wasn’t anything actually threatening thanks to Bucky and Hazel having attended the gala together right before they broke up.
“Mom, how did you know dad was the one?”
Your mother looked up from the bowl she was mixing the cake mixture in, then let out a laugh.
“What brought this on?”
“Just curious.” You dangled your legs from the high stool and sipped your coffee before putting the mug on the kitchen island. “Also, I would like to ask again, why are we in the kitchen? You don’t cook.”
“I’m baking.”
“You don’t bake either.”
“Well, one of the girls in my spiritual retreat said it would be a good bonding practice between mothers and daughters.”
You pulled your brows together.
“I guess today is good as any to start,” you murmured. “Fine, okay. We’re bonding, see? Tell me how you knew, other than the fact that he dazzled you with money.”
“Oh I didn’t care about the money.”
You tilted your head. “Uh, are you sure? I mean no offense obviously, but I always assumed money played a part. Safety and all that.”
“I did feel safe with him but that had nothing to do with the money.”
“So you were actually in love with him.”
“I was and I am.”
You made a face. “Oh come on, that I don’t buy. You can be honest, there’s no way you’re still in love with him.”
“Why not?”
You let out a laugh. “Because he’s evil?”
She rolled her eyes and started pouring the mixture into the cupcake tray. “He’s not evil, honey.”
“Well…” You cleared your throat. “I mean he has been bribing and extorting politicians for decades so that things work the way he wants them to work. That’s like, textbook bad. Disney movie bad.”
“Funny, I heard a lot of people say Bucky Barnes is a bad man, but you seem very eager to defend him.”
“That has nothing to do with—okay, let’s never ever put Bucky in the same category with dad ever again,” you said with a laugh. “It’s kind of like lumping The Night King and Jon Snow together.”
“I didn’t watch that show.”
“They’re like complete opposites.” You took another sip of your coffee. “Let me put it this way; Bucky would sacrifice his own life to save someone, dad would sacrifice the whole world to save himself.”
“And you, and me.”
You made a noise of disagreement.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” you said. “You yes. Me, doubtful.”
“He does love you, you know.”
“No he doesn’t.” You shrugged your shoulders. “And I don’t mind, really.”
“He does,” your mother insisted. “It’s just that, you’re both very stubborn and don’t know how to communicate.”
“That and our political stances and our principles and our goals are very different.”
“So what?” she asked as if it was just trivial, and you scoffed a laugh.
“You seriously don’t mind what he does?” you asked. “All those people he hurt? All the corruption?”
“I’m not interested in what he does at work. I’m interested in what kind of a man he is with us, his family.”
You grimaced. “That’s not how it works, mom.”
“It’s how it works with me.”
You rubbed at your eyes, heaving a sigh. “I guess this just proves it.”
“Proves what?”
“I’ve always thought that…” you trailed off. “I’ve always thought you and him were just meant to be together, but I wasn’t supposed to be in the picture.”
“Never say that!” She gasped. “We love you!”
“That’s not it,” you said with a weak smile. “No, you guys make sense together, in some very weird and unhealthy way. But I don’t, you know what I mean?”
“That’s so not true,” she said, putting pieces of chocolate into the batter in the pan. “And as I’ve said, your father loves you and me. What he does at work doesn’t matter.”
“It actually does,” you said. “You might be able to pick and choose, but I wouldn’t be able to do that.”
“Is that why you broke up with Max?”
“That dickhead voted for the opposition.”
She turned to you. “Please tell me you didn’t break up with him over that.”
“See? It doesn’t matter to you,” you said. “But it matters to me. And hey, it’s a good thing I dumped him, apparently he was cheating on me anyway.”
Her jaw dropped and she reached out to squeeze your hand. “Aw I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine, I don’t care,” you said. “I mastered the art of detachment thanks to the revolving door of nannies you guys kept changing when I was little, so it’s okay.”
“Well, we just didn’t know who was the best for you.”
You bit at your lip to hold back your retort.
“How’s everything at work?” she asked. “Are those rumors still going on?”
“Well, to some extent but no picture or anything,” you said. “Just whispers.”
“And you like him?”
