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gutsby · 3 months

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Trigger Tease(r)

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Before his morning briefing, your mob boss husband decides to take a pit stop in the sauna with you.

Warnings: 18+. Oral (f!receiving). Gentle fingerfucking. Praise and degradation. Daddy kink. Dirty talk. Bucky talking you through it. Bimbofication if you squint.

Notes: @sluttylittlewaistenthusiast - you inspired me 🪽 I just had to crank out a little teaser for the third installment of Wedded Bliss. I hope y’all like it 💓

Full version here

In between breakfast and the start of your husband’s early briefing, you found yourself situated in much the same way you’d been spending a lot of time these days: pinned up against the wall of a wood-paneled sauna, Bucky’s broad shoulders supporting both of your legs as he buried his face deep between your thighs. You sighed.

“Hold still,” Bucky grunted, voice muffled as he tried to keep your slick, squirming body in place above him.

You yelped and seized a fistful of his hair when he wedged his tongue even further inside you, nudging your clit with his nose almost too teasingly and deliberate.

“I can’t…help it,” you bit back, ignoring the brief glare you earned from your husband as soon as you said it, “Your tongue’s just so— s— James!”

This time, Bucky let out a full-throated groan when you yanked on those poor wet locks of his—‘Gonna make me bald by next Christmas if you keep doin’ that, honey’—and he pried his head from your legs just long enough to knock you flat on the sauna bench close by.

The western red cedar seared hot on your skin, already flushed from the exhaustion wrought by Bucky’s tongue; you hardly had the strength to hold yourself up when he pushed you onto your back and crawled over your body.

“How ‘bout my fingers, doll? Can you take a couple’a those for me?” Bucky crooned above you as he stroked your hair, bathed in pure sunlight pouring in from the windows. His voice was a touch more sympathetic now.

After all, this was your third orgasm of the morning. It really wasn’t fair for him to use that biological weapon of mass destruction he liked to call his tongue when he knew how sensitive your clit would get from just one ‘O’. Even his hands might be too much in your current state.

Bucky was busy peppering your skin with kisses, working his way from the base of your neck to the crown of your head, when you whimpered and tried to fight a smile.

“Finger,” you corrected him, “Just one finger, Barnes.”

You would’ve thought you’d just thrown your wedding ring in his face and told him to eat shit. Just one?

“How’s one finger s’posed to stretch you out for my cock, huh? Practically had you screamin’ when I stuck it in last night,” Bucky wasn’t one to hide his amusement, grinning even bigger when you swatted him on the arm.

“Who said anything about your cock?” You tried to keep cool as Bucky’s fingers trailed right back down to the place you felt yourself throbbing, aching for his touch, “You have a meeting in ten minutes.”

“Meeting doesn’t start until I say so, my love,” Bucky reminded you just as his index ghosted over your folds.

In truth, he was willing to play this game any way, and for however long, you wanted it done, so long as he was the one bringing you pleasure. Be that his cock, his finger, or all fucking five on one hand, Bucky just wanted to get you off. It was better sustenance to him than the whole damn meal the two of you had eaten that morning.

Bucky kept it down to one digit and lightly circled your bundle of nerves when he sensed you were ready.

You gripped his forearm and shot a quick look between your legs, still in disbelief as to how he could make you feel this good so soon after you’d cum twice before. You felt his lips drift over to yours and steal a few kisses.

“Always doin’ so good for me,” Bucky praised, moving his finger in circles. When you whined against his mouth, he pressed it even harder, “Such a good girl for daddy.”

“James,” you breathed, clenching your legs together.

“Everything OK?”

“Uh-huh.”

More than OK, in fact. That delectable coil of sweet, euphoric release was already swelling gently in your tummy. Bucky moved his finger even faster.

“Tell me how it feels,” he murmured low in your ear.

Bucky loved seeing you try to articulate your feelings—relatively fresh and new to your world, still—while he was giving you pleasure. Adored the way you winced and whined and arched your back into his touch as a whole blustering hailstorm of sensations crashed over you.

