Out of My Mind (Bucky Barnes)
A/N: this came from a collection of drabbles, thank @opheliabbarnes @chateaubarnes and @heldbybarnes for posting the absolute best shit ever and feeding my brain ideas.
I may or may not have gone overboard.
Summary: Bucky is too old, too weathered, too scarred, and she’s soft, and happy, and deadly, and the way her mouth- yeah he really should stop thinking about her like that.
Word Count: 12.4k
Warnings: sparring, SMUT (18+ MNDI) (p in v, oral f&m receiving, fingering, metal arm kink if you squint), drinking. Bucky short circuits, reader kinda likes to fluster him, YEARNING. Nat, Steve and Tony are still alive because I said so. Manhandling.
It had been weeks—no, months—ever since they’d met. If Bucky was honest with himself, the change had started the very first day.
It hadn’t been some big, thunderclap revelation, more like having the ground gently but irrevocably shift beneath his feet. She’d slipped into his life so easily that he hadn’t realized what was happening until he was already in too deep.
She was just… easy.
Easy to talk to.
Easy to laugh with.
Easy to breathe next to.
She never prodded too far into the places he didn’t want to go, but somehow still managed to pull him out of himself. She remembered the smallest things—how he took his coffee, that he hated working with sticky trigger mechanisms, that he read the same dog-eared paperback before missions. On the field, she was always where he needed her before he even asked—most often a ghost on a rooftop, breath steady through her scope, covering him like her own life depended on it.
Which was exactly why he’d done nothing about the way he felt.
He was too damaged, too weathered, too damn old, too… him.
And she was—
Everything.
So when she handed him the strip of black cloth with that infuriating little smirk, he had to hide the warmth curling in his chest with a different kind of expression.
“You can try all your tricks, I’m too good to miss, sweetheart,” he said, letting his voice take on that low, smug drawl.
“Good,” she countered, eyes glinting, “then it shouldn’t be an issue to spar blindfolded.”
He gave her a look, but tied the cloth around his head without another word. Darkness swept over him.
The thing was—he didn’t need his eyes. He could feel her in the air between them, the slight shift in her stance when she moved, the rhythm of her breathing. He knew what she’d try before she tried it. Every step, every strike, every sweep of her leg—blocked. Effortlessly.
He could feel her. The way she shifted her weight barefoot on the mat. The rustle of her tank top. The subtle shift of air pressure as she circled. Her heartbeat—a steady flutter like wings in his ear.
She moved.
So did he.
Block. Twist. Counter.
Again.
Again.
He anticipated everything. She was fluid, quick, precise—but he was older, stronger, and maybe most dangerous of all… he knew her. He knew how she moved. He had spent so long memorizing her rhythms, he could practically see her with his eyes closed.
Every strike met his forearm. Every sweep was dodged. Every jab parried. Until—
Her frustration started to show in the subtle sharpness of her movements, in the light scoff she let slip when he caught her wrist again.
“S’this all you hoped it would be?” he murmured, lips curving as he turned his head toward where she was circling. “Gotta say, I’m getting a little bored here.”
“Oh, I haven’t really been trying,” she said, voice light, teasing. Then, lower, with a heat that cut straight through him:
“Too distracted by how pretty you look blindfolded, Buck.”
And just like that—she had him.
The tiniest hitch in his breath, the faint tilt of his shoulders—enough. Her leg hooked behind his, the momentum sweeping him down hard enough that the mat thudded under his back.
She was on him in an instant, straddling his hips, hands braced on either side of his chest. His pulse was thundering against his ribs, his world narrowing to the heat of her body over his. He tugged the blindfold down, letting it rest around his neck.
Those blue eyes met hers—startled, darkened with something he couldn’t quite keep out of his expression.
Her smirk deepened.
“What?” she asked, head tilting, eyes shamelessly drinking him in.
“Cat got your tongue?”
Bucky was stunned, for the first time in a while words couldn’t come out of his mouth. None that were appropriate anyway.
Bucky didn’t linger after training.
He grabbed his towel, muttered a quick goodbye to the others, and left before anyone could see the state he was in. His chest was tight, his skin hot like it had been scorched from the inside out, every nerve still wired from having her straddling him. From that smirk. From those damn words.
By the time he stepped into his quarters, he was already stripping out of his shirt, jaw tense. He headed straight for the shower, twisting the handle all the way to cold.
It didn’t help.
The water hammered down his back, icy enough to sting, but his skin still felt fever-hot. He braced one hand against the tile, head bowed, breath coming unevenly as if he’d just finished a sprint. She was everywhere—in the echoes of her laugh, in the feel of her thighs bracketing his hips, in the heat of her leaning over him, smug and merciless.
He could still hear her voice, low and teasing, looping in his head until it burned:
Too distracted by how pretty you look blindfolded, Buck.
His hand slid down over his stomach before he could stop himself, wrapping tight around himself with a hiss through his teeth. His other arm flexed where it held him up, the vein standing out under the spray.
He worked himself slow at first, trying to take the edge off, but it wasn’t enough. His hips jerked into his palm, a strangled sound catching in his throat. The cold water did nothing to put out the fire—if anything, the contrast made every touch sharper.
Her face wouldn’t leave him. The press of her body over his. The cocky tilt of her head. The way she’d looked at him like she knew exactly what she was doing to him.
“Fuck…” The word slipped out on a shaky exhale, followed by another, quieter. “Shit.”
The rhythm quickened, the tension coiling so tight in his gut it almost hurt. He bit down on a groan, trying to keep quiet—like even here, alone, it would be dangerous for anyone to hear.
The moment hit fast and hard, the pressure snapping as his release spilled hot against the tile. He gritted his teeth, eyes squeezing shut, her name trapped behind them, never spoken aloud but vibrating through his chest with the force of it.
Bucky stayed there a moment longer, forehead resting against the cool wall, water pounding over him while his pulse gradually slowed.
The next morning, Bucky was at the gym before sunrise.
He didn’t sleep—how could he? Not when every time he closed his eyes he saw her above him, smirking like she owned him, thighs around his hips and voice in his ear like honey wrapped in every dirty thought he ever had.
So he did what he always did when things got under his skin.
He trained.
Now he stood under the harsh fluorescents, shirtless, sweat glistening on his chest as he loaded yet another set of plates onto the barbell. The amount of weight was borderline reckless—ungodly, even for a super soldier—but he didn’t care. Every curl of muscle, every tremble in his arms, every clang of metal was penance.
He dropped into a set of deadlifts with brutal focus. Over and over. Veins in his arms bulging, jaw locked, eyes narrowed. The gym shook with the sound of iron hitting the mat, and he didn’t even flinch.
Across the room, she paused mid-sip of her water bottle, eyes narrowing.
“Okay, what the hell is his problem?” Yelena muttered under her breath, watching Bucky like he might rip the barbell in half.
Nat smirked without looking up from her towel. “Probably a certain someone swept his legs and sat on his lap yesterday.”
Y/N’s eyes went wide. “I did not sit on his lap—”
Yelena cut in, grinning. “Sure, sure. You just… accidentally straddled him in the middle of a sparring session and stayed there for ten seconds too long while he looked like he forgot how to breathe.”
Nat arched a brow, her voice syrupy with mischief. “He’s lifting like he’s got something to prove. Or like he’s trying very hard not to think about something. Or someone.”
Y/N scoffed and turned away too quickly. “You guys are insane.”
“Mmm,” Yelena hummed. “Right. So it’s just a coincidence he nearly snapped the bar in half the second you walked in?”
She looked back.
And sure enough—Bucky’s eyes had flicked up the moment she entered. Just for a second. Barely more than a glance. But it was enough to see the way his jaw tightened. The way his next lift came harder, rougher, like he was punishing the ground for daring to hold him up.
“You should put him out of his misery,” Nat said smoothly, wiping her neck with her towel.
