؛༊ 𓂃 writing ⋮ big cats n' sharks ⋮ F1 & kpop. ⋆˚࿔
ᝰ.ᐟ ּ ֶָ֢. ⤷ MASTERLIST // RULES
𝗔𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗧 𝗠𝗬 𝗪𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 ｡𖦹°‧
⋮ ⌗ ┆ I WRITE LOTS OF THINGS, INCLUDING 𝗦𝗠𝗨𝗧. I WORK ON & POST ONESHOTS (MOSTLY XREADER).
𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘𝗦 ｡𖦹°‧
⋮ ⌗ ┆ I ACCEPT ALL FORMS OF SUPPORT! THOUGH, ANYTHING THAT IS AI-GENERATED, IS PROHIBITED.
this post was formatted & made by my amazing wonderful really sexy and swagalicious homegirl @atelphobist (atelphobist was not at all the person who wrote this)
𝒪𝓃ℯ 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃ℊ 𝓎ℴ𝓊𝓇 𝓁ℴℴ𝓀𝒾𝓃ℊ 𝒻ℴ𝓇𝓌𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝓉ℴ 𝓇𝓃༯ Going to the Orlando metro area with my man and my best friend.
𝒴ℴ𝓊𝓇 𝒷𝒾ℊℊℯ𝓈𝓉 𝒹𝓇ℯ𝒶𝓂༯ Fulfillment, meaning, and peace. Also to become an actress but also a figure for other black women and guide us till I can't anymore.
𝒮ℴ𝓃ℊ 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉'𝓈 𝓅ℯ𝓇𝓂𝒶𝓃ℯ𝓃𝓉𝓁𝓎 ℴ𝓃 𝓇ℯ𝓅ℯ𝒶𝓉༯ I literally can't choose but artist that I'm rarely gonna skip are: Miguel, Beyoncé, Megan Thee Stallion, Iyla, & Arctic Moneys.
hair color: i have a split dye, one side is my natural brown the other side is pink and green
favorite colors: pink and green (shocker, i know)
favorite drink: big fan of ice water
one thing you love about yourself: my own sense of humor, i genuinely believe i’m the funniest person on the planet
if you could be any animal, what would you be: a chihuahua specifically owned by myself or my husband. we love our little ratdogs 🫶
dream place to visit: i’ve always wanted to go to new zealand, ireland and greece
one thing you’re looking forward to right now: i’m going to the beach tomorrow!
my biggest dream: i’d love to own an animal rescue 🥺
song permanently on repeat: currently summer disease by millington
no pressure tags: @satorusdollie @satorusdreamer @hotties4gojo @satoruined @lunarkyn @oporotheca @iamsoclone @serpenttine @plaguecxlt @siennayaps + whoever would like to join
You train at a gritty underground boxing gym on the wrong side of town. Nothing too fancy—cracked walls and mirrors, mats with mysterious substances, the smell of sweat and liniment. It's the only place that allows you to turn off your mind and allow your body to take over.
Jabber has been here longer.
He's got a reputation—cocky, sharp-tongued, fights dirty but good. Light skin always glistening, dreads tied back, that infuriating grin plastered on his face like he knows something about you that you don't...maybe he did.
Until you showed up.
You're not as flashy as him, but you were relentless. You never quit. You take hits and keep coming back, and for the first time in a long time...Jabber has to try.
He hates it.
He loves it.
The gym is loud—gloves smacking, feet shuffling, someone yelling in the corner like they're some top-tier coach.
You set your bag down and started wrapping your hands when a tall shadow falls over you.
"New face. Cute."
You don't look up.
"If you're gonna flirt, at least buy me dinner first."
He laughs, low, dangerous, surprised.
"Nah, I'd rather see if you can back up that mouth."
You finish wrapping your hands, finally meeting his gaze.
"You first, pretty boy."
The grin that spreads across his face is evil.
"Oh, I'm gonna enjoy this."
He jerks his chin toward the ring. Doesn't wait for your answer — just turns and walks, rolling his shoulders like he's shaking off a lazy afternoon. You follow because there's no way you're backing down now. Not in front of him. Not in front of anyone.
Someone tosses you a pair of gloves. You catch them one-handed, never taking your eyes off him.
He's already in the ring, bouncing on the balls of his feet, loose and ready. His dreads are pulled back tight. That stupid grin is still plastered on his face.
"Don't worry, newbie. I'll go easy on you."
"Don't."
His eyes flicker. Something shifts in them — surprise? Interest? — before he masks it with a laugh.
"Bold words for someone about to get their ass handed to 'em."
You step through the ropes. The bell rings.
And then there's no more talking.
He's fast. You knew he would be, but knowing and feeling are two different things. He moves like water — slips your first jab, ducks your second, comes up inside your guard and taps your ribs twice before you can react.
"Gotta be quicker than that, baby."
You grit your teeth. Reset. Watch his feet this time.
He circles. You circle. The gym fades out — the shouting, the smacking gloves, the smell of sweat. All of it disappears until there's only him. His breath. His movement. The tiny tells you're starting to read.
He throws a jab. You slip it.
He follows with a cross. You block.
His eyes widen — just a fraction — and you move.
You step into him, close the distance, and drive a hook into his side. Not full power. Just enough to let him know you're paying attention.
He stumbles half a step. Recovers. And when he looks at you again, that grin is gone.
In its place is something hungrier.
"...Okay."
He rolls his neck. Settles back into his stance.
"Okay."
The round ends. Then another. Then another.
You lose count of how many times he hits you. You also lose count of how many times you hit him back. By the end, your ribs are screaming, your knuckles are raw, and there's a split in his lip that's dripping blood down his chin.
He doesn't wipe it away.
He just stands there, chest heaving, eyes locked on you like you're the most interesting thing he's seen in years.
"Same time tomorrow?"
You pull off your glove with your teeth. Spit out the Velcro.
"I got class until six."
"Seven, then. Don't keep me waiting."
He winks — actually winks — and drops out of the ring like he hasn't just spent the last hour trying to knock your head off.
You watch him grab his bag and head for the door.
He stops at the exit. Looks back over his shoulder.
"Oh, and newbie?"
He tosses something at you. You catch it — a protein bar. Cheap brand. The kind that tastes like cardboard.
"Eat something. You're gonna be sore tomorrow."
And then he's gone.
You look down at the protein bar in your hand.
You don't even like protein bars.
But you eat it anyway.
It's a few weeks later. Late. The gym is empty except for the two of you.
Everyone else cleared out hours ago. The lights are dimmed — just a few overheads still buzzing — and the only sounds are the rain against the corrugated roof and the heavy rhythm of your breathing.
You've been sparring for over an hour. Both of you are exhausted, moving slow, breathing hard. He's got you in the corner, throwing lazy jabs that you're blocking with heavy arms.
"Tired, pretty boy?"
"You first."
He laughs — breathless, genuine — and drops his hands.
"Alright. Truce."
You lower your guard. He steps closer. Closer than he needs to.
The rain is pounding on the roof. The lights are flickering. His face is half in shadow, half in fluorescent glow, and he's looking at you like he's trying to memorize something.
"You know I been comin' here longer than you."
"I know."
"I never waited for anyone before."
Your throat goes tight.
"...I know."
He reaches out. Slow. Like he's giving you every chance to move away. His hand cups the back of your neck, warm and calloused and gentle in a way that doesn't match anything you know about him.
"Tell me to stop."
His voice is barely a whisper. His forehead presses against yours.
"Tell me to stop, and I will. I swear."
You grab his shirt. Pull him closer.
"Don't."
He kisses you like he's been holding his breath for weeks.