He sank his tongue in your mouth as he kissed you, as if trying to extract the words from between your lips. Your response, in consequence, came somewhat stifled.

“Mm— feels so, oh—” Your voice broke off in a moan when Bucky tightened his circles, “—so good, daddy.”

“Wanna show daddy how good and cum for me?”

Bucky knew by the way you were whimpering under his hand that the tendril in your stomach had almost tripled in size. It wouldn’t take much to tip you over the edge.

“My sweet girl,” he said, rubbing your cunt at the same time he was stroking the back of your head, gently, “Feels so nice down there, doesn’t it?”

You rolled your hips against the bench and nodded. Your breaths were short and ragged, panting helplessly into Bucky’s mouth when he adjusted his hand just a little: pressing the pad of his thumb to your clit, with his index moving down to your entrance. Pushing inside you.

“Another,” you choked, not thinking.

Bucky met your desperate gaze and nodded, knowing this was exactly what you needed to make it over the precipice.

Still, he wouldn’t be Bucky if he didn’t tease just a bit.

“I thought my wife wanted one finger,” he hummed, brow pinching inward.

“No, no.” You could’ve shrieked when he curled the digit, “Want more— Bucky, please, please, I need more.”

Again, your husband appeared to nod in understanding, but his fingers didn’t budge. He worked his thumb a little faster and watched you writhe on the seat beneath him.

“How many, honey? Don’t wanna hurt my baby.” His words were all kindness, it seemed, but his tone laced with shameless condescension—the kind that said, yes, I know you need this, and no, I won’t indulge you just yet. Bucky was the worst when he wanted to prove a point. You could’ve ripped at his clothes and torn them in two if you weren’t both stark naked and shrouded in steam.

You opted to pull at his hair instead.

Bucky winced, but the smirk never left.

“I said how many?” he pressed again.

“Three. Four.” Fuck if you knew.

Your husband raised both eyebrows and hummed, a single finger still plunging in and out of your cunt in quick succession. He teased the tip of another at your entrance and smiled even more when you whined.

“Needy little thing, isn’t she?”

“Bucky—”

“Just wants to fuck daddy’s hand to get herself off, hm?”

Bucky didn’t bother to mask his sweet, degrading tone any longer as he talked down and teased you to no end. It drove him half-insane to see you squirm around, rut your hips, let him say the filthiest fucking words he could conjure up, and just bob your head to whatever he said. His impeccant wife and her insatiable needs—Bucky couldn’t even begin to express how turned on the sheer dichotomy got him. He stared in your eyes, all glossy and soft, and felt his cock stand even more rigid on his belly.

He didn’t give a shit if he’d taunted you enough or not; he just shoved his middle and ring fingers alongside the first and clenched his jaw to start fucking you hard with all three.

Your whole face contorted with pleasure, tinged with the faintest shade of discomfort at the tail end of it. You’d forgotten how big his fingers felt all together.

“Bucky,” you whined, mindlessly clawing at the wrist that was moving back and forth, fast, between your legs, “B-Baby, slow— slow down a little.”

But Bucky was deep in the zone. He knew you wanted it too—sensed that you liked to play it safe when it came to your pleasure and grew a little timid at times it got to feel too much—and he needed to talk you through it.

Rather than turn his head and keep to himself as he got you up to your peak, Bucky pressed his face down to yours and nodded again—this time with a tender sincerity.

“Feel a little stretch down there, huh?”

You didn’t have to say anything, just whimpering in time. Bucky kissed your forehead and let you fold into him as his fingers wreaked havoc down below. He kissed you again, and again, and in between kisses, mumbled,

“That’s daddy’s sweet, needy little slut.”

“My perfect fucking wife, so good at taking my fingers.”

“Gonna be nice and stretched out for my cock, hm?”

Every syllable spoken aloud was like a brand new catalyst for your impending release. You barely nodded your head, opened your mouth and whined pathetically, but that’s exactly how Bucky wanted you. Exactly how you needed to be, bucking your hips in time with the cadence of his fingers fucking inside you, and soon, those whimpers were turning to moans as that soft little helix inside you reached its breaking point.

