Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Avengers gathered in the communal living room of Stark Tower, an air of bewilderment and irritation hanging over them like the strange, iridescent mist that had enveloped them just hours earlier. The confrontation with Loki had gone according to plan, right until the moment it hadn't. Despite being in restraints, the God of Mischief had managed to get the last laugh, smashing a mysterious vial against the ground that released a noxious cloud of shimmering emerald-tinged fumes.

Now, as the evening shadows lengthened across Manhattan's skyline visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the consequences of his final trick were impossible to ignore. The transformation had been subtle at first, a peculiar tingling sensation, followed by an alarming warmth that seemed to rewrite their very DNA. Within hours, each of them had begun manifesting physical characteristics of their apparent spirit animals.

Bucky sat rigidly at the edge of the leather couch, his newly formed lupine ears flattening against his dark hair as he scowled. The transformation had given his already intimidating presence an additional feral edge, steel-blue eyes now ringed with amber, fingernails thickened into subtle claws that he couldn't quite figure out how to retract. His heightened senses made the compound’s usual ambient noises nearly unbearable, each electronic hum and distant conversation assaulting his ears with painful clarity.

Beside him, Steve's transformation was perhaps the most visually striking, yet least surprising. Golden-brown feathers had erupted from his forearms, forming wings that folded awkwardly against his back when not extended. His normally clear blue eyes had sharpened to the piercing gaze of a raptor, pupils contracting and dilating as he surveyed the room with unnerving precision. Every movement he made carried a new, graceful efficiency, as though his body was perpetually preparing for flight.

Natasha had adapted to her fox features with characteristic composure, though the russet-colored fox ears twitching atop her head betrayed her agitation. Her movements had become even more fluid and calculated, each step silent despite the delicate claws that now tipped her fingers. When she smiled, which had been rare since the incident, sharp canines gleamed in the low light, lending her expressions a newly predatory quality that even Clint found unsettling.

"A peacock? Really? The bird known primarily for strutting around showing off? I mean, sure, I invented a new element in my basement and revolutionized clean energy while looking fantastic doing it... okay, fine, but I'm a much cooler peacock. Think peacock with repulsor technology. And better facial hair," Tony rambled, unable to resist preening the pretty blue and green feathers that had replaced some of his hair and erupted in a magnificent train behind him.

Despite his complaints, there was no denying that the billionaire seemed almost pleased with his flamboyant plumage, periodically fanning it out when he thought no one was looking.

"This is ridiculous," Bucky scowled as he crossed his arms on the couch, a low, involuntary growl punctuating his frustration. His enhanced hearing picked up the subtle increase in your heartbeat as his eyes met yours across the room.

"At least you guys are something cool," you seethed, sulking deeper into the cushions of the couch you’re fuming on.

The soft white ears on your ears laid flat on your head, showing your displeasement.

"My spirit animal is a fucking bunny apparently."

Your transformation had been the last to manifest and, in your opinion, the most mortifying. While the others had received predatory or majestic forms that somehow aligned with their combat abilities, you had woken from your nap to find delicate white rabbit ears sprouting from your head, your reflexes heightened but paired with an unfortunate new tendency to freeze at sudden movements. The twitching nose and enhanced sense of smell might have been useful in the field, but the overwhelming urge to seek shelter at the first sign of danger felt like a cosmic joke at your expense.

Banner, mercifully unaffected by the transformation (which he theorized was due to the Hulk's unique biology already representing a transformation of sorts), looked up from his tablet where he'd been analyzing blood samples from each of you.

"The molecular structure of Loki's compound is unlike anything I've seen," he said, removing his glasses with a weary gesture. "It appears to have triggered a reconfiguration at the genetic level, manifesting traits that align with what appears to be some form of spiritual resonance. Fascinating, actually, from a purely scientific perspective."

"Fascinating isn't the word I'd use," you muttered, absently stroking one of your long ears that had flopped forward over your shoulder. "How long before it wears off?"

The silence that followed was more answer than you wanted.

“Bruce, please tell me you at least know an estimate,” you pleaded.

Bruce's expression softened with sympathy, the corners of his mouth turning downward as he adjusted his glasses. The gesture, though small, conveyed volumes about the uncertainty of their predicament. A heavy silence stretched across the room, broken only by the soft hum of Tony's advanced air filtration systems.

You sank deeper into the plush cushions of the couch, fingers clutching at your long, velvety ears in frustration. With a dramatic groan, you pulled them down to cover your face entirely, as if their softness might somehow shield you from the humiliating reality of your transformation.

"Hey, it's not so bad," Steve offered, his voice carrying that unmistakable Captain America optimism that typically rallied troops but now felt woefully inadequate.

The golden feathers along his forearms caught the afternoon light streaming through the windows, casting prismatic patterns across the polished floor.

From behind the curtain of your own ears, you glared at him, one eye visible between the fuzzy appendages.

"I am a fucking BUNNY, Rogers," you enunciated each word with clarity, as if explaining a disaster to a particularly dense recruit. "A bunny. Not a majestic eagle. Not a cunning fox. Not even a strutting peacock or a wolf."

Your gaze swept the room, landing on each of your transformed colleagues before settling on Bucky with unmistakable envy. His furry ears, dark and imposing like the man himself, twitched slightly under your scrutiny. They suited him perfectly, the predator, the survivor, the warrior. Unlike your ridiculous, floppy extremities that seemed designed by nature specifically to announce vulnerability. You studied the way his new features integrated seamlessly with his already intimidating presence, how the silver-gray fur at the tips of his ears complemented the winter blue of his eyes.

"What?" Bucky growled defensively, the sound rumbling from deep within his chest.

His enhanced hearing had undoubtedly picked up the accelerated rhythm of your heartbeat as your frustration mounted. His canine ears flattened slightly against his hair, a subtle warning that your staring had not gone unnoticed. The injustice of it all burned in your chest. The universe had a particularly cruel sense of humor, transforming the deadliest assassin of the century into an apex predator while relegating you to a highly trained agent with an impressive mission success rate to the embodiment of prey.

"Nothing, just looking at how aesthetically pleasing your stupid ears are compared to mine," you scoffed, failing to mask the bitterness lacing your words.

You released your floppy ears, allowing them to spring back to their upright position as you folded your arms across your chest. Something was deeply wrong with you,because you thought his new appearance made him more devastatingly handsome somehow. The tactical gear he wore fit him differently now, emphasizing the broader span of his shoulders and the powerful lines of his frame in ways that made your mouth go dry.

The black fabric stretched across his chest with each controlled breath, and you found yourself transfixed by his movements. Bucky turned his gaze to you. The intensity of his attention was palpable, a physical weight that seemed to compress the air in your lungs. For a suspended moment that felt infinite and impossibly brief, you were caught in the snare of his regard, unable to look away despite every instinct screaming at you to break eye contact before he could read too much in your expression.

Heat flooded your face in a mortifying rush when you realized you had been caught staring, your ears flattening against your skull in an involuntary display of embarrassment that you couldn't suppress despite your best efforts. You quickly turned away, heart thundering in your chest so loud that you were certain everyone in the room could hear.

Bucky regarded you with measured curiosity, one dark eyebrow arching upward in that particular way that somehow conveyed both amusement and skepticism simultaneously. The silver-tipped wolf ears atop his head swiveled slightly in your direction, catching every subtle inflection in your breathing pattern. Behind him, his tail, a plush extension of dark fur with bands of silver gray that matched his vibranium arm, swept against the leather upholstery in a languid, controlled motion that spoke of predatory patience.

The graceful movement only intensified your misery.

"Even your tail is cool," you muttered, uncrossing then recrossing your legs as your own embarrassing cotton puff of a tail pressed uncomfortably against the chair. "Loki should have just slapped a white pompom on my ass if he wanted to be so evil. At least then I could pretend it was some bizarre fashion statement rather than a genetic reality."

Your fingers traced the velvety length of one drooping ear, the fur softer than the cashmere Loro Piana sweater in your closet. Despite their undeniable softness, you could not accept these new appendages that transformed you from a respected Avenger to a living cartoon character.

Bucky watched the play of emotions across your face, his enhanced senses detecting the subtle shifts in your scent that accompanied your rising frustration. The corner of his mouth twitched almost upward, revealing the barest hint of sharpened canines that gleamed like polished ivory in the golden light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"What?" you scowled up at him, catching Bucky's intense gaze lingering on your transformation.

Bucky's lips curved into a rare smile, the expression transforming his usually stoic features into something almost boyish despite the predatory ears perched atop his head.

"Nothing," he replied, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the air between you. His tail swayed behind him languidly as he leaned back against the leather sofa. "Just thinking that your transformation suits you more than you realize."

Before you could demand an elaboration on his cryptic observation, Tony interjected with characteristic timing that bordered on theatrical.

"Hey, at least you didn't get giant buck teeth," Tony offered, his voice carrying that particular blend of mockery and amusement that only he could achieve while simultaneously appearing genuinely entertained by his own wit.

The iridescent feathers around his collar ruffled slightly as he adjusted his position, catching the afternoon light in prismatic waves of blue and green that scattered kaleidoscopic patterns across the sleek surfaces of the room. Your head snapped toward him with such swift precision that your long ears created a soft whooshing sound as they cut through the air, eyes narrowed dangerously, pupils contracting to pinpoints against the vibrant color of your irises. The soft, delicate ears that had been standing tall in alert indignation flattened against your skull in a display of aggression that would have been intimidating if not for their inherent fluffiness.

"Shut it, bird," you scowled, your voice dropping to a dangerous register.

Your fingers curled slightly against the fabric of the armchair, the newly formed claws, dainty compared to Natasha's fox talons but sharp nonetheless, leaving almost imperceptible indentations in the expensive furniture.

"Not all of us can peacock around enjoying our transformations."

Tony raised his hands in mock surrender, the gesture causing his magnificent tail feathers to fan slightly behind him in an involuntary display that undermined his attempt at contrition.

"Simply making an observation about the silver linings of your particular predicament," he replied, his smirk widening as he caught Rhodey attempting to disguise a laugh as a cough.

"The ears are actually rather fetching. Very fashion-forward. I could see them starting a trend in certain circles,” Rhodey added.

"Right, because nothing screams haute couture like furry bunny ears," you replied, your voice dripping with sarcasm so thick it could have coated the sleek marble floors.

You rolled your eyes dramatically, the gesture made all the more expressive by the way your long ears twitched and swiveled in perfect synchronization with your irritation.

"Perhaps next season's runway will feature carrot-themed accessories and underground burrow-inspired living spaces,” Tony shrugged, not even bothering to hide his smirk.

From across the room, Clint and Rhodey observed the unfolding spectacle with the barely contained glee of schoolchildren witnessing playground drama. They had been conveniently absent during Loki's mischievous attack, their timing impeccable enough to avoid transformation while remaining present for the aftermath. Fortune's favorites, spared by circumstance rather than design. Clint's shoulders shook with silent laughter as he leaned against the polished chrome refrigerator, one hand braced against its surface as if requiring physical support to remain upright in the face of free entertainment.

Beside him, Rhodey pressed his knuckles against his lips, the man's composure cracking under the weight of suppressed mirth. Their snickering carried across the room, each soft chuckle amplified by your heightened hearing. Your head swiveled toward them with predatory sharpness that belied your herbivorous appearance. Your eyes narrowed dangerously, irises contracting to pinpoints of pure, focused indignation.

The change in their demeanor was instantaneous and absolute. Clint suddenly developed an intense fascination with the ceiling, his head tilted back at an angle as if he had discovered previously unnoticed architectural marvels in the compound. Rhodey became engrossed in examining his watch, studying its face with the concentration of a man defusing a bomb, his brow furrowed in feigned contemplation of the time.

Neither man dared meet your gaze directly, their eyes darting to every corner of the room with evasion. The air grew charged with tension, thick enough to slice with the combat knife strapped to your ankle beneath your pants,a weapon that felt increasingly inadequate compared to the natural armaments your transformed friends now possessed.

While you screamed and cursed at the God of Mischief internally, a complex battle raged within the mind of the wolf hybrid seated beside you. Bucky found himself utterly disarmed by something he could neither name nor comprehend. It wasn't simply your newly acquired bunny features that captivated him, though they certainly contributed to the strange magnetism he felt pulling at something primal within his chest.

He found himself studying the curve of your profile, the way sunlight caught in your hair, how your nose twitched when you were particularly annoyed. Without conscious thought, Bucky reached toward you. His fingers made contact with one velvety ear that swiveled instinctively toward his touch.

The sensation of impossible softness against his fingertips sent an electrical current racing up his arm, igniting nerve endings he'd forgotten existed. Your entire body tensed beneath his touch. Your head turned slowly until your gaze locked with his pupils dilating slightly in a biological response you couldn't suppress. Something unspoken passed between you in that suspended moment, a current of tension neither wholly uncomfortable nor entirely unwelcome.

Bucky froze, his hand still cradling your ear, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. A flicker of something that might have been embarrassment crossed his features before being subsumed beneath his carefully maintained veneer of stoicism.

He didn't withdraw his hand.

Instead, his thumb traced an almost imperceptible path along the velvet-soft edge of your ear, the gesture so light it might have been imagined.

"Pet your own much cooler ears," you muttered.

Bucky's lips curved into a ghost of a smile, genuine amusement warming the winter blue of his eyes. Rather than retreating from his momentary indiscretion, he continued his careful exploration, fingers gliding along the silken length of your ear with an attention to detail.

"Yours are softer," he shrugged.

The wolf ears atop his head swiveled forward with interest, betraying his attention despite his attempt at indifference. His fingers trailed downward, following the graceful curve where your ear met your scalp, the cool metal creating a shiver-inducing contrast to the warmth of his flesh hand still cradling the delicate appendage.

"Besides," he added, voice dropping to a rumble that seemed designed to travel directly from his chest to yours, "pretty sure touching my own ears wouldn't produce the same fascinating heart rate increase I'm detecting in you right now."

Heat bloomed across your cheeks, the blush no doubt visible to everyone in the room. You cursed your transformed body's inability to hide the effect he has on you.

"I'm not sure which is worse," you finally managed, your voice steadier than you felt, "being turned into a rabbit or being petted like one."

You made no move to pull away, however, your body betraying your words as your ear instinctively leaned into his touch. Across the room, Tony cleared his throat dramatically, feathers catching the light as he straightened his posture.

"Should we leave you two alone for some... inter-species bonding time?" he asked coyly, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

The look you shot him could have frozen lava.

"One more word, Stark, and I'll pluck those pretty feathers one by one for a new pillow."

Bucky's low chuckle rumbled beside you, the sound vibrating through the air between you. His hand finally withdrew, but not before one last soft stroke along the length of your ear.

"Pretty sure hunting birds is just playing into your new instincts, bunny,” he murmured.

You turned to face him fully, ready with a sharp retort, but the words died in your throat. There was something in his expression, a warm fascination, that caught you off guard. His wolf ears were perked forward attentively, his eyes tracking your every microexpression with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. The predator-prey dynamic between your transformations wasn't lost on you, but rather than feeling threatened, you found yourself inexplicably drawn to him.

"At least some of us are enjoying this situation," Natasha commented dryly from her perch on the arm of a nearby chair.

"Well," Steve said, adjusting his position to accommodate the massive golden wings now folded against his back, "Loki said the effects would wear off within seventy-two hours. We've made it through four hours already."

"Stevie, you really gonna trust the word of a trickster?" Bucky snorted, his ears flattening against his head in obvious skepticism.

"Yeah, Stevie," you echoed with mockingly.

Your bunny features somehow enhanced the effect, lending an incongruous edge to your words. The delicate twitch of your nose punctuated your derision with perfect timing.

"Because Loki has such an impeccable track record with honesty. Remember that time he told Thor the bifrost was broken and it turned out he had just reprogrammed it to transport everyone to a pocket dimension filled with sentient jello? Such trustworthiness,” you added.

Steve's golden wings rustled with agitation.

"I understand the concern," he replied calmly.

His crystal blue eyes, now ringed with gold like an eagle's, scanned the room with methodical precision.

"But we have limited options. SHIELD containment protocols for magical transformations require seventy-two hours of observation before intervention. If Loki is telling the truth about the duration, we return to normal before any invasive procedures become necessary."

Tony barked out a laugh, his brilliant plumage shimmering with arrogance as he strutted across the room.

"Always the optimist, Captain Feathers. Personally, I think we should prepare for the worst-case scenario. I have already instructed FRIDAY to begin compiling data on species-appropriate dietary requirements and habitat modifications."

He paused dramatically, his trademark grin appearing particularly avian with his transformed features.

"The rabbit hutch for our fluffy friend here should arrive by morning. Premium quality. Heated floors. The works."

The glare you leveled at him could have curdled milk. Your fists clenched at your sides, the subtle flex of your fingers betraying a desire to reach for the weapons you habitually carried.

"One more word out of you, Stark, and I’m making rotisserie peacock for dinner,” you scowled.

"Fine," Tony exclaimed, throwing his hands skyward in a dramatic flourish. "I was going to be nice and order you fresh carrots from that organic farm upstate. The one that supplies Per Se and Le Bernardin. Premium rabbit fuel. But nevermind."

His voice carried that particular Stark brand of wounded magnanimity, the affected tone of someone who believed their generosity had been cruelly rebuffed. The slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, however, betrayed his enjoyment of the situation. Your fingers curled into the plush cushion beneath you, newly formed claws emerging unbidden from your fingertips to rip through the expensive Italian leather with an obscenely satisfying sound.

"I hate carrots," you seethed, your voice emerging as a low, dangerous growl that seemed fundamentally at odds with your bunny appearance. "Always have. Even before Loki decided to play magical petting zoo with the Avengers."

The furry ears atop your head swiveled backward in a display of aggression that would have been comical if not for the lethal promise radiating from your posture.

"Such destructive tendencies from someone so fluffy," Tony observed, his gaze fixed on the ruined cushion with an expression that oscillated between amusement and genuine calculation of replacement costs. "Should we be concerned about property damage for the remaining sixty-eight hours of this?"

Bucky released a quiet laugh beside you. It resonated through his chest, vibrating against your arm where his body remained a solid, reassuring presence.

"Leave her be, Tony," Pepper intervened. Her fingers reached out swifltly, plucking one of the feathers from his plumage with precision.

"That was attached!" he yelped, rubbing the spot dramatically. "And I was simply making observations about our transformed friends. Scientific inquiry. You know, for the sake of documentation."

Pepper twirled the captured feather between her fingers, studying how the colors shifted and transformed with each rotation.

"Your scientific inquiry sounds suspiciously like antagonism," she observed, her tone mild but her eyes sharp with warning. "Perhaps you could redirect that brilliant mind toward finding solutions rather than provoking your already stressed teammates."

The silence that followed her gentle rebuke stretched like taffy, sweet but with an underlying tension that everyone in the room could taste. Tony opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, resembling nothing so much as an exceptionally colorful fish gasping for water. The rarity of rendering Tony Stark momentarily speechless was not lost on anyone present.

"Thor said there was a cure for this. He's searching for it as we speak," Steve muttered.

You inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring with the sharp intake of breath. The scents in the room had transformed since your metamorphosis, becoming a complex tapestry of information that your human senses would never have detected. The metallic undertones mingled with pine forest that defined Bucky's presence invaded your senses overwhelmingly.

"Someone find Dr. Strange and tell him to open a portal to Asgard for me so I can scream at Thor to find the cure quicker," you grumbled. "I want to personally motivate our Asgardian friend with some uniquely terrestrial threats."

