#Held x At x Gunpoint

[galaxyspeaking]

I would love you with our heads down

[mischievous-thunder]

And then the freaky mugger becomes a kidnapper as he decides to keep this beauty with him

[six-tooth]

what a bastard teddy bear you got there Pom

[skippersxfamily]

Endo writing his female characters: "women should be allowed to be strong, violent, and angry"

Endo writing his male characters: "he is pathetic for a woman"

[koushuwu]

kiss me slowly

pairing: kageyama tobio x reader

word count: 1,9k

summary: tobio has been in love with you, his older sisters best friend for years. after all these years, he's feelings are strong as ever when he comes back home to japan during the holidays, and mistress luck turns out to be smiling upon him.

tags/cw: fluff, kisses, best friends younger brother!kageyama tobio, mutual pining, not beta read, also not edited we die like neji. bare with me, i'm concussed and wrote this thing on paper before hastily typing it in here.

the first time kageyama kissed you, he might have sworn he could’ve passed out right then and there. maybe he already had. maybe he’d passed away and ascended to heaven. that was probably it, because your lips against his felt like nothing short of his own personal heaven.

kageyama tobio had loved you from afar for years upon years, but he’d never known how to convey these feelings to you. it was a wondrous feeling. intoxicating. but it also hurt. it ached so deep and heavy in his chest that when he was younger, he’d sometimes wished he’d never met you at all. wished that his sister had picked a different best friend.

as he grew older, those wishes seized. although he would sometimes still wonder if it’d been easier. better. if he’d never known you. as if that choice had ever been his to make. he did wonder, but after moving to italy in pursuit of his volleyball career, those thoughts subsided, along with the memories of you.

that was at least what tobio though, but then came around the first holidays where held been able to travel back to japan, since joining ali roma. they say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. it wasn’t a saying that tobio had ever really given any thought. at all. but then he crossed the threshold of his childhood home, removed his shoes in the genkan, stepped inside, and there you were. he knew that miwa was going to be home as well. for some reason though, despite knowing that you and his sister were still very much attached by the hip, he hadn’t expected to see you standing right there. in his kitchen. smiling. at him. and talking. to him. shit. you were talking to him.

“— grown so much! welcome home!” and as you rounded the table and pulled him into a hug, all he could muster was one single breathless word.

“… yeah.”

when you pulled back, he thought for a spilt second that you lingered, looking at him with an expression he couldn’t read. but then you were already stepping back towards the kitchen counter and he must’ve imagined it. he must’ve. but he knew that he hadn’t imagined the way his heart hammered in his chest and his palms got clammy.

“still quite the talker, hm?” you chirped. “i’m preparing snacks for miwa and i. you want any?” okay. so maybe his feelings had never really subsided after all. instead, they’d been buried deep inside, during a time where he hadn’t been faced with these feelings and the subject of them, close to every single day.

throughout tobio’s time back in japan, things only got worse. or maybe they got better? tobio had no way of knowing at the time, how the ache is his chest would soon be soothed. all that he knew was that you hung out with miwa on the daily, and seeing you that often was both a blessing and a curse. more often than not, you and miwa would insisted that he joined. that he watched movies with the two of you. had drinks with the two of you. spent time with the two of you, interrogated about his life in italy. and he did. because as much as it hurt, he still wanted to spend as much time with you as he possibly could. be as close as he could. but in doing so, tobio found it harder and harder not to think about you. he shouldn’t be thinking about you like that. he shouldn’t. but the thoughts and the desires kept intruding on his brain and he knew that he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t stop.

gradually, you started spending even more time at the house, even when miwa wasn’t home. some foolish part of tobio’s brain couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, you came around for him. couldn’t help but hope that that was the case.

on that particular day, he almost convinced himself when you knocked on the door to his room. almost.

tobio was splayed out on his bed, tossing a volleyball into the air. over and over. toss. catch. toss. catch. toss. catch. it helped him focus. helped him remember the feeling against his fingertips. even more so, it helped him keep himself together in your presence.

“where’s miwa?” he asked, eyes trained on the ball. as if he wasn’t the one living under the same roof as her. as if you were the most likely to know. but truly, mostly because whenever he talked to you, his brain went blank. completely and utterly, and his tongue desperately tried to compensate, which always turned to questions like that.

“out. probably still at work, i think,” you said, shrugging. toss. catch. that made sense. toss. catch. 

“oh. yeah.” toss. catch. toss.

“i can go if you’d rather be alone.” catch.

“no i–” his tossing halted for a moment as he looked at you. “stay,” he said. he didn’t want you to leave. he lowered his arms, ball still perched on the tips of his fingers. he wanted you to stay. and he wanted you to keep smiling at him like that. and you did.

“alright,” you said, leaning back in the chair you’d occupied since you’d come into his childhood room. there’s a short pause, but you never stop smiling as you look into his eyes. he wants to look away. he doesn’t want to look away. ever. “italy sounds magical,” you then said. he nodded but didn’t say anything, tongue tying on knots as he took you in. “does it ever get lonely all the way over there?”

“I–” that was unexpected. he thought it over for a moment. tossed the ball back into the air, and caught it as gravity did it’s thing, pulling it back down. “hm. maybe sometimes.”

“you know, if you’re lonely, miwa and i would love to come visit.” did you know how his heart hammered in his chest? did you realize how much he wanted you to visit him? did you have any idea just how much he wanted you, and just you? toss. catch. toss. catch. “tobio.”

“hm?” he hummed. toss. catch.

“if you don’t stop tossing that ball while i’m talking to you, i’m going to steal it.” toss. catch. he stopped again. looked over at you. hadn’t even realized when he’d looked away. when he’d started tossing the ball again. it just happened.

“sorry,” he mumbled sheepishly.

“if you don’t want me to come, that’s fine btw. you don’t have to–”

“no.” he didn’t mean to be so stumped in his answers. but he couldn’t help it. his brain was spinning with the thought of you in his apartment in italy. you in his kitchen. you in his living room. on his couch. in his bed. he shook his head. toss. catch. “i would love that.” toss. catch. toss. catch. you moved beside him. his gaze flicked to you, the moment the ball was in the air. the split second before you were on him.

“told you i’d steal it!” you exclaimed, pouncing to snatch the ball out of the air. tobio had no idea what happened next. or more like, he didn’t know how it happen. one moment you were going for the ball, the next you were falling. you were falling. onto his bed. onto him. panicked, he reached to catch you as you crashed against him. the ball smacked against the wall as tobio’s large hand had slapped it out of the way in his attempt to break your fall. which he had. with his body. 

“oompf.”

it was quiet for a moment, except for the volleyball bouncing on the floor a couple of times before it continued it’s adventure, rolling until it came to a halt against the opposite wall.

“i’m sorry,” you said lifting yourself up on your elbows. “are you okay?” you didn’t move to sit up. you didn’t. maybe because tobio’s hands were splayed out over your spine. or maybe you just didn’t want to. you looked into his eyes, the air around you seemingly growing heavier by the minute.

“i’m okay,” he said. the silence stretched. he should probably say something. he should let go of you. he should ask you to get up. he should. he should. he should. but he didn’t. he didn’t, because he didn’t want to.

“are you going to kiss me?” you asked, the question hanging in the air, charged. he wanted to. his lungs felt completely void of air. he couldn’t. he shouldn’t. he wanted to. so badly.

“no.”

“i’m sorry.” you pull back when the rejection leaves his lips, but his hold around you tightens. he doesn’t want to hold you back. he really doesn’t. but he can’t let you go. not when– you look away and his chest aches again. more than it’s ever done before. “it’s okay. of course you don’t want to. i’m sorry!” for being so forward. for making it awkward. for falling on you, for assuming– tobio heard all the things you didn’t say in that one single apology. 