“Professionally, yes.”
Bullshit.
It was a good thing that your mother hardly ever spent time with you, she didn’t know how to read you.
The truth was that every day your feelings for Bucky were getting deeper. You knew that Hazel was right, you knew the risks but somehow, when you thought about him kissing you…
Your brain just refused to be logical.
Granted that didn’t mean you were going to throw all the caution to the wind, but you were wondering if something was wrong with you if that didn’t intimidate you as much as it was supposed to.
“A lot of my friends think he’s too handsome to be in politics.” Her voice pulled you out of your thoughts. “And they have a lot of questions.”
“About him?”
She hummed and walked to the oven to take a look at it. “Which button do I turn?”
You jumped from the stool to turn the button. “This one.”
“Aw thank you,” she said as she put the tray in, then closed it and turned to you. “So what’s he like?”
You took your seat again. “In politics?”
“In his daily life. Why did he and that girl break up?”
You cleared your throat. “Um, difference in opinions.”
“On what?”
“No idea, that’s what I’ve been told.”
She hummed, sitting down as well. “And you guys are close?”
“Professionally.”
“But you consider him a friend as well?” she asked. “I don’t know many people who are friends with their boss.”
“You don’t know many people with a boss.”
“Fair,” she admitted. “But that’s irrelevant. Tell me more about him, we’re all curious. Is he nice?”
“Oh absolutely.”
“To you? Even with all these rumors?”
You couldn’t help but smile, then nodded your head.
“He um…” you trailed off, biting your lip. “He’s amazing, mom. I know a lot of people think there are still traces of the Winter Soldier in him, but it’s not like that at all. He’s the sweetest, I’d trust him with my life. He even—”
You stopped yourself and your mother leaned in, curiosity shining in her eyes. “What?”
“He got Blinky back for me.”
She blinked a couple of times in confusion. “Who’s Blinky?”
Of course.
You hesitated for a second before you forced yourself to smile and shook your head.
“It’s not important,” you mumbled. “Anyways, enough about me, how was your retreat?”
*
The next day, you didn’t even have the time to go to lunch. You had to work on the draft Bucky had asked you to, and of course you had volunteered to go over the revisions Lucas had sent you just so that you could impress Congresswoman Gray, and your phone kept buzzing with emails every two minutes.
And for some reason, everything was louder today.
You took a deep breath, willing your heartbeat to calm down as you clenched and unclenched your hands, staring at the screen before you deleted the last line, and added a new one.
“Please don’t tell me we’re back to skipping lunch for work.”
Your fingers froze over the keyboard before you looked over your shoulder to see Bucky watching you, leaning against the doorframe.
“I had a protein bar and like two cups of red eye, I’m fine.”
His worried gaze raked over you, making your heartbeat even faster.
“I thought we had a deal.”
“I’ll eat when I’m done with this.” You nodded at the screen and he came to lean against your desk, making you bite back a smile.
“Birdie.”
You heaved a dramatic sigh at his teasing tone and looked up at him. “Hm?”
“Let’s have lunch.”
“You literally came back from lunch.”
“I can eat again.” He started tilting the screen of your laptop down but you batted his hand away, then fixed the screen again. “It’s a metabolism thing.”
“Super soldier metabolism?”
“Mm hm.”
“Good for you, I’m too busy,” you said. “I already spent enough time doing nothing with my mom yesterday when I was supposed to go over this, so…”
“You were with your mom?” he asked. “How did that go?”
“Dad wasn’t home so it was fine. Ish.”
“Fine-ish?”
“My mom doesn’t really know much about me but the parts she knows, she loves to dismiss,” you said. “They make a terrific couple with my dad, terrible parents though.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” you said. “Without them, my old therapist wouldn’t have been able to buy her second Ferrari, so I guess it wasn’t a total disaster.”
“And you can tell me all about it while we’re having lunch.”
You turned to your laptop. “Take a powder, Barnes.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the clear confusion on his face but it turned into an amused smile, a chuckle escaping his lips.
“How did you…?”
“Hey, I could have an extensive vocabulary.” You grinned at him. “You don’t know my lexicon.”