Like you're the first real thing he's let himself want in a long time. His hands slide into your hair, your jaw, your waist — pulling you against him like he's trying to close a distance that's been killing him.
You kiss him back just as hard. Teeth and tongue and the taste of sweat and copper. His back hits the ropes and you follow, pressing into him, and he groans against your mouth.
But then — he moves.
One hand drops to your thigh. Grips. Lifts. You're suddenly off balance, your back hitting the corner post, and he's there — crowding into your space, pinning you between the wood and his body.
He whispered against your throat. "Nah. My turn."
Your breath catches.
"...Yeah?"
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark. That infuriating grin is gone — replaced by something hungry. Something that makes your stomach flip.
"You been runnin' that mouth since day one."
His hand slides from your thigh to your hip. Squeezes. Hard enough to leave a mark.
"Think it's time I did somethin' about it."
He doesn't ask.
He takes.
His mouth is on your throat — teeth scraping, tongue soothing, leaving marks that'll bruise by morning. His hands find the hem of your shirt and yank it over your head before you can breathe.
"Been thinkin' about this."
Breathless. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Bite to your collarbone. "Every time you landed a hit. Every time you looked at me like you wanted to kill me."
"I didn't wanna—"
"Yeah, you did."
He pulls back. Looks you dead in the eye.
"You wanted this just as bad as I did. Don't lie to me."
You can't. You can't lie to him. Not when he's looking at you like that.
"...Yeah."
He grins. Sharp. Victorious.
"Good."
He spins you around. Pushes you face-first into the corner post. Your hands catch the ropes on either side, and you feel the heat of his chest against your back, his breath hot against your ear.
"You're gonna take what I give you."
"And you're gonna love it."
He doesn't wait for an answer.
His hands work your shorts open. His mouth traces down your spine. And when he finally — finally — gives you what you've both been craving, your head falls forward, your knuckles go white on the ropes, and his name falls from your lips like a prayer.
"That's it."
"Let me hear you."
"Let the whole block know who's got you."
He takes his time.
He's thorough. Methodical. Every movement is deliberate — designed to pull sounds out of you that you didn't know you could make. His hand finds your hair, grips, pulls your head back so your spine arches.
"Look at you."
"So tough in the ring."
"And now you're mine."
You can't argue. You don't want to.
Because he's right.
When you finally come undone — back against his chest, his mouth on your neck, his hand working you through it — he follows close behind, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath ragged and warm against your skin.
"...Fuck."
You laugh weakly. Dizzy. Spent.
"Yeah."
He pulls out slow. Careful. Turns you around to face him.
His hands cup your face. His thumbs trace your cheekbones. He's looking at you like you're something precious — which is funny, considering how roughly he just handled you.
"You good?"
"...Never better."
He smiles. Soft. Real.
"Good."
He kisses you. Slow. Lazy. Like he's got all the time in the world.
You're both still in the ring. The mat is a mess. You're a mess. He's a mess.
He's sitting against the corner post, legs stretched out, one arm wrapped around your shoulders. You're leaning into his side, too tired to move, too satisfied to care.
"Same time tomorrow?"
You snort.
"You tryna kill me?"
"Maybe."
He grins. You shove him. He laughs. Pulls you closer.
"Nah. I'm just... not done with you yet."
You look up at him. He's already looking down at you.
"...Yeah. Same time tomorrow."
thanks for the tag @atelphobist 😘😘
؛༊ • [𝗽𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗮𝗴 𝗴𝗮𝗺𝗲] : ⤷ song lyrics ; color ; character ; place ; outfit & aesthetic!
@k1ssyoursister, @keirawritessometimesss, @bebx + any baddy who wants to join
➸ Synopsis: “Wooow.” Yelena scans the living area of your room, walking around and poking at various things. “It’s much tidier than I thought, given you’ve been practically hiding away in here the past month.”
All you can do is stand, fidgeting as you watch her flit around the room before heading into your bedroom. Quickly, you follow behind. “I have not been hiding. I was just in the kitchen, wasn’t I?”
“Ah, you’re right, that was inaccurate.” She flops onto the bed before startling you with a serious expression. “You only hide away when Bucky’s here.”
➸ Notes: Reader's powers are inspired by Heartrenders from Six of Crows! I love the idea of being able to sense and control other people's bodies (hearts, lungs, blood, etc.) and how it affects someone living with that ability. I hope it came across well. Poor Reader doesn't know how much her team actually cares for her. It reminds me of that one clip from Meet the Robinsons where Goob is getting complimented and says, "They all hated me."
(づ-̩̩̩-̩̩̩_-̩̩̩-̩̩̩)づ Anyways, this is my first smut so please be gentle.
➸ Word Count: 8,805
Masterlist 🌒
Send me writing requests or just chat here, I’m lonely (ृ ु ´͈ ᵕ `͈ )ु
“Sir, please we don’t want trouble. There are kids here.” A woman, maybe in her late thirties, manages to say through her tears.
“Shut up and keep your head down.” One of the gunmen kicks the office desk she’s pressed against, making her cry harder.
Including the asshole scaring the woman, nine heartbeats thrum against your senses. Their breaths are quick but deep as they try to hold their composure. In situations like this, the robbers know that if the thirty-four civilians packed into the bank sense weakness, they’ll lose control fast.
Most of the hostages are clustered near the front entrance. It’s hard to focus only on the robbers heartbeats from this distance without accidentally killing someone or knocking out a civilian.
Finally, you catch hold of all nine, steady and taut inside your chest, as if they’re your own. With a breath, you begin to slow them. Slower. Another breath. Slower, and—
“I’m just saying this isn’t an Avengers-level threat.” Walker’s voice cuts through the silence, his “whisper” nowhere near as quiet as he thinks. It takes everything in you not to shove him out of the air duct you’re crouched in.
“Yeah, well, we’re not actually Avengers, so suck it up and let’s get this done.” Yelena elbows John aside, shimmying forward until she’s peering through the grate with you.
“We’ve got two down in the back. Bankers are safe in the vault. Bucky’s pursuing the last guy who tried to head for the roof… oh, never mind, we’ve got three down.” Ava’s voice crackles through your earpiece. You huff and pull it out.
“Can you two please shut up for one minute so I can concentrate?” You glare at Yelena and John before refocusing on the people below.
You feel the closest heart. You seize it. Then the next. Then—
“That’s it. You’re taking too long.” John interrupts, and before you or Yelena can react, he drops from the vent straight into the crowd.
“Shit.”
“Goddamn it.”
Both you and Yelena hiss before following him down.
You strip off your gloves, twist around one gunman, and press your hand to his neck. His heart seizes instantly, dropping him unconscious.
Another lunges for you. You dodge, barely, but Yelena is already there, taking him down with ease. Fighting has never been your strength; distance is safer, even if it takes longer to get a hold.
Your heartbeat spikes, except it’s not yours. Another gunman has grabbed a civilian, pressing his gun to her head. Hands raised in a mock surrender, you draw his heart into your chest. After a few seconds, you’ve got him. You stop it.
But in that final split second before blacking out, his finger pulls the trigger.
The shot is deafening. You don’t think, you just tackle the woman to the ground. Miraculously, you’re both unharmed. A quick check confirms she’s shaken but fine, so you’re back on your feet, sprinting toward the next gunman.
You lunge for his neck, but instead of skin your hand closes around a blade. Pain sears your palm as the man whirls, knife flashing toward your torso. He doesn’t get the chance, John slams his shield into him, knocking him flat, and kicks his head to keep him down.
Clutching your bleeding hand, you glare at John’s smug grin.
“You’re welcome,” he smirks before striding off.