“it’s not that i don’t want to–”

“it’s fine,” you blurted out, cutting him off. the muscle in his jaw ticks. he can feel it. he doesn’t mean it. but you’re misunderstanding him and he never hated his poor communication skills more than he did that very moment. “you don’t have to explain.” he brushes his knuckles against your jaw before his palm settled on your cheek, turning your head back to face him.

“i want to,” he said. “you have no idea how much i want to. how long i’ve– but i know that i won’t want to stop if i do.”

“okay,” you said. it was quiet for another moment as you looked at each other. “okay, well. that’s good. because maybe i don’t want you to stop.” tobio found his eyes growing wider at your admission. the first time kageyama tobio kiss you, it was actually more you the kissed him. as you leaned down and pressed your lips to his, tobio found himself scared that this was but a dream. that one wrong movement would have you vaporizing and disappearing from. but the press of your lips were so soft. so tender. the hand left on your back fisted in your shirt. clinging on for dear life as his lips finally moved against yours. he’d passed away and gone to heaven. there was no other explanation for what was happening right now. it was sweet. it was magical. it was perfect. it was you. he pulled you closer and you obliged. it was– it–

“finally!” miwa’s cheerful voice echoed in tobio’s room, and startled the two of you pulled apart. shock painted in your features as well as his. but kageyama miwa looked nothing but happy to have caught the two of you kissing. the smile on her face said it all. and then– “took you long enough. anyway, finish up soon, okay? i brought dinner.” she turned and left.

the second time kageyama tobio kissed you, was only mere moments after the first. he was smiling. you were smiling. the heavy atmosphere had lifted but the magic was there. the second time tobio kissed you, it was quick and full of wonder. like the promise of many more to come. and while tobio knew he was going back to italy soon and the ache of leaving you behind was overwhelming, at least he knew that he could be looking forward to you visiting him when he inevitably started feeling lonely without having you close.

*:･ﾟ✧ thank you for reading ♡

[comical-icicle]

I had an idea…

[clarissaweasley-10]

ISTG IF EMILY TURNS OUT TO BE ALIVE/MAKES HER RE-APPEARANCE WHEN GRAY AND LYRA WERE FINALLY STARTING TO BOND OR SMTH THEN I'LL SERIOUSLY JUMP OFF THE CLIFF

[officialdaydreamer00]

(part 1 here)

you did notice him some time ago.

the cloak clad boy with the prettiest fiery blue hair.

he who watches from behind the trees. never gets close, never interacts.

"do not go near that boy, for he may be bearing ill intents. do you understand, my child?"

"yes, mother..."

mother always told you that, which left you wondering why. the boy didn't try to approach you, when he could have done it long ago. instead, he chose to observe. he responded to your smiles and waves with his own, albeit shy ones.

the more you looked at him, the more your heart felt strange. it was a warm feeling that engulfed you whole, as if you had seen him somewhere before. had you known him from somewhere? anywhere?

but you grew up with only the presence of your mother, exactly what made you feel that way?

peculiar, indeed, and you intended to find it out yourself.

so despite your mother's words, you wandered beyond the borders, the one that your mother put up to, in her words, protect you from the horrors of the outside world. she was protective, that you were always grateful for, but it soon felt rather overbearing.

it had been quite a while since you last ventured out of your home. mother used to bring you along to places. something happened, however, and she never let you leave the house ever since. you understood, of course, but the growing want to explore pushed that thought away. so the moment your mother left the house, you left too.

there he was again, at his usual spot and gazed over the little place you called home.

he looked confused, his pretty golden eyes darted around, seemingly searching for something, or rather, you. you decided to approach the boy, and with every steps you made, that feeling came back as stronger than ever.

the boy soon turned to you. he flinched back in panic(?), before slowly calming down when he saw it was you. that was when you noticed some things about him.

he was tall, towering over your form, yet he didn't give off a threatening aura. pale white skin, ghostly even, all hidden under a black cloak. the fiery blue hair that you saw was, indeed, fire, strange how it didn't burn you. and his eyes, a molten gold so eerie yet so soft as he stared at you with an expression difficult to read. melancholic? wistful? you couldn't tell which.

his hands held yours so gently, and they fit so perfectly together. he called you 'his queen', you didn't understand why, but something in your heart stirred. as if a force took hold of your soul, you responded.

"We have met again, my King."

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reblogs are very appreciated!!

[sp4rkstorm]

Morph is definitely 100% acting of their own free will

[tildeathiwillwrite]

WoW Birthday Whump 2025 Day 5

Prompt List

Masterpost

Prompt: Lured into a trap/Springing the trap

Fandom: Stardew Valley

Words: 600

Tag List: @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion @scaewolf

@the-ellia-west @melpomenelamusa

CW: hostage situation, stealth, held at gunpoint, taunts

<- previous

----------

The Calico Desert at midnight was the sort of place Rose tended to avoid in recent years.

In theory, it was no different than the rest of Stardew Valley. Dark, quiet, when the nocturnal creatures came out to sing and hunt.

In reality, Rose found herself checking over her shoulder more than was reasonable as she left the bus stop, one hand on the hilt of her sword, the other fiddling with her ring. But not just because she knew she was walking into a hostage situation. Something about the Calico Desert always brought to mind unfriendly watchers.

The only light came from the moon tonight. Rose had ditched her glow ring tonight in favor of her ruby and aquamarine rings. She wasn't taking any chances, and without the glow ring stealth would be on her side, at least for a time.

The three pillars loomed in the distance, the moonlight glinting off the golden orbs at the top. A group of six figures stood in the center, five arranged defensively around a sixth, kneeling. Rose couldn't quite make out their faces, but it was obvious which one was her husband.

She reached into her pocket and palmed a small, round object. She still held out hope she could talk it out with her former colleagues. The others weren't so certain after learning what sort of life she had led before coming to the Valley.

As she approached, snatches of conversation came within earshot.

"No cell signal," grumbled one. "What kind of place is this?"

"A place for people to go who don't want to be found," another replied with a far too familiar voice. He was facing away from Rose, his arms folded, but she didn't need to see him to know who he was.

"Clearly," the first one retorted. Rose didn't recognize his voice, either they didn't interact very much or he was new. "But no cell signal? Whatsoever? We're not even fifty miles from Zuzu City."

Rose paused a short distance from the pillars. The group still hadn't noticed her. Was she really that stealthy, or were they just idiots?

"Why are you so hung up on this?" Rose's former business partner snapped, turning towards the other man sharply. Light glinted off the holstered gun at his side.

Definitely idiots.

"It's just weird, okay? I dunno, this place makes me uneasy. Why are we here again?"

"Because you have my husband," Rose announced.

All six people in the center of the pillars jumped, even Sebastian, who was facing her. In a blink, five guns were pointed at her.

Five idiots.

Rose casually folded her arms, blood pounding in her ears. "Long time no see, Dante."

Dante, the man Rose used to work with on the less-than-legal activities she had spent several of her younger years involved in, scowled. "The coward herself."

"Fascinating words coming from you."

Dante hissed and pointed his gun at Sebastian. "I must hand it to you, you have made yourself a very difficult woman to find. But find you I did."

"For what?" Rose asked, fingers tightening around the sphere, "To kill my husband in front of me? You're smarter than that."

"You're right, I am smarter than that. Certainly smarter than the woman to brought a sword to a gunfight. Surrender, and I let him live."

Rose narrowed her eyes. "If you kill him, neither you nor the four idiots you brought with you are leaving the three pillars alive."

Dante tried to laugh it off. He truly tried. But he knew when Rose was bluffing. He would know she was not. "Brave words coming from five to one odds."

Rose shrugged. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Before Dante could respond, Rose threw the object---a bright red cherry bomb---between them. He cried out and dove away a split second before it exploded in a burst of light.

And all hell broke loose.

