#Compound Workouts

[cassiemaebarnes]

Freak Like Me

Bucky x reader

Summary: You got banned from playing music in the training room for a reason, and when an unexpected song plays during your workout, Bucky finds out why.

Word Count: 2311

Thought I'd give you guys something a little more spicy! Hope you enjoy :)

You walked down the hall of the Avengers tower toward the training room, and it was uncharacteristically quiet. You knew a lot of the Avengers had meetings today, but you didn’t think everyone did. You were glad though, because you didn’t really like working out with other people and you could play whatever music you wanted over the speakers.

You listened to a little bit of everything, and that was true for working out too. The music would go from rap, to pop, to rock, and while you didn’t blink an eye, everyone else hated it. So, naturally, you got banned from playing music when everyone else was in there.

You walked around the corner into the training room and came to a stop. Bucky was inside warming up on the treadmill. Of course someone had to be in there, and of course it had to be Bucky. He of all people would be most likely to hate your music.

You hadn’t brought your headphones, and you thought about going back to get them when Bucky looked your way.

“Hey, y/n,” he said, turning off the treadmill.

“Oh, hey Bucky,” you said, realizing it probably looked like you were standing there staring at him.

You walked in and set your stuff down, plugging in your phone by the benches because you forgot to charge it last night.

“What are you hitting today,” Bucky asked.

“Steve is making me do his leg workout,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“Yikes, have fun with that.”

Bucky walked over to pick up some weights as you were trying to decide whether or not to ask if you could play music. You assumed he would say no, but decided to ask him anyway.

“Hey Buck, is it cool if I play music?”

“Yeah, go ‘head,” he said, surprising you.

“Oh, okay cool.” You went to your settings to connect your phone to the speakers, then pressed shuffle on your workout playlist. The first song that started playing was an old rock song, so you were hoping Bucky wouldn’t regret saying yes too much. Then, you walked over to the other side of the training room to get set up.

Your playlist went through a bunch of different genres, but thankfully, Bucky didn’t seem to mind. You were both just minding your own business and doing your own thing.

A little bit later, a new song started playing and you heard Bucky call over to you.

“Hey, I actually know this one,” he said, with a proud smile on his face.

You just laughed, listening to the music and realizing it was Put Your Head on My Shoulder by Paul Anka. It would’ve came out after the 40s, but apparently Bucky still knew it.

But then, you started thinking, this song would not be on your workout playlist. Your eyes went wide when you realized what song it actually was. Freak by Doja Cat.

You quickly reached down for your phone to change the song, only to realize it was still plugged in on the other side of the room. Plus, you couldn’t just change the one song Bucky said he knew without him being suspicious.

You started to freak out, knowing the song would definitely make him uncomfortable, when the music paused for a brief moment. You held your breath for what was coming next.

“Freak like me. You want a good girl that does bad things (to you).”

You looked at Bucky, and you couldn’t see his face because he had his back facing you, but he had stopped in the middle of his workout. You started over to get your phone when he turned around.

“What the heck is this?” he asked, a mix of confusion and horror on his face.

You stopped, trying to figure out how to answer, when the song kept going.

“Tied him down to my queen bed. Tease him just enough to hate me. Tied it tight enough he can’t break free.”

You scurried over to the benches and grabbed your phone, quickly skipping the song. You tried to play it cool, but Bucky was already walking over to you.

“So, is this why you got banned from playing music? You play songs about sex?”

You sighed. “No, they just don’t like that I play so many different genres,” you said, your face heating up.

He just hummed in response, still staring at you with his steel blue eyes.

“And here I was, thinking that you were so innocent,” he said, smirking.

“It’s – just a good song,” you replied, trying to defend yourself. Your face was bright red at this point, and you knew he was loving this, making you squirm.

“So, which one of the guys are you wanting to tie down to your bed, hmm?”

Your jaw dropped, face flushing as you tried to figure out how to respond to that.

“No one,” you said, “it’s just a catchy song.”

“Right,” he responded, his smile getting a little bigger. You knew he was never going to let this go.

“Well, I’m gonna go back to my workout,” you said, walking past him. But before you could get very far, he grabbed your arm and turned you toward him in one quick motion. You were now standing chest to chest, your faces just inches apart.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you played that song on purpose. I mean, we are the only two people in the tower for another couple hours,” he said, his voice low and deeper than it was before, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your jaw dropped slightly once again, trying to figure out if he was being serious or not. Your heart was thumping in your chest, and you hated to admit it, but him pulling you towards him and talking in that voice was making you insanely turned on.

You opened your mouth, but when nothing came out, Bucky’s smirk just got bigger.

“I – I didn’t play that on purpose,” was all you could say.

Finally, Bucky broke character and started to laugh, dropping his hand from your arm. Your skin was still tingling where his hand had been.

“I’m just messing with you y/n,” he said, laughing. “You should’ve seen your face though!”

You stood there in shock as he walked away, trying to wrap your head around what had just happened. You walked back to the other side of the room, but you weren’t able to focus on the rest of your workout. You didn’t dare look over toward Bucky, so you had no idea that his gaze kept shifting to you, distracted from his own workout.

You finished your workout as quickly as possible and made a beeline for the door, grabbing your phone and not saying a word to Bucky as you practically ran out the door.

You were halfway down the hallway before you finally felt like you could breathe again. You didn’t realize how you had basically been holding your breath that whole time. You got back to your room and quickly jumped in the shower, just wanting to relax after how worked up you were.

You stepped out of the shower when you realized you forgot to grab clothes to change into. You sighed, trying not to focus on how nothing seemed to be going your way today. You just wrapped your towel around you after drying off and walked out of the bathroom to your room.

You were halfway down the hallway before you looked up and stopped dead in your tracks. Bucky was standing outside the door to your room.

And you were standing in front of him in nothing but a little towel. Could this day get any weirder?

“Uhh, what are you doing?” you asked.

“Sorry I just – was gonna apologize, but – seems like you’re really trying to get my attention now,” he said, a smirk plastered on his face yet again.

You sighed, determined to not let him get under your skin this time. Maybe you’d have a little fun with him.

“And what if I am?” you said, giving him a smirk of your own.

His smirk turned into a brief second of shock, and you could tell he was caught off guard.

You sauntered down the hallway, walking right past him into your room, but not before running your hand along his arm as you walked past. You could feel his eyes on you as you walked into your room, not bothering to close the door.

You walked over to your dresser, bending over to get clothes out, knowing your towel was long enough to cover you, but not quite long enough to keep Bucky from going a little crazy. You made sure to pick out the tiniest pair of shorts you own and a cropped baby tee.

You turned around grabbing the top of your towel like you were going to drop it at any second. His face was bright red and he looked like a deer in headlights. Man was this fun.

“You standing there hoping for a show, or can I get dressed in peace?”

“Oh, uh – sorry,” he mumbled. He pointed at the door, “do you want me to, uh – never mind,” he put his head down and practically ran the other way.

You tried so hard not to bust out laughing as you went over and shut the door.

Once you put on your clothes, you walked back down to the kitchen to get something to eat. Conveniently, Bucky was right there, sitting at the island.

“Hey Buck,” you said, flashing him a smile.

He looked you up and down, obviously liking what you were wearing.

“Hey,” he finally managed to get out.

“Are you gonna make something for lunch,” you asked him.

“Uhh, yeah I was gonna make some eggs.”

“Oooh, that sounds good, maybe I’ll make some too.” You walked over to the drawer with the pans, exaggerating every movement as you bent over. You knew he was going insane.

“Do you want me to just make yours too,” you asked, not bothering to turn around. You set the pan on the stove, finally turning around when he didn’t answer you.

That’s when you realized he was right behind you, looking at you with a deep intensity in his eyes. He had been so flustered, you didn’t expect him to do anything about it.

He slowly leaned forward, arms grabbing the counter on either side of you, trapping you in place.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Umm, making eggs,” you said, slowly.

“Are you tryna’ kill me, doll?”

The nickname made your stomach flutter.

“I was joking earlier,” he said, “I never thought you’d do it back.”

“And what makes you think I’m joking?” you responded.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that I’ve never seen you wear so little clothes around the tower.”

“I was still hot from my workout,” you said, shrugging.

“Oh, trust me, I am too,” he said, lifting his eyebrows.

Bucky didn’t back up, and neither did you.

He looked down at you, his voice rough with restraint. “You keep playing with fire, doll.”

You tilted your head, meeting his stare without flinching. “Maybe I like the heat.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched as his eyes darkened. For a moment, neither of you moved—until he reached up, brushing a strand of damp hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered against your cheek, trailing lightly down your jaw.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he murmured.

“Good,” you whispered, your voice breathy.

And that was all it took. He leaned in fast, pressing his lips to yours with a force that stole your breath. One hand gripped the counter beside you, the other sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. You gasped into the kiss, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt, and he took that opportunity to deepen it—his lips moving hungrily against yours like he’d been waiting for this for far too long.

When you finally pulled apart for air, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard.

“Still want eggs?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

You smiled, shaking your head. “Not really.”

Bucky’s smirk returned, but this time it was laced with something deeper—need, maybe, or anticipation. He backed you gently out of the kitchen, never breaking eye contact.

“Then come on, sweetheart,” he said. “Let’s see how hot things can really get.”

And just like that, lunch was officially off the menu.

--

The next morning, you woke up tangled in warm sheets—and even warmer arms.

Bucky was still fast asleep behind you, his chest pressed to your back, metal arm draped lazily over your waist. His steady breathing tickled the back of your neck, and you smiled, remembering the very unexpected turn your day had taken.

You shifted slightly, and his grip tightened instinctively, pulling you even closer. “Mmm… don’t move,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“I thought super soldiers didn’t need this much rest,” you teased softly.

His lips brushed your shoulder. “They don’t,” he murmured. “But if it means waking up next to you like this…I’ll gladly pretend to be human.”

You rolled your eyes with a grin and reached behind you to ruffle his hair. “You’re such a sap.”

He grinned against your skin. “Only for you.”

Your phone buzzed from the nightstand, a text from Nat lighting up the screen:

You forgot to clean the pan from your “egg-making” session yesterday. Sloppy cover story, y/n.

You groaned and hid your face in the pillow as Bucky peeked at the message over your shoulder.

“So… busted?” he asked.

You sighed. “So busted.”

He laughed, pulling you closer again. “Worth it.”

And you had to admit—it really, really was.

[trendbuzzz]

Best 12 Tricep Compound Exercises: Pump Up Your Arms!

Attention, fitness enthusiasts! Are you tired of the same old tricep routine, longing to carve out arms that command attention and admiration? Well, you’re in for a treat because we’re about to unveil the ultimate arsenal of Best 12 Tricep Compound Exercises that will transform your arm game and leave you with sleeve-busting results. Great! We’re delving deeply into the theory, methodology, and…

[10bmnews]

How to exercise with dumbbells at home - Times of India

One of the many advantages of dumbbells is their versatility, which allows you to perform a wide range of exercises. One of the many advantages of dumbbells is their versatility, which allows you to perform a wide range of exercises. An ideal introduction to the world of training is provided by dumbbell exercises. These workouts will help you grow muscle and improve your strength in numerous…

[niconiconwo]

I saw that Fire Force has a season 3 now, so I will be rewatching the first two so I remember what's going on there.

[techdriveplay]

What Are the Best Exercises for Strength and Flexibility?

When looking to enhance your overall fitness, it’s essential to focus on both strength and flexibility. Whether you’re an athlete or someone aiming to improve everyday mobility, balancing these two aspects can help prevent injury, improve posture, and increase longevity. Understanding what are the best exercises for strength and flexibility will empower you to create a comprehensive workout plan…

[beloveds-embrace]

(a very low-effort post abt 141 x their new hacker- you. For better immersion, click on the song link during Soap’s workout! <3)

The first time you make contact, it’s through their personal phones.

Not the official military-issued devices- no, those would be too easy. You wanted to make an impression.

So when Price, Ghost, Gaz, and Soap each glance at their personal screens, expecting the usual notifications from Laswell, they’re instead greeted by:

(¬‿¬) Hello, boys.

Price sighs like a disappointed father, having been forwarned of your antics, and still immediately calls Laswell.

“Care to explain why my phone just got hijacked?”

Laswell doesn’t sound surprised. If anything, she sounds like she’s been expecting and waiting for this- for his phone call specifically about getting hacked. “That’s your new hacker.”

Price pinches the bridge of his nose, while the others exchange Looks of Consideration™️. “That’s how she introduces herself?”

“She’s efficient.”

“She’s cheeky.”

“She’s listening,” you interject, making them all jolt as your voice plays from the phone speakers, honey-sweet and undeniably smug.

There’s a long silence. Then Gaz whispers: “What the fuck?”

You giggle. (≧◡≦) flashes onto all their screens right after that, just as cheeky as your tone.

“So she’s just gonna creep around in our phones now?” Gaz asks after that, wary, an eyebrow raised and his arms crossed.

In response, just his screen flickers, and a new message appears.

(╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻ Rude.

Laswell sighs again, much like an exasperated mother, and gestures at their phones. “Give her a chance. She is, despite everything, good at what she does.”

And so from that that moment on, you’re everywhere; they don’t see you, but they feel your presence. You’re in their systems, their devices, and their comms.

Ghost boots up his laptop one day, only to find that his standard background has been replaced with a pixelated skull and crossbones- like those they did on pirate ships in movies. Below it, in small text:

For the spookiest boy.

He says nothing, just tilts his head slightly before closing the laptop.

And when Price logs into the briefing room terminal, instead of the standard military insignia, the screen briefly flashes with the words:

WELCOME BACK, CAPTAIN DILF.

Soap loses it. Price glares at him, then at the screen, then sighs, muttering, “Christ.”

Soap isn’t free from your shenanigans, though.

One day, while doing his usual workout, he pulls up his playlist. The moment he presses play, his music app forcefully closes and reopens with “The Drunk Scotsman” blasting at full volume.

“NO, NO, NO-“ Soap scrambles to shut it off as the entire base turns to look at him.

On his screen, once the app is blessedly closed, a message pops up:

(ʘ‿ʘ) Dance, pretty boy.

And then Gaz’s torture is quieter, but no less effective.

Every so often, while he’s texting, his camera light flickers on. Not long enough to take a photo- just a brief, eerie blink before an emoji appears on his screen:

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

He groans. “She’s messing with me.”

“You mean flirting?” Soap smirks, leaning closer to the phone and chuckling as the camera light flickers back on for just another few seconds.

Gaz scowls. “…I hope so.”

Still, despite all your antics, you’re brilliant at what you do. And they learn this firsthand during their first mission with you.

“All teams, check-in.” Price orders as they move through a darkened compound.

Instead of Laswell’s voice responding, it’s yours. Soft, smooth, and playful.

“Five by five, Captain.”

There’s a pause- brief but notable. Then, Price exhales. “You hacking my comms now, too?”

“Wouldn’t be a very good hacker if I couldn’t, would I?”

Soap snorts, snickering with Gaz. “She’s got a point.”

Ghost, listening quietly, murmurs: “Thought you didn’t speak.”

“Only when necessary. Or when I feel like annoying you.”

Your voice is warm, teasing. If Ghost were anyone else, he might have smiled. And then, just like that, you’re all business.

“Sniper on the rooftop, two o’clock.”

Ghost adjusts, and then fires. A body drops.

“Price, your six.”

The captain pivots, taking down the enemy creeping behind him.

“Soap, slow down.”

“I got this,” Soap insists- only for a grenade to go off near him. “…I don’t got this.”

“Clearly.”

