Control Group: Zero
Pairing: Bucky x fem!Reader
Word Count: 8k+
Summary: The mission was supposed to test the limits of a biochemical suppressant. Turns out? The suppressant has nothing on you.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content (MDNI 18+), Dub con/sex pollen, p in v, multiple creampies, multiple orgasms, oral (f receiving), fingering, overstimulation, mutual pining, emotional vulnerability, debrief aftermath/implied trauma, Reader cries during sex (overstimulated, not non-con)
A/N: Here is my submission for week 6 of "Hot Bucky Summer 2025." The prompt was: I Need Help. The theme was sex pollen | erectile dysfunction | Fuck or Die. Again, sorry for the lateness. Thanks to @buckybarnesevents for hosting!
Trial Room 3A – 21:07 hours Location: SHIELD Biotech Lab, Lower Manhattan – Sublevel 4
You’ve been sent on worse missions.
No risk of bullets tonight. No collapsing bridges. No sweaty Kevlar or brutal briefings. Just a motel bed that smells faintly like synthetic linen spray and a popcorn ceiling that could be carbon dated.
Fake motel, of course. You’re inside one of SHIELD’s newest testing facilities, buried four stories below street level. The bed might squeak like it’s seen a thousand trucker romances, but the walls are lined with reinforced steel. The air vent is filtered for pheromonal compounds. There’s a digital readout above the door blinking a calm green: Exposure Level: Nominal.
You’re here to help test MK-P14, a supposedly foolproof anti-sex pollen compound. You and Bucky both volunteered.
He’s across the room now, perched at the edge of the single, too-small bed, absently tapping the corner of a protein bar against his knee. His tactical jacket is slung over the back of the lone chair. Rolled-up sleeves. Exposed forearms. You pretend you’re not noticing.
The instructions were simple: “Act natural. Maintain proximity. Simulate a routine overnight field stay. The anti-pollen dose will suppress any arousal responses that may result from controlled exposure.”
Controlled exposure. That’s what they called it.
You call it bullshit.
Especially because the snack drawer came stocked with exactly one cherry lollipop, and the bed came with exactly one pillow.
Subtle, SHIELD. Real subtle.
Because nothing says “controlled scientific trial” like handing two adult operatives a single suggestively phallic candy and a one-bed setup straight out of a bad porno.
Honestly, all that was missing was rose petals and soft jazz.
You snag the lollipop and unwrap it without calling dibs. You plop down on the bed opposite Bucky, as if this is some random sleepover at a friend’s house. It’s anything but.
Bucky glances at the ceiling like it personally offends him. “This place makes my skin crawl.”
You hum around the lollipop, letting the cherry flavor coat your tongue. “What, you don’t like 1970s roadside brothel chic?”
“That lamp’s definitely seen crimes.”
“So have you,” you shoot back.
He huffs a laugh, then tosses the unopened protein bar onto the side table. “Still. One bed? No toothpaste? No minibar? SHIELD’s really cutting corners on the fantasy.”
You shift, dragging your legs across the cheap floral comforter just to watch his eyes flicker toward the movement. He’s quick to look away, but not quick enough.
“They said it had to be plausible,” you say, voice smooth. “One-bed motel room, two agents, one experimental serum that’s supposed to block any kind of pheromone-induced arousal response? Totally normal.”
Bucky smirks. “You memorized the brochure.”
You pop the candy from your mouth with a soft click. “I read it cover to cover. In case of unforeseen horniness, please remain calm and inform your test partner immediately.”
That gets you a full-on snort. He leans back on his elbows, a muscle flexing beneath the rolled sleeve of his henley. “You gonna tell me if you start feeling… compromised?”
“If I start moaning your name, Barnes, take that as a sign.”
His smile freezes for just a second. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to burn.
You tilt your head, still twirling the lollipop between your fingers. “What about you? You gonna keep it together?”
“I’ve got military-grade focus,” he replies smoothly. “I’ll just meditate.”
You raise a brow. “Is that what the kids are callin’ it nowadays?”
He grabs a pillow and hurls it at your face.
You catch the pillow mid-air and cradle it like it’s a prize. “Rude.”
“I warned you,” he says, kicking his boots off with a grunt. “I take pillow politics seriously.”
“Pillow politics?”
“One pillow. One bed. Two people. That’s hostile territory.” He shifts to lie back fully on the mattress, arms folded behind his head like he doesn’t have six feet of muscle currently invading your peripheral vision. “I don’t plan on losing sleep—or a kidney.”
You grin, folding your legs beneath you. “Fine. I’ll take the floor like a good little martyr.”
“No you won’t.”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
He gestures lazily at the mattress. “You’ll stay on your side. I’ll stay on mine. There’s a perfectly good tape line in the middle.” He reaches over to the side table, grabs a mini roll of white lab tape—lab tape, for god’s sake—and starts tearing off a strip.
You gape. “You’re actually doing this?”
“You said it yourself—plausible scenario. Classic sitcom setup. This is the part where we hate each other and fight over the blanket.”
You snort and flop onto your side, facing him across the ridiculous white line. “You think I’m giving you the blanket?”
“I know you’re not.” He closes his eyes. “You’re the blanket thief in every fake relationship arc. Probably steal the covers and my hoodie.”
Your smile falters just slightly.