Your fingers idly traced the ruin you had made of Tony's Italian leather cushion, a subtle reminder of the destruction you were capable of despite your seemingly harmless exterior. The gesture was not lost on your companions, particularly not on the former Winter Soldier who watched the movement with undisguised appreciation.

"So aggressive for a bunny," Bucky chuckled.

The words rumbled from deep within his chest, a private communication meant solely for you. His winter blue eyes gleamed with something that walked the razor edge between amusement and adoration, lips curved in a smile that revealed the sharp canines his transformation had accentuated. You narrowed your eyes at Bucky, the movement causing your nose to twitch in a way that undermined the threatening glare you were attempting to convey.

“Call me 'bunny' one more time, Barnes, and I'll demonstrate exactly how aggressive I can be. Prey animals survive through adaptation and cunning, traits I was quite skilled with even before this ridiculous transformation."

Natasha chuckled, the sound elegant and musical despite the vulpine changes to her vocal cords. She reclined further into her chair, the graceful sweep of her auburn-furred tail curling around her legs with poise.

"She's got you there, Buck. The most dangerous creatures are the ones everyone underestimates,” Natasha smirked.

Bruce cleared his throat from his position by the window, where he'd been quietly observing the unfolding drama.

"From a biological perspective, this is fascinating. Loki's spell seems to have assigned forms that either complement or ironically contrast with our existing personalities and abilities,” Bruce explained.

Tony snorted. "Very insightful, doctor. And what does my magnificent plumage say about my personality? Other than the obvious, I'm brilliant, colorful, and impossible to ignore."

Pepper, who was sitting besides him, rolled her eyes as she helped preen his feathers.

"That peacocks are known primarily for excessive displays designed to compensate for various inadequacies?" you suggested sweetly, batting your eyelashes with exaggerated innocence.

The room erupted in barely suppressed laughter as Tony's feathers quite literally ruffled, expanding into a defensive display that only made your point more emphatically. Even Pepper couldn't completely hide her smile.

Bucky leaned closer, his breath warm against your sensitive ear as he whispered, "Remind me never to get on your bad side, bunny. You're lethal with or without the transformation."

The proximity sent an unexpected shiver cascading down your spine, your enhanced senses registering not just his words but the subtle notes of his scent. Metal, pine, and something uniquely him that your rabbit instincts should have registered as a dangerous predator but instead read as comforting and secure.

The dichotomy was dizzying.

"FRIDAY, any updates from Thor or Strange?" Steve asked, steering the conversation back to more productive territory. His massive wings adjusted unconsciously as he spoke, the movement causing golden feathers to catch the light in a display that momentarily distracted everyone in the room.

"No communications from either party, Captain Rogers," the AI responded promptly. "However, I have compiled extensive research on each of your transformations as per Mr. Stark's request. Would you like me to share the relevant literature on leporine behavioral patterns with Agent–"

"No!" you interrupted sharply, shooting a venomous glare at Tony. "No one needs any 'literature' on rabbit behavior, thank you very much."

"Speak for yourself, Thumper," Tony quipped, his grin showing off unnervingly sharp teeth. "Some of us are genuinely curious about how deep these transformations go. Are we just dealing with cosmetic changes, or have our instincts and physiological responses been altered too? For instance, does our resident wolf feel compelled to chase our fluffy friend here? For science, of course."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees as Bucky's eyes narrowed, a low growl rumbling from deep within his chest. The sound was primal and unmistakably threatening, raising the hair on everyone's arms.

"That's enough, Tony," Pepper interjected firmly, placing a restraining hand on his arm. "This situation is stressful enough without antagonizing each other."

Bucky shifted his weight, the movement deliberate and controlled despite the change in his DNA. His enhanced senses registered the subtle changes in your scent as your emotions fluctuated, frustration, amusement, and something deeper that mirrored his own conflicted response to your proximity. The wolf aspects of his transformation had only heightened what was already there; the protective instinct, the hyperawareness, the territorial response when Tony prodded at boundaries better left undisturbed.

"I have excellent self-control," Bucky stated, his voice deceptively calm as his eyes locked with Tony's.

His hand, the flesh one, moved almost imperceptibly closer to yours on the ruined cushion, not quite touching but offering silent solidarity. The gesture was small yet profound, a man accustomed to violence choosing restraint and companionship instead.

"Though I won't pretend," he continued, a dangerous smile playing at the corners of his mouth, revealing the elongated canines that his transformation had enhanced, "that I haven't considered some very creative ways to repay Stark for his running commentary. None of which involve chasing anyone but him."

"Mind if I join?" you inquired coyly.

The soft ears atop your head tilted forward with predatory focus, tracking Tony’s every micro expression. The room grew unnaturally silent, conversations halting mid sentence as everyone registered the transformation in your demeanor. Gone was the defensive irritation of moments before, replaced by something infinitely more calculated. Your nose twitched once, twice, an involuntary gesture that was deceptively innocent.

"How lovely," Tony remarked, his voice artificially light as he took an instinctive half step backward. His color contracted slightly against his body, an unconscious protective response that betrayed his outward nonchalance. "We have our very own Bonnie and Clyde. Should I be concerned about the structural integrity of the compound, or merely my personal safety?"

"Though the comparison lacks imagination," you smirked, leaning subtly into Bucky's solid presence while maintaining unblinking eye contact with Tony. "Bonnie and Clyde were amateurs who died young and accomplished little. We have considerably more experience and finesse."

The tension in the atmosphere was shattered by Natasha's throaty laughter, her fox features lending the sound a wild, untamed quality that perfectly captured the chaos simmering beneath the surface of your civilized gathering.

"I would pay substantial money to watch this unfold," she declared, eyes gleaming with anticipation. "The peacock versus the wolf and rabbit. Nature documentaries never could."

The shared glance between you and Bucky did not go unnoticed by the others in the room. Steve cleared his throat, the sound louder than necessary as he unconsciously unfurled his impressive wings to their full span.

"Before this devolves into something that requires property insurance claims," Steve sighed, "let's focus on solutions. Banner, what's your assessment of our changes? Are they progressing, stable, or showing any signs of reversal?"

Bruce adjusted his glasses, “The transformations appear stable for now. No further progression in the last twelve hours, which is promising. Without access to Asgardian texts or Dr. Strange's mystical expertise, I'm limited in what I can definitively state, but–"

The sudden blinding flash of golden light interrupted his assessment, causing everyone to instinctively shield their eyes. The familiar circular pattern of Strange's portal materialized in the center of the room, sparks of mystical energy cascading to the floor like molten gold.

"Speak of the devil," Tony muttered, his feathers reflexively puffing up in alarm before settling back against his body.

Dr. Strange stepped through the portal with his characteristic dramatic flair, his Cloak of Levitation billowing around him despite the absence of wind. His eyebrows rose fractionally as he took in the assembled menagerie of transformed Avengers.

"I see Loki's handiwork is as juvenile as ever," he remarked dryly, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on you and Bucky. A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Some transformations appear more... enlightening than others."
The tension that had been building dissipated slightly as everyone's attention shifted to Strange.

"Please tell me you've found a solution," Steve said, stepping forward. "We've been managing, but this situation is... complicated."

Strange moved further into the room, his eyes clinical as he assessed each of you in turn.

"Complicated is putting it mildly, Captain. Loki's spell is an ancient piece of Asgardian magic, a variant of what they call the Bestial Revelation. It's designed to manifest the inner nature of its victims through animalistic transformation."

"Inner nature?" Tony bristled, his peacock feathers expanding indignantly. "Are you suggesting this-" he gestured dramatically to his vibrant plumage, "-is my inner nature?"

"The spell doesn't lie, Stark," Strange replied with thinly veiled amusement. "Though it does have a certain... sense of humor."

Natasha leaned forward, her fox's tail swishing with calculated precision. "More importantly, can you reverse it?"

"With time, yes," Strange confirmed, conjuring a small sphere of energy between his hands that pulsated with symbols none of you recognized. "The counterspell requires specific astronomical alignments that won't occur for another seventy-two hours. Until then, you'll need to manage these forms."

"And the instincts that come with them?" Bucky asked, his voice carefully neutral despite the intensity radiating from him, throwing a quick glance towards you.

Strange's penetrating gaze settled on the two of you, something unreadable flickering across his features. "The longer you remain transformed, the more integrated those instincts become with your human consciousness. They won't override your fundamental nature, but they will... amplify certain aspects of it."

"That explains a few things," Pepper murmured,her pointed look at Tony all the more expressive.

"Indeed," Strange agreed. "The spell reveals truths about ourselves we might prefer to keep hidden, predatory instincts, territorial impulses, mating behaviors–"

"Mating behaviors?" Steve interrupted, his wings rustling with discomfort. "Are you saying these transformations are affecting us on that level too?"

The room grew uncomfortably quiet, everyone suddenly very interested in anything but making eye contact with one another. Bucky became acutely aware of the warmth radiating from the body beside him, how his enhanced senses picked up the subtle acceleration of your heartbeat at Strange's words.

"The spell affects all instinctual behaviors," Strange confirmed, his clinical detachment somehow making the statement more embarrassing. "Including reproductive ones. I would advise caution in your interactions until the counterspell can be performed."

Tony barked out a laugh, though it held more discomfort than humor. "Well, that's just fantastic. Three days of fighting animalistic urges while looking like rejected concepts from a Disney movie."

"Some of us are handling it better than others," you remarked, unable to resist the opportunity to needle him despite the blush you could feel heating your cheeks.

Strange's lips curved into a rare smile. "Actually, that's an interesting observation. Those who accept rather than fight their transformations tend to experience less discomfort and maintain greater control. The spell feeds on denial and resistance."

"So they’re supposed to just embrace being hybrids?" Bruce questioned.

"Not entirely," Strange clarified. "Rather, acknowledge the truth the transformation reveals about you. The form each of you took isn't random, it reflects something essential about your nature. Understanding that connection is key to maintaining your humanity while transformed."

Your eyes met Bucky's, a silent communication passing between you. The wolf and the rabbit, predator and prey. Yet here you sat next to each other civilly, defying the natural order. Perhaps there was more wisdom in Strange's words than you'd initially thought.

"And what does being turned into a rabbit say about me?" you asked, genuinely curious despite your attempt at keeping your tone light.

Strange studied you with those penetrating eyes that seemed to see far more than was comfortable. "Rabbits are survivors, adaptable and resilient. They appear vulnerable but possess remarkable endurance and intuition. They're quick to sense danger," his gaze flicked briefly to Bucky,"and equally quick to recognize safety when it's offered."

The words settled over you with unexpected weight, resonating with truths you'd never articulated even to yourself. Your fingers unconsciously tightened around the abused cushion below you.

"And wolves?" Bucky asked, his voice a low rumble that you felt more than heard.

"Wolves are protectors," Strange answered. "Fiercely loyal, deeply bonded to their chosen companions. Despite their capacity for violence, they're primarily driven by the need to defend and preserve what they consider theirs." He paused, something knowing in his expression. "They mate for life."

The last statement hung in the air between you and Bucky, charged with implications neither of you were prepared to address in a room full of your friends. Yet neither of you moved away from the other, the connection between you strengthening rather than weakening under the scrutiny. Tony, who had been uncharacteristically quiet for several minutes, straightened his posture and smoothed his brilliantly colored feathers with an exaggerated gesture.

"While this impromptu zoology lesson is fascinating, I'm more concerned about the practical implications. Are there any side effects we should be worried about once we're back to normal? Memory loss? Residual furry urges? A sudden craving for birdseed?"
Strange's expression remained impassive, though the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.

"The transformation is merely physical and instinctual, Stark. Your core personality and memories remain intact. Once reversed, you should experience no lasting effects beyond, perhaps, a more intuitive understanding of your own nature." He paused, his eyes briefly scanning the room. "Though I would recommend documenting your experiences. The insights gained during this period could prove... enlightening."

Natasha, who had been observing the exchange with interest, uncurled from her relaxed position on the edge of the sofa.

"Seventy-two hours is manageable. We've endured worse." Her blue eyes settled on you and Bucky, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Some might even find the experience beneficial."

Steve cleared his throat, his wings adjusting against his back in what you had come to recognize as his version of a nervous gesture. "If we're stuck like this for three more days, we need protocols. The compound should remain on lockdown, no outside contact until we're back to normal."

"Agreed," Bruce nodded, his transformed hands carefully adjusting his glasses. "We should also consider establishing individual monitoring. If Strange is right about the instincts becoming more integrated, we should watch for concerning behavioral changes."

"I can set up a basic monitoring system," Tony offered, his scientific curiosity momentarily overriding his discomfort. "Biometric readings, behavior tracking. Nothing invasive, but enough to spot any concerning patterns."

As the conversation shifted toward practical matters, you became increasingly aware of Bucky's solid presence beside you, of the subtle way his body had angled protectively toward yours throughout the discussion. The revelation about your respective transformations echoed in your mind, raising questions you weren't sure you were ready to confront.

Bucky leaned closer, his voice low enough that only your enhanced rabbit hearing could detect it. "You okay with all this?"

You glanced up at him, struck anew by how the wolf transformation had somehow made his features both wilder and more essentially himself, as though the animal form had stripped away the careful masks he typically wore.

"I think so," you replied softly, matching his volume. "It's just a lot to process. Finding out your 'inner animal' is apparently a prey species isn't exactly confidence-boosting."

His eyes, steel blue and eerily perceptive in his wolf face, softened at your words. "Being a rabbit doesn't make you prey," he murmured, the warmth in his voice catching you off guard. "It makes you someone who survived despite everyone expecting you not to."

Chapter Text

The following morning, dawn broke across the compound, painting the sky in tentative strokes of amber and rose. You stood at your bedroom window, watching the colors bleed across the horizon while an internal battle raged with equal intensity within you. The matter at hand, whether to venture to the communal kitchen for breakfast or remain sequestered in the relative safety of your quarters, had evolved from a simple decision into an existential crisis that left your rabbit form trembling with uncertainty. Before this mystical transformation had upended your world, there had been something unspoken growing between you and Bucky.

Lingering touches that lasted several heartbeats too long to be casual. Glances that caught and held across crowded rooms. The way his hand would find the small of your back when guiding you through doorways. The magnetic pull that seemed to position you beside each other during missions and movie nights alike. Neither of you had dared to talk about what was happening, allowing actions to build a language neither of you had the courage to translate into words. But now, with your heightened senses and instincts laid bare by this transformation, everything has intensified to an almost unbearable degree.

When he looked at you, his eyes tracking your movements with predatory focus, a delicious thrill cascaded down your spine. The rabbit within you recognized the wolf as danger, yet instead of fear, you felt only exhilaration, a contradiction that both confused and exhilarated you. You had tried to hide your reactions, to maintain some semblance of composure despite the furry complications. Yet the effort proved futile. Your enhanced rabbit heart betrayed you with its telltale acceleration whenever he entered a room. Even worse, you knew his wolfish hearing could detect every treacherous palpitation, every breath, every reaction you failed to suppress.

The worn carpet beneath your feet began to show signs of your indecision as you paced the length of your room for what felt like the hundredth time. Your long ears swiveled with agitation, catching distant sounds from throughout the compound.The metallic clink of cutlery against ceramic. Low murmurs of conversation. The distinctive rumble of Bucky's voice asking someone – Steve, perhaps – if they had seen you this morning. Your stomach chose that precise moment to register its complaint with a growl so pronounced it seemed to echo off the walls of your bedroom. The sound startled you into stillness, your nose twitching rapidly in what you had come to recognize as your body's involuntary response to stress.

"Traitor," you muttered to your rebellious stomach, ears flattening against your head in defeat.

Hunger had rendered your decision inevitable. You would have to venture out and face not only your transformed friends but also the wolf whose presence simultaneously terrified and magnetized you. Squaring your shoulders with as much dignity as your rabbit form could muster, you moved toward the door, your hand hesitating only briefly on the handle before you summoned the courage to turn it. The corridor beyond stretched before you like an obstacle course of potential encounters, each step bringing you closer to the complexity that awaited in the kitchen. Your sensitive nose detected the tantalizing aroma of coffee, the sweetness of maple syrup, the savory promise of something cooking that made your mouth water despite your apprehension.

And beneath those scents, something wilder and more compelling. Something that smelled of pine forests and winter nights and danger. Something that smelled like Bucky. You found yourself taking the longer route to the kitchen, your heightened instincts guiding you to avoid main pathways where encounters would be inevitable. As you approached, the voices became clearer, Steve and Natasha discussing security protocols, Bruce quietly explaining something scientific to Tony, whose interruptions were less frequent than usual, suggesting he was actually listening. Then there was silence, brief but absolute, as you appeared in the doorway. Five pairs of eyes turned toward you with varying degrees of curiosity and concern. Pepper was the first to recover.

"Good morning," she offered warmly, gesturing toward the coffee pot. "There's fresh coffee and Steve made pancakes."

"With blueberries," Steve added helpfully, his eagle wings adjusting as he slid a plate across the counter. "And without, if you prefer."

You managed a small smile, gratitude mingling with the persistent anxiety that thrummed beneath your fur. "Thanks, I–"

The words died in your throat as Bucky entered from the adjacent hallway, his large form filling the doorframe in a way that made your heart stutter painfully against your ribcage. His eyes found yours immediately, as though drawn by some invisible force, and the kitchen seemed to recede around you, peripheral details blurring until there was only him. The rabbit within you registered 'predator' with instinctual clarity, urging flight with an intensity that made your muscles tense. Yet simultaneously, something deeper and more human recognized 'safety' with equal certainty, creating a paradox that left you frozen between conflicting impulses.

"Morning," he rumbled, his voice rougher than usual in his transformed state. He approached slowly, gaze never left yours.

You managed a nod, keenly aware that everyone was watching this exchange with varying degrees of subtlety. Natasha didn't even pretend not to be interested, her fox form perched on a barstool with unabashed observation.

"Sleep okay?" Bucky asked, reaching past you for a mug with careful movements that seemed calculated to avoid startling you.

"Fine," you lied, ignoring Tony's snort from across the kitchen.

In truth, you'd spent most of the night caught between restless wakefulness and dreams so vivid they left you gasping when you woke, dreams where you ran through endless forests with a wolf at your heels, terror and exhilaration blending until you couldn't distinguish between the two.

Bucky's ears twitched forward slightly, catching the slight acceleration of your pulse that betrayed the untruth. His expression remained neutral, but something knowing flickered in his eyes.

"Strange called," Tony said, mercifully drawing attention away from you and Bucky. "He's making progress on the counterspell, but he wants more data on how the transformations are affecting us psychologically." His brilliant plumage ruffled with obvious distaste. "Apparently we're to keep journals."

Natasha's sleek fox ears perked with interest. "Journals? What exactly is he hoping to document?"

"Changes in behavior, emotional responses, thought patterns," Bruce explained, adjusting his glasses with transformed hands. "The integration of animal instincts with human consciousness is unprecedented from a research perspective. The data could be invaluable."

"I'm not writing down my feelings in a diary," Bucky muttered.

Steve's eagle eyes fixed on his friend with knowing patience. "Buck, it might help us understand what's happening. Strange seemed to think there's a purpose to which animal forms we took."

You found yourself clutching your coffee mug tighter, the warmth seeping through your paws as you tried to appear casual despite the mounting tension in your body. The idea of documenting your increasingly complex reactions to Bucky. The way your rabbit form simultaneously recognized him as danger and sanctuary was mortifying.

"I'm with Barnes on this one," Tony quipped, preening his feathers in a gesture that seemed both self-conscious and instinctual. "Some things don't need to be immortalized in writing."

