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tuiccim · 5 months ago

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We're Gonna Burn (Part 2)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: 3K

Warnings: Smut, Sex Pollen, Non/DubCon (because sex pollen), enemies to lovers.

Summary: When an exposure to a strange powder makes you feel as if you're burning to death, your only relief is in the person you hate the most. Now dealing with the aftermath makes you question everything.

A/N: Hi friends! Thanks so much for your patience. We lost my mother-in-law last month and it's been a difficult time. But, I've got part two up and have got a good head start on parts 3 and 4. Hopefully updates won't be so far in between. As always, I have to say a special thanks to my beta reader @whisperlullaby who is also my hype princess and most darling friend. I hope you enjoy!

We're Gonna Burn Masterlist

In the two days since you returned to the compound, you had rarely left your room. Your body was incredibly sore the first day but it had started to lessen. You were glad the medbay kept a supply of morning after pills. Dr. Miles, your most trusted doctor, had examined you after the fact and said that you should be fully healed in a few days. The examination was a necessary requirement but it had felt like yet another invasion.

Your emotions were a mess and the doctor had suggested a visit with a counselor to help you work through them. Now, you were starting to wonder if she had been right. Compartmentalizing wasn’t working, you had strange dreams, and your mood was all over the place. You had avoided everyone while you were off-duty to heal. The thought of facing any of them, especially Bucky, made you sick. By now, you were sure they all knew what happened. Bucky had probably gloated that he had-

You couldn’t even finish the thought and shake it away. When you filled out the mission report, you had simply stated that there was an exposure to an unknown substance that had caused a short-lived fever. Quarantine and a battery of tests had cleared you to return home to the compound. The only person who knew what happened was Dr. Miles and Bucky, of course. Your gut clenched whenever you thought of him, which was often now. Hell, it had always been often. You had been enthralled by his story and excited to join the team. Unfortunately, he had proven to be nothing like you imagined. He seemed to hate you from the moment you were introduced. His comradery with your other teammates was fun and friendly, but with you, he was always scowling and defensive. You had given up after a few attempts at striking up a conversation. He had shut you down and moved away every time.

And now, you’re a notch on his belt. Not that either of you had chosen it. It was just horrible luck- or was it? Had he purposely led you to that lab? Had he known what was there? What would happen? No, you stop yourself from spiraling. Even if he was a jackass, he wasn’t that kind of person. He had been just as surprised and affected. The thought of how affected he had been made you clench. You hated him but, fuck, that had been the most amazing sex of your life. You wondered if it was the drug or that thick-

Stop it! You hate him! You yell at yourself in your head. You felt concurrently turned on, ashamed, and angry. It was frustrating and eating at you.

Thinking of eating, your stomach rumbles. It was late and you thought it would be safe to make a quick trip to the kitchen. You had exhausted the supply of snacks in your room and needed some real food. Peeking into the hall, you find it empty and quietly make your way to the kitchen. You make yourself a plate and raid the pantry for more snacks. As you were tip-toeing back to your room you saw Bucky coming out of his room at the other end of the hallway. He froze when he noticed you and watched as you made a mad dash for your room. Inside, you try to calm your rapidly beating heart. Tears streamed down your face for some reason you couldn’t pinpoint. You set everything on your desk and crumpled into a ball on the floor. You rocked as you tried to calm yourself while also berating yourself for your weakness. It was just sex. It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t like you wanted it or even asked for it. It was just a mutually agreed upon need.

All your rationalizations did nothing to stop the surge of emotions taking over. So, you decided that maybe Doc was right. You needed to talk to someone. Someone to help you sort out your own feelings. You just hoped that you could feel normal again because, right now, you are not yourself.

–

Bucky stared at the space you had occupied a minute ago. He hadn’t seen you since you’d returned from the mission. You hadn’t been able to look at him in the small amount of time you were together during exfil. You’d both been put through quarantine and testing. He had no long lasting effects from the exposure but he knew you had to be bruised and sore from the experience. He felt immensely guilty about that but he could no more have stopped what was happening than you could. Sometimes he wondered if he could have even if it wasn’t for the pollen, it was the best thing he’d felt in seventy years. You were so soft, wet, and perfectly tight.

Berating himself as he felt his body react to the memories, he reminded himself that you hate him. You had good reason to. He had been an absolute ass since you joined the team. Hethinks about his terrible behavior. He didn’t like new people to start with and then, out of seemingly nowhere, you were put with the team. It roused his suspicions and he viewed you as a potential threat. So, he had questioned your every motive, idea, and process. He wanted to hate you but the more he saw your work with the team and interactions outside of it, the more he found you intriguing. Rather than apologizing or correcting his behavior, he had doubled down. He couldn’t explain it but some small, stupid part of him had hoped that this incident would create an opening for him to reconcile with you but now you couldn't even look at him.

Who could blame you after the way he had treated you? Both before and during. He had been lost in the feeling and had stopped fighting the effects of the pollen the first moment he entered you. Hell, he hadn’t really fought it from the beginning. He had burst into that bathroom as if he had every right to enter it. You had to hate him even more now with what he’d done. He felt the need to talk to you, to apologize, to ask you to forgive him. He hadn’t told a soul what happened and had been deliberately vague in his mission report. He hadn’t wanted to make it any worse for you.