Bucky brushed once or twice more against your sensitive spot, and suddenly you were coming undone all over him—crying his name, clawing his skin, squeezing your legs so tight around his wrist you feared you might snap it in two, and then getting kissed again, over and over while Bucky drank in your every sound, and the few tears that sprung to your eyes as they always did, like sweet nectar.

You were still moaning, curling your tongue feebly against his own and leaning into him as far as you could, when your husband slipped three fingers up between your mouths and pushed them past your parted lips.

“Suck,” Bucky said, gritting his teeth as he watched you, “C’mere, honey, taste your cunt on my fingers.”

You took him in and sucked your arousal off his fingers just like he asked. Took him by surprise and dragged a mindless, lazy, half-crazed and careless tongue all over his hand, where your juices had no doubt collected too.

That slutty, fucked-out look you gave him—like your brain had all but fallen out of your head with the orgasm he’d given you—was everything Bucky could’ve wanted.

He climbed on top of you and took the base of his cock, rock-hard and weeping tears of precum from the tip, almost drunk from the feeling himself. His mouth hung open as he dragged himself over the seam of your cunt.

“I need to fuck you.”

Taglist (STILL HAVE TO UPDATE THIS I'M DUMB AS SHIT): @vicmc624, @she-could-never, @mcira, @kentokaze, @identity2212, @unaxv, @buchi91, @ordelixx, @stinkerbelle007, @opibarnes, @wilsons-striped-ties, @desigirlxx, @pono-pura-vida, @geminiflanagansblog, @fandomsfeminismandme, @buggy14, @sky-full-0f-fl0wers, @buckysdoll1520, @armystay89, @minimarvelingmarvel, @kunakizen, @ghostiebby06, @blackhawkfanatic, @dameron-grant-spector, @sushiseoks, @deansapplepie, @mrsjoequinn, @lunaroserites, @first-edition, @kaybaby2494, @jaggedsi, @excusememrbarnes, @daisychainsoflove, @mostlymarvelgirl, @diannana, @shawnberry, @yujyujj, @urmomsalex, @mrs-bucky-barnes-73, @athenabarnes, @christinabae, @wintrsoldrluvr, @bethbunnyy, @i-heart-smut @dixsond

#THE TITLE WILL MAKE SENSE LATER I PROMISE #it’s ‘tease’ not ‘teaser’ in the full fic that was just my attempt at humor #bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #marvel #mcu #mob bucky barnes #marvel smut #marvel x reader #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #mob boss bucky #mob!bucky

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darsynia · 1 year

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Hand(s) Off | Ch1: Agony

(Steve Rogers/f!Reader sex pollen-esque multichapter)

STORY MASTERLIST | STEVE MASTERLIST | NEXT

Summary: Bucky Barnes is the most important person in your life. When he confesses to you that he lives at the Avengers tower, and the 'Steve' you've been hearing about for months is actually Steve Rogers, you think that nothing can top that revelation-- and then you find yourself trapped in Captain America's bedroom getting a second-hand dose of NYC's favorite new aphrodisiac, Mistress.

Length | Warnings: 3,271 | None this chapter; story will contain explicit sex descriptions and situations, MINORS DNI

Note: I want to make clear that I'm treating the issues of consent with sensitivity. This is not even a dubious consent story in my eyes; the choices these characters make are kind, as clear-eyed as possible under the circumstances, and respectful-- in fact, that's what causes problems for Steve and Dee in the long run. I do want to be clear though: there will be sexual stuff in this story. I'm not teasing you. It won't be clinical or tortured :)

Fill: Adoptable 'Pheremones' from @allcapsbingo

Tags (please request!): @starryeyes2000 @munstysmind @ronearoundblindly @chickensarentcheap @themaradaniels @tiny-anne @deepbatched @nekoannie-chan

Excerpt:

“You grew up with Captain America?” you ask, impressed. Bucky Barnes can really keep a secret.

“Not at all. I grew up with Steve. Skinny, brave Steve. Never backed down from a fight, and now he doesn’t have to. C’mon,” he says, nodding toward the Avengers tower that’s visible in the distance.