“Right. Why do I feel like you googled 40s slang?”
“I once saw you google if lavender is edible, so how about we stop pointing fingers?” you asked and he shook his head vigorously.
“In my defense, Kelsey got me a lavender latte and insisted I had to try it.”
“And what did you think? Your assistant was trying to poison you?”
He shot you a look as if you were asking him a question with a very obvious answer. “It’s Kelsey.”
You thought for a moment, then shrugged your shoulders.
“Fair enough,” you said. “But come on, she—”
You stopped talking when your phone started buzzing, making both you and Bucky turn your glances to the screen, and you both frowned at the same time.
“He’s still calling you?” Bucky asked and held out his hand for you to give him the phone, but you shook your head.
“I’ll handle him,” you said and answered the phone. “Max, go fu—”
“Wait wait, don’t hang up,” he cut you off. “I swear, this will be very civil and you’re gonna want to listen to what I have to say.”
You rolled your eyes, leaning back on your chair while Bucky kept his eyes on you.
“What?” you asked crossly and he took a deep breath.
“I saw that piece about you and Barnes.”
“I’m going to hang up now.”
“A journalist contacted me,” he said in a rush. “He wanted to know whether there was anything going on between you and him while we were still dating.”
Your stomach dropped, your eyes snapping up to Bucky before you gritted your teeth.
“And let me guess,” you said. “You told him you’d think about it and now you’re calling me to ask for something.”
“No actually,” he said. “I told him we broke up because I cheated on you, because you put your career over our relationship, the very same career you wouldn’t risk for anyone much less your boss.”
You pulled back slightly. “…What?”
“I gathered ambitious bitch sounded better than greedy slut. Not that you’re either of those but you know, the guy was an asshole.”
You let out a surprised laugh.
“You’re telling me you had the perfect opportunity to fuck with me and you didn’t take it?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re not asking for anything in return?”
“No, I just wanted to let you know,” he said. “If they called me, it means they’re working on a piece.”
You frowned, drumming your fingernails on the desk.
“And why would you do this without asking for anything in return?”
He fell quiet for a moment, then cleared his throat.
“Tessa said she’d leave me if I didn’t go to therapy,” he said. “And my therapist made me realize it wasn’t cool, what I did. What with keeping Blinky and stuff.”
“By ‘stuff’ you mean cheating on me, or the ultimatum or going behind my back at voting?” you asked and he took a deep breath.
“Yeah. Sorry about all that.”
As much as you wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, you figured this was at least just a little progress.
Very little, but either way.
“Well, what do you know?” you muttered. “I mean you’re still an asshole, that goes without saying but I appreciate the heads up.”
“My therapist says I have um… he says I am scared of emotional intimacy. That’s why I cheated on you, he says.”
“Yeah Max, because he can’t say you’re an asshole. You’re paying him.”
“I guess.” He snorted a laugh. “How’s DC?”
“Full of people who’d love to step on your back for their own gain. I haven’t slept in two days.”
Bucky shot you a disapproving look but you waved a hand in the air.
“So you’re having the time of your life?”
“Something like that.”
“That’s good—” He started but you heard another voice coming from the other line, probably his assistant. “I uh, sorry, I gotta go. Work thing.”
“I gathered,” you replied. “It’s almost five minutes.”
“…Yeah, that wasn’t cool either,” he said. “Also sorry about that.”
“Listen, how about I send you a list of things you should be sorry for and we can get all of them out the way?”
He let out a chuckle. “That’d make therapy so much easier. Can I call or email you to apologize then?”
“Call me and I’ll see if I’m in the forgiving mood,” you said and hung up, then looked up at Bucky.
“So, great news,” you said. “A journalist asked Max if you and I had an affair while I was with him, but he said no.”
“And he didn’t ask for anything in return?”
“He’s doing therapy, as it turns out,” you said. “My belief in psychology has been renewed because honestly, if they can make Max apologize…”
Bucky’s lips twitched into a smile and you bounced your leg, biting inside your cheek.
“We need to find who this journalist is.”
“I will.” His voice was completely calm. “And I’ll take care of it.”
