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buckmepapi · 2 days ago

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something in the way she moves - bucky barnes x reader

one-shot bucky barnes x intern!reader warnings/tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers (ish), emotional angst, mutual pining, jealousy, miscommunication, soft bucky barnes, canon-divergent timeline, eventually fluff, emotional hurt/comfort, mentions of self-doubt author's note: i wanted to write a bucky one-shot for so long i'm so excited about releasing this. i hope u like ittt <3 also i know there are many separate scenes however i'm still struggling with connecting them...

The hum of Stark Tower’s lower lab was your version of white noise. You liked the gentle whirring of processors, the occasional flicker of blue light across your schematics, the faint scent of soldered wires and too many energy drinks. It was your space—controlled chaos that somehow made perfect sense to you.

You didn’t expect it to be interrupted by Bucky Barnes.

When the lab doors hissed open, you didn’t look up immediately. No one really came down here without a reason, especially not him. But when you glanced up, and saw the familiar silhouette—broad shoulders, black hoodie, vibranium arm catching the light just enough—you blinked, mildly thrown off.

He was leaning in the doorway like he had somewhere better to be. Typical.

“Well, well,” you said, voice light with amusement as you set your tools down, “look who finally decided to come out of his cave.”

His eyes narrowed just slightly, and he didn’t bother with pleasantries. “They said you’re the one messing with my arm’s interface.”

You arched a brow at his tone. Defensive. Irritated. That was fine. You’d dealt with worse. “Messing with it? Please. I improved it. Unless you enjoy your arm freezing up every time you lift more than a truck.”

Bucky stepped inside, slow and deliberate, his presence like a shadow creeping into the room. He didn’t sit. He didn’t even glance at the equipment around him. He just stared.

“They upgraded the protocols without telling me,” he said flatly. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

Your smile didn’t falter. In fact, it curved a little higher. “You didn’t ask for a lot of things, I bet. Doesn’t mean they weren’t upgrades.”

That earned you a flicker of expression—annoyance, maybe curiosity. It was hard to tell with him. He looked around the room then, letting his gaze sweep over your scattered notes, the messy pile of wires on your workstation, your third cup of coffee that had gone cold two hours ago.

“So,” he muttered, “you’re Stark’s intern.”

You leaned back in your chair, arms folding lazily across your chest. “Engineering intern. Systems tech specialist. Resident miracle worker. Title pending.”

His expression barely shifted, though you could’ve sworn something in his jaw ticked. “Sounds fancy.”

You shrugged. “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t want to touch your arm either. But Tony trusts me. So here we are.”

Bucky’s eyes met yours, cold and unreadable. “You don’t even know what that arm has done.”

The words were like ice dropped in the room. But you didn’t flinch. Instead, you stood, slowly closing the distance between you.

“I’m not afraid of what it’s done,” you said, voice softer now, but no less certain. “I care about what it can do.”

He didn’t reply right away. The silence stretched long enough that you thought maybe you’d hit a nerve. Maybe he’d leave.

Instead, he lifted the arm.

You didn’t hesitate. With careful fingers, you took hold of his wrist and guided it closer to your workstation. The metal was cool under your touch—sleek, powerful, complex. You grabbed your diagnostic scanner and began your work, focused but aware of the way his eyes followed every movement.

“You know,” you said after a moment, fingers dancing across the holographic interface, “for someone so emotionally constipated, your tech is very expressive.”

It was impossible to miss the soft exhale from him—like a laugh that got stuck somewhere on the way out. He didn’t respond, but that silence wasn’t quite as cold anymore.

You continued working, scanning the joints, recalibrating the neural sync points, deliberately avoiding looking up at him.

“You think I’m just some Stark pet project,” you murmured, not a question.

“I don’t know what you are,” he replied.

You finally looked at him then, meeting his gaze head-on. “Guess you’ll have to stick around and find out.”

His eyes searched your face like he was looking for some kind of trick, some agenda. But you didn’t offer any. Just that same maddening smile that said you’re not as unreadable as you think you are, Barnes.

And for once, he didn’t try to walk away.

You didn’t expect to see Bucky again so soon.

Definitely not less than twenty-four hours later, hovering like a ghost in the doorway of the Avengers’ common room while the others bickered over movie night. He wasn’t exactly subtle—tall frame half-shadowed by the hallway light, arms crossed, expression locked somewhere between disapproval and regret.

You were tucked into the corner of the plush sectional, legs curled beneath you, a bowl of popcorn balanced in your lap and a tech schematic open on your tablet. The glow of the screen painted your face in faint blues and greens, and for once, you were more focused on the people than the tech.

Until you felt that pull.

That awareness.

When you looked up, his eyes were already on you. Steady. Intense. Like he hadn’t meant to come here but now that he had, he didn’t know how to leave.

Sam noticed him first. “Look who decided to stop hiding.”

Natasha didn’t even glance back. She just smirked as she uncapped a soda. “Careful, Wilson. Spook him and he’ll vanish.”