Because you would steal his hoodie. You’ve thought about it more than once—those soft grays and faded blacks, sleeves a little too long, smelling like leather and cedarwood and him.
But you can’t say that. Not here. Not when he’s this close and trying so hard to play it cool.
So instead you jab, “Only if you cry in the rain after.”
He doesn’t open his eyes, but you see the smile pull at the corner of his mouth. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
You bite down lightly on the lollipop stick. “I really would.”
It’s quiet for a beat.
The hum of the air vents blends with the fake motel A/C unit mounted near the door, doing nothing to cool the room. You let the silence stretch, lazily twirling the lollipop back into your mouth and watching Bucky through your lashes.
He hasn’t moved.
He’s still lying there—arms behind his head, shirt stretching across his chest, long legs crossed at the ankle. Relaxed, but not asleep.
You narrow your eyes.
“Are you trying to win the who-can-stay-still-the-longest contest?”
He shifts slightly, eyes still closed. “No. I’m trying not to get a boner.”
You choke on the lollipop stick.
He peeks one eye open, just long enough to clock the expression on your face. “Kidding.”
You cough, half-laughing. “Jesus, Barnes.”
“What? You started it.”
You go to respond—but then pause.
Is it just you, or is it suddenly really warm in here?
You reach for the bottle of water on the side table and take a long sip, letting the cold trickle down your throat. Your skin is suddenly... hypersensitive. You feel everything. The seam of your leggings against your inner thighs. The cool drag of condensation where your fingers graze the water bottle. Even the cotton pillowcase under your elbow feels like it’s chafing and soft at the same time.
You glance at the wall-mounted thermostat.
Still set to 70.
Weird.
You lick your lips and shift onto your back, trying to ignore the way your heartbeat kicks up just from the sound of Bucky adjusting his position beside you.
“Hey,” you say casually, not looking at him. “Do you feel...off?”
His voice is lower than before, quiet. “Define off.”
“Like…” You hesitate. “Like your skin’s too tight. Or your pulse is faster than it should be.”
There’s a pause.
Then the mattress dips, and he leans up on one elbow to look at you. His face is unreadable in the dim light, but there’s a tension in his jaw you hadn’t noticed before.
“How fast?”
You lift your wrist to check your watch. It’s got a built-in sensor.
Eighty-nine. Ninety-four. Ninety-eight. Shit.
“High.”
He stares at you for a second longer before sitting up, dragging a hand through his hair.
You watch the way his fingers flex. The way his throat works as he swallows. And suddenly the cherry flavor on your tongue feels obscene.
You clear your throat and sit up too, arms crossed.
“Maybe the compound’s not working.”
Bucky looks at you again—really looks at you—and you know.
It’s starting.
Bucky’s eyes drag down your body, then snap back up to your face. He doesn’t mean to stare. You don’t mean to notice. But it happens anyway.
His voice is rougher this time, frayed around the edges. “You sweating, or is that just me?”
You swallow hard. “It’s not just you.”
He lets out a breath through his nose, quick and humorless. “Cool. So either we’re both incredibly out of shape… or—”
“The compound’s failing,” you finish for him.
Another beat.
Then you both say it at the same time:
“Shit.”
Bucky stands, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, and he starts pacing.
You watch the way his shoulders tense. The way his metal fingers twitch at his side. He’s sweating, just a little. His pulse visible in his neck.
The room feels smaller by the second.
“What was the window on this stuff?” he asks, not looking at you.
“Two hours to peak efficacy,” you say, scanning the wall timer. “It’s been three.”
Another beat. You glance at the exposure readout above the door.
Still blinking green. No warning. No alert. The AI doesn’t know. Or it’s lying.
“I’m gonna file a formal complaint,” you mutter, pushing up to your feet.
Bucky snorts, turning toward you—and that’s a mistake.
Your eyes lock.
And suddenly he’s right there, not even a foot away, body radiating heat like a damn furnace. You can smell him—clean soap, worn cotton, something darker underneath. Your mouth goes dry.
“I’m fine,” you lie.
“You’re flushed,” he says, too quietly.
“So are you.”
Neither of you moves. Neither of you breathes.
You clutch the lollipop stick harder than necessary and force a smile. “Maybe we just need to distract ourselves.”
His brow lifts. “Yeah? How?”
You glance around, wild and pointless. “I don’t know. Pushups? A rousing game of never-have-I-ever? That meditation you mentioned?”
He doesn’t laugh.
Instead, he leans in just slightly, head tilted like he’s examining you under a microscope. “You’re shaking.”
You hadn’t noticed until now. Your hands, your knees. The way your thighs keep pressing together like your body’s trying to self-soothe.
“I’m not—” you start, then stop. The words crumple in your throat.
He takes a step closer. Then another.
And then you break.
Your voice is soft. Unsteady. Almost a whisper. “I need help.”
His whole body goes still.
“Say that again,” he says, voice low and hoarse.
You meet his eyes—and the fire you find there is not professional.
“I need you to help me,” you murmur. “I—I think it’s in my bloodstream. I can’t… think. I can’t cool down. It hurts.”
His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare. Like he’s trying to breathe through something that isn’t going away.
“Fuck,” he mutters, running a hand over his mouth. “Okay. Okay. I’ve got you.”
And then his hands are on you—gentle, steady, grounding. One at your waist. One cupping the back of your neck.
You gasp.