Retreating to his room, Bucky paces trying to figure out his next move. Should he approach you or wait for you to come to him? He shakes his head. You wouldn’t approach him. Not the way you, no doubt, feel about him. You probably never wanted to see him again. What did you think? Did you hate him even more? Most likely. Did you think he had done this on purpose? That he had taken advantage of you? The drug had taken both of your ability to really consent. Did you feel… What are you feeling? He couldn’t stand the thought that you hated him even more or that you thought he hurt you purposely.

He grabbed the doorknob, determined to speak with you but his hand slipped from it before he could turn the knob. You needed more time. He shouldn’t push you. He’d wait until you were at least healed. That was a better idea, he decided. It wasn’t that he was chickening out, he was just waiting until the wounds weren’t so fresh. That was the best thing to do, wasn’t it?

–

You nervously bounce your legs as you wait for the office door of Dr. Victoria Montesi to open. Dr. Miles had gotten you an appointment within thirty minutes of messaging her that morning. You wonder if she already had Dr. Montesi on standby. It wouldn’t be surprising with how well Doc seemed to know and anticipate your needs medically.

When the door opens, you turn to look at the woman smiling softly at you. She was lovely with dark hair and eyes, and she radiated a calm demeanor that immediately put you at ease.

“Hi. I’m Vicki Montesi,” she introduced herself.

Giving a polite smile, you give your name but don’t extend your hand. Touch was too intimate a thing to do currently and Dr. Montesi seemed to instinctively understand your body language. You felt so weak and hated it. You had been through major disasters, espionage, a host of events that would fell another person. Why was this the one thing that affected you so deeply?

Dr. Montesi motioned for you to follow her and closed the door behind you softly, “Sit wherever you like. Do you mind if I take some notes?”

“Uh, no, that's fine,” you shrug.

She grabbed a pad of paper off her desk and took a seat across from where you had settled on the couch. You fidgeted with your hands, glancing up occasionally. You knew she was waiting for you to start but two could play at-

“What brings you in today?” She interrupts your train of thought.

“I, um,” you stuttered, thrown that she hadn’t followed the pattern you expected. “What did Dr. Miles tell you?”

“That you needed someone to talk to.”

“Oh…” you trail off suspiciously.

“Your privacy is tantamount to both of us as your doctors,” Dr. Montesi says gently.

“Right. So, I, um, we, I,” you stop yourself. Taking a deep breath to calm yourself, you begin again, “I was on a mission with a teammate. We were exposed to a powder that… forced the need for, for. Fuck! It made us burn up with fever and feel intense pain unless we were actively having sex. It felt like we were dying if we weren’t fucking. And of all the people in the fucking world it had to be with Bucky fucking Barnes. I can’t stand him and knowing that we- goddammit.” The words had become rushed and your frustration grew as you tried to explain.

“So, you were put into a situation you had no control over, and your only relief was provided by someone you don’t like? Am I understanding you correctly?”

“Yes and hate. I hate him. He’s such a jerk, He’s probably told everyone who would listen.”

“Why do you think that?” Dr. Montesy probes.

“Because he always undermines everything I say, anything I bring to the table. What better way to knock me down a few pegs than to tell everyone that he got me in bed?” You explain.

“Have you spoken with him since it happened?”

“No, I haven’t really spoken to anyone since, ya know.” You look down at your hands.

“And you feel that Bucky has after what happened?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” You scoff.

“Do you think the situation was different for him?”

“Yes! No, I… I don’t know,” you look away for a minute gauging what he could possibly be feeling. In your mind you think through your prejudices towards him, realizing many were sexist assumptions of what men are supposed to feel and others never took his past into consideration. Most of your thoughts had centered only around the hatred you felt for him and his constant attitude towards you but underneath all of that was a real person who was probably struggling with aspects of this as well. You admit in a near whisper, “Probably not.”

“It’s good that you’re able to look outside yourself. Can you tell me how you feel about the situation aside from him?”

You nod, taking a moment to assess that yourself, “It sucks to not have control over a situation to not have any good choices. I didn’t want it to happen but it’s part of the job. Sometimes you end up in these situations where no matter what you do, you’re going to come out on the other end with regrets. This one was just much more intimate than most. I want to blame someone and I keep blaming myself. That I couldn’t control myself, that I led both of us straight into that trap, that I used him and allowed him to use me. I just feel ashamed.”

“That’s common in situations like this but you did the one thing you were supposed to do. You survived.”

–

You saw Dr. Montesi again a couple of days later. She was helping you process and you appreciated it. She had a way of pulling things out of you that surprised you. Like when you continually called him Barnes rather than his first name and anytime she said his first name, you corrected her immediately.

“There’s something more here. What is it about his name that bothers you?” She asks.

“He… made me say it during,” you shrug, looking away.

“Why does that bother you?”

“I never call him by his first name. It's always Barnes or asshat. Never Bucky.”

“And he made you call him Bucky?”

“Yes. He wouldn’t, you know, um… let me-”

“Orgasm?”

“Yeah, until I did. It felt… awkward,” you finish softly.

“Just awkward?” She pushes.

“Infuriating. Like a violation, another way control was taken from me. I mean, why? Why would he do that? What possessed him?”

“Well, the pollen for one thing, but have you considered that might have been the way he found some control in the situation?”

“So, you’re saying I shouldn’t take it personally? It wasn’t about bringing me to heel but about him finding a modicum of control? But should that negate how I feel?” You ask, confused.