“I am not doing this with you two,” Y/N muttered, cheeks warming as she turned back to her warm-up stretch.
Across the gym, Bucky dropped the barbell with a growl and ran a hand through his hair, sweat dripping down his temples. He didn’t know what was worse—the ache in his arms or the one in his chest.
Either way, it had a name.
And she was standing twenty feet away, laughing at something Yelena said, like she didn’t even know she was driving him crazy.
Late afternoon light bled through the high windows, warm and golden across the mats as Bucky circled her with practiced ease, breathing steady, movements fluid and contained.
Y/N, on the other hand, was breathing hard—sweat beading on her collarbone, hair up in a Dutch braid but still messy, her stance shifting as she tried to anticipate his next move.
She was good. Really good. But he was still winning. Always winning.
He landed a soft jab against her ribs and she twisted out of range with a huff, eyes sharp, footwork precise. But not precise enough. He caught her wrist in the next pass and flipped her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing. She landed on her back with a soft thud, groaning.
“Again,” she muttered, already sitting up.
“You sure?” he asked, brows raised.
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not that fragile, Buck.”
He offered a hand, but she waved it off and stood on her own.
This had been going on for an hour.
“Why the sudden obsession with hand-to-hand?” he asked, arms folded as she reset her stance.
Her answer was immediate. Honest. “Because if I ever end up facing someone like you—someone enhanced and actually trying to kill me—I need to last long enough to call for backup.” She shrugged. “I know I won’t win. But I don’t want to die in the first thirty seconds.”
Bucky blinked. Something about the way she said it hit him harder than it should’ve. Because it was practical. Tactical. Smart. And terrifying.
She was preparing to fight someone like him. Like what he used to be.
He swallowed. “Alright.”
“What?”
“You want to see what it’s like when someone’s trying to end you?” His voice dropped, low and careful. “You sure?”
She met his eyes and nodded. No flinch. No fear. Just steel in her spine. “Do it.”
He didn’t like it.
But he did it.
The next pass was faster. Harder. He moved like a threat instead of a partner—shoulders hunched forward, fists tighter, footfalls quieter. His strikes came faster, feints sharper. She was quick, ducking, weaving, barely keeping up. But she was keeping up.
Until she wasn’t.
One misstep—one pivot that was a second too late—and he caught her full-force with a sweep and a shoulder slam that sent her sprawling onto the mat with a crack of impact that echoed through the gym.
“Shit—“
He was kneeling by her in an instant, hand hovering just shy of her waist, guilt already curling in his gut. “You okay? I didn’t mean—”
She blinked up at him.
And smiled.
Not a grimace. Not a wince. A slow, delighted, smug little smile that made his stomach flip.
“Again,” she said, voice low and almost breathless. “Do it again.”
Bucky stared at her.
She looked like the damn cat that got the cream, like getting thrown down by him had just made her week. Her eyes were dark, cheeks flushed, lips parted just enough to be a problem.
“…You’re insane,” he said softly, chest still rising and falling with adrenaline.
“Maybe,” she murmured. “But I’m not dead yet.”
And God help him—he wanted to pin her there and kiss her stupid. But instead he stood, offered her a hand, and pulled her up like she didn’t already own him.
“Again,” she said, already circling.
And this time, he didn’t hold back.
He should’ve stopped.
Should’ve pulled back, told her no, reminded her she wasn’t enhanced and this wasn’t smart, wasn’t safe. But she kept coming. Kept resetting. Kept circling him with that glint in her eye—like she wanted to get thrown around.
So Bucky gave her what she asked for.
Again. And again. And again. And an extra time after that.
She lunged again—fast, sharp, trying to sweep his leg, but he was quicker. He caught her mid-motion and used her momentum against her, spinning her in the air before slamming her flat on her back again, chest-first to the mat with a grunt.
She lay there for a second, breath knocked out of her.
And then she giggled.
He blinked. “Y/N.”
“I’m fine,” she said, voice muffled into the mat.
He hauled her up by the waist before she could protest, hands firm but gentle. She was flushed, sweaty, and grinning like she just won the lottery.
“You’re enjoying this,” he said, half-accusation, half-bewildered.
“Maybe a little.” She was already settling back into position, braid messy, sports bra sticking to her skin, wild energy radiating off her in waves. “Don’t stop. Again.”
He exhaled through his nose, hard. She was out of her mind. But also?
He was kind of losing his mind, too.
Because the way she moved—determined, stubborn, fearless—lit something inside him that hadn’t sparked in years. And the way she looked up at him every time he slammed her to the mat? Like she liked it? Like she trusted him completely, even when he was manhandling her like a weapon?
It undid him.
Next round, she tried to catch him with a low kick—he dodged, hooked an arm around her waist, lifted her clean off the floor like she weighed nothing, and threw her down on her back with enough force to bounce.
She groaned, breathless.
But she didn’t stay down.
“Oh my god,” she panted, laughing now. “Bucky, that one rattled my teeth.”
Bucky froze mid-step, muscles tense, sweat sliding down his temple. “You’re not supposed to like getting rag dolled.”
She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow, gaze flicking shamelessly down his chest. “You’re doing a great job. A+ brute force.”
He dragged a hand down his face, exasperated. “You’re gonna be sore for a week.”
“Do you promise?” she muttered, still smirking, and then—God help him—bit her bottom lip as she looked him over like he was the dessert.
“You’re a menace,” he muttered, walking past her.
She grabbed his ankle.
“You throwing in the towel, sergeant?”
Bucky turned back, looming over her, and let out a dry, breathless laugh as he crouched beside her. “Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea what you’re asking for.”
And from the way her eyes darkened, breath hitching just slightly?
Yeah.
She absolutely did.
The gym had quieted, the sun dipping lower in the windows, painting the walls in soft amber as the dust settled—literally and figuratively.
Y/N sat cross-legged on the mat, drenched in sweat and radiating satisfaction. Her sports bra was damp and clinging to her, her knee was starting to throb in that familiar post-adrenaline way, and her abs felt like they’d been personally insulted by a truck.
She tilted her head back, eyes closed, trying to cool down, when a cold thud landed beside her.
Ice pack.
She opened one eye. Bucky stood in front of her, towering and shirtless, holding out a water bottle with his usual gruff scowl.
“For the knee,” he muttered. “And drink. You’re already dehydrated.”
She raised a brow but took both.
“You always this bossy after manhandling someone for an hour?”
His mouth twitched.
“You always this bratty after getting your ass handed to you?”
She smirked. “You wish you were handing my ass anything.”
Bucky’s nostrils flared. He looked away sharply—too sharply—and crossed his arms over his chest. The metal one caught the low light, gleaming across his shoulder.
She uncapped the bottle and drank slowly, knowing full well he was still watching her from the corner of his eye. The ice pack rested on her knee, making her hiss as the cold bit into the fresh bruise.
“You’re gonna feel that tomorrow,” he said, voice low, distracted.
“I feel it now,” she replied, rolling her neck. “But don’t act like you didn’t enjoy throwing me around.”
He crouched in front of her, pressing the ice pack onto her knee a little harder, eyes locking onto hers. “You liked being thrown around.”
Her lips curled. “Maybe. Depends who’s doing it.”
There it was.
That little shift in the air. That thing between them that always hovered in the space just shy of spoken. Heavy. Charged.
He looked at her like he was weighing every consequence, every inch between them, every pulse of heat still radiating off her skin. His voice dropped.
“Lucky for you,” he murmured, “you’ve got a sparring partner who knows exactly what you can handle.”
She licked her lips, slow. Intentional.
“And what if I can handle more than you think?”
Silence.
Tension coiled thick between them. Her knee ached, her knuckles throbbed, and her chest was tight for a whole different reason now. Bucky didn’t move. Just stared at her like she was a problem he both wanted and couldn’t solve.
