LXX. Emris

He doesn't stop kissing me.

His mouth is hot against my skin, slow now, deliberate—dragging over the sensitive hollow of my throat, the edge of my collarbone, the place just below my ear that makes me arch without meaning to.

I have to brace myself against the counter to keep from trembling, but even that feels like a losing battle. My legs are wrapped around him. My hands are digging into his back. And his vibranium fingers—God, his vibranium fingers—are in my hair like they belong there. Like he owns the pieces of me I've never let anyone touch.

And maybe I hate that. Or maybe I crave it.

I can't tell the difference anymore.

The bacon still hisses beside us, faint and forgotten, but I can't bring myself to care anymore. Not with his lips on my skin. Not with the way his hand—the human one—is still curled around my throat. Not choking, just holding. Grounding. As if I might vanish if he lets go.

And for a second, I believe it too.

All I can focus on is the way he kissed me like I wasn't a weapon. Like I wasn't a mistake he regretted touching. Like he needed this—me—the way I needed him, even if we'd never say it out loud.

A part of me knows I should pull away. I should make a joke, cut the tension, insult him, something. It's what I always do when I feel too much. But the words don't come.

Because this... isn't something I want to interrupt.

Bucky's jaw grazes against my cheek as he kisses along it, and when he lifts his head—finally, reluctantly—his breath fans across my lips again. His eyes are a little darker now. Glassy with heat. And there's something else there too, behind the lust. Something I don't dare name.

We just stare at each other.

His forehead nearly touches mine.

And I'm breathing so hard it feels like my lungs are burning. My throat aches—not just from last night but from the silence that stretches between us now. It's not uncomfortable. It's... heavy. Dense with everything we're too scared to say.

I don't know who leans in first.

Maybe it's both of us. Maybe it always is.

Our mouths meet again, slower this time. Still messy, still a little desperate, but there's a tenderness threaded through it now that makes my chest feel tight.

His lips part mine and I sigh into him, helpless.

He tastes like heat. Like hunger and guilt and something close to longing.

His hand slips from my throat to my jaw, tilting my face slightly, and I melt into it. I shouldn't. I really shouldn't. But I do.

I let myself need this—for just one moment.

I let myself want him.

And maybe that's the most dangerous thing of all.

Because it's not just sex anymore. It's not just anger or attraction or the twisted history between us.

It's trust.

It's him letting me guide his hand to my throat without flinching. It's me pulling his vibranium arm to my skin and watching him not pull away.

It's him not pushing me out of his mind when I slip in, and it's me choosing not to dig around while I'm there.

We've both been trained not to trust anyone.

And yet, here we are—half-naked in a too-quiet kitchen, mouths swollen, hearts racing, not saying a damn thing.

And it still feels louder than a warzone.

I pull back just an inch and press my forehead to his.

He exhales like I've punched him in the gut. His hands grip my waist tighter.

I let myself close my eyes.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to pretend that this—we—aren't a mistake waiting to happen.

But deep down, I know we are.

And I also know I don't care.

Not right now.

Not with his body pressed against mine and the taste of him still clinging to my lips.

Let the bacon burn.

Let the world burn.

Just for a little while longer, I want this.

I want him.

I don't know how long we kiss.

Time stops making sense when Bucky's hands are on my skin, when his lips are moving over mine like he's memorizing me—like he's trying to claim something he doesn't want to admit he wants.

It's slower now. Deeper. His fingers trail down my spine, and my body arches into him like it's instinct. Like we've done this a thousand times in another life where we weren't both fucked up beyond repair.

I don't remember the last time I let someone touch me like this. Without walls. Without armor.

He pulls me closer. I feel everything—his breath, his heartbeat, the slight tremor in his human hand as it skims my hip.

And it's not lust that makes me shiver.

It's the terrifying realization that this doesn't feel wrong.

It feels inevitable.

Then—too soon—he pulls back.

Just a fraction of space. His lips hover over mine like he's not sure if he wants to stop. But then he blinks, breathless, and steps back.

"I should finish the bacon," he mutters, voice rough with restraint.

I nod, though my mouth feels too swollen to answer.

He turns away.