There’s something in the back of your mind that’s important, something-- “Oh my God, Bucky!” you gasp, almost stumbling in your shock. “I dragged you to that trivia night, and you did so badly on the Avengers questions! You let me answer the all Captain America ones myself! I totally went on and on about how wonderful and handsome Steve Rogers is. I talked about his ass-- and he’s your best friend?”

“You squeak any higher you’re going to start catching the attention of every purse dog in the city,” Bucky teases gruffly. You shoot a look over, noticing that he’s trying not to grin.

“You jerk!” you say, nudging his right arm with your left elbow. “Were you feeling me out?”

Bucky starts cough-laughing. “You’re going to have to define that one for me.”

Chapter One: Agony

He’s falling and you can’t do anything about it.

Bucky’s shirt catches on a stub of a branch on the way down. You, the child whose balloon he was retrieving, and the kid’s mother all rush over when he lands in a heap.

“Oh my god, are you--” the mom starts to say.

“Here you go, kid. Hold tight, I’m not going after it again,” Bucky interrupts, hauling himself to his feet.

“Wow! That looks like it didn’t hurt at all!” the kid says.

“It hurts. Everything hurts. I’m just trying to impress her.” He nods in your direction.

Even though it makes you crack up (because he’s absolutely not), this seems to do the trick. The mom takes a minute to tie a more secure knot in the balloon string before smiling nervously at the two of you and leading her son away.

“I’m sorry,” you wince, taking a picture of the hand-sized rip at Bucky’s armpit that reveals the metal of his arm underneath. You’ve never seen the whole thing, but you’ve felt the arm through his sleeve a couple of times.

“Why are you sorry? You told me not to do it.”

“I’m sorry to have been right?”

“Yeah, okay,” he says grimly, scowling at the phone you handed him and reaching around to feel the edges of the tear. “It shows the join, doesn’t it?”

You’ve been trying not to look, because, yeah, it does. The skin edging the metal graft looks burned and painful, definitely not appropriate for your museum plans. Bucky takes in your uncomfortable nod and his jaw clenches.

“We don’t have to go,” you offer.

“We’re going. I just have to…” He trails off, twisting the shirt around to get a better look. The two of you had decided to take the long way through the park. There’s about an hour before the interactive exhibit opens, but it’s the last day. He wouldn’t even tell you how he got the tickets.

“Okay, what if we swing by a corner store so I can grab a sewing kit--”

Bucky interrupts in a firm voice. “No need to waste the money. I’ll head back home to change; we can get a taxi from there. It’s a bit of a walk.” He shrugs the shirt back into position and starts back the way you’d come.

You have to jog to catch up. “That works.” There are a million things you want to say, but it’s Bucky who speaks first, after fifteen minutes of silence. The two of you reach a crosswalk, and he stops you with his left arm, which in your opinion is a choice.

“Spit it out.”

“You were keeping things separate. You shouldn’t change your mind unless you want to,” you say quietly. He’d said he wanted to keep this friendship to himself for a while, with no connection to the past, and no expectation for the future. You’d found that unexpectedly refreshing at the time, and you still do.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Bucky says. “It’s time. I probably would have sat on it for another month anyway.”

It’s been a six month journey from friendly to friends to close friends for the two of you, and it’s only been two months since he’d opened up about his agonizing past. You don’t know everything yet, and that’s okay. You might never know. As long as Bucky knows he can trust you, that’s what matters.

The light changes, and he guides you across, his body language more relaxed now. Still, you want to make things as easy for him as possible.

“I can wait in the lobby--”

“Shit. That won’t help,” Bucky says, coming to a complete stop in the middle of the sidewalk. “Did you ever look me up?”

“No! You asked me not to.”

He looks at you like you’re some sort of rare creature for a minute, and a slow, appreciative smile grows on his face. You get it-- when he’d told you his actual birthdate, that he’d gone missing in the 40’s, you’d been tempted. But… when someone with a medically engineered metal arm asks you not to poke around in his past, you don’t. Not if you care about him.

“There was a good reason for that, I’m assuming?”