[bxleeding-bxunni]

“I feel like a prisoner in a striped suit and little pill box hat”

- @korn-dawg while writing the Valentine’s Day Sevika fic rn

[dazednstoned]

“Let me make it up to you, hm?” He murmurs the proposition against the ever-sensitive skin behind her ear.

The scrape of his beard and the warm exhale of his breath against her is more than enough to earn her forgiveness. Though, that ain’t mean he’ll go without punishment.

“I can give you my mouth tonight?” His lips trail down her neck and to the expanse of bare skin left where the strap of her chemise slipped down.

“That’s as much a treat for me as it is for you,” she scoffs but can’t stifle the heat that crawls up her neck and to her cheeks.

“What do you want then, my angel?” It ain’t a question, but rather an offering of himself and anything she wishes of him.

She thinks on it a moment, chewing on her lower lip as she ponders all she can do to him. When she turns in his arms to face him, she grins like the clever thief and seductress John had known her to be when they first met.

“Get your lasso,” she urges him, but he knows it's a demand.

“Yes, ma’am."

[snowiefur]

I'm being peer pressured into posting candymoon content (a OC x canon of mine.)

ermmm ya. astro from dandy's world and my oc Sweets. 2nd image is how they make me feel rn

you guys will never see me again. unless I get held at gunpoint to post candymoon content again

[polvillodecanela]

For later - Something something Hob can see the dead something something.

Like all stories, this one started with a garden. But it wasn't the first garden ever or a garden in a nice house in Tadfield. This story begins with a garden in a now demolished house, in Varsovia.

The year is 1939, Dream of the Endless has been imprisoned for all the first great war and the pandemic that went after it. Death of the Endless has had the most busy time since the Roman wars and, let's face it, she's awfully overworked. That's why Destiny of the Endless managed to pull that especific scenario out of his book to reality.

Captain Howard (Hob) Gallen, medical soldier, actual inmortal, flies up the air as one of the bombs destroys what little left of said garden. He knows he won't die, it will hurt of course but he will heal. The ones with him though?

He falls right on his ass, wincing. A leg is broken, maybe some ribs, definitely his shoulder is dislocated. his head is a mess of scrambled brains, but he is concious and that is a blessing. beside him, a poor corporate falls on his back, Hob hears the breaking of bones, spinal bones. This lad is over. maybe the head too but Hob has some ringing in his ears from the explotion.

He crawls the few centimeters and tries to hold the poor lad's hand.

"Hey, John, buddy", he says trying for a smile "Hey, you are alright, yu hear me? I'll help you out"

"Sir", the poor fellow almost whines, there's a whistle in his breathing. Bad signal. "Sir, please, I don't want to die."

"Me neither, son, we got this. Please resist for me, yeah? be a good buddy and resist for me"

Hob knows is futile. But he is obsessed with living and that includes all the people surrounding him. Hknows in his heart of hearts that the lad is going to die. maybe he is already halfway.

"Sir, I know. I am not going to make it. I need a favor of you, sir"

"Whatever you want, son"

The lad takes a photo of his pocket. A beautiful lady, a fragile sweet thing made of lithe bones and wavy hair.

"She is Esme. We were going to marry. I want you to tell her... that I was no coward"

"She will know, son. You fought bravely"

Hob has just enough time to mutter his promise before he felt another impact. He felt his body coming apart and how one of his legs just ... disapeared. he wont die but, God, sometimes he wish he did.

Death of the Endless wasn't far but in someting that could only be described as "being so overworked you can't literally see" she doesn't feel the tug of Poor John's soul, calling for her. She keeps collecting, smiling kindly, offering comfort. She keeps doing whatever she can. She is tired and Destiny is almost smiling.

Captain Howard Gallen wakes up two weeks later on a Military Hospital. He has his leg back and all his cuts, if painful, are almost healed. He survived. He, also, is watching poor John standing by the foot of his bed. He looks angry but also hopeful.

The sound hob makes is so undignified that it doesnt deserve quoting here, understandable as it is since John looks exactly how someone would look if they were reached by two - not one -bombs and survived.

"You are awake finally! quick, I feel a pull that is eating me. Off to Esme we go"

And, honestly, he is way past his 600 years, he must know some thing or two about the supernatural. This still takes him by surprise.

[rabbits-of-negative-euphoria]

I want to know exactly what kind of Maoist struggle session Jenna Ellis was forced through

[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, dry humping, grinding, soft dom vibes reader, soft sub vibes bucky, bucky is touch starved, premature ejaculation, reader has dubious methods of emotional control, vague mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, mentions of red room, very consensual, safe words, kissing, panic attacks, bucky barnes needs a hug, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, mentions of past violence, death and war, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8.4k

A/N: hey guys, i'm a woman possessed. i've had so much motivation to write recently, so here is a quick one-shot. i'm sure this concept has been done before but i just couldn't stop thinking about touch starved bucky :( ! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist | series masterlist

You never would’ve agreed to this mission had you known Barnes was going to be this squeamish. You’d seen the man slit throats without a sound, drop bodies with cold efficiency, and unload an entire chamber of bullets without so much as flinching. He hadn’t even blinked when aliens from outer-fucking-space rained hell upon Earth. But holding your hand? Letting his fingers brush your waist? Anything a devoted ‘husband’ ought to do? The super soldier looked like he’d rather swallow glass. He couldn’t even meet your gaze, for god’s sake.

What the hell had Fury been thinking?

You had to yank him away before anyone noticed the strained—Help me, I’m being held hostage by this incredibly attractive, incredibly capable woman who, might I add, is supposedly my wife—look on his face.

This gala, a weeklong jerkfest for the wealthy and villainous, was meant to be a stroll in the park. Your bread and butter, even if the Red Room had been... regrettable and against your consent, it had taught you an array of useful skills. Yet Barnes was ruining it, turning what should have been a simple infiltration into a goddamn babysitting job. The plan was airtight: pose as a glamorous Russian couple, collect incriminating evidence, and dip at the end of the week. Except Barnes wasn’t holding up his end of the deal. Instead of charming your way through the crowd, you were covering for his stiff, awkward pauses and the fact that he looked less like a besotted husband and more like a man being forced at gunpoint to stand beside you.

By some miracle, you managed to drag him away to one of the empty floors, a tucked-away space littered with stacks of unused tables and chairs. He was wound tight—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, eyes flicking across the dimly lit room like he was expecting death itself to emerge from the shadows. You didn’t bother with subtlety. Tearing the small recording device from between your tits, you fumbled with the button until the tiny red light blinked off. Whoever ended up reviewing the footage later wouldn’t need to hear the verbal onslaught you were about to unleash. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” you hissed, keeping your voice low, though the sheer force of your frustration was enough to strip paint off the walls.

Barnes clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring as he refused to meet your eye. It reminded you of a scolded dog, all pouty and pathetic. You might’ve found it cute under different circumstances. “You’re making this incredibly fucking difficult.”

“I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal—”

“Because it’s our cover, Barnes.” you snapped, incredulous. “We’re supposed to be married, not some fucking timid virgin couple. PDA makes people uncomfortable; they look away, and we have less eye on us to, I don’t know—do our fucking job?”

Barnes looked down at his clenched fists, swallowing hard. You rolled your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief. The dangling diamond earrings you had hanging from each lobe tinkled slightly, and you ran a hand through your perfectly styled hair, resisting the urge to throttle him.

“You’re unbelievable. Fury should’ve just sent me alone—” you muttered, but the words barely left your lips before your eyes caught movement.

A group. Heading straight for you. Purposeful.

“Fuck.”

With haste, you tucked the small recording device back into your cleavage. Barnes noticed immediately, clocking your distress. His brows knit together, hand twitched toward the hidden knife tucked into his suit jacket.

“No.” You scolded. Catching his wrist, you guided it elsewhere—your hips. He stiffened instantly, making a noise of protest, but you kept him locked in place, pressing in until your chests brushed. Too close. Not close enough.