The fight ends within seconds, though it felt like forever. As the team confirms the building is clear, you snag the knife, slice off a strip of your undershirt, and bind your palm tight. The gash isn’t deep, but it burns. Placing your gloves back on, you exhale sharply.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Quiet. Quick. Controlled. That was the plan, to minimize casualties. Your power isn’t meant for large groups; you should have been stationed in the back, where only three gunmen held their ground.
Normally, that’s what would’ve happened. You and Bucky had learned to work well together. He understood how much focus you needed, and his steady confidence in you made the job easier.
Now, though, concentration around him is next to impossible and the shame of why burns in your chest as you take in the aftermath.
Joining the others, you help guide the civilians out of the building. The evening sun is so bright it stings your eyes, forcing you to adjust after so long in an air duct. Behind the police barrier, the gathered crowd cheers, watching as hostages stumble into the arms of loved ones. You can’t help the small smile that curves your lips when you see the woman you saved throw her arms around her husband. His hands cradle her face as he kisses her forehead, relief written in every line of his body. That kind of life has never been in the cards for you, as much as you’ve ached for it. This line of work never allows for that kind of connection, and it doesn’t help that almost everyone you’ve met is afraid of you.
Across the crowd, Bucky strides toward the police, gesturing at the building as he no doubt gives instructions on containing the gunmen. Even from here you can feel his heart, steady and strong, threatening to stop your own. His metal arm catches the sunlight, flashing bright and your chest tightens. What you’d give to have his hands on you. He’s always so gentle, aware of the strength he carries. And his eyes, so soft despite everything he’s been through, always look at you like he can see right into your soul. Like now, as you realize you’ve been staring far too long. He’s noticed, of course. That crooked smile of his spreads, and you whip your head away. God, this is exactly why you can’t be near him, you lose focus and end up looking like a lovestruck idiot.
He starts moving toward you, cutting through the crowd, and your chest constricts. Before he can reach you, someone calls your name. You turn, grateful for the interruption until you see Val, waving you over toward the press.
Of course.
This has become your unofficial role on the team: stuck answering questions while the others get to pose for a few photos and head home.
“There she is. Isn’t she adorable?” Valentina trills, far too enthusiastic for the aftermath of a robbery. “She’s captured the hearts of people all across the world.”
You turn your head to hide the eye-roll threatening to break free. How long had she spent thinking of that line? From the looks of it, you’re the only one not amused. Bucky and Yelena stand nearby, the latter trying to suppress a laugh but failing miserably, until Ava calls them both away, clearly eager to return to the Watchtower.
With a long breath, you resign yourself to answering questions, hoping to wrap things up quickly enough to follow and maybe get back before sunset.
—————————————————————
After nearly two hours of standing under hot lights, dealing with Val, and forcing a smile, you finally make it to the tower. Exhaustion from the completely avoidable fight seeps into your bones. All you want is your bed.
The sound of arguing greets you before you even feel the quickened heartbeats in the common area. Suppressing a groan, you drag your feet toward the voices.
“This is ridiculous. I analyzed the situation, saw they were getting antsy, and made a tactical decision,” John Walker snaps, his voice rising with irritation. As you step sheepishly into the large room, his eyes snap to yours. “I wouldn’t have had to if she did her job.”
Don’t stop his heart. Don’t. It would be so easy, but then you’d have to dodge his shield when he woke up. Instead, you settle for rolling your eyes.
“Walker.” Bucky’s voice cuts across the room, sharp with warning. He leans against the wall, arms folded, watching.
“It’s not her fault you can’t keep your fat mouth shut, John,” Yelena drawls from the couch, sprawled out with a bag of chips. You drop into the only empty seat beside her.
“It was an easy job, and you couldn’t even handle it,” John fires back. “If you can’t fight, you should at least be able to do your… magic body stuff or whatever.”
“Magic body stuff?” Ava echoes mockingly, reaching over to steal chips from Yelena. “Don’t look at me like that. Bucky and I did our job. It’s not our fault you can’t.”
You lean forward, elbows braced on your knees, pushing your hair back with gloved hands. Being stuck with the world’s most unstable team is a challenge at the best of times. And you can’t even argue, because technically, John’s right, it was your fault. Ava should’ve taken your position, the three of them working the guards one by one. Still, no one hits your nerves quite like Walker does.
“You know,” you mutter, your voice quiet and tired, “next time I could just take the air from your lungs, Walker. Maybe then you’d stay quiet long enough for me to do my job.”
The room goes still, their heartbeats pounding louder in your ears. It’s absurd. You can barely knock out a room full of people for more than a few moments, let alone actually hurt someone unless your bare hands are on them. Even in a room full of seasoned killers, no one is immune to fearing what you can do.
“Oh wow, you guys look terrible.” Bob breezes into the room with a chuckle, climbing to his usual perch by the window.
You seize the chance for escape, pushing to your feet. “That was a joke. And I’m sorry, I’ll do better next time.”
They laugh it off, eager to let the tension shift, but you’re not listening. You slip toward the elevator, pain shoots up your hand as you press the button for your apartment's floor. The doors nearly close, until Bucky slides in at the last second. Exactly what you need to end your night: another opportunity to embarrass yourself.
You keep your gaze fixed on the panel as he presses a button. Not his floor, but to the infirmary.
Your eyes snap up, scanning him for any sign of injury. By now, you're attuned to his body; the rhythm of his heart, the way his lungs expand with each breath, the steady flow of blood through his veins. Everything moves faster than it should, a result of the serum, while the dull aches lingering beneath it all belong to a man far older than he looks. Chronic pain aside, everything is functioning exactly as it should.
Still, Bucky is good at hiding things, even from you. His control over his own body is remarkable, and considering his past, it isn't surprising.
“You’re hurt?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, worry overriding caution.
He stands tall, eyes on the glowing numbers. Only when the elevator slows does he glance at you, his brow lifting slightly. “No. But you are.”
Heat rushes up your neck. His eyes flick to your gloved hand, then back to your face. You’d forgotten about it completely, too caught up in the press and your exhaustion.
“It’s just a scratch, Bucky.”
His gaze softens, impossibly so, and it takes effort not to shrink beneath it. He shrugs, turning back to the doors. “Even scratches need to be taken care of. And that—” he gestures to your hand “—is not a scratch. You couldn’t even press the button without wincing.”
Damn ex-assassin always noticing everything.
After following him inside, you sit in the empty infirmary, watching as he pulls items out of drawers. You can’t help but take a deep breath, the room blissfully quiet as opposed to the war zone upstairs. The heart filling your chest is strong, soothing all of the nerves from the day as he lays out the disinfectant and wrap next to you.
Suddenly, he’s far closer than you thought he was. You had been too relaxed, and now his hand is open in front of you, waiting. Looking at him in question, you’re taken aback by the soft creases in his eyes as he smiles.
“Your hand.”
Hesitating, you slowly begin to remove your glove, and immediately pause. Bucky’s heart spikes, his breath hitching. To a normal person, looking at him you’d never know, his face gives nothing away. To you, though, it’s clear as day.
“I can do it, Buck.” You swallow the hurt, not wanting him to feel bad for being afraid when he’s the one trying to help.
His brows furrow before he steps closer, removing the glove for you.
You’re practically holding your breath as he unwraps your hand, his heartbeat steady once more. His flesh hand cradles yours, his metal one gently dabbing antiseptic over the cut. His hand is surprisingly soft, though it’s not as if you can compare it to many others.
You wince as the cut burns, instead focusing on the way his thumb moves in slow circles over the back of your hand.
“For the record, I think removing all the air from Walker’s lungs is a great idea.” His eyes lift to yours, humor flickering in them. “Or I could show you how to punch him properly, knock the wind outta him. Same result, and way more satisfying.”