Not from the heat this time. From relief.
His thumb strokes your hip—slow, deliberate. Like he’s asking permission without words.
You don’t pull away.
You can’t.
“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper, the heat pooling lower, tighter, sharper than before. “I—I’ve trained for interrogation, pain tolerance, long-term capture scenarios. Not this.”
“I know,” Bucky murmurs. His forehead presses to yours, breath shallow. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Your hand fists in the front of his shirt. You can feel the tremor running through him, feel the tension in the cords of muscle along his chest and shoulders.
And God, he’s trying. He’s holding back so hard it’s making you ache. Like he thinks this is wrong. Like he still wants to be good.
But his pupils are blown, his chest is rising too fast, and his voice is fraying every time he speaks.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks.
You shake your head instantly. “No.”
“I don’t want to do this unless—”
“I need you,” you breathe. “Bucky. Please.”
His control shatters.
You barely have time to exhale before his mouth is on yours—hot, hungry, punishing. He kisses you like the air’s been knocked out of him. Like touching you is the only thing anchoring him to the ground.
You moan into his mouth, clutching at him, nails dragging across his shoulder blades.
His hands map your body like they’ve been waiting years to be allowed to. One slides under your shirt, fingers splayed across your ribs like he needs to feel every inch of skin. The other cups the back of your thigh, guiding you, backing you toward the mattress.
Your legs hit the edge of the bed and you fall with a gasp. He follows, bracing himself above you.
Chest to chest. Breath to breath.
“I’ve got you,” he says again—this time like a promise. A vow. A prayer.
And then he’s kissing you again. Slower now, exploring more. Every stroke of his tongue making your spine arch and your thighs clamp tighter around his hips.
His lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, then down your neck, slow and open-mouthed. You arch into it, gasping when his teeth graze the spot just beneath your ear.
“Fuck,” he growls against your skin. “You smell—Jesus, it’s everywhere.”
You can barely breathe. His weight, the heat of him, the pressure between your thighs—it’s too much and not enough, all at once. Your body’s thrumming, starving, every nerve ending lit up like a fuse ready to blow.
“I don’t care,” you whisper. “I just need you.”
Bucky groans, low and guttural, and drags your shirt over your head. You help him, clumsy with urgency, until your bra’s gone too and you’re bare beneath him, chest rising with every ragged breath.
His metal hand runs up your side, cool and smooth in contrast to the heat blazing under your skin. He watches the way you squirm under the touch, eyes so dark they’re nearly black.
“You feel it too, don’t you?” you pant, fingers already tugging at his belt. “It’s not just me.”
“I’ve been hard since you said ‘never-have-I-ever,’” he mutters, and you choke on a laugh—then moan when he ducks down to take your nipple into his mouth.
He sucks, slow and greedy, tongue swirling while his flesh hand trails down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your leggings. The second his fingers press against the satiny heat between your thighs, he groans.
“Fuck, sweetheart. You’re soaked.”
You buck up into his touch, shameless now. “I told you—I need help.”
“You’ll get it,” he promises, voice rough with strain. “But I need to taste you first. Just once.”
“Bucky—”
“Shhh.” He kisses down your stomach, yanking your leggings and underwear down in one swift motion. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you open. Your breath catches.
Then his mouth is on you.
You cry out, back bowing as he licks a long, deliberate stripe through your folds. He groans like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, like he’s starving, like he needs this more than air.
And maybe he does.
He sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking in tight circles while two fingers slide inside you—thick, unrelenting, curling in a way that punches the breath right out of you.
Your hands claw at the sheets. The pressure is unbearable. Your orgasm slams into you like a freight train—too soon, too hard, tearing a whimper from your throat as your body locks up around his fingers.
But even as you shake through it, he doesn’t stop.
“Too much,” you gasp.
“No,” he growls, licking you harder. “Not enough.”
He’s right.
Because the ache is still there. The fog hasn’t lifted. If anything, it’s worse now.
You whimper, grabbing at him. “It’s not going away.”
“I know.”
He kisses you again—messy, hungry, tasting like you—and you fumble to shove his pants down, cursing when your fingers won’t work fast enough. He helps, stripping off his shirt in record time before settling between your thighs.
His cock is thick, flushed, leaking against your slippery folds. He rubs the tip against you, groaning low in his throat.
“Still want this?” he asks, voice shaking. “Once I’m in, I—I don’t know if I’ll stop.”
You wrap your legs around him and pull him closer.
“Then don’t.”
He pushes in—and everything else disappears.
The sink into you is in one, steady thrust—thick, hot, and impossibly deep.
You cry out, hands scrambling across his back for something to hold onto, fingernails digging into bare muscle. He swears, low and hoarse, forehead dropping to your shoulder as your body clamps around him like a vice.
“Fuck—fuck—you feel like heaven,” he groans, hips twitching, barely holding still.
“Don’t stop,” you pant, legs locking around his waist. “Please—just move.”
He doesn’t hesitate after that.
He starts to thrust—slow at first, almost reverent, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. The pressure, the tightness, the slick slide of skin against skin… it’s too much. Too good. Too urgent.
You meet every stroke, gasping his name each time he bottoms out.
“Harder,” you beg, voice already broken.
He gives it to you. Hips snapping, hands gripping your thighs, pinning them wide as he fucks you into the mattress. The headboard knocks the wall with every thrust. The fake motel room groans around you. Somewhere above the door, the exposure level readout flickers yellow.