Eventually, he reached out and nudged the ice pack higher on her knee, his fingers brushing warm against her skin.
“You’re insane,” he muttered.
“And you’re still here,” she whispered.
He didn’t argue.
Didn’t say a word.
Just stood again, grabbing his towel, and paused at the edge of the mat.
“I’ll be down the hall if you need me,” he said, voice unreadable.
She smirked to herself as he walked away.
Oh, she needed something alright.
She just wasn’t sure how much longer they were both going to pretend it wasn’t the same thing.
The next morning, Y/N hobbled into the compound kitchen like she’d been hit by a truck.
A Bucky-shaped truck.
Her tank top was loose, hair scraped into a bun with strands falling out in all directions, and she had an ice pack rubber-banded to one knee. She moved like someone who had done about 300 squats followed by getting tossed across a mat for an hour—and enjoyed it.
She didn’t even make it to the coffee machine before Nat, Yelena, and Joaquin pounced.
They were seated at the kitchen island like a well-rested, overly-interested jury.
Joaquin smirked first. “Good morning, sunshine. You look like you got dragged behind a jet.”
“I feel great, thanks,” She muttered, heading for the coffee. “Perfectly fine. Muscles intact. Core function… mostly restored.”
Yelena popped a grape into her mouth. “Mm. So that explains why Barnes was wandering around last night looking like he had been in a fight with a sex demon and lost.”
Nat sipped her tea. “Interesting choice of words.”
Y/N froze, mid-pour.
Joaquin grinned. “You really let him toss you around like that, huh?”
“It was training,” She said, spinning on her heel with her mug in both hands like a shield. “Combat scenario prep. Realistic sparring. You know—completely normal, professional things.”
Nat raised one perfect brow. “Uh-huh. You’re telling me he realistically had to pin you by both wrists and hold you down with his thigh?”
“Also—” Yelena leaned in, eyes dancing with glee. “—who trains by saying ‘do it again’ like they’re in a damn romance novel?”
She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I knew one of you was creeping around the gym.”
Joaquin pointed to himself proudly. “Guilty. I only saw the aftermath. You on the floor, looking very pleased with yourself. And him walking away like he had just committed a felony in slow motion.”
Nat tilted her head. “You’re flushed. Your heart rate’s elevated. And you’ve been glancing at the hallway every three minutes like he might walk in.”
“I am not—”
“You are,” all three said in unison.
She downed half her coffee in one desperate gulp.
Yelena smirked. “So when’s the wedding?”
“There’s nothing happening,” Y/N gritted out. “We’re just… training partners.”
“Mm,” Nat hummed. “He brings you ice packs. Makes you drink water. Pins you to the floor and still looks like he wants to apologize and devour you.”
Yelena leaned forward, conspiratorially. “You like it when he tosses you around, don’t you?”
She looked away, cheeks turning pink. “That’s not the point.”
Joaquin leaned back, satisfied. “I give it a week.”
The rest of the day was quiet. Briefings, running over intel, training new recruits, and then me time.
Not the strained kind of quiet, not the post-sparring-charged silence full of tension and unresolved heat. This was soft—the kind of quiet that felt like being let in on a secret, like finding stillness in the middle of noise.
Bucky padded into the kitchen early the next day, hoodie on, hair damp from the shower, and already bracing himself for a typical chaotic morning. He expected her teasing, maybe Ava’s side-eyes, Joaquin’s smirks—but the kitchen was empty.
Except for one thing.
A familiar silver and blue bag of coffee grounds sat on the counter. The fancy stuff. The kind from that café downtown—the one that always had a line out the door, too many people in too tight a space, too many eyes, too much everything. He hated going there. She knew that. He loved their home brew. She also knew that.
He picked up the bag slowly, thumb brushing over the label, and turned when he heard soft footsteps behind him.
She stood in the doorway, hoodie oversized, sleeves covering her hands. Hair still messy. Face open and quiet in a way that wasn’t like her usual smirking self. She shrugged one shoulder like it was nothing.
“Thought you might want real coffee today,” she said casually, moving to grab a glass from the cabinet. “Figured it might save you from drinking whatever burnt tragedy Joaquin brewed before his run.”
Bucky stared at her, then down at the bag.
“You went to Corvus for this?”
She didn’t look at him. “Yeah. Left early. The line wasn’t that bad.”
He raised a brow. “They wrap the block at six a.m.—”
“I know,” she said, glancing at him. “I waited. It’s not a big deal.”
But it was.
Because she knew. She knew he wouldn’t go there himself. Knew it made him feel boxed in, overwhelmed. She did it anyway—got up early, stood in a crowd for him, just so he could have something small and good without asking for it.
Bucky swallowed hard. His voice was quiet. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” she said again, softer this time.
And she didn’t smile, didn’t joke, didn’t make it into something flirtatious or clever. She just moved around him, brushing his shoulder lightly with hers, and started rinsing out the French press without a word. Like she did this all the time. Like it was easy for her to care about him.
And God, maybe it was.
Maybe that’s what made it so hard.
Because this—this simple, quiet thing—was the kind of intimacy that rattled him more than her on top of him, more than the heat, more than the teasing. It was the way she saw him. The way she didn’t ask him to earn it. The way she made space for him without saying anything at all.
He stood there for a beat longer, the coffee grounds in his hands.
Then he reached up, tugged gently at the end of her hoodie sleeve.
She glanced up.
“Thanks,” he murmured.
She gave him the smallest smile. Not cocky. Not playful. Just warm.
“Anytime, Buck.”
He nodded, looking down. Like if he looked at her too long, he’d say something he couldn’t take back.
Something true.
So he stayed quiet.
Pretended it was nothing.
Even though his chest felt too full and too exposed, and the smell of her shampoo mixed with the fresh coffee grounds was going to haunt him for the rest of the day.
The gym was mostly empty in the late morning—just the steady thump, thump, thump of fists hitting heavy bags and the low hum of classic rock playing from the corner speaker.
Bucky’s hands were wrapped tight, knuckles red, sweat slicking down the back of his neck. He drove his fist into the bag again, harder this time, the chain above it rattling from the force. He hadn’t said much since he walked in, just started throwing punches with a tension Sam immediately clocked.
Sam jabbed at the bag next to him, side-eyeing Bucky in the mirror. “You planning to knock that thing off the chain or are you working through something?”
Bucky didn’t answer. Just threw another hard right. Jaw clenched.
Sam ducked under his own bag, shaking his head. “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.”
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that when you’re two hits away from breaking your own wrist.”
Bucky grunted, stepped back, shook out his arms. “It’s nothing.”
Sam grabbed a towel and tossed one to him. “Sure it’s not about Y/N?”
That stopped him cold. His expression didn’t change much, but his next punch was slower. Less focus. More distraction.
Sam caught that, too. “C’mon, man. Just talk to me. You’ve been in a fog for weeks. Ever since she started walking around all bruised and smirking like she survived a full round with a bear—and you’re out here trying to pretend like it wasn’t you who threw her around like a rag doll.”
Bucky huffed out something like a laugh, breathless and tight. He leaned against the bag, arms draped over the top of it, eyes low.
Sam waited. Didn’t push. Just gave him space.
Eventually, Bucky spoke, voice low and rough. “It’s hard.”
Sam turned to him fully. “What is?”
“Pretending I don’t feel what I feel.”
That surprised Sam, if only because Bucky never admitted things like that out loud.
Bucky kept going, words slow but honest. “She makes it too easy. Being around her. Laughing with her. Sparring. Sitting in silence. It doesn’t matter what we’re doing, it’s like she… I dunno. Made space for me in her life like it was always supposed to be there.”
Sam was quiet. Watching. Listening.