A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it. “I don’t think his ego would recover from that.”
“I don’t know, he’d probably manage. A little humility wouldn’t hurt.” Buckys pauses, “You really did great. I know you weren’t expecting a fight, and they should’ve been more careful.” His whole demeanor shifts, jaw tight as he stares at your palm before beginning to wrap it. “This shouldn’t have happened.”
“Well, he’s not totally wrong, Bucky. I should’ve seen the knife. I could’ve gotten someone hurt... or worse.” His thigh presses against yours as he secures the wrap, and you feel how close he is, his presence overwhelming. His head is bent, his hair falling forward, and you have to fight the urge to push it back so you can see him more clearly. Clearing your throat, you force yourself to look away. “I need to improve my combat skills, it’s not like I can spend all my time talking to the press.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Don’t see why not. You’re good at it. Better than I was, you should’ve seen the interviews during my congressional run.” Oh, you’ve seen every one of them, but he doesn’t need to know that. “I think you’ve really captured everyone’s hearts.”
You groan. “Just for that, I’m sticking the press on you next time. You can tell them how worrying the robbery was.”
He laughs at that and in his concentration finishing the wrap, you watch as he catches his bottom lip, wetting it. Oh no.
Before he can give a snide reply, you’re standing, tucking your hand safely back into the glove. His face is surprised as you put distance between the two of you. This is way, way, way worse than you thought. “Thank you, Bucky. I, uh, I’m really tired so I should…” You gesture to the elevator with your thumb. Not waiting for a reply, you quickly make your exit.
———————————————————————
The kitchen is warm, the evening sun shining softly through the windows, perfectly from your seat at the dining table. Every now and then, you pull your eyes from your book, focusing your senses on those in the building, and tracing your gloved palm. The mark underneath now faded to just a scar.
“Stop sticking your hand in the box,” Bob complains, trying to snatch the cereal box from Alexie.
“I got it, I got it, don’t worry.” He pulls out a tiny figurine, but his enthusiasm drops as soon as he sees it. He clicks his tongue. “Ghost, why is it always Ghost, huh? Why not Red Guardian? My figure looks much cooler.”
“Because people love me,” Ava says from across from you, feet propped on the table, tossing a crumpled wrapper in the air and catching it.
“It’s easier to mass-produce, you wear a mask so the cereal company doesn’t have to spend more trying to detail a face.” You interject before feeling the wrapper hit your head. “Or it’s because people love you.”
Alexie places the figure on the shelf, in line with the rest of his collection. You turn your senses back to the building… still nothing, but it’s been a few hours, so it should be any time now.
“What’s wrong with you, huh? You’re all twitchy and weird-looking.”
Realizing Alexie is talking to you, you pull your focus back before overcompensating with a laugh. “I’m not twitchy. I’m reading.”
“You haven’t turned the page in 30 minutes,” Yelena sits on the counter, now holding the cereal box, snacking.
“Sometimes when I’m reading,” Bob interjects, “I— uh— read a whole page and when I get to the end I realize I wasn’t paying attention, so I have to start all over. Does that happen to anyone else?”
You snap your finger into a point at him. “Exactly.”
“No,” Ava replies at the same time as you.
As your eyes fall back to the page, you get a faint sense of two people arriving at the building. Snapping the book shut with a clap, you stand. “I can’t pay attention, I think I’ll finish in my room.”
“You’re not staying for dinner again?” Bob says, the frown causing a crease between his eyebrows, almost making you want to stay.
Almost.
“I ate a big lunch. Not hungry.” You reply, making your way toward the exit.
“Hmm shocker.” Ava drawls, sitting up and scanning you with her eyes.
“When the others get back just text me the updates on the weapon manufacturers.” You rush out, eager to exit. All you see before leaving the room is Ava giving an exasperated thumbs up at you.
You try to not look behind you as you walk through the halls and up to your floor because you can feel Yelena following you. Failing, you chance a glance over your shoulder, only to be greeted by her smile, way too excited. “Aren’t you staying for dinner?”
“Ah,” she pretends to think, “no.”
Finally, you arrive at your door, and before you can attempt to bid her goodnight, Yelena slips through and into your room.
“Wooow.” She scans the living area, walking around and poking at various things. “It’s much tidier than I thought, given you’ve been practically hiding away in here the past month.”
All you can do is stand, fidgeting as you watch her flit around the room before heading into your bedroom. Quickly, you follow behind. “I have not been hiding. I was just in the kitchen, wasn’t I?”
“Ah, you’re right, that was inaccurate.” She flops onto the bed before startling you with a serious expression. “You only hide away when Bucky’s here.”
Shit. Shit shit shit. Of course, she’d be the one to notice. You scoff, “I have not been hiding from Bucky. What reason could I possibly have to do that?”
“Now see, that is what I have been trying to figure out. But, you can’t lie to me, you are definitely hiding from him.” Checking various pockets in her pants, then her hoodie, she pulls out her phone. “On the 2nd, you finally left your room and went to the gym to walk on the treadmill, after 5 minutes you rushed back here saying you were already tired. Bucky returned from seeing Sam early, just a few minutes later. The 11th, you practically sprinted up the stairs from the common room, only for Bucky to show up with groceries.”
“That’s not—”
“And right now, let’s see. Ah yes,” she turns the screen around, and you watch the security footage of John and Bucky entering the elevator.
You groan, resigning to sitting on your bed, holding your head in your hands. It’s been exhausting, avoiding the man. You thought that if you just went a few days without seeing him, all of the stupid feelings swarming your brain would go away. Until a few days turned into weeks, then a month. It feels like the longer you go without facing him, the worse it seems to get. “Alright. Fine, yeah I’ve been hiding from him. Mystery solved. Are you happy?”
“No, see, I care more about the why. Did you do something to upset him? Because whatever it was it couldn’t be worse than whatever John does daily. And besides, he has a soft spot for you.”
You try to ignore that last part. “No.”
“Mmm, did he do something to upset you then?”
“Yelena—”
“Oh oh, I know!” Glaring, you take in her excitement at your expense. “You accidentally saw him changing after a mission. It would make sense, those military guys always just find a corner rather than a room with a lock like a normal person.”
Your cheeks burn red at the thought, and immediately you realize your mistake. She’s standing in an instant, the dawning smile taking over her face.
“Oooo no, it’s that you wish to see that, isn’t it?” Your mouth gaps at her. Wanting to refute her, but she’s obviously not going to be convinced she’s wrong.
“It’s not—“
“No, no listen I get it. He’s attractive for a man who is over a century old, people go crazy for that, not me but people, sure.” She pops up, pacing in front of you. “And the arm. It has an appeal, I can see how it could add to it.” Suddenly she stops, turning to you with a clap of her hands. “I will help you.”
She’ll… what? “No, absolutely not, Lena he’s basically our coworker, I don’t want help sleeping with him. In fact, I’m actively trying to not.”
“Of course not,” she says in mock offense. “What I meant was locking away in your room will do nothing for the problem. No, what I’m saying is, you need to get laid.”
That’s somehow so much worse. The thought of going out and finding a stranger to sleep with has never been appealing. Sure, going to a bar and flirting is fun, but as the night goes on, there's always the question of removing the gloves. It’s always felt wrong, lying and making up excuses about why you have to keep them on. The reality is, it would take one moment for you to end someone’s life with your hands on them, and it would be unfair for them not to know.