“You can’t threaten him.”
“If he didn’t want me to threaten him, he shouldn’t have dragged you into whatever nonsense he’s working on,” he said, making your heart skip a beat. “That’s just not how it works.”
You tilted your head, feigning confusion. “I thought I was the one protecting you.”
He winked at you. “It’s a two-way street.”
You rolled your eyes at him playfully as he turned his head to look at the approaching footsteps before Caleb appeared at the door and let out a groan.
“I’m like two seconds away from assigning a chaperone to you like we’re in Georgian era,” he said. “Bucky, you might be familiar with that.”
“Wrong century, Caleb.”
“Well, how about we don’t start another fire when I’ve just extinguished the other one?”
You held up your hands and turned your attention to the screen, your cheeks burning and Bucky heaved a sigh, then pushed himself off the desk.
“Make her eat something.”
“I will but did you have the chance to think about what I said?”
You looked between them. “What did you say?”
“Caleb thinks we all should have a barbeque at my new place,” Bucky said. “Something something PR.”
“It would show you’re still relatable and that you’re doing fine after the breakup.”
“That’s not a terrible idea,” you mused. “I haven’t been to your new place yet, and I missed Alpine.”
“And the team would love it,” Caleb added and Bucky’s gaze stopped on you as if he was torn between ideas, then cleared his throat.
“Yeah, whatever,” he told Caleb who pumped his fist in the air in victory. “Just let me know when.”
“Will do!”
“And I’m not locking Alpine in the room,” he said as he walked into his office. “She gives me an attitude for days when I do that.”
Caleb approached you to plop down on the chair next to your desk.
“Thanks for convincing him.”
“I barely said anything.”
“Well, I’ve been begging him for a week and one word from you…” he trailed off and you shook your head, then turned to him.
“Caleb.”
“Hm?”
“There’s something you need to know as Bucky’s communications director.”
His grin wiped off his face in a second. “What?”
“There’s a journalist,” you said. “And apparently he’s been asking questions about me and Bucky.”
Caleb ran a hand over his face, cussing under his breath.
“Of course,” he said and pulled out his phone. “It was getting a bit too peaceful today, so why not? Be right back.”
You watched him walk out of the office and pressed your hands on your eyes before you dropped them, straightening your back.
“It’s fine,” you murmured to yourself as you turned your attention back to the screen. “It’s totally fine.”
*
As your anxiety would show you; it was not, in fact, fine.
You had spent the whole day working, and now almost everyone had left but Kelsey and Bucky, both of whom were in a meeting with Congressman Murray.
And you. Working overtime.
It was already dark out, and the only thing illuminating the office was your laptop screen. You could feel the migraine slowly making its way to your temples. For the whole day, your chest hadn’t stopped feeling tight, like you couldn’t get enough air into your lungs especially after Max had told you about the journalist. In addition to all that, the work you had to cover was getting bigger and bigger, you still had one hundred pages to go over, and to make the necessary edits.
In other news, you might have bitten more than you could chew.
You typed away at the keyboard, forcing yourself to hum a melody in hopes of calming yourself down before you got up from your chair to make your way to Bucky’s office. You grabbed the file from his desk and went back to your desk, but before you could sit down, your phone buzzed on the desk, the screen lighting up.
From: Dad
We need to talk about the journalist.
And just like that, your line of sight grew narrow, darkness swallowing everything else other than the phone.
To your terror, you could feel the familiar tingling spreading over your face as your throat tightened, the breath you were taking getting stuck there. A fire burned through your chest, twisting your heart harder and harder while it tried to escape from your ribcage. You could feel your whole body beginning to shake, the floor getting wobbly underneath your feet like quicksand as you took a step back, grasping at your throat with one hand.
You’re not dying.
It’s a panic attack, you’re not dying.
Except that you were sinking.
You held onto the desk with one hand and managed to crouch down to sit on the floor as the room started spinning, your heart pounding in your ears. Nausea crashed down on you while you tried to get enough air in your lungs, your other hand balling up into fist tight enough to cramp.
You’re not dying.