Natasha's fox smile was almost predatory as her gaze slid between you and Bucky. "Afraid of what might come out if you start being honest with yourselves?"

The question hung in the air, loaded with implications that made your heart race. You risked a glance at Bucky, only to find him already watching you, his expression guarded yet intense in a way that made your breath catch.

"It doesn't have to be shared," Bruce offered diplomatically, clearly sensing the undercurrents. "Strange just wants observations, not confessions."

You set your mug carefully.

“I should probably get started on mine then," you said, seizing the excuse to retreat before your rabbit instincts betrayed you further. "Thanks for breakfast."

——————

During a training session the following afternoon, you discovered that your transformation had bestowed unexpected gifts. Your rabbit form moved with a fluidity and grace that made your previous human agility seem clumsy by comparison. The training room became your playground as you tested the boundaries of your newfound capabilities, each leap carrying you farther than should have been physically possible, each turn executed with careful perfection that left even Natasha impressed.
The treadmill beneath your feet whirred at a speed that would have been unsustainable in your human form, yet your transformed body maintained the punishing pace with ease.

Your lungs expanded effortlessly, drawing copious amounts of oxygen that bordered on supernatural, while your muscles burned pleasantly rather than screaming in protest. For the first time since this mystical transformation had upended your world, you found yourself reveling in an aspect of your rabbit form instead of lamenting it. So absorbed were you in the exhilaration of movement that the world around you narrowed to the rhythm of your breathing and the steady cadence of your paws against the treadmill belt. The facility's sophisticated training equipment registered your performance metrics with clinical precision, the numbers climbing to heights that would have been impossible before the transformation.

The subtle shift in air currents was your only warning before Natasha appeared on the adjacent treadmill, her fox form moving with characteristic stealth despite the mechanical whirring of the machine. Her eyes glinted with amusement as she matched your pace with effortless grace.

"Carrot for your thoughts?" she inquired, her voice carrying that distinctive blend of warmth and calculation that was uniquely Natasha.

The unexpected intrusion shattered your concentration, bringing you crashing back to the reality of your situation, transformed into prey, running as though pursued by unseen predators. Your fingers found the control panel, reducing the machine's punishing speed to a more conversational pace. The transition from flat-out sprint to casual jog happened with such seamless control that you couldn't help but appreciate this small victory over your transformed physiology.

"Hilarious," you deadpanned. "Did you workshop that one, or does the fox transformation come with built-in rabbit jokes?"

"Improvised," she smiled. "You seem to be adapting well. Finding the silver linings?"

You contemplated your response carefully, aware that Natasha missed nothing, not the way your ears had perked up during your run, not the undeniable satisfaction that had radiated from you as you'd pushed your transformed body to its limits.

"The speed is not terrible," you admitted finally, your admission carrying the weight of someone discovering an unexpected truce with circumstances beyond their control. "Turns out being a rabbit has approximately one advantage."

A laugh escaped before you could contain it, transforming into something that sounded suspiciously like a giggle as it left your lips. The sound caught you off guard, childlike and utterly unfamiliar to your ears, and you found yourself marveling at how your rabbit form had altered even this most basic human expression.

"Sorry," you managed, once your laughter had subsided. "I just realized how absurd this all is. One minute we're Earth's mightiest heroes, and the next–" you gestured at your transformed body, "–we're living in a Rick and Morty episode."

Natasha laughed softly and shook her head.

"I've been thinking about Strange's theory," she said. "About why we transformed into specific animals."

"And?"

"He believes it reveals something fundamental about us," she continued, her fox form slowing to a comfortable lope. "Not just personality traits, but deeper psychological patterns. Defense mechanisms. Core wounds."
Something uncomfortable twisted in your chest at her words.

"So what, the universe thinks I'm fundamentally prey?" The question emerged more vulnerable than you'd intended, your insecurities bleeding through before you could erect the usual barriers.
Natasha's expression softened.

"Maybe it's not that simple," she suggested. "Rabbits aren't just prey. They're survivors. Adaptable. Quick-thinking and deeply intuitive about danger."

The implication hung between you, unspoken yet impossible to ignore. Your heightened awareness of Bucky, the simultaneous pull toward and away from him, wasn't merely physical attraction complicated by your transformation. It was something more primal, more honest than perhaps either of you had been willing to acknowledge before mystical forces had stripped away your human facades.

"What about wolves?" you asked quietly, your voice barely audible above the mechanical hum of the treadmills.

Natasha's knowing smile told you she'd been waiting for precisely this question.

"Loyal," she replied without hesitation. "Protective. Deeply committed to their pack." Another calculated pause. "And extremely selective about their mates."

Heat bloomed on your face, and you were suddenly grateful that blushing wasn't as visible in your transformed state.

"We're friends," you reminded her firmly, though the words sounded hollow even to your own ears.

"Of course," she agreed skeptically. "Just like Clint and I are friends. Just like Bruce and Tony are friends."

Your step faltered at the unexpected comparisons, your rhythm momentarily disrupted before you recovered. "That's different."

"Is it?" Natasha challenged,"Or is it just easier to pretend the tension between you and Barnes is one-sided? That it's just your rabbit instincts reacting to a predator?"

Before you could formulate a response that wouldn't sound like desperate denial, the training room door slid open with a pneumatic hiss. The scent reached you before you turned, pine and metal and something distinctly Bucky, sending your pulse skyrocketing in the telltale way that had become your constant betrayer.

"Not another word," you mouthed to Natasha, your expression conveying a desperate plea as you subtly gestured toward your ears with a quick flick of your gaze.

The silent communication was clear, Bucky possessed heightened auditory perception that now bordered on supernatural thanks to his transformation. Natasha acknowledged your warning with a nod, her eyes glinting with that particular brand of amusement that suggested she found your predicament entertaining. Your heart threatened to jump out of your chest as Bucky's came into view. The morning light from the training room's expansive windows caught the silver accents in his fur, creating an ethereal halo effect that somehow made him appear both more dangerous and more beautiful.

His presence filled the space with an undeniable gravitational pull that affected the very molecules of air between you. The sophisticated sensors embedded in the treadmill's monitoring system registered your response with merciless accuracy. Elevated heart rate, altered respiration patterns, minute changes in body temperature. You silently cursed Tony's obsession with data collection as you jabbed at the controls, reducing your pace to a casual walk while struggling to pretend Bucky’s presence wasn’t distracting.

"Steve sent me to find you," Bucky announced, his voice a low, textured rumble that seemed designed by some cruel cosmic force to resonate through your entire body. "Strange is calling. Apparently he has updates."

His gaze moved between you and Natasha with careful assessment, lingering a fraction longer on your flushed features. Something knowing flickered across his expression,a subtle tightening around his eyes, a barely perceptible flare of his nostrils as he processed the chemical signatures of your discomfort and Natasha's satisfaction.

"Perfect timing," Natasha replied smoothly, stepping off her treadmill. "We were just finishing up." She stretched languidly, her fox form elongating in a gesture that somehow managed to appear both innocent and provocative in its theatricality. "I promised Clint I would help him with some reconnaissance anyway."

Before departing, she cast you a final glance, brushing her long tail against your stubby one. The message was unmistakable. This conversation was temporarily suspended, not concluded. The training room door whispered closed behind her, leaving you alone with Bucky and the thunderous percussion of your heartbeat. The space between you seemed charged with potential energy, like the suspended moment before lightning strikes. You became acutely aware of every detail, the precise rhythm of his breathing, the subtle shift of powerful muscles beneath his fur as he maintained a carefully respectful distance, the way his eyes tracked your movements with an intensity that suggested he was memorizing them.

You cleared your throat softly, searching for something, anything, to say that wouldn't betray the chaos of your thoughts.

"So... Strange has news?" you managed finally, wincing internally at how high-pitched your voice sounded to your own ears.

Bucky nodded as he approached your treadmill. "Apparently he's made some progress understanding the spell." He paused, eyes studying your face. "You've been avoiding me."

The bluntness of his observation caught you off guard, your carefully constructed explanations and excuses evaporating under the heat of his gaze. You fumbled with the treadmill controls, desperately seeking a distraction as you shut down the machine.

"I've been busy," you said. "These new abilities take some getting used to."

His expression softened.

"I know," he acknowledged. "That's why I thought we could train together. Compare notes."

"Is that a good idea?"

The question escaped before you could contain it, honest in a way you rarely allowed yourself to be around him. Something flickered in his eyes, a heat, a hunger quickly masked behind careful control.

"Probably not," he admitted, the corner of his mouth lifting in the ghost of a smile that revealed just a hint of sharpened canines. "But when has that ever stopped us before?"

"Fair enough," you conceded, the words emerging steadily despite the chaos of your pulse. "What exactly do you have in mind, Sergeant Barnes?"

His name on your lips caused a ripple of reaction across his features, subtle but unmistakable to your heightened senses.

The formal address, part teasing and part armor, created an illusion of professional distance that neither of you believed but both pretended to accept.

"Let's start with some light hand-to-hand combat," he suggested, extending a hand toward the boxing ring that dominated the eastern side of the training facility.

You hesitated for exactly three heartbeats, just long enough to consider all the reasons this was a spectacularly unwise proposition.

Close quarters. Shared physical exertion.

The inevitable moments of contact that would blur the carefully maintained boundaries between you. Your rabbit form practically vibrated with the conflicting impulses of caution and curiosity.

"Alright, Barnes," you finally responded, mustering bravado to mask the flutter of anticipation in your chest. "Let's see how fast you are with your new abilities, old man."

The familiar teasing rolled off your tongue with practiced ease, a thin veneer of normalcy stretched over the seismic shift in your dynamic. Bucky's eyes gleamed with something that might have been amusement or hunger or both. His massive wolf form went perfectly still, watching as you hopped from the treadmill with a grace that surprised even you. You ascended the three short steps to the boxing ring with a single leap, landing soundlessly on the canvas. Bucky followed with measured steps, ducking between the ropes and stood in front of you.

"Ground rules," he said, circling you slowly.

"We focus on speed and control. No claws, no teeth." His gaze held yours, unwavering and intense. "This is about understanding our new capabilities, not hurting each other."

The space between you vibrated with unspoken implications, layers of meaning beneath his carefully chosen words. This was about more than physical training, more than adaptation to your transformed states.

"Understood," you replied, your voice steadier than you felt as you settled into a defensive stance, ears alert and muscles tensed for movement. "Though I should warn you, Sergeant, rabbits are not exactly known for playing fair."

A hint of challenge gleamed in his eyes, the corner of his mouth curving upward into something that might have been a smile or a assessment.

"I'm counting on it," he replied, the low rumble of his voice sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

Without warning, he launched forward with breathtaking speed, his massive form moving with a fluid grace that defied physics. You reacted purely on instinct, your transformed body responding with reflexes that your human self could never have achieved. You pivoted sharply to the right, your powerful hind legs propelling you in a graceful arc that barely evaded his reach. The rush of air as he passed whispered against your skin, carrying his scent in a dizzying wave that momentarily clouded your senses. You recovered quickly, using your momentum to create distance, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet as you reassessed your strategy.

"Not bad," Bucky acknowledged, his steel-blue eyes tracking your movements with predatory focus. "But you're still thinking like a human. Feel the instincts of your new form, they're trying to guide you."

You circled each other cautiously, the training ring becoming an arena for a dance as old as time itself, predator and prey, locked in an eternal ballet of pursuit and evasion. Except this was more complex, layered with history and unspoken tensions that had nothing to do with your transformed states and everything to do with the people beneath the fur.

"Easy for you to say," you shot back, voice slightly breathless as you maintained your defensive posture. "Your instincts want you to hunt. Mine are screaming at me to run."

Something flickered across his expression, concern, perhaps, or deeper understanding.

"Then why aren't you?" he asked quietly, slowing his advance. "Running, I mean."

The question hung between you.

You swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of the possible outcomes of your predicament.

"Because sometimes," you replied, meeting his gaze directly despite the thundering of your heart, "running from what scares you means missing what might be worth staying for."

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved, suspended in perfect stillness as the weight of your words settled between you.

Then the moment shattered as Bucky lunged forward with renewed purpose, his mind clearly shifting strategies. Instead of the direct approach he'd used before, he feinted left before pivoting sharply right, using his superior weight and strength to command the space, herding you toward the corner of the ring with calculated precision. You recognized the maneuver, a classic technique designed to limit an opponent's escape options, but recognition didn't equate to effective countermeasures, especially with your new form's instinctive responses overriding years of combat training. Your heart hammered against your ribcage, a rhythm of excitement and fear as you searched desperately for an opening.

With a surge of determination, you dropped low and darted forward, aiming to slide beneath his guard and emerge behind him. For a fraction of a second, victory seemed possible.

Until his hand shot out with impossible speed, catching your shoulder mid-motion and redirecting your momentum in a controlled tumble that left you breathless on your back, pinned beneath his substantial weight.
The world narrowed to sensation; the firm pressure of his body above yours, the heat radiating between you, the thunderous synchronization of your racing hearts. His face hovered inches from yours, eyes dilated to midnight pools ringed with ice blue, his breath warm against your skin.

"Yield," he commanded, voice dropped to a gravelly whisper that sent shivers cascading through your body.

You struggled reflexively, testing his hold, but he responded by adjusting his position, powerful thighs bracketing your hips in a tight grip. The movement caused a subtle friction between your bodies that drew an involuntary sound from your throat.
Not quite a gasp, not quite a moan, but something dangerously between.

His nostrils flared, pupils expanding as he inhaled deeply. The change in his expression was immediate and profound. Shock melting into realization, followed by a flash of raw hunger so intense it stole your breath.

He knew.

The heightened senses of his wolf form had detected what you'd been desperately trying to conceal, the unmistakable scent of your arousal.

"Oh," he breathed.

His gaze locked with yours, searching, questioning, darkening with unmistakable intent.

Time suspended between heartbeats. He shifted his weight slowly, the movement bringing his hips into closer alignment with yours. The pressure was torture, enough to send sparks of pleasure racing through your nerves, not enough to provide any real relief from the mounting tension pooling low in your abdomen.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, voice rough with restraint, "and I will. No questions, no consequences."

Words failed you, evaporated in the heat blooming between your bodies. Instead, you answered with action, arching upward against the delicious weight of him. His control fractured visibly, a shudder passing through his powerful frame as he ground his hips against your core in a slow motion that drew synchronized gasps from both of you. The thin barrier of your clothes did little to disguise the hardness of him pressing against you, the unmistakable evidence of desire that matched your own.

His head dropped lower, breath hot against the sensitive skin of your neck, teeth grazing lightly over your thundering pulse point in a gesture that walked the knife's edge between warmth and claim.

"Bucky," you whispered. Your hands came up to rest against the solid wall of his chest, feeling the thunderous rhythm of his heart beneath dense muscle.

He went perfectly still above you, reading volumes in that single utterance of his name. His eyes searched yours with an intensity that seemed to pierce straight through to your core, seeking permission, confirmation, certainty.

"I've wanted this, wanted you, for longer than I care to admit," he confessed, voice rough with honesty. "But not like this. Not if there's any doubt."

The vulnerability in his confession stole your breath. Your answer came not in words but in action. With a surge of courage, you lifted your head and pressed your mouth to his. The contact was tentative at first, exploratory, then transformed in an instant as he responded with barely leashed intensity. His lips moved against yours and the kiss deepened as his tongue sought entrance, which you granted without hesitation. A growl rumbled deep in his chest, the vibration traveling through your bodies where they pressed together. His metal arm slid beneath you, supporting your weight as he rolled smoothly to his side, bringing you with him without breaking the kiss.

The new position relieved you of his weight but maintained the delicious contact between your bodies. Bucky watched through half-lidded eyes as he looked up at you, rolling your hips over his as his hands wandered. You rolled your hips experimentally, drawing a guttural sound from deep in his chest that was neither fully human nor entirely wolf.

His fingers tightened on your waist, guiding your movements into a rhythm that had heat blooming low in your core, spreading outward in waves that threatened to consume you entirely. His head lifted, clearly intent on capturing your mouth in another searing kiss. You leaned forward, anticipation building like electricity before a storm. The sharp sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor outside shattered the moment.

In an instant, he had you both upright and moving before your mind fully registered the threat of discovery. His enhanced hearing had picked up what yours had missed, providing precious seconds of warning.

"Trust me," he whispered against your ear, his arm secure around your waist as he guided you swiftly across the training floor.

The solid warmth of him pressed against your back was both reassurance and distraction as he navigated toward a supply closet nestled in the far corner of the room.

"What is happening?" you began, confusion momentarily overriding the lingering heat of desire.

Your question terminated abruptly as his palm covered your mouth, the pressure firm but careful, mindful of his strength even in this transformed state.

"Someone’s here," he breathed against your ear, his voice barely audible even in the confines of the closet. "Security patrol, judging by the foot steps. Not scheduled for another hour."

The closet was claustrophobically small, forcing your bodies together in a way that reignited the embers of your interrupted encounter. Each inhale brought his chest more firmly against your spine, each exhale a warm caress that sent shivers cascading through your body. Outside, the footsteps grew louder, accompanied by the mechanical click of a standard-issue tactical flashlight being activated. A beam of light swept across the training room, briefly illuminating the narrow space beneath the closet door before continuing its methodical scan. Bucky remained motionless behind you. Only when the footsteps receded and the heavy thud of the door signaled the guard's departure did his posture relax fractionally. His hand slipped from your mouth, fingers trailing apologetically along your jaw as he released you.

"Sorry about that," he murmured, voice hushed despite the guard's departure. "Old habits."

The darkness of the closet concealed your expression, but not the slight catch in your breath as his fingers continued their gentle exploration of your face, tracing the contours altered by your transformation with tender curiosity.

"Your instincts were right," you acknowledged, turning within the limited space to face him. The movement brought your bodies flush against each other, igniting fresh sparks of awareness everywhere your transformed forms connected. "Though I question whether hiding in a supply closet like teenagers avoiding a hall monitor was truly necessary."

His low chuckle vibrated through the scant inches separating you, warm and rich with genuine amusement. "Maybe not," he admitted, his hands finding your waist in the darkness, thumbs tracing idle patterns through the thin fabric of your training attire.

"I believe we were in the middle of something rather important," you murmured.

Your fingers traced upward, mapping the column of his throat, the sharp angle of his jaw, finally coming to rest against the softness of his lips.

"Training," he smirked, his mouth curved in a smile beneath your fingertips. "Very crucial training on our enhanced capabilities."

"Indeed," you agreed, voice dropping to a whisper as you leaned closer, guided by the heat of him in the darkness. "And I find I require much more thorough instruction, Sergeant Barnes."

"Your wish," he breathed against your lips as he closed the distance between you, "is my command."

His large frame pressed yours, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric that remained between you. He tugged your pants down over your hips slowly, letting them pool around your ankles. Your underwear followed in one fluid motion, disappearing into his pocket. His lips found the sensitive curve where your neck met your shoulder, kissing and nipping softly.

"Tell me what you want," he murmured against your skin, voice rough with restraint. His metal hand traced circles along your hip bone while his flesh fingers drifted with devastating slowness down the curve of your stomach.

Words failed you as his hand continued southward, finally reaching the junction of your thighs. A sharp inhale punctuated the silence as his fingers discovered evidence of your arousal, the slick heat coated the pads of his fingers.

"So responsive," he whispered, his breath warm against the shell of your ear as his lips curved into a knowing smile against your neck. His fingers moved with expert precision, finding a rhythm that had your knees threatening to buckle beneath you. "I've imagined us like this so many times, but reality is so much better."