“Play along,” you murmured. “Kiss me. Now.”

“Wha—” His breath hitched, barely enough time to form a response before you rose onto your toes and sealed your mouth over his.

Barnes froze. Stiff beneath your touch, lips rigid like you’d just planted one on a slab of granite. He still tasted like toothpaste—spearmint—and the faint trace of his aftershave clung to his skin. If you’d been trying to salvage some believability, some small thread of natural chemistry, it was impossible now. It was like kissing a statue.

An aftershave-scented stone statue.

The passing group chuckled, one of them murmuring, amused, “Ah, young love.”

Maybe it was the murmured chuckles of the passing guests, or maybe Barnes had finally remembered how to act, because his grip on your hips suddenly tightened, fingers digging into the fabric of your dress with unexpected force. The silk pulled taut against your skin, trapping heat between you, and then—

A sound.

Low. Strangled. A rasping, utterly pathetic groan against your lips.

You barely had time to register it before something else stole your attention. In the tight press of your bodies, you felt it—hard, insistent, pressing against your pelvis.

Oh.

The realisation sent a flicker of shock through you, but you schooled your expression, keeping your face composed as you lingered just a second longer—just enough to ensure your audience was convinced. Then, finally, you pulled back.

Barnes didn’t move.

For a moment, he just stared, pupils wide and unfocused, a blissed-out haze dulling the sharp blue of his eyes. But then, like a lightning strike, awareness snapped back into him. Horror overtook his dazed expression, his breath hitching as he seemed to realise—

Did he just—?

You both looked down at the same time.

And there it was.

The medium grey of his suit pants betrayed him entirely, darkening at the crotch with an unmistakable wet patch.

You gaped, lips parting in stunned silence. No fucking way.

Barnes didn’t wait for a reaction. With the sheer force of a man fleeing for his life, he ripped himself from your grasp and marched away, stiff-backed and utterly silent, leaving you standing there, speechless.

—

It had been twenty minutes, and Barnes still hadn’t left the goddamn bathroom.

It had taken you all of thirty seconds to track him down, but the moment you found the door, it was locked. Of course it was. You twisted the handle, rattling it in frustration, then resorted to pounding your fist against the heavy wood—subtly, of course, but with enough force that he knew you weren’t going anywhere.

“Barnes.” You hissed his name through gritted teeth, pressing closer to the door. Nothing. Not a shuffle. Not a breath. Absolute fucking silence.

You exhaled sharply, trying to keep your expression neutral as a pair of guests passed by, casting you a curious glance. Yeah, you knew exactly how this looked—lipstick smudged, breath uneven, standing outside a locked men’s bathroom like a woman scorned. You must’ve looked thoroughly debauched.

Your pulse hammered in your throat. This was insane. A simple, fake kiss had made him short-circuit so hard that he fucking came in his pants? Twenty minutes ago, he looked repulsed by the mere idea of touching you, and now he was hiding away like some panicked virgin?

You let out a long, slow groan, dropping your forehead against the door.

“Barnes,” you muttered, knocking again—your patience wearing thinner by the second. “Open the damn door.”

Silence.

You straightened, glaring at the wood as if you could will it into splintering apart.

“Barnes, I have been patient.” You gritted your teeth, knocking harder. “If you don’t open this door in the next five seconds, I will break in.”

Silence.

Motherfucker.

"Alright, I’m coming in," you announced, your voice low but firm.

You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, ensuring no one was watching, before slipping a bobby pin from your hair. Years of practice made the process effortless; your fingers worked quickly, blindly, jamming the pin into the lock and feeling for the mechanism. A few precise twists, a satisfying click, and—

"Make sure you're decent, Barnes—"

The words were halfway out of your mouth when you pushed the door open, but whatever half-hearted joke you'd meant to make withered before it even reached your tongue.

Barnes was not decent.

Not in the way you’d expected.

He sat hunched on the closed toilet lid, head in his hands, his entire body drawn in tight like he was trying to fold in on himself. His knee bounced erratically, the rapid motion almost violent in its rhythm. He had ripped off his suit pants, leaving himself in nothing but his boxers, his bare thighs tense, twitching. His fingers dug into his hair, gripping at the strands like he wanted to rip them out, and when his bloodshot eyes flicked up to you—

You felt your stomach drop.

Panic. Raw, unfiltered, choking panic.

Tears welled along his lash line, his chest rising and falling in uneven, barely contained pants. He looked like a man caught in a cage, seconds from tearing himself apart just to escape it.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry, and stepped in, shutting the door softly behind you before flipping the lock.

"Hey, Barnes…” Your voice was hesitant, softer than before.

He shook his head, eyes fixed firmly on the floor, his hands trembling as he dragged them down his face.

“I don’t—” His voice cracked, breaking on the words. "I don’t want you in—"

You moved before he could finish, lowering yourself to the cool bathroom tiles in front of him, as if making yourself smaller would make you any less intimidating.

"Hey," you murmured, tone careful but steady. "Look at me."

“No.” It came out sharp, like a whip, a defence mechanism honed over decades. His entire body went rigid, his breathing ragged.

“Barnes, you need to breathe.”

Your voice was steady, firm without being harsh, each syllable carefully measured as you crept forward on the cold tile floor. The dress, the dirt—none of it mattered. It wasn’t your dress, anyway. Tony Stark could foot the bill for a replacement if this one got ruined, all this fancy wear was on his dime.

“In through the nose,” you instructed, voice softer now. “Out through the mouth.”

By some miracle, Barnes listened.

He sucked in a ragged breath, chest expanding beneath his half-unbuttoned dress shirt, and then exhaled through parted lips. It was shaky, uneven, but it was something. You watched in silence, waiting. His limbs still trembled, his fingers clenching and unclenching against his thighs, but the worst of the violent, full-body tremors had eased.

“There you go,” you murmured, voice barely above a breath. “Keep breathing, just like that. You’re doing so well.”

Slowly, you inched forward, shifting across the tiles until you sat in front of his knees. His skin was warm, radiating heat even through the thin fabric of his boxers.

“Barnes,” you hesitated, watching his face carefully. “Can I touch you?”

His whole body tensed.

“What?” His eyes darted up, sharp and startled, as if the very question had knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Is it okay,” you rephrased, slower this time, gentler, “if I touch you?”

Barnes hesitated. His gaze flickered away, jaw clenching like he was at war with himself. But then, after a long, tense beat, he gave a small, stiff nod.

You inhaled, steadying yourself. Then, with slow, deliberate care, you reached out and cradled his face between your hands.

The moment your fingers touched his skin, he flinched.

Not violently. Not like he was afraid of you. But enough that you felt it—felt the way his muscles coiled beneath your fingertips, the way his throat bobbed in a hard swallow. The cool metal of your fake wedding ring grazed his cheek, and his breath hitched, like he had just been burned.

“Keep breathing,” you reminded him, voice low and steady. “Nice and slow.”

Barnes obeyed, dragging in another breath, and you felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. The hard lines of his face softened just slightly as he leaned into your touch, nuzzling—actually nuzzling—against your palms.

“There you go,” you murmured, your thumb stroking in slow circles over his cheek. “Look at me.”

His eyelids flickered, resisting for a moment, but then those storm-blue eyes finally met yours. He looked exhausted. Frayed at the edges. But grounded, at least. Present.

“Tell me one thing you can smell right now.”

Barnes blinked. A hint of confusion crossed his face. “Smell?”

“Yes, smell.” You nodded, keeping your voice soft, coaxing. “Just one thing. Keep breathing and tell me.”

He hesitated but then took a deliberate inhale through his nose, his bouncing knee slowing. “I guess… whatever shitty fucking chemicals they use to clean this place.”