And I sit there on the counter, still wearing his shirt, legs swinging slightly like I'm a kid again and not completely unraveled from the inside out.

I watch him.

He moves like he's trying to pretend he isn't still flustered—like he's not half-hard, like he didn't just kiss me like he'd die if he didn't.

But I see the tightness in his shoulders. The way he runs his hand through his hair and mutters something under his breath when the bacon pops and hisses at him.

He's trying to ground himself.

Trying to go back to normal.

And maybe I should help. Maybe I should say something sarcastic. Break the tension. Remind us both who we are.

But I don't.

I just watch him.

And somewhere in the middle of that, I realize I'm giving him fuck me eyes.

Like actual fuck-me eyes.

Not the accidental kind. Not the playful, maybe-if-we're-drunk kind.

The raw, come-back-here-and-finish-what-you-started kind.

And I don't stop.

I can't.

Because looking at him—his bare back, his ridiculous focus on frying bacon like it's a tactical operation, the quiet strength in his shoulders—I want him again. I ache with it.

God, I'm pathetic.

I bite my lip, partly to ground myself and partly because I know he'll look. And when he does, when he finally lifts his gaze and meets mine across the kitchen—

It hits him like a punch.

His jaw clenches. His eyes darken. He glances away immediately, like looking at me too long is dangerous.

It probably is.

Bucky pulls the pan off the heat and shifts the bacon onto a plate. The scent fills the kitchen—smoky, crisp, just the way I like it. He pauses for a second when he sets it down, frowning slightly to himself like he's irritated that he remembered that detail.

Like it means something.

It does.

It shouldn't. But it does.

He grabs two slices of bread, tosses them in the toaster, then leans back against the counter with his arms crossed while he waits. He doesn't look at me right away. I don't blame him. If he did, he'd see how undone I still am.

The silence between us feels like it's holding its breath.

I wonder if he regrets it.

I wonder if I do.

But all I can do is swing my legs and stare at him like I don't know what just happened.

Because I don't.

Bucky glances over at the toaster, then back to the bacon, then—finally—at me.

Just a flick of his eyes.

But it's enough to make my stomach flip.

I try to look unaffected. But I know I'm not fooling him.

His gaze lingers for a beat longer, and then he clears his throat and starts plating the food.

One plate. Two slices of toast. Three pieces of bacon.

He doesn't ask if I want any.

He just makes it.

And somehow that feels more intimate than anything we did on the counter.

He knows I'm hungry.

He knows I won't admit it.

So he makes me breakfast and pretends not to look at me like I'm the most confusing fucking person in the world.

And maybe that's all we are.

A collection of moments that shouldn't mean anything... but somehow always do.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

"Keep looking at me like that," Bucky says, low and casual, "and I'll do something about it."

I lean against the chipped kitchen counter, arms crossed, hiding the heat curling beneath my skin with a smirk. "You've been saying that for the last twenty minutes."

He finally looks up from his glass—dark eyes, darker smile. "You think I'm bluffing?"

"I think you like the sound of your own voice."

The corner of his mouth lifts, lazy and lethal. He sets the glass down with a soft clink, then moves—slow, deliberate—crossing the room in two strides. Now he's in front of me, so close I feel the warmth of his body bleeding into mine. His scent curls in the air between us—clean, sharp, masculine.

"I don't bluff," he murmurs, knuckle grazing down my arm, soft as breath. "You just like making me work for it."

I tilt my chin up, heart hammering where he can't see. "Maybe I like watching you fail."

He laughs—low, rough—and then suddenly his hand closes around my wrist. Not rough, not quite gentle. Just... his. He pulls me down the hall like he's done it a hundred times, like he owns the path between us. We hit the bedroom, and he kicks the door shut with a soft thud.

"I've been patient tonight, all day actually," he says, voice like gravel dragged through silk. "But I'm done pretending I don't know exactly what you need."

I open my mouth to snap something clever—but his lips crush into mine before I get the chance. His kiss is fire and possession, all teeth and tongue, and I melt—God, I melt—because I hate him and want him and want to hate how much I want him.

He eases me down onto the bed, hovering over me like something dangerous, something divine. My shirt is gone in seconds—peeled away like paper. His mouth finds my collarbone, slow and reverent.