Your head fell back against his shoulder, surrendering to the pleasure building with each skilled movement of his hand.

The small space amplified every sensation.

The scent of him surrounding you, the heat of his body pressed against your back, the contrast between warm flesh and cool vibranium as his fingers worked their magic.

"Bucky–" you gasped as he found a particularly sensitive spot, circling it with maddening deliberation.

"I've got you," he assured, voice a velvet rumble against your skin. "Let go. I want to see you come apart in my hands."

Pressure built within you like a gathering storm, each circle of his fingers drawing you closer to your orgasm. Your breathing grew ragged, punctuated by soft sounds that would have mortified you under any other circumstances but now, you could care less.
His free arm wrapped more securely around your waist, supporting your weight as your body began to tremble with impending release.

"That's it," he encouraged, voice dropping to a whisper as he felt your muscles tensing beneath his touch. "Let me see what I do to you."

Pleasure crested and broke through you in waves of searing intensity, your body arching against him as his name fell from your lips breathlessly. He held you through the aftershocks, his movements slowing but not ceasing entirely as he drew out every last tremor of pleasure. Only when you sagged boneless against him did he withdraw his hand, bringing his fingers to his lips. The sight of him tasting your essence, even barely visible in the dim light filtering through the door slats, ignited a fresh surge of desire that startled you with its intensity.

"My turn," you breathed.

Your hands found his chest, pushing him back against the wall of the closet with newfound boldness. Your hands traced the contours of his body as you sank to your knees before him, fingers mapping the terrain of muscle beneath your hands.

Bucky stood transfixed, grateful that his enhanced wolf vision penetrated the darkness that enveloped you both, allowing him to witness every nuance of your expression. The transformation had sharpened all his senses, but sight, the ability to observe the hunger in your eyes as you knelt before him was perhaps the most precious gift of all. His enhanced vision captured the subtle flush spreading across your skin, the slight parting of your lips, the unmistakable desire darkening your gaze as you looked up at him through lowered lashes.

"God," he whispered, the word escaping involuntarily as your hands settled at his waistband, thumbs tracing tantalizing circles just above the button of his pants.

A smile curved your lips, confidence blooming under his rapt attention. You leaned forward until your breath warmed the fabric covering his hardened cock. Your fingers remained motionless at his waistband, neither advancing nor retreating and it had his muscles tensing with anticipation. Without breaking his gaze, you inclined forward, capturing his zipper between your teeth. The metallic tang spread across your tongue as you drew it downward with agonizing slowness, the sound unnaturally loud in the confined space.

"Tease," he muttered, the accusation undermined by the graveled texture of his voice.

His flesh hand descended to your hair, fingers threading through the strands with surprising gentleness while the metal hand remained at his side, fingers curled into a fist as if he dared not trust its calibration with something as delicate as touching you in this moment.

"Not teasing," you countered as you finished what your teeth had begun, nimble fingers completing the task of freeing him from the confines of his clothing. "Savoring."

His response was lost in a sharp intake of breath as your fingertips made first contact with heated skin. The contrast between the cool air of the closet and the warmth of your touch drew a barely suppressed sound from deep in his chest. You encircled the impressive girth of his cock with with your fingers, a small gasp escaping your lips as you felt the evidence of his desire beading at the tip. The visceral proof of his want for you sent a renewed surge of confidence through your veins. Your gaze lifted to his face, maintaining an unbroken connection as your hand established a languid rhythm. Each stroke pulled a barely restrained sound from deep in his chest, a symphony of restraint threatening to shatter with each calculated movement of your fingers. The dim light caught the metallic gleam of his left arm as it braced against the wall, the plates recalibrating with soft whirs that betrayed his struggle for control.

"God, the way you look right now," he breathed, voice filled with desire.

His flesh hand tightened in your hair as you lowered your attention, lips tracing a reverent path along the underside of his length before venturing lower. Your mouth found the sensitive weight of his scrotum, tongue lavishing attention that had his head falling back against the wall with an audible thud. The salt tang of his skin spread across your palate as you drew one testicle into the wet heat of your mouth, savoring the taste of him. The vibration of your appreciative hum transmitted directly through the sensitive tissue, eliciting a strangled curse that seemed torn from somewhere deep inside him.

His thighs tensed beneath your supporting hand, powerful muscles tightened with the effort of remaining still while you explored him with such thorough dedication.

"Your mouth," he whispered. "So perfect. So goddamn perfect."

Your heart trembled beneath your ribs, a delicate fluttering of wings caught in the cage of your chest at his words of praise. A slow smile curved your lips as you traced a path back to the swollen crown of his arousal and parted your lips to welcome him into the wet heat of your mouth. The considerable girth stretched your lips to their limit, your jaw working to accommodate his size as you sank down with careful determination. His hand found your bunny ears, fingers caressing the sensitive fur. The touch against those newly heightened nerve endings sent a cascade of sensation rushing through your body, drawing an involuntary whimper from deep in your throat. The sound vibrated around his cock, causing his fingers to tighten reflexively against your scalp.

"Such a good bunny," he murmured, voice rough with desire yet tender in a way that made something bloom warm and liquid in your chest. His fingers returned to that particular spot on your ears. "You liked that, huh?"

The repeated caress against your sensitive ears sent another wave of pleasure coursing through you, making your movements falter momentarily as sensation threatened to overwhelm your focus. Your eyes fluttered closed as you surrendered to the dual experience of giving and receiving pleasure. His breathing grew increasingly ragged above you as you hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper. The taste of him flooded your mouth, salt and musk and something indefinably Bucky that had your core aching. The limited space of the closet intensified every sensation. Each labored breath, every subtle shift of weight, the almost imperceptible trembling of his powerful thighs beneath your supporting hand became magnified.

His length had stretched your mouth to its absolute limit, and he had only breached halfway. Your jaw strained to accommodate his girth, a delicious agony that sent contradictory signals of pleasure and discomfort racing through your body.

"You can take it," he cooed, his voice a hypnotic blend of encouragement and command. His flesh hand shifted position, cradling the back of your head gently as hunger darkened his eyes. "Just relax your throat for me, bunny."

He urged you forward, guiding several more inches of his cock past your stretched lips. Tears gathering at the corners of your eyes and spilling onto your flushed cheeks in glistening rivulets. Your fingers clutched desperately at his thighs, nails leaving crescent marks through his pants and onto his skin.

"So beautiful like this," he murmured, his voice dropping to a register so low it seemed to vibrate directly through your core rather than reach you through the air. "Taking me so well, fighting through it for me."

Your body responded to his approval instinctively, muscles relaxing just enough to allow another fraction of penetration. A guttural sound of satisfaction rumbled from deep within his chest. With the entirety of his length now sheathed within the warm sanctuary of your mouth, Bucky stilled, his flesh hand curled possessively around the back of your head while his vibranium fingers continued their feather-light exploration of your transformed ears. The closet air, heavy with the scent of desire, wrapped around you both like a shroud.

His gaze captured yours, those winter-blue eyes darkened to midnight as he absorbed the vision you presented, lips stretched impossibly wide around him, eyes glistening with unshed tears that spoke not of pain but of surrender.

"Fuck," he whispered, the single syllable emerging as a prayer rather than a profanity. "The sight of you right now."

You remained motionless, precisely as he had positioned you, your breathing shallow and controlled through your nose as you adjusted to the fullness. Your eyes never left his, communication transcending words as you silently implored him to move, to use your willing mouth for his pleasure. Seconds stretched into an eternity as he held you there, suspended in a tableau of submission and control, drinking in every detail of your subjugation with reverent attention. The fluorescent light flickering overhead cast dancing shadows across his chiseled features, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw clenched with restraint, the sensual fullness of his lower lip caught between his teeth.

"So patient," he murmured. "Waiting so sweet for me to move, aren't you, bunny?"

His thumb traced the stretched corner of your mouth where his cock disappeared between your lips, the soft touch belying the raw hunger evident in his eyes.

Your fingers flexed against his thighs, a silent plea that drew a knowing smile to his lips. The expression transformed his face, softening the hardened soldier into something almost boyish despite the carnal nature of your entanglement.

"I could keep you like this forever," he continued, voice dropping to a register so low it seemed to bypass your ears entirely, resonating instead directly through your bones. "But where would be the fun in that?"

You released a desperate whimper that vibrated around his girth, the sound equal parts frustration and yearning. Your muscles tensed as you attempted to draw back, seeking the freedom to establish your own rhythm, to worship him according to your desire. The subtle backward motion was immediately countered by the unyielding pressure of his hand against your scalp, fingers threading through your hair with gentle but unmistakable authority.

"Not yet, bunny," he murmured, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet. "I want to savor this moment. The way you look right now, taking all of me so beautifully."

His vibranium fingers found that particularly sensitive spot behind your newly formed ears, applying pressure that sent sparks of pleasure to your core. The sensation pulled another whimper from your throat, the vibration transmitting directly through the sensitive flesh filling your mouth. His jaw clenched in response, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief as he fought to maintain his control

"Just like that," he whispered, the words barely audible over the thundering of your pulse in your ears. "Feel how much I want you? How hard you make me? That is all you, sweetheart. All because of those pretty eyes looking up at me, those perfect lips stretched around me."

Finally, he relented, the iron grip in your hair loosening to something more akin to guidance than restraint. His expression softened, those steel-blue eyes warming as he regarded you with unmistakable permission.

"Show me what that pretty mouth can do, bunny," he murmured, words falling from his lips like sacred permission.

You wasted not a single precious second, drawing back until only the swollen crown of his pretty pink tip remained captured between your lips.

The momentary relief from his considerable size allowed you to draw a steadying breath through your nose, gathering your resolve before proceeding with newfound determination. Your tongue traced patterns against the sensitive underside of his length, applying pressure that drew forth sounds from deep within his chest. His groans reverberated through the confined space of the closet, the acoustics of the small space amplifying his pleasure in a symphony composed exclusively for your ears. His hand returned to your ears, fingers exploring the velvet fur, mentally noting each tremor and subtle reaction your body betrayed when he discovered particularly receptive areas. The dual sensations made your core pulse.

"Look at me," he commanded, voice rough with desire yet tender in a way that suggested vulnerability beneath the authoritative tone.

You obeyed without hesitation, tilting your gaze upward without interrupting your devotional rhythm.

"So beautiful," he whispered, the words emerging with such raw sincerity that something fragile and tender unfurled within your chest. "Never seen anything so perfect in all my years."

The praise infused you with renewed vigor, your movements becoming more confident, more assertive as you incorporated your hand to address what your mouth could not accommodate. Your lewd movements drew a string of profanities from him, each word uttered with such reverence they sounded more like prayers than obscenities. Your other hand explored with bold curiosity, venturing beneath the fabric of his shirt to discover the ridged landscape of his abdomen, muscles contracting beneath your touch like responsively. Bucky's restraint finally unraveled. His hips surged forward with newfound urgency, the careful movements of your earlier rhythm dissolving into something primal and unrelenting.

No longer content with passive reception, his body seized control with a fluid motion. Each powerful thrust drove his length deeper into your waiting throat. The sounds that filled the cramped confines of the supply closet transcended mere vulgarity. Wet, obscene noises accompanied each forceful penetration, your saliva creating a slick channel that facilitated his increasingly demanding pace. The vulgar sounds of flesh meeting flesh, punctuated by the desperate whimpers you managed between his thrusts drew him closer to his orgasm.

"Perfect," he growled. "Taking it so beautifully for me."

Your hands gripped his thighs for stability as he established this new, relentless rhythm. His breathing devolved into ragged, uneven bursts that echoed through the enclosed space. Each exhale carried fragments of words, broken syllables of praise and possession that reassembled in the air between you. Your name emerged occasionally from his pants and growls.

Through watering eyes, you maintained your gaze on his face, witnessing the pleasure overtaking his features as he approached his high.

"I’m close," he growled. "So fucking close, bunny."

This urged you to bob your head faster, maintaining a cadence that perfectly complemented the increasing urgency of his thrusts. Without warning, his rhythm faltered, the controlled motion of his hips dissolving into erratic, spasmodic jerks that betrayed his unraveling. A guttural sound emanated from deep within his chest, primal and raw. The first pulse of his release flooded your waiting throat.The taste had you salivating for more. Your throat clenched around his cock, swallowing around him to accept everything he offered with an eagerness. His breath caught audibly as your swallowing created additional stimulation around his hypersensitive length, the sound vulnerable and surprised.

"Fuck, you’re such a good girl," he whispered, thumb tracing the underside of your throat as he felt you swallow more of his cum.

Your tongue worked against the underside of his length as you ensured not a single precious drop was wasted. You relinquished his gradually softening cock from the warmth of your mouth. The sensation of emptiness was immediate as you pulled off his length.

Bucky's strong hands found your waist, effortlessly lifting you to your feet in a display of casual strength that sent a flutter through your core. His movements were fluid as he drew you against the solid wall of his chest, one hand sliding up to cradle your face. He kissed you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue. While his lips remained occupied with yours, his fingers moved to secure his pants.

"We should train like this more often," you whispered against the plush softness of his lips.

You felt him smile against yours.

"I wouldn't be against that," he chuckled.

His hands moved to assist you in restoring order to your disheveled clothing. Each button secured, each fabric smoothed beneath his attentive fingers.

You glanced around the confined space of the supply closet, eyes scanning the shadowed corners with increasing confusion as you tried to find your underwear.

"Bucky, do you see my underwear?" you asked confusedly.

Bucky’s eyes glinted with feigned innocence that failed entirely to mask the roguish intent beneath as he patted the pocket of his pants.

"Something to remember you by," he smirked. "A souvenir from the most beautiful bunny I've ever had the pleasure of corrupting."

You feigned an expression of disapproval, giving him your best glare. Your expression was thoroughly unconvincing, undermined completely by the flush of satisfaction still evident in your complexion and the lingering curve of contentment at the corners of your lips.

Chapter Text

The deception had been so characteristically Loki that you should have anticipated it. Three days, he had proclaimed, his emerald eyes glinting with barely suppressed mischief as he assured everyone the transformation would be temporary. Three days of enduring the humiliation of soft fur sprouting from modified ears, of a cottontail that twitched with mortifying independence, of instincts that felt alien yet somehow intrinsic to your restructured DNA.

That had been a month ago.

Somehow, despite being locked up in one of SHIELD’s most secure cells, the God of Mischief had vanished immediately following his pronouncement, leaving those at the butt of his cruel joke to figure out a solution themselves. Dawn broke on the fourth day to reveal your reflection unchanged in the bathroom mirror, those impossibly soft ears still protruding from your skull at angles that defied conventional human anatomy, twitching responsively to even the most miniscule of sounds.Thor had tried his best to find a cure in Asgard, consulting with the realm's most skilled healers and scouring ancient texts in the palace libraries. He spent days reaching out to contacts across the Nine Realms, hoping someone would have knowledge of reversing Loki's particular brand of mischief. 

When Thor returned to Earth empty-handed, the team's hope shifted to Doctor Strange. If anyone could unravel Loki's spell, it would be the Master of the Mystic Arts. Strange agreed immediately, retreating to the Sanctum Sanctorum to study the magical signatures left on the affected Avengers. He spent hours in deep meditation, tracing the threads of Loki's enchantment through multiple dimensions, confident he could find a way to reverse it. But Loki's magic proved more cunning than anticipated. When Strange finally attempted the reversal spell, weaving together complex incantations and drawing on ancient sources of mystical power, the magic backfired spectacularly. The spell rebounded on him in a flash of green and gold light, and when the energy dissipated, Strange found himself transformed as well.

He was now an owl hybrid.

You should have been consumed with rage. Wreaking havoc would be the appropriate response to such prolonged humiliation, every waking moment should be dedicated to plotting elaborate revenge against the trickster god who had inflicted this condition upon you. The Avengers certainly expected such a reaction, their expressions carefully neutral whenever they encountered you in the common areas, as though bracing for a mental breakdown. Instead, you found yourself experiencing something far more complicated than anger. The most troubling alteration manifested in the form of heightened arousal, waves of desperate need that crashed over you with unpredictable frequency throughout each endless day.

That particular side effect would have been manageable, perhaps even dismissible as merely embarrassing, if not for one critical factor. 

Bucky could sense it. 

Every single time.

The first occurrence had been mortifying beyond description. You had been reviewing mission reports in the common room, attempting to maintain some semblance of professionalism, when the familiar warmth began pooling low in your abdomen. The sensation intensified rapidly, your modified physiology amplifying desire into something nearly painful in its urgency. Your tail had begun twitching with increasing agitation, a physical betrayal of your internal state that you seemed powerless to control. Bucky had been across the room engaged in conversation with Sam, his back turned to you in what should have been a position of complete obliviousness. Yet within seconds of that first flutter of arousal, his entire body had gone rigid. 

His head tilted fractionally, nostrils flaring as though smelling something in the air that no one else could detect. When he turned to face you, those winter blue eyes had darkened to something approaching midnight, pupils dilating with recognition and answering hunger that stole the breath from your lungs. He had crossed the space between you in three purposeful strides, his hand closing around your wrist with insistence. 

"Come with me," he had murmured, the words pitched low enough for only your ears to pick up.

There had been no room for argument in his tone, no space for protest or explanation. Within moments you found yourself pressed against the wall of the nearest available space, his mouth claiming yours with desperate intensity while his fingers and mouth worked between your thighs to provide the relief your body demanded. That pattern had repeated itself with remarkable consistency over the subsequent days. The arousal would strike without warning or obvious trigger, transforming you into a creature of pure need within heartbeats. And Bucky, with his wolf-like enhanced senses and mysterious attunement to your specific pheromones, would inevitably detect the change in your chemistry. He never hesitated, never questioned or delayed. 

Instead, he would pull you from whatever situation you were in, finding privacy in supply closets and empty conference rooms and once, memorably, behind the gym equipment in a space so confined you could barely breathe around the solid mass of his body pressed against yours. His dedication to your relief manifested primarily through oral ministrations that left you gasping and boneless, his tongue and fingers working in concert to dismantle you completely. The reverse had occurred with gratifying frequency as well, your own mouth wrapped around his cock as he lost himself in the wet heat you provided. But despite the intimacy of these encounters, despite the number of times you had tasted each other's release and witnessed the vulnerability of mutual climax, the connection had never progressed beyond.

"We should talk," he had said one night as you both laid in bed.

You had waited, pulse still elevated, watching the play of emotions across his face as he struggled to articulate whatever thought had seized him.

"I want you," he had begun, and the raw honesty in his confession made your breath catch. "God, I want you so badly it physically hurts sometimes. But I can't... we can't take this further. Not yet."

The rejection had stung despite his obvious reluctance to deliver it, confusion and hurt blooming hot behind your ribs. Your ears flattened against your skull in an unconscious display of distress, and you had seen his eyes follow the movement.

"It's not because I don't want to," he had added quickly, his flesh hand coming up to cup your jaw with devastating tenderness. "Bunny, if it were only about wanting, we would have been in my bed that first day. But it's not that simple."

"Then what is it?" you had asked, your voice coming out smaller than intended.

"I don't trust myself," he had admitted, and the confession cost him something visible. You could see it in the tightness around his eyes, the rigidness in his shoulders. "Not yet."

Your confusion must have been evident on your face because he had continued without prompting, words tumbling out now as though a dam had broken somewhere deep inside him.

"You don't understand what it's like," he had said, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "The strength I have. I've spent seventy years learning exactly how much force it takes to break bones, to rupture organs, to kill efficiently. Those calculations are hardwired into me now, muscle memory that I can't just delete or override."