“Not at all. Your feelings are valid but what I want you to understand is there is a why for him that may have had nothing to do with you. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“Why have you never called him by his first name?”

“Because I hate him,” you shrug.

“Can you elaborate on that?”

“It’s like I told you before, he treats me like a subordinate. Like I didn’t earn my place and I don’t have anything to offer.”

“Even after you’ve worked together for the last several months?”

“It lessened after a while I guess but he still acts like an ass all the time.”

“How have you handled that?”

“I tried to be friendly, to prove myself, and then I gave up. Why waste the energy?”

“Is it a waste? There’s no hope?” Dr. Montesi tilts her head.

“I mean, I don’t… I don’t know. I just… I don’t know,” your voice trails off as you think back over all your interactions with Bucky. What if you had missed an opening? Was there some point when he tried to let you in but you had closed yourself off and delivered only sass and smartass remarks? But was that your fault? Was it all up to you?

“It’s okay to not have an answer but it is something you might think about until we see each other again.”

–

You saw her again early the next week. Each time it helps you see more clearly and feel more like yourself. Her guidance through your feelings and assumptions both good or bad, right or wrong without judgment or censure allowed you to explore more than just the situation with Barnes. It was the question she had posed about his motives that had stuck with you.

“I think I'm ready to talk to,” you pause as your stubborn nature still fights against you calling him Bucky, but Barnes seemed even less apt now. You finally settled on just using the noncommittal, “him.”

“Oh?” Dr. Montesi waits for you to elaborate.

“I feel like I need to know his motives and feelings,” the last word was hard to push past your lips. You hadn't considered his feelings ever really. At least, not since he had proven himself to be a royal jackass. There was still a part of you that loathed him but somehow concern for his reaction to all of this had wormed its way into your mind.

“What do you think that will do for you?” She asks, tilting her head.

“I don't know. I read his mission report on what happened. He was even more vague than I was on the details. Whether he was protecting himself or me, I wasn't sure but,” you take a deep breath before admitting the next part, “then I went through the other reports for missions we had been on together. He's always succinct but never fails to highlight others' contributions to the outcome. Even mine. It was obvious reading them that at some point he had started to see me as an asset. So, I guess, I think it'll give me some closure. Either we can start building a more respectful comradery or that's never going to happen and it's time for me to think about moving on.”

“How would that make you feel?”

“Disappointed but I want to be part of a team that has mutual respect for each other. If he can never give me that respect, I don't want to work with him. I'm not asking to be friends, just teammates. Preferably ones who can hold a conversation without all the snark.” You paused for a moment as a feeling of pride suffused through you. You were stronger than you realized and you were ready to find happiness and fulfillment on your terms. You smiled to yourself and then looked up to share it with Dr. Montesi. Maybe you were imagining it, but you felt you could see it in her eyes, too.

When you left her office a little while later, you pulled out your phone and sent a short text.

You: Hey. Can we talk?

It was only a few minutes later that your phone dings.

You let out a little laugh. That was probably the most civilized conversation the two of you had ever had. You started feeling the nerves in your stomach. This wasn’t going to be an easy conversation but you needed it to happen. It was time to face this head on. As you make your way, you practice breathing techniques and make mental notes of what you wanted to say and ask. You even jotted a few down to help you remember when you know you're going into an emotional situation.

Barnes: Yeah. On the phone or do you want to meet up?

You: I’d prefer face to face.

Barnes: Where? I can come to you.

You: I’m on my way back there. I’ll come to you.

Barnes: Okay.

There is still the confusion in your own head of what to call him. Such a simple thing but rife with emotion for you. Barnes was what you called him because you hated him and now you weren’t sure you did. James is his first name but no one calls him that. Bucky felt too friendly and intimate especially when it triggers reminders of that night every time you even think about it. Sergeant was too formal and felt harsh and rigid. Asshat was fitting when he was being one but you could hardly call him that all the time. You think back to what he calls you but, in just the way you have, he calls you by your last name mostly. You don’t ever recall hearing him say your first name. Occasionally, your designation and more than a few times he’s referred to you as “pita.” His way of calling you “pain in the ass.” You let out a scoffing laugh when you think of that and then shake the conundrum away. Maybe after this talk, you’d figure out what to call him or you wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore if you decided to move on.

Part 3

Updates and taglist: Due to the unreliable nature of tags, I no longer keep a taglist. Updates for series will be made on Sundays Central Time Zone. Please follow my sideblog @tuiccimfanfiction and turn on notifications for updates. All series and new stories will be reblogged to it. You will only receive notifications when a new part or story is out! Nothing else will be blogged to the page. I can’t thank you enough for your support!

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x-press-it · 29 days ago

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Should the Need Arise

Just a casual thing... untils it’s not.🎞��❤️‍🔥🖤🌹✅

Roommate!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Summary: You spent the night on your phone and Bucky, your roommate and best friend, provides you with a nice distraction. But there will be consequences.

Content Warnings: Smut 18+ | Explicit scenes (Handjob - M & F receiving, Oral sex - F receiving, unprotected p in v, multiple orgasms - Kitchen sex) - Pet Names (Sweetheart, no Doll) - Fluff and Emotional Vulnerability: Deep feelings, mutual pining - Angst (if you squint) - Reader Notes: No Y/N, no physical description of the reader, no mention of powers - Trope: And they were roommates.

Tell me if I missed any warnings. Also english isn't my first language so there might be typos/weird sentences...