But you don’t see it.
You only feel him.
The stretch. The weight. The deep grind of his cock against the spot that makes your vision white out.
“You were made for this,” he grits, biting back a groan. “Fucking—mine.”
That word punches through your chest like lightning. “Say it again.”
“Mine,” he snarls, slamming into you harder. “Mine. You hear me?”
You nod frantically, tears springing to your eyes from the intensity. From the pressure. From the way the orgasm builds again—not easing, not fading, rising.
“Gonna come again,” you gasp. “Can’t stop it—Bucky—oh god—”
“Let go,” he pants. “I’ve got you. Come on me. Come for me.”
You do—with a sharp cry and a full-body shudder. Your walls clamp down so tight it nearly takes him with you, but he grits his teeth and keeps going.
Because the sex pollen won’t let him stop yet.
He doesn’t even soften. He just slows for a moment, breathing raggedly as he watches you tremble beneath him.
“You good?” he rasps.
You nod, blinking through the haze. “Still burning. Still need you.”
He groans—destroyed—and starts moving again.
You’re still fluttering around him, oversensitive and swollen, when he starts to thrust again—slow and deep at first, like he’s trying to savor the drag, the way you gasp at every stroke.
It’s too much.
It’s not enough.
You claw at his back, dragging him down to kiss you, open-mouthed and messy. Tongue and teeth and breathless little whimpers into each other’s mouths.
“Hurts,” you whisper, not even sure which part you mean. The ache between your legs. The heat crawling under your skin. The way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that exists.
He nuzzles into your jaw, voice shredded. “I know, baby. I know.”
The pet name slips out like muscle memory.
Neither of you flinch.
Instead, he lifts your leg higher over his hip and drives into you with more force—grinding now, working his hips in tight, brutal rolls that make you sob into the crook of his neck.
The second orgasm crashes over you mid-thrust, sudden and overwhelming. Your body clamps down around him so hard you hear him snarl against your throat.
“Fuck—you’re gonna make me come,” he groans, pace faltering. “Shit—”
“Inside,” you gasp, not even caring anymore. “Just do it—please, I need it.”
That undoes him.
His hips stutter, rhythm falling apart as he drives in one final time, spilling deep inside you with a rough cry of your name. You feel it—hot, pulsing, thick—and it only makes the ache worse.
You’re both panting. Shaking. Staring at each other like you don’t know what the fuck just happened, but neither of you regrets a second of it.
He doesn’t pull out right away.
Instead, he brushes his thumb along your cheekbone and mutters, “Still burning?”
You nod. “You?”
His jaw clenches. He’s still hard inside you. Still twitching with every shift of your hips.
You both exhale at the same time.
“Shit,” you whisper. “We’re gonna have to go again, aren’t we?”
He rests his forehead against yours.
“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, already canting his hips again, slower this time. “We’re just getting started.”
How is he still rock-fucking-hard, like he never came at all?
You cry out as he starts to thrust, slower this time—with further reach. Each roll of his hips punches sound out of your lungs, and you’re already shaking.
Your nerves are frayed. Your body’s still clenching around him in the aftershocks of the last orgasm. It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel this necessary.
But it does.
“Fuck,” you moan, dragging your nails down his back. “Bucky—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he pants, voice fatigued. “You have to. It won’t stop otherwise.”
And you know he’s right.
The burn hasn’t eased. The tension’s building again like a tidal wave, already cresting in your belly. You’re still dripping from the last round, and the slick heat of him grinding against your overstimulated walls is too much.
He fucks you like he’s losing himself—lips dragging down your neck, muttering things you can’t even process, his metal hand gripping your thigh so tight it might bruise.
You curve up into him, gasping as he hits that spot—that fucking spot—over and over again.
“Right there,” you sob. “Oh my god—don’t stop—right there—”
“Not gonna,” he growls. “You feel how tight you are? How fucking wet? That’s all for me, sweetheart. All mine.”
You clench hard around him and his rhythm falters.
“I can’t stop,” he grits out. “I don’t think I want to.”
You kiss him, messy and brutal, teeth clacking and tongues sliding. It’s nothing sweet. It’s just heat and desperation and sweaty skin on skin.
He pulls out without warning, and you whimper at the loss—until he flips you over and drags you up onto your knees.
“Hands on the headboard,” he rasps, voice shaking. “Now.”
You obey without thinking.
He slides back in with one long thrust and you scream—high and ragged, fists gripping the faux-wood headboard as he slams into you from behind.
It’s animal now. Deep and filthy.
The slap of skin. The creak of the bed. The obscene, wet sound of how fucking soaked you are for him.
You’re keening. Clawing at the wall. Chanting his name like a litany.
“That’s it,” Bucky groans behind you, fucking into you harder. “That’s my girl. Just like that—taking every inch. You love it. I can feel you fucking love it.”
You can’t even respond.
You shatter again—back arching, mouth open in a silent scream as your vision whites out. Your pussy clamps down so hard he nearly follows you off the edge.
But he doesn’t stop.
He slows. Keeps rolling his hips through the waves of your orgasm. Panting like a beast behind you.
“I need to come again,” he grits, voice barely human.
“Then do it,” you gasp.