Bucky’s chuckle is deep and amused. “Yeah. I ah, live with the Avengers. Steve’s last name is Rogers. Steve Rogers.”

You’ve heard all about his best friend Steve, enough to feel affection for the man without ever having met him-- but this is not what you were expecting. At all.

“You grew up with Captain America?” you ask, impressed. Bucky Barnes can really keep a secret.

“You squeak any higher you’re going to start catching the attention of every purse dog in the city,” Bucky teases gruffly. You shoot a look over, noticing that he’s trying not to grin.

“You jerk!” you say, nudging his right arm with your left elbow. “Were you feeling me out?”

Bucky starts cough-laughing. “You’re going to have to define that one for me.”

“--stop by, that’s all I ask. Redwing would love it,” Sam grins as he opens the door to Tony’s lab.

“I’ll try, but did you have to say it like that?” Steve groans before heading into Dr. Banner’s workspace right next door. A new street drug named Mistress has been causing concern, and with SHIELD still in transition, the government has called on the scientific wing of the Avengers to help figure out how to combat the substance.

Mistress is an aphrodisiac, a potent one. Banner’s preliminary tests show that it’s likely not of Earth origin, which has slowed down their testing considerably due to safety concerns. That’s where Steve comes in; Bruce thinks his fast metabolism could be the key to figuring the stuff out without putting too many others at risk. That and his lack of a romantic partner.

Apparently the drug enhances a person’s desire to have sex to a strong need, strong enough that there’s no data on what happens if they don’t. The stuff reportedly burns through people, causing dangerous fevers that have officials fearful that someone’s going to get dosed and killed, not to mention the consent issues.

“Hey, Steve,” Banner says. “I don’t know if you’ve met Doctor Lyonne?”

“I haven’t. First or last name?” Steve asks the attractive female doctor.

“Oh, nice one. ‘Lyonne’ is my married name, though. Sorry to possibly disappoint,” she says easily.

Banner smiles at Steve’s wave-off gesture and says, “I’ll leave you two experts to the interpersonal stuff.” He ignores them in favor of a large glass jar with a bunch of warning labels stuck to it. The liquid inside is clear, and all signs point to it being the drug in question. “All right,” Bruce finally says, stepping away and scratching out about four things on his clipboard. “The plan is to expose you in measured doses and observe the results. It’s pretty volatile-- works if ingested, soaks into the skin, and we think it’s capable of being aerosolized under certain conditions. Drinking it will be the most controlled method, so Dr. Lyonne is setting up dosing cups for me. She’s got a class to teach in about forty minutes, so--”

“That’s his delicate way of saying I’ll be out of your hair and unable to observe anything you’ll be going through over the course of the tests,” Lyonne interrupts.

The door that joins the two labs swings open before Steve can respond, and Tony leans his head in. He’s wearing one of his Iron Man suits. “Before you ramp up Icy Hot here, can I show you my new toy?”

“This is a segue to a sex toy joke, Steve. Retreat, retreat!” Sam calls out from behind Tony.

“I’m wounded!” Tony says, muttering, “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that first.” He walks in and grins, holding up his left arm. “Check it out. Nav is still a little spotty, but--”

Steve watches as a shape lifts up from Tony’s bicep area on the suit, similar to Redwing but oval and smaller.

“Tony, I’d be happy to look at it pretty much any other time, but--”

“You have the whole rest of the day blocked out, Bruce, just give me this!”

The friendship between Stark and Banner always makes Steve nervous. They are the closest aligned in terms of work ethic and smarts, but farthest apart in temperament-- and that’s before the Hulk is brought into play. Steve inches closer to the large glass jug of Mistress as Tony gesticulates wildly, sending the drone careening around the room.

It starts beeping.

“Shit!” Tony shouts. “Uh… apparently something I did set the self-destruct?”

“Why does your drone have a self destruct, Tony?”

Bruce sounds incredulous and angry, and Steve doesn’t have his shield. As though Tony had set up the whole situation for maximum drama, the thing is headed straight for the jug. Steve lunges to protect it as Bruce maneuvers himself to take the explosion for the team. Someone screams for JARVIS to lock down the building.