Notes: I'm one of those people who start reading stuff on their phone around mindnight and before they know it, it's morning. My husband's tactic to stop me scrolling is to ask for a hug, which distracts me and make me fall asleep. That sparked this little idea which has been sitting on a sticky note for months. I'm still stuck on chapter 8 of DevDes and the start of this year has been really taxing, so I'm in total lockdown mode. But I had a few hours and needed a distraction, so here you go! ^^

Word Count: 5.3K

MINORS DNI

"And then, below the cover of darkness, her hand curled around the hard evidence of his desire." ——— Thanks for reading, lovelies. Don’t forget to like, comment and reblog! Edit! >>Click here for part 2<<

You’re sprawled on your stomach, the unfolded couch now a makeshift bed for your typical Friday night tradition—movies with your roommate. The TV is off, long forgotten, leaving only the faint glow of your phone screen to cut through the darkness. The soft hum of the fridge coming from the kitchen and his relaxed breath are the only sounds filling your ears.

Your finger taps the screen, finding the link to Part 2 of the spicy story you’ve been reading. Your eyes are half-lidded, exhaustion tugging at your mind, but you refuse to give in. The distant chirp of birds signals the rise of the sun, yet you remain tethered to the words on your phone. Your gaze flickers across the sentences, hypnotized by the story that’s got you in its grasp. Heat stirs low in your belly, and your breath hitches as the intoxicating words pull you deeper into their world, your body aching for something you crave but don’t dare to name.

Once again, what was meant to be a late-night escape has turned into a sunrise affair. You blink lazily, trying to shake off the haze clouding your thoughts. A yawn creeps up on you, but you swallow it down, unwilling to let the allure of the story fade.

It’s only then that you feel the warmth pressing gently against your side—too familiar to be anything other than him. A sleepy voice rumbles near your ear, husky and thick with sleep.

“You should get some rest, sweetheart.” His breath stirs against your hair. “Need a hug or something to get you away from that phone?”

His voice rumbles against your scalp, sending a slow shiver down your spine. The warmth at your side shifts, his solid chest pressing more firmly against you, the heat of his breath tickling your temple.

You blink blearily at the screen, trying to refocus, but your grip on your phone falters for a second. Damn him and his sleep-heavy voice.

"I'm fine," you murmur, though the words come out softer than intended, laced with drowsiness.

Bucky makes a noise—something between a hum and a quiet huff—but he doesn't pull away. If anything, he settles in further, one heavy arm draping loosely over your back where your shirt has slightly rolled up, the cool metal a stark contrast to the warmth of your skin. His nose brushes your ear, and you feel him inhale deeply, like he's grounding himself in your scent.

"Later," you add, shifting slightly but making no real effort to move him off. "Just let me finish this chapter."

"Mm," Bucky acknowledges, but his arm tightens, his body molding against yours as if he's not quite ready to let go. The weight of him is solid, reassuring.

Another minute passes. Then two. Your scrolling slows, words blurring together as your body betrays you, sinking into the comforting heat of his embrace.

You barely realize when your fingers go slack, your phone slipping from your grip onto the mattress. A quiet sigh escapes your lips, and Bucky shifts again, pressing even closer.

"You’re still awake," he murmurs, his voice quieter this time, like he's almost back to sleep.

You swallow. "So are you."

A pause. Then, in a voice rough with something you can’t quite place, he admits, "Had a nightmare."

Your heart squeezes a little at that. Of course he did. You should have known—the way he clings, the way his breathing is a little too measured, like he's trying to calm himself down.

Without thinking, you reach up, your fingers brushing against his arm. A soothing motion. A small comfort.

"Do you need a hug?" you whisper.

For a second, he doesn’t answer. Then, finally, he exhales against your skin.

"Yeah," he says, barely above a breath.

And that’s all it takes.

You turn, pressing your face into the solid warmth of his chest, wrapping an arm around his back as he pulls you in with one slow, deliberate motion. He’s warm—so warm—and the way he holds you feels different this time. Tighter. Closer. Less like a friendly gesture and more like need.

And then—then you feel it.

The realization hits slow, creeping up the back of your neck, settling like a weight in your stomach. Because Bucky—your best friend, your roommate—is holding you too close. His breathing is uneven. And pressed against your thigh is the unmistakable hardness of something definitely not platonic.

Silence.

You don't move.

Neither does he.

The air between you thickens, heavy with something raw and unspoken. The world holds its breath. Until—

A sound. A quiet, almost reluctant groan that escapes from deep in his chest as your body shifts ever so slightly against him.

That’s when it happens.

That’s when you realize—you’re just as affected as he is.

Heat pools low in your stomach, spreading like a slow, consuming fire. You were already wound up from the smut you’d been reading, already feeling that restless ache thrumming beneath your skin—but now?

Now, every inch of you is hyperaware of him.

The solid weight of his body, the heat seeping from his bare skin, the way his fingers tense against your hip, like he’s trying to stop himself from gripping. The air is thick, electric, humming with something you’ve both been too blind—or too stubborn—to acknowledge until now.

And then it happens again.

A barely-there shift, just enough to press you against the unmistakable hardness straining under his sweatpants.

Your breath hitches.

Bucky stills.

Another realization crashes over you both at the exact same time, flooding every nerve ending like a shock to the system.

You’re needy.

He’s needy.

But neither of you wants to move away.