“And then yesterday, she shows up with this stupid bag of coffee from that place I hate going to—the crowded one, Corvus.” He exhaled hard through his nose. “She knows I hate that place. Knows I can’t stand the crowds, the noise. So she goes for me. Gets up early, waits in line. Doesn’t even say anything about it. Just leaves it there on the counter.”
His fists clenched around the towel.
“I didn’t even ask.”
Sam’s voice was quiet. “That’s just how she is.”
“I know,” Bucky muttered, like that made it worse. “She just… gives. Doesn’t expect anything back. Doesn’t realize how much that shit wrecks me.”
—
It was past 2 a.m. when Bucky gave up trying.
Sleep just wouldn’t come.
He’d tossed and turned for hours—hot, then cold, then hot again, sheets twisted around his legs, chest tight with something he couldn’t shake. He even tried jerking off, quietly in the dark, hand slow and rough beneath the blanket, biting his lip to stay quiet while thinking about her—always her. The way she looked on the mat. The way she said “do it again.” The way she’d smiled when she handed him his favorite coffee like it cost her nothing and meant everything.
He came with her name in his mouth and that ache still lodged behind his ribs.
Didn’t help. Not even a little.
So he got up, pulled on a t-shirt and sweatpants, and padded barefoot through the darkened compound halls, the silence heavy and familiar. He told himself he was going to the kitchen for water. Maybe tea. Something to give him an excuse to be awake.
But when he walked in, the smell hit him first.
Brownies.
Rich, chocolatey, warm.
And there she was.
Y/N stood in front of the oven in her big gray sleep shirt and socks, hair falling around her shoulders, backlit by the open fridge as she grabbed milk. She didn’t jump when he came in—just glanced over and smiled like she’d been expecting him all along.
“Insomnia?” she asked softly.
He nodded. “Yeah. You?”
She shrugged, already plating two brownies. “Wanted something sweet.”
He moved toward her like he couldn’t stop himself, like gravity pulled him. “You’re making brownies at 2 a.m. and watching—what is this?” he squinted at the TV in the living room beyond the kitchen, where soft romantic music played from a half-muted speaker, “27 Dresses?”
“It’s a classic,” she said without looking at him, offering him a plate. “And the perfect comfort movie when you’re wide awake and a little emotionally unstable.”
He let out a quiet laugh, sitting down on the floor in front of the couch without even thinking about it. She followed with her own plate, flopping onto the couch above him and pulling the throw blanket over her legs.
They didn’t talk after that.
Just sat.
The only sounds were the quiet murmur of the movie, the occasional clink of forks against plates, and the soft rustle of her shifting as she laid down, one leg hooked over the armrest.
Bucky leaned back against the couch, resting his elbows on his knees, head tilting slightly toward her without realizing it.
At some point, he felt her fingers in his hair.
Slow. Gentle. Just barely there at first, like she wasn’t sure if he’d let her.
But he didn’t move.
Her nails scraped lightly over his scalp, smoothing back his hair, again and again, until his shoulders stopped tensing. His eyes got heavier. The movie blurred in the background, and the only thing he could feel was her.
Her hand. Her breath above him. The warmth of her knee brushing his back through the blanket.
He didn’t remember falling asleep.
But she did.
Because when she finally drifted off too, he was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her, head resting against her thigh, and she had one hand still tangled in his hair—her fingers curled like she never wanted to let go.
And so they kept living like that. Close enough but not too close. She had protein bars in her gear bag in missions, exactly the chocolate fudge ones he liked, her guns somehow were always clean (nothing to do with the very expert 108 year old sniping super soldier that stayed back in the armory for extra time to clean it for her), and there was flirty banter in the comms during missions. Nothing to get them off game but enough to make her blush and bucky let out a breathy chuckle.
The team was doing so great, Tony thought a party was the way to go. Celebrate, get a few photo ops, and so they did.
The party was loud. Music pulsing through the walls of the tower, laughter echoing from the bar to the balcony, the sound of glasses clinking and the occasional whoop from the pool table corner. It was one of those rare nights where every Avenger—or former one—could finally let loose. After a couple of hours, the only people that stayed were on a need to know basis. And by that, they mean no press, no photographers or journalists waiting for a juicy scoop.
And Y/N?
She was glowing.
Her black silk mini dress shimmered like liquid ink every time the light caught it. The open back dipped dangerously low, revealing smooth, warm skin he could trace with his eyes closed. No bra—not with that dress—and Bucky could barely look at her without his palms itching to touch. Her hair was blown out and curled in that way that framed her face like something out of a vintage ad, sultry and soft all at once. And her heels—those strappy YSL ones she’d muttered were a splurge, but worth it—lengthened her legs in a way that should’ve been illegal.
He couldn’t stop staring.
She was laughing at something Sam said, head tipped back, one hand holding her drink, the other resting lightly on Bucky’s bicep like it belonged there. Her nails were painted a deep, wine red. Her perfume, the one she always wore when she wanted to feel “like a princess fairy frolicking in the rain” as she so eloquently put it—clung to the space between them like a secret. Every time she leaned closer to talk to him over the music, it seeped into his bloodstream, thick and sweet and warm.
And she was dangerous. Because she smiled up at him like he hung the damn moon just for her. Looked at him with those doe eyes and long lashes like he was the only person in the room worth seeing. She laughed at all his quiet jokes he didn’t think anyone caught, pulled him into her orbit like it was effortless, and stood just close enough for his fingers to brush the soft curve of her lower back if he moved an inch.
But he didn’t.
He couldn’t.
Because he was too tightly wound, too aware of the fire under his skin. Every muscle in his body was tense, his jaw clenched, hands shoved deep in his pockets so he wouldn’t give in to the need—to press her up against the wall of Tony’s ridiculous marble hallway and kiss her until her lipstick smeared across both their mouths. To tangle his hands in that perfect hair and ruin it. To tear that damn silk dress at the seams and drop to his knees.
Instead, he stayed exactly where he was. Silent. Still. Burning.
“You okay?” she asked softly, glancing up at him, unreadable but warm. Like she knew.
He gave her a crooked half-smile. “Yeah.. Just… takin’ it all in.”
She didn’t push. Just smiled back, slow and knowing, brushing her shoulder lightly against his arm as she turned back to the group. But that look stayed with him.
That look.
The one that made it so damn hard to keep pretending this was nothing. The one that made him wonder—again—how much longer he could last before he finally gave in and kissed her like he’d been dying to since the first day they met.
And if she kept smiling at him like that, he knew the answer was: not much longer at all.
Everyone was tipsy by that point. The dance floor was booming, a playlist carefully curated by the chaos triplets (her, Yelena, and Joaquin) and after flip cup, tequila pong, and some other drinking game that she won by making Joaquin drink most of it, they were sitting on the couch.
Her legs curled under her and his arm sprawled on the back of the couch almost close enough to touch her, and conversation came easy, like it always did. And it got interrupted. Like it always did.
He was about to say something in response to the nerdy comment she let out when an arm snaked around her waist.
“Come on,” Yelena said, tugging her toward the bar with a gleam in her eyes.
“What now?”
“Blowjob shots,” Yelena replied, like that explained everything.
“I—” But she didn’t have time to argue; Yelena was already pushing two glasses toward the bartender. Whipped cream, liqueur, the works.
“Hands behind your back,” Yelena ordered with mock sternness.
She laughed, giving in, and they both leaned down to knock them back without using their hands, earning a round of cheers from nearby onlookers. When she straightened, the sweet burn of alcohol warming her throat, her eyes instinctively sought him out across the room.
Bucky was still where she’d left him—leaning against the couch, beer in hand, blue eyes locked on her like she was the only thing worth looking at in the entire party.
And then the opening notes of Usher’s Nice & Slow rolled through the speakers.
“Ohhh yes,” Yelena grinned, seizing her wrist. “Bar top. Now.”