Then he stops.

"Bucky," I breathe, hips already restless beneath him.

His hand slides to the edge of my underwear, fingers brushing, never claiming. "You'll get it," he whispers.

He pulls back just enough to make me ache. I'm laid out beneath him—shirtless, flushed, needy—and he knows it. I can see it in the way his gaze drags down my body like he's memorizing it. Worshipping it.

"Comfortable?" he asks, voice dipped in sin.

I glare. "Not even close."

He grins, crawling up the bed like a man who's not in a hurry—because he doesn't have to be. His knees bracket my thighs, hands on either side of my waist. "You could fix that," he says softly. "You know how."

I glare harder.

He dips down, mouth brushing against the swell of my chest, soft and maddening. Stubble grazes my skin, every drag of it grounding and igniting all at once. My hips lift instinctively.

His palm presses me back down. "Patience, Emris."

"Hypocrite," I breathe.

He chuckles, breath hot against my skin. "I've been patient all night. Watching you across the dinner table, looking at me like you wanted to pull me under it."

His teeth scrape over the top of my bra. I twitch beneath him, breath snagging in my throat. "But now..." he murmurs. "Now you wait for me."

I want to say something scathing. Something sarcastic. But then he unclasps my bra with infuriating precision, eyes locked to mine as he slides it away like he's unwrapping a secret.

"Beautiful," he whispers, almost to himself. "You don't even know what you do to me."

I don't get the chance to answer. His mouth closes over one nipple, sucking deep and slow, while his thumb rolls over the other. My back arches off the bed.

He takes his time. Every inch of me, explored like a map he already knows but wants to trace again anyway. Worshipful. Purposeful. His lips move lower, kissing down to the waistband of my underwear with a heat that has my toes curling.

When he hooks his finger beneath the elastic, dragging it down my legs—slowly—I groan. "God, you're slow."

"And you're impatient," he counters, smug.

He kisses the inside of my knee, then my thigh, then higher. Every breath becomes a plea I refuse to say aloud.

When he finally settles between my thighs, I'm shaking.

His breath ghosts over me. "Say it."

I blink. "Say what?"

"You know." His knuckle slides down my center, feather-light, and I jerk at the contact. "You want my mouth?" His thumb slides through the wetness between my legs. "My fingers?" A lazy stroke—teasing, sinful. "Ask."

I narrow my eyes. "You're being dramatic."

He smiles like I'm his favorite game. "We can do this all night."

He presses a kiss just above my clit—close. So close. My hips chase his mouth and he pulls back again, locking my thighs with his hands.

"Bucky," I whimper. "Stop teasing."

"Not until you give me what I want."

My pride is screaming. But my body is louder. Every inch of me aches—tight, trembling, soaked.

Finally, I whisper, "Please."

His eyes go molten. "Say it again."

"Please. Touch me."

He exhales—sharp, broken. And then he devours me.

His tongue licks a long, slow path through my folds, and I nearly sob. His mouth is everything—hot, skilled, relentless. His fingers slide in, curling perfectly, like he knows every secret my body ever tried to keep.

"Fuck—Bucky—"

He groans like my voice is his reward. "That's it. Let me hear you."

Control slips. I'm writhing, clinging to his hair, biting my lip to hold back every moan—but he doesn't stop. Doesn't give me a second. He drags me right to the edge—

And then pulls away.

"Wait—what—no—" I gasp.

Bucky lifts his head, face slick, lips swollen. "You can wait a little longer."

Three times.

Three.

Every time I'm close, he stops. Makes me feel everything, then takes it away with a kiss to my thigh and a fucking smirk.

"Bucky," I sob. "Please."

My voice is shaking. My hands are in his hair, desperate.

I hate this. I hate how he affects me. I hate how I let him.

"You sound so fucking sweet when you beg."

And then he stops playing.

He dives back in—ruthless. Fingers pounding, mouth locked to my clit, devouring like a man starved. No more teasing. Just raw, consuming heat.

I unravel.

My orgasm hits like a wave crashing through me—violent, blinding. I cry out, sob his name, shaking under his mouth as he works me through it like he lives for it.

He finally pulls back, licking his lips like he's proud of himself. Crawls up the bed until he's over me, eyes searching.