You couldn’t even tell if it was tears or cold sweat running down your face; it was probably both. Your hand on your throat slipped down to your chest to press on it in hopes of soothing the pain there while you forced yourself to take another breath.
You’re not dying.
You see a laptop, you see a chair, you see a—
You hadn’t even heard Bucky stepping into the office before he rushed to you, his hands grasping your upper arms, almost frantically checking you for injuries like he wanted to see if you were bleeding.
“Birdie?”
“Not dying,” you managed to gasp out. “Panic attack.”
That made him stop only for a moment, a look of absolute relief crossing his face and he let out a breath.
“Okay,” he said. “You’re breathing very fast right now, can you breathe with me?”
You nodded your head, taking a shaky breath at the same time as him, then exhaled. For almost a minute, you followed his lead and once you weren’t breathing as fast, he gave you a small smile.
“There you go,” he said. “Five things you can see?”
That made your eyes snap to his as you took another breath. “How do you—?”
“Five things,” he said and you exhaled.
“Laptop,” you rasped out. “Chair. Papers. Desk. My fox figure on my desk.”
“Four things you can hear.”
You tried to focus, pulling your brows together.
“Your voice,” you said. “Footsteps from the hallway. AC. Um…”
“One more.”
“The laptop running,” you said, pressing your palm on the floor. “And three things I can feel are…the marble floor, and sweat dripping down the back of my neck, which is fucking disgusting—”
“Birdie, focus.”
“And um, the wind. From the AC.”
“And two things you can—”
“Smell. Your cologne and paper. I just printed a bunch of stuff.”
“And one thing you can taste?”
“Blood. I bit my tongue too hard.”
His eyes searched your face and you let out another shaky breath, exhaustion creeping up on you as you leaned your head back to the wall. Bucky hesitated for a second before he sat beside you, leaning back against the wall.
“How do you know grounding techniques?” you asked after a pause and he shrugged his shoulders.
“Mandatory therapy.”
“Ah,” you said, fixing your eyes on the ceiling. “Interesting.”
“And I’m guessing this is not your first panic attack?” he asked, making you scoff a laugh.
“Nope,” you said. “Been having them since I was like twelve.”
Bucky’s brows pulled into a frown. “Twelve?”
“Yup,” you said. “As it turns out, if you put too much pressure on a kid and yell at them whenever they didn’t meet the expectations, their brain gets messed up. Who would’ve known?”
“I’m going to kill your father.”
“You can’t,” you said. “If he’s dead, who’s gonna go around crossroads to make deals for people’s souls?”
“Birdie.”
“I’m fine,” you said even if your arms felt way too heavy when you raised your hand to wipe the sweat off your forehead. “This happens, no big deal.”
“How often?”
“Not regular,” you said. “Sometimes. But let me tell you, I would not last a day back in the 1940s. I saw those documentaries, my husband would send me off to an asylum and they’d try to lobotomize—”
“I’m giving you time off.”
“Tough shit, I’m not taking it.”
He gave you a look. “I’ll change the locks to the office.”
“I’ll work in the hallway.”
He ran a hand over his face as if he was straining his mind to come up with a solution and you wiggled your brows despite exhaustion.
“Sorry. I guess you shouldn’t have hired me, huh?”
“If I hadn’t hired you, neither of us would be here,” he said and thought for a moment. “Well, I wouldn’t be, at least. You would have probably made someone else win so you’d be here.”
“I wouldn’t have worked for someone else,” you murmured and he licked his lips.
“Please take some time off.”
“Nope.”
“You either take some time off, or I’m hiring someone to help you out with the workload.”
Your eyes widened. “Bucky, no.”
“Bucky yes.”
“I don’t trust anyone else with what I do,” you said. “They’re gonna miss something, some detail and then I’ll have to go over what they did anyway.”
“Either vacation, or this,” he said, his voice signaling this was not open to discussion. “You’re not leaving me with many options here.”
“There is an option!” you exclaimed. “The system we have works.”
“It obviously doesn’t if you haven’t slept in two days and the workload is triggering a panic attack.”
“It didn’t though!” you insisted. “It’s a coincidence, not a chain of events.”
“I’m not risking it.”