She laughed again, letting herself be pulled onto the bar. The music was slow but heavy, the kind of rhythm that made everyone move closer. She danced with Yelena, letting the crowd sway around them, but her gaze kept drifting back—always back—to where he sat.
He hadn’t moved, but she could feel the weight of his stare from across the room, heat crawling up her neck every time their eyes met.
She wanted—achingly, desperately—to be back on the couch beside him, knees brushing, leaning in close enough to feel his breath. It was almost physically painful to be this far, to have the bass thrumming in her chest instead of his voice in her ear.
Her lips curved softly, not the playful smirk she usually gave him, but something quieter. Warmer.
And Bucky—God help him—looked like he’d stand there all night if it meant keeping her in his sight.
Somewhere in the song, Sam convinced Bucky to get a refill of whatever they were both drinking, as if regular alcohol did anything for him except give him that faint burn in his throat.
The hem of that silk dress flirted with indecency every time she moved, catching the glow of the lights in a way that made it impossible for him to look away.
And then—just as she spun to face the crowd—her foot slipped.
She gasped, arms flailing for half a second before gravity took over.
Bucky was already moving.
By the time her feet left the bar, he was there, catching her against his chest like she weighed nothing. The impact pressed them close, her perfume wrapping around him, the warmth of her body soaking straight through his shirt.
They froze there.
The noise of the party blurred, the cheering fading to the background as her wide, slightly glassy eyes locked on his. His hands were firm at her back and thigh, steadying her, but neither of them moved to let go.
It was a beat too long—long enough for the crowd’s whoops to turn into knowing laughter, for Yelena to smirk down from the bar like she’d orchestrated it herself.
Her lips parted, but no words came out. Bucky’s chest rose and fell against hers, his grip not loosening, not yet.
Finally, she cleared her throat, the faintest smile tugging at her mouth. “Thanks, Buck.”
He didn’t trust himself to answer. Not with her still in his arms like that.
—
Bucky lost track of her for a while—saw her laughing near the bar with Wanda, then weaving through the crowd with a fresh drink in hand. Every so often, she’d glance up and catch him looking.
And each time, she didn’t look away right away.
Just let it hang there—eyes on his, a faint curve at her mouth, the smallest tilt of her head—before turning back to whoever she was talking to.
It was driving him insane.
“Buck.” Steve’s voice cut in, low but amused. He followed Bucky’s line of sight. “You’re staring again.”
“I’m not—”
“Sure,” Steve said, sipping his drink. “Not like I’ve watched you track her like a sniper all night.”
Sam wandered over in time to hear that. “Oh, he’s absolutely staring. Look at him. Man’s ready to risk international incidents over a dress.”
Bucky glared. “Don’t you have a bar to bother?”
“Not as fun as this,” Sam grinned.
The second the thudding beat of “Don’t Stop the Music” drops, the dance floor lights shift into a rhythmic kaleidoscope, strobes of crimson and gold spinning over the crowd—and Bucky sees her.
Striding back toward him, dress clinging to her like second skin, cheeks flushed from dancing and shots and laughing too hard. Her hair is a little messier now, like someone’s fingers have already been in it—his fingers, in a dream he can’t stop replaying. Her heels click across the floor, and she’s beaming like a girl with a mission.
His mission.
“You look like a ghost over here, Barnes,” she says, leaning in close enough for her lips to brush his ear. “Come dance with me.”
He lifts a brow, legs still planted like he’s resisting gravity itself. “Don’t know how to dance. Not in this century anyway.”
She backs up, grinning wicked and sweet, her voice playful and soft.
“Please? You owe me.”
“Owe you what?”
She tilts her head, pouting. “For tossing me around like a chew toy in the training room.”
He opens his mouth to argue—then closes it. Because she’s right. And because, if she’s asking, he’d walk through fire barefoot.
With a sigh, he stands. “You’re lucky I like you.”
Her eyes flicker, warm and too knowing. “I know.”
She laces her fingers with his, tugging him through the crowd. When they reach the center of the floor, the music swells—Rihanna’s voice wrapping around them like velvet, pulsing through the floor, through their bones.
“Do you know what you started? I just came here to party…”
She turns to face him and takes his hands, places them gently—intimately—on her waist. He swallows hard. Her skin is warm beneath the silk, and she smiles up at him like she’s handing him the sun.
“Just follow me,” she says, stepping closer. Their bodies brush, chest to chest, her thigh slipping between his legs, her hands trailing up his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He tries. God, he tries. Lets her guide his hips in time with hers, matching the slow sway of the rhythm. Her hands on his shoulders, his sliding lower—hesitating for just a breath—then resting firmly on her hips.
That’s it. He’s gone.
“We’re hand in hand, chest to chest, and now we’re face to face…”
His heart’s pounding. She smells like rose and sugar and something warm and sinful. The lights catch in the waves of her hair, casting glints of gold across her cheekbones. Her smile softens, eyes hooded and bright as she moves against him, rolling her hips just so.
He can’t think. Can’t breathe. She’s everywhere. The music blurs behind the pounding of blood in his ears.
Her fingers brush the back of his neck, pulling him closer. “You’re doing fine,” she whispers, and it’s intimate the way she says it—like it means more. Like she’s not just talking about dancing anymore.
His fingers tighten on her hips without meaning to. His head dips a little, so their foreheads nearly touch.
And the worst part?
He’s hard. Hard—from nothing but the way she smells and feels and moves, from the way she’s looking at him like she wants him just as badly. His jeans feel too tight, and he’s silently praying she doesn’t notice—but she does. She definitely does.
Because when her hips roll a little slower and her smile turns into something smug and devastating, her lips brush the edge of his jaw like an accident.
Across the room, from their booth near the bar, the entire team watches with open-mouthed awe.
Yelena practically leans over Nat’s lap, whisper-yelling, “LOOK at them! He’s about to combust! I give him two minutes before he does something illegal.”
“I mean,” Joaquin says, sipping his beer, “that man is at 110% capacity. He’s holding onto her like the Geneva Conventions don’t apply anymore.”
Nat takes one sip of her drink, completely unbothered. “She’s going to end up in his lap before this song ends.”
“He’s going to melt,” Yelena mutters. “His brain is short-circuiting. He has no idea what to do with her being all…” She gestures vaguely toward the dance floor. “That.”
They all watch in stunned silence as she tilts her head, leans in, and presses her lips—barely—against Bucky’s jaw, soft and slow and achingly deliberate. His hand spasms on her hip, and his eyes flutter shut.
Sam just whispers, “Dead man walking.”
The song ends in a blur of heat, heartbeat, and breathless tension.
The final beat fades and the lights shift, but Bucky doesn’t move. He’s still holding her—one hand on her hip, the other on her lower back, close enough to feel every inch of her, even as the rhythm slows and the crowd around them begins to disperse or shift partners.
She doesn’t pull away either.
She just looks up at him with flushed cheeks, the kind of quiet smile that could crack a man in half.
His head is spinning.
And then—
“Barnes!”
Tony’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife. “I need you for a second. Something about the heat sensors in the garage triggering—probably nothing, but Friday’s being dramatic.”
Bucky stiffens, jaw tight, eyes snapping back to her as if silently begging her not to move.
She smiles a little. Gentle. Understanding. Doesn’t say a word. Just brushes her fingers down his chest lightly as she steps away.
He walks away, slow and steady, but the second he’s out of view, he beelines for the balcony—cold air slamming into his lungs like a mercy. He braces both hands on the railing, heart thudding so hard it echoes in his ears, and closes his eyes.
The scent of her is still on his skin. The curve of her body still mapped on his hands. His brain is a mess—tequila, silk, her mouth near his ear, the roll of her hips to the beat, the softness in her voice when she looked up at him like he was something worth holding onto.
“Buck.” Sam’s voice is the first to cut through the haze.
Followed by footsteps.