However, the biggest issue currently isn’t that. Bucky being attractive is an objective truth. It was somehow easier to write off the moments where your eyes would catch on Bucky’s hands, wondering how they’d feel on your thighs, or his lips behind your ear. Because if you just turned away, you could think of something else entirely. But the ache in your chest, of wanting the simple act of his hand in your own again, or your mind constantly trying to find ways to make him smile, is much harder to shake. It’s as if your mind is conjuring a shadow in every waking moment, morphing images of what it might be like to have him there. But he’s not, and he never will be, and that harsh reality is devastating, as if you’re mourning a life you’ll never be allowed.
So, you’ll continue your distance, wallowing in the grief silently. At least you were… until you had a spy determined to bring it all up to the ugly surface.
“I don’t want to sleep with a stranger, alright.” There’s no fight left in you, only the hope she’ll just drop it.
Yelena stands for a moment, her earlier energy dipping. You’re surprised by the way her breath hitches in her lungs. “Oh no,” she says softly, as though the realization of how deep you are is dawning on her. “I was wrong.”
You can't even hide the horror on your face as she stands, suddenly much more serious. The only words echoing in your mind are just drop it. “Oh, this is much harder to fix.”
You can’t hide the tears that threaten to spill. Instead, you turn away, finding something to keep you busy, but nothing is enough to stop the feeling of your chest constricting. “There’s no fixing this. The reality is, I’m running around the tower, hiding, and he probably hasn’t even noticed.” You can’t help but let out a sharp laugh. “It’s like Walker said, I can’t fight, I’m a terrible shot, I’m a liability in any instance against more than four people.”
She tries to cut in, but you don’t let her. “People are scared of me. I feel it. I feel it in you, I feel it in the rest of the team, and I’ve felt it every time I’ve ever tried to get close to someone.” You can’t keep the bitterness out of your voice. “I can’t kiss someone without feeling it. Can’t hold them. You know, I haven’t accidentally killed or hurt someone since I was seven, and still, I have to wear these stupid gloves because otherwise, people are too afraid to be within arm's length of me. I’m not allowed to love someone, because they will never, ever, truly want to love me.”
Your voice is raised, the weight of everything finally breaking through, and you can hear the tremor in your words.
“I didn’t—” Before Yelena can say whatever comfort she was planning, you're both startled by Ava.
“Oh my god, don’t do that!” Yelena shouts, as Ava clicks her mask open.
“I told you to stop phasing into my room.” You turn after blinking away any tears, using the distraction to compose yourself.
“The door was unlocked. Anyway, we’re meeting on the roof in ten. Apparently, the people we think stole all of the weapons material got a heads-up that we’re looking into them. We need to get there before they’re gone.” Before either of you can ask any questions, she’s gone.
The journey up to the roof is tense. Yelena looks like she’s fighting to continue the conversation, but you spend the entire jet ride in silence, avoiding eye contact with both her and Bucky. It’s not just you who’s upset; everyone seems frustrated, and it’s easy to see why. You’ve received reports of stolen military-grade material and finally connected the dots to the organization responsible. If they complete whatever weapons they’re mass-producing, there’s no telling who they’ll sell to or what those buyers plan to do with them.
The team silently makes its way to a large warehouse that seems empty. According to your reports, however, it leads to an entire operation beneath the building.
“I’m not picking up any activity,” Yelena says.
“Me neither. Can you sense anything?” Bucky looks at you, his brow creased.
You move away from him, crouching down. This is bad. “No. Not even one person. They must’ve already packed up. They could be anywhere by now.”
“Well, we don’t know that for sure. Let’s see if anyone’s down there,” Walker says, leading the way down a tunnel. The rest of you follow behind. When you reach the opening, you see it. The ‘basement’ is essentially another warehouse, but in much better condition than the one above.
Bucky takes charge, pointing to the two levels of the basement. “Alright. There are two stories. Yelena, lead Walker and Ava on this level. Look for anyone we didn’t pick up, or anything we can use to locate them. If you find any material or blueprints, bring them back. We can use them to figure out what they’re planning to build. Meet back at the jet in an hour.”
They all nod, Ava speaking up. “What about you two?”
Bucky responds, “We’ll take the second floor. It’s smaller, likely used for storage, not building.” Before you can say more, everyone moves in different directions. Yelena waits for you, her concern evident, but you nod at her reassuringly, letting her know you’ll be fine.
“Come on,” Bucky says, all hard edges. He usually is in the middle of a mission, his mind focused entirely on the task at hand, constantly aware of anything that could go wrong. Hopefully, he’ll be too distracted to notice just how not fine you are.
You crouch together near the stairs and listen. It’s hard to focus on anything past the pounding of your own heart. “Clear.”
As usual, you stick close to Bucky’s back, following him as he leads the way, his gun drawn. Both of you scan the area, but soon, his hand drops, holstering the gun. Though seemingly more relaxed, you can feel the frustration in him. He was right about this floor being smaller. The ceiling is normal height, as opposed to the expansive space upstairs.
The floor is mostly open, with only a few scattered rooms. You both spend time flipping through scattered papers and checking drawers. It becomes clear that they had a head start, and there’s almost nothing left.
Across the room, you watch Bucky’s back as he searches. His muscles tighten under the leather, and his hair, once neatly pushed back, falls in loose waves. Turning quickly, you run a hand over your heated face. Just get this done. One hour, then you can go back to the peace of your room.
Your eyes catch on one of the open rooms near the back, and you decide to check it out. The doorway is lined in metal with a panel on the side. Inside, it’s small, clearly just for storage, though the shelves lining the walls are bare. There’s a small metal table in the middle. You tap your finger on it, taking a moment to just breathe.
“We might not even need the whole hour; they’ve already cleared out,” Bucky says, startling you. You hadn’t even realized he’d followed you inside.
“Maybe we should just go back upstairs to help. They might’ve forgotten something there.” Your heart constricts; the distance you were trying to keep has now dwindled significantly, and you’re eager to get out of the room before the ex-assassin can try to question you.
A beep sounds and as you try make your way out of the room, you're jolted back. Bucky pulls you back towards his chest, and right where you stood, a metal door slams shut with a force that absolutely would’ve hurt you. Staring, you try to calm your rapid breaths as the reality of it seeps in. You’ve both just been locked in, and there’s no handle.
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks. You realize with a jolt that you’re still against his chest, his hands holding your arms where he grabbed you, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles while you calm yourself.
All at once, you try to put as much distance as you can. Which, in the tiny room —no, not room, vault— is not much at all. His eyes scan you, his heart still as fast as your own, before he turns to the sealed door. Watching as he attempts to pry it open, you try to shake the way his chest felt against your back, and the need lingering for wanting him there again.
One month, and all of these feelings are so much worse off, it’s as if you never left that stupid infirmary. “There has to be a way out.”
“There is.” He turns, hand resting on his hip. “The panel out there can open it.”
Pressing the comm in your ear, you try to reach someone from the upper level, only to be met with deafening silence. You lean against the far wall, trying to look more casual than you feel, though the way your chest is rising in panic is evidence enough. Surely they’ll notice and come for you both, right?
How fast do people run out of air in a room this size? Is it a few hours or a few minutes? With how fast you’re breathing, it’ll probably be much sooner. The vault is only dimly lit by one hanging bulb, and it feels as if everything is collapsing into darkness. There’s pressure on your face, and you feel as though everything is constricting until you register the cool metal.
“You need to slow your breathing.” As your eyes adjust, blurry from tears you didn’t even know had appeared, you see Bucky standing in front of you. His hands softly cup your face. “You can feel mine, can’t you? Take it in, follow the way I’m breathing.”
You can feel it. His breath is strong and slow, though his heartbeat is faster than his usual pace. Still, you hold onto the feeling, the way it melds into your chest as if it belongs there. As the panic from being stuck subsides, a far worse panic seeps in as you realize just how close he is. Your face heats under his hands, and he licks his lips before pulling away. You could’ve sworn he was pulling you closer.