His fingers tighten on your hip. The warmth of his breath fans across your face, heavy and uneven. You don’t know who’s trembling—you or him—but the weight of the moment is crushing, suffocating in the best, most dangerous way.

The silence stretches, thick with tension, begging to be broken.

So you do.

"Need help with that?" Your voice is light—too light, too teasing for the way your pulse pounds in your throat.

Bucky makes a sound, something between a groan and a curse, low and rough, barely restrained. His grip flexes, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, his fingers press harder, his body coiling tight with something desperate, something aching.

"You sure?" His voice is wrecked, gravel against silk, the weight of his need unmistakable.

Your body throbs at the sound of it.

And yet, you force yourself to smirk, masking the sheer want clawing up your spine with something playful. Safer.

"Just like we share everything else," you murmur, tilting your chin up just slightly, lips brushing against the scruff of his jaw. "Why not this?"

He exhales sharply through his nose, his whole body going rigid. You swear you can feel the exact moment his restraint snaps.

Bucky doesn’t give you time to second-guess it. Doesn’t leave space for hesitation.

One second, he’s hovering there, like he’s still teetering on the edge of a decision. The next, his mouth is crushing against yours, devouring, famished.

It’s not careful. It’s not soft. It’s not the kind of first kiss that belongs to roommates, to friends.

It’s months of unspoken tension igniting all at once.

His hands find your waist, pressing you against him like he can’t bear a second of space between you. The heat of him, the solid muscle beneath your palms, the sheer force of his need—it makes your head spin.

You gasp into his mouth, and he takes advantage, slipping his tongue past your lips, deepening the kiss, making your toes curl. Your fingers travel below the hem of his shirt, sinking into the bare skin of his back, nails digging in, pulling him closer, and fuck, the groan that rumbles from his chest makes something inside you clench.

He shifts again, pressing even more into you, against you, and you don’t know who’s chasing who anymore—all you know is that you need.

And he's right there with you.

The next few minutes blur into feverish hands and frantic fumbling—pushing, pulling, eager to rid yourselves of the barriers between you. There’s no finesse, no slow unraveling of tension, no teasing build-up. Just raw, aching need.

Because if either of you stops to think—if you pause, even for a second—it’ll mean facing something bigger, something heavier.

That this isn’t just some casual release.

That it isn’t about a moment of fleeting desperation.

It’s about him. About you. About the way you’ve been craving each other so much for so long it’s almost unbearable.

Bucky doesn’t give you time to process it. Doesn’t give himself time either.

Because that can’t be what this is about.

It can only be about getting off. About helping each other. About making use of what’s already here, right within reach.

And fuck, does Bucky reach.

He takes.

And you let him.

Your breath hitches as his fingers yank at the waistband of your panties, dragging them down in a single, impatient motion. There’s no hesitation, no teasing. You barely have time to kick them off before his flesh hand finds the warmth between your thighs, his fingers dipping past your soaked folds, sliding against your slick entrance.

A sharp gasp shudders from your lips.

Then—his thumb.

A slow, deliberate circle over your clit.

Your hips jolt, a whimper spilling into the space between you, and Bucky grunts—low, guttural, like the sound coming from you alone has his cock twitching against his stomach.

But you’re not just going to let him do all the work.

Your fingers curl around the hard, pulsing weight of him, wrapping around the evidence of his need, and fuck, the way he groans, the way his forehead drops to your shoulder, his entire body tensing at the first stroke—

It’s everything.

There’s nothing practiced about this. No perfect rhythm, no choreographed movements. It’s frantic, messy, like two people making up for lost time. Like a pent-up first time, all rushed hands and ragged breathing and the unmistakable sound of slick heat and aching friction.

It’s clumsy.

It’s reckless.

It’s so fucking good.

Your fingers work him in a tight, steady rhythm, coaxing more wrecked sounds from his throat. His metal arm is braced above your head, elbow digging into the cushion as his flesh hand thrusts against you—two fingers slipping inside, stretching you, filling you in a way that has your whole body tightening around the intrusion.

He groans against your skin, breath hot and heavy.

"So fuckin’ good," he mutters, voice thick with arousal, strained like he’s barely holding himself together.

His admission is ruinous. It crashes over you, sends you spiraling, because you can hear it in his voice—the raw need, the way he’s coming apart just as much as you are.

"Don’t stop," you whisper, rolling your hips into his touch, stroking him just a little tighter, just a little faster, reveling in the way his whole body shudders in response.

His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that has you gasping, thighs squeezing around his hand, and—

Oh, fuck.

You’re so close.

And so is he.

"Bucky—"

His name barely escapes your lips before his fingers curl just right—deep, precise, pressing into that perfect spot inside you, and you snap.

A ragged cry spills from your throat, your body locking up as pleasure rips through you, white-hot and relentless. Your thighs tremble, hips jerking against his hand, riding out every pulse of ecstasy as Bucky works you through it, coaxing every last drop of pleasure from you.

"Fuck!" he grits out, voice wrecked, strained.

Your grip tightens around him, your strokes turning messy, desperate, driven by instinct and the lazy aftershocks still rolling through your limbs.

He shudders.

"Shit, sweetheart—gonna—"

His words dissolve into a groan, his forehead pressing to your shoulder as his whole body tenses—then jerks as he spills over your hand, thick, hot pulses coating your fingers. His breath stutters against your skin, his hips twitching into your touch, every ragged exhale laced with the kind of relief that has you smirking despite your own lingering haze.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is your mingled, uneven breathing—the heavy silence of two people still caught in the aftershocks, still tangled together, still feeling each other even as the intensity fades.