Peter was curled up at the other end of the couch, practically buzzing with excitement. “Hi, Mr. Barnes! We’re picking a movie—Nat wants horror, Sam’s pushing rom-com. Thoughts?”

Bucky ignored the question. His attention hadn’t shifted from you.

You tilted your head slightly, letting a slow smile play at your lips. “Twice in two days, Barnes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were stalking me.”

The faintest flicker passed across his face—just enough to register as amusement, maybe. Then it was gone.

“You just fixed my arm,” he replied flatly, like that explained everything. It did actually.

“Yup,” you said brightly, popping a piece of popcorn into your mouth. “And you came back for more. Almost like you’re impressed.”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he stepped into the room with deliberate slowness, his boots silent against the polished floor. The shadows clung to him like a second skin, but the dim overhead lights caught in the gleam of his vibranium arm. He didn’t sit. Didn’t lean. Just stood there, silent and watchful, as if joining the rest of you might set something off in him he wasn’t ready for.

You patted the space beside you, mock-sweet. “Come on, Sergeant. I promise not to bite. Unless you’re into that.”

That earned a low chorus of groans.

Natasha took a long sip of her drink. “She’s gonna break him.”

“One week,” Sam said, raising a brow. “Maybe less.”

“I’m not a project,” Bucky muttered under his breath, barely loud enough to hear.

You shrugged. “Could’ve fooled me.”

For a moment, his gaze lingered on you, unreadable as ever. And then—just like that—he turned and left.

Peter turned toward you, blinking through his glasses. “Okay, but like… he totally likes you.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed a popcorn at him. “Shut up.”

Five days passed.

Long enough for you to convince yourself maybe you had pushed too hard. You hadn’t meant to, not really. The flirting was harmless. Mostly. You weren’t trying to crack him open and crawl inside. But you were curious.

And, yeah��maybe you liked the way his attention felt. Like being studied. Not ogled. Not dismissed. Just… seen.

You were standing in the quiet hallway outside the kitchen, barefoot in fuzzy socks and drowning in one of Tony’s old hoodies, when the elevator chimed softly. You didn’t look up right away—just sipped your tea, staring down at a holographic schematic floating above your tablet. The lines danced and shifted as you made minor adjustments to the interface’s neural response time.

Then that familiar silence crept up again.

Heavy. Focused. Bucky-shaped.

You turned slowly, unsurprised to see him standing just inside the kitchen doorway, a bottle of water dangling from his fingers, posture deceptively casual.

He was out of uniform—just a soft black T-shirt that hugged his shoulders and dark sweatpants. The kind of off-duty look that made him look younger. More human.

“Do you sleep?” you asked, not unkindly.

“Sometimes,” he replied. His voice was lower at night. Rougher.

You studied him for a moment. The hard line of his jaw. The faint circles under his eyes. The way his metal fingers flexed unconsciously around the bottle’s cap like he wasn’t aware he was doing it.

“You here for diagnostics?” you asked lightly. “Because the lab’s closed. Kind of a one-woman show.”

“I didn’t come to see you.”

You raised your brows, unimpressed. “Sure you didn’t.”

He moved deeper into the kitchen, taking his time. Opened the fridge, stared at its contents like he didn’t really see them, then grabbed nothing at all. He set the water bottle down on the counter with a muted clink.

“I don’t do friendly,” he said suddenly. The words dropped into the quiet like weight.

You tilted your head. “Okay…”

“I’m not charming. Or easy. Or good at… this.” His jaw clenched. “I don’t like being touched. Or watched. Or treated like I’m something people are supposed to fix.”

That last part held something bitter in it. Something vulnerable, buried under layers of grit.

You took a step closer, your voice gentler now. “You think that’s what I’m doing? Fixing you?”

His eyes flicked up. Met yours. Steady. Testing.

You swallowed and nodded toward the hoodie you wore. “For the record, this is like… peak comfort attire. I’m not trying to psychoanalyze you. I just like you.”

His expression shifted slightly. Not softer, exactly—but something in his posture eased. His shoulders no longer sat quite so tight around his ears.

“I don’t hate you,” he said after a moment.

You smiled despite yourself. “Well. You know how to sweet-talk a girl.”

He looked away then, toward the hallway. You thought he might leave. But instead, he asked, “Why me?”

You blinked. “Why not you?”

He didn’t reply. Just stood there, arms crossed again, looking everywhere but at you.

“You’re not a monster,” you said softly. “You’re not broken. And I don’t need you to be charming or easy or anything you’re not. I just want to know the version of you that wants to be known.”

There was a pause. Long and heavy. Then, just barely audible, he muttered, “You talk too much.”

Your smile widened. “Yeah. But you keep listening.”

And this time, he didn’t deny it.

He didn’t mean to be there.

Not really.

The living room was loud—too loud. Sam was cracking jokes again, Natasha was doing that low, dangerous laugh she used when she knew she was winning, and someone had music playing too close to the speakers. It was chaotic and messy and warm in that way he hadn’t learned to belong to yet.