A quiet laugh left you, your thumb tracing a swirling pattern along his cheekbone. “Good. You’re doing good, Barnes. Now, tell me two things you can feel.”

His breathing had steadied, his inhales and exhales falling into rhythm with yours. For the first time since you’d walked in, he wasn’t shaking as badly.

“This suit jacket,” he muttered after a pause. His metal fingers twitched against the fabric at his arm. “It’s too fuckin’ tight. They always are with my arm—”

His breath stuttered, his body tensing again. Immediately, you leaned in, close enough for him to feel your warmth. “Just breathe, remember? You��re doing so well. One more thing you can feel.”

Barnes swallowed thickly. His gaze flickered down, just briefly, before settling back on your face. 

“You,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “I can feel you. Touching my face.”

“Good.” You nodded, thumb gliding over his cheek again. “Are you okay with that?”

“Yes.” He exhaled, and for the first time, it wasn’t shaky. “It feels… it feels nice.”

Something in your chest clenched at the confession, but you pushed it aside. You smiled at him, soft and small, and kept going. “Now, three things you can see.”

Barnes’ eyes scanned over your face, searching.

“You,” he said, still quiet, still certain. His gaze lingered on your mouth. “Your lipstick is smudged.”

"Two more," you breathed, keeping your voice calm and steady, resisting the urge to comment on why your lipstick was smudged in the first place. No need to remind him of that right now.

Barnes' gaze flickered across the small, dimly lit restroom. His body had almost fully relaxed now, his mind preoccupied with the task you'd given him.

"Uh…" He scanned the space, brows furrowing in concentration. "The awful wallpaper… and the sink, I guess?"

You nodded approvingly, finally withdrawing your hands as you eased back onto your knees. The cold tiles bit through the fabric of your dress, but you barely noticed.

"Well done," you murmured. "Now, how about we keep breathing and get you sorted, huh?"

At that, Barnes stiffened slightly. The panic that had been receding just moments ago flickered in his eyes again, his hands twitching where they rested on his thighs.

You reached out, grounding him with a gentle touch to his knee. Your voice softened even further. "I’m going to turn around and face the door. I need you to clean yourself up—use the sink, use the soap."

His throat bobbed. "But my—my boxers, they’ll get all wet—"

"There’s a dryer on the wall, see it?" You tilted your head toward the small, dingy dryer meant for hands. "Use it to dry them. Then get dressed, and we’ll head back to the hotel early, okay? Order some shitty takeaway, watch bad TV. Just forget about all this for tonight. How does that sound?"

Barnes blinked as if thrown by the simplicity of the offer. His mouth parted, closed, then opened again, his voice small. "Yeah. Okay."

"Good." You flashed him a reassuring smile before pressing your palms against the sink, pushing yourself to your feet with a small wobble in your heels. "I’ll be right here. Just let me know if you need anything. Keep breathing, alright? Everything’s okay."

Turning, you crossed your arms over your chest and faced the door, giving him the privacy he needed. You tried not to listen too closely. Tried not to glance at the mirror reflecting the scene behind you.

The rustle of clothing filled the quiet, then the tap sputtered to life. You leant your forehead against the cool wood of the door, closing your eyes as you focused on the steady stream of water, the faint squeak of the soap pump, and then the soft sloshing and scrubbing of fabric.

The sound of fabric wringing out echoed softly against the tiled walls, followed by the steady hum of the hand dryer sputtering to life. You kept your forehead against the door, listening as Barnes manoeuvred through the motions, drying his boxers first, then his suit pants. The wet fabric slapped lightly against the metal dryer as he held it up, shifting awkwardly as he worked.

You didn’t rush him. Didn’t make a sound. Just stayed where you were, giving him time.

Eventually, the rustling stopped. A sharp inhale, then the familiar slide of fabric as he pulled his clothes back on. The quiet click of a belt buckle being fastened. The creak of leather shoes shifting against tile.

Then—

Barnes cleared his throat.

You turned.

He stood stiffly, suit now back in place, though the fabric still carried faint traces of dampness. His jacket was slightly askew, his tie loosened just enough to be noticeable. You took a slow step toward him, scanning him up and down with a careful eye. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move—just stood there, watching you warily, as if expecting a comment.

You didn’t give him one.

Instead, you reached up, grasping the edges of his tie. He stiffened but let you work, your fingers smoothing the silk fabric, tightening it properly against his collar. His pulse thrummed beneath your fingertips as you brushed against his throat, and though he remained still, you caught the way his breath hitched slightly at the contact.

“There,” you murmured, satisfied.

You turned towards the mirror, angling yourself slightly to the side. Your reflection was a mess—lipstick smudged, hair slightly dishevelled. You sighed, wetting your thumb with your tongue before dabbing at the edges of the stain, then reached into your clutch to pull out a small tube of lipstick.

Barnes hadn’t moved.

You could feel him behind you, his body heat pressing against your back in the cramped space. His gaze was heavy, following your movements as you leaned closer to the mirror, carefully reapplying the pigment to your lips. You didn’t look at him. You just smoothed the colour in place, pressed your lips together, then capped the tube and tucked it back into your bag.

Finally, you met his eyes in the mirror.

“Ready to go?” you asked.

There was a pause. A hesitation. His jaw clenched for half a second before he gave the smallest of nods. “…Yeah.”

You turned fully, flashing him a small, knowing smile before reaching for his arm. He didn’t resist when you looped yours through his, guiding him towards the door. With an easy tug, you led him forward, your heels clicking softly against the marble floors. His arm remained tense beneath your touch, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t let go.

You glanced at him briefly, lips twitching into a small smirk. “C’mon, sergeant. Let’s get out of here.”

Barnes exhaled through his nose, shaking his head ever so slightly. But when you reached the bottom of the stairs, he followed without question, letting you steer him towards the exit, away from the crowded room—away from prying eyes.

—

A small, muffled whine stirred you from sleep. You blinked groggily, rolling onto your side as the cool sheets tangled around your legs. The plush hotel mattress dipped beneath you as you buried your face into the pillow, willing yourself back into slumber.

A low, panting groan cut through the silence, soft at first, then growing in volume. Your brows knit together, heart thrumming uneasily. Something about the sound was… strange. It wasn’t just a groan—it was strained, needy. Erotic.

Your eyes snapped open.

The room was cloaked in darkness, save for the dim red dot of the fire alarm and the faint reflection of the turned-off TV. You remained frozen for a few beats, your ears straining to catch the noise again. It came, louder this time—a choked whimper thick with desperation.

Was someone in the room? Adrenaline slammed into your veins as you rolled off the bed in one swift motion, bare feet hitting the floor without a sound. You had heard stories of creeps breaking into hotel rooms, preying on women while they slept. Had one made the mistake of picking yours?

Another sound. Low, breathy, utterly wrecked.

Your hand darted to the bedside table, fingers curling around the hilt of a knife, its leather grip smooth beneath your palm. Not even yours, Barnes’—

Barnes.

Your breath caught as your gaze snapped towards the couch, knife slipping from your grip and landing on the carpet with a soft thud.

There, bathed in shadows, was the writhing mass of the super soldier. His blankets lay discarded on the floor as though he’d tossed them off in his sleep. The two of you had agreed to take turns—one in the bed, the other on the couch—to keep up appearances. A stupid arrangement, courtesy of Fury and Stark’s meddling.

You flicked on the bedside lamp. The warm light spilt over the room, casting soft amber hues onto Barnes’ form. His face was twisted in torment, and his lips parted around quiet, breathless whimpers. Sweat clung to his skin, catching the glow of the lamp and highlighting the sharp lines of his body. His metal arm whirred faintly as he twitched, fingers flexing against the cushions.

Your stomach dropped when your eyes drifted lower. He was shirtless, his broad chest rising and falling erratically. The thin fabric of his boxers did little to hide the evidence of his dream—more than half-hard beneath the cotton. Was he really that big?