“It’s a weapons vault, only made to keep things in. The others will realize we’re missing; we just gotta hold tight for an hour.” He moves a few steps away, leaning against the table. “Maybe less if Yelena comes down to check on you.”
Your head snaps up at that. “Why would she do that?”
In the dim light, you can barely make out the way his eyes squint as he stares. “Dunno, but she spent the entire ride looking like she was waiting for you to collapse. Or the way she was glued to your side even after I gave her orders to lead the others upstairs.”
Licking your lips nervously, you turn from his interrogating gaze. “I wasn’t feeling well earlier; she probably was just worried.”
His head nods. “That why you weren’t going to dinner?”
“Yes.”
“Mmm.” His metal finger taps the table a few times as he chews over his words. Kicking off the table, he takes a step in your direction. “That why you’ve been missing almost every dinner the past month?”
Oh god. Every worst-case scenario you ran through in your head seems to hit you full force. Clearing your throat, you put on the most convincing face you can. “Yeah, I, uh, just have been really busy.”
Two more steps.
“That why you’ve been avoiding me all month?”
He noticed. Of course, he noticed. If Yelena did, then the man you’d been actively running from would, too. Your hand fidgets with your glove, suddenly very aware of the scar and the realization that came with it. “I wasn’t—”
Two more steps, and suddenly Bucky is back where he was just moments ago, and your chest seems to tighten again. “You were. You still are. I don’t know if you forgot, sweetheart, but I know when someone’s hiding from me.”
With nowhere else to look, your eyes land on the ground. Every explanation sounds worse than the last, and you fight against the urge to just blurt out the real reason. Rip the band-aid off so you can finally hear the words you’ve been running from: I don’t want you.
“You know I’ve had to deal with John following me around. Alexei, too. I’ve had to sit through him telling me about his glory days during the Cold War.” His head turns, biting the inside of his cheek before his eyes meet yours, the blue threatening to drown you. “I kept looking over, hoping you’d save me. Hell, I even considered setting off the alarm just to get you out of that room of yours.”
He missed you too. The truth of it causes guilt to creep in. Before you can get any word out, he continues, stepping just a bit further. “So I gotta know. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours that’s making you avoid me?”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.” You feel his fingers as he softly pushes your hair behind your ear, before tilting your chin up, forcing you to face him. “And before you try to come up with some other lie, consider this: the reason you’ve been hiding from me is exactly the reason I’ve been wanting you not to.”
You can hear your heartbeat thrumming in your ears. Or maybe it’s his. His face is so close that you can’t just feel the breath inside him, but also feel it on your skin. No words form inside you, only every want that’s been building inside the past month. Before you can even comprehend what you’re doing, you're leaning in, catching his lips.
He wasn’t expecting that, made obvious by the way his heart stutters, but he’s quick to compose himself. The hand that was holding your chin now moves to the back of your head, deepening the kiss. You grasp for anything you can to hold yourself up, one arm around his neck like a lifeline, your back hitting the wall, and he’s moving with you. You feel his metal hand sliding onto your hip, and your mouth opens at the feeling of him holding you steady. With what feels like all of his effort, Bucky pulls away just enough to look at you. For a moment, the room is filled with nothing but your heavy breathing, and you think that if the room ran out of oxygen, at least you would die happy.
A smirk crawls onto his face. “As much as I enjoyed that, and will be doing it again, it doesn’t answer my question.”
You try to ignore the thrill his promise of again brings, instead trying your best to clear your head. In searching, your eyes land on your hand, which still rests along his neck. Hesitantly bringing it in front of you, you mumble, “I wanted to do that. The night in the infirmary and, if I’m being honest, a lot longer than before then.”
His hands catch your own, and your heart stutters. His eyes crease, breathing in slowly to calm himself. “Why didn’t you?”
That familiar feeling is back: shame. The burden you carry always throwing up a wall, right when you think things are going well. Pulling one hand from his, you place it on his chest, trying to ignore the way he swallows. “I felt it, when I went to take off my glove, Buck. And I don’t blame you, everyone feels like that with me. I’ve accepted it. But I…” The words die on your lips as you realize he’s smiling again, not teasing, but in disbelief.
“You know, I used to wear gloves. Never left my apartment without ‘em.” His metal arm appears in front of you, the black and gold shimmering faintly in the dim light. “I knew people were scared of it. Of me. It made me a weapon, and I thought that if I just covered it up, people would see me differently. But the thing is,” metal cools your cheek as he rests it against you, “it’ll always be part of me. And hiding it only made it harder to find people who didn’t just want me despite it, but because of it. Because of the man I am right now.”
He pauses, and for the first time, you catch something almost shy in his expression. “And that feeling you got from me in the infirmary wasn’t fear, it was me getting in my head about how badly I wanted to feel your hands on me.”
And the way he says it, there’s no room for argument. No interpretation needed or room for doubt. Only the fact that you’ve been aching to touch him, and he’s wanted the exact same thing. With a breath, you tear off the gloves, tossing them in the corner before they’re moving up his neck and into his hair. In that instant, his lips are back on yours, a soft groan escaping his lips at the feeling of you.
This kiss is harder, more desperate as he presses you against the wall, and you’re achingly aware of the way his body feels against you. Your hands can’t seem to still, wanting to feel as much of his as possible, and it seems his have the same idea. His flesh hand, warm against your cheek, as his mouth moves behind your ear. His lips are hot, and you can’t help the breath that escapes you. They’re not there long, moving down the expanse of your neck, until they make it to the spot just under your chin. Your body moves involuntarily against him, and you feel his lips curve into a smirk before nipping the skin. His other hand is back on your hip, testing the hem of your shirt. Desperate for more, you manage to breathe out a quiet, “please,” and you’re taken aback by the breathy sound that escapes him. His lips are back on yours, nipping your bottom lip, and as his hand reaches under your shirt, the cold metal against your ribs makes you gasp. He takes the opportunity to move his tongue, exploring your mouth.
It’s just a slight shift in his body, as his hand moves higher, but you become quickly aware of his leg between your legs, bent just barely. The movement makes you breathe his name. You can feel the weight on him against your hip, your own thigh grinding, adding not just pressure on yourself but to him as well. He breaks the kiss just long enough to see where you’re situated, a smile curving his lips just before returning. Cold metal jolts you as he gently moves your bra out of the way, your heart thrumming as he kneads, his thumb just barely catching your nipple. His flesh hand has moved back to your hip, seemingly desperate for you to move against him again. You feel his thigh, the muscles constricting under you, and you can’t help the tremble that overcomes you as he moves you again. You can feel how wet you are, desperate for more friction.
“Bucky,” your voice is a lot more pathetic than you thought it would be, and he’s quick to kiss your forehead, moving you again against him.
“I know, sweetheart, I know.” Your head falls back as his fingers pinch your nipple, his breath coming in heavy pants as he watches your face. “See what hiding was keeping you from?”
Of course, he’s going to tease you. You expect nothing less from James Barnes. But in your need, you can’t bring yourself to come up with a retort. Instead, you bring your hand to his cheek, hoping he will see the desperation. “Please, Bucky, I need more.”
Just like that, all of the composure he may have had disappears as he takes in a shaky breath. In one move, his hands move to your thighs, picking you up. Before you can let out a noise in surprise, his lips are back on you. Moving to the table, he gently sits you down, keeping the space between your bodies as minimal as possible. Your hands unzip his jacket, and he allows you to toss it off. Your hands dip under his shirt, exploring the new territory. You’ve seen him shirtless countless times, the image seared into your memory, but the feeling is unimaginable. His breath hitches as you move to his back, one hand reaching his shoulder before slowly coming back down, nails lightly scraping the muscles. Where he stands between your legs, rather than his thigh, this time his hardness presses against you, and you can’t help the way your legs hook around him, desperate for more.