“…Shut up.”

With you in their ears, everything runs smoother. Their feeds don’t lag. Their encryptions are tighter. They feel- secure. With you and Laswell? Almost untouchable, but they don’t let it get to their heads.

When they return to base, exhausted but alive, their phones light up with a single message:

(￣︶￣) Good job, boys.

They stare at their screens, and then Price huffs a laugh. Soap grins. Gaz shakes his head. Ghost, unseen beneath his mask, smirks.

They don’t know your face. Haven’t met you in person.

But they decide you’re theirs, and they are yours. Even if you’re just unknown- for now, anyways.

[kylewalker-peters]

could do with spurs and the f1 to be over and done with in the next 2 hours like let's just wrap this nonsense up by midday and try and salvage this Sunday afternoon

[em1i2a3]

Self Control

Pairing: Pervish?Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: After a laundry mixup Bob finds himself in a sticky situation.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, References to Past Drug Use (and worrying about relapse because Bob is acting off, it’s very brief), Friends to Lovers? Reader and Bob sometimes do laundry together (integral to the story lol), That Emotional Longing Hits

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up please), Fingering, Handjob, Oral Sex (female and male receiving), Bob Fantasizes about the reader, Bob is an accidental underwear stealer (and ends up using said underwear for the aforementioned fantasies…But not in the way you think.), Masturbation, Face Sitting, Grinding. Yearning Bob?, Edging kind of.

Author’s Note: This started out as a cute domestic fluff laundry day thing…And then it spiraled into chaos and I rewrote it to this and…Uh…Well…Yeah. This was definitely fun to write! Hope y’all enjoy :)

Word Count: 9,169

Bob didn’t mean to end up with your underwear in his laundry pile.

But somehow, in the chaos of t-shirts, sweaters, hoodies, the occasional undergarments and socks, it must’ve gotten tangled up in the fray–caught on a sleeve or clinging to a hoodie fresh from the dryer, still warm and clinging with static.

You and Bob had been doing laundry together since you moved into the compound. It wasn’t some grand arrangement, just something that started one afternoon when you both showed up with half-full hampers and a shrug of mutual understanding. It made sense–neither of you produced a ton of laundry, and instead of fighting for the machine on rotation days, you just started tossing your stuff in together. Whites, colors, delicates–sorted after the fact with casual efficiency.

It worked. Mostly. There was the one time a bright red sock bled all over your white workout gear, leaving you with a pastel pink sports bra and Bob with a sheepish apology and an offer to replace it. But that was months ago, and nothing that catastrophic had happened since.

So when Bob was folding one of his navy sweaters on the edge of his bed and your underwear–a soft, pale blue lace piece–slipped from the sleeve and floated gently to the floor like a feather, he wasn’t shocked, or surprised…Not really at least.

But he did freeze in his spot.

He stared at the fabric for a long moment, the sweater long forgotten in his lap. The cotton and lace rested on the hardwood floor and it looked much heavier for what it was. Because he recognized them instantly.

He’d seen them once before–peeking out from above the waistband of your gray sweatpants one early morning in the kitchen, when your shirt had ridden up as you reached for the coffee filters on the top shelf. The lace had caught his eye, delicate and out of place against the plainness of your sleepwear. It was a tiny sliver of you he hadn’t meant to see but couldn’t unsee once he had.

And now they were here in his room, calling out to him from the floor. His mouth went dry as he bent to pick them up, fingertips brushing the lace–soft, fine, and whisper-light as it tickled his skin. The sweater in his lap slipped off his knees and landed with a muted thud, but he barely noticed.

The delicate blue lace fluttered against his palm, cool and almost weightless, but it may as well have been an open flame. Bob swallowed hard. His eyes traced the pattern–those tiny embroidered flowers, the scalloped edging, the faint shimmer of elastic thread winding through the weave. The intricate detail of it was so intimate and so utterly you that it made his chest tighten. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly as his grip on the lace faltered for a second–just long enough for the material to flutter in his palm again, taunting him. His eyes burned from not blinking, his lungs held hostage by the slow creeping heat that began to coil low in his belly.

He shouldn’t have been picturing you in them…But he was.

The underwear, soft and sheer, hugging your hips in a way that made his jaw clench, accentuating the curve of your ass, leaving the barest sliver of mystery–just enough to drive him absolutely insane. He could see it too clearly now. You standing in front of him in nothing but that lace and a look that bordered on smug. Your bottom lip caught between your teeth, chewing the flesh softly like you always did when you were nervous or thinking too hard…Or when you were teasing…

And god, the idea of your fingers hooking into the waistband, sliding beneath the fabric with slow, knowing touches, tracing the delicate edge along your own skin…Maybe lifting the hem slightly, like you were offering yourself to him, or you were just showing off…Maybe–

He hissed out a breath through his teeth and dropped the underwear onto the bed like it burned him.

”Oh god,” He whispered, the words dragging out of him like gravel. He pressed the heel of his palms against his eyes, trying to force the image out of his head, but it was too late. The damage was done. His cock stirred in his sweatpants, a slow, aching hardening that he could neither ignore nor justify–not when it was born from something so unintentional and innocent…Or at least it had been innocent.

But now it felt like a betrayal. He was picturing you in such compromising positions that his self-control was hanging by a thread. The lace was haunting him now–taunting him with softness and sin, curled on the edge of his bed like it knew what it was doing. His breathing was shallow. He could feel the heat pressing low in his abdomen, tight and demanding, throbbing beneath the waistband of his sweats. He glanced down at himself, and looked at the underwear again, feeling his hand drifting towards the hardness–craving relief.

And then–

Knock Knock Knock

“Bob?” Your voice filtered through the door, casual, close, and completely unaware. He shot up from the bed like he had been electrocuted, heart slamming into his ribs.

”Shit–“ He hissed under his breath, nearly stumbling over the discarded sweater as he scrambled to grab the lace from the mattress.

You were right there. Right on the other side of the door. And he was standing in his room, half-hard, now holding your underwear, basically caught red handed even though he hadn’t done anything.

Without thinking, he yanked open the drawer of his nightstand and shoved the lace inside, slamming it shut with a soft thud. His fingers lingered on the handle, like it might rattle open and spill the truth onto the floor. He could’ve handed them back, he should’ve handed them back, but instead, he panicked.

“Ye-Yeah?” He called out, voice cracking embarrassingly high before he cleared his throat and forced it to come out deeper, steadier, “Yeah?”

“We’re ordering takeout!” You replied, “Come give your order!” His mind whirled. Food. Orders. Takeout.

He adjusted himself through his sweatpants quickly, trying to shift his erection into a less obvious position. It wasn’t helping that your voice was still floating through the air like warmed honey, layered with unintentional sweetness and familiarity. He squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath through his nose, and forced the image of you in that lace down–way, way down.

“Okay!” He said, forcing cheer into his voice, “Be out in a minute! Just…Ju–Just changing!” He added.

”Alright,” You responded lightly. “Don’t keep us waiting.” You teased in a sing-song voice, which almost made him moan out loud. Bob rubbed his hands down his face, scrubbing over his jaw until it ached.

“Get a hold of yourself, Bob. Get a fucking gr–grip.” His voice was a low rasp, breath catching in the middle like he couldn’t even convince himself. He looked down–eyes dragging to the tent in his sweatpants, the hard line still pressing persistently against the cotton like it was begging him to give in. He adjusted himself again with a hiss of breath, making sure it wasn’t too obvious before dragging a hand through his already messed up hair and stepping out into the hallway.

Dinner was a blur.

He sat beside you at the little kitchen table, half-listening to the others talk over one another, too aware of every tiny movement you made. Your arm brushed his as you leaned forward to grab your drink, a few water droplets falling onto your shirt. You laughed a bit at one of Alexei’s off handed jokes and tapped your bare foot against the floor just inches from his own. You were in one of your old college t-shirts–the one that had a stretched out neckline that revealed the smooth plane of your collarbone.

Bob could barely eat with such close proximity, and he couldn’t look at you too long because he would end up picturing the lace again–how soft it felt in his hand, how delicate it was. How easy it was to picture them on you, or falling off you. He poked around his plate in a daze, trying his best to keep up with the conversations going on around him but his brain was on autopilot, filled with the nastiest thoughts he had conjured up in a long time.

You had noticed how he didn’t eat, it was easy to spot, even though he tried to hide it by wrapping up his plate and putting it into the fridge muttering an excuse of him eating the rest later. While you were cleaning the dishes you turned to him and asked, “Are you alright?” He looked like a deer in headlights, his blue eyes wide and shimmering, his jaw clenching at the question.

”Ye–Yeah, of course I am…Do I not seem alright?” You shrugged.

”You didn’t eat. Usually you have the appetite of a rabid animal.” His face heated up at that comment as he grabbed a damp plate from the dish rack, drying it off with his cloth, “And when you’re…Not feeling good you typically don’t eat.” You added in a hushed tone. He gulped, turning away from you.

”I’m alright. Trust me…You’d know if I wasn’t.” You hummed, and gave him a small okay, even though you were still concerned about his current state. The thought of him possibly relapsing crossed your mind, but you immediately pushed the idea out of your mind, because he wasn’t sneaky enough to get away with something like that, or at least you hoped he wasn’t. You trusted him enough that he would come to you if he ever had the thought of turning back to pills, and you felt ashamed for even thinking he was, but you were still concerned at the small sign that something was off.

By the time Bob got back to his room, he felt like his entire body was on fire. He tore off his clothes and took the coldest shower known to man, yet he still felt like his blood was boiling beneath his skin. He had thrown himself down on his bed, spreading himself out on top of the covers in only a pair of shorts. Beads of sweat clung to his chest, the muscle in his thighs tensing up and clenching. He took a few deep breaths, trying his best to keep his mind blank and wiped.

The moonlight cut across the room in fractured silver, spilling in from the half-cracked blinds, casting long spotlight-like shadows across the floor. His thoughts trailed off to the drawer, and he could’ve sworn he was going to explode. He tried turning over. Tried to ignore it. But the temptation was right there. Inches away.

“Just do it you little perv. She won’t know anything about it.” The Void hissed. Bob reached up and wiped some of the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

”But I’ll know…” He whispered into the abyss of the room.

“So? You’ve already crossed the line by fantasizing about her. Might as well finish the job.” He spat back. Bob nibbled on his bottom lip, his eyes glancing over at the nightstand again, before letting out a broken curse, and reaching for the drawer.

It slid open with the faintest scrape, and he paused, his eyes locking onto the pale blue lace curled up like a secret in the corner. They practically glowed in the moonlight, and the soft fabric looked ethereal now–delicate and silken. The tiny embroidered flowers caught the light like they had been stitched from starlight. His fingers hovered for a moment…Then curled around them gently, bringing the underwear out slowly, like they might disintegrate in his palm.

Bob leaned back against the pillows, staring at the lace in his hand–how dainty it looked, how personal. His thumb traced the scalloped edge, watching the way the elastic caught the light. They were so you it made his stomach twist. So soft. So intimate. So unthinkably forbidden. He took in a shaky breath, before sliding his other hand beneath his waistband pushing it down slightly, fingers curling around the thick, aching heat of his erection.

He hissed through his teeth. The relief was immediate–sweet and sharp, his whole body jerking slightly from the first touch. His head dropped back onto the pillow as he began to stroke himself, slow at first, letting the sensation build while he gripped your lace underwear against his chest, cooling his heated skin. Bob’s breath shuddered as he wrapped his fingers tighter around the base of his cock, the ache rolling through him in thick, pulsing waves.

He let his eyes flutter shut, and he pictured you in the darkness behind his eyes straddling his waist in nothing but that same pale blue lace, the hem riding high as you rolled your hips down against him. Bob groaned aloud, soft and guttural, imagining the warmth of you grinding down over him, the thin barrier doing nothing to hide how wet you were. In his mind, your hands braced on his thighs, fingers digging in, nails biting into flesh for leverage as you rocked yourself over him with unhurried need–showing yourself off to him.

He could see it so clearly–your head tipped back, chest heaving, lips parted just enough for a whisper of his name to fall out, all soft and wrecked. His hips bucked into his fist, a harsh hiss dragging between his teeth.

He balled the lace tighter in his hand, dragging it up toward his face with shaking fingers, needing the feel of it against his skin–against the stubble on his jaw. The soft fabric kissed his cheek as he pressed it there, inhaling deeply.

Laundry sheets.

Fabric softener.

And beneath all of that–faint, ghost-like warmth. The phantom memory of your skin. It made him feel insane.

“Fuck,” He groaned, voice raw, as he stroked himself faster now, hips rising off the bed.

He pictured you perched over his face, thighs trembling on either side of his head, lace still clinging to your hips as you slowly lowered yourself down onto his mouth. His tongue dragging over the soaked fabric, the taste of you bleeding through, his hands gripping your ass, holding you there while you rode the pressure of his mouth.The lace brushing against his cheekbones, his nose, tickling his skin while he sucked and licked and moaned into you. His mind spiraled as the pleasure built, fast and brutal now.

Your voice echoed in his head. Desperate. Breathless.

“Don’t stop, Bob…Please don’t stop.”

He whimpered as his orgasm surged up from deep in his core, everything tightening, his muscles locking as he arched off the mattress. Just before he came, he stuffed the lace into his mouth, biting down hard as the pleasure ripped through him in thick, pulsing waves.

Cum spilled over his knuckles, hot and messy, streaking across his stomach as he worked himself through it, the lace muffling the strangled moans that would’ve echoed too loud in the stillness of the compound. His whole body shook with the release and for a moment everything blurred together–the moonlight, the heat, the breath that rattled in his chest.

Then it was pure silence, just his soft wheezing echoing through the room, the faint creak of the bed springs, and the wet slick of his hand pulling away. He reached up with his clean hand, easing the lace out of his mouth slowly, the fabric damp where his teeth had clamped down. He stared at it, and felt the guilt and shame blooming somewhere deep in his stomach. Shame trailing after the pleasure like a tide going out, leaving him raw and aching.

His eyes drifted closed for a second as he laid the underwear down gently beside him, before reaching over for a tissue and wiping his hand off, tucking himself back into his shorts, letting out a long sigh.

“Well that was just pathetic.” The Void whispered

———————

It had been a few days since your quiet check-in while doing the dishes together. Days since Bob had nodded and told you he was fine and that he would tell you if he wasn’t. But you could tell something was off.

He’d become…Jumpy. And not in the normal, anxious–Bob kind of way you were used to. This was different. Tense and wound tight. He avoided eye contact with you when usually he would hold it. Laughed too loud when he used to chuckle under his breath, almost like he forced it out of himself. Doors that were usually left open between you were suddenly shut and locked. And when you knocked? You would hear rapid shuffling and panicked movement, as if he was hiding something quickly.

At first, you let it slide, but then the noises in the night started.

You’d wake sometime at around 2:30 in the morning, like clockwork. And from your room, you could hear him moving, pacing. Sometimes you would hear his mattress creaking, like he was shifting restlessly on the covers, never fully settling.

He definitely wasn’t getting enough sleep, and he certainly wasn’t eating properly…And the last time that happened…

Your chest clenched as the thought curled like smoke through your lungs: what if he had relapsed?

The idea made you ill. You didn’t want to believe it. Bob had fought so hard, and he had come so far. But you knew something was going on, and if he wasn’t going to tell you what it was, you were going to have to find it out for yourself–even if it meant crossing a line.

You just didn’t expect the opportunity to come so soon.