I'm breathless. Wrecked.

He kisses me—slow, sweet, deep—letting me taste myself.

"You good?" he whispers.

I nod, dazed. "I hate you a little."

He grins, brushing hair from my cheek. "Just a little?"

"Okay. A lot."

He kisses my forehead, smug and smugger. "We'll work on that."

I'm still trembling, trying to remember how to breathe, when Bucky settles beside me—warm and smug and infuriatingly satisfied with himself.

"You're quiet," he says, voice low, almost a tease.

I shoot him a glare that's more heat than venom. "I'm plotting."

He grins, that cocky, lopsided smirk that makes my pulse stutter. "Yeah? Against me?"

I roll toward him slowly, deliberately, until my bare chest brushes his side and I feel the way his muscles twitch in response. "You deserve it."

He makes a low noise in the back of his throat—amused, but dark with warning. "You're playing a dangerous game, princess."

I slide one leg over his hips, straddling him before he can stop me. He doesn't try. Just leans back on his elbows, watching me with that sharp, feral interest, like he's wondering what I'll do next.

Good. Let him wonder.

I bend over him, trailing my fingers down his chest, slow and light, barely touching, until they hook into the hem of his shirt. "Take this off."

His eyes spark. "You could ask nicely."

"I could," I murmur, leaning in close enough to graze my teeth against his jaw. "But where's the fun in that?"

He laughs, low and husky, and peels the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. His chest is all scars and hard lines and temptation, and I let my palms skim down the center of it like I'm mapping familiar territory.

"You like being in charge now, huh?" he mutters, watching the way I settle on top of him.

"I like watching you squirm."

His smirk falters—just barely—but I catch it. I roll my hips once, slowly, dragging across the front of his sweats where he's already hard. His jaw clenches. His hands flex against the sheets like he's holding himself back.

It makes me bolder.

"You're not the only one who knows how to tease," I whisper, lowering my mouth to his neck. I kiss there—slow and open-mouthed—until I find the pulse pounding beneath his skin. I bite, just enough to make him grunt, and suck until I know it'll leave a mark.

"You're gonna pay for that," he growls.

"I'm counting on it."

I slide down, kissing over each scar on his chest like they're sacred. When I reach the waistband of his sweats, I glance up at him through my lashes. "Still feeling smug, soldier?"

He doesn't answer. His gaze is heavy, jaw locked, breath shallow.

I tug the waistband down just enough to free him, and he groans, deep and guttural, the sound punching straight through me.

And God, he's beautiful like this. Laid out. Tense. Letting me lead but just barely holding the leash.

I wrap a hand around him, slow, just to watch his head tip back, his breath catch.

"You're evil," he mutters.

I pump once, then twice—slow, torturous—and bend down to press a kiss just above the head.

"I learned from the best."

When I lick him, he hisses through his teeth. His fingers tangle in the sheets again, refusing to grab me even though I can feel how badly he wants to. His restraint is almost... reverent.

I take him into my mouth inch by inch, watching his abs tighten as I move. Hollow my cheeks. Flick my tongue along the underside. Pull back with a wet pop, then do it again, just to watch him come undone.

"Fuck, Emris—"

His voice is strained, low and wild. His hips buck, and I press one hand to his stomach to hold him in place.

"No," I whisper, lips brushing his tip. "You don't get to rush me."

His groan is almost a growl. His control is slipping—and I love it. I bob my head, twist my wrist, suck harder, until he's cursing under his breath and finally fists his hand in my hair.

"Enough," he says, voice rough and frayed. "I need to be inside you."

I let go of him with one last lick and crawl back up his body. "Then do something about it."

In a flash, his hands are on my hips, flipping me onto my back again, and he pins me there with a look that's all teeth and fire.

"Oh, I plan to," he growls.

Bucky moves like a storm once he's on top—hands gripping my thighs, dragging me to the edge of the bed like he owns me. And for a second, I let him.

He kisses me hard, like he's starving. Like he's trying to erase every ghost between us with the weight of his mouth on mine. My nails rake down his back, and he groans into the kiss—low, wrecked, desperate.

"I warned you," he growls against my lips, voice jagged with need. "You don't get to play with fire and act surprised when it burns."

