Bucky Barnes

You and Bucky Barnes never really liked each other—okay, that was a lie. You hated each other. That’s what it looked like to everyone else, anyway. Every training session turned into a full-blown fight, neither of you willing to back down or admit defeat. It wasn’t enough to just complete the drills; you both had to win. The air between you was always sharp with competition, every glare loaded, every shove just a little harder than necessary.

Today was no different. The mat thudded under your boots as you circled each other, fists flying, blocks snapping into place with practiced precision. Sweat dripped down your spine, your lungs burning as you pushed yourself to keep up with his relentless pace. He moved like he had endless stamina, metal arm flashing as he caught your wrist and twisted you away before you could land a clean hit. You stumbled back, chest heaving despite your best effort to hide it.

That’s when he smirked.

He took a slow step toward you, not even breathing hard, blue eyes dragging over you in obvious satisfaction. “You done yet?” he asked, voice low and cocky. The words weren’t loud, but they hit like a challenge thrown at your feet. He tilted his head slightly, like he was already expecting you to quit, like he was daring you to prove him wrong. “You look about ready to tap out.”

Your jaw tightened instantly. Done? As if you’d ever let him see you quit. You straightened despite the ache in your ribs and the fire in your lungs. “Not even close,” you shot back, wiping sweat from your cheek with the back of your hand. You lunged at him before he could respond, tackling him hard enough that both of you crashed onto the mat. For a second you thought you had him, pinning his shoulders down, but he rolled with the movement, flipping you beneath him in one smooth motion.

Now he hovered over you, one knee braced against the mat, his breath finally a little heavier as he held your wrists down. The cocky grin was still there, but something else flickered in his eyes—something warmer, more intense. “Still not done?” he murmured, closer now, his voice losing some of its teasing edge. Your heart pounded as you shifted your hips and used your momentum to throw him off balance, flipping him onto his back instead. Straddling him, you leaned down just enough to make him hesitate. “I told you,” you whispered, breathless but defiant, “I’m not done. Not with you.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The usual snarky comeback didn’t come. His hands, still at your waist from the flip, tightened slightly—not enough to push you off, just enough to remind you they were there. His chest rose and fell under yours, and now he was breathing just as hard as you were. The room felt smaller somehow, quieter, like the rest of the world had stepped out and left only the two of you tangled together on the mat.

Then that infuriating smirk slowly returned, softer this time, edged with something almost impressed. “Good,” he said quietly, eyes locked on yours. In one swift motion he bucked his hips and rolled you both again, laughter rumbling low in his chest as he regained the upper hand. “Wouldn’t want you going easy on me.” And even as you glared up at him, already planning your next move, you couldn’t deny it—you’d never wanted to beat someone so badly… or felt so alive trying.