”Hey, Bob!” Walker called down the hall late that afternoon, “Need some of that extra super Sentry strength to help haul the groceries up from the parking garage. There’s a lot of boxes.” Bob appeared from his room moments later, navy sweatpants hanging low on his hips showing off his waist, as he tugged a shirt on.

”Coming.” He mumbled. You waited, perfectly still, until the echo of his footsteps disappeared completely. Then you slipped into his room.

His space was always immaculate.

The soft click of the door behind you was swallowed by the stillness of his bedroom, the air faintly tinged with cedarwood and clean linen. His bed was made—neatly. Sheets tucked in tight, comforter folded down with military precision. A dark navy throw blanket lay folded at the end, square and untouched.

Everything had a place. The floor was spotless. A pair of slippers sat aligned beneath the bedframe, parallel, like they’d never been used.

His desk was the only spot with any real sign of life. And even then, it was the kind of lived-in that screamed care and intention. The surface was arranged with crisp order: a few pens, a worn leather notebook, and—stacked neatly along the edge—dozens of CDs.

You blinked, surprised.

Old-school jewel cases. Labeled in his handwriting. Some were scratched. Others polished like keepsakes. Fleetwood Mac. Miles Davis. Nirvana. You ran your fingers across the stack, a soft smile tugging at your lips. He’d mentioned once that music helped quiet his mind. He must’ve started collecting since moving into the compound.

You reached for the desk drawer.

Stationery. Lined journals. A few half-filled notebooks, their margins scrawled with little doodles, mission notes, lists of music to look up. Everything was clean. Normal.

The second drawer opened with a soft pull.

Photos.

Printed, physical ones. A few of the team together after missions, muddy and bruised but smiling. One of Yelena flipping the bird at the camera. Another of Ava mid-eye-roll. There were newspaper clippings too–crumpled articles about Thunderbolt missions, some good press, some bad. Your name was featured in a few headlines. He’d circled them in blue ink.

Your heart twisted.

You shouldn’t have found this. It was sweet. Too sweet. A little drawer of memories, lovingly tucked away. And it only made your guilt worse. You were snooping. You were in his space, crossing every boundary you said you never would.

But still…Your feet moved you toward the nightstand beside his bed. If there were pills…This is where they’d be. Within reach. Easy to grab in the middle of the night when he needed a fix.

You sucked in a breath, and pushed down the guilt that began to bubble in your stomach.

You were doing this for Bob, you reminded yourself, curling your fingers around the metal knob and pulling.

Inside, you found–

A book.

You blinked. Relief hit you first, brief and shallow. No pills. No bottles.

Just his current read—Sonic Life, the memoir by Thurston Moore. A thick paperback with the spine already bent in half, a few dog-eared corners marking passages he must’ve liked. You recognized it. He mentioned it during breakfast a few weeks ago—talked about sound, distortion, noise theory, memory and music. You’d made a joke about it being “a very Bob book.”

You almost smiled, but then you saw what was underneath.

Beneath the memoir, crumpled beneath it like it had been hidden like a dirty little secret, was a pair of your underwear. Pale blue lace, nearly torn at the waistband-delicate elastic threads pulled and fraying in places like it had been…Torn at. Twisted. Used. Scrunched up in a way that didn’t suggest accident or coincidence.

Time seemed to stop for a second, like the air had been sucked out of the room. You weren’t breathing…Then it all started to make sense. The sudden shift in his energy. The way his hands trembled slightly when they passed you the salt at dinner. The way his room had been locked every night since the talk at the sink. The restless pacing. The flushed cheeks. The way he couldn’t look at you without swallowing hard.

He was fantasizing about you.

And he didn’t do it once, nor did he do it in passing or with some distant, impersonal curiosity.

He was doing it repeatedly.

And he was guilty about it too. The tension in his shoulders, the stammer in his voice, the quiet withdrawal like he was trying to keep something from rotting through his skin–it all gave it away. Like he was carrying a sin he didn’t know how to confess.

You felt your lips twitch up into a smile at the thought. It wasn’t cruel or mocking or judgemental. You were curious…Maybe even a little impressed.

Because this? This was Bob.

Mr. Polite. Mr. Gentle. Mr. “Let me carry that for you.” You reached for the lace and brought it up to your line of sight, turning the fabric over between your fingers.

The waistband was stretched out, frayed at the edges. One of the delicate scalloped hems had been tugged so hard it had nearly ripped from the mesh. And the center? Wrinkled, creased, marked faintly like it had been…Clenched. Bitten into maybe.

Your stomach fluttered. You weren’t sure what to feel. Shock still hummed in your limbs, but something warmer was pooling low in your belly, buzzing behind your ribs. He’d wanted you. Desperately. Enough to hold onto something so intimate and private and ruin it in secret, and Bob of all people had done it.

And there was a wild, secret power in that realization.

You were so distracted by the thoughts and questions racing through your mind–so caught in the strange, heavy thrill of holding your ruined underwear in Bob’s room, piecing it all together–that you didn’t hear the elevator ding.

Didn’t hear the soft stomp of boots in the hallway.

Didn’t register the quiet thud of a grocery bag against the wall or the familiar murmur of Bob’s voice trailing behind Walker’s until it was too late.

By the time the front door opened and his steps carried him into the corridor, you were still standing beside his bed.

The drawer was open. The underwear was in your hands, and when the door to his room creaked open, everything fell silent.

Bob froze in the doorway like he’d been shot. His eyes locked on you instantly, and then they dropped to your hands. To the lace clutched between your fingers.

To the thing he thought he’d hidden so well.

Panic hit his face like a tidal wave–his mouth falling open, blood draining from his cheeks, posture going stiff like he’d been yanked into another dimension altogether.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

For a moment, the tension in the room felt like a blade suspended in mid-air–sharp, motionless, waiting for gravity to choose who it would fall on.

Then, quietly, Bob stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. The click of the latch was barely audible, but it echoed through your chest like a gunshot.

He stood there–shoulders hunched slightly, like bracing for a hit–before he opened his mouth.

“I–I know what it looks like…” He began, his voice rough and thin with fear. “I wasn’t gonna–I didn’t–”

His eyes flicked to the underwear in your hand again.

And he stopped.

Dead silent.

Because he knew.

There was no way out of this. No casual backpedal. No awkward chuckle and muttered apology. Not when you were holding the evidence–creased and stretched, soft blue lace fraying at the edges, ruined by hands that had clearly used it.

You watched him carefully, your voice quiet but firm.

“What were you going to do with it, Bob?”

He opened his mouth like he had something rehearsed–some pitiful excuse that might paint this in a softer light–but he faltered. His throat bobbed. His jaw clenched.

“…I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” He said quickly, voice cracking. “I’m not lying…I just…I didn’t plan it. It showed up in the laundry pile and I sh–should’ve given it back, I know that, but I just…I couldn’t.” You held the ruined lace up a little higher into his field of vision, watching the way his eyes flicked to it like it had some kind of hold over him. Your voice dropped–low, teasing, laced with something darker and richer than before.

“Tell me what you did to make them look like this, Bob.”

His lips parted. No sound came out. His throat moved in a thick swallow, his eyes wide–glass-blue and shimmering like he was about to cry or combust. Maybe both. The shame in his expression was so raw, so exposed, that for a moment you almost pitied him. But then his gaze dropped back to the lace in your hand, and something flickered in it–guilt, yes. But want too. Deep. Unfiltered. Starving.

His voice came out thin and shaking, breath hitching around every word.

”I–I held them in my hand as I was touching myself…” He whispered, ashamed, “I pictured you in th–them. What you would do…To me. I…I shoved them into my mouth to muffle my moans and…And well…I ki–kind of wrecked them.” Your cheeks were flushed now, not from embarrassment—but from heat.

The admission had sucker-punched something low in your belly. You’d expected a denial, maybe a stammered lie, something soft and pitiful like, “I just didn’t want to lose it.” But not this. Not the image of Bob–sweet, gentle Bob–shaking and alone in his bed, desperate and mouthing into the lace you’d worn, his cock in one hand, your underwear in the other, wrecking himself to the thought of you.

It was filthy. Reverent. Completely unhinged. And it made something primal stir in you.

You smirked, breath catching as you watched him.

Bob looked like he was going to pass out.

He wouldn’t meet your gaze. His face was flushed to the roots of his hair, his jaw clenched so tight it trembled. You took a slow step toward him, and then another, watching the way his shoulders hunched like he was bracing for impact. He turned his face away, breathing shallow, chest rising and falling in uneven waves.

“Look at me, Bob,” You said softly.

He didn’t.

“Look at me,” You repeated, a little firmer this time.

His eyes squeezed shut. You watched the twitch of his jaw. He finally cracked them open–but only to look down at the floor, not at you.

“Wh–Why were you snooping?” He asked suddenly, his voice small and hollow. “You…You wouldn’t have found them if you hadn’t…” You raised your free hand, cutting him off before he could spiral further.

“I thought you relapsed,” You said gently but honestly. “You weren’t eating. You were being all weird around me. And I kept hearing you pacing around at night like you weren’t sleeping. You were acting off.” You motioned to the lace in your other hand with a soft lift of your brow. “But now it all makes sense.” You could practically hear his heart drop. Because you’d been right–he couldn’t argue with that. He had been avoiding you. He had been awake. He had been off.

Because he’d been spiraling. Not from a relapse…But from desire.

From wanting you so badly it frayed the edges of his sanity.

He didn’t say anything, and in the silence, you took another step toward him. You were close enough now to see the fine tremble in his hands. The way his chest stuttered with every breath like he was holding in a scream.

“Is that why you locked the door every night?” You murmured. “So I wouldn’t walk in on you with these in your mouth?” He nodded. Quickly. Too quickly. Like the movement wasn’t even a choice–just a reaction, shame and need colliding all at once, short-circuiting the nervous system of the man who had spent nights wrecking himself in silence while your name broke in his throat. You reached up, slow and deliberate, and cupped his jaw in your palm.

His skin burned under your touch–hot and tight from the tension roiling beneath the surface. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. But he did tense, jaw locking under your fingers like he was bracing for impact.

”Please look at me, Bob.” Your voice had dropped again. Not harsh–never harsh–but steady. Intimate. Loaded with the kind of authority he had no idea how to resist.

His eyes lifted slowly. Hesitantly.

And when they met yours–wide, glassy, stormed with guilt and arousal and fear–you kept your hand right there. Holding him in place. Tethering him.

“Use your words,” You whispered. “Tell me what you imagined.”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. Just his breath. Shaky. Shallow. His lashes fluttered and his brow knit like he was in pain.

“Y/N…” He croaked, voice splintering at the edges. “I d–don’t think that’s a good idea.”

You tilted your head slightly, thumb brushing his jawline.

“I think it’s exactly what you need,” You murmured. “You’ve been spiraling for days trying to bury this. Let it out.”

You leaned in–close enough now that your breath mingled with his. That heat you felt earlier, the primal kind, pulsed low in your belly. He smelled like sweat and cedar and guilt. He looked like he was about to crumble.

And that made you want him more.

“I want to hear it,” You whispered, coaxing him. “Tell me.”

Bob swallowed–loudly. Audibly. Like the truth was a physical thing in his throat, sharp and jagged and stuck.

His hand twitched at his side. He closed his eyes. Then opened them again, slower this time. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

“I imagined you in them,” He breathed. “With nothing else on…” His throat bobbed again, as he continued “You rode me with them on…And you grinded against my face…You used me to get off…And you were so…So we–wet.”

Your breath hit his lips, and Bob’s eyes fluttered shut–just for a second–as though it physically hurt to be this close to you. His tongue darted out, instinctively, catching the trace of moisture you left behind like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

And then you whispered it, sultry and soft enough to short-circuit whatever fragile defenses he had left:

“Yeah? Is that all?”

His eyes snapped open. He looked wrecked–lips parted, pupils blown wide, sweat clinging to his hairline even though the room wasn’t warm.

He nodded.

“I could only see yo–you like that…” He admitted, the words fragile and tight in his throat. “I—I didn’t want to think about anyone else. Just…you.”

You bit your bottom lip, dragging the soft skin between your teeth slowly, your voice a breathy murmur laced with something between disbelief and desire.

“You should’ve told me…”

Bob’s jaw clenched at that. His whole posture shifted, arms rigid at his sides, as if part of him wanted to run and the other part wanted to kneel.

“It…It’s too embarrassing to tell you this stuff,” He said thickly, voice cracking at the edges. “You’re my…my friend.”

You exhaled softly, thumb stroking once beneath the sharp edge of his cheekbone.

“Please,” You said gently, the word hanging between you like an invitation. “I think we’re far past that stage.” Bob’s breathing grew more uneven, his throat working around the tension that refused to loosen. You leaned closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear now, and whispered low enough to make his spine straighten:

“Because I want to fulfill those dirty little fantasies you had about me…”

You pulled back just enough to see his face.

His eyes–those beautiful, storm-struck eyes–searched yours with so much stunned vulnerability it made your chest ache. He looked like he didn’t know if he was about to wake up or fall to pieces right there at your feet.

“You…Wh–what?” He whispered, like the sentence was a foreign language. You didn’t answer at first. Instead, you reached down slowly–deliberately–to the waistband of your sweatpants, fingers curling beneath the soft cotton.

His breath audibly stuttered.

“I want to fulfill your fantasies,” You repeated, softer this time, like a secret meant only for him. You pushed the sweatpants down your legs, steady and sure, the fabric pooling at your ankles before you stepped out of them.

And Bob’s gaze dropped instantly to your underwear.

The black lace hugged your hips like a whispered promise–dark, sheer, wicked in contrast to the soft blue he had held in his hands for the past couple of nights. They were different in tone, in color, in feel, but the sight of them hit him just as hard. Maybe harder.

He stared like he was dying of thirst and you’d just offered him water.

His hands twitched at his sides, trembling slightly, like he didn’t know where they belonged–if he even had permission to move.

You watched him carefully. Saw the way he was holding himself back, teetering between restraint and desperation.

So you leaned in again, and whispered:

“You can touch me, Bob.”

That was all it took.

His hands lifted–slow, almost afraid–as if you might vanish if he moved too fast. His fingertips hovered over your hips for a moment, not quite making contact, his eyes flicking up to yours in silent question.

You nodded once. Gave him that tiny breath of permission.

And then he touched you.

Not roughly. Not greedily. But like he didn’t believe you were real. His hands found your waist first, warm and shaking, his thumbs brushing the lace where it dipped over the bone. He exhaled like it hurt.

”…Jesus, you’re so–“ He cut himself off, shaking his head like he couldn’t even begin to put his thoughts into words. Bob’s wrists. He twitched like you’d shocked him, but didn’t resist. Didn’t even blink as you guided his trembling hand down–slowly, steadily–until his palm brushed over the front of your underwear, and then you pressed yourself into his touch.

He felt it then. The heat. The slick. The unmistakable wetness that had already soaked into the lace.

Bob let out a ragged breath, his lips parting in a soft, strangled sound like he couldn’t believe what his hand was touching.

“Oh my god…” He whispered, barely audible. His eyes dropped to where his fingers were now cupping you, reverently, the lace warm and damp beneath his touch. His thumb flexed unconsciously, pressing slightly into the fabric, dragging just enough to feel the shape of you beneath the mesh.

You sighed, soft and slow, eyes fluttering at the contact.

Then you leaned in and kissed him.

It was nothing like you imagined it would be.

It was gentle. Breathless. Desperate, but careful.

He gasped softly against your lips–like you’d startled him, or like he couldn’t believe this was really happening. But he kissed you back almost instantly, mouth warm and pliant, his free hand finding your waist, tugging you just a fraction closer like he needed to feel all of you at once.