He grabs your hair, pulls your head back, and growls into your ear, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
And then he slams into you once, twice, three times—
And comes with a violent shudder, burying himself to the hilt, cock pulsing deep inside you.
You both collapse forward in a tangle of limbs, sweat, and cum, your bodies shaking from the intensity.
But even as you gasp for air, the ache returns.
Low. Lingering. Throbbing between your legs like a warning.
You whimper. “Bucky…”
He groans beside you, already rolling onto his back, chest heaving.
“Don’t say it,” he pants.
“But—”
“I know,” he groans. “Shit. I know. It’s not over yet.”
You don’t even realize you’re whining until your lips brush his shoulder.
A soft, high-pitched sound, muffled into his sweat-slick skin. Pathetic. Needy. Real.
“Bucky…”
He groans, arm thrown over his eyes, chest still rising and falling like he just ran a marathon with a twenty-pound vest.
“You’ve gotta give me a second,” he pants. “Jesus—I can’t feel my knees.”
You’re already squirming against the sheets, thighs pressed tight together, hips rocking instinctively against the lingering pressure. That insatiable ache is back. Worsened by how deep he came, how hard you came. It never stops building.
“Then don’t use your knees,” you whisper, dragging your hand down his chest, fingers dipping lower. “Use your mouth. Use your fingers. I don’t care. Just—please.”
He huffs out a half-laugh, half-growl. “You’re trying to kill me.”
You climb over him slowly, mouth trailing kisses along his ribs, up the center of his chest. He tastes like sweat and sin. You straddle his hips—his cock is shiny with your spends and softening beneath you, twitching at the barest drag of your heat across it.
“I need more,” you whine again, grinding against him with a frustrated little sound. “Bucky, it hurts.”
His arm drops from his face, and he looks at you—eyes glassy, jaw clenched. You can see the exact moment he breaks.
Again.
“Fuck,” he rasps, sitting up in one brutal motion. His hands grab your ass, pulling you tighter against him as he bites down on your throat.
“You want more?” he growls into your skin. “You’re gonna get more.”
His flesh hand falls from your ass cheek, but it doesn’t go to you.
It goes to himself.
You watch, wide-eyed and breathless, as he wraps one fist around his still half-hard cock—gritting his teeth as he strokes slow, determined, from root to tip. Bringing himself back with deliberate effort. You can see the twitch of overstimulation in his jaw. The raw shine of sweat on his neck. The way his hips buck helplessly into his own grip.
His eyes never leave yours.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he breathes, voice rough as gravel. “If you need it so bad, take it.”
Your thighs clench at the sound of his voice—commanding, spent, wrecked, and still so fucking hungry. He’s giving it to you now. The reins. The rhythm. The choice.
So you do.
You rise up on your knees and reach between you, lining him up with one shaky hand. He’s already hardening fast again in your grip, thick and hot and still covered in both of you. You drag the swollen head through your slick folds, teasing your entrance, and his whole body shudders.
“Fuck—ride me,” he growls. “Please. Just ride me.”
You sink down in one slow, wet, trembling slide.
You both moan—broken, desperate, like that one motion snapped whatever was left of your restraint.
He fills you perfectly. You’re stretched wide, throbbing around him, thighs trembling from the effort of holding yourself steady.
Bucky’s head drops back against the pillow, jaw slack, hands grabbing your hips so hard, leaving fingertip indents.
You roll your hips once.
Then again.
His breath punches out of him.
“Just like that,” he pants. “You’re so fucking tight—Jesus.”
You pick up the pace, rising and falling, faster now, sweat sliding down your spine as your hands brace against his chest. Your nails dig in with every bounce of your hips. Every slap of skin. Every filthy sound that echoes in this goddamn fake motel room like you’re the only two people left on earth.
You’re crying out now, whining with every thrust down.
“Harder,” he begs. “Fuck—bounce on it, baby. Ride it like you need it.”
You do.
You do need it.
Your vision blurs, your thighs burn, and your orgasm barrels into you, crashing through your ribs. You sob his name as your body spasms around him, grinding down to chase every second of the high.
Bucky chokes on a moan, hips bucking wildly as he spills inside you again—hot and deep, cock twitching as he grabs your waist and holds you there, gasping as you both shake through it.
You collapse onto his chest, boneless, spent.
But even now…
You can still feel it.
That ache. That pressure. Lurking beneath the surface, still waiting.
Still not gone.
Your breath stutters against his chest.
You’re trembling—soaked in sweat, your thighs sticky with your juices and his cum, your heartbeat thrumming behind your ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out. You feel raw. Shaky. Strung out on a thread that won’t snap.
And worst of all?
It’s still there.
That burn between your legs. That insatiable, molten ache that keeps climbing no matter how many times you come.
You’re exhausted. Your skin feels too tight. Your vision pulses around the edges. And suddenly, it all crashes down.
A soft, broken whimper escapes your throat.
Then another.
Bucky tenses beneath you. “Hey,” he says gently, shifting onto his elbow so he can see your face. “Hey, look at me.”
You try. But your eyes are already glassy, your mouth wobbling with the words you don’t want to say.
“It won’t stop,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I—I can’t—I don’t think I can keep doing this.”
Bucky’s hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away the first tear that slips free.
“Shit, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling you in. “You’ve done so fucking good. I know it’s too much. I know.”
You break.