The realisation hit like a freight train.

He was having a sex dream.

Jesus.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. You should’ve looked away, should’ve given him privacy. But then his hand twitched, drifting downward—

“Barnes.” Your voice was sharp, cutting through the haze like a blade.

He jolted awake, body seizing as his eyes snapped open. For a moment, he was utterly lost, chest heaving, pupils blown wide with confusion. Then his gaze landed on you—standing there in your thin nightgown, face unreadable.

His eyes flickered downward.

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath, panic flickering across his face as he yanked a pillow over his lap, shifting awkwardly as if that would somehow erase what had just happened. A string of curses left his lips, voice still wrecked with sleep.

You tilted your head, studying him. His expression wavered, part shame, part something else, something raw and vulnerable. You exhaled slowly, pressing your fingers into your temples. There was a pattern here. A man whose body wasn’t his own, whose skin felt foreign, whose touch-starved existence had left him unravelling at the seams.

What in God's name was Fury thinking sending him on a mission like this—or did Fury not know? How could he not? That one-eyed bastard had a habit of knowing everything. Hell, he probably knew the colour of your underwear before you even picked it out for the day, the all-seeing prick.

“H.Y.D.R.A really did a number on you, didn’t they?” you muttered.

Bucky flinched. The words struck deep, sinking into something fragile beneath the surface. He didn’t say a word, just recoiled, fingers gripping the pillow so tightly his knuckles turned white. A moment later, he was scrambling off the couch, making a beeline for the bathroom.

“Barnes, we’re not doing this again. Let’s just talk—”

The door slammed.

Then, the soft click of the lock.

You exhaled through your nose, arms crossing over your chest as you stared at the wooden barrier now separating you. Asshole. You knew you should’ve been more sympathetic. Should’ve handled it differently. But after a long, exhausting day, dealing with Bucky Barnes’ second puberty was not on your list of priorities.

You stepped closer, pressing a palm against the door; your voice quieter now. “I know how you’re feeling.”

Silence.

You could picture him inside, hunched over on the edge of the bathtub, fists clenched, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. “I understand what it’s like to be in a body that doesn’t feel like your own.”

A pause. No response.

“It must be hard,” you continued softly. “Not knowing who you are. Not recognising yourself anymore. And then... feeling things you don’t understand.”

Another pause. This one stretched longer.

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of trying to navigate that.” The silence that followed was heavier than before. You didn’t push, didn’t say anything else. Just rested your forehead against the doorframe, waiting. 

You had spent the better part of your life under the Red Room’s control, under Dreykov’s control. Every breath you took, every move you made, had been dictated by someone else. Orders given. Orders followed. It was all you had ever known. And then, one day, it was gone. Just like that.

You remembered the moment with eerie clarity: standing in the open air, staring out at the horizon, the sunset bleeding colour into a sky that suddenly felt too vast. The question had gnawed at you, quiet but insistent. What comes next? Who comes next? Because you didn’t know. You didn’t know who you were beyond a weapon, beyond a machine engineered for death and seduction. Two decades of programming, of conditioning, of being nothing more than an asset to be wielded and discarded at will. And then, without warning, you were handed something you were told was freedom.

But what did freedom mean when you didn’t exist?

There were no real records of your birth, no true identity to reclaim. The Red Room had scrubbed that away long ago, erasing every trace of the girl you had once been. No family. No home. No belongings that weren’t issued to you by those who had owned you. And yet, you were expected to smile—to accept this newfound autonomy without question, to embrace the illusion of a life you had no blueprint for.

But how could you, when you weren’t sure if the body you inhabited was even your own?

So even if Barnes thought you were bluffing and just trying to relate for the sake of kindness, he was wrong. Because you understood.

Terrifyingly well.

The difference was that you had refused to let it consume you. You had forced those feelings into the farthest corners of your mind, locking them away where they couldn’t touch you. Because if you let yourself linger on them for too long.

“Go back to sleep.” Bucky’s voice finally broke the silence, muffled through the bathroom door.

You sucked on your teeth, exhaling sharply through your nose. “Yeah, not happening.”

“I know the others give you crap about not dating, but you don’t have to let them pressure you,” you continued, keeping your tone light. “You don’t have to force yourself into a role that makes you uncomfortable. It takes time.”

“Back in the day..." His voice was quieter this time, tinged with something that almost sounded like regret. “I used to be a real flirt.”

A humourless smirk ghosted across your lips. You could picture it, all smooth charm and effortless confidence. The kind of man who could wink at a girl across a dance floor and have her swooning in seconds. But that wasn’t the man behind this door. That man had been stripped away, piece by piece. 

“I just don’t know anymore,” he admitted, voice raw. Your chest tightened. You could almost hear him weighing his words, picking them apart, and deciding how much of himself he was willing to give away.

“When I was the Winter Soldier... they made me do things.”

A slow, twisting knot formed in your stomach.

“It’s all… fractured in my mind,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “Scattered. Broken.”

You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply.

“I’m sorry,” you said, and you meant it. “I understand that. More than anyone. The Red Room… they didn’t just use us for assassinations and espionage.”

There. You had said it. Pulled a piece of yourself from the grave and placed it between you.

For the first time, the door cracked open.

Bucky stood there, dishevelled and breathless, still only in his boxers. A faint sheen of sweat clung to his skin, catching the dim hotel light, while his metal arm twitched slightly at his side. His hair was a mess—damp and curling at the ends, sticking to his forehead. His chest rose and fell unevenly, as if he hadn’t quite caught his breath, muscles taut beneath the weight of exhaustion.

“Why are you being kind to me?” he asked suddenly. His voice was rough, tinged with suspicion, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

You tilted your head, studying him.

“Because you’re hurting,” you said simply. “And obviously, you haven’t fully processed any of this.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Without another word, he turned and stalked past you, out of the cramped bathroom and into the main space of the hotel room. You followed at a slower pace, arms crossed as you watched him sink onto the couch, scrubbing a hand down his face. He was hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, his metal fingers tapping restless patterns against his flesh palm. His body had settled now, no longer betraying him with signs of arousal. That part of the moment had passed, but the turmoil in his head remained.

With a quiet sigh, you slid down to the floor, settling against the base of the bed across from him. Your legs stretched out in front of you, arms loose at your sides as you let the silence settle between you. 

“Have you spoken to Steve about this?” you asked after a moment, voice soft but firm. “Sam?”

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “God, no.”

“Why?”

“I dunno,” he muttered, fingers threading through his damp hair. “It’s just... awkward. I feel like a fuckin’ schoolboy.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “I could teach you.”

His eyes snapped to you, wary. “What?”

“I could teach you,” you repeated, voice steady. “How to make love. Fuck. How to gain control over your life again. You’re just sensitive; you need a bit of exposure therapy.”

Bucky’s expression darkened, jaw clenching. “Why the hell would you do that?”

You exhaled slowly, gaze drifting to the patterned carpet beneath you. “Do you know how many men I’ve fucked and not felt a thing?” you said quietly, barely above a whisper. 

“I wasn’t just an assassin or a spy. Not like Natasha or Yelena. I was a swallow, Barnes. A honeytrap.” His expression flickered, eyes scanning your face as if searching for something, some hint of insincerity.

You swallowed, pushing forward. “It’s why Fury sent me on this mission with you. This is all I’ve ever known.”

Bucky’s breath hitched slightly, his hands curling into fists against his thighs. “Fury knows what they did to you, and he still continues to—”

“I agreed to it,” you cut in, your tone clipped, controlled. “He just wanted our sham marriage to be believable. He wasn’t asking me to fuck you, just to perform. That’s what I do. Perform.”

Bucky huffed a bitter laugh, shaking his head. 

“Look, I don’t know you,” he muttered, voice low, rough. “I don’t want your baggage, or for you to fuck me out of pity or... I don’t know, self-sabotage.”