With a groan, Bucky’s head lands heavily on your shoulder, his breath heavy. “You know they could be looking for us right now.” His voice is deep, barely able to come out. You can’t help but want to claw more of those beautiful sounds out of him. Taking the opportunity he’s giving you with his forehead against your shoulder, you rake your hand through his hair, exposing his neck before latching on. His hands tremble against your thighs, breath hot, a soft whimper escaping as you nip and suck the spot behind his ear. With your other hand, while he’s distracted, you find his wrist. He protests as you pull away, bringing his wrist into view, and reading the numbers on his watch.
“We have 30 minutes.” A smile takes over your face at his disbelief.
He pulls in, and you think he’s going to kiss you again, but instead, he stops short. “Ya know, I should probably stop here, since you made me go a whole month not getting to see that pretty face of yours.” His breath is hot as he moves his lips across your skin, slowly until he’s ghosting your neck. “Do you know how crazy you made me? All I could think about was how I should’ve kissed you. Hell, how I should’ve kissed you the first day we met.” Shock rolls through you at his confession. His hands move back under your shirt, shifting slightly until it’s tossed over your head, and he’s kissing your chest. “All I could think about was how your hand felt, and these thighs against me.” He’s moved you so you’re laying down on the table, before moving to your thighs, kissing the fabric. His face is back to yours, long hair tickling your face as he kisses you. Finally, you manage to pull his shirt over his head, and you can’t help the way you stare.
“You’re so beautiful, Bucky.” You’re breathless as your eyes crawl back up to his face, tempted to trace the nervous crease of his brow. His lips are back on yours in an instant, his teeth nipping your bottom lip, distracting you as he unbuttons your pants. You gasp into his mouth, and he desperately takes it, as his hand dips down until he’s cupping your core. With a light touch of just his middle finger, he dips between your folds, his hip bucking against your thigh as he lets out a moan, his head coming to rest on your chest while he struggles to regain his composure.
“You’re so wet,” he drawls, his ring finger joining his middle finger, gathering your slick, and moving up to tease your clit pulling a desperate sound out of you. “That’s it, you’re doing so good for me, sweetheart.”
Your back arches at the feeling, your hand gripping his hair. His lips attach to your nipple, sucking as you grind on his fingers. Through your haze, you admire the way his back moves, the muscles shifting with the way his fingers circle you, in a slow, steady rhythm. His eyes are shut, like he’s raging some kind of internal war, until it seemingly comes to a head. All at once, he’s above you again, kissing you hard until he removes his fingers. You want to mourn the loss, but instead, you watch as he places them in his mouth, letting out a groan. His mouth is on you as soon as his fingers are out, as if he can’t stand not having you on his tongue. His hands tease your hips until you’re lifting, so he can remove your pants, tossed somewhere in the tiny room with your gloves and shirt. You think he’s going to remove his own next, but instead, his mouth is trailing down, his hands rubbing circles on your thighs, begging you to open them. You let out a keening noise, needing more as his lips suck and nip at your thighs. Going everywhere but where you need them most.
He stops only long enough for his eyes to flit over your underwear, licking his lips before they turn into a teasing smile. Before you can question it, his thumb is pressing against the wet spot on your underwear. You whine, your back arching as he takes pleasure in teasing, softly touching the wet fabric until suddenly, his thumb dips beneath it, pushing the fabric to the side so his finger can dip into your folds. He moves it just a few times inside you, before he removes the fabric completely, and immediately pumps a finger inside again. His mouth is on you in an instant, his tongue licking a strip until his lips are on your clit, sucking gently. Your hands cling to his hair, and you lift your hips at the way his moan vibrates through you. As Bucky adds a second finger, curling until he’s hitting that soft spot inside you, the coil inside you seems to tighten. He knows, his eyes flitting over your body and to your face, watching the way his tongue twists its magic. He’s seen so many beautiful expressions on your face, but this has to be one of his new favorites. Your thighs clamp around his face, and he revels in the warmth, his beard scratching as you squirm. His lips suck on your clit, tongue flicking, and you swear you’ve never felt anything so wonderful. His name escapes you like a prayer as you ride out your orgasm, his tongue staying on you, fingers slowing until you have to pull him away. And that smile, the way it shines down on you, his eyes sparkling and lips wet and swollen, you swear you died and went to heaven.
Breathing heavily, you reach for him, wanting to taste yourself, and he happily does, his hair soft against you. In an instant, you’re recovered and reaching for his belt, but he hesitantly pulls away, biting your lip once more.
It’s like the words hurt to release, his voice quiet. “We have maybe five minutes before the others are bursting in here, and as beautiful as you are, I don’t really like sharing.”
He lets out a laugh at the way you jolt up. You were so lost in him you forgot where you were. His hands are on your shoulder, stilling you, his lips gently brushing your forehead. He gathers your clothes first, gentle hands helping you into each one. You’ve never had anyone do this, the care he takes as if you’ll wither under him, placing a kiss on your thigh, hip, chest, arms, all before they’re covered. Finally, he gets his own shirt and jacket settled, and you have the pleasure of zipping the leather as his soft eyes watch you.
“How long do you think it’ll take them to realize we’re gone?” It takes a moment for him to register his words, lost in watching you.
“Oh… right. Well, they should be here soon if they can stop arguing for more than a minute and realize it. But if they don’t, the timer said it’ll release after an hour-thirty” He has the decency to look sheepish as he confesses.
You jab a finger into his chest, feigning anger. “Bucky, did you lock us in here on purpose just to have sex with me?”
“No, of course not. I just wanted you to talk to me, but I wasn’t planning for you to kiss me like that.” His crooked smile melts you, and you can’t even pretend to stay mad. “In my defense, I thought I’d be able to pry the door open before that, especially once I realized I scared you.”
He grabs your chin, his gaze steady. “Besides, I haven’t slept with you yet. And if you want that, you’re gonna have to stop hiding out in your room and go on a couple of dates with me.” His eyes crinkle, his voice teasing. “I’m a gentleman, you know.”
“We’re a little past that, don’t you think?” You can’t help but glance at his lips, and, of course, he notices.
“Of course not. I’ve got a lot planned, and you’re gonna love it. Gotta make sure my girl gets the works.” Before you can process that last part, your attention is pulled away by the sound of yelling.
It takes a few minutes, but the others finally manage to open the vault, needing to work together to pry it open. Bucky silently apologizes for it. Honestly, you'd happily stay locked in that vault forever as long as he was there.
You all finally leave the vault and make it to the jet with minimal bickering, already planning your next move for the assignment. You watch Bucky as he talks to the others, catching the way he bites his cheek holding back a smile before heading into the jet. But then your eyes fall on Yelena, whose mouth is hanging open in the widest smile known to man. Looking down, you realize where she’s looking down at your bare hands, your gloves, long forgotten in the vault.
It was almost midnight. UA dorms were dead quiet — just the hum of the vending machine on the first floor and the occasional creak of the building settling. Nearly everyone was asleep.
Almost everyone.
You were on Iida's floor, textbook open, highlighter in hand. Trying way too hard to actually study. Romantic poetry had been fine in class, but now that the exam was breathing down your neck, every line looked the same. Metaphor. Simile. Iambic whatever. Your brain had officially checked out for the night.
He was at his desk, reviewing notes as if they held state secrets. His pen moved with precise, deliberate strokes — underlining, annotating, being annoyingly perfect about it. He was already done with his work. You knew that. He'd finished his own revision an hour ago.