The stillness stretches. Then, Bucky huffs out a breathless laugh, the weight of his forehead still resting against your shoulder.

"Well," Bucky murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion, amusement curling at the edges. "That’s one way to get you to put your damn phone down."

You huff a breathless laugh, still trying to get your heart rate under control. "Yeah? Gonna start using that tactic every time I get too into a story?"

He smirks, finally lifting his head, eyes still dark with the remnants of pleasure. "If it works, sweetheart, I just might."

Rolling your eyes, you reach for the tissue box on the coffee table, grabbing a few before passing him some. As you clean up, you glance at him, voice turning teasing, but softer. "Did it help?"

His brows furrow slightly. "What?"

You tilt your head, gaze knowing. "The nightmare."

For a second, something flickers in his expression. Surprise. Maybe even a little…fondness. But then, his lips twist into a crooked smile, the moment slipping away before it can settle too deep.

"Yeah," he admits, voice a little hoarse. "Didn’t even remember it ‘til you brought it up, so… guess that’s a win."

You nod, satisfied, and toss your tissues into the wastebasket nearby before tugging your underwear and pants back into place. He follows suit, the two of you moving in sync—like this is normal, like this isn’t the first time you’ve crossed this particular line.

"So," you say, stretching your arms above your head with a lazy grin. "We’re both single, right?"

Bucky raises a brow as he pushes the hem of his shirt back. "Pretty sure."

"Good. Means we can be single together… Should the need arise."

He snorts, shaking his head as he settles back onto the couch. "That’s the dumbest way to say ‘roommates with benefits’ I’ve ever heard."

"Yeah, well," you chuckle, flopping down beside him. "Not my fault you never had the nerve to ask me out."

His hand rests over his chest, eyes flicking to yours, something unreadable flashing there before he huffs a laugh. "Too late now, huh?"

You smirk, nudging his side. "Guess you’ll just have to settle for this instead."

He snorts, shifting lower against the cushions, his body still warm beside yours. "Tragic."

The sleep creeps back into your bones, heavy and insistent, and as your eyes flutter shut, you feel Bucky’s fingers brush absently against your arm—nothing deliberate, just a mindless touch, lingering.

Neither of you moves away.

And in the quiet, just before sleep pulls you under, you hear him murmur—so soft you almost miss it...

"Could be worse."

For days after, everything shifts.

Not in some obvious, earth-shattering way. No; that would be too easy. Instead, it’s in the small things. The lingering touches, the glances that last too long, the air between you oppressive with something unsaid—something you both refuse to acknowledge.

It’s in the hesitation when Bucky sits beside you now, his thigh just barely pressing against yours instead of sprawling out like he used to. In the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach out but doesn’t. In the split-second glance at your lips when you talk, so fast you almost miss it. Almost.

It’s in the way you catch yourself staring when he’s fresh out of the shower, towel slung around his neck, damp strands of hair curling at the ends. How your breath catches when he stretches, when his shirt rides up, when he runs a hand through his hair with that sleepy, careless ease.

It’s in the moments where you brush past each other in the kitchen, the heat of his body too noticeable. When you hand him a mug, and your fingers touch, and neither of you pulls away immediatly. When you shift to get comfortable on the couch, and instead of scooting over, his arm drapes over the back like it belongs there.

It’s in the loaded silences, the way your conversations don’t flow as effortlessly as before—like you’re both tiptoeing around something huge, something fragile.

But above all, it’s in the restraint. The careful distance. The way you both pull back at the last second, pretending this is still normal. That it’s just what it was before.

Because if either of you acknowledges it, if either of you dares to name it, it’ll be real. And real means risk. It means change. It means no going back.

So you don’t.

Instead, you let your fingers skim his when you pass him the remote. You let his knee press against yours and pretend you don’t feel the heat of it seep into your skin, pooling low in your stomach. You bite your tongue when you see him clench his jaw, his grip tightening on whatever he’s holding, like he’s fighting something off.

And when you catch him watching you—when your eyes meet in a moment that stretches too long—you do the only thing you can do.

You look away.

Because if you don’t…

You’re not sure you’ll be able to stop yourself next time.

It happens on a day when you need him.

Not in the way you’ve both been avoiding. Not in the way that comes with tangled sheets and breathless gasps. You just… need him. The way you used to. The steady warmth, the easy comfort, the feeling of knowing there’s someone who has your back no matter what.

So you find him. Seek him out like muscle memory, like instinct, letting your body pull you toward the one place that has always been safe.

And when you reach for him, when your fingers brush against his sleeve, expecting him to fold you into his arms the way he always has...

He flinches.

It’s small. Barely there. Just a fraction of a movement, the slightest pull-back, but you feel it. The space he puts between you, deliberate, careful. Like a closed door.

It stings.

No, it burns.

Like an open wound, like something torn deep inside your chest. You retract your hand like he’s struck you, fingers curling into a fist at your side, something ugly twisting in your stomach.

"You’ve changed." The words are sharp, cutting through the thick, heavy air between you. Frustration bubbles up, mixing with the ache in your ribs, spilling over before you can stop it. "Since when do we not—" You swallow, searching for the right words, something that won’t make this worse. "Since when did we stop reaching out to each other?"