You huffed out, slipping a little on the floor and crossing your arms while Bucky’s lips twitched into a fond smile.
“You’re pouting.”
“I’m not pouting, I’m contemplating,” you corrected him and gritted your teeth, then rolled your eyes. “Fine. I’ll give the okay though, whoever you hire. I need to make sure they can handle this whole thing.”
“Didn’t think otherwise.”
You let out a noise of displeasure, exhaustion still heavy on your whole body and you leaned your head on his shoulder with a tired sigh. He dipped his head to nuzzle into your hair, making your stomach do a happy flip and you played with the bracelet around your wrist.
“Bucky?”
He hummed into your hair.
“How did it go with Murray?”
He raised his lips from your hair so that you could hear him; “We’re not talking about work right now.”
“But—”
“Nope.”
“Fine,” you said with a pout. “How are you handling the breakup?”
That made him fall quiet for a moment before he cleared his throat.
“I’m fine.”
You lifted your head and sat up straighter to look up at him better.
“Are you?” you insisted. “For real? Because I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t. I mean no offense but Hazel is kind of perfect.”
“She is,” Bucky said immediately. “She really is, but I don’t think—uh, I don’t think I was the right person for her.
Your heart sped up again but this time instead of dread, all you could feel was excitement rushing through your veins.
“…Oh,” you managed to say. “Why not?”
That made him fall quiet for a moment, his gaze slipping down to your lips before it snapped up to your eyes again. You couldn’t help but notice his throat bobbed nervously, and he took a deep breath as if he was trying to gather up courage.
Which was insane.
You had seen him throw himself in danger over and over again without so much as a second of hesitation.
“Because,” he started, his voice soft, “Birdie, I—”
“Hello?” Kelsey’s voice carried out from the doorway, snapping both of you out of your daze. “Guys?”
You loved Kelsey but you could swear that the urge to scream at her was way too strong.
Bucky closed his eyes for a moment as if he shared the sentiment, then opened them again, his jaw tightening. You sat up straighter and raised your hand from beside the desk.
“Over here, Kels.”
“What the fuck are you two doing on the floor?” Kelsey asked as she made her way to you and you exchanged glances, then turned to her.
“I…we—uh—”
“I think better when I’m sitting on the floor,” Bucky cut you off and Kelsey tilted her head.
“What?”
“Yeah, it’s a habit from the 1940s.”
Kelsey looked from him to you while Bucky stood up, then offered his hand for you to take it, a warmth spreading from your hand to your arm. You were still exhausted, but you looked up at him and mouthed ‘thank you’. Bucky squeezed your hand in an assuring manner, and you turned to Kelsey.
“Are we going home?”
“Sure, let’s.”
“Call me when you get home?” Bucky murmured and you nodded your head, giving him a small smile, then grabbed your purse off the desk and followed Kelsey out of the office.
“Please don’t tell me you two were having sex on the office floor.”
You let out a laugh, then shook your head.
“We were talking about his ex,” you said and cracked your neck, making a face. “And oh, before I forget, Caleb says we’ll have a barbeque at Bucky’s place this Saturday.”
“At Bucky’s place?” she asked. “All of us?”
“Mm hm, the whole team and I think Sam and Sarah will come too.”
Kelsey grinned at you.
“Just let me know if you happen to find yourself in his bedroom and need me to distract others,” she joked. “During the house tour, that is.”
You pushed at her arm gently.
“There’s gonna be people there,” you reminded her. “Lots of people. Hypothetically, even if Bucky liked me like that—”
“Did they raise you in a convent?”
“That would still be impossible,” you said as if she didn’t interrupt you. “Which by the way, he doesn’t.”
“Uh huh.”
“I don’t even think he finds me hot, to be honest with you,” you said. “It’s like Hazel said. He entertains my crush, that’s it.”
Kelsey threw her head back.
“You are so oblivious,” she groaned. “This barbecue—”
“Will be just a barbecue,” you said. “Some PR thing, that’s it. I assure you.”
Hey, ya'll! I've completely repaired all of the links to my fics, this is the new official master list of my fics. If you run into any issues, please feel free to reach out <3