He was just here so you wouldn't suffer alone in silence.
"You're frowning."
His voice cut through the quiet. You didn't look up.
"I'm concentrating."
"You've been on the same page for fifteen minutes now."
That made you stop.
You looked up. He wasn't looking at his notes like you thought. He was looking at you. Over the rim of his glasses. Chin resting on his palm. Like he'd been watching you for a while and just decided to say something about it.
"You've been keeping track?"
"I'm observant."
There was a hint of a smile in his voice. Barely there. But you caught it.
He set his notebook down. The sound of the pen clicking shut was loud in the silence. Then he stood up and crossed the room in a few steps — long, purposeful strides that ate up the distance between you.
And then he sat down.
Right next to you. On the floor. His thigh pressed against yours, warm and solid through the fabric of his sweatpants. He was close enough that you could smell him — laundry detergent, mint tea, something clean and distinctly him.
"What part are you stuck on?"
His voice was much softer than usual. Lower. It sent a shiver down your spine that you hoped he didn't notice.
"All of it."
"Then we'll start from the beginning."
He reached over and turned the page for you. His hand lingered. His pinky brushed against yours — featherlight, deliberate.
You both pretended it was an accident.
It was not.
For a few minutes, he actually tried to teach you. He pointed at lines, explained the meter, broke down the metaphors. His voice was steady and patient, and you tried to pay attention. You really did.
But his thigh was still pressed against yours. His hand was still close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off it. And every time he leaned over to point at something, his shoulder brushed yours.
You weren't learning anything. You were just aware of him. Everywhere.
"Do you understand?"
"Hm?"
He looked at you. That small, knowing smile again.
"You weren't listening."
"I was."
"What did I just say?"
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Nothing came out.
He laughed — a quiet, breathy sound.
"That's what I thought."
"Okay, fine. You caught me. I'm distracted."
"By what?"
He asked it like he didn't already know. Like he wasn't trying to make you squirm.
You decided to call his bluff.
"You."
His eyes widened. Just a fraction.
"Me?"
"You're sitting way too close. You keep looking at me. And that thing you did with your pinky—"
"What thing?"
"Don't play dumb. You know exactly what thing."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he turned — fully turned — to face you. His knee bumped yours. His hand landed on the floor next to yours, fingers splayed.
"And if I did it on purpose?"
Your heart stopped.
"Then I'd ask why."
"Do you really need me to answer that?"
His voice was barely above a whisper now. His eyes were locked on yours, dark and serious behind his glasses.
You don't know who moved first.
But suddenly his hand was on your jaw, tilting your face up toward his. His thumb traced along your cheekbone — soft, reverent.
"I'm supposed to be responsible."
"You are."
"I'm supposed to set an example."
"You do."
"Then why—"
He stopped. Swallowed. His forehead dropped to yours.
"Why can't I stop thinking about you?"
"Tenya…"
"I know." His eyes were closed. His breath was warm against your lips. "I know I shouldn't. But every time you walk into a room, I can't focus. I can't think. I can't do anything except wonder what it would be like to—"
"To what?"
He opened his eyes.
And then he kiss
The kiss started soft — tentative, questioning. But the moment you responded, the moment your hand found his chest and pulled him closer, something snapped.
He made a sound low in his throat — a growl, almost — and his hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. He pulled you into him, deepening the kiss until there was no space left between you.
The textbook slid off your lap. It hit the floor with a thud. Neither of you cared.
"I've wanted this," he breathed against your lips. "For so long."
"Then stop talking about it."
He laughed — a breathless, desperate sound — and kissed you again. Harder this time. His hand slid down your back, pressing you closer, and you felt the heat of his palm through your shirt.
"Bed," he murmured. "Is that—"
"Yes. Yes."
He stood up and pulled you with him. The walk from the floor to his bed was four steps, but it felt like an eternity. His hands were on your waist, guiding you backward until your knees hit the mattress.
You fell onto his bed. He followed.
He hovered over you, propped on his elbows, his glasses slightly askew. His hair had fallen into his face. His breathing was uneven.
He looked nothing like the composed class rep from an hour ago.
"You're beautiful."
The words were quiet. Honest. Like they'd slipped out before he could stop them.
You reached up and pulled his glasses off. Set them on the nightstand.
"Come here."
He did.
His mouth found your neck. Slow at first — teasing. His lips traced a path from your jaw to your collarbone, and every brush of his tongue against your skin made your back arch.
"Tell me if you want me to stop."
"I don't."
His hands found the hem of your shirt. He looked at you — asking permission one last time.
You nodded.
He pulled it off.
The next few minutes were a blur of warm skin and quiet gasps. His hands were everywhere — your waist, your thighs, your chest. He touched you like he was memorizing every inch, like he'd been thinking about this for months and wanted to make sure he didn't miss a single detail.
When his fingers finally found you — sliding under the waistband of your shorts, pressing exactly where you needed him — you gasped his name.
"Tenya—"
"I've got you."
His voice was low. Steady. But his hands were shaking.
He was nervous. The class rep was nervous. And somehow, that made it even better.
He laid you back against the pillows and positioned himself between your legs. His eyes met yours — dark, serious, hungry.
"Ready?"
"I've been ready."
He smiled. That small, private smile that was just for you.
And then he pushed inside.
The sound you made was muffled against his shoulder. He was big — you'd suspected, but feeling it was different. He filled you completely, stretching you in a way that made your toes curl.
He stayed still for a moment. Letting you adjust. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
"Okay?"
"Yeah." Your voice was hoarse. "Yeah. Move."
He did.
He started slow — deep, deliberate thrusts that hit exactly right. His hand found yours on the mattress, fingers lacing together, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.
"You feel—" He cut himself off with a groan. "Incredible."
"You're not so bad yourself, class rep."
He laughed — breathless, broken — and thrust deeper.
The pace built gradually. Slow and steady at first, then faster, harder. The bed creaked beneath you. His grip on your hand tightened. His other hand found your hip, angling you just right so that every movement sent sparks through your entire body.
"I'm not going to last," he admitted, his voice strained. "You're—I've wanted this too long—"
"Then don't hold back."
He looked at you. His eyes were dark, his cheeks flushed, his hair a mess.
"Are you sure?"
"Tenya. Come for me."
That was all it took.
His rhythm faltered. His grip tightened. He buried his face in your neck as he let go, a low groan escaping his lips, his body shuddering against yours.
The feeling of him letting go — of feeling him pulse inside you — pushed you over the edge too. Your back arched, your fingers tangled in his hair, and you gasped his name as the wave crashed over you.
He stayed inside you for a long moment. Both of you breathing hard. Both of you shaking.
He pulled out slowly and collapsed beside you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the dorm building.
Then he laughed.
A real laugh. Warm and surprised and happy.
"I—" He ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know what to say."
"'Thank you' is traditional."
He turned his head to look at you. His smile was soft. Tender.
"Thank you."
You snorted. "I was joking."
"I'm not."
He reached over and brushed a strand of hair from your face. His hand lingered on your cheek.
"I've never done that before."
You blinked. "Wait — really?"
"Really." He looked almost shy. "I wanted my first time to mean something."
"And did it?"
He leaned over and kissed you. Soft. Sweet.
"It meant everything."
You woke up tangled in his sheets, his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against your shoulder.
A sticky note was on the nightstand.
"Went to get breakfast. You looked peaceful. Didn't want to wake you. — T"
And underneath, in smaller handwriting:
"Same time tonight? I can help you with the next chapter. Or we can do that again. Either works."
You laughed so hard you woke him up.
"What's funny?"
"Nothing."
You turned and kissed him.
"You're just ridiculous."