Bucky’s expression tightens, his fingers twitching like he’s resisting the urge to reach for you. "I haven’t changed." His voice is a little louder than it should be, a little too defensive, his jaw clenching as he shakes his head. "Everything’s still the same!"

You snicker. Bitter. Unamused.

Because it’s a lie.

Because you both know everything is different. Nothing has been the same since that night.

The words slip past your lips before you can think better of them. "I wish nothing had happened!"

The moment they’re out, you regret them.

The silence that follows is thick, suffocating. His stomach plummets. Your heart aches, raw and exposed. Because it’s not really a lie, is it? It’s an admission disguised as a negation. You don’t wish nothing had happened. You just wish it hadn’t changed everything.

His eyes darken, something dangerous flickering behind them as he takes a step closer. "And I just wish it would happen again!"

Your breath catches.

Neither of you moves at first. Stunned by his confession, by the weight of the truth hanging between you.

Until—

The tension snaps.

You crash into each other.

It’s hungry, voracious, a collision of frustration and longing, hands grasping, mouths claiming. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. No pretending.

Because you both know now—this was never just casual.

It never could be.

Once again, it starts with hands.

Grasping. Pulling. Needing.

You collide in a mess of mouths and limbs, desperation threading through every movement. Clothes are in the way, frustrating, barriers you can’t rip off fast enough.

The kitchen counter is suddenly at your back, hard and unyielding, but you don’t care. Not when he’s right there, caging you in, his body a wall of heat and need. His lips are insistent, greedy, dragging over yours before tracing down the column of your throat, teeth scraping as he works his way lower, lower—

By the time he reaches your waistband, his breath is ragged.

And when he does… he grips.

Fingers digging into fabric, ripping at it, dragging your pants and underwear down in one sharp tug. The cold air barely has a chance to hit your skin before his palms are on your thighs, prying them open, his breath hot against sensitive flesh.

"Bucky—"

The sound of his name, breathy, needy, from your lips, has something snapping in him.

He groans, hands tightening, before his mouth descends.

Teeth graze over the soft skin of your inner thigh, nipping, teasing, torturing—

You gasp, hips jerking forward, trying to push him where you need him, but he holds you there, spreading you wider, his fingers pressing into your flesh, his lips moving painfully slow.

"You always taste this sweet, sweetheart?" His voice is wicked, lips brushing over where you’re burning for him, but not quite giving in yet.

You whine.

You fucking whine.

And that does it.

He groans, deep and ravenous.

Before you know it, his tongue lashes against you, hot and wet and precise.

The cry that rips from your throat is immediate. Loud. Unfiltered.

And he doesn’t stop.

He buries himself between your thighs like a man who’s been starving for this—licking, sucking, devouring—his tongue flicking over that sensitive bundle of nerves before circling back, just to make you squirm.

One of your hands flies to his hair, fingers tangling in the thick strands, tugging, pulling. He groans at that, like he likes it, and the vibration sends a shock wave of pleasure straight through you.

You can’t think.

Can’t breathe.

Your thighs shake, heels digging into his back, hips rocking against his mouth. Chasing the friction, chasing release.

"Bucky—fuck—"

He growls against you, hands tightening, dragging you even closer, like he wants you to fall apart for him, like he won’t let you go until you do.

So he seals his lips around your clit and sucks.

And the pressure breaks you.

Rapture crashes through you in a white-hot wave, ripping you apart at the seams, your body tensing before shattering, a strangled, shameless cry tearing from your lips as you come undone.

But he doesn’t stop.

He licks you through it, savoring, groaning against your soaked skin like he’s getting drunk off you, only pulling back when your tremors start to ease.

When he finally lifts his head, his lips are shiny with you, his pupils blown black, chest heaving.

"Fuckin’ gorgeous," he rasps, hands still holding your thighs open, like he’s not done yet.

And from the way he’s looking at you?

You knows he isn’t.

His mouth doesn’t leave you.

Even as you shudder beneath him, body still trembling from the force of your release, he devours you—kissing his way up your stomach, dragging his lips over the flushed skin of your chest, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the curve of your breasts where they spill over your bra.

He savors.

Teeth grazing over your collarbone, tongue flicking against your pulse, feeling it race beneath his lips as he works his way higher.

Until his mouth crashes against yours.

You taste yourself on his tongue, heady and intoxicating, but it isn’t enough. The ache inside you is still there, deep and insistent, clawing at your insides, demanding more.

Your fingers fumble at the waistband of his pants, rapacious, needing to feel him, to have him closer. He groans into your mouth, a deep, desperate sound, before tearing the offending layers away—kicking off his pants, his boxers, until nothing is between you anymore.

Suddenly he’s there, thick and hard against your soaked heat, and—

"Please," you breathe, legs wrapping around his waist, your hands pulling at his back, urging him closer, needing him to just—

He grits his teeth, chest heaving, his control thin, so razor-thin—

In one swift motion, he sinks in.

A deep, guttural moan rips from his throat as he buries himself inside you, stretching you so exquisitely that your breath catches, your nails digging into his skin.

"Jesus—fuck—" His head drops against your shoulder, jaw clenched, body trembling as he stills, giving you time to adjust, to take all of him, because fuck, you feel like heaven, like you were made for him, for this.

It’s overwhelming.

The warmth of you wrapped so tight around him, the way your body clenches in need, the way you shifts, hips rolling impatiently against his—

"Move," you whine, breath hot against his ear, you voice wrecked, needy.