The sob crawls up your throat and shakes your whole body. You curl into him, arms wrapping tight around his torso, fingers gripping his back like you’re afraid you’ll float away if you don’t hold on.
“I’m so tired,” you cry into his skin. “But it keeps hurting. It keeps burning. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Nothing’s wrong with you,” he says, kissing your temple, your hair, any part of you he can reach. “Nothing. It’s the fucking compound. You’ve been hit just like me. But you’re not alone, okay? I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
His voice is low and soothing now. Steady. Strong.
You clutch at him like a lifeline, nose buried in the crook of his neck. He strokes your back, murmuring soft things against your skin—nonsense, mostly. Shhh. I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’ve got you. Just breathe.
It helps.
Not enough to dull the heat, but enough to bring you back to yourself. Enough to keep you tethered.
You lie there like that for what feels like minutes—your breathing slowing, your body settling, your chest pressed to his as the sweat cools on your skin.
And then—
You feel it again.
The twitch of him beneath you.
The subtle hardening. The soft grunt in his throat as his hand, still resting on your ass, flexes instinctively.
You whimper. “No…”
“I know, baby,” he groans. “I know.”
He flips you gently onto your back, eyes burning now—not with lust, but with fierce determination.
“We’ll get through it,” he says, kissing your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “One more round. You don’t have to do anything. Just let me take care of you.”
His fingers slip between your thighs—careful now, reverent—and the moment he touches your oozing, puffy folds, you gasp. You’re so sensitive. So needy. So close to the edge all over again.
And still, part of you whispers: Thank God.
His mouth finds yours again—soft this time. Less hunger, more heat. Less chaos, more comfort.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into the kiss. “Just let go. Let me do it.”
You nod helplessly, eyes fluttering shut as he kisses his way down your neck, your collarbone, your chest—his stubble dragging sparks across every oversensitive inch of skin.
His fingers stroke slowly between your thighs, parting you with aching care, two thick digits sliding into your soaked, swollen heat.
You gasp—so full already, so raw—but it’s good. So good. He knows just how to curl his fingers, how to press his thumb against your clit in slow, deliberate circles that make your hips twitch with every pass.
“There she is,” he breathes, watching your body react like it belongs to him. “You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart.”
Your eyes brim again—not from pain this time, but from the tenderness of it. From how badly you want this. Want him.
“Please,” you whisper. “I want you inside again. Just—slow. Please.”
His jaw flexes like he’s holding something back. He nods, pulling his fingers from you with a soft groan.
Then he lines himself up, one hand sliding beneath your thigh, the other cradling the side of your face.
He pushes in slowly.
So. Fucking. Slow.
You feel every inch. Every thick stretch. Every pulse of his cock as it fills you again—this time gentler, like he’s pouring himself into you piece by piece.
Your breath catches.
“Too much?” he asks, barely above a whisper.
You shake your head, tears slipping down your temples. “No. Just—perfect.”
He stays there, buried to the hilt, not moving yet. Just breathing with you. Letting your bodies adjust. Letting the pressure settle into something bearable.
Then he begins to move.
Slow. Deep. Grinding his hips into yours with each thrust, cock dragging against every sensitive spot that makes you moan into his mouth.
He’s whispering again—words you can barely hold onto.
“So tight for me.”
“You’re taking me so good.”
“I’ve got you.”
“I’ll give you everything you need.”
“I’ll make it better.”
Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him into you further. Your hands tangle in his hair. Your eyes lock, and something pulses between you that has nothing to do with chemistry or compounds.
It’s him.
It’s you.
And the ache isn’t so scary anymore—not with him holding you like this, moving inside you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.
Your next orgasm builds slow, but when it hits, it crashes like a wave—full-body, overwhelming, your breath catching on a sob as you shatter underneath him.
Bucky doesn’t stop. He groans, thrusts once, twice more—and then he’s spilling inside you again, forehead pressed to yours, gasping your name like a prayer.
You both lie there—sweating, shaking, broken open.
But this time?
There’s no panic.
Just his arms around you.
Just the warmth of his body against yours.
You lie there for a long time—both of you quiet, chests rising and falling in sync, damp skin sticking together in all the places that still buzz with oversensitivity.
The ache hasn’t fully left. It lingers, a dull throb in your bones, but it’s not clawing anymore. Just simmering. Waiting.
You’re the first to move.
“I need water,” you croak.
Bucky groans softly, but props himself up on one elbow. “Yeah. Me too. And probably electrolytes. Protein. A cold shower. Fucking therapy.”
You huff a laugh, raw and scratchy. “Add a priest to the list. Maybe an exorcist.”
You both stumble to the kitchenette and down a full bottle of water each in silence, necks arched, throats working. He tosses you a granola bar, and you stare at it like it might combust in your hand.
“Eat,” he says softly, nudging your hip. “Even if it tastes like cardboard. You’ll crash harder if you don’t.”
You nod and rip it open with trembling fingers. You don’t even sit. Just lean your hip against the counter and take slow, careful bites.
Bucky watches you like he’s memorizing each one.
Eventually, you both make your way back to the bed. No longer frantic, just quiet. Stripped raw. Too tired to tease, too wired to sleep.
You curl into each other on the obliterated mattress, limbs tangled, your head on his chest. His arm draped around you. The sheets are twisted and damp, but you don’t care.
The green glow of the exposure readout finally shifts to blue: Stabilizing.