The words hit like a slap, sharper than you expected. You recoiled—actually flinched—before you could stop yourself. It wasn’t just what he said, it was the venom in it, the way he threw it at you like a blade meant to wound. And damn it, it did.

Bucky saw it, too. The way your shoulders stiffened, the flicker of something raw crossing your face before you forced it away. His breath hitched slightly, fingers twitching at his side, but he didn’t take it back. Didn’t soften the blow. Maybe he regretted it, maybe he didn’t, but either way, the damage was done.

Your expression hardened like cooling steel, every crack that had formed between you quickly sealing shut, any semblance of vulnerability buried beneath layers of carefully placed armour. It was instinct—second nature, really. You’d spent years perfecting the art of locking yourself away, of making sure no one could reach the parts of you that still bled. You’d built it, brick by fucking brick, until you were fully encased, isolated from anything that might harm you. 

Bucky wasn’t the first to speak to you like that. Wouldn’t be the last.

You swallowed down the sting, inhaled slow and deep through your nose, and then let it out in a steady breath. When you spoke again, your voice was quiet, devoid of emotion, a perfect imitation of indifference. “It was just an offer.”

Nothing more. Nothing less.

You held his gaze for a second longer, searching for something, anything, that might suggest he regretted it. But Bucky just stared back, face unreadable, jaw tight. Then, without another word, he turned away, stretching out on the couch with his back to you.

Fine. Message received.

—

The rest of the week had been nothing short of torturous. After the argument, the air between you and Bucky had turned to ice. The two of you barely spoke. Not outside of necessity, not outside of the roles you had to play. At the gala, he did what was required—he held you close, leant into your touch when needed, murmured sweet nothings in your ear to sell the lie. But you felt the restraint in him, the hesitance in the way he brushed a thumb over your knuckles, the barely-there tremors in his fingers when he smoothed a hand over your waist. It wasn’t as if he was walking on hot coals anymore, but there was still that same, underlying hesitation.

Back at the hotel, the silence stretched long and unbearable. Shower, eat, sleep—repeat. Conversations were reduced to one-word exchanges, curt and impersonal. At least by morning, this miserable charade would be over. You’d gathered the intel you needed at the gala, and in a few hours, you’d be free of this place. Free of this suffocating, awkward tension. Free from Bucky’s constant, looming presence. 

God, the man had a staring problem.

You had noticed it before, how he always seemed lost in thought, his gaze heavy with some unreachable burden. You had assumed it was just brooding, the kind of silent, empty-headed angst that men like him fell victim to. But now you realised—he wasn’t staring through you. He was staring at you.

You saw it when you dressed for the gala, slipping into silken dresses and heels, when you pinned your hair into elegant styles, when you traced the lines of your lips with lipstick, perfecting the illusion. You’d catch his reflection in the mirror, eyes fixed on you, dark and unreadable.

Once, he had been so caught up in his daze that he nearly left without putting on his suit jacket. You had to press it into his hands, dragging him out of whatever spell he was under. He had taken it stiffly, mumbling a quiet ‘thanks’ but the heat in his face was unmistakable.

And now, as you sat cross-legged on the bed in a loose nightgown, the fabric riding high on your thighs, the same damn stare was drilling into the side of your face.

The TV flickered before you, an incoherent blur of colours and sound. You weren’t even sure it was in English. It didn’t matter. You weren’t watching it anyway. You were too focused on not focusing on Bucky, who stared at the side of your face like he intended to burn a hole through the flesh.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, running your thumb over your knee. The sheets were soft, the mattress more forgiving than the couch you’d been forced to sleep on last night. At least tonight was your turn back on the bed, though ideally, you’d be back in your own apartment by now, wrapped in high-thread-count luxury courtesy of Tony Stark’s absurd wealth.

God, you missed Egyptian cotton.

Bucky was still staring at you. You couldn’t help it, annoyance, filthy and venomous came pouring out of your mouth before you could stop it. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Bucky startled, his whole body tensing as if you had physically struck him.

“Nothing—” he stammered.

You arched a brow, unimpressed.

“No. There’s obviously something you want to say.” You shifted on the bed, your frustration mounting. “Go on, spit it out.”

He hesitated, his jaw working like he was biting down on whatever words were lodged in his throat.

You didn’t let up. “You sure had a lot to say earlier in the week. What, do you want to dig the knife in further? You might as well just call me a whore while you’re at it—”

“I’m sorry.” Bucky cut over you, his head dipping. You paused, momentarily stunned. He was doing that thing again, where he looked like a scolded dog. Adorable, but not the fucking time.“I shouldn’t have said that, it was inconsiderate of me, especially after... after all you’ve done.”

You frowned. “You don’t owe me anything, Barnes.” The words left your lips quieter this time, but still firm. 

“I snapped at you. And I shouldn’t have.” he admitted. His voice was low, restrained.

You let out a slow breath, pressing your fingers to your temple.

“It’s okay. I understand,” you said, a little softer. “I haven’t exactly been… the kindest either.”

A bitter chuckle escaped him, his fingers twitching against his knee. Then, after a long pause, he asked, “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Act like everything is okay. Like it’s normal.” His voice was strained, like he wasn’t even sure if he believed in what he was asking.

You let out a short, almost nervous laugh. “I’m probably not the best person to ask about this—”

“But you get it, right?” He looked at you now, something almost desperate in his gaze. “To not know… who or what you are? Sometimes I… I just want to be normal again.”

You frown deeply, weighing his words carefully. You understood his sentiment, but you knew it was futile. There had never been anything normal about your life—not anything you could remember, at least. The Red Room had seen to that. Your earliest memories were of drills, of ballet, of suffocating discipline, and of the erasure of self. Even now, you weren’t normal; you were an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D for fucks sake, a woman barely pardoned of her crimes, existing in a liminal space. The world's governments couldn’t quite confirm you existed. You were a ghost, a fucking shadow of a person. 

“I don’t think people like us get to be normal,” you said finally, choosing your words carefully.

His expression twisted slightly, like he had already known that answer but had hoped for something different.

“But I think,” you continued, “it would serve you a world of good if you let people in. Steve… Sam. You don’t have to face this all alone—Natasha, Yelena, and I look to each other all the time to process it all and patch together the missing pieces. There’s no shame in it.”

Bucky’s face creased, his body drawing in on itself slightly. You moved before he could shrink further, slipping off the bed and kneeling before him. 

“It’s okay,” you reassured, voice steady. “Just tell me... what is it you need right now?”

His lips parted slightly, then pressed into a thin line. He fidgeted, his fingers clenching and unclenching as if struggling to force out something that had been sitting at the edge of his tongue all week.

Finally, he exhaled, jaw tight.

“I want to take you up on your offer.”

You tilted your head. “My offer?”

Bucky swallowed, eyes flickering to the floor before darting back to you. His voice was hesitant, low—like he was worried some invisible presence might have overheard. “Lessons. Lessons in… love-making. I want to be able to look at a girl without... you know. This fucking week has been torture seeing you—”

He cut himself off, warmth flooding to his cheeks. A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it—light, amused, genuine.

Bucky stiffened, eyes widening slightly, horror flashing across his face as if he thought you were mocking him.

You shook your head quickly, reaching out to place a hand on his knee.

“Of course,” you murmured, smiling. “Thought you’d never ask.”

—

“Is this okay?” you asked softly as you swung your leg over, settling onto Bucky’s lap. The mattress dipped beneath you both, the quiet creak of the hotel bed the only sound between you for a moment. He sat beneath you, legs slightly spread, his hands hovering uncertainly at his sides. You dug your knees into the bed on either side of his thighs, anchoring yourself against him.

His breath hitched, sharp and uneven. “Yes,” he murmured, though there was a noticeable tremor in his voice, like he was still convincing himself.