And then–his hand moved.

Still cupping you through the lace, his fingers began to stroke. Shaky. Uncertain. But so, so eager. He rubbed softly, the pressure tentative but building with each sweep, each slow pass of his fingertips over the soaked fabric.

Your lips parted with a soft sigh, and he took it as an invitation–his mouth pressing forward a bit harder, the kiss deepening, his tongue brushing yours just once before you pulled back.

You stared at him.

His pupils were enormous. His lips were kiss-swollen. His chest was rising in shallow, stuttering breaths.

And your voice–when it came–was a low, deliberate command that went straight to the erection that was forming in his sweatpants:

”Go lie on the bed.” He blinked, like he wasn’t sure he heard you right. Like his brain hadn’t caught up with the situation. But when you raised your brows, slowly, and nodded toward the mattress.

He moved without hesitation–like he was under your command, like the mattress had become holy ground.

Bob stretched out onto his back, the navy throw blanket rumpling beneath him, crown of soft light brown hair fanning across the pillow like a halo. He stared over at you–wide-eyed, wrecked, and trembling. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, sweat still clinging to the hollow of his throat from earlier. His cock throbbed beneath the worn cotton of his sweatpants, a heavy, unrelenting presence between his thighs.

You sighed softly, your fingers tugging the hem of your shirt, drawing it up and over your head with slow finality. The air was cool on your skin, and Bob’s breath hitched audibly when he saw your bra–black lace, delicate and bold, a perfect match for the underwear still damp against your core. You made no move to take it off. He didn’t deserve all of you yet. Not until he begged for it.

Instead, you moved toward him, crawling onto the bed, one knee sinking into the mattress beside his hip. The other swung over, straddling him fully. You hovered over his lap, your thighs bracketing him with intention. He looked like he might forget how to breathe.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just let the weight of the moment thicken between you–your body above his, your skin flushed, the black lace clinging to every curve, and the heat radiating off of both of you in waves.

Then, softly:

“Is this okay?”

Bob nodded so fast it nearly looked painful. “Y–Yes,” He rasped, hands coming up instinctively to rest on your hips, tentative but reverent, like he thought you might still vanish if he wasn’t careful. “Please, yes…” His fingers sank into the lace, palms cupping the sides of your ass, massaging the fabric as if it were a prayer. You rolled your hips once–slow, deliberate–and the sound that came from him was something between a gasp and a broken moan, the lace rubbing against your clit gently.

You ground against him again, your lace dragging over the thick, aching line of his cock through his sweatpants, and Bob bucked beneath you–the pressure causing you to shiver. His hands tightened, clutching you like he needed the anchor. His head tipped back against the pillow, lips parting, a string of breathless curses spilling out.

“Fuck…Oh god, Y/N.” You grinned, rolling your hips again, slower this time. Teasing. Your slick soaked into the lace, darkening the front of his sweatpants, and you could feel the twitch of him beneath you, thick and throbbing, desperate for friction. He writhed, moaned, his thighs tensing under yours. His eyes fluttered half shut, lashes fanned across flushed cheeks, his jaw clenched so tightly it trembled.

“Shit…Please. Please don’t st–stop, please–“ He gasped. You kept going, dragging yourself over him again and again, steady, sensual, watching every reaction ripple across his body like waves. His hips jerked, chasing every movement, and he groaned, high and rough in his throat, so fucking pretty beneath you—needy and overwhelmed, like he didn’t know what to do with the pleasure.

But then…You stopped.

You stilled your hips completely and leaned forward, placing your palms on his chest, feeling the frantic thud of his heart. Bob let out a strangled, desperate gasp beneath you–like you’d just ripped the oxygen from his lungs. His hands twitched on your hips, trying not to beg. Trying so hard to hold onto the last frayed thread of self-control.

“Please…” he breathed, voice shattered, raw with hunger. “Please, I–I can’t…Y/N, I need….Fuck–”

You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“What do you need, Bob?”

He whimpered. His hands gripped tighter, pulling your hips down flush against his cock like he needed you to feel how hard he was. His voice cracked in his throat as he pleaded:

“Get on my face…I ne–need you on my face… Please, Y/N. Please.” He sounded like he was losing his mind. Like he’d die if he didn’t taste you. His voice was breathless, trembling, and soaked in desperation.

You smiled–slow and dangerous–as you leaned forward just enough to whisper against his lips, “Let me help you take your sweatpants off first.”

Bob nodded immediately, like he would’ve agreed to anything you asked him. Anything. He lifted his hips with a quiet, breathless sound as you slid your hands beneath the waistband, dragging the fabric down slowly, watching the way his cock strained against the cotton briefs beneath as you took those down as well. He was already leaking–already flushed deep and hard, twitching with every shift of your weight above him.

You let the sweatpants and boxers fall to the floor, and just as you were about to climb back over him, Bob reached behind his neck and tugged his shirt off.

You stilled.

His body was long and lean, but solid–battle-worn. Muscled in a way that was quiet, capable. Not flashy, not carved from marble, but real. Lived-in. There were faint scars trailing along his ribs, one curling beneath his left pectoral, another nicked across his hip. Your fingers reached instinctively, gently tracing the one beneath his chest.

Bob flinched slightly–more at the intimacy than the contact–and his eyes darted to yours. You shook your head softly, thumb brushing the curve of the mark.

“You’re so handsome, Bob,” You whispered. He swallowed hard. His lips parted like he wanted to say something–but nothing came out. Just a choked breath. You leaned in, dragging your lips over his jaw, then down to his throat, kissing softly just above his racing pulse. When you pulled back again, you met his eyes, hovering above him.

“I want to do something to you at the same time,” You said quietly. “Is that okay?”

His breath hitched. “…Okay.” You gave him one more look–checking for hesitation, for doubt–but all you found was desperation. That wide-eyed ache he carried in his chest, begging for a release that went deeper than touch.

You shifted on the bed, slowly turning yourself around so your knees were planted on either side of his head, your core hovering over his mouth, lace clinging to your heat. From beneath you, Bob groaned–low and wrecked–his hands already reaching to brace your thighs. His fingers gripped gently, spreading you open for him with shaking reverence as you settled your weight on his chest.

He stared.

Your black lace panties were soaked–soaked through, pressed against your folds, glistening in the low light. He let out the softest, filthiest whimper you’d ever heard, like the sight alone was enough to break him.

And then his tongue pressed up against the center of the lace.

You gasped, your hips jerking forward at the sudden warmth of it–soft and thick, dragging a long, deliberate stripe up your slit, the soaked fabric allowing your taste to bleed right through.

“F–Fuck, Bob,” You whispered, head dropping low over his hips, your hand already reaching for his cock. He twitched in your palm, hot and heavy, and when you leaned down to swirl your tongue over the leaking head, Bob moaned against your core like a man possessed. He licked you through the lace again, and again, breathing hot and heavy into the damp fabric as you began to stroke him in slow, firm motions. He was already trembling.

“God…You taste so fucking good through this,” He murmured, voice slurred, drunk on it. His fingers slipped beneath the waistband, finally pushing the lace aside to bare you to him–wet and flushed and aching.

And then his mouth was on you.

No teasing. No hesitating.

He dove in like a man starved.

His tongue flattened against your entrance, then dragged upward in a filthy, unrelenting stripe that ended in a desperate suck over your clit. You moaned around his cock, and Bob bucked into your mouth with a choked gasp.

“Oh…Fuck–Y/N.”

You hummed low, lips wrapping around his head again, taking him deeper. He moaned into you in response, the vibrations spilling pleasure into your core like honey. His mouth was everywhere–kissing, sucking, tongue swirling over your clit like he was mapping you. His fingers joined the mix a moment later–two thick digits sliding up your slick folds, circling your entrance, then easing inside you with a low groan against your cunt.

“Jesus,” He breathed, fingers curling just right, “You’re–fuck, you’re so–soaking. I can feel you all over my face…” You whimpered as his tongue returned to your clit, flicking and sucking in slow, focused patterns while his fingers pumped in and out of you, curling deep, finding that sweet spot over and over again.

“Is this–shit–is this what you imagined?” You gasped, voice shaking as your hips began to roll into his face, grinding down on his mouth.

Bob nodded, groaning into your core, licking faster now. “Better,” He panted between strokes, “So much better. You’re…Fuck…You’re perfect. You taste like he–heaven. Let me make you come, please–I need to feel you come on my tongue.”

You clenched around his fingers at that, crying out into the base of his cock, your hips rocking harder, faster, grinding yourself against his lips, his tongue, his jaw. The slick sounds of his fingers pushing in and out of you were drowned out only by his whimpers and moans–desperate, messy, hungry.

Your thighs were shaking.

He was making you unravel.

And he knew it.

“Let go,” Bob rasped. “Pl–Please, Y/N. I want it. I need it. Come for me.”

You moaned, louder this time, your entire body trembling as the pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter, your movements turning frantic, grinding down over his mouth, his nose, chasing that release with everything you had.

Bob’s fingers never stopped. His mouth never left you.

And when you came–hips jerking, moaning his name with a stuttering cry–he moaned with you, sucking your clit through the high, licking you messily as you shook above him.

You collapsed forward with a breathless gasp, your head resting on his thigh, your hand still gripping the base of his cock, now throbbing and wet with precum.

Bob was panting beneath you, lips swollen, chin slick with your arousal.

And all he said–soft and reverent, as he kissed the inside of your trembling thigh:

“God…That…That was so mu–much better than I imagined.” You were both still catching your breath, skin flushed, muscles trembling in the aftermath of your orgasm. Bob’s face was soaked with your slick, lips parted and glistening, his hair mussed from your thighs. You leaned forward, your breath still stuttering, and kissed the inside of his thigh–softly, reverently. A tender press of lips that made his entire body shudder beneath you.

“Fuck, Bob…” You whispered against his skin, your voice ragged, “I need to feel you inside me right now.” Bob let out a strangled sound that was somewhere between a moan and a plea. You looked over your shoulder and met his gaze–completely ruined, pupils blown wide, lashes damp, cheeks flushed and lips still swollen from where he’d just worshipped you.

“You tasted so good,” You murmured, brushing your fingers along the base of his cock, “I can’t even imagine how good you feel.”

His hands slid up your thighs, gripping your hips like he needed to ground himself in your body.

“Please,” He rasped, the word leaving his lips like a prayer. “Please, I need you.”

You shifted slowly, your legs shaky as you turned around to face him again. He sat up the second you moved–like his body couldn’t take the separation for even a second longer. You climbed into his lap, and Bob adjusted, scooting forward on the bed until he was seated at the edge, feet planted, thighs spread wide with you tucked in his arms.

His hands cradled you, one firm on your back, the other curling under your ass as if he was afraid you might disappear. You kissed him–soft and deep, lips plush, mouths open and slick, and he moaned into it like he was falling apart all over again. When you reached between your bodies and brushed the head of his cock against your soaked underwear, Bob gasped into your mouth.

You pulled your lace underwear to the side, the fabric clinging wetly to your thigh as you guided him to your entrance. His hands flexed on your hips as he tried to stay still, the tension in his thighs so tight you could feel it in every inch of his body.

You held his jaw in one hand, forcing him to look into your eyes.

“Watch me,” You whispered, voice thick and low. “I want you to see how you ruin me.”

And then–achingly slowly–you sank down onto him.

His eyes flew wide, lips parted in silent awe. A broken, keening moan tore from his throat the moment he felt you start to take him, tight and wet and fluttering around him as you eased him in inch by inch.

“F–fuck,” He gasped, his forehead falling against yours, voice shaking. “You’re–God, you’re so fucking warm.”

You whimpered softly, nails digging into his shoulders as your walls stretched around him, the pressure delicious, dizzying.

“You fill me so perfectly,” You whispered. “It’s like you were made for this. For me.”

Bob’s breath stuttered. His hands roamed–one splaying across your lower back, the other trembling as he cupped your breast through your bra. His thumb grazed your nipple, and you shivered as you sank all the way down, bottoming out with a soft cry.

You sat still for a moment, just feeling him inside you. His cock throbbed, buried to the hilt, twitching with every pulse of your walls. Bob’s head lolled back, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parted.

“You’re squeezing me so tight,” He groaned. “I’m not gonna last–I can’t…fuck, you feel like heaven.”

You began to roll your hips–slow, sensual, unhurried. Bob’s eyes snapped open, and for the briefest moment, they flashed.

Gold.

Not a full takeover. Not Sentry bursting forward. Just a flicker. A gleam of light behind the blue. Like the god inside him was watching. Feeling.

Your breath caught.

Bob seemed to feel it too–he blinked, dazed, and looked up at you like he’d just tasted something divine.

“I saw that,” You whispered. His mouth opened, but he didn’t speak. Just stared at you, wrecked and reverent.

“…Is he watching?” You asked, breathless, grinding against him.

Bob swallowed. His lips brushed your collarbone as he whispered, “He’s always wa–watching. But this–” his hand smoothed down your spine, “–This is mine.”

You moaned, tilting your head back as your hips moved faster, slick thighs slapping against his.

“Say it again,” You demanded.

“This is mine,” Bob growled, breath hot against your throat. “You’re mine. You feel so good around me, I can’t–fuck–I’ve wanted this for so long.” You clung to his shoulders as you rode him, sweat slicking your skin, your rhythm getting more desperate.

“Cum inside me,” You gasped, forehead pressed to his. “I want to feel you fill me. Please, Bob…” Bob let out a sob of a moan, his grip tightening.

“Gonna fuckin’ cum,” He gasped, “Gonna fill you up–wanna see it dripping out of you when I pull out–Jesus, I’m gonna–” You kissed him hard, swallowing the cry that tore from his throat as he came. He jerked beneath you, his cock pulsing deep inside, thick and hot as he spilled into you. Your own climax tore through you a second later, your body arching against him as you moaned into his mouth.

You stayed like that–clinging to each other, gasping, trembling–as the aftershocks rolled through your bodies. Eventually, you collapsed forward, both of you falling back into the bed. His arms wrapped around you, and your legs tangled with his. Sweat cooled against your skin. His cum was still leaking from you, thick and warm between your thighs, but you didn’t care. You only buried your face in his neck and let yourself breathe him in.

He kissed your temple. Whispered your name.

And the gold in his eyes was gone.

But the heat it left behind burned just as bright.

”You…You can keep those underwear…I…I want you to have them.” You whispered. He lets out a small laugh.

”I’ll have them as a keepsake…Because I–I don’t think I’ll need to fantasize anymore…Especially now that we’ve both had the real thing.” You smirk.

“I…Completely agree with that…I already want more.” He hummed.

“Give me a few minutes and I’m sure I’ll be able to satisfy that craving.”

[cassiemaebarnes]

Grumpy & the New Girl: Part 1

Masterlist

Bucky x reader

Summary: She wasn’t supposed to meet him like that. He wasn’t supposed to let her in. But sometimes, things don’t go according to plan.

Word Count: 3238

You had been in contact with Steve Rogers for a while now, and your dreams finally came true. You were now, officially, an Avenger.

You moved into the compound just a couple days ago, and you had just been following Steve around every day, learning how things worked around here. You were taken on (several) tours of the tower, but you were still lost every time you walked around. You sat in on meetings and started doing your own solo workouts that Steve gave you in the afternoons.

Everyone was really nice and helpful, and you had officially met everyone. Except one person.

Bucky had been on a solo mission for the past week, and he was supposed to be coming back the next day, probably in the afternoon. The others had warned you about him – his staring, his brooding, how grumpy he was – so you were a little nervous to meet him. But you didn’t have to worry about that until tomorrow.