You exhale.
Bucky does too.
Then his hand moves—just a little. A slow stroke along your spine. Lazy. Thoughtful.
“You were incredible,” he says softly. “All of this? Everything we just went through? You handled it like a fucking champ.”
You lift your head, blinking at him. “You’re literally a super soldier.”
“And I still felt like you were the one keeping it together,” he says, smiling faintly. “You didn’t tap out. You didn’t panic. You just… let me take care of you. Trusted me.”
You look away, throat tight.
“I didn’t really have a choice,” you mumble.
Bucky catches your chin gently, turning you back to face him. “No. You did. You always do.”
Your eyes search his.
Something soft unfolds between you—quiet and warm. Like the eye of a storm that hasn’t quite passed.
He keeps going, voice a little hoarse, like he’s not used to saying this much at once. “I’m glad it was you,” he says. “I know this wasn’t… ideal. But if it had to be anyone, I’m glad it was you.”
Your heart stumbles.
“Bucky…”
He shakes his head, brushing your hair behind your ear with aching tenderness.
“I’ve wanted you for months. Thought about you. Dreamed about you. But I never would’ve crossed that line if this hadn’t happened. So yeah… maybe it started with the compound. But everything after? Every touch, every kiss, every time I made you come—that was me. Just me. Wanting you.”
Your breath catches.
And then you feel it.
That familiar simmer. That low, rolling heat—not sharp this time, not urgent—but there. Blooming again, under your skin. Spreading.
Bucky swears under his breath, brow furrowing.
“You feel that too?” he asks, already sliding a hand to your hip.
You nod slowly, heart thudding. “It’s coming back.”
He exhales through his nose, jaw clenching. But this time, he doesn’t look panicked. Just… ready.
He rolls you gently onto your back and kisses your forehead.
“Then I guess we’re not done yet.”
The bed creaks, the walls echo, the air pulses with heat—
“I’m coming!”Your voice breaks, high and desperate.
“I’m—fuck, I-I’m right there with you, baby!” Bucky’s answering groan is ragged and hoarse, like it’s been torn from the center of him.
You feel him spill inside you just as you clamp down around him one last time, your whole body shuddering with the aftershock.
And then—
Stillness.
Weightless, breathless stillness.
You collapse onto the sheets in a boneless heap, Bucky slumping half on top of you, chest heaving, skin soaked. You’re both shaking. Viscid and aching and utterly, blissfully ruined.
He nuzzles into your hair, forehead pressed to your temple, one arm sliding under your back to pull you closer.
Neither of you says anything for a long time.
Then he breathes, soft and warm against your cheek: “That was the last one.”
You hum sleepily, curling into his chest. “You sure?”
“Not even a little.” He presses a kiss to your damp hair. “But if my dick gets hard again, I’m filing for disability.”
You laugh—quiet and full of relief—and bury your face against him, skin still tingling but the fire finally, finally gone. Your limbs are heavy. Your eyelids heavier.
He strokes a lazy hand along your spine. “You were perfect.”
“You’re biased,” you mumble.
“Still true.” He kisses your shoulder. “I don’t think I’ll ever get over this.”
You look up at him, eyes lidded. “The sex?”
He shakes his head. His thumb brushes your cheek.
“You.”
And just like that, the ache in your chest replaces the one in your body.
You don’t reply—don’t have to. You just curl tighter into him, fingers laced with his beneath the rumpled blanket, and let sleep tug you under.
BANG BANG BANG.
“Trial Room 3A, experiment concluded. Participants, report for medical clearance.”
BANG BANG BANG.
You bolt upright with a yelp, tangled in sheets, fully naked, and still vaguely sticky.
Bucky groans from beside you, covering his face with one hand. “What the actual fuck—”
“Room’s still being monitored,” a tinny voice adds through the intercom. “We recommend clothing. Immediately.”
You dive for the first piece of fabric you can find—his shirt, maybe yours, hard to tell in the chaos. Bucky scrambles for his pants, one leg in, one leg out, muttering curses under his breath.
“You’d think they’d knock softer after what they just witnessed,” you grumble, yanking a blanket around your shoulders.
Another knock.
“We did. Three times.”
You and Bucky freeze mid-motion, then exchange a look.
The same look.
Horrified. Embarrassed. Barely containing laughter.
And completely, utterly done with whatever the hell this assignment turned into.
They don’t say a word as they’re led down opposite hallways.
Two sets of footsteps echo off the linoleum like gunshots, sharp and sterile. Their clothes cling to skin still damp with sweat, hastily pulled on, uncomfortable. Every shift of fabric is a reminder—of friction, of exposure, of just how raw they still are.
The rooms are identical. Unforgiving.
Cold fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in a flat, clinical glow that turns skin sallow and eyes hollow. The air is crisp with recycled chill, laced with antiseptic and the faint undercurrent of ozone—like someone just wiped the walls down after something went wrong. There’s no clock. No warmth. No color.
Just a metal table bolted to the floor, two hard plastic chairs, and a one-way mirror wide enough to see your own reflection. You can’t help but notice the bruises blooming on your throat, the raw flush still high on your cheeks.
A single bottle of water sits on the table, sweating condensation, untouched.
No one mentions what just happened. No one asks if they’re okay.