“Just breathe,” you encouraged, smoothing your hands over his broad shoulders. His muscles were tense beneath your fingertips, wound tight like coiled steel. He swallowed hard.

“What’s worrying you?” You asked gently. “Is there something I can do to make this more comfortable for you?”

Bucky shook his head, a shuddering breath leaving him as his hands finally found purchase on your hips. His grip was hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold you. “No,” he said, his voice rough. 

“This is great, I—” He cut himself off, pressing his lips together in frustration.

You tilted your head, studying him, before offering a reassuring smile. Your fingers kneaded into his shoulders in slow, soothing motions, attempting to melt away some of the tension knotted there. “Talk to me,” you coaxed.

His gaze flickered downward, shame creeping into his expression. “I just… don’t want to embarrass myself. Again.”

Your heart clenched at his vulnerability, but you refused to let him linger in self-doubt. Instead, you leant in, your lips curling in a playful smile. 

“You’re cute when you say things like that,” you teased, running your tongue over your lower lip before continuing. “Don’t worry about any of that. Just stay here, in this moment, with me.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he obeyed, focusing on the warmth of your body pressed against his. Slowly, his grip tightened on your hips, fingers kneading into the flesh more firmly this time. His thumbs traced cautious circles against the fabric of your clothing, testing. You let your hands drift from his shoulders down to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

“Now,” you murmured, keeping your tone soft but steady, “if you get overwhelmed, or if you need to stop, what do you say?”

“Stop,” Bucky answered without hesitation.

“Good,” you praised, smiling warmly. “And if you can’t speak? If the words won’t come?”

His fingers flexed on your hip before he squeezed in a deliberate rhythm—three distinct beats. You nodded in approval. “Perfect.”

His blue eyes flickered up to meet yours, searching. 

“What about you?” he asked, his voice quieter now, more earnest. “If you want to stop?”

You demonstrated by tapping three times against his chest, just over his heart.

“I’ll do the same thing,” you assured him. “Just like we discussed.”

For a moment, he just breathed. His lashes fluttered as he exhaled a slow, measured breath, his hands steadying against you. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, he whispered, “I’m… I’m ready. I think.”

You smiled, fingers tracing a soft, reassuring path along his jaw. 

“Okay. I thought we’d start with kissing, since you seem worried about it. Nice and simple, no pressure,” you murmured, your voice low and reassuring as your fingertips ghosted along his jawline. Bucky swallowed thickly, his adam’s apple bobbing as he leaned into your palm without thinking, nuzzling it like a touch-starved thing. His blue eyes, dark as the ocean in a brewing storm, flickered with something hesitant, something fragile.

“I’m sure you kissed plenty of girls back in the day,” you teased, lips curling as you brushed your thumb over the sharp edge of his cheekbone.

“Oh yeah,” he exhaled, the words dipped in self-deprecation, “until Steve became… well, the Steve he is now. None of the girls spared me a second glance after that.”

You let out a soft laugh, breathy and genuine, and felt the way his body tensed beneath you at the sensation. It was funny how a man who could tear through steel and strike terror into the hearts of the world’s deadliest enemies could turn so shy at something as simple as your laughter.

“You know…” he hesitated, voice quieter now. “You were my first kiss since… well, everything.”

Your teasing grin faltered slightly. You tilted your head, gaze flicking between his eyes and his lips, close enough now that you could feel the steady heat radiating from his skin. 

“Well,” you murmured, the ghost of a smirk curling your lips as you shifted closer, “now I’ll be your second too.”

And then you kissed him.

It was slow at first, a testing press of your lips against his, feather-light and coaxing. Bucky inhaled sharply through his nose, his breath hitching as though he was bracing for impact. But when you didn’t pull away, when you lingered just a little longer, he melted into you—hesitant at first, but eager.

His hands, large and trembling slightly, hesitated at your waist before gripping your thighs as if he wasn’t sure whether to hold you or let you slip away. The warmth of his palms bled through the thin fabric of your nightgown, spreading across your skin like wildfire.

You deepened your kiss, tilting your head to slot your lips more firmly against his, and a quiet sound rumbled in his chest—halfway between a sigh and a groan. Encouraged, you shifted, rocking your hips, the new position pressing your bodies flush together.

Bucky tensed beneath you, fingers digging into your flesh instinctively as you settled against him. His own hips bucked in response, and you could already feel him growing hard against your inner thigh. He pulled back slightly, panting, his lips swollen.

“Am I doing… okay?” he asked, his voice rough.

You smiled, smoothing a hand through his dark hair, tugging him gently forward again. 

“More than okay,” you whispered against his lips before capturing them once more.

This time, he kissed you back without hesitation. His hands gripped your hips, anchoring himself to you as he parted his lips, following your lead. You swept your tongue into his mouth, slow and purposeful, teasing along his lower lip before deepening it. A groan rumbled in his chest, muffled against your mouth.

You rolled your hips, grinding against him with a slow, deliberate rhythm, savouring the way his breath hitched and stuttered beneath you. Even through the layers of clothing, you could feel him—hard, straining, likely aching for more. His fingers dug into your skin, a bruising grip that only added to the heat blooming in your core.

You pulled away from his lips, shifting your attention lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, down his neck. You could feel his pulse hammering beneath your lips, quick and erratic. He tipped his head back, surrendering himself to your touch, a quiet curse slipping from his mouth as you sucked at the sensitive skin below his ear.

“You’re doing so well,” you hummed against his skin, your voice warm and indulgent, laced with soft praise. His body trembled beneath you as he bucked his hips up to meet yours, desperate for more friction, more of you. You rewarded him with a soft, breathy moan, letting him know just how much you enjoyed this too.

“I—” He tried to form words, but they crumbled before they left his lips.

The tension in his body coiled tighter and tighter, like a bowstring pulled taut, ready to snap. His hands clutched at you, grounding himself in the sensation, like the overwhelming pleasure was building too fast for him to control. His breath came in short, needy gasps, his hips stuttering as he lost the rhythm.

“I’m gonna—” His voice broke, his head tilting forward as his entire body tensed beneath you. A strangled moan escaped him, deep and wrecked, as he came undone. His grip on your hips tightened, his thighs trembling slightly beneath yours as his climax overtook him. His body fell back against the sheets, a soft exhale leaving his lips as the last waves of pleasure wracked through him.

You perched above him, still straddling his hips. For a moment, he just lay there, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to catch his breath. His eyes were half-lidded, dazed, and his lips parted as if he had more to say but couldn’t quite form the words.

“I didn’t mean to finish so early—” he started, his voice hoarse, cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and lingering pleasure. Leaning over, you flipped your hair to one side as your face hovered over his. You silenced him with a lingering kiss, slow and reassuring. He groaned softly into your mouth, still sensitive but already melting into the warmth of your lips. When you pulled away, his shoulders had loosened, the rigid tension gone from his body.

“You did so well,” you murmured, brushing your fingers through his hair. “How do you feel?”

“Good.” 

You grinned, sliding off him and stretching languidly before settling back onto the bed. You exhaled, content. Bucky turned his head to look at you, still slightly frozen in place, as if unsure what to do next. His brows furrowed slightly. “What… what about you? Don’t you want to…?”

You snorted. “That doesn’t matter. This was about you, not me.”

He hesitated, clearly still unused to receiving something without feeling obligated to return it. “But I feel bad leaving you—”

“I’m fine, trust me.” You hummed, closing your eyes as you nestled into the warmth of his arm. “We have a long way to go before you need to be thinking about that.”

Bucky went quiet. You could feel his gaze lingering on you, unreadable.

For a moment, you weren’t sure if he would say anything at all. But then, after a beat of silence, you felt him shift beside you. A hesitant hand—warm and slightly calloused—ghosted over your arm before settling on your waist, drawing you in closer.

“…Thank you,” he murmured at last.

PART TWO