Joaquin and Steve join them a moment later, all three of them lined up like a judgment panel at a very inappropriate emotional support group.
Bucky doesn’t turn around.
“I don’t wanna hear it.”
Sam crosses his arms. “We’re not here to tease you.”
Joaquin: “I am. But I can wait till you’ve calmed down a little.”
Steve leans on the railing beside him. “You okay?”
Bucky exhales sharply, still staring at the skyline. “I just—fuck, I don’t know.”
“She looked at you like you hung the moon,” Joaquin says. “You’re acting like she threw you off a cliff.”
“She danced with me,” Bucky mutters. “In that dress. Smelled like her perfume. Said things that—” He stops himself, swallowing thickly. “It’s not just the flirting. It’s her. Everything she does, everything she is, just makes it harder to pretend like this doesn’t matter.”
Steve’s voice is calm. “So stop pretending.”
“I can’t.” Bucky’s voice is strained, quiet. “Because the second I stop pretending… I won’t ever be able to stop. I’ll want everything.”
There’s a long silence.
Sam finally sighs. “You already want everything. You’re just suffering in a darker corner while it happens.”
“I’m trying to keep my shit together,” Bucky mutters. “That’s all I’m doing.”
Joaquin pats his back. “Brother, respectfully… you’re losing. Bad.”
Inside, the party hadn’t slowed down.
The music was still loud, the lights still spinning, people still drinking like the night had no end.
Y/N was dancing, laughing, shot glass in hand—but something about her was different now.
The spark hadn’t gone out. It had just dimmed.
Wanda noticed first. She leaned over from their little dance circle and murmured, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she said too quickly. Too brightly. “Totally. Great.” She forced a smile, took the tequila shot, and joined Yelena in a loose sway to the beat of some Dua Lipa remix. Her movements were smooth, effortless even—but detached.
Because every few seconds, her eyes flicked toward the hallway.
The stairs.
The kitchen.
The bar.
Anywhere he might’ve gone.
Anywhere he might come back from.
But he didn’t.
Not once.
Not even for a second.
Still no Bucky.
Not even a glimpse.
She reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, fingers brushing her cheek where the warmth of his touch had lingered earlier, like her body was still remembering something her brain was trying not to hope for.
She smiled at someone walking by. She complimented Wanda’s dress. She joked with Yelena. She took another shot.
But the ache in her chest kept blooming.
Because if he left after that moment—after everything she said, everything she let him feel, everything she let herself feel—then maybe she had been wrong.
Maybe he didn’t want her like that.
And maybe pretending again was the only thing left.
He’d half expected her to stay inside.
To keep laughing with her friends, to let the night run its course without making this any harder than it already was.
But then the balcony door cracked open, the hum of the party spilling out for a second before it clicked shut again.
She stepped out into the cool air, arms wrapping lightly around herself, her heels clicking softly against the stone as she crossed to him.
“I think I went too far,” she said quietly.
Bucky straightened from the railing. “What?”
“With the dancing.” Her gaze darted to his, then away again. “And the shots. And—” she exhaled, her breath misting faintly in the night air—“just the whole night. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t,” he said immediately, the word sharper than he intended.
Her brow furrowed. “You left.”
“I needed air.”
She looked up at him then, searching his face. “Because of me?”
He hesitated, the truth burning a hole in his chest. “Because you…” He stopped, shook his head. “You make it hard to think sometimes.”
Her lips parted, but she didn’t move, didn’t push. “I’m sorry if I—”
“Don’t be.” His voice had gone low, steady, even though inside it was anything but. “You didn’t cross any lines. If anything…” He trailed off, the rest caught somewhere between his throat and his better judgment.
The faintest crease softened from her brow, replaced by something warmer. “Okay.”
They stood there for a beat, the muffled bass of the party behind them, the scent of her perfume threading into the night air, her bare back catching the glow from inside.
She didn’t go right back in.
Instead, she stepped up beside him, resting her forearms on the railing, her gaze settling on the city spread out below—lights twinkling, the distant hum of traffic like a low tide.
He mirrored her posture, close enough that her bare arm brushed his sleeve when the wind shifted.
For a few beats, neither of them spoke. Then her right leg flexed slightly, brushing against the back of his left calf in a slow, idle motion—barely there, but impossible to ignore.
“I’m glad you came out tonight,” she said at last, eyes still on the skyline. “I know you hate this kind of thing. The crowds, the noise, the… glitz.”
Bucky’s mouth quirked, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. “I don’t hate them when you’re around.”
Her head turned toward him then, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “That’s sweet.”
He kept looking at the city, but there was the faintest warmth in his voice. “It’s true.”
She let her gaze linger on him for a moment longer, then turned back to the skyline. The city lights reflected faintly in her eyes, her perfume threading through the cool air between them.
The quiet felt good. Easy.
And then the balcony door slid open.
“There you are!” Yelena’s voice broke in, bright and unbothered. “We’re starting another round of shots, come on.”
Her leg stilled against his, but she didn’t move right away—just glanced at him with that small smile again before pushing off the railing.
“Don’t disappear on me,” she said softly, and then she was gone, heels clicking against the stone as she slipped back inside.
Bucky stayed where he was, staring at the city but not really seeing it, the ghost of her touch still burning against his leg.
—
The party winded down slowly, like the last embers of a fire—guests trickling out, music fading to something mellow and soft, heels dangling from tired hands and laughter tapering off into warm, late-night sighs. The compound glowed with golden light, casting everything in that sleepy, after-midnight haze.
She was barefoot now, dress wrinkled from dancing, curls loosened and falling around her flushed cheeks. She held her heels in one hand and Bucky’s in the other, fingers laced like it was second nature now.
Neither of them said much on the walk to her room.
There was a calm between them, thick and charged but sweet, their shoulders bumping gently as they made their way down the quiet hallway. The world had quieted but something between them hadn’t. If anything, it pulsed louder now in the silence.
When they reached her door, she turned to face him, thumb brushing softly along his knuckles.
“Thanks for staying with me tonight,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Even when it got… complicated.”
He smiled, tired and crooked and full of something real. “There’s nowhere else I’d wanna be.”
His eyes flicked to the door behind her, and then back to her face, jaw tightening slightly like he was bracing himself. “I should let you get some rest,” he murmured, already starting to release her hand.
But she didn’t let go.
Instead, she stepped closer. So close her chest brushed his. So close her breath ghosted across his jaw when she looked up at him through those lashes and asked, softly—
“Will you come inside?”
She pressed her body gently to his, looking up at him like a prayer wrapped in perfume and silk. Her voice was barely there. Sweet. Devastating.
“I know,” she whispered. “You’re being good. Always good.” She reached up, her fingers slipping into his hair, thumb brushing behind his ear. “But I don’t want you to be a gentleman tonight. I just want you.”
God help him.
She could’ve pushed. Could’ve teased.
But she was asking.
Soft. Open. Wanting.
And that was what broke him.
Not the look in her eyes.
Not the warmth of her hand on his chest.
Not even the sweet, aching kiss she gave him just before she whispered “stay with me.”
It was the way she meant it.
He didn’t speak. Just nodded, quiet and reverent, and followed her in.
She closed the door behind them, turned to face him, and his hands were already on her hips, already backing her toward the bed like he’d been dreaming of this moment for months. And he had.
Her room was warm and dim, lit only by the faint city light bleeding through the curtains and the soft glow of the lamp she’d forgotten to turn off earlier. It smelled like her—rose, linen, skin—and for the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky didn’t feel like a soldier or a ghost or something caught between centuries.
He felt like a man. And she was looking at him like he was hers.
She took his hand and led him wordlessly to the bed, her dress whispering against her thighs with each step. Then she gently pressed at his chest, coaxing him to sit, and he went willingly—like there was never a world in which he wouldn’t.