"Then burn me," I hiss, wrapping my legs around his waist.

He doesn't hesitate. He thrusts into me in one powerful motion, and I cry out, head tipping back as heat tears through me like lightning. He swallows the sound with another kiss, then pulls back and drives in again—deep, perfect, punishing.

God, he feels too good.

Too much.

Too him.

Every push of his hips steals a piece of my breath, every flex of his muscles above me unraveling the walls I thought were solid. I clutch at his back, dig my heels into him, trying to stay tethered to something as the rhythm builds and builds.

He's everywhere. Hands on my skin. Mouth on my throat. Teeth scraping that spot below my ear that makes my vision blur.

I still adjust to his size.

"Look at me," he demands, voice wrecked.

I do.

His eyes are dark, pupils blown, but there's something else there too—something raw. Worshipful.

Dangerous.

He presses his forehead to mine. "You're not just under my skin. You're inside me. And I hate it."

I kiss him hard, almost angry, teeth clicking.

"Then do something about it."

He groans again, deep and guttural, and then suddenly slows. His movements shift—less force, more depth. Like he's savoring it now. Like he's trying to remember every second of the way I feel wrapped around him.

"Take over," he breathes. "Ride me."

The words crack through me like a whip.

I blink up at him, stunned. "What?"

His eyes blaze. "You want control? Take it."

Then he's rolling onto his back, dragging me with him until I'm straddling him again, my thighs bracketing his hips, his hands resting warm and firm on my waist.

Not forcing.

Not guiding.

Just waiting.

Letting me choose.

The gesture knocks the wind out of me.

I brace my hands on his chest and roll my hips once—testing the angle, the stretch, the burn of it. He hisses through his teeth, his grip on me tightening, but he doesn't move. Doesn't take it back.

I rise up slowly, watching the way his jaw tenses, the way he bites down on a groan when I sink back down again.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Just like that."

I build the pace, letting the friction coil tight in my belly, letting the tension pull between us like wire ready to snap. He watches me with open hunger, hands sliding to my thighs, stroking and squeezing but never forcing.

This time, I make him moan.

This time, he's the one falling apart.

I lean forward, panting against his lips, our foreheads brushing.

"You still smug, soldier?"

He laughs, breathless. "Not even a little."

I smile—wicked, aching, alive—and ride him harder.

He fists the sheets beneath him, every vein in his arms standing out. "You're gonna kill me."

"You'll die happy."

"Damn right I will."

The rhythm falters as heat tightens in my gut, sparking like wildfire. I slam my hips down harder, and he bucks up beneath me with a grunt, chasing it—chasing me.

"Em—" he warns, voice strained. "I'm not gonna last—"

"Then don't."

He growls my name like a curse as he thrusts up one last time, spilling into me with a broken gasp. I follow seconds later, crying out as the world rips open and everything inside me shatters.

The room spins.

Our hearts race in sync.

And for a long, breathless moment, there's nothing but the sound of us breathing each other in.

He cups the back of my neck, pulling me down so our foreheads touch again. Not speaking. Not smirking.

Just holding.

Letting me be.

Letting me stay.

I start to pull off him, breath still ragged, thighs trembling. My body is flushed, slick with sweat, and my limbs feel boneless. Bucky's chest rises and falls beneath me, skin hot, heartbeat still thundering against my palms.

I go to move—half to collapse beside him, half to escape the overwhelming everything—but his hands lock tight around my hips.

"Where do you think you're going?" His voice is low, dark silk laced with gravel. Not mocking. Not smug. Something heavier.

"I thought you were—" I glance down, lips parted, still catching my breath. "Done."

A smirk ghosts across his lips. Not cocky—just certain.

"I'm not."

Before I can blink, he's flipped us again. His strength is ridiculous, effortless, frustrating. He drags my thighs apart with a firm grip and settles between them like he belongs there.

"Bucky—" I start, breath hitching.

He looks up at me from between my legs, hair mussed, pupils blown wide. There's something unspoken in his eyes. Not lust. Not just that.

Obsession.

Devotion, maybe, if either of us believed in that kind of thing still.

