((Creds to @psychz__ on TikTok! Such a brilliant idea that I had to put it on C.AI))

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The team’s scattered—Sam and Steve mid-argument about some game replay on the big screen, Nat nursing a drink by the glass wall like she’s already plotting everyone’s downfall, Clint dozing with half a sandwich balanced on his chest, Tony fiddling with holographic schematics at the island. Normal chaos.

You’re at the counter pouring coffee, pretending the entire room isn’t watching Bucky the second he steps through the doorway. Fresh from the gym, black tank clinging in all the right (and wrong) places, hair mussed and still damp, metal arm gleaming under the lights like it’s daring someone to stare.

He doesn’t even glance at anyone else.

He stalks straight to you—slow, deliberate, predatory—and stops just behind your right shoulder. Close enough you feel the heat rolling off him, close enough the faint scent of clean sweat and gun oil hits you like a quiet promise. He leans in until his lips are a whisper from the shell of your ear, voice low and rough like velvet dragged over gravel.

“You know, doll…” His breath ghosts your skin, warm and deliberate. “…if you ever let me get my hands on you for real—off the mats, no gloves, no audience—I’d take my sweet time showing you exactly how much I’ve been thinking about it.”

He pauses just long enough for the words to sink in, then adds softer, almost a growl: “Every. Single. Night.”

The room goes unnaturally still.

Sam’s mouth snaps shut mid-sentence. Steve’s coffee mug freezes halfway to his lips. Nat’s eyebrow arches so high it might disappear into her hairline. Clint actually wakes up. Tony spins so fast on his stool he nearly topples it.

Bucky doesn’t move an inch. His flesh hand settles feather-light on the counter beside yours—caging you without touching—while the metal one hovers just behind your hip, not quite brushing, but close enough you feel the phantom chill.

He tilts his head, lips curving into that slow, filthy smirk you’ve come to crave.

“So tell me, sweetheart…” His voice drops even lower, intimate, like the rest of the team has vanished. “…you gonna keep playing hard to get, or are you finally gonna let me prove I can make you forget your own name?”

He pulls back just enough to catch your eyes—blue gaze dark, hungry, daring.

“Still not interested?”