He sat at the edge, legs apart, fingers twitching against his knees like he didn’t know what to do with himself now that she was this close and everything was real.
She stood between his knees, barefoot and flushed, looking down at him like he held every answer in the world. Her fingers hovered near his jaw before finally brushing along his cheek with a tenderness that made his throat tighten.
He kissed her like she was the only thing he’d ever get to taste again.
Like he needed her.
Like he’d earned this—every sigh, every shiver, every inch of skin he was about to memorize.
Bucky shifted gently, turning and laying her back against the mattress like she was something precious, his hands strong and steady as he guided her down with him. Her legs stayed curled around his hips, but her arms stretched out above her for a moment, hair spilling like a halo across the pillow, messy and radiant in the low golden light. Her lips were swollen from kissing, cheeks pink and eyes heavy-lidded and so full of trust it nearly undid him.
She looked up at him like he was everything she wanted.
And it broke his heart a little—because she was everything he didn’t know he could want.
His metal hand braced beside her head, while the other brushed her hair back with tender fingers.
“You sure?” he murmured, voice low, gravel-soft. “I’ll stop right now if you want me to.”
She reached up, curled her fingers gently around the collar of his shirt, and tugged him down until their foreheads touched. Her voice was barely a breath. “Bucky, I think if I ask you to stop I’ll slap myself into a different dimension.”
He kissed her again—soft and deep and lingering—before beginning his slow descent.
First, her mouth.
Then her cheek.
Then the edge of her jaw, warm skin beneath his lips.
He pressed another kiss just below her ear, then lower, along the curve of her throat, sucking gently until she sighed, her hips twitching against his. He smiled against her skin.
“Sensitive?” he murmured, teasing.
“You’re mean,” she whispered, grinning, breath catching as he kissed lower, slow.
“Not yet,” he said, and her soft gasp when he said it told him exactly what she liked.
He trailed down, mouthing gently along her collarbone, nuzzling the dip there before kissing lower—pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses over the front of her dress, feeling the warmth of her through the silk.
Her hands slipped into his hair again, hips rolling subtly beneath him.
Bucky slid his hand up her thigh, pushing the silk of the dress higher as he went. When he kissed just above her breast, he paused, giving her time to stop him.
She didn’t.
Instead, she arched up into his touch.
“Off,” she whispered, voice breathy and low. “Take it off.”
He helped her sit up just enough to slip the straps of her dress down her shoulders, letting it fall away, slow and reverent, like he was unwrapping something sacred. The fabric pooled at her waist, exposing her bare chest, and Bucky stilled.
For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.
She was beautiful. Beyond reason. Every inch of her soft and warm and real beneath his hands. The soft curve of her breasts, the line of her ribs, the flush of her chest—all of it was hers, and she was giving it to him.
She brushed her thumb over his bottom lip. “Yours,” she said again. “I want to feel your mouth everywhere.”
He groaned like it hurt.
Then did exactly what she asked.
He kissed her breast, slow and warm, his tongue flicking gently over her nipple before he sucked—just enough to make her moan, soft and needy, back arching into his mouth.
“James,” she gasped, breath breaking.
He moved lower.
Kissed down her stomach.
Trails of fire where his mouth touched her skin, his hands smoothing down her sides as he dropped to his elbows, worshiping her with every inch he uncovered.
Each kiss was permission.
Each sigh from her was a plea for more.
He took his time.
Because he could.
Because she deserved it.
And because no part of him ever wanted to forget what it felt like to undress her with his mouth and hands and hear her whisper his name like it was the only thing she’d ever known.
Her dress was a crumpled mess of fabric in the corner of the room in no time.
He kissed the inside of her thigh, then again, higher this time. Her fingers curled in the sheets. Her breath caught in her throat. Her chest rose with every shiver he drew from her, every gentle nip of his teeth.
But even through the haze of pleasure and fire, she noticed it.
He was only touching her with one hand.
His flesh hand skimmed up her ribcage, cupping her breast, brushing his thumb across her nipple. It trembled slightly with the weight of restraint, thumb circling slowly, eyes locked to her face like he wanted to memorize every expression she made.
But his metal hand?
Still.
On the bed.
Braced beside her, fingers flexing against the sheets like he was scared of his own grip.
And suddenly she knew.
He didn’t think she noticed, but of course she did. He always did this—always kept that hand in his pocket when they walked, always reached for her cheek with the other when they hugged. Not because he was ashamed of it. But because he thought she might be afraid of it. That it might hurt her. That it wasn’t gentle enough for this.
Her heart ached.
Because it was his. All of him was.
And she wanted every inch.
So while his mouth found the crease of her thigh and kissed it open—while she let her head tip back and moaned soft and low as his tongue began to tease her gently—her hand reached down. Found his metal wrist. Cool and tense beneath her fingertips.
He hesitated.
She guided it up.
First, to her throat.
His breath hitched.
“I want all of you,” she whispered, voice shaky but sure. “Touch me. Please. Don’t hold back.”
His fingers, stiff at first, settled gently around her throat. Not squeezing. Just resting. Measuring the beat of her pulse. Feeling how she thrived beneath him.
He groaned softly, mouth never leaving her, tongue now licking deeper, slower, groaning when she rocked her hips against his face like she was unraveling for him and him alone.
“Fuck,” she breathed, a whimper curling from her throat. “Bucky, yes—”
His metal thumb brushed up over her pulse.
Still careful.
Still hesitant.
So she let her hand drift from his hair, down his arm, until she gently tugged it from her throat—then guided it to her breast.
His breath stuttered.
And then he groaned—deep and guttural—because she arched into his touch, chest rising against his palm, moaning louder now as his mouth moved faster and the cold metal cupped the heat like it belonged there.
It did.
He wasn’t too rough.
He wasn’t too much.
He was hers.
And when she came on his tongue, thighs shaking around his head, her nails digging into his forearm—flesh and metal—he looked up at her like a man lost to devotion, mouth slick with her, chest heaving, every inch of him aching to worship her again.
And again.
She lay there trembling, flushed from head to toe, her chest rising in soft, shaky breaths. Her skin damp with sweat and the lingering heat of release, and her lips parted in the aftermath of a moan that still echoed faintly in the air between them.
Bucky hadn’t moved yet.
He was still between her legs, still on his knees on the bed, chest heaving, mouth wet and pink and kissed raw from how thoroughly he’d worshiped her. His hair had fallen over his forehead, his pupils were blown, and his lips were parted as he stared at her like she was the first good thing he’d ever been allowed to have.
She reached for him, eyes still hazy but full of something tender—not just want, not just lust. Something deeper.
“C’mere,” she whispered, voice rasped.
He moved like he’d been summoned. Crawled up over her slowly, every inch of him controlled, caged, careful—still treating her like she might break.
But she wasn’t fragile.
She was his.
He braced himself on either side of her, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, and kissed her again—slower now, like he was trying to remember the shape of her mouth forever. She tasted herself on his tongue and moaned softly into it, fingers threading into his hair, tugging until he pressed harder, deeper, hips grinding against hers just enough to draw a shared gasp between them.
That’s when she felt it.
The thick, aching bulge pressed against her inner thigh through the fabric of his pants.
And God, the way he kissed her—desperate but reverent, like he was asking for permission even now, even after she’d fallen apart under him.
She broke the kiss first, breathless. “Take these off.”
He blinked, dazed. “What—?”
“Your clothes, Buck.” She cupped his jaw, guiding his gaze back to hers. “I want to see you.”
His throat bobbed. “You sure?”
She smiled, soft and utterly unshakable. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
He nodded once, shakily, and sat back on his knees again to strip.
He started with his shirt, pulling it over his head, slow and unsure—and when the fabric fell away, her breath caught.
Because God.