Because you didn’t have to get up early to train with the others, you stayed up late, watching a movie. You had chosen a horror movie tonight, so you were sitting on the couch, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, knees pulled up to your chest, hands just below your eyes, ready to cover them at any moment.

Suddenly, you heard the elevator door ding, causing you to jump.

You quickly paused the movie, listening closely since you couldn’t see the elevator door from the couch. It was just off the kitchen, and you heard heavy footsteps walking down the hall in the opposite direction of the kitchen, towards the…well you actually didn’t remember what was down that way.

You quickly got up and crept into the kitchen. You slowly walked in, eyes trained on the doorway to the hall they had just walked down. You glanced at the clock on the oven, realizing it was almost 1:30 am.

You looked back at the hallway, slowly reaching to grab a knife off the stand on the counter. You slowly made your way to the doorway, holding the knife out in front of you…only to realize it wasn’t a knife.

You had grabbed a spatula.

You rolled your eyes at yourself, arms dropping to your sides. You turned back around to switch the spatula out with a knife, when you heard the footsteps again, approaching the kitchen.

You quickly turned back around and quietly ran to the doorway. A spatula would have to do.

The second they took a step into the kitchen, you jumped out in front of them, spatula inches away from their face.

A metal arm grabbed your wrist, and you realized who it was. “Bucky?”

He moved your hand out of his face so he could see yours. “And you must be y/n,” he said, letting go of your wrist.

You dropped your arm, taking a step back. “Sorry, I thought you were breaking in.”

“And a spatula was your weapon of choice?”

You sighed, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “I meant to grab a knife,” you mumbled, walking back into the kitchen.

You walked back to the counter, returning the spatula where you found it, as he followed behind you. When you turned around, the security light in the kitchen cast a faint glow over his features.

He was a lot more handsome in person.

His dark hair was a little longer than you expected, still slightly damp from the cold night air, and it curled gently at the ends near his jaw. His features were sharp but softened by the tiredness in his eyes – eyes that were a piercing blue, almost too intense to hold eye contact with for too long. He had a faint stubble along his jaw, his jawline sharp. And, of course, there was the arm – the metal catching the low light as he leaned casually against the counter, like grabbing strangers wielding spatulas in the dark was totally normal.

But as you were taking him in, you didn’t notice he was doing the same to you.

His eyes flicked over your face, lingering on the way your long hair spilled over your shoulders, slightly tousled from where it had been tucked into your blanket. The blanket was still wrapped around you, though it had fallen open in the front, revealing an oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder and a pair of shorts that barely peeked out beneath the hem. His gaze dropped briefly to your legs – long, toned, and bare – before catching sight of your feet, completely barefoot against the cool tile floor.

You didn’t say anything, too distracted by the way he was looking at you – brows slightly raised, almost curious, like he hadn’t expected you to look quite like this.

“Not exactly the warm welcome I expected,” he said, his voice a little rough, eyes finally meeting yours again.

“Well maybe you shouldn’t scare me next time,” you said, crossing your arms. “Or maybe I shouldn’t keep watching horror movies alone.”

He just chuckled as he looked down, shaking his head.

“I didn’t think you were supposed to be back until tomorrow?” you asked, leaning against the counter behind you.

“I finished earlier than I thought, decided to drive straight back instead of stopping somewhere.”

You just nodded in response, looking away awkwardly, not sure what to say now.

“Why are you up so late?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Oh, I’ve been doing my own workouts that Steve gives me in the afternoon, so I can sleep in since I don’t have to train with them in the morning.”

Bucky nodded slowly, then tilted his head. “So instead of sleeping, you decided to scare the hell out of yourself with a horror movie?”

You gave him a look. “It’s called self-care.”

He smirked, arms crossing over his chest. “Interesting definition.”

“I like the adrenaline rush,” you defended, though your voice betrayed the slight tremble from earlier. “And I was doing just fine until you showed up like some kind of horror movie final boss.”

That made him laugh – actually laugh – and you were a little stunned by how much softer he looked when he did. Like there was no way he used to be the Winter Soldier.

“You really thought someone was breaking in?” he asked, clearly still amused.

You gave him a dry look. “At 1:30 in the morning? With heavy footsteps? Yeah, I panicked.”

“And went for a spatula.”

“Okay, we’re not gonna keep bringing that up. I thought I grabbed a knife.”

He just grinned, leaning one hip against the counter. “Can’t promise that.”

You rolled your eyes and shook your head, but there was a smile tugging at your lips. “You’re not as scary as everyone made you sound, you know.”

“Oh, just you wait,” he said, giving you a dramatic deadpan look. “I haven’t even glared at you yet.”

You snorted. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

“Depends. Are you gonna throw any more kitchen utensils at me?”

“Only if you sneak up on me again.”

There was a beat of silence as the banter settled, and you both just looked at each other. His expression was thoughtful, eyes roaming over your face again, more curious than anything.

“You’re different than I expected,” he said quietly.

You raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”

He shrugged, pushing off the counter and heading toward the fridge. “You’re not intimidated.”

“I waved a spatula at your face. That’s practically a dominance display.”

Bucky chuckled again, pulling open the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water. “Alright, new rule. No more horror movies alone. At least not without a real weapon nearby.”

You leaned your head back against the cabinets, giving him a playful smile. “So what, are you volunteering to be my horror movie buddy?”

He twisted the cap off the water and took a sip, eyeing you over the top of the bottle. “Only if there’s popcorn.”

You grinned, but before you could reply, he yawned – big and unfiltered, catching him off guard enough that he blinked a few times afterward and rubbed at his eyes.

“Long drive?” you asked, voice softening a little.

He nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been up for…way too many hours.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re back safe,” you said, gently pushing off the counter. “And sorry about the spatula. For real.”

“No permanent damage,” he said with a small smile, and that same curious look passed through his eyes again. “Goodnight, y/n.”

You returned the smile, a little warmer this time. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

He lingered for a second like he might say something else, but instead, he gave you a quiet nod and walked off down the hallway, water bottle in hand, metal arm catching the light one last time before disappearing around the corner.

You exhaled slowly, finally letting your shoulders drop. Then you glanced down at the spatula still sitting on the counter and shook your head.

“Welcome to the team,” you muttered to yourself, turning back toward the couch.

--

The next morning when you woke up, your stomach was growling.

You went to the bathroom and quickly ran a brush through your hair before washing your face, but you didn’t bother getting dressed before you walked to the kitchen.

As you padded into the kitchen, still in the sweatshirt and shorts from last night, all the other Avengers were in there, either eating, making breakfast, or just talking – including Bucky.

Nat was the first to notice you. “Morning, y/n.”

“Morning,” you mumbled, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. A few others smiled or nodded good morning as you made your way to the fridge, trying to decide what you wanted to eat.

Bucky stood in front of the open fridge, grabbing eggs from the carton.

“Morning, Bucky,” you said, sticking your head under his arm to look in the fridge.

Everyone else just watched silently, waiting to see what Bucky would do. They had no idea you had already met, and they knew he hated being talked to or approached in the morning, so they were a little worried.

“Morning, y/n. Want me to make you eggs too?”

You just hummed, still crouching under his arm, surveying the fruit options in the fridge. “Yeah, that sounds good,” you replied, ducking under his arm and taking a step back.

He grabbed a few more eggs as you turned around, noticing everyone staring at you two, some with their mouths hanging open.

“What?” you said, eyebrows knit together in confusion.

Sam was the first to break. “Wait, he offered to make you breakfast?”

You blinked, looking between them. “Yeah…?”

Steve narrowed his eyes at Bucky. “Since when do you cook for anyone?”

Bucky just shrugged, cracking the eggs into a pan like it was no big deal. “She threatened me with a spatula last night. It felt only fair.”

There was a beat of silence – and then a collective explosion of laughter.

“You – wait, what?” Sam leaned forward, nearly choking on his coffee. “She pulled a spatula on you?”

You felt your face go red instantly. “I thought someone was breaking in! It was dark, I panicked!”

Tony set his mug down with a dramatic shake of his head. “And this is who we’re trusting to help save the world?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “It was either a spatula or a loaf of bread, Stark. I made a call.”

Nat laughed into her coffee, clearly enjoying this way too much. “So let me get this straight – you startled her, she tried to Spatula America you, and instead of being grumpy and scary like usual, you made her breakfast?”

Bucky smirked but kept his eyes on the pan. “She had good form. Almost smacked me in the face with it.”

Clint leaned back in his chair with a grin. “Wow. And here I thought you didn’t like anyone who made eye contact before noon.”

Bruce, sitting with a smoothie, tilted his head thoughtfully. “You seem…oddly chill right now.”

Bucky glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “Maybe I like being threatened by kitchen utensils.”

That got a second round of laughter, even from Steve – who was now studying Bucky like he was trying to solve an equation.

You were still standing there, completely thrown by how casually he was acting. He wasn’t snapping, or glaring, or giving anyone his signature “don’t talk to me” vibe. He was just…cooking eggs. For you.

Tony leaned toward Nat and whispered – not quietly enough – “ten bucks says they’re secretly dating already.”

You shot him a look. “I can hear you.”

He raised both hands. “I’m just saying! This is the calmest I’ve ever seen Barnes and the first time I’ve seen you voluntarily in the kitchen before noon. Something is definitely going on.”

Bucky just shook his head, flipping the eggs effortlessly. “Maybe I’m just in a good mood.”

You looked at him, one brow raised. “Because of the spatula incident?”

He didn’t look up, but there was a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe.”

You shook your head, still trying to process the fact that you had been the one to somehow get through Bucky Barnes' grumpy morning shield.

You wandered over to the kitchen island and sank down onto one of the barstools, pulling your legs up to sit cross-legged on the seat, your oversized sweatshirt sliding down one shoulder. Nat slid onto the stool next to you, still grinning, while Sam leaned his elbows on the counter across from you, like he was watching a soap opera unfold in real time.

“So,” Nat said casually, “how exactly did we get to ‘good morning’ and ‘I’ll make you eggs’ from ‘grumpy murder stare’ Barnes?”

You groaned softly. “Guys, it’s not that deep. We just…met last night. Accidentally. Kind of.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “With a spatula.”

“Okay, yes, with a spatula,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “It was dark. I was scared. Let it go.”

“You waved a pancake flipper at a trained assassin and now he’s making you breakfast,” Sam said, straight-faced. “This is a rom-com and I did not get a script.”

As you laughed and bickered with them, you didn’t notice Bucky finishing up at the stove behind you. He didn’t say anything – just quietly plated the eggs, grabbed a fork, and set the plate down in front of you on the island, right in the middle of your sentence.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Oh – thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he said simply, then returned to the stove to make his own plate.

The room went dead silent for a split second before—

“Ohhh my god,” Sam groaned dramatically, flopping onto the counter. “He cooked for her and served it to her? He’s down bad.”

Clint pointed a spoon toward Bucky. “We’re witnessing history. This is like…the Bucky Barnes Soft Launch.”

Tony mimed typing on a phone. “Hold on, I’m live-tweeting this. ‘Winter Soldier melts down from weaponized spatula and domestic bonding.’”

You gave them all a look and muttered, “He literally just made me eggs.”

Nat leaned in close, grinning. “He served you eggs. There’s a difference.”

“I’m right here,” Bucky called without looking up, though there was a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he dished up his own food.

“And yet,” Tony said, grinning as he sipped his coffee, “you’re not denying it.”

You shot Bucky a look, and he just shrugged, bringing his plate to the other end of the island and sitting down like none of this chaos concerned him at all. But when you looked again, his gaze flicked up to meet yours, and he gave you the tiniest wink.

You looked back down at your plate, cheeks warm. Yep. You were definitely in a rom-com.

You dug into the eggs—honestly, they were really good—and the conversation drifted to something else entirely. Nat was telling a story about a disastrous undercover mission that involved a lot of goats, and you were halfway through laughing at Sam’s horrified expression when you realized your plate was gone.

You blinked down at the empty space in front of you, then looked up to see Bucky at the sink, rinsing your plate and his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Sam noticed at the same time you did. He froze mid-sip of his orange juice, slowly lowering the glass with wide eyes. “Oh my god.”

Nat turned around in her seat, catching sight of Bucky calmly scrubbing dishes. “No. No way.”

“He’s doing her dishes,” Sam said, turning to Nat like he needed a witness. “He’s washing her plate. Voluntarily.”

You blinked. “I – he didn’t have to do that–”

“Are you two already married or just emotionally bonded for life?” Tony called from the other side of the room, tossing a grape into his mouth.

Wanda, walking into the kitchen with a bagel, stopped dead in her tracks. “What’d I miss?”

“Barnes just cleared her plate and started washing it,” Sam said like he was reporting breaking news.

Wanda raised an eyebrow. “...did she save his life or something?”

“I threatened him with a spatula,” you mumbled into your coffee.

Bucky, still facing the sink, didn’t even turn around. “You’re never gonna live that down.”

“Not if we have anything to say about it,” Nat said cheerfully.

You gave Bucky a look. “You didn’t have to clean up for me, you know.”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “I know.”

“Oh my god,” Sam groaned, dropping his head to the counter. “He knows.”

Tony pointed between the two of you like he was tracking a conspiracy. “So we’ve got: late night meeting, cooking, casual touch proximity, washing her dishes–”

“Next thing you know, he’s folding her laundry and building her a bookshelf,” Clint added.

“Okay, I draw the line at laundry,” Bucky said, finally turning around with a half-smile.

“You didn’t deny the bookshelf, though,” you teased, arching an eyebrow.

That got a low laugh out of him. “Depends. Do you have books?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it, realizing you did. Like, a lot.

Sam made a strangled noise. “Oh no. Oh no no no. This man is gone. G-O-N-E, gone.”

You couldn’t help it – you laughed, hard, burying your face in your hands.

And through it all, Bucky just leaned against the counter with his arms crossed, watching you with a quiet kind of amusement, like he didn’t even mind being the center of the chaos. In fact…he looked like he kind of liked it.

As the others continued joking and speculating about your supposed domestic takeover, you leaned your chin on your hand, watching Bucky from across the kitchen.

You weren’t sure what it was exactly – maybe the fact that you didn’t tiptoe around him like everyone else, or maybe it was just timing – but somehow, you'd slipped past a few of the walls everyone warned you about.

He caught you looking and gave you a small, knowing smile, like he could read your thoughts. You looked away quickly, but couldn’t fight the quiet little grin tugging at your lips.

You weren’t sure how you’d managed to crack through Bucky Barnes’ armor with a spatula and a pair of sleep shorts, but...maybe you wanted to find out what else you could break through.

Maybe this was just the beginning.

--

Part 2 | Masterlist

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Pairing: Mafia Ateez OT8x Reader

Warnings: smut, fluff, angst, poly ateez, violence and weapons, mafia ateez, organized crime, parental death and grieving process, bullying, possessive and controlling behavior, suicidal thoughts

Summary: When Y/n Ricci is forced to marry Kim Hongjoong—leader of the notorious ATEEZ organization and one of eight men who cruelly abandoned her seven years ago—she finds herself trapped in their heavily guarded compound with the ghosts of her past. As she navigates the dangerous world of mafia politics and her own wounded heart, Y/n discovers that all eight powerful, irresistible men still harbor deep feelings for her, suggesting an unconventional solution to their shared dilemma. But before she can consider forgiving them, let alone loving them again, she must uncover the dark secret that tore them apart—a truth that could either heal their fractured bonds or destroy them all completely.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

18+ only- No Minors

<<Previous Next>>

Masterlist

Chapter 5: Target Practice and Proximity

Off limits. Like you're property. Like you're a possession to be controlled and monitored.