"When I'm with you like this," he had continued, "I can maintain control. Oral, fingers, those I can regulate precisely. I know exactly how much pressure to apply, and can adjust in seconds if you show any sign of discomfort. But actual intercourse? That's different."

He had paused, seeming to gather courage for the next confession. When he spoke again, his voice carried a ragged edge of self-loathing that made your heart constrict painfully.

"I lose myself a little when I.. you know. The pleasure overrides some of the conscious control, and my body responds on pure instinct. It’s even harder to control myself now with what Loki had turned me into. What if I forget to be careful? What if I seriously hurt you before I can stop myself?" Bucky rambled, voice trembling.

The fear in his admission had been palpable, a living thing that seemed to fill the small space until you could barely breathe around it. You had started to protest, to reassure him that you trusted him completely, but had pressed a finger to your lips.

"So until I can be absolutely certain," he had concluded, his voice steadying, "until I can trust myself completely, I can't risk it. I can give you everything else."

"I understand your worry," you said softly, your voice barely rising above the whisper of breath between your bodies. 

You shifted slightly on the mattress, the cotton sheets rustling beneath you as you repositioned yourself to press your forehead against his. His breath ghosted across your lips, warm and uneven, carrying with it the weight of all the things he had confessed. You could feel the tension radiating from his frame, the rigid set of his muscles as though he were bracing for rejection, for disappointment, for the inevitable moment when you would decide his damage outweighed his worth. The thought that he could believe such a thing sent a sharp ache through your chest.

"But I want you to know," you continued, lifting one hand to trace the line of his jaw with trembling fingers, "that I trust you completely. In ways I'm not sure I've ever trusted in someone."

His eyes searched yours in the dim light filtering through your bedroom window, winter-blue irises darkened with emotion you couldn't quite parse. Gratitude, perhaps. Relief. Something deeper that you didn’t want to jump to the conclusion of naming when everything between you still felt so precarious and new despite the intensity of your connection.

"We don't have to go any further until you're ready," you said softly. "Not until you're absolutely certain so you can see yourself the way I see you no matter however long that takes. This thing between us, whatever it is, whatever it might become, it's worth waiting for. You're worth waiting for."

"I don't deserve you," he whispered, the words cracking somewhere in the middle as though his voice couldn't quite support their weight. "I don't deserve this patience, this kindness. Not after everything I've done.”

"That's not your decision to make," you countered gently but firmly. "I decide what you deserve from me, and right now, I've decided you deserve every bit of understanding and patience I can offer. So stop trying to talk me out of caring about you, because it's not going to work."

A sound escaped him then, something between a laugh and a sob, raw and unguarded. His arms wrapped around you,  drawing you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest, rapid and unsteady. True to your words, you guys never went past his comfort, but a part in you seemed to grow more insistent with each passing day of continued transformation, wanting nothing more than to feel him inside you properly. To experience the full weight of his body covering yours, the delicious stretch of accommodation as he filled you completely.

You cursed your stupid needy bunny hormones under your breath every time you found yourself longing for his touch. The wanting had become a constant background hum beneath your consciousness, occasionally swelling to a crescendo that made concentration on anything else nearly impossible. The contradiction of your situation was not lost on you. You despised Loki with an intensity that bordered on obsessive, cursing his name with every creative insult you could think of whenever you felt or caught sight of your modified reflection. The ears were ridiculous, the tail an ongoing humiliation that twitched and bobbed with independence regardless of your attempts to control it. You should have been miserable, counting each hour until this nightmare was over and you could reclaim your human form. Instead, you felt a thrill every time Bucky's expression shifted into that particular look of hunger. Your pulse would accelerate in anticipation of his approach, the scent of arousal floating in the air as you watch his eyes darken. 

The knowledge that he would drop everything to attend to your needs, that your pleasure had somehow become his priority despite the inconvenience and risk of someone finding out, filled you with a giddy satisfaction. Perhaps the most troubling realization was how much you had begun to rely on these encounters, how thoroughly they had restructured your daily existence around moments of stolen intimacy. The recognition arrived this morning with the force of a physical blow, sharp and unwelcome, as you lay tangled in your sheets when you should have been dressed and prepared for the morning briefing. Instead, you writhed against the mattress in a state of physical distress that defied rational explanation. Heat suffused your entire body in waves that built and crested with relentless regularity, leaving your skin flushed and hypersensitive to even the lightest brush of cotton against your flesh. 

Between your thighs, an ache had taken up permanent residence, a hollow yearning that intensified with each passing minute until it dominated every other sensation competing for your attention. The slickness gathering at your core was impossible to ignore, a constant reminder of your body's insistent demands. You shifted restlessly, seeking some position that might offer relief, but the movement only exacerbated the problem. The friction of your thighs pressing together sent sparks of sensation radiating through your pelvis, acute enough to draw a broken gasp from your lips but nowhere near sufficient to address the emptiness that plagued you. Your ears lay flat against your head. Every sensation seemed to have been dialed up to an excruciating sensitivity, transforming the ordinary texture of your sheets into something almost unbearable against your overheated skin. 

You clutched at the pillow with trembling fingers, your breathing coming in shallow pants that did nothing to cool the fire consuming you from within. You glanced at the clock on your nightstand through vision that had gone slightly hazy around the edges. The meeting would be starting in fifteen minutes. There was absolutely no way of attending to this condition, not when you could barely form coherent thoughts through the haze of want that clouded your consciousness. The idea of sitting in a room full of your teammates, trying to focus on tactical discussions while your body screamed to be fucked, was beyond impossible. Another wave of heat crashed through you, stronger than the last, and you bit down hard on your lower lip to suppress the whimper that threatened to escape. Your hand moved of its own accord, sliding down your abdomen toward the source of your torment, but you forced yourself to stop. 

Not yet. 

Not until you had dealt with the immediate problem of your absence from the meeting.

"FRIDAY," you managed to call out, your voice emerging as a breathless rasp that you barely recognized as your own. You paused, swallowing hard against the dryness in your throat. "Tell the team that I can't make it to the meeting today because I'm sick."

The AI's response came with characteristic efficiency, her measured tones a stark contrast to your labored breathing. "Of course. Shall I inform them of the nature of your illness, or simply relay that you are indisposed?"

"Just say I'm not feeling well," you gasped out, another tremor working its way through your frame as the ache intensified to something approaching pain. "Nothing specific. Tell them I'll catch up on the briefing materials later."

"Message delivered," FRIDAY confirmed. There was a pause, and then, in a tone that somehow managed to convey concern despite the artificial nature of her voice, she added, "Your elevated heart rate and body temperature have been noted. Should I alert Dr. Banner or medical?"

"No," you said quickly, perhaps too quickly based on the way your voice cracked. "No medical. I just need some rest and privacy. I'll be fine."

You hoped that was true, even as your body continued its desperate demands with increasing insistence. The slickness between your thighs had become impossible to ignore. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a traitorous voice whispered that you knew exactly who could help with this particular problem, whose skilled hands could ease this ache in ways that your own fumbling attempts never quite managed to achieve. Thoughts of Bucky began filling your hazy mind, conjuring memories of his touch with such vivid clarity that you could almost feel the ghost of his fingers trailing across your overheated skin. But you knew Bucky wasn't ready to go all the way yet. 

The conversation you had shared in your bedroom weeks ago echoed in your consciousness, his vulnerable admission that he needed time to reconcile the man he was becoming with the weapon he had been. You had promised him patience, sworn you would wait however long it took for him to find his way back to himself. That promise meant something to you, even now when your body threatened to betray your promise with insistent demands. So for now, you curled onto your side, drawing your knees up toward your chest in what you hoped would be a position that might ease the relentless pressure building in your core. 

The movement provided no relief whatsoever. If anything, the attempt at self-comfort made matters worse. The compression of your thighs created friction that your hypersensitive nerve endings interpreted as promise rather than comfort, sending fresh waves of slick from your core. Your body grew hotter still, impossibly so, until you were certain your skin would begin to steam in the cool air of your bedroom. Sweat beaded along your hairline and gathered in the hollow of your throat, trailing down between your breasts. The sheets beneath you had become damp with sweat, clinging to your bare legs in a way that bordered on unbearable. 

You could not remain in this bed, trapped in these sweat-soaked sheets, slowly being consumed by a heat that seemed to originate from your very core and radiate outward in punishing waves. You needed cold. You needed relief. You needed something, anything, to counteract the inferno raging through your transformed body. You stumbled out of bed on legs that shook so violently you half expected them to give out entirely beneath your weight. Each step toward your fridge required conscious thought and effort, your muscles seeming to have forgotten their basic functions in favor of directing all available resources toward the aching pulse between your thighs. 

The cool air that greeted you when you wrenched open the mini fridge door, a brief relief that you leaned into with shameless desperation. Your fumbling fingers finally closed around the bag of ice you kept stored there, the plastic slick with condensation and blessedly, wonderfully cold against your overheated palms. You clutched it to your chest like a lifeline, gasping at the shock of temperature contrast, before forcing your trembling legs to carry you toward the bathroom. The walk felt impossibly long despite walking only a dozen steps. Your vision had gone hazy at the edges, soft and unfocused in a way that made moving around your own familiar living space feel like traversing foreign territory.  You caught yourself against the doorframe of the bathroom, breathing hard, before hobbling the final distance to your bathtub. You tore open the bag of ice with hands that refused to cooperate properly, your fine motor control having apparently abandoned you along with your dignity. 

Frozen cubes scattered across the porcelain surface of the tub, some bouncing out onto the tile floor where they would eventually melt into puddles you would have to clean up later. That was a problem for future you. Your fingers found the cold water tap and wrenched it open with more force than strictly necessary. The rush of water hitting the ice and porcelain was almost musical, a promise of relief that made your chest tight with something approaching hope. You crumpled to the bathroom floor beside the tub, too weak and too desperate to remain standing, pressing your burning cheek against the cool tile as you watched the water level slowly, agonizingly slowly, begin to rise. The bathtub was barely filled halfway when your patience finally shattered completely. You could not wait another second, could not endure another moment of your rising body temperature threatening to consume you from the inside out. 

You stripped with trembling, uncoordinated movements, peeling away your sweat-damp pajama shirt and shorts with hands that shook so badly you nearly tore the fabric in your haste. The garments landed in a forgotten heap on the tile floor, and then you were climbing into the tub with all the grace of someone who had forgotten how their limbs were supposed to function. Water sloshed over the sides as you submerged yourself, not caring about the mess, caring only about the immediate shock of cold against your burning skin.

The relief was instant and overwhelming, so intense it drew a sob from your throat. The frigid water enveloped you like a lover's embrace, drawing the heat from your body with blessed relaxation. You sank deeper, letting the water close over your shoulders, your neck, submerging yourself until only your face remained above the surface. Ice bumped against your bare skin, leaving trails of sensation that were almost painful in their intensity but infinitely preferable to the consuming heat that had held you captive moments before. For perhaps thirty seconds, maybe a full minute, you existed in a state of peace. The water temperature shocked your system into a kind of numb stillness, and you allowed yourself to believe that this might actually work, that you might survive this.

Then the ache at your core pulsed once more, a deep throb of need that the cold water had done absolutely nothing to address. The realization crashed over you devastatingly. The hollow feeling between your thighs had not diminished in the slightest. If anything, the shock of the ice water had somehow sharpened your awareness of that emptiness, thrown it into stark relief against the numbing cold surrounding the rest of your body. You needed to be fucked, filled, needed something that had nothing to do with temperature regulation and everything to do with the primal demands your transformation had awakened.

Your fingers reached between your thighs with a desperation that bypassed shame entirely. Under the water, surrounded by melting ice, you touched yourself with single-minded focus, fingers finding your clit and rubbing with increasing pressure before sliding lower to fill your cunt with two, then three fingers. You fucked yourself hard and fast with your fingers, chasing release with the grim determination of someone trying to solve a problem rather than seeking pleasure. The first orgasm arrived quickly, your body wound too tight and too desperate to require much stimulation. It crashed through you, making your back arch off the bathtub, water sloshing violently around you. Your ears pressed flat against your skull and your tail twitched beneath the surface.

But the relief you had expected, the satisfaction you had desperately hoped would finally silence your body's demands, never materialized. The orgasm faded, leaving you somehow more aware of the emptiness than before, the ache having transformed into something approaching genuine pain. Your fingers moved again, more frantically now, stroking and penetrating with increasing desperation as you chased a second release. When it came, it was harder than the first, ripping through you with enough force to make you cry out, the sound echoing off the tile walls of your bathroom. Your free hand gripped the edge of the tub hard enough that you distantly registered your knuckles going white, your body convulsing around your own fingers as the climax rolled through you in punishing waves.

And still, impossibly, the need remained. 

The ache had not diminished. Your body continued to scream its demands, as though the two orgasms you had given yourself were nothing more than drops of water offered to someone dying of thirst. Worse, you felt tears of frustration gathering hot behind your closed eyelids, the only warm thing left in your body as the ice water continued its work of lowering your temperature while doing absolutely nothing to address the actual problem. You drew a deep breath, filling your lungs to capacity, and then you submerged yourself fully, sliding beneath the surface of the water until it closed over your head. In the muffled underwater silence, you opened your mouth and released a scream, letting it tear from your throat in a cathartic rush of sound that emerged as nothing but bubbles streaming toward the surface.

The scream seemed to go on forever, your lungs expelling every molecule of air in a sustained note of frustration and desperation and helpless rage at your own body's betrayal. 

When you finally ran out of breath, you remained underwater for several seconds longer, eyes closed, suspended in the cold and the quiet, wishing desperately that you could simply remain here indefinitely rather than surface and face the unchanged reality of your situation. Eventually, your body demanded for air. You broke the surface with a gasp, water streaming from your hair and your bunny ears, your chest heaving as you drew in desperate lungfuls of air. While you were waging a war with your own body, you remained unaware of the incessant buzzing emanating from your phone on the nightstand in the other room. The device lit up repeatedly with incoming messages, each notification going unheard and unacknowledged as you fought for your life in your  makeshift ice bath.

Bucky had been trying to reach you with increasing desperation ever since FRIDAY had informed him during the mission briefing that you were experiencing some kind of medical distress. The AI's clinical report of elevated body temperature and signs of physiological crisis had sent alarm bells clanging through his mind, derailing his focus from the discussion entirely. Steve had noticed his sudden distraction, the way Bucky's jaw had gone tight and his metal hand had clenched reflexively against the conference table. When you failed to respond to his first text message, Bucky had sent another. Then another. His messages had grown progressively more worried with each passing minute of silence, evolving from casual check-ins to urgent pleas for confirmation that you were alright. 

When you still did not reply after his fifth attempt, he had abandoned texting entirely in favor of calling, your ringtone playing out its full melody three separate times to an empty bedroom before rolling to voicemail. The combination of FRIDAY's concerning report and your complete radio silence had finally broken through whatever remained of Bucky's composure. He had stood abruptly from the conference table, interrupting some comment Natasha was making about extraction protocols, and announced that he needed to leave immediately. 

Steve had opened his mouth to protest, but something in Bucky's expression, the barely contained panic flickering behind those blue eyes, had made him simply nod instead and wave his best friend away. Bucky had made his way through the compound's corridors at a pace just shy of running, his enhanced hearing straining to pick up any sound from your quarters as he approached. His wolf senses, usually kept carefully dampened in public spaces, flared to full awareness as concern overrode his usual caution. 

He could smell the distress radiating from your room before he even reached your door, the scent profile wrong in ways that made his hackles rise and protective instincts surge. He knocked on your door with enough force to make the frame rattle, his metal fist connecting with the wood in three sharp raps that echoed down the hallway. His other hand hovered near the keypad, ready to override your security if you did not answer within a reasonable timeframe. Seconds ticked by with agonizing slowness, each one ramping up his worry as he waited for the sound of your footsteps or your voice calling out that you were coming.

Nothing. 

The silence from your room was absolute save for a faint sound of water that his enhanced hearing barely detected. Bucky's patience, already hanging by the thread, snapped entirely. His fingers flew across the keypad hurriedly, inputting the override code you had given him months ago for emergencies. The lock disengaged with a soft click and he shoved the door open, stepping inside without hesitation. The scent hit him like a punch, so intense and overwhelming that he actually staggered back a step before catching himself. Your distress saturated every surface of the room, a sharp acrid note that spoke of fear and discomfort and something his wolf brain recognized as pain. 

But underneath that distress was arousal so potent and concentrated that it made his mouth go dry and his pupils dilate involuntarily. His throat tightened as he tried to process what he was sensing. The combination should not have been possible, distress and arousal existing in such equal measures, unless something had gone wrong. His eyes swept your bedroom in quick assessment, looking at the rumpled sheets on your bed, the abandoned pile of clothing on the floor, the phone on your nightstand still lit up with his unanswered messages.

The sound of water sloshing reached his ears again, louder now that he was inside your room, coming from the direction of your bathroom. Bucky moved toward it on instinct, his enhanced senses painting him a picture before he even reached the doorway. Water. Ice. The signature scent of your soap and shampoo. And over it all, that intoxicating blend of distress and need that made every protective instinct in his body roar to life. He pushed open the bathroom door and froze in the doorway, his breath catching hard in his chest at the sight that greeted him. You were slumped in the bathtub, your body submerged in water that still held remnants of ice cubes bobbing near the surface. 

Your skin was flushed despite the obvious cold of the water, patches of red staining your cheeks and chest. He saw your bunny ears lay flat against your skull, but it was your eyes that truly undid him, glassy and unfocused when they finally tracked toward the sound of his entrance. Bucky crossed the distance to the bathtub in two long strides and dropped to his knees beside it with enough force that he distantly registered pain in his kneecaps from the impact with the tile. His flesh hand reached out, trembling slightly, and pressed against your forehead to check your temperature. Your skin was hot beneath his palm despite the ice bath, fever warm in a way that sent fresh worry spiking through his system.

"Bucky?" The word left your lips as barely more than a whisper, your voice rough and strained as though you had been screaming. You blinked up at him, eyes struggling to focus on his face. Your brow furrowed slightly, confusion flickering across your features. "Are you real?"

The question made his heart clench painfully in his chest. You thought you were hallucinating him, your mind so compromised by whatever was happening to your body that you could not trust your own perceptions. His thumb stroked soothingly across your forehead, a soothing gesture that had your stupid bunny brain melting from the simple touch.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said softly, his voice low and soft despite the worry that threatened to choke him. His eyes roamed over your face, noting the dilation of your pupils, the rapid flutter of your pulse visible in your throat, the way you were breathing too fast and too shallow. "I'm real. I'm right here. What's wrong? Why are you in a bathtub filled with ice?"

You opened your mouth to answer him, the words forming somewhere in the haze of your consciousness, but before any sound could emerge, another wave of need crashed through your body. This one was sharper than what had come before, more insistent, carrying with it a spike of genuine pain that originated deep in your core and radiated outward throughout your body. Your back arched involuntarily off the porcelain bottom of the tub, water sloshing around you in violent waves that sent the remaining  scattering. A strangled sound tore from your throat, something between a whimper and a gasp, and your hands clenched into fists so tight that your blunt nails bit crescents into your palms.

The wave seemed to carry with it an imperative that bypassed your rational mind entirely, speaking directly to something more primal and unthinking. Your body screamed at you with what it wanted, what it needed, and the solution was right there in front of you. Bucky was kneeling beside the tub, close enough to touch, radiating warmth and safety. The scent of him filled your nostrils with each ragged breath you dragged into your lungs, and underneath the familiar comfort of it was something new, something that made your hybrid instincts sit up and take notice with intense focus. 