He was carved muscle and scars and history—shoulders broad, chest thick and dusted with hair, that metal arm catching the light as it flexed, still braced beside her. The blue glow from the city bled in through the curtains and danced over his collarbone and the sharp cut of his waist like it knew what it was doing.
Her eyes swept down the rest of him as he unfastened his belt and slid his pants down his hips. He didn’t say a word, didn’t preen or act cocky—but the way he saw her watching him?
It made his cock twitch.
And when he kicked the last of his clothes to the floor and settled between her thighs again, fully bared, she reached for him like she couldn’t stand another second of not touching him.
Their skin met, and both of them gasped.
“Fuck,” she whispered, hands running up his chest, over the metal plates of his shoulder, then down again to where he was now pressing, heavy and hard, against her center. “You’re so warm,” she breathed. “Everywhere.”
“Not everywhere,” he rasped, voice breaking.
She looked down between them—where he was thick and flushed and leaking against her skin, dragging slowly through the mess between her thighs.
And then she looked back up, gaze locked to his. “Then let me warm you up.”
She guided him to sit against the headboard, and he groaned, full-bodied, and moving up to kiss her again—this time messier, hungrier, his hand (the metal one) sliding under her thigh to grab at anything he could.
He lined himself up, rubbing the head of his cock through her folds, dragging it against her clit, teasing her with maddening slowness as they both panted into each other’s mouths.
She arched into him, desperate. “Please,” she whispered. “Bucky—please, I need you—”
“You have me,” he said, and then she sank down.
Slow.
Thick.
Deep.
Her mouth fell open with a gasped cry, her head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut as he filled her inch by inch.
And he—
He was fucking ruined.
His jaw clenched hard. His head tipped back against the headboard with a low, wrecked groan that vibrated deep in his chest. “Fuck— baby, you’re so—tight, so warm—”
Her fingers braced on his chest, nails dragging lightly through the hair there as she rocked her hips forward another inch, then another, watching him the whole time.
He was staring at her like she was the most sacred, sinful thing he’d ever seen.
The way her breath caught. The way her eyes fluttered closed for just a second before opening again. The way her lips parted on a sigh when she finally bottomed out and sat flush against him, completely full.
She shuddered above him, breathless.
The stretch was intense, almost too much—but exactly what she craved. That aching, burning fullness that made her feel his in the most intimate, undeniable way.
“Jesus Christ,” Bucky groaned, his hands gripping her hips tighter, eyes wide as he looked down between them, then up at her again. “You feel like—fucking heaven.”
She smiled softly, still catching her breath. “You okay?”
He laughed under his breath, almost in disbelief. “I’ve never been more than okay a second in my life until right now.”
She rolled her hips slightly, just once, just to feel him shift inside her—and his hands spasmed on her hips, head dropping forward to rest against her chest.
She cradled the back of his head with one hand and whispered into his hair, “We can move when you’re ready.”
“I am moving,” he muttered against her sternum, voice tight. “I’m moving closer to God.”
She giggled—and then moaned when he lifted his head and thrust up into her, slow but deep, pulling a sharp gasp from her throat.
Her eyes fluttered shut for just a second before she forced them open again.
“Keep looking at me,” she whispered. “I want to see you. Every time you fill me up.”
His pupils blown, lips kiss-swollen, face flushed and reverent—he obeyed.
Held her gaze while she rocked her hips against his, slow and deliberate, while she began to ride him. Controlled and sensual, meeting every upward thrust with a roll of her hips that left them both shaking.
Each time she sank down on him, they gasped—together. Her nails dug into his shoulders. His hands mapped every inch of her waist, her back, her thighs.
She felt like home.
He felt like worship.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he groaned. “You’re—fuck, baby—”
“Yours,” she breathed again, lips brushing his.
He kissed her. Deep and messy and filthy.
And still not nearly enough.
Their mouths crashed together again, all teeth and tongue and raw, panting heat. She rolled her hips down just as Bucky thrust up—deep—and they both moaned into each other’s mouths like the sound had nowhere else to go.
Her thighs quivered around him, every muscle tight and trembling with the effort of how slow they were going, how much it was building. Every drag of his cock inside her was perfect—thick, full, devastating—stretching her in a way that made her toes curl against the mattress.
And he watched her.
Eyes dark, wild, locked to the way her brows furrowed and her lips parted as she sank down on him again and again, the soft bounce of her breasts with each roll of her hips, the slick heat that gathered between them, shining on his cock every time he nearly slipped out.
“You feel so good,” she whispered, forehead pressed to his. “So full. Like I’m made for you.”
He groaned—choked on it—and buried his face in her neck, mouthing at her skin, tongue trailing over the salt-sweet curve of her collarbone as his hands gripped her tighter, one flesh and one metal.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he panted, voice ragged. “You’re killing me—riding me like you own me—”
“I do own you,” she whispered, smiling against his cheek.
And fuck, he loved the way she said it—teasing, sure, but also true. Because she did. Had for a long time. Had him wrapped around her finger, around her thighs, around the sweet heat of her body like a ribbon.
He kissed her again—rougher now, deeper—and started thrusting up harder, faster, matching the pace of her hips as the rhythm built between them. She gasped into his mouth, nails dragging down his back, head falling back to expose the line of her throat.
“Look at me,” he rasped again, hand on her jaw, tilting her face toward his. “I wanna see you come. Right here. On me.”
She nodded frantically, whining, eyes wide and heavy-lidded, her hips stuttering as the angle hit just right—again, and again, and again—the thick drag of him stroking over every nerve inside her until her thighs started to tremble.
“I’m close,” she whimpered. “Oh my God, Bucky—don’t stop—”
“I won’t,” he promised, breathless and earnest and wrecked. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby—come for me.”
And with one more deep, perfect thrust, she shattered.
His thrusts were stuttering now, deeper, more erratic, like his whole body was unraveling from the inside out.
Bucky’s forehead pressed against hers, breath shaking, metal hand wrapped tight around her waist while the other gripped her hip like a lifeline. Her pussy was fluttering around him, still soaked and pulsing from her orgasm, her moans breathy and desperate in his ear.
“Y/N,” he groaned, nearly broken. “Fuck, baby—I’m close, I’m gonna—shit—”
“Inside,” she begged. “You can—”
But something in him hesitated.
Not fear. Not shame. Just old instinct. He pulled out at the last second, thick and flushed and leaking—his hand already moving to finish himself, the hot rush of pleasure surging up like a wave about to crest. He was going to come all over her stomach, maybe her thighs, maybe his own hand—but then—
She moved fast. Too fast for him to stop her.
Dropped to her knees between his spread thighs on the bed, eyes burning into his as she gripped the base of his cock with one hand and took him in her mouth.
His entire body jerked.
“Fuck— Angel—Jesus!”
He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t even thought she would—he’d pulled out to be good, to be safe, to keep things controlled. Whatever that means now.
But now?
Her mouth was hot and wet and perfect, sucking him deep without hesitation, and his control shattered in an instant.
He came hard.
Groaned her name like it was ripped from his throat, one hand braced behind him against the headboard while the other—his metal one—curled into her hair on instinct as he spilled onto her tongue, pulse by pulse, gasping for breath like she’d knocked the air from his lungs.
She moaned around him—moaned—as she swallowed, lips wrapped tightly around him, not letting a single drop go to waste. Her hand stroked him through it, slowly, lovingly, her eyes fluttering closed like she was the one being given a gift.
“Holy shit,” he panted, watching her with wide, awe-struck eyes, chest heaving. “You—you didn’t have to—”
She pulled off of him with a little pop, licking her lips, smiling like she’d just devoured him whole.
“I wanted to,” she said softly, like that explained everything.
And it did.
Because she always knew what he needed—even when he didn’t.
She crawled back up his body, slow and graceful, straddling his lap again, her kiss tasting like sweat and salt and him. He wrapped his arms around her, dazed and undone and full of nothing but her.