He swears, low and gravelly, his resolve snapping.

And without any warning, he moves.

The first thrust is slow, purposeful, pushing deep before dragging back out, his breath catching at the way you whimpers, at the way your fingers scramble at his back.

Again.

And again.

Faster.

Each movement deeper, more greedy, his mouth dragging over your jaw, your throat, your shoulder, worshiping every inch of you like you’re the only thing that’s real.

"Fuck—Buck—"

Your voice is wrecked, breathless, and the way you respond to him, the way you move with him, meeting each thrust like you need it as much as he does—

He can’t keep it in.

"Dreamt of this," he rasps against your throat, his hips rolling, his movements turning more urgent, more hungry. "For so fucking long."

Your breath catches, your nails dig deeper, dragging down his spine, and he groans, gripping your hips tighter, grinding into you just right—

"It’s everything," he pants, lips brushing your ear, the words tumbling out unrestrained, raw. "Everything I wanted—everything I needed—and more…"

His rhythm stutters for a beat, his body pressing closer, his forehead dropping against yours as the confession spills from his lips before he can stop it—

"Fuck! I love you."

Silence.

You gasp, a soft, startled sound, your eyes flying open to meet his—

But he doesn’t stop.

"I love you," he breathes again, hips still rocking into you, deep and intentional, his hand cupping the side of your face. "God, I love you so much—"

Something inside you breaks.

Because you feel it—

Every single word, every touch, every movement.

He means it.

Before you can realize it, your lips crash into his.

It’s not just ardent. It’s everything.

The tension snaps again, your bodies moving together in perfect rhythm, in perfect sync, like he was always meant to fit inside you like this.

Like he was always meant to be yours.

Your lips crush against his once more, a messy, heated clash of tongues and teeth, your hands gripping at his shoulders, clawing at his back, pulling him deeper, closer, like you want to consume him whole.

And fuck, he lets you.

Because he’s gone—utterly wrecked, completely undone by you, unraveling in the best way by how you move against him, by how your body clings to his like you never want to let go.

"Say it again," you gasp against his lips, your nails digging into his scalp, your hips arching to meet his every thrust.

His breath catches, his rhythm faltering just slightly as his hand cradles your jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek before tilting your chin up—forcing you to look at him.

He swallows hard, his breath coming in ragged pulls before the words slip from his lips.

"I love you."

The words fall from his mouth like a vow, raw and unshakable, and the way you shudder against him, the way your thighs tighten around his waist—fuck, he swears he almost loses it right then and there.

But it isn’t enough.

He needs you to know.

He presses his forehead to yours, voice rough and gravelly, each thrust deliberate, deep, meant to brand his confession into your very bones.

"I love you."

"I fucking love you."

"Always have—"

Your breath stutters, your body trembling, breaking apart against him, and the second he feels you start to tighten, that perfect, fluttering squeeze around him—

He loses it.

His rhythm turns desperate, his jaw going slack, moans pouring freely from his lips as he fucks you through it, chasing his own release as you fall apart against him, his name tumbling from your lips like it’s the only thing you know how to say.

And when you clench around him, when your body pulls him in so perfectly—he follows.

The pleasure slams into him hard, ripping through his limbs like a live wire, his movements stuttering as he buries himself deep, his head dropping to your shoulder once again as he spills into you with a ragged, shuddering groan.

Neither of you move for a long moment.

Just the sound of your heavy breaths, your heartbeats pounding wildly against each other covering the hum of the fridge, his arms trembling where he braces against the countertop, barely keeping himself upright.

Your fingers—soft, slow, tender—trace up his back, slipping into his hair, nails lightly scraping his scalp. A shiver racks through him, his body melting into yours.

He groans, shifting slightly, his lips brushing the curve of your shoulder, his breath still ragged, uneven.

"You okay?" he rasps, voice wrecked, rough.

A soft, breathy laugh.

"I think you just made me forget how to breathe," you murmur, fingers still playing lazily with his hair.

That makes him smirk, pulling back just enough to look at you, to drink you in—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, hair a mess from his hands.

And fuck, you’re gorgeous, breathtaking, an absolute vision.

His heart clenches.

"Good," he murmurs, tilting his head, brushing his nose against yours, his voice softer now. "Because you just made me forget how to do anything but love you."

And the look in your eyes—

That wrecks him more than anything ever could.

For a moment, the world feels suspended.

Just the sound of your breaths, still ragged and uneven, your bodies tangled together, your heartbeats still thudding, frantic and wild.

His arms are trembling, barely keeping himself upright as he stays buried deep inside you, forehead pressed against yours, lips hovering just above your own.

And fuck, he should move—should say something, anything, but he can’t, because you’re looking at him—

Like he’s something precious.

Something you can’t bear to lose.

You take a shaky breath, your hands smoothing down his back, holding him close.

"I love you too, Bucky."

It’s soft, barely above a whisper, but it wrecks him—

Shatters him, undoes him, because—

Fuck.

You mean it.

He can see it, feel it, in the way your fingers brush through his hair, in the way your hands run down his spine, keeping him pressed against you, in the way your lips part, like you wants to say more—

But he doesn’t let you.

Because he’s kissing you before you can even take another breath—deep and slow and reverent, like he’s trying to memorize you, like he’s trying to make up for all the times he wanted to do this and held back.

Like he never wants to stop.

And maybe—

Maybe he never will.

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