Mate, some carnal part of your brain whispered. 

The urge to reach for him, to pull him down into the water with you, to climb into his lap and grind against him until the ache finally subsided, was so powerful that you actually moved before conscious thought could intervene. Your hand lifted from the water, droplets streaming from your fingers as you reached toward him with uncoordinated movements. Only the last shred of your rational mind, clinging desperately to awareness despite the hormonal onslaught, allowed you to abort the motion halfway through. Your hand fell back into the water with a splash, and you turned your face away from him, shame and confusion warring with need in your expression.

Bucky watched your inner turmoil unfold with growing understanding, his enhanced senses processing information that his conscious mind was only beginning to catch up with. He saw the way your pupils had blown wide enough to nearly eclipse the color of your irises. He heard the spike in your heart rate, the way your breathing had shifted into something faster and more desperate. He smelled the surge of arousal that accompanied the wave of pain, so potent now that it made his own body respond despite his determination to remain focused on helping you.

But more than any single piece of sensory data, it was the overall pattern that finally clicked into place in his mind with horrible, perfect clarity. He had heard stories from Tony’s big mouth when he was researching what was going on with them biologically once certain hybrids reached sexual maturity. The cycles that could overtake them without warning, particularly if they had been created rather than born, their bodies sometimes struggling to navigate biological imperatives that had been artificially imposed rather than naturally developed. He had thought it was a whole lot of baloney.

Until now.

Until you, suffering through something that his every instinct recognized.

The word left his lips in a whisper, soft but carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "You're in heat."

The statement hung in the air between you, suspended in the steamy atmosphere of the bathroom like a physical thing. For a moment, you did not react at all, your fever-glazed eyes still turned away from him, your body trembling in the cooling water. Then, slowly, as though moving through deep water, you turned your head back toward him. Your expression was confused, your brow furrowing as you tried to process what he had just said through the fog of need and discomfort that had taken up residence in your skull.

"What?" The single word emerged from your throat as barely more than a croak, rough and strained. You blinked at him, struggling visibly to focus, to make sense of the concept he had just introduced. Your bunny ears twitched slightly against your skull, an unconscious gesture of confusion that might have been endearing under any other circumstances. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Bucky's flesh hand moved from your forehead to cup your cheek instead, a gesture meant to soothe and ground you. His eyes held yours with steady intensity, willing you to focus on him, to hear what he was saying even through the haze of whatever was happening to your body. 

"You're in heat," he repeated gently. "Your hybrid biology is going through a cycle. That's why you feel like this. That's why the ice bath isn't helping, why you can't satisfy the need on your own."

He paused, watching comprehension begin to dawn slowly in your eyes, fighting its way through the hormonal chaos. "Your body is telling you that you need a mate."

The words tumbled from your lips in a broken sob, raw and unfiltered, stripped of any pretense by the relentless agony coursing through your body. 

"I'm going to fucking kill Loki." Your voice cracked at the god's name. "This stupid heat thing hurts so fucking bad." 

You pressed your palms against your face in a futile attempt to hide from the mortification that crashed over you like another wave of pain. Your fingers splayed across your overheated cheeks, the coolness of your pruned skin offering no relief whatsoever. The urge to disappear, to simply cease existing rather than endure another moment of this humiliation in front of Bucky, was almost as overwhelming as the physical need tearing through your core. Here you were, a composed and capable agent who had faced down enemies without flinching, reduced to a sobbing mess in a bathtub while confessing that your body was screaming for something you had no idea how to satisfy.

Bucky's heart fractured at the sound of your tears, each broken sob landing like a physical blow to his chest. His thumb continued its soothing path across your cheek, the gesture automatic now, driven by instincts that ran deeper than conscious thought. Every protective impulse he possessed roared to life at your distress, his wolf demanding he do something, anything, to ease your suffering. 

"I know, sweetheart, I know," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low register reserved for soothing frightened animals or traumatized civilians. His flesh hand moved from your cheek to your shoulder, gripping gently through the water as he leaned closer. "But we need to get you out of the water before you catch a cold. Your body temperature is all over the place right now, and sitting in ice water isn't helping anymore. It might actually be making things worse."

The concern in his words was genuine, backed by the evidence his enhanced senses were feeding him. Your core temperature was spiking despite the cold water, your body fighting against the artificial cooling in ways that could not be sustainable. Already he could see the faint tremors running through your muscles, the way your lips had taken on a slightly blue tinge even as your cheeks remained flushed with fever. The ice bath had been a reasonable first attempt at managing your symptoms, but it had clearly outlived its usefulness.

"No, it's too hot," you protested, shaking your head with enough force that water droplets scattered from your damp hair.

Your hands finally dropped from your face, falling back into the water with small splashes as you looked up at him with pleading eyes. The thought of leaving the relative coolness of the bath, of being exposed to the air of your room without even that minimal barrier against the heat raging through your body, felt impossible. 

"I can't. Everything is too hot. My skin feels like it's on fire, Bucky. The water is the only thing that helps at all."

Your voice climbed higher with each word, panic threading through the pain and need as you tried to make him understand. The ice bath was your anchor, the one thing standing between you and complete dissolution into the hormonal chaos. Without it, you would be left with nothing but the burning ache and the terrible, insistent demand of your body for something you could not give it. The prospect terrified you in ways you could not fully articulate, fear mixing with the physical distress until you could barely distinguish one from the other.

Bucky recognized the edge of panic in your voice, saw it reflected in the way your pupils had contracted slightly, your body flooding with adrenaline on top of everything else. His grip on your shoulder tightened fractionally, not enough to hurt but enough to ground you, to give you something solid to focus on besides the pain. His other hand moved to join the first, both palms now resting on your shoulders as he held your gaze with steady intensity.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice remaining low but gaining an edge of command that cut through your panic like a knife through fog. 

It was the tone he used in the field when there was no room for argument, when hesitation could mean the difference between life and death. 

"I'm going to help you. I promise. But I need you to trust me right now. We need to get you somewhere more comfortable, somewhere I can actually take care of you properly. This bathroom isn't going to cut it."

He could see the war playing out behind your eyes, rational thought struggling against instinct and fear. Your ears flattened further against your skull, and your tail gave a weak twitch in the water beside you. Every line of your body screamed distress. That trust was the lifeline he needed to pull you back from the edge of panic.

"I've got you," he added, softer now, letting some of the command bleed out of his tone in favor of reassurance. "I'm not going anywhere. Whatever you need, whatever will help, I'm right here. But you have to work with me. Can you do that?"

You nodded slowly, the movement requiring more effort than it should have, your neck feeling as though it belonged to someone else entirely. The simple gesture of agreement seemed to drain what little energy you had left, leaving you trembling in the cooling water. Bucky's hands moved quickly to help you out of the water, one sliding beneath your knees while the other supported your back as he lifted you from the tub in a single fluid motion. Water cascaded from your body, splashing back into the tub and pooling on the tile floor as he cradled you against his chest.

The air hit your wet skin like a shock, raising goosebumps across every exposed inch despite the fever still raging through your core. You made a small sound of distress, instinctively pressing closer to the warmth radiating from Bucky's body. He had grabbed the largest towel within reach before lifting you, and he wrapped it around you, cocooning you in the soft fabric. His metal arm held you securely while his flesh hand tucked the edges of the towel around your shoulders, ensuring you were covered completely.

The walk from your bathroom to your bedroom passed in a blur. You were acutely aware of every point of contact between your body and his, the solid strength of his chest beneath your cheek, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat audible even through the fog of heat and need. Your ears picked up the slight quickening of his pulse, the way his breathing had shifted into something deeper and more controlled, as though he was actively working to maintain his composure.He lowered you onto your bed with the same care he had used to lift you, settling you against the pillows before stepping back. The loss of his proximity felt like a physical ache, your body immediately protesting the absence of his warmth. 

You watched through half-lidded eyes as he moved to your dresser, his movements purposeful despite the tension visible in the set of his shoulders. He returned a moment later with your hairdryer in hand, the familiar device somehow looking daunting in his grip. The sight of it made your head shake before conscious thought could intervene, the motion jerky and uncoordinated. 

"No," you managed, the single word emerging rough and strained from your abused throat. The thought of the hot air blowing across your overheated skin, of the noise filling your sensitive ears, was more than you could bear. "Please, no."

Understanding flickered across his features, and he nodded once before placing the hairdryer on your nightstand. He did not argue or try to convince you otherwise, simply accepted your refusal and adapted. That willingness to listen, to prioritize your comfort even when he clearly thought he knew better, sent a wave of gratitude through you that was almost strong enough to cut through the haze of need. He disappeared into your bathroom again, and you heard the sound of cabinet doors opening, the rustle of fabric. When he returned, he carried another towel, this one smaller and softer than the one currently wrapped around your body. 

The mattress dipped under his weight as he settled onto the bed behind you, his thighs were around your hips without touching. The proximity made your breath catch, suddenly hyperaware of how close he was, how easy it would be to lean back into the solid warmth of his chest. His hands moved to your hair, gathering the wet strands carefully before beginning to blot them with the towel. He worked methodically, section by section, squeezing excess water from your hair with patient efficiency. The repetitive motion was soothing in a way you had not anticipated, each soft press of the towel against your scalp grounding you a little more firmly in your body. His metal fingers combed through the tangles with unexpected dexterity, careful not to pull or tug despite the knots the bathwater had created.

For several minutes, there was no sound but the whisper of fabric against hair, the quiet rhythm of his breathing behind you, the occasional drip of water hitting the towel in his hands. You let your eyes drift closed, focusing on the sensation of his touch rather than the persistent ache in your core. It was not enough to banish the heat entirely, but it gave you something else to concentrate on, a lifeline of normalcy in the chaos your body had become. Then, without warning, your entire body went rigid. Another surge of slick flooded from your core, soaking through the towel wrapped around your lower body with mortifying ease. The scent of it filled the air immediately, unmistakable and potent, carrying with it a chemical signature that spoke directly to the most primal parts of any wolf nearby.

Bucky's hands stilled instantly, the towel going motionless against your hair. You felt him go rigid behind you, every muscle in his body locking down as though someone had flipped a switch. His breathing, which had been steady and controlled, hitched audibly in his throat.  The silence that followed stretched out for several heartbeats, taut as a wire, before you heard him take a deep breath in through his nose. The inhale was slow and you knew with absolute certainty that he was scenting you, his enhanced senses processing the chemical information your body was exuding without your permission.

"Fuck." 

The word emerged as barely more than a whisper, rough and strained in a way you had rarely heard from him. His forehead dropped forward until it pressed against your shoulder, the coolness of his skin a stark contrast to your fever. You could feel the tension radiating from him in waves, the way his entire frame had gone taut. His hands had fallen away from your hair entirely, one gripping the towel in a white-knuckled fist while the other braced against the mattress beside your hip.

"I'm sorry,” the words tumbled from your lips in a broken whimper, thick with tears and shame and desperation. Your own hands twisted in the damp towel wrapped around your torso. "I can't control it. I'm trying, but I can't make it stop."

Every instinct you possessed screamed at you to apologize again, to somehow make this better, to take back the hormonal chaos your body was inflicting on him without your consent. 

"Shh, it's okay. You have nothing to apologize for," he murmured against your shoulder, his voice a low rumble that you felt as much as heard. The press of his lips against the curve of your shoulder was brief but a gesture of comfort that sent a shiver racing down your spine despite the fever burning through you. 

He pulled back just enough to resume his ministrations with the towel, working through the remaining damp sections of your hair. The silence between you felt heavy with unspoken things. When he finally set the towel aside, you heard him take another measured breath, steadying himself before he spoke again.

"I can help alleviate the pain if you'd like," he offered, the words careful and measured, as though he had weighed each one before allowing it past his lips. There was no judgment in his tone, no pressure, only a genuine offer..

You turned your head slightly, enough to catch a glimpse of his profile in your peripheral vision. His jaw was set in a hard line, the muscle there jumping with tension, but his eyes when they met yours held only concern.

"How?" 

"Orgasms help with pain," he said simply,"It's biology. The endorphin release, the temporary spike in oxytocin and dopamine, can provide relief from the symptoms. At least for a while."

A sound escaped you that was half laugh, half sob, bitter and raw in the quiet of your room. 

"I already gave myself two orgasms and it didn't help," you admitted, the words scraping past the tightness in your throat. The confession should have embarrassed you, but you were far beyond the luxury of shame. "It barely even took the edge off. As soon as it was over, everything came back worse than before. Like my body was punishing me for trying to trick it."

You watched his expression shift, saw the flicker of something dark and frustrated pass through his eyes before he could mask it. 

"That's because you were alone," he said, his voice dropping even lower. 

He shifted closer, the heat of his body warming your back through the damp towel still wrapped around you. 

"Your body isn't looking for just any release. It's looking for a partner. For connection. The hormones flooding your system right now are designed to drive you toward finding a mate, and they're not going to be satisfied with a solitary solution."

"So what are you saying?" you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. Your heart was hammering against your ribs so hard you were certain he could hear it, could probably feel it where his chest was mere inches from your back. "That you would... that we would..."

You could not finish the sentence, could not quite bring yourself to voice the question explicitly. But it hung there nonetheless, suspended in the charged air between you, waiting for him to either confirm or deny what his words had implied.

"Yes, sweetheart," he said, the endearment falling from his lips with a tenderness that made your chest ache. 

But even as relief began to bloom in your chest, uncertainty twisted sharply alongside it, tempering the hope before it could fully take root. Your fingers clutched harder at the towel wrapped around your torso, the damp fabric bunching under your grip as you tried to gather the courage to voice the concern that had immediately surfaced in your mind.

 "But you told me you weren't ready," you said hesitantly, wariness threading through every word. "And I don't want you to feel pressured into having sex with me just because my stupid bunny hormones say so."

The words tumbled out in a rush, propelled by the sudden fear that you were somehow coercing him, that his offer stemmed from pity or obligation rather than genuine desire. The thought of him agreeing to this out of some misguided sense of duty, of sacrificing his own boundaries because your body had betrayed you, made something twist painfully in your stomach. Behind you, Bucky went absolutely still. 

His hands came to rest on your waist, warm and solid and grounding, turning you with gentle insistence until you faced him fully. The towel around your body shifted with the movement, but his grip kept it secure, kept you covered even as he maneuvered you to meet his gaze directly. His eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that stole what little breath you had left. There was no pity there, no reluctance or obligation clouding the clear depths. Instead, you saw something raw and honest, something that had been carefully controlled until this moment.

"Listen to me," he said softly. "I'm not doing this because I feel pressured. I'm not doing this out of obligation or because I think it's what you need to hear."

One of his hands lifted from your waist to cup your face, his palm warm against your fevered cheek.

 "I told you I wasn't ready because I was scared," he continued, his gaze never wavering from yours. "Scared of messing this up, of moving too fast and ruining something that matters more to me than I know how to put into words. But watching you suffer like this, seeing you in pain and knowing I have the ability to help..." 

He paused, his throat working as he swallowed hard. "That's not pressure. That's me wanting to take care of you because I care about you."

You could see the truth of his words written in every line of his face, in the way his jaw remained tight with tension even as his touch stayed impossibly gentle. This was not a man forcing himself into something he did not want. This was someone who had weighed his options and made a choice, who had pushed past his own hesitations because something else mattered more.

"But only if you want this," he added, his voice softening slightly around the edges. "Only if you're sure. Because regardless of what your body is demanding right now, you still get to choose. Your heat doesn't take that away from you. If you want me to help in another way, or if you'd rather I leave and let you ride this out alone, I will. No judgment, no hurt feelings. But if you want me to stay, if you want this..." 

His thumb brushed across your lower lip, the touch feather light and electrifying. "Then I'm here. Completely. Not because I have to be, but because there's nowhere else I'd rather be."

The sincerity in his words crashed over you, washing away the last remnants of doubt that had been clinging to your thoughts. You could see it in his eyes, feel it in the steady presence of his hands on your skin, hear it in the unwavering certainty of his voice. A shuddering breath escaped you, something between a sob and a laugh, relief and residual fear tangling together in your chest until you could not distinguish one from the other. 

"I want this," you whispered. "I want you. Not just because of the heat, but because it's you. Because I trust you. Because..." you trailed off, struggling to find words adequate to express the depth of what you felt, the way his presence had become something essential rather than merely wanted.

"Because you're mine," he finished for you, his voice dropping back into that low, rough register that made heat pool low in your belly despite the fever already burning through you. "And I'm yours. Heat or no heat, that doesn't change."

He moved closer, his breath warm against your overheated skin as he nudged his nose gently against yours. The movement was deliberate, controlled, giving you every opportunity to pull away if you wanted to. His eyes searched yours in the scant space that separated you, looking for any sign of hesitation or doubt, any indication that you might not be as certain as your words had suggested. He was waiting, you realized with a flutter in your chest, waiting for you to close the remaining distance, to make the final choice.

"Are you sure that you are…" you began, the words emerging hesitant and worried as a fresh wave of concern washed over you. 

Even now, even with your body screaming for his touch and your mind certain of what you wanted, you needed to hear him confirm it one more time. Needed to know beyond any shadow of doubt that he was choosing this freely, that he would not wake tomorrow with regret weighing heavy on his conscience. But he did not let you finish the question. His lips closed over yours before the final word could form, swallowing whatever doubts had been about to spill forth and replacing them with the undeniable reality of his mouth moving against yours. The kiss was not gentle or tentative. 

His hand slid from your cheek to cup the back of your head, fingers threading through your damp hair as he angled your face to deepen the connection. When he finally pulled back just enough to speak, his lips still brushing against yours, his voice emerged as a rough whisper saturated with promise. 

"Let me show you just how sure I am." 

The words were followed immediately by action as his hands moved to the towel wrapped around your torso. He found the edge where you had been clutching it closed and pulled, the fabric giving way easily under his grip. The towel fell away, leaving you bare and exposed beneath his gaze, vulnerable in a way that should have made you self conscious but instead only intensified the burning need of being filled in your core. His hands moved to your shoulders, guiding you backward with gentle insistence until your back met the mattress. You went willingly, your body responding to his direction without conscious thought, trusting him completely.

The sheets were cool against your fevered skin, but the sensation was quickly overwhelmed as Bucky followed you down. He braced himself above you, his weight supported on his forearms as he captured your mouth again in another searing kiss that robbed you of what little breath you had managed to reclaim. He kissed you thoroughly, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that made your hips lift involuntarily seeking friction that was not yet there. But before you could protest the absence, he was moving, trailing his lips from your mouth along the line of your jaw and down the column of your throat. 

He paused to nip at the sensitive junction where your neck met your shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin in a way that made you cry out softly and clutch at his shoulders. The sound seemed to encourage him, and he continued downward. His mouth blazed a path down your sternum, kissing along the slope between your breasts, giving your breasts an appreciative squeeze. He mapped the plane of your stomach with his lips and tongue, occasionally using his teeth to add just enough pressure to make your breath hitch and your fingers tangle harder in his hair. 

Every touch felt amplified by the heat burning through your system, each press of his mouth against your skin sending sparks sparks against your skin. When he finally reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, his breath ghosting over your most sensitive flesh in a way that made your hips buck involuntarily. His hands moved to your inner thighs, pressing them wider apart. You obeyed without thought, spreading yourself open for him as heat flooded your face at the vulnerability of the position. The hunger in that gaze was unmistakable, raw and primal in a way you had never seen directed at you before. He looked at you like you were something precious and profane all at once, like the sight before him was simultaneously a gift and a test of his already frayed control. 