Steve lifts the drug container high, meaning to leap out of the way with it, but there’s nowhere to go. The drone’s explosive impact brings forth the Hulk-- which sends Steve and the jug flying backwards into the lab equipment.

Things turn a bit surreal when you enter the tower. Bucky takes you to a secret side entrance (to avoid the press, he says) but when he gets into the elevator, he seems confused when he can’t talk to it. You’re just about to make a Star Trek joke when he explains there’s usually an artificial intelligence that runs the building, but it’s not responding.

You’re used to pretty much anything apartment-related being out of order, so you’re not fazed. Once inside his apartment, you point out that there’s a sticky note on the opposite side of the door, and Bucky grabs it, his brows furrowing as he reads.

“Shit,” he grins, holding up the note. “Stay here? You’re not authorized for this area.”

“Better hurry!” The tickets for the exhibit are for 1:30, and it’s already 12:50. With a nod, he jogs back into the hallway toward the elevator, and just like that you’re alone in Bucky’s apartment.

It is immediately apparent that he doesn’t live here alone. Underneath a coat rack with multiple jackets is a shoe tray with at least five pairs of shoes in two different sizes. The living room is cozy and lived-in; you see the familiar sight of a bottle of Bucky’s favorite beer sitting on an end-table-- right beside a coaster.

You’re about to reach for it when an alarm sounds, accompanied by an urgent voice.

=Tier One protection activated. Retreat to an interior room and wait for further instructions. Attention: Tier One protection activated. Retreat to an interior room and wait for further instructions.=

You freeze in fear for a few seconds, but when the instruction repeats a few seconds later, you hear a grinding noise in the wall. It’s frightening enough that you dart into the hallway and inside the first open door. The reason for the sound becomes terrifyingly clear a few seconds later as a metal panel encased in the doorframe slides down, too quickly for you to slip out underneath it.

The room turns pitch black in the space between one frightened breath and the next.

After taking a minute to listen for danger, you make your way by feel to the far wall, looking for the light switch. On the way, you trip over something that turns out to be a pair of men’s slippers. You’re glad to let your eyes adjust to the light as you put them back, but when you straighten up, you immediately feel like you’re trespassing somewhere you do not belong.

The room is neat as hell, the kind of tidiness that must come from enjoying a clean space rather than a sense of obligation. However, you soon reassess: this is lived in, less frighteningly neat than well-designed. Everything has its place. It’s different from the easy chaos that Bucky has shown on the few times he’s slept over after movie marathons, so you’re pretty sure this isn’t his room. That, and the white cat plushie you gave him that he swears lives on his dresser? Isn’t there.

Instead, the tray with grooming materials in front of a small mirror are the only objects on the dresser top. There’s a low bookshelf next to an easy chair whose footrest has a worn-in divot. The nightstand is equally neat and functional, with a slightly askew sketchbook hinting that the room’s occupant is an artist.

Unfortunately, these observations are making you more nervous, not less. An intrusive thought that the alarm could be about a fire and there’s literally no way out sends you into a frenzy of banging on the inexorable metal slab.

“Hello?? HELLO!? Please let me out, please, please let me out!” you scream, slamming your fists against the damned barrier until your hands hurt. You’re crying and frantic and yelling, and suddenly there’s someone else on the other side of the door also yelling, and in the next few minutes everything happens at once.

You can’t see anything through your tears and fear; all you know is the feel and sound of strong hands and a soothing voice that isn’t Bucky but it should be. That thought sends you into more frightened tears, because he’ll be worried, he’ll be upset, and it might send him into a spiral like the one from a few months ago when he finally explained about his past.

Then, awfully, the grinding sound is back and the warm hands are gone.

You hear several shouted, imperative commands before the man falls silent. He’d set you down in a huddle on the bed wrapped in a blanket, and you kind of… drift back into awareness surrounded by the strong scent of coconut, with a not-unpleasant buzz of awareness deep in your gut.