They hadn't just trapped you in this house, they'd cut you off from the outside world entirely. From your friends, your support system, your entire life beyond these walls.

The audacity. The absolute fucking audacity.

They want to play games with your life? They want to isolate you completely?

“KIM HONGJOONG!”

Your voice echoes through the house like a war cry as you storm toward the gym, bare feet slapping against marble with each furious step. The rage coursing through your veins has reached a boiling point that makes your earlier knife-throwing incident look like a mild disagreement.

You slam the glass door open with such force that spider web cracks spread across its surface, the sound of fracturing glass punctuating your entrance like an exclamation point. Seven heads turn toward you in various states of surprise and alarm.

"Well, good morning to you as well, my lovely fiancé," Hongjoong says with faux sincerity, not even pausing in his workout routine. Sweat glistens across his torso as he continues his reps, treating your explosive entrance like a minor inconvenience.

You respond to his saccharine greeting with a perfectly articulated middle finger.

"I'm off limits?" you spit, the words dripping with venom.

“Because you’re mine now.” Hongjoong doesn’t even look at you, his focus remaining on his weights as if you’re nothing more than background noise. “And what’s mine doesn’t associate with other men.”

“Yours?” You let out a harsh laugh that echoes off the gym walls. “I’m not your fucking property, Kim Hongjoong.”

He finally stops his workout, setting down the weights with deliberate care before turning to face you. There’s something predatory in his gaze as he steps closer, invading your personal space.

“Aren’t you?” he asks softly, his voice carrying a dangerous edge. “Your father signed the contract. Your name will be Kim in three months. That makes you mine in every way that matters.”

“A piece of paper doesn’t make me yours,” you spit back, refusing to back down even as he towers over you. “And neither does some archaic notion of ownership.”

His lips curve into that infuriating smirk. “We’ll see about that, little one.” The casual dismissal, the way he speaks about your future as if it's already set in stone, as if your opinion matters less than appearances, sends your anger to stratospheric levels.

"So I truly am a prisoner?" Your voice rises with each word. "So that means what—I won't be allowed to see any of my friends? Will I have to move so I won't be around any of the guys here?" The implications hit you, looking around. "Are you planning to isolate me from everyone I care about?"

Hongjoong stands to his full height, his expression infuriatingly calm. "Maybe so."

Your nostrils flare at his words, the casual cruelty of them stealing the breath from your lungs. The gym falls deadly silent except for the sound of your ragged breathing.

"Hongjoong, you know she has an attitude problem," Wooyoung stage-whispers from across the room, clearly trying to ease the tension with his trademark humor. "Why would you anger it?"

Your eyes slice toward him like laser beams, and Wooyoung suddenly becomes very interested in his water bottle, examining it as if it holds the secrets of the universe.

"Oh, would you look at that," he says dramatically, holding up the obviously full bottle. "Completely empty. I should really go refill this. The kitchen water is so much better than... here."

He takes a step toward the door, but your voice stops him cold.

"Don't you dare move, Jung Wooyoung."

Hongjoong sighs, finally seeming to realize that his dismissive attitude has pushed you past your breaking point. "You can't be seen with other men, or texting Chris Bang. It wouldn't make our marriage believable."

"What I do with my personal business is—" You stop mid-sentence, a horrifying realization dawning. Your eyes narrow as you look between all of them. "How did you know I was texting Chris?"

Hongjoong just stares at you, his expression giving away nothing. The silence stretches uncomfortably until Wooyoung starts fidgeting, looking increasingly nervous.

"Well, the water in the kitchen really is much better," he babbles, taking another step toward the exit. "Much more... hydrating. I should really—"

You move faster than anyone expects, grabbing him by the shirt collar and yanking him back. Your faces are inches apart as you look directly into his wide eyes.

"Are you running surveillance on my phone?" you ask, your voice deadly quiet.

Wooyoung swallows hard, his usual confidence evaporating under your intense stare. "Well... I mean... I'm personally not..."

The admission hits you like a physical blow. They've been watching you. Reading your private conversations. Monitoring your every interaction with the outside world. Yunho. You look at the resident hacker and tech nerd, who has the decency to look sheepish. 

A growl of pure fury escapes your throat. "I would say I'm going to shoot Yunho, but we all know it was your leader's idea."

You release Wooyoung's collar with enough force to send him stumbling backward. Your gaze sweeps the room, taking in their various expressions—guilt, defiance, nervousness, and in San's case, what looks almost like admiration.

But it's Wooyoung's reaction that catches you off guard. Instead of looking ashamed or apologetic, he's staring at you with a dreamy expression, his eyes slightly glazed.

"God, you're so hot when you're angry," he breathes, apparently forgetting that he's supposed to be nervous. "Like, seriously. The way your eyes get all fierce and your voice gets that growly thing... it's doing things to me."

The entire gym falls silent. Even Hongjoong stops his posturing to stare at Wooyoung in disbelief.

"Did you just..." Yunho starts.

"He did," Yeosang confirms quietly.

"While she's threatening to shoot people," Jongho adds, sounding almost impressed.

San starts laughing—not his usual charming chuckle, but full-bodied laughter that echoes off the gym walls. "Only Wooyoung would get turned on by a death threat."

"It's not just the death threat," Wooyoung protests, his cheeks flushing but his eyes still fixed on you with unmistakable desire. "It's everything. The fire in her eyes, the way she's not backing down, how fierce she looks. She's magnificent."

Your anger falters for just a moment, derailed by the sheer absurdity of the situation. Here you are, discovering that they've been violating your privacy, threatening violence, and Wooyoung is having what appears to be a very public moment of arousal.

"Are you insane?" you ask, genuinely bewildered.

"Probably," he admits cheerfully. "But you're still gorgeous when you're ready to commit murder."

The comment draws a snort of unwilling amusement from Mingi, who's been silent throughout the entire confrontation. Even Seonghwa's lips twitch slightly, though he tries to maintain his diplomatic composure.

But your momentary confusion quickly gives way to renewed fury as you remember why you're here.

"Do not," you say, pointing a finger at Wooyoung, "think that your inappropriate attraction is going to distract me from the fact that you've all been spying on me."

"It's not spying," Hongjoong interjects, apparently deciding to rejoin the conversation. "It's security."

"Security?" You whirl on him. "Reading my private messages is security?"

"When those messages involve contact with potential threats, yes."

"Chris isn't a threat! He's my friend!"

"He's an unmarried male heir with his own agenda," Hongjoong counters. "And you're going to be my wife. That makes you off-limits to men like him."

The possessiveness in his tone, the casual way he claims ownership over your social life, sends you spiraling back into rage.

"I am not your property," you snarl. "I am not a possession to be controlled and monitored. I am a person with my own thoughts, feelings, and relationships."

"You're a Ricci who's about to become a Kim," he replies coldly. "Your relationships affect our family's reputation. Everything you do reflects on us now."

"Then maybe you should have thought of that before agreeing to this farce of a marriage," you snap back.

The words hang in the air like a challenge. Around the room, the other members watch the standoff with varying degrees of tension and fascination. This is clearly a battle of wills that's been building since your arrival, and now it's finally come to a head.

Hongjoong steps closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "This marriage is happening whether you like it or not. You can make it easy on yourself by accepting the rules, or you can make it difficult and face the consequences."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a promise."

The words crackle between you like electricity. In this moment, with fury radiating from both of you, it's impossible to tell if you want to kill each other or...

"Oh my God," Wooyoung whispers reverently. "The sexual tension in here is incredible. You two are like fire and gasoline."

"Wooyoung," Seonghwa warns.

"What? I'm just saying what we're all thinking. Look at them—they're practically breathing fire at each other. It's the hottest thing I've ever seen."

Your face burns with a mixture of anger and something else you refuse to acknowledge. "You're all insane," you declare, backing toward the door. "Completely, utterly insane."

As you reach the cracked glass door, you turn back to face them one last time.

"And Hongjoong? The next time you want to know who I'm talking to, try asking instead of spying. You might be surprised by how cooperative I can be when treated like a human being instead of a prisoner."

With that, you storm out, leaving eight men in various states of arousal, amusement, and stunned silence.

Behind you, you hear Wooyoung's dreamy voice: "I think I'm in love."

"You've been in love with her for years," comes San's dry response.

"Yeah, but now I'm in love and turned on. It's a dangerous combination."

You slam the door to your room hard enough to rattle the windows, but even through your fury, you can't quite shake the image of Wooyoung's glazed expression or the way Hongjoong's eyes had darkened when you'd challenged him.

Dangerous indeed.

* * *

You storm back to your room, slamming the door with enough force to rattle the windows. The confrontation in the gym replays in your mind—Hongjoong's possessive declarations, the casual way he discussed monitoring your communications, the infuriating smirk when you'd challenged him.

Your phone lays on the floor where you'd dropped it after Chris's devastating revelation. With shaking fingers, you scroll through your contacts until you find Marco's number. He picks up on the second ring.

"Sorellina? You're calling early today. Everything alright?"

The concern in his voice nearly breaks your composure. Marco has always been your anchor, the one person in your family who sees you as more than just a political asset.

"No," you say, your voice cracking slightly. "Nothing is alright."

"What happened?"

You take a deep breath, trying to organize your thoughts. "Hongjoong declared me off limits to all unmarried men in the alliance. Chris can't even talk to me anymore. None of my male friends can."

Silence stretches across the line. When Marco finally speaks, his voice is carefully controlled. "Y/n..."

"They've been monitoring my phone, Marco. Reading my private messages. And now they've essentially announced to everyone that I'm property of the Kim family." The words tumble out in a rush, years of frustration and fresh rage mixing into a volatile combination.

"Shit," Marco mutters, and you can hear him moving around, probably pacing his office like he does when he's thinking. "When did this happen?"

"Yesterday, apparently. Chris just told me. He said word came down from the Kim family directly."

Another pause. "Y/n, I need you to listen to me, okay? And I need you to stay calm."

Something in his tone makes your stomach clench. "What do you mean, stay calm? They're treating me like a possession, Marco. Like I'm some medieval bride being traded between kingdoms."

"Because in our world, that's essentially what you are," he says gently. "Sorellina, this wasn't Hongjoong specifically. This is standard protocol for the Kim family—for most of our families, actually."

You sink onto the edge of your bed, feeling like the floor has shifted beneath your feet. "What?"

"It's like an engagement announcement, but more... comprehensive. When a family announces that their heir is marrying someone, especially someone from another powerful family, they declare that person off limits. It's about respect, territorial boundaries, preventing conflicts."

"But Chris said—"

"Chris is Bang family. They've been allies with the Kims for decades. Of course they'd receive the notification." Marco's voice is patient, explanatory, like he's teaching you something fundamental about your world that you should have already known. "Y/n, every family in the alliance probably received the same message within hours of your engagement being finalized."

The implications crash over you like a cold wave. This isn't Hongjoong being possessive or controlling—though he certainly is both of those things. This is protocol. Tradition. The way business is conducted in your world.

"I didn't know," you whisper.

"Why would you? Papa never explained these things to you because you were never supposed to be the one getting married. That was supposed to be my responsibility." There's a note of guilt in Marco's voice. "But with the Russo situation escalating and the need for immediate alliance..."

"He chose me instead," you finish hollowly.

"The Kim family specifically requested you, actually. Hongjoong's choice, from what I understand."

That stops you cold. "What?"

"Papa didn't tell you? The marriage proposal came from Hongjoong directly. He could have chosen any unmarried daughter from the allied families, but he asked for you specifically."

Your mind reels, trying to process this information. Hongjoong had asked for you. After seven years of silence, he'd specifically requested you as his bride.

"Why?" you ask, though you're not sure you want to know the answer.

"My guess? Papa has been thinking of marrying you to one of the mafia families for protection for a while now. Papa and Mr. Kim are close, so I assume Hongjoong got wind of it."

"Possessive," you say flatly.

"Protective," Marco corrects gently.

You snort. "If I have so many protectors, why am I always the one getting hurt?"

Marco is silent for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. "Because none of us are very good at protecting against emotions, sorellina. Just against violence."

The truth of that statement sits heavily in your chest. Marco was eight years your senior, your father's son from his first marriage. Elena, your mother, hadn't been his biological mother, but he had loved her just the same—and he had been there for you when everyone else had disappeared.

After your mother died and the boys abandoned you, it was Marco who had picked up the pieces. Marco who had held you through nights of endless tears. Marco who had made sure you ate when food seemed pointless. Marco who had literally stood between you and the balcony railing one particularly dark night when living had seemed too painful to continue.

He was the reason you were still breathing. The reason you had found your strength again.

‘No, you're the only one who actually protects me,’ you think to yourself. 

Marco chuckles, the sound warm and familiar. "At the end of the day, Y/n Ricci doesn’t need protecting. Still throwing knives at him?"

"Just the once. Though I'm considering making it a daily occurrence."

"My money's on you if it comes to actual violence," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "But Y/n, try to understand—this off-limits declaration, it's not necessarily about controlling you. It's about protecting the alliance, preventing misunderstandings, making it clear that you're under Kim protection now."

"Protection," you repeat flatly. "It feels like imprisonment."

"In our world, they're often the same thing," Marco says quietly. "You know that."

You do know that. You've always known that. But somehow, experiencing it firsthand feels different than understanding it in theory.

"I hate this," you admit, the words barely audible.

"I know, sorellina. I know." Marco's voice is soft, sympathetic. "But you're a Ricci. We adapt, we survive, and we find ways to win even when the game is rigged against us."

"And if I can't adapt to this?"

"Then you'll do what you've always done—you'll burn everything down and rebuild it your way." There's pride in his voice now, the kind of fierce affection that's sustained you through the worst moments of your life. "The Kims think they're getting a compliant mafia princess. They have no idea what they've actually signed up for."

Despite everything, you find yourself smiling slightly. "You really think I can handle this?"

"Y/n, you've been preparing for this world your entire life, even if you didn't know it. You're sharper than most of the men in these families, you're ruthless when you need to be, and you have a moral compass that will keep you from becoming a monster." Marco pauses. "Plus, you're scary as hell when you're angry. That's going to serve you well."

"The scary part seems to be working," you admit, thinking of Wooyoung's reaction in the gym. "Though not in the way I expected."

Marco laughs. "What do you mean?"

You find yourself telling him about the confrontation, about Wooyoung's completely inappropriate response to your threats, about the way the others had reacted. By the time you finish, Marco is laughing so hard he can barely speak.

"Oh my God," he gasps. "Y/n, you have eight of the most dangerous men in the city wrapped around your finger and you don't even realize it."

"That's not—they hate me, Marco. They abandoned me seven years ago, remember?"

"Sorellina," Marco says, his voice turning serious again, "men don't monitor someone they hate. They don't specifically request someone they hate for marriage. And they definitely don't get turned on by death threats from someone they hate."

The words settle in your chest, creating an uncomfortable flutter that you don't want to examine too closely.

"Maybe," you say finally. "But that doesn't change what they did to me."

"No, it doesn't," Marco agrees. "And you have every right to make them pay for that. Just... try not to actually kill anyone. I don't want to have to explain to Papa why his daughter is wanted for murder."

"No promises," you say, but you're smiling now.

"Fair enough. Listen, Y/n, I have a meeting I can't postpone, but call me tonight, okay? And remember—you're not as powerless in this situation as you think you are."