"God," he breathed, his voice rough and reverent as he took in the evidence of your arousal glistening between your spread thighs. The heat had your body producing far more slick than would be typical, your biology working overtime in its desperate attempt to prepare you for breeding. "Look at you."

Before you could formulate any response, his mouth was on you, his tongue dragging through your wet folds in one long stroke that had your back arching off the mattress and a broken cry tearing from your throat. He groaned against you, the vibration adding another layer to the sensation, and the sound was one of pure satisfaction as though the taste of you alone was enough to undo him. He found your clit, closing his lips around the swollen bundle of nerves and sucking in a way that made stars explode behind your eyelids. You gasped his name, your hands flying to his hair and gripping hard enough that it had to hurt, but he only groaned again in response and doubled his efforts. He alternated between focused attention on your clit and broader strokes through your folds, his tongue occasionally dipping inside you to gather more of the slick your body continued to produce.

"You taste so good," he groaned against your heated flesh, the words muffled but unmistakable. "So fucking good." 

The crude praise should have embarrassed you, but instead it only made your core weep, pushing you closer to the edge you could feel rapidly approaching.

"Bucky," you managed to gasp out, your voice high and strained with desperation. "Just fuck me already." 

You needed more than his mouth, needed the weight and heat and fullness of him inside you or you were going to lose your mind. Your hips ground against his face shamelessly seeking more pressure, more friction, more of anything he was willing to give. His hands tightened on your thighs in response, holding you steady as he welcomed the desperate movement, using it to drive his tongue deeper. But even as pleasure continued to build, the ache inside you remained unfulfilled. 

"Please," you whimpered, your fingers tugging insistently at his hair in an attempt to draw him up and redirect his attention. "I need you inside me. I need you now."

He pulled back slightly, his lips and chin glistening with your slick, his eyes blazing with barely restrained desire as they met yours.

"I need to stretch you out first," he said, his voice rough and strained "I don't want to hurt you."

"I don’t care," you gasped out, shaking your head frantically against the pillow. "Besides, I already fingered myself before you got here, remember? I told you. Please, Bucky, I need you so badly I can’t think straight."

Your voice broke on the final plea, tears of frustration and overwhelming need pricking at the corners of your eyes. You could feel another wave of heat building inside you, could feel your body preparing to punish you again for the continued absence of what it so desperately craved. Something in your expression must have convinced him because you saw the last of his resistance crumble. His jaw clenched tight, a muscle jumping there as he fought for control, but he was moving even as he processed your words. 

"Alright," he breathed, his voice dropping into that low register that made your core clench with anticipation. "Alright, sweetheart. I got you."

Your eyes tracked his every movement as he began to remove his clothing. His shirt came off first, exposing the broad expanse of his chest. Then his pants followed until he knelt before you, completely bare. He settled himself between your spread thighs. His hands gripped your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there as he positioned himself. You felt the first touch of him against you, the blunt head of his cock dragging through your slick folds in a slow, torturous glide that made your entire body tense with anticipation. He was hot and hard, and the friction alone was enough to make you gasp. He gathered your wetness along his length, coating himself thoroughly as he continued teasing his tip between your folds, bringing him close to where you needed him but never quite there. Then finally, he guided his tip to your entrance.

He pushed forward slowly, pushing into you carefully. The stretch was immediate and intense, your body struggling to accommodate the intrusion even as it welcomed the fullness. 

A whimper escaped your lips before you could contain it. He was bigger than you’ve ever had.

"More," you panted, your hands reaching up to clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into the firm muscle there. Your hips lifted in an attempt to take him deeper despite the stretch. You needed all of him, needed to be completely filled. 

He continued to push forward, sinking deeper into your welcoming heat inch by torturous inch. The sensation of being filled so completely, so thoroughly, was unlike anything you had experienced before. You clenched around him as he stretched you wider, claiming space inside you that had never been occupied. A low, guttural groan rumbled from deep in his chest, the sound primal and raw as he watched himself disappear into your cunt. His eyes were fixed downward, transfixed by the sight of you yielding to accommodate him, taking him in despite the impossible stretch.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he ground out, his voice barely recognizable. 

His hands tightened their grip on your hips hard enough to leave marks, his fingers digging into your skin. When he finally bottomed out, fully seated inside you with no space remaining between your bodies, you both stilled. Your walls clenched around him, adjusting to the stretch, and the sensation drew another strangled sound from his throat. He held himself perfectly still, his entire body rigid with the effort of not moving, of giving you time to accommodate his size despite every instinct screaming at him to move. 

You could feel him pulsing inside you, hot and hard, could feel the way your body continued to produce slick in response to his presence, easing the stretch and welcoming him deeper. Then he began to move, withdrawing almost completely before driving back in with a smooth, powerful thrust that had your back arching off the mattress and a cry spilling from your lips. He set a rhythm that was both relentless and measured, each stroke deep, hitting places inside you that sent pleasure ricocheting through you. His eyes remained locked on your face, drinking in every expression that crossed your features. He watched the way your mouth fell open on breathless gasps, the way your eyes glazed over with pleasure, the way your brow furrowed when he hit a particularly sensitive spot.

His gaze dropped lower, tracking the movement of your breasts as they bounced with each powerful thrust. The sight seemed to mesmerize him, his pupils dilating further if such a thing were possible. One hand released your hip to palm your breast, his thumb sweeping across the peaked nipple in a caress that made you whimper and arch into his touch. The dual sensations of his hand on your breast and his cock moving inside you were almost too much to process, pleasure building upon pleasure until you felt like you might shatter from the intensity of it.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with awe and possession. "Taking me so perfectly. Like you were made for this, made for me." 

The praise washed over you like warm honey, sweet and golden, making something flutter in your chest even. His thrusts grew harder, more demanding, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room along with your combined breathing and the desperate sounds neither of you could contain. Your hands scrabbled for purchase against his sweat-slicked skin, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave red welts in their wake. The slight pain only seemed to spur him on, his pace increasing as he drove into you with renewed vigor. 

"Bucky, you're so big," you whimpered, the words tumbling out between ragged breaths that you couldn't seem to catch. 

Your voice was barely recognizable, transformed into something breathy and desperate by the overwhelming fullness stretching you from the inside. The sheer size of him filled you so deliciously.

"I know, sweetheart," he murmured against your lips. "And you're taking me so well." 

The praise made your wanton bunny brain so happy, causing you to clench around him. He captured your mouth in a kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours. The kiss swallowed your gasps and whimpers, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that seemed insatiable. When he pulled back, breaking the kiss to let you both breathe, his hands moved to the backs of your thighs. His fingers curled around the sensitive skin there, his grip firm and possessive as he pushed your legs up and back. He folded you nearly in half with surprising ease, bringing your knees toward your chest until your thighs were pressed against your torso and you were completely open to him. 

The new angle changed everything. 

When he thrust forward again, he sank impossibly deeper, hitting places inside you that you hadn't even known existed. The sensation was so intense it bordered on overwhelming, pleasure so acute it stole the breath from your lungs and made your vision blur at the edges. Your head fell back against the pillow, your spine arching in an involuntary response to the onslaught of sensation as a broken cry tore from your throat.

"Right there," you babbled, your words slurring together in your desperation. 

All higher thought had abandoned you, burned away by the relentless heat and the exquisite friction of his body moving against and inside yours. You were completely fucked out of your mind, reduced to nothing more than sensation and need and the desperate chase for release that felt tantalizingly close yet still just out of reach. 

"Right there, Bucky, please don't stop. Right there."

Your hands clutched at whatever they could reach, fingers digging into the solid muscle of his back. Your body had stopped being your own, moving purely on instinct now, hips rolling up to meet each of his powerful thrusts despite the way the position limited your movement. Every drive of his cock at this new angle sent sparks of electricity racing up your spine, the coil of tension in your core winding tighter and tighter with each passing second until you thought you might actually break apart from the force of it.

He growled in response to your pleas. His pace increased, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, more demanding as he chased his own release while simultaneously driving you toward yours. His eyes remained locked on your face, drinking in every expression of pleasure, every gasp and whimper and cry that you couldn't contain.

"Bucky, I'm going to cum," you whimpered, your voice breaking on the words as your fingers clawed desperately at his back. 

Your nails raked across the broad expanse of muscle, leaving marks in its wake. The pressure building inside you had reached its limit, wounding so tight in your core that you knew it was only moments away from snapping entirely. He seemed to sense how close you were, could probably feel it in the way your walls had begun to flutter around him. Without breaking his relentless rhythm, he shifted his weight slightly, freeing one hand from where it had been gripping your thigh. His fingers found your clit, the pad of his thumb beginning to rub merciless circles against the swollen bundle of nerves. The added stimulation was devastating. 

Your entire body went rigid beneath him, every muscle tensing at the feel of his cock driving into you and his thumb working your clit at the same time. The pressure that had been building finally reached its breaking point, and your orgasm crashed over you. Your vision whited out completely, stars exploding behind your tightly closed eyelids as pleasure so intense it bordered on painful ricocheted through your entire body. Your walls clamped down around him with bruising force, contracting in rhythmic waves that pulled him deeper with each pulse. The sudden increase in pressure, the way you squeezed him so impossibly tight, drew a feral growl from him.

He continued to fuck you through your orgasm, each drive of his hips prolonging the waves of pleasure that threatened to pull you under completely. You could feel him beginning to lose the careful control he had maintained throughout, could sense his own release building in the increasingly erratic rhythm of his movements. His breathing had become ragged, harsh pants that matched the frantic pace of his hips, and the muscles in his arms and shoulders had gone rigid with tension.

"Fuck, I'm close to cumming too," he growled against your ear.. His thrusts had become almost punishing in their intensity, each one driving so deep you could feel his tip hitting your cervix. "Where do you want me to cum?"

"Inside," you panted. "Cum inside me, Bucky. Breed me."

Something in him seemed to snap at your permission, at the explicit invitation to mark you so intimately. His control, already fraying at the edges, finally shattered completely. His pace became absolutely brutal, each thrust harder and faster than the last as he chased his release with single minded determination. You could only hold on, your body limp and pliant beneath his movements, taking everything he gave you and offering yourself up for more. His orgasm hit him with visible force, his entire body going rigid above you as his release finally overtook him. You felt the first hot pulse of his cum flooding into you, filling you with liquid heat that seemed to go on and on. 

His cock jerked inside you with each pulse, his body giving you everything it had as wave after wave of his seed painted your inner walls. The sensation hit you without warning, a sudden pressure that made your eyes fly open in shock as you felt your cunt being stretched impossibly wider. The fullness you had already been experiencing intensified exponentially, and you realized with a mixture of terror and overwhelming arousal that he was knotting you. The thick swell at the base of his cock began to expand inside you, growing larger with each passing second as his wolf side took over and locked you together in the most primal way possible.

"Bucky–" you cried, your voice pitched high with surprise and the overwhelming sensation of being stretched beyond what you thought your body could accommodate. 

The knot continued to swell, pressing against your inner walls. The overstimulation bordered on too much, but somehow your body was adjusting, your slick production increasing to ease the stretch.

He groaned against your neck, the sound pained and ecstatic all at once. 

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I can't... I can't stop it," his voice was strained, each word seeming to cost him effort as his body continued its instinctive response. 

The knot swelled to its full size, effectively locking him inside you in a way that had your bunny-in-heat mind relieved and content.  You could feel every pulse of his cock, every throb as he continued to release inside you, his cum having nowhere else  to go now that you were completely sealed together. The pressure was incredible, a constant fullness that made you acutely aware of every inch of him buried inside you. You could feel your walls stretching to accommodate the knot, could feel the way it pressed against that sensitive spot inside you with unrelenting pressure. 

The desperate ache that had been driving you to insanity finally began to ease, replaced by a deep satisfaction that radiated outward from where you were joined.

"It's okay," you managed to whisper. 

Your hands moved from his shoulders to cradle his face, forcing him to look at you. His eyes were wild, pupils blown so wide there was barely any blue visible, but there was concern there too, worry that he had hurt you or pushed you too far. 

"I'm okay, Bucky. It feels... god, it feels intense, but I'm okay."

He searched your face for any sign of pain or distress, and whatever he saw there must have reassured him because some of the tension bled out of his shoulders. His forehead dropped to rest against yours, his breathing still ragged as his cock continued to pulse inside you. 

"We're going to be like this for a while," he murmured, the words apologetic but tinged with unmistakable satisfaction. "The knot won't go down for at least twenty minutes, maybe longer."

The realization that you were literally locked together, unable to separate even if you wanted to, sent a fresh wave of heat cascading through your already oversensitive body. There was something deeply arousing about the helplessness of it, about the way your bodies had been designed to fit together so perfectly that separation was temporarily impossible. You were completely at his mercy, bound to him in the most intimate way imaginable, and the thought made your walls clench around him involuntarily. He hissed at the sensation, his hips jerking forward in an instinctive response despite the fact that he couldn't move more than a fraction of an inch. The knot held you both firmly in place, any significant movement impossible without causing discomfort. 

"Careful, sweetheart," he groaned, though there was no real heat in his tone. "I'm still really sensitive, and when you squeeze me like that..."

His words trailed off as you did it again, on purpose this time, tightening your inner muscles around his length and drawing another strangled sound from his throat. The feel of having him so completely trapped inside you, of being able to affect him so profoundly with just the clench of your body, was intoxicating. You could feel another pulse of warmth as the pressure triggered another release, more of his cum flooding into your already full channel with nowhere to escape. Carefully, moving slowly to avoid jostling the sensitive knot, Bucky shifted his weight and rolled onto his side, bringing you with him. The movement made you both gasp as it changed the angle slightly, but he managed to arrange you so that you were lying face to face, bringing one of your legs to hook over your hips so you’d be more comfortable. One of his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close against his chest, while the other hand came up to brush sweat-dampened strands of hair away from your face.

"How are you feeling?" he asked softly. 

"Bunny brain happy," you murmured against the heated skin of his chest, your words barely coherent as they tumbled out in a delirious whisper. The phrase made no logical sense, but in your heat-addled state, it was the only way your exhausted mind could articulate. "Bunny brain very, very happy."

The words were slurred together, your tongue heavy and uncooperative as the endorphins flooding your system pulled you toward a state of blissful semiconsciousness. Bucky's chest shook with surprised laughter, the sound rumbling against your cheek where it rested against his sternum. His arms tightened around you, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head with a tenderness that made your heart stutter. 

"Bunny brain?" he repeated, and you could hear the smile in his voice even though your eyes had drifted closed. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

You made an affirming noise that was barely recognizable as language, too far gone to care about coherence or dignity. Your body felt like it was made of warm honey, heavy and languid, every muscle relaxed in a way you hadn't experienced since your heat had started. The constant ache, the desperate need that had been clawing at your insides, had been replaced by this deep, bone melting satisfaction. If you could have formed more complex thoughts, you might have been embarrassed by your incoherence, but in this moment, all you could do was bask in the afterglow.

"Yeah," you managed after a moment, the single word requiring monumental effort. Your lips brushed against his neck as you spoke, the movement lazy and uncoordinated. "Bunny brain. The stupid part that just wants... wants..." you trailed off, unable to articulate exactly what that feral part of your psyche had been demanding, but somehow knowing he would understand anyway.

His fingers threaded through your hair, gently working out the tangles that had formed during your activities. The gesture was soothing, almost hypnotic, and you felt yourself melting further into his embrace. 

"I know, sweetheart," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. "I know what you mean. And I'm glad your bunny brain is happy. That's all I wanted."

You had never felt so safe, so perfectly content, as you did right now wrapped in Bucky’s arms.

"Sleep," he whispered, as if sensing how close you were to losing your battle with consciousness. "I've got you. Just let go, bunny. I'll be right here when you wake up."

And with his promise echoing in your ears and his warmth surrounding you like a cocoon, you finally surrendered to the peaceful oblivion your body needed. Time seemed to lose all meaning as you lay there together. Bucky's hands never stopped moving, one stroking up and down your spine in soothing patterns while the other occasionally threaded through your hair or traced the curve of your ears. Every so often you would feel another pulse from his cock, still locked inside you by the gradually shrinking knot, and each time it would trigger a flutter from your own body.

Chapter Text

You woke an hour later to the sensation of emptiness, a gradual awareness that the fullness you had fallen asleep with was no longer there. Your body felt heavy, limbs weighted down as if you had been sleeping for days rather than a single hour. Through the haze of lingering exhaustion, you registered movement beside you, the dip and shift of the mattress as Bucky rose from the bed.

Your eyelids felt like lead as you struggled to open them, managing only to crack them enough to watch through your lashes as his silhouette moved across the room. The soft light filtering through the windows cast him in shades of gold and shadow, highlighting the powerful lines of his body as he walked with quiet purpose toward the attached bathroom. You heard the sound of water running, the gentle splash as he wet something, and then he was returning to you, a damp cloth held carefully in his hands.

"Did you sleep okay?" His voice was impossibly soft, pitched low so as not to startle you fully awake. There was concern threaded through the question, a tenderness that made something in your chest constrict.

"Mmm," was all you could manage, the sound more vibration than actual word. Your throat felt dry, your tongue thick and uncooperative, but the small noise seemed to be enough of an answer for him.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he returned to the bed, and you felt the warmth of his body as he positioned himself near your legs. His hands were gentle as they found your knees, thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin there in a silent request.

"I'm going to clean up the mess we made, alright?"

The question was asked with such care, such consideration for your comfort even in your semiconscious state, that you felt a rush of affection for him that had nothing to do with the heat still simmering beneath your skin. You managed a nod, the movement small and sluggish, and let your legs fall open at his gentle guidance. The position left you completely exposed to his gaze, vulnerable in a way that should have made you self-conscious but instead only made you feel safe. Protected.

Through half-lidded eyes, you watched as he knelt between your spread thighs, his expression one of intense concentration as he brought the warm, damp cloth to your skin. The first touch made you inhale sharply, the sensation almost overwhelming against your oversensitive flesh. You could feel the evidence of what you had done together, the stickiness of his release mixed with your own slick coating your inner thighs and the swollen lips of your sex.

Bucky worked with care, his movements slow and deliberate as he cleaned away the physical remnants of your joining. The cloth was warm against your heated skin, soothing even as it sent little aftershocks of sensation radiating outward from every point of contact. His touch was reverent, treating your body with a respect and gentleness that made your heart ache.

You watched through the veil of your lashes as he focused on his task, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration, lower lip caught between his teeth. There was something deeply intimate about this, about the way he tended to you in your most vulnerable state. It felt more personal somehow than what had come before, this quiet act of service performed with such obvious care.

But even his careful ministrations could not completely avoid your most sensitive areas, and when the cloth brushed against your clit, you twitched involuntarily. The bundle of nerves was still so swollen, so exquisitely tender, that even that gentle contact sent a jolt of sensation through your entire body. It was not quite pleasure, not quite pain, but something in between that made you gasp and your hips jerk away from the touch.

Bucky immediately stilled, his eyes flying to your face with worry creasing his features. Then, in a gesture so tender it made your breath catch, he leaned down and pressed his lips to that oversensitized pearl in the softest kiss imaginable. The contact lasted barely a second, but it was enough to send warmth cascading through your entire body.

"Sorry," he murmured against your skin, his breath ghosting over your damp flesh and making you shiver. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. Almost done, I promise."

But even as he apologized, even as he returned to his gentle cleaning with even more care than before, you felt that traitorous heat beginning to rebuild in your core. Your bunny brain, that primitive part of your psyche that cared nothing for exhaustion or soreness or the fact that you had just been thoroughly satisfied, stirred to life at his touch. Want began to uncurl in your belly, slow and insistent, making itself known despite your body's protests.