"I told you," he murmurs, voice rough with need, "you don't get to fuck with my head and then look at me like that—like I'm the one unraveling."

I open my mouth to snap something back, but it turns into a gasp when he licks a slow stripe up my inner thigh, stopping just before where I need him most.

"I'm not done until you're shaking," he says against my skin.

Then he buries his face between my legs.

My spine bows instantly, breath tearing from my lungs as his tongue moves with deliberate, devastating skill. He's slow at first—torturously slow—teasing, learning every reaction I give him. Every twitch. Every moan.

His hands keep my thighs open, thumbs pressing just enough to make sure I can't close them around his head, no matter how much my body tries to.

I grab the sheets, then his hair, then nothing—unable to figure out where to anchor myself when he's pulling me apart like this. His tongue flicks over my clit in a rhythm that makes my legs tremble, my whole body arch.

"Bucky—oh my god—"

He groans into me like he likes the sound of his name from my mouth. The vibrations make me whimper.

"You taste like sin," he mutters, licking deeper, rougher. "And I'm a fucking glutton."

My hands fist in his hair. "I swear to god—if you don't let me—"

"Let you what?" he asks, voice muffled and smug.

I glare down at him, panting. "Come."

"Then come," he growls.

And he wraps his lips around me like he means to worship me into oblivion.

I fall apart so fast I almost cry. My back arches, fingers gripping his hair so tightly he groans, and my body goes tight, then loose, pleasure crashing over me in waves that won't stop.

I hear myself say his name like a prayer and a curse.

Bucky doesn't let up. He licks me through it—soft and slow, coaxing every aftershock from my body until I'm twitching and oversensitive and helpless under his mouth.

Only then does he crawl up my body, kissing my stomach, my chest, my throat.

By the time he reaches my lips, I can barely move.

He kisses me softly.

Too softly.

We lie there in silence for a long minute.

Our skin is still damp, tangled up in the sheets and each other, and for once, neither of us says anything cutting or cruel. No barbed remarks. No jabs. Just... quiet. Just breath and sweat and the thudding echo of what just happened, still reverberating between us like an aftershock.

Then Bucky shifts.

He presses one last kiss to my shoulder—gentle, too gentle—and pulls away from me. I watch him sit up, the muscles in his back catching the low light of the room. He doesn't look at me as he gets up and walks toward the bathroom, grabbing a towel on the way.

A moment later, I hear the shower start.

I stay in bed.

I should move. Should follow. Should say something snarky or flippant to keep this from feeling like it means anything.

But I don't.

Instead, I lay there, staring at the ceiling, body humming with the ghost of his mouth on me.

What the hell are we doing?

He was supposed to hate me.

I was supposed to hate him.

And yet here I am, in his bed—his shirt still hanging from the bedpost like some damning piece of evidence—wrapped in sheets that still smell like him, and I don't feel scared or trapped or cornered.

I feel...

Safe.

God, that pisses me off.

He looks at me like he doesn't hate me. Like he sees something good, even when I'm at my worst. That look he gives me—it's quiet, steady. Warm, even when he's furious. I don't know how to process it. Don't know how to accept it.

I don't want to accept it.

This was supposed to be tension and hatred and violent chemistry.

This was supposed to be about scratching an itch we both despised.

But this—what keeps happening—feels like something else. Like surrender.

And I don't know how to live with that.

I roll over, growling under my breath, irritated at everything. At myself. At him. At how domestic this has started to feel. Coffee. Dinners. Showers. Quiet. Shared space. Shared body heat. Bickering like an old married couple.

This isn't who I am.

This isn't who we are.

But the worst part?

A small, traitorous part of me wants it.

I slam my eyes shut and curse into the pillow.

No. Not now. Not while we're still stranded in the middle of nowhere in fake-married exile with knives at our backs and ghosts in every shadow.

I'll deal with this later.

When Nat, Steve, and Sam come back.

When I can breathe again.

When it's easier to lie to myself.

I push the sheet off, legs still shaky but determined, and pad toward the bathroom. The door's cracked open just enough to let steam curl out into the hall.

I don't knock.

I don't speak.

I step into the warmth and let the door close behind me.

Whatever this is—we'll figure it out later.

But right now?

I just want to be near him.