After he hangs up, you sit in the quiet of your room, processing everything he's told you. The off-limits declaration wasn't personal—it was protocol. Hongjoong had specifically requested you as his bride. The Kim family, like most families in your world, operates by rules and traditions that value protection and territorial boundaries above individual freedom.

None of that makes you feel less trapped, but it does help you understand the game you're playing.

And if you're going to be stuck in this situation, you might as well learn to play it to win.

You look out the window at the oak tree, remembering Yeosang's words about Mingi and Wooyoung, remembering the careful way Hongjoong had watched you during your confrontation, the way Yunho's eyes had held desperate hope.

Maybe Marco is right. Maybe you have more power here than you realize.

The question is: what are you going to do with it?

* * *

The meeting room was thick with tension as all eight members of ATEEZ sat around the polished conference table. Hongjoong's jaw was still tight from the confrontation in the gym, while the others wore various expressions of concern, guilt, and in Wooyoung's case, lingering arousal.

"We need to discuss what just happened," Seonghwa began diplomatically, his fingers steepled as he surveyed the group.

"What's to discuss?" Hongjoong replied curtly. "She needs to understand her position."

"Her position?" Mingi's deep voice carried an edge of disapproval. "You mean as a prisoner?"

"As my future wife," Hongjoong corrected sharply.

"Same thing, apparently," San muttered, earning a glare from their leader.

Yunho shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "The phone monitoring... maybe we should have told her upfront."

"We went too far," Mingi said firmly, his usually gentle demeanor hardening. "Reading her private messages, isolating her from friends—we're treating her like the enemy instead of someone we're supposed to protect."

"Protect?" Jongho scoffed. "We're the ones she needs protection from at this point."

"She threw a knife at my head," Hongjoong reminded them.

"And you smirked about it," Yeosang observed quietly. "Almost like you enjoyed it."

"Because I did," Hongjoong admitted, running a hand through his hair. "Seeing that fire in her eyes, that defiance... it reminded me of why I—" He stopped himself abruptly.

"Why you fell in love with her in the first place?" Wooyoung finished with a dreamy sigh. "God, did you see her today? The way she grabbed my shirt, looked me right in the eye? I thought I was going to spontaneously combust."

"You have a problem," San told him flatly.

"The problem is that we're all still in love with her," Mingi said heavily. "And she hates us. We broke something precious seven years ago, and now we're making it worse."

"We didn't have a choice then," Seonghwa said, though his voice lacked conviction.

"And we do now?" Yunho asked. "Because we're still making choices that hurt her."

The room fell silent as the weight of their situation settled over them. They'd saved her life seven years ago by breaking her heart, and now they were slowly destroying what remained of her spirit.

"Maybe we should—" Hongjoong started.

*BANG!*

The sharp crack of gunfire cut through his words, sending all eight men to their feet in an instant. Training kicked in as they moved as one toward the sound, hands reaching for weapons

*BANG! BANG! BANG!*

The shots were coming from the garden, rapid and precise. They burst through the patio doors to find you standing in the far corner of the grounds, your mother's pearl-handled pistol extended in a perfect two-handed grip.

You were still in your outfit from the gym confrontation—the crisp white blouse now rolled up at the sleeves, your hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. But it was the deadly grace of your stance that made them all stop in their tracks.

*BANG!*

Another shot rang out, the bullet finding its mark in the center of an improvised target you'd set up against the garden wall—what looked like a photo taped to a piece of cardboard.

"Jesus Christ," San breathed.

You lowered the weapon, examining your handiwork with critical eyes before reloading with practiced efficiency. Only then did you notice your audience.

"Don't mind me," you called out with false sweetness. "Just working on my stress relief."

Wooyoung's face split into the widest grin any of them had seen from him since your return. "That was incredible! Did you see that grouping? She's a natural!"

"Her form is off," Mingi observed, his trained eye catching the slight imperfections in your stance.

You turned to face him, one eyebrow arched in challenge. "Your form is off," you replied with cutting sarcasm, though you made no move to correct your position.

Instead of being deterred by your attitude, Mingi stepped forward with characteristic determination. "May I?"

Something flickered in your eyes—surprise, perhaps, at his calm persistence. After a moment, you gave a short nod.

He approached slowly, respectfully, until he was standing just behind you. "Your stance is good, but your grip could be tighter," he said softly, his deep voice rumbling near your ear. "And you're tensing your shoulders."

His large hands came up to hover near yours, not quite touching but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. "May I adjust your grip?"

The question was asked with such gentle formality that you found yourself nodding again, though your breath caught as his fingers finally made contact with yours.

Mingi's touch was surprisingly gentle for such large hands, his fingers carefully repositioning yours on the weapon's grip. "Like this," he murmured, his chest nearly brushing your back as he leaned in to check the sight line. "Feel the difference?"

You did feel a difference, though it had less to do with the gun and more to do with the way his proximity was affecting your ability to breathe properly. He smelled like sandalwood and something uniquely him, warm and comforting in a way that made your treacherous heart skip.

"Now, relax your shoulders," he continued, his hands ghosting over your shoulder blades without quite touching. "The tension travels down your arms and affects your accuracy."

Despite yourself, you found your body responding to his calm instruction, muscles you hadn't realized were tight beginning to loosen.

"Better," he said, satisfaction evident in his voice. "Now try."

You raised the weapon again, hyperaware of his presence behind you, the way he seemed to radiate calm strength. The shot that followed was noticeably more precise than your previous attempts.

"Perfect," Mingi said, and the pride in his voice sent an unwelcome warmth through your chest.

From their position by the patio, the other seven watched this interaction with varying degrees of fascination and envy. Wooyoung looked like he might vibrate out of his skin with excitement, while Hongjoong's expression had darkened considerably.

"Should we interrupt?" Yunho whispered.

"Absolutely not," Yeosang replied quietly. "This is the first time she's let any of us close since she arrived."

"Look at her," San murmured, noting the way your rigid posture had softened under Mingi's gentle guidance. "She's actually relaxed."

"Mingi always was good with her," Seonghwa observed. "Even as children, he could calm her down when the rest of us couldn't."

In the garden, you lowered the weapon again, turning slightly to look at Mingi. He was still standing close—closer than you'd allowed anyone since arriving—and for a moment, something passed between you that had nothing to do with firearms training.

You glanced at Yeosang who gave you a nod. You remember your conversation. "Mingi and Wooyoung—they don't show it the way the others do, but they were affected the worst by leaving you."

"Thank you," you said quietly, the words carrying more weight than a simple acknowledgment of instruction.

"Anytime," he replied, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

The moment stretched between you, fragile and tentative, until Wooyoung's excited voice shattered it.

"Can I try next? Please? I promise I'll be good!"

You stepped away from Mingi abruptly, the spell broken, your defenses slamming back into place. "I think that's enough for today," you said curtly, engaging the safety and tucking the pistol into your waistband.

As you walked past them toward the house, you paused beside Wooyoung. “Maybe next time.”

With that, you disappeared into the house, leaving eight men standing in the garden, each lost in their own thoughts about the woman who continued to surprise them at every turn.

"Did anyone else notice," Wooyoung said dreamily, "that she said 'next time'?"

"I noticed," Mingi said quietly, his eyes still fixed on the door where you'd disappeared. "I also noticed she didn't flinch when I touched her."

"Progress," Yeosang murmured.

"Dangerous progress," Hongjoong added, though his tone held more thoughtfulness than anger.

In the distance, they could hear a door slam—your door, most likely—but for the first time since your arrival, it didn't sound quite so final.

Maybe, just maybe, there was hope after all.

Next>>

Taglist: @paramedicnerd004, @miracle-sol  @drinkingrumandcocacola @cksanpurpleluv @everglow98

@imagine-all-the-imagines @green-moon @thelordofshadows21 @yunyunrin @vinylphwoar @thuyting @mdurir @dachshunddame @ninjakitty15 @moonchild-stuff7 @stellmeiv @spenceatiny18 @herpoetryprincess @m00njinnie @starz-choisanii @ateezswonderland @mxnsxngie @purple-bell @awkward-fucking-thing @hecateslittlewitchling @pixie0627 @parkthothwa8 @hwa2tiny @s1ar4s @atinystay-xxx @moonxxlover @babymbbatinygirl @londonbridges01 @miracle-sol @klllerwaifu @peachyplumsss, @cksanpurpleluv, @teafortarry, @fudgeflyssworld, @deafeningpandareview, @ramadiiiisme, @frankielou02, @mjaudrey, @leahhhher, @poptartsandpopstars, @silentwhisper666, @whyme11, @special4u, @sparda1234, @scuzmunkie,

[techdriveplay]

5 Bodybuilding Tips From the Champion Himself Calum Von Moger

The AusFitness Expo is returning to Sydney this October, and some of the biggest names in the fitness industry will appear over the weekend. One of those is the iconic Calum Von Moger, the Australian bodybuilder who is a three-time Mr Universe winner. Calum has 3 million followers on Instagram, has been compared to Arnold Schwarzenegger and even played him in a movie once. Attendees of the event…

[houseofaegon]

bucky working out and reader starts teasing him & makes him stop working out bc he’s horny and while he’s sweaty they go have sex? ORRRR (if you've seen seb doing those bicep curls where he has to almost thrust his hips) have bucky doing that exercise and the reader riding him while he's doing it to the point where he's overstimulated.

sorry for the long ask! 🫣

SWEAT ╱  BUCKY BARNES X FEM!READER

+18 MINORS DNI 𓏲  ◟ ♡ ˖ ࣪  no use of y/n, gym sex!!, unprotected p in v, mirror play, possessive!bucky, manhandling, degradation and praise, orgasm control, marking, breeding kink (slight), feral feral feral bucky barnes, partially clothed sex, overstimulation, slight fluff at the end.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: AHHH tysm for this request oh my god????? im sorry its so short lol it's been a while since i've written smut for bucky but thank you thank you thank you, this is ferallll and i love it. yes i've seen the videos of seb working out godddamnnnnnn i have them saved in my phone cause jesus christ he's so hot wtf??? sirrrrrr i'm sat. suddenly i wanna be a dumbbell tbh. hope you like it and hope it lives up to the expectations. thank you again for requesting<333 ily, bri.

TAGLIST: add yourself to my taglists!!

The Watchtower was quiet.

Post-mission silence settled over the entire compound like thick fog. Yelena and Walker were out on a surveillance sweep—no doubt they were probably bickering over comms and fighting like they always did. Ava had locked herself in her lab hours ago, and Bob's door was shut with the unmistakable rhythm of his soft snores and whatever action movie he picked this time. And Alexei—well, he’d passed out in the lounge again. You’d heard the unmistakable crash of his body hitting the couch followed by a deep, rumbling snore that signaled he'd be down until morning.

Which meant the gym was yours. Just you—and Bucky.

He needed the workout. You knew it the moment he walked in, jaw tight, blue eyes stormy, his energy too volatile to contain. He'd been simmering ever since debriefing this morning, where Valentina—yet again—named Walker team leader over him. That decision hadn’t gone over quietly. Bucky spent the rest of the evening grumbling under his breath, fists clenched, pacing like a caged wolf. You'd been the unfortunate recipient of his scowls, sharp mutterings, and cold one-word answers. Most of it revolved around Walker being an asshole and “not fit to lead a damn team.”

So he’d come here to blow off steam the only way he knew how: punishing his body into silence. He stripped off his hoodie and his shirt without a word, flung them to the floor like a declaration of war, and went straight for the heaviest dumbbells—like he meant to break them in half. His muscles flexed with each curl, sweat already starting to bead along his spine, jaw clenched as if he could grind down his frustration with brute force alone.

And you, well... you had your own reasons for being there. Reasons that had nothing to do with exercise.

He wasn’t talking much—but he didn’t have to. You could read him like a well-worn field manual. Every harsh exhale through his nose, every aggressive rep, the way his vibranium fingers clenched and relaxed around the weights like he was imagining someone’s throat—probably Walker’s.

He was beautiful when he was pissed.

You leaned against the wall just outside the squat rack, pretending to scroll through your phone while really, your eyes tracked every bead of sweat that slid down his chest. He was shirtless, in nothing but those loose gym pants riding low on his hips—your personal form of torture.

You hadn’t touched him in over a week.

A fucking week.

Between back-to-back missions, conflicting schedules, and the goddamn tension building inside him like a ticking grenade, there hadn’t been a moment. Not even a proper kiss. You’d tried—soft touches, stolen glances, whispered requests—but he was always too wired. Too distracted.

But now? He was right here. Sweaty. Seething. Alone with you.

And you were starving.

So, you made a decision. A dangerous one.

You stood up from the bench and made your way to the mirror wall, dragging out each step just slow enough to make sure he noticed. Your gym outfit was far from innocent—tight, nearly see-through shorts that hugged your ass like a second skin and a sports bra that barely held your tits in place. You knew what you were doing.

You bent forward, slow, pretending to stretch. Hips tilted. Legs parted slightly. Just enough.

You didn’t have to look behind you to know he was watching.

But you did anyway.

Bucky’s eyes were locked on you like a sniper on target. Jaw clenched. A muscle twitched in his cheek. The dumbbell in his hand had stopped moving entirely.

You stretched again, more exaggerated this time, letting out a little breathy moan as you arched your back. You stayed bent over for a second too long, then slowly rose, tilting your head with fake innocence.

“What?” you asked softly, swiping sweat from your brow. “Just stretching.”

He didn’t say anything—just kept watching. That unreadable, feral look on his face. His chest rose and fell faster than before.

You walked over to the water cooler, fully aware of how your ass swayed. “You know, you’ve been real tense lately,” you said casually. “Must be all that unspent energy.”

Still no response. Just the sound of weights clinking and his breathing picking up.

You turned around, back to the mirror, and sipped from your bottle slowly. Then licked a drop off your lower lip.

“I mean, I’ve been so patient,” you went on, voice soft, teasing. “Waiting for my boyfriend to stop growling at everyone and fuck me like he means it.”

That did it.

The sound the dumbbells made when he dropped them was thunderous. He stalked toward you, and your breath caught halfway in your throat.

“You think this is a game?” he growled, eyes dark, voice low and dangerous.

You smirked, lifting your chin defiantly even as your heartbeat thundered. “Only if I’m winning.”

That was the moment you saw his restraint snap.

He was on you in a second—hands gripping your waist, slamming you back against the mirror, the glass cool against your spine in sharp contrast to his blazing skin. His chest pressed against yours, damp with sweat, his breath heavy against your face.

“You wanna push me?” he hissed. “Walk around looking like that, stretch in front of me like that, talk to me like that?”

You smiled. “Yes.”

His nostrils flared. “Then you better be ready for what comes next.”

You whimpered—because you knew that tone. You knew what it meant when Bucky’s voice dropped an octave and his grip turned bruising.

It meant you weren’t leaving this gym until you were ruined.

And God, you couldn’t wait.

His mouth crashed against yours—hot, bruising, hungry.

There was no gentleness in his kiss. No patience. Just teeth and tongue and the taste of pure, animal need as his hands slid down your back, groped your ass, dragged you closer until your bodies were fused together. His thigh pressed between your legs, and you moaned into his mouth at the friction, already so wet you were practically dripping through your shorts.

“Fuckin’ starving for it, aren't you, doll?” he growled into your mouth. “I should bend you over the squat rack. Make you scream while I fill you up.”

You whimpered, grinding against him. “Then do it.”

He snarled. Actually snarled. One hand fisted in the waistband of your shorts and ripped—the fabric tearing down the seam like paper, exposing your soaked panties underneath. His other hand shoved your bra up until your tits spilled out, nipples hard, flushed and begging.