You cursed silently at your own physiology, at the heat that refused to be fully sated no matter how many times you found release. It was not fair, you thought with a mixture of frustration and resignation, that your body could demand more when you could barely keep your eyes open. But there it was nevertheless, that growing ache, that need beginning to reassert itself with each tender stroke of his hands against your skin.

"How about a bath with one of those bath bombs you love so much?" His voice was tender as he reached up to brush the tangled strands of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering against your temple in a caress that felt more intimate than anything that had come before.

The suggestion was so unexpected, so thoughtfully domestic in the aftermath of such primal passion, that it took your heat-addled brain a moment to process. A bath. Not another round of desperate coupling, but something gentle. Something caring. The idea was so appealing that you felt your chest tighten with an emotion you were too exhausted to name.

But despite the tenderness of the offer, despite the obvious care behind it, you could not resist the opportunity to lighten the moment. You summoned what little energy you had left to narrow your eyes at him in an exaggerated glare, your lips pursing in mock offense.

"You calling me stinky?" The words came out with all the indignation you could muster, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that you could barely keep your eyes open and your voice was still rough from exertion.

Bucky's expression shifted into one of exaggerated contemplation, his pretty blue eyes dancing with mischief as he tilted his head to one side and stroked his jaw thoughtfully. He made a show of considering your question, his lips twitching with the effort of suppressing a smile. The pause stretched out just long enough to be comedic, his silence more telling than any words could have been.

You did not wait for his verdict. Your hand came up to swat at his bare chest with as much force as you could manage in your current state, which admittedly was not very much. The impact was laughable, barely more than a tap, but it was enough to break his composure. His chest shook with laughter beneath your palm, the sound rich and warm and completely unrepentant.

The laugh was full-bodied and genuine, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and revealed the slight gap between his front teeth that you found inexplicably endearing. It transformed his entire face, chasing away the shadows that so often haunted his features and replacing them with something bright and youthful. In that moment, he looked years younger, unburdened by the weight of his past.

"I'm just saying," he managed between chuckles, catching your wrist gently before you could swat him again, "that we both worked up quite a sweat. Nothing wrong with getting clean." His thumb traced circles against the inside of your wrist, the touch soothing and affectionate. "Besides, I know how much you like those fancy ones. The ones that turn the water all those pretty colors and smell like a garden."

The fact that he remembered such a small detail, that he had paid attention to your preferences and was offering them to you now when you were at your most vulnerable, made something warm and soft bloom in your chest. It was one thing to satisfy the physical demands of your heat. It was another entirely to tend to your comfort, to think of small luxuries that might bring you joy.

"Okay, but not because I'm stinky," you protested, feigning indignation as you struggled to infuse your voice with conviction despite your exhaustion.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart," he replied with a smirk that was far too self-satisfied for your liking. Before you could formulate a proper retort, he leaned down and captured your lips in a kiss so soft and sweet it completely disarmed you. The contrast between his teasing words and the tenderness of his mouth against yours left you momentarily speechless.

As he pulled away and turned toward the bathroom, you found yourself glaring at his retreating form with as much annoyance as you could muster. Your gaze traced the strong lines of his back, following the path of his spine down to where it disappeared into the curve of his admittedly perfect backside. Even through your irritation, you could not help but appreciate the view. Stupid handsome wolf with his stupid perfect body and his stupid charming smirk, you thought with a mixture of exasperation and reluctant fondness.

The sound of water rushing from the tap echoed through the open bathroom door, punctuated by the occasional clink of glass as he presumably searched through your collection of bath products. You could hear him moving around with purpose, the domestic normalcy of the sounds creating an odd counterpoint to the primal intensity of what had passed between you earlier.

When he finally emerged from the bathroom, the air around him carried the faint scent of lavender and vanilla, sweet and soothing. He approached the bed with that same careful grace he always seemed to possess, as if you were something precious that might break under careless handling. Without a word, he slipped his arms beneath you, one supporting your shoulders and the other hooking under your knees.

You made a small sound of surprise as he lifted you effortlessly from the mattress, your body instinctively curling into the warmth of his chest. The world tilted and swayed as he carried you across the room, your head coming to rest against his shoulder. You could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear, strong and reassuring, grounding you even as everything else felt surreal and dreamlike.

The bathroom was filled with steam when he carried you through the doorway, the mirror already fogged and the air thick with moisture and fragrance. The tub was filled nearly to the brim, the water a swirling of purples and pinks from whatever bath bomb he had selected. Rose petals floated on the surface alongside trails of glitter that caught the light and sparkled like stars, creating an effect that was almost magical in its beauty.

Bucky stepped into the tub carefully, the water rising as he lowered himself down with you still cradled in his arms. The heat of it was almost shocking against your skin, making you gasp and tense for a moment before the warmth seeped into your muscles and drew a sigh of pure relief from your lips. He positioned himself with his back against the sloped end of the tub, arranging you so that you were nestled between his thighs with your back pressed to his chest.

The water lapped at your shoulders, the perfect temperature to soothe without overwhelming. You could feel the solid presence of him behind you, his arms coming around to circle your waist loosely, holding you close but not constraining. His chin came to rest atop your head, and you felt the rumble of satisfaction in his chest as he settled more comfortably into the embrace.

"Better?" he asked, his voice a low murmur that seemed to resonate through your entire body where you were pressed together.

You hummed an affirmative, too content to form actual words. The combination of the warm water, the soothing scents, and his solid presence was exactly what your exhausted body needed. For the first time since your heat had begun, you felt something approaching peace, a moment of calm in the storm of sensation and need that had consumed you.

For several minutes, you remained in comfortable silence, the only sounds the gentle lapping of water and the occasional drip from the faucet. The bath bomb continued its slow dissolution, sending lazy spirals of color through the water that painted your skin in shifting hues of violet and rose. Your muscles gradually unknotted under the ministrations of heat and steam, tension you had not even realized you were carrying seeping away into the fragrant water.

Eventually, Bucky reached for the washcloth draped over the edge of the tub, dipping it into the water before bringing it to your shoulder. He worked with the same careful attention he had shown earlier, drawing the soft fabric across your skin in slow, soothing strokes. There was nothing hurried in his movements, nothing that suggested impatience or obligation. He simply tended to you as if this were the most natural thing in the world, as if caring for you brought him some quiet satisfaction.

You let your eyes drift closed, surrendering to the simple pleasure of being cared for. The washcloth traced the curve of your collarbone, swept down one arm and then the other, circled your wrists with gentle pressure. Each pass of the cloth was accompanied by the subtle shift of his body behind yours, the flex of muscles as he reached to clean every accessible inch of you. When he had finished with your upper body, you felt him shift, felt the water slosh gently as he adjusted his position. 

"Lean forward for me," he murmured, his breath warm against the shell of your ear.

You complied, bending at the waist to give him access to your back. The new position presented your rabbit ears and tail fully to his view, both still damp and slightly disheveled from your earlier activities. You heard the soft intake of his breath, felt the hesitation in his movements as if he were gathering himself.

The washcloth resumed its journey, tracing the line of your spine with reverent attention. He worked his way down slowly, following the curve of your back until he reached the base of your spine where your tail emerged. You felt the cloth pause there, hovering just above that sensitive junction, and you could practically feel the concentration radiating from him as he considered how best to proceed.

When the washcloth finally made contact with your tail, you could not suppress the small shiver that ran through you. The appendage was far more sensitive than most people realized, densely packed with nerve endings that made every touch feel magnified. He seemed to understand this instinctively, his touch becoming even lighter as he cleaned the soft fur with careful, gentle strokes.

But then, perhaps emboldened by your lack of protest, perhaps simply unable to resist the temptation, you felt his fingers close around the base of your tail and give it a playful tug. It was not hard, certainly not enough to hurt, but it was unexpected enough to make you gasp. The sensation shot straight up your spine, part ticklish, part something else entirely, something that made that ever present heat in your belly pulse with renewed interest.

You spun around so quickly that water sloshed over the sides of the tub, your eyes flying open to find him watching you with an expression of poorly concealed amusement. His blue eyes were dancing with mischief, his lips pressed together in a failed attempt to look innocent. The sight of him trying so hard not to laugh only stoked your indignation higher.

"You did not just do that," you said, your voice carrying a warning note even as you fought against your own smile.

"Do what?" he asked, his tone the picture of innocence even as his eyes betrayed his guilt. "I was just trying to clean it properly. Very dirty, your tail. Needs thorough attention."

The blatant lie, delivered with such earnest sincerity, was enough to break through your pretense of annoyance. But rather than laugh or let him get away with his transgression, you acted on pure instinct. Leveraging yourself up slightly with your hands braced against his shoulders, you darted forward and caught his nose between your teeth in a gentle nip.

It was a purely rabbit gesture, the kind of playful reprimand you might give to a too forward suitor or an annoying sibling. Your teeth did not break skin, did not even leave a mark, but the surprise of the action was enough to make his eyes widen and his body go momentarily still beneath you.

For a heartbeat, you worried you had overstepped, that perhaps such a casual display of your hybrid nature might have been too strange, too animal for comfort. But then you felt the rumble start in his chest, felt the way his hands came up to grip your waist as his entire body shook with laughter.

"Did you just bite my nose?" he managed between chuckles, his expression one of delighted disbelief. One hand came up to touch the offended appendage as if checking for damage, though you could see the smile threatening to split his face completely.

"You pulled my tail," you replied primly, settling back against his chest with an air of satisfaction. "Consider us even."

"Fair enough," he conceded, though his fingers were already creeping toward your tail again with obvious intent. You could see the exact moment he decided to risk it, see the mischief light in his eyes as his hand moved.

This time you were ready. You twisted in his arms before he could make contact, your hands finding his ribs and digging in with ruthless precision. The effect was immediate and gratifying. His laughter exploded from him in a surprised bark, his body jerking as you discovered with vindictive pleasure that the Bucky Barnes was ticklish.

"No, wait, that's not fair!" he protested between gasps, trying to catch your wrists even as more laughter spilled from his lips. Water splashed everywhere as you both struggled, turning the bathroom floor into a small lake neither of you seemed to care about.

"All's fair in love and tail pulling," you declared, refusing to relent until he finally managed to capture both your wrists in one large hand. Even then, he was still laughing, his chest heaving with the force of it, his hair hanging in wet strands across his forehead.

The playful struggle gradually subsided, leaving you both breathing hard and grinning at each other like fools. The water had gone lukewarm around you, the bath bomb long since fully dissolved, but neither of you seemed eager to move. There was something precious about this moment, something light and easy that felt like a gift after the intensity of everything that had come before.

Bucky released your wrists but kept his arms around you, pulling you close until you were chest to chest, your legs tangling with his beneath the water. His smile had softened into something tender as he looked at you, one hand coming up to cup your cheek with infinite gentleness.

"You're something else, you know that?" he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone with reverent attention.

"I do my best," you replied, though your voice had lost its teasing edge, replaced by something softer, something that matched the look in his eyes.

He leaned in slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away, before pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that tasted of laughter and bathwater and something achingly sweet. It was different from the desperate, hungry kisses you had shared before, lacking the urgency of heat but somehow feeling more intimate for it. This was a kiss simply because he wanted to kiss you, because in this moment you were not just bodies finding relief but two people sharing something genuine.

Eventually, you stirred in his arms, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. "Your turn," you said softly, reaching for the washcloth that had been abandoned during your playful scuffle.

He looked at you with surprise, his brows drawing together slightly. "You don't have to–"

"I want to," you interrupted gently, your fingers closing around the cloth. "You've been taking care of me this whole time. Let me take care of you too."

Something flickered across his expression – vulnerability, perhaps, or gratitude – before he nodded slowly. He shifted in the water, turning so that his back was to you, presenting the broad expanse of his shoulders for your attention. You could see the tension he still carried there, the muscles tight despite the warm water, and you resolved to ease it as best you could.

You wrung out the washcloth and began with his shoulders, sweeping the soft fabric across his skin in slow strokes. His body was a map of old scars and hard-earned muscle, each line telling a story you suspected he rarely shared. You treated each inch with the same reverence he had shown you, your touch gentle but thorough.

As you worked your way down his back, you felt him begin to relax under your ministrations. His head dropped forward, his breathing deepening as the tension gradually bled from his frame. When you reached the small of his back, you set aside the washcloth in favor of your hands, your fingers finding the knots in his muscles and working them loose with patient pressure.

A low sound of appreciation rumbled from his chest, something between a sigh and a groan that made warmth bloom in your belly for entirely different reasons than your heat. You smiled against his shoulder blade, pressing a soft kiss there before resuming your task.

"Turn around," you murmured when you had finished with his back.

He complied, rotating in the water until he faced you once more. His eyes were half-lidded and soft, the blue of them seeming to glow in the steamy bathroom light. You retrieved the washcloth and continued your work, cleaning his chest with the same careful attention, tracing the defined lines of muscle and the scattered constellation of scars.

When you reached for his left arm, the metal one, you felt him tense slightly. You paused, meeting his gaze with steady reassurance before continuing, treating the vibranium plates with the same gentle care you had shown the rest of him. The metal was warm from the bathwater, smooth under your touch, and you cleaned it as thoroughly as you had his flesh, showing without words that every part of him deserved such tenderness.

His eyes never left your face as you worked, something raw and exposed in his expression that made your chest tight. When you finally finished, setting the washcloth aside, he caught your hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your palm that felt like a promise.

"Thank you," he said quietly, the words carrying more weight than such a simple phrase should hold.

"Always," you replied, meaning it with every fiber of your being.

"We should probably get out before we turn into prunes," he said, though he made no move to release you.

"Probably," you agreed, equally reluctant to break the spell of the moment.

But eventually, the cooling water and the knowledge that you both needed actual sleep drove you from the tub. Bucky climbed out first, water cascading from his body in rivulets that you absolutely did not stare at, before turning to help you up with steady hands. He wrapped you in the softest towel from the rack, taking a moment to dry your ears with careful attention before seeing to himself.

Once he was done, you helped dry him. You started with his ears, gently cupping one between your hands. The fur was softer than you expected, thick and plush despite being damp. You used the towel to carefully blot away the moisture, working from the base to the pointed tip. His eyes drifted closed at your touch, a low rumble starting in his chest that you realized with delight was a purr – or rather, the wolf equivalent of one.

His ear twitched in your hold, responding to your ministrations, and you couldn't help but smile. You took your time with the first ear before moving to the second, giving it the same careful attention. The black fur was starting to fluff up as it dried, becoming impossibly soft under your fingers.

When you finished with his ears, you turned your attention to his tail. It was magnificent even in its damp state – thick and full, the fur a deep black that seemed to absorb the light. You ran the towel along its length, following the direction of the fur, marveling at how substantial it felt compared to your own fluffy cotton tail.

"You have a beautiful tail," you murmured, unable to keep the admiration from your voice.

He let out a soft huff of laughter, though his eyes remained closed. "Never thought I'd hear that sentence."

You continued your work, using your fingers to fluff the fur as it dried, making sure no damp patches remained. His tail was heavy in your hands, the muscles beneath the fur strong and well-defined. When you were satisfied that it was thoroughly dry, you couldn't resist running your hand along its length one more time, simply enjoying the silky texture.

The memory of his earlier transgression surfaced in your mind like a perfectly formed bubble of mischief, and you felt a wicked grin spread across your face before you could stop it. He had tugged your tail in the bath, that playful little act of provocation that had sent sparks racing up your spine and made your breath catch in your throat. Turnabout, as they said, was fair play.

Your eyes tracked downward, following the path of his spine to where his own tail had emerged during the transformation. It was darker than yours, a rich brown that matched his hair, and it curved behind him with an almost elegant sweep. You had noticed it before, of course, but had been too caught up in your own overwhelming sensations to give it much attention. Now, however, with clarity of mind and revenge in your heart, it became the most interesting thing in the room.

You shifted your weight slightly, testing his awareness, and found him relaxed and unsuspecting. Perfect. Your hand moved slowly, reaching out until your fingers hovered just above the base of his tail where it emerged from his body. You could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, could see the soft fur rippling slightly with each breath he took. Then, with the precise timing of someone who knew exactly what they were doing, you wrapped your fingers around it and gave a gentle but unmistakable tug.

The effect was instantaneous and utterly gratifying. His entire body went rigid, every muscle locking up as if someone had thrown a switch. A sound escaped him that was part gasp, part something deeper and more visceral, a noise that seemed to bypass his brain entirely and come straight from some primal place he had no control over. His head snapped around, eyes wide with shock and something that might have been accusation, though the flush creeping up his neck suggested other emotions were at play as well.

"You," he breathed, the single word carrying the weight of betrayal and reluctant admiration in equal measure. His voice had dropped an octave, roughened by the unexpected sensation still echoing through his nervous system. "You actually just did that."

"I did," you confirmed, unable to keep the smugness from your tone. Your grin was absolutely unrepentant, wide and pleased and maybe just a little bit feral. "Consider it payback for your behavior in the bathtub. What was it you said? Very dirty, needs thorough attention?"

His expression shifted through several emotions in rapid succession: surprise giving way to understanding, understanding melting into something that looked suspiciously like respect, and finally settling on a dangerous sort of amusement that made your stomach flip in warning. His eyes had taken on that particular gleam you were beginning to recognize, the one that meant he was plotting something and you were going to be the one dealing with the consequences.

"Oh, you're going to regret that," he said, but there was no heat in the words, only promise. The smile that curved his lips was slow and predatory, the kind that made prey animals think twice about their life choices. "You know that, right? You just declared war."

"Bring it on, soldier," you shot back, though you were already calculating escape routes and defensive strategies. The challenge hung in the air between you, electric and charged with possibility, and you could not quite tell if the flutter in your chest was apprehension or anticipation. Possibly both.

He moved then, faster than you expected despite your heightened hybrid reflexes, and suddenly you were the one on your back with him looming over you, his hands planted on either side of your head and his expression triumphant. The shift in position had happened so quickly you barely had time to squeak in surprise, let alone mount any kind of defense.

"Not so smug now, are we?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your chest where your bodies pressed together. But despite his words, despite the dominant position, his touch remained gentle when he tucked a strand of damp hair behind your ear. The contrast between his playful intimidation and his careful tenderness made your heart do complicated things inside your ribcage.

You could have pointed out that you were exactly as smug as before, that his retaliation had been entirely predictable and therefore not particularly effective as a deterrent. But the words died on your lips as you looked up at him, at the way the low light caught in his hair and cast shadows across the sharp planes of his face, at how his eyes had gone soft despite his predatory grin. This man, this complicated beautiful disaster of a person, was looking at you like you were something precious and playful and entirely worth the trouble you caused.

"Maybe a little less smug," you conceded, though you could not quite keep the smile from your face. "But I stand by my actions. Justice has been served."

"Justice," he repeated, shaking his head with mock solemnity. "You call that justice? That was sabotage. That was a sneak attack on an unsuspecting man who was just trying to help unstinkify you."

"All's fair in love and tail pulling," you reminded him, throwing his earlier words back at him with gleeful satisfaction. "You established that precedent yourself."

He opened his mouth, clearly ready with some witty retort, but then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he lowered his head and captured your lips in a kiss that tasted of laughter and something warm that spread through your chest like liquid sunshine. It was not desperate or heated, not driven by the biological imperative that had been ruling your bodies for days. This was something simpler and somehow more profound, a kiss just because he wanted to kiss you, because in this moment there was nowhere else he would rather be.