They’re separated like evidence—tagged, processed, and boxed away—while the heat still lingers in their blood, the ache hasn’t fully left their bodies, and the weight of what they shared hangs thick in the silence.
It doesn’t feel like a debrief.
It feels like a dissection.
One sits rigid in the chair, arms crossed, eyes locked on the mirrored glass. “So let me get this straight. The compound was never stable?”
The other paces once before slamming both hands on the table. “You ran a field trial with unstable biochemistry and no manual override. What the hell did you think was gonna happen?”
“Because it sure felt stable when I was sobbing through my fourth orgasm with no concept of time or hydration.”
“She was shaking. Crying. Couldn’t even speak. And you sat there with your little readouts and watched.”
“You call it a controlled environment, but you locked us in a motel sex fantasy built by a sociopath with a Pinterest account.”
“You gave us a cherry lollipop and one pillow. Don’t act like you weren’t trying to provoke a reaction.”
“I want names. Files. Every sad little ‘technician’ who sat behind that glass making popcorn while I begged for help.”
“She asked for help. And your only response was to mute the mics and let it ride.”
“You’re lucky it was him. If it had been anyone else, you'd be dragging a body bag out of that room right now.”
“If she’d been paired with someone who didn’t care? Someone who didn’t listen? You’d be answering to a war crime tribunal.”
“This was supposed to test a compound, not how many times you can break a woman without breaking the law.”
“I don’t care how pretty your reports are. I don’t care how sanitized the footage looks. What you did was abuse.”
“If you think this is over, you’re wrong.”
“If you think I’ll stay quiet about what you put her through, you’re out of your goddamn mind.”
Behind the glass, two agents sit side-by-side, watching the dual feeds.
One exhales. “So… that’s gonna be a lot of paperwork.”
The other presses their comm. “Notify legal. And maybe HR. They’re not gonna let this die quiet.”
Location: SHIELD Medical Wing, Secure Recovery Floor- Two hours later
The lights are lower here. The hum of overhead fluorescents swapped out for the soft thrum of filtered air. It's quiet. Calmer. Neutral paint on the walls, the sterile smell of antiseptic lingering. The kind of room meant for cooling down after classified disasters. Or, in this case, weaponized orgasms.
You sit cross-legged on the exam bed, hair damp from the world’s most humiliating decontamination shower. The sweat is gone, but the exhaustion lingers, soaked into your bones like concrete. You’re wearing loaner sweats and someone else’s oversized SHIELD tee. You don’t care.
The door opens.
He steps in, looking just as done as you feel—his hair still damp, henley swapped for a SHIELD-issued long sleeve, jaw tense. But the second your eyes meet?
Relief.
Real. Grounding.
“Finally,” you mutter, sliding off the bed. “I was starting to think they were gonna sedate me.”
He lets out a laugh that sounds half-feral and wraps you in his arms without hesitation. You bury your face in his chest. You both exhale like it’s the first breath you’ve taken in hours.
Then, at the exact same time: “Can you believe that shit?”
You both blink, then snort in tandem.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes scanning like he’s making sure you’re still standing. “You okay?”
You shrug. “Physically? I think I’ll live. Mentally? I’m gonna need three weeks off, a therapist, and a flamethrower.”
He huffs a laugh, thumb brushing under your eye.
You step closer, softer now. “What about you?”
“I’m fine,” he says quietly. “Mostly just—” He trails off, looking at your mouth. “Grateful.”
You blink. “Grateful?”
“That it was you,” he says. “If I’d been in there with anyone else…”
You nod, the emotion swelling behind your ribs. “Same.”
A beat.
Then, more tentative: “So… what now?”
Bucky pauses, hand still resting at your waist. “I don’t know. But I don’t want this to just be a trauma-bonded one-off.”
You raise a brow. “Even if it was the best trauma-bonded sex of your life?”
He smirks. “Especially because it was.”
You grin, but there’s something real in your voice when you say, “I don’t want to go back to pretending. Not after everything.”
His voice softens. “Then don’t.”
You reach up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. “You saying that like we could just… start something?”
He tilts his head, eyes full of something unguarded now. “I’m saying maybe we already did.”
And you’re about to respond—heart full, lips parting—when the door slams open behind him.
“Bucky Barnes!”
Steve Rogers stands in the doorway, wide-eyed and absolutely horrified. His shield is slung over his back like he came straight from combat. “I just saw the incident report—what the hell did they put you through?!”
Sam pokes his head in behind Steve, eyes scanning the room, then landing on the two of you wrapped around each other. “Oh. Ohhh no. They did not sex pollen the both of you.” He whistles, impressed. “Damn, Buck. All those months of pining finally paid off?”
Bucky groans, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Please let this be a dream.”
You’re laughing, hiding your face in his neck.
Steve is still mid-freak-out, flipping through a datapad. “Fifteen physiological spikes? Uncontained compound exposure? Emotional compromise?!”
“Fifteen?” Sam says, eyebrows up. “And here I thought you were just broody and old-fashioned.”
You peek over Bucky’s shoulder, smiling at both of them. “If you’re done with the play-by-play, maybe let the sex pollen survivors breathe?”
Bucky grumbles, “They’re never letting this go.”
Sam’s already smirking. “Nah, but hey—congrats on finally getting your girl, man.”
Steve sighs. “I’m putting in a formal complaint.”
Bucky just wraps his arm tighter around you. “Too late. I already filed mine.”