You pull the blanket closer before you recognize it. You’d been working on it during the first few movie nights you and Bucky had shared, and he’d bought it as a gift for his best friend. That’s what brings you fully back to yourself: you’d handmade the thing that’s warming you up. You’ll be able to tell Bucky that. It’ll help, when the time comes.

Taking in a long, deep breath, you look around, expecting, since you’re no longer alone, to see anything but a metal panel completely covering the door. You’re wrong. There’s damage to the frame, as though someone had pried the previous slab out of the way-- but there’s once again a solid-looking metal barrier between you and freedom.

“Are you okay?” It’s Captain Am-- Rogers. Steve. Bucky’s Steve.

The unreality of your situation is fully hitting you now.

“That’s what you’re going with? Not ‘who are you?’ or ‘funny story about the door…’”

Rogers says, “I did. You were too upset to answer.” He’s tense, clearly uncomfortable, and his clothes are soaked. You wonder if that’s the source of the strange fruity smell.

“Dee. I’m Dee.” It’s short for Chickadee, your stage-name-turned-favorite-nickname. You think you see recognition in his eyes. “Bucky needed to change his shirt. I didn’t mean-- you have to believe me, I never would have come in here, but he said he would just be a minute, and then a voice told me to hide and…” You’re babbling, but you feel like you’re out of your mind. Of all the people in the world, you’d probably pick Captain America as the one person you’d want to know that you’re eating your vegetables and being polite to your elders, that you wouldn’t invade someone’s private space. “Did something happen to the building?” you ask in a small voice.

“No, this--” Rogers winces. “Bucky asked for extra security or he wouldn’t move in. To slow him down.”

“The Soldier,” you whisper, closing your eyes tightly.

He makes a noise of understanding, then a louder, angry sound. “Everything has gone the exact worst-- I’m sorry,” he grits out. “I’m sorry.”

The depth to his voice prompts a heated curl of attraction that warms you from the inside out. It’s unexpected and strange, given the fear and confusion that’s ruled your reactions in the past minutes.

“I think I should be asking if you are okay.”

Rogers is looking at the floor now, his hands fisted in his pockets. “I was exposed to a… chemical. Tried to do everything right: activated security protocols, set the apartment Dark so I didn’t say or do anything I’d regret before the brain fog set in.”

“What happens when the brain fog sets in?” you whisper, sensing that the answer is what has this man’s body stiff as a board, in contrast with his broken and worried tone.

“How close are you with Buck?” Rogers lifts his head and the intensity in his eyes shoots you with an arrow of concern.

You lift your chin. “Truthfully? I consider him my best friend, why?”

“There’s nothing… more?”

There have been times, multiple times, when you’ve thought about it. But Bucky Barnes is a multifaceted man, and you don’t want to sully his progress towards becoming whole again by making things complicated.

“No,” you say, feeling heat in your chest from the look of understanding in his eyes. Your pause was unintentionally illustrative. “Why?”

“It’s important that I be honest with you: the building is on lockdown, its governing AI is too busy monitoring the Hulk to get us out of this room, and the chemical I was exposed to is Mistress.” He sounds like a soldier reciting battle parameters.

The name sounds familiar, but you can’t place it. Suddenly, you feel too vulnerable on the bed, his bed, so you slide over to the edge in preparation for getting up. The action bares your legs to mid-thigh, and Rogers immediately turns his back on you and hits the wall with the flat of his hand.

That’s when you remember where you’d heard that name. Mistress. The aphrodisiac is the reason many women have flocked to your cousin’s restaurant to hang out, instead of at bars. Many establishments are offering complimentary test kits so their customers can ensure there’s no residue in their food and drinks. It’s become fashionable to carry around your own cups, just in case. Some bars are actually trying to skip requiring women to pay a cover charge, desperate to return to the status quo. Drinks containing coconut aren’t even served anymore, thanks to the scent association.

“Shit, I’m sorry!” you blurt out, rushing over to the easy chair and covering yourself with the blanket. Jesus, the whole room reeks of coconut. He’s practically steeped in the stuff. “What can I do?”

Steve Rogers’ voice is husky, but pained. “Don’t let today be your first impression of me.”

Next chapter...

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