“Jesus fuck, doll,” he breathed, taking in the sight of you. “You’re perfect. Fuckin’ perfect. And all mine.”

He pushed you back against the mirror again, the cool glass shocking against your heated skin. His vibranium hand curled around your throat—not squeezing, just there, holding you steady as he looked you dead in the eye.

“You wanted my attention?” he rasped. “You’ve got it. Now you're gonna take it like the good girl you are."

He spun you to face the mirror. Bent you over, your palms slapping the surface as your reflection stared back—eyes wide, lips parted, tits jiggling slightly with every breath.

Bucky dropped to one knee behind you, yanking your panties aside with a growl.

“Drippin’, baby,” he murmured, voice low and reverent. “You’re so fucking ready for me.”

You gasped as his tongue slid between your folds—licking a slow, filthy stripe up your slit before sucking hard on your clit. Your hips jerked forward, but his metal arm clamped around your thigh, holding you still as he devoured you like a man starved.

“Please, Bucky,” you whined. “I need—need your cock—please—”

He stood up, lowering his pants just enough to free his cock—thick, veiny, flushed red at the tip, already leaking.

He didn’t tease. Didn’t ease in. Just grabbed your hips, lined himself up, and slammed into you in one punishing thrust.

You screamed. Loud.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he growled, slamming into you over and over. “You take this cock so fuckin’ well. My good little whore.”

Your reflection was obscene—tits bouncing, mouth hanging open in bliss, your body jerking with every deep thrust.

He bent over you, panting against your ear. “Look at you. Watch yourself while I fuck you deep.”

“I-I am—fuck, Bucky—so deep—”

“Yeah? You feel me in your guts, doll?” He reached around, slapped your clit just hard enough to make your knees buckle. “You gonna come on this cock? Huh?”

You nodded frantically. “Please, please, let me—need it—”

“Not yet.”

You sobbed. He was fucking you too deep, too good, and you couldn’t think. Could barely breathe. He pulled out just long enough to flip you around again, lifting you by the thighs like you weighed nothing, impaling you on his cock as you wrapped around him.

He bounced you on it, hard, fast, relentless.

“Mine,” he hissed, burying his face in your neck. “This pussy. This mouth. This fuckin’ body—it’s mine.”

You choked on a moan as he sucked a bruise into your collarbone, then another on your chest, trailing dark, possessive hickeys across your skin.

“Come for me,” he ordered. “Now.”

You shattered—screaming, clenching so hard around him it pulled his orgasm right out of him.

“Fuck, baby—gonna fill you—fuck—take it—take all of it—” he growled, hips stuttering as he came deep inside you, spilling warmth into your trembling body.

You collapsed against him, shaking.

He held you tight, still pulsing inside you, one arm around your waist, the other stroking your back as your breathing slowed.

He pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “You took me so good, doll.”

Still dazed, you mumbled into his shoulder. “I needed you.”

“I know, baby.” He gently slipped out of you and reached for the hoodie lying by the mat. He wrapped it around your shoulders, covering you like a blanket. “I’m sorry I made you wait.”

You looked up at him with a sleepy smile. “Was worth it.”

He chuckled, lifted you easily into his arms. “Next time, just say the word. I’ll cancel the whole damn mission.”

You snorted against his neck. “You’d piss off Val.”

“I don’t give a fuck about Val,” he said, already carrying you toward the bedroom. “I give a fuck about you.”

[hanaridulsetcheese]

Eyes On You ~ Bucky Barnes

warning : contains 18+ content

The clang of weights hitting the floor echoed through the Avengers compound gym, rhythmic and sharp. You had wandered in with the innocent intent of grabbing your water bottle left behind after yesterday’s run but that plan was immediately derailed when you saw him.

Bucky Barnes. In all his sweaty, grunting, post-serum glory.

He was at the cable machine, tugging down on the ropes with a force that made the muscles in his back ripple beneath the tight fabric of his grey shirt. You didn’t even realize you’d stopped moving, lips slightly parted, as your eyes travelled down the way his shirt clung to every ridge of his sculpted back. The fabric strained over his shoulders, and a small patch near his shoulder blades was already darkened with sweat.

You bit your lip.

“Like what you see, doll?”

Your heart practically jumped out of your chest. His voice was teasing, low, with just enough amusement to make your stomach twist. Your eyes snapped to the mirror in front of him, catching his smirking reflection.

Busted.

“I wasn’t-” You sputtered, clutching your water bottle like it could protect your dignity.

Bucky turned, slow and smooth, towel slung over one shoulder. His hair was tied back in a messy bun, a few strands clinging to his temple from the heat. That damn smirk was still playing on his lips.

“You weren’t what? Admiring the view?” he asked, walking toward you with maddening confidence. “Because, sweetheart, if you’re going to stare, at least be brave enough to own it.”

You crossed your arms, half-defensive, half trying to control your blushing. “I was just… impressed. That’s all.”

“Impressed?” He stopped in front of you, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. “With what, exactly?”

You looked away. “Your back, okay? Your muscles. They were…moving. And it looked hot.”

Bucky grinned like a cat that just caught its prey. “Moving? Damn, that’s what does it for you?” He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “All this time, and I didn’t know you were a sucker for back muscles. Should’ve turned around more often.”

You rolled your eyes, trying not to let your grin take over your face. “Don’t get cocky, Barnes.”

“Too late, sweetheart.” He reached past you, brushing your arm just a little too intentionally as he grabbed his water bottle. “You know, if you ask nicely, I’ll let you touch.”

You blinked. “Touch?”

“My back.” He winked. “Might even take my shirt off, since we both know you’re dying to see it without the fabric in the way.”

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, though your voice lacked any real venom.

“And you’re drooling.”

You smacked his arm, the flesh one, because you weren’t brave enough for vibranium. He just laughed, the sound low and rich. He leaned down a little, his lips close to your ear.

“Next time you want to stare, just come closer. I don’t bit.” he paused, his breath hot on your ear, “Unless you ask nicely.”

Your face flamed, and he just chuckled again as he walked away, muscles still flexing beneath his damn shirt, leaving you flustered, frustrated, and definitely ready for the next gym day. You weren’t going to let Bucky have the last word. Not after he caught you staring at his back like a thirsty teenager and then practically purred in your ear about it.

No, no. This called for revenge. Well-earned revenge.

So, the next day you dressed for the gym with a plan: tight leggings, a cropped tank top, and a sports bra that was just supportive enough to survive a workout but still left a little bounce in your step. You waited until Bucky was deep into his routine, heavy lifting, shirt already discarded, glistening with sweat like the universe had personally decided to test your patience.

You didn’t stare this time. Not openly.

You strutted past him, headphones in, pretending you didn’t notice him but oh, you noticed. And you made sure that he noticed you.

Bent just a little too slowly to stretch. Arched your back just a bit more during lunges and when he looked your way because of course he did you shot him a knowing smile like ‘You’re not the only one who can play this game, Barnes.’

Sure enough, after a few minutes, you heard a weight drop a little too loudly behind you. You smirked to yourself.

“Really, doll?” His voice was lower than usual, maybe a little breathless. “You think you’re slick?”

You turned slowly, pulling one earbud out. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Bucky gave you that look, the one that was half-amused, half-ready-to-devour. “You’ve been wiggling that ass like a metronome for twenty minutes.”

You feigned innocence. “Maybe I was just working out. It is a gym, you know.”

He stepped closer, sweaty, shirtless, and very much unimpressed by your act. “That stretch you did? You looked me dead in the eye while arching like a damn yoga instructor in heat.”

You tilted your head, biting your lip. “Oh, you mean like how you caught me staring and then spent an entire workout flexing like it was a performance?”

His grin slowly widened. “You really want to play this game?”

“I think I’m winning it.”

Suddenly, his hand was on your waist, fingers brushing just under the hem of your crop top. His voice dropped to a growl. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re going to make me forget we’re in public.”

You leaned in, lips brushing just shy of his ear. “That’s the point.”

He exhaled sharply. “You’re evil.”

You smiled sweetly. “No, I’m motivated.”

There was a long pause where your eyes locked, breathing shallow and tension thick then Bucky muttered “We’re finishing this. Not here. Tonight. Your place.”

You grinned, smug and victorious, and whispered back, “Bring the back muscles.”

He smirked. “Only if you promise to keep staring.”

Muscle Memory

You barely had time to light a candle before there was a knock at your apartment door.

He was there. Bucky. Leaning against your doorframe in a black hoodie and joggers that did nothing to hide the way his body moved. Hair still damp from a post-workout shower, stubble sharp, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

“You said bring the back muscles,” he drawled, stepping in without waiting for an invitation. “Hope you’re ready for full access.”

You arched a brow. “That was fast.”

“You’ve been teasing me for two days.” He shut the door behind him. “And don’t think I didn’t notice how you kept adjusting your leggings just so I’d look. Evil, I told you.”

You smirked. “And yet you’re here.”

He stepped closer until your back hit the wall, and his hands came up to cage you in, bracing on either side of your head. “Oh, I’m very here.”

You didn’t even have time to bite back a retort before his lips were on yours, hot, demanding, and so much rougher than you expected. His metal hand gripped your hip, pulling you flush against him while the flesh one slid under your shirt, slowly dragging upward.

“You want the shirt off?” he murmured against your lips, teasing. “I know how much you like the view.”

You tugged at the hem. “Take it off before I rip it.”

He chuckled, stepping back just enough to peel it off in one smooth motion. And there it was, those back muscles, bare now, broad and defined and utterly, sinfully beautiful. You ran your fingers across his shoulder blades, dragging your nails down slowly.

Bucky shuddered. “Shit. You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?”

“Every time you picked up a dumbbell.”

He laughed, but it turned into a groan when you leaned in and kissed his shoulder, biting softly just above the muscle.

“Oh, you're a problem, doll.”

“And you’re a reward for good behaviour.”

His hands were under your thighs in an instant, lifting you like you weighed nothing and carrying you to the couch. He hovered over you, gaze drinking you in like he was memorizing the moment.

“I’m going to make you say it.” he murmured. “That I’m your favourite view.” His lips were on yours again, rough, greedy, like he’d been waiting for this moment longer than he’d admit. You barely registered the way he lowered you to the couch, your legs wrapped around his waist, the heat between you both rising with every hungry press of his mouth.

“You already are.” you whispered, nails already in his back again.

He growled, lips ghosting down your jaw. “Still thinking about my back muscles?” he rasped, grinding down against you. The hard line of him pressed between your thighs, and he smirked when he felt you arch into it.

You tugged at his hair, breathless. “They’re even better up close.”

He kissed down your neck, tongue flicking out to tease the skin just before he sank his teeth into your shoulder not enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp.

“I want you to remember this next time you walk past the gym like you’re not going to stop and drool.”

“You’re so cocky.” you breathed.

“And you’re soaking.” he growled.

Your leggings were gone before you could blink, tugged down and tossed aside like they offended him. Then his fingers were brushing over your underwear, teasing the damp fabric with slow, deliberate strokes that had your hips lifting off the cushions.

“You’ve been this wet for how long?” he asked, kissing the inside of your thigh. “Since the gym? Or since I showed up at your door?”

“Since yesterday,” you gasped. “You knew what you were doing.”

He chuckled darkly. “Yeah, I did.” With one strong swipe, your panties were gone, torn with the precision of someone who knew exactly how to use a vibranium hand.

“Oops,” he murmured innocently, then slid two fingers through your folds, slow and agonizing. “God, you feel even better than I imagined.”

You were about to sass him back, but then his mouth replaced his fingers. Hot, relentless, tongue curling around your clit until you were clutching his hair and biting your lip hard enough to leave a mark.

“Bucky- ” you gasped.

“Say my name again like that,” he groaned, looking up at you with those dark, ruined eyes. “Say it when I’m inside you.”

You pulled him up, impatient, desperate, tugging at the waistband of his joggers. He was already pushing them down, revealing that he hadn’t bothered with boxers. Of course. Cock hard, flushed, and thick, he stroked himself once before lining up at your entrance.

“You sure, sweetheart?”

You met his eyes, voice low. “I want everything.”

That was all he needed.

He slid in deep, stretching you, filling you and you moaned into his shoulder as he bottomed out. He paused just a second, letting you adjust, then started to move.

Slow at first. Teasing. Until your nails dug into his back again.

Then he snapped.

His pace turned punishing, driving into you hard and deep, like he was trying to prove a point with every thrust. Your body rocked with every motion, breath hitching, thighs trembling around him.

“You feel that?” he grunted in your ear. “That’s what you’ve been begging for with those little looks. That’s what you earned.”

You could barely respond, moans spilling from your lips like he’d knocked every word from your brain. All you could do was hold on and ride every wave he gave you.

“Gonna come for me, baby?” he murmured, thumb circling your clit. “Come all over this cock you were so busy staring at.”

And you did, body arching, back curling, vision flashing white as your orgasm tore through you. Bucky followed with a deep groan, burying himself fully, head dropped to your shoulder as he pulsed inside you.

Silence.

Then, a breathless laugh from him. “Still impressed by the muscles?”

You grinned weakly. “Next time, I’m staring harder.”

Ride or Die

You were still catching your breath when Bucky leaned back against the couch, looking sinfully smug, naked, glistening, arms stretched along the top cushions like some Greek god built for wrecking your life.

“You good, sweetheart?” he teased, lips curling. “Did I ruin you a little?”

You straddled his lap before he could blink, palms flat on his chest, pinning him where he sat. “Oh, baby,” you purred. “You think you did something?”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “I know I did.”

You rolled your hips slowly against him, teasing both of you. His cock twitched between you, not even fully soft, like his body knew the game wasn’t over.

“You want to talk confidence?” you murmured, leaning in to kiss just below his jaw. “Let me show you what happens when I take control.”

Bucky groaned, eyes fluttering shut as you gripped him and lined him up again. He was still slick from the first round, sliding in slowly as you sank down on him. Inch by inch until he filled you completely.

“Fuck,” he hissed, head falling back. “You tryna kill me?”

You rolled your hips in a slow circle, hands planted firmly on his chest, nails lightly scratching down the muscle. “You can take it, soldier.”

His hands flew to your thighs, gripping them hard, trying to urge you faster but you held your pace slow, torturous, grinding down in a rhythm that had him begging now.

“You’re evil,” he muttered. “This is worse than the gym teasing.”

You grinned, bouncing a little harder now, letting the sound of skin slapping skin echo through the room. “You like it.”

“I fucking love it.” he groaned, bucking up into you.

But you grabbed both his wrists and pinned them back to the couch, smirking down at him. “Nope. You’re staying right there. Watch me.”

And he did. His eyes locked on yours, blown wide, almost desperate as you rode him slow and deep, making sure he felt everything. You clenched around him just to hear him curse. Dropped your hips down hard just to see that vein in his neck twitch.

“Look at you,” you breathed. “All those muscles, all that strength and I’ve got you melting under me.”

“Fuck, please,” he groaned. “Let me touch you.”

You leaned down and whispered against his lips, “Earn it.”

His mouth crashed into yours hot, messy, full of desperation. And that’s when you gave in, letting him grip your ass, guide your movements, thrust up into you as you bounced harder and faster, both of you chasing that edge again.

When you came, it was wild and raw. Your nails digging into his shoulders, your whole body shaking. Bucky followed seconds later, gasping your name like a prayer as he came deep inside you again.

You collapsed against him, both of you panting, sweating, utterly wrecked.

After a long beat, he nuzzled your neck. “You win.”

You smirked into his shoulder. “Damn right I do.”