He didn’t even like movie nights. Didn’t care about who picked what. But still—he found himself standing at the edge of the common room again, arms crossed over his chest, shoulders half-hidden behind the wall like some goddamn ghost. Watching.

Well, not watching.

Just… observing.

That’s what he told himself anyway.

You were laughing. Not just a polite chuckle, but full-on, head-thrown-back, sparkling laughter that seemed to light up the whole space. Sam had said something—some dumb joke probably—and you’d nearly choked on your drink. He heard you call him an idiot with affection in your voice, and Sam had grinned like he’d just scored a touchdown.

And then—you reached out. Laid your hand on Sam’s arm for a moment. Nothing intense. Just familiar.

Comfortable.

Like you belonged here.

And Bucky hated how his attention snapped to that. To the way your fingers lingered. To how relaxed you looked with them. With everyone.

You moved between them like sunlight—touching, teasing, warm without trying to be. Even Natasha, who rarely let people close, seemed at ease with you. She let you steal her drink, let you lean against her shoulder for a beat before swatting you away.

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

He wasn’t sure why.

He didn’t care, obviously. You could flirt with Sam all you wanted. Or Peter. Or both at once. What the hell did he care if you giggled at dumb jokes and called them names like “hotshot” or “baby genius”? You were just a Stark intern. Loud. Talkative. Always in everyone’s business. Always—

Your gaze flicked up.

Right at him.

Bucky froze.

You smiled. Small. A little knowing. Just a twitch at the corner of your mouth like you were daring him to say something. Or inviting him to.

He looked away instantly.

Fuck.

He didn’t mean to follow you.

Not in a creepy way. He just happened to be going to the kitchen. At the same time. In the same direction.

You were there already, leaning against the counter in leggings and an oversized T-shirt that had seen better days. Your hair was a little messy, and your voice was soft as you hummed something under your breath while pouring hot water into a mug.

You didn’t see him at first.

He should’ve left. Should’ve backed up, gone to his room, locked the door and buried himself in silence. But instead he hovered in the shadows again—watching how you moved, how your fingers tapped idly against the ceramic. How peaceful you looked when no one else was watching.

Except him.

You turned then. Not startled. Not surprised.

“Back for more late-night water bottle staring contests?” you asked casually, sliding a second mug across the counter without being asked.

He stared at it.

You shrugged. “Figured you might want something warm. Don’t worry. It’s not poisoned.”

He stepped forward without thinking. Picked up the mug. Steam curled up in delicate threads. Chamomile, he thought. Gentle. Soothing.

You weren’t talking much tonight. That was new. Maybe you were tired. Or maybe—

“Did I do something?”

Your question hit him off-guard. He looked at you sharply.

“What?”

“You’ve been… weird,” you said simply, stirring your own tea. “Weirder than usual. You barely looked at me all day. Did I piss you off?”

No. You hadn’t. That was the problem.

He shook his head. “You talk too much. That’s all.”

You gave him a flat look. “Not an answer.”

He didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Because how was he supposed to say, No, I’m just losing my mind slowly every time I catch myself being happy while looking at you? That he noticed when your perfume lingered in the air a little longer than it should. That your laugh echoed in his head hours after you left the room.

No. He wasn’t going to say any of that.

So he took a sip of tea instead. It burned slightly. Good. He deserved it.

You didn’t push.

You just gave him that look again—soft. Patient. Infuriating.

And he hated how badly he wanted to keep watching you.

You sipped your tea slowly, then leaned against the counter beside him. The silence stretched. For a second, it wasn’t so uncomfortable. Just the quiet hum of the compound at night, the warmth of two mugs between you.

But then you said it. Gently.

“You know,” you murmured, eyes on your cup, “for someone who doesn’t want attention, you sure linger in doorways a lot.”

It was a joke. Just a little one. But something about it hit Bucky sideways. Maybe it was the way you said it—light, teasing, like you saw him. Like you knew he’d been watching. Like you were asking for more.

And suddenly, something in him snapped.

“Maybe if you weren’t so desperate for it all the time, you’d stop assuming everyone’s looking at you.”

The words came out sharper than he meant.

You froze.

Just a flicker. Just long enough for your lashes to lower, for your shoulders to go a little too still.

Then you laughed. Quiet. Hollow. “Right. Of course.”

You didn’t say anything else. Just set your mug down with careful fingers and stepped back.

And that was when he saw it.

The flicker across your face. Not anger. Not even embarrassment. Just that brief, awful moment of hurt you hadn’t hidden fast enough. The way your mouth pressed tight. The way your chin lifted just a little like you were trying to hold something back.

Shit.

Bucky felt the regret slam into him all at once—sharp and immediate.

He didn’t mean it. Not like that. Not really.

But you were already turning away, muttering something about early lab hours, already walking off down the hallway like nothing had happened.

He didn’t call out.

Didn’t stop you.

Didn’t know how to.

So he just stood there, the warmth of the tea cooling in his hand, and stared at the space you’d left behind.

And for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes felt like the asshole in the story.

That night, you stayed late in the workshop again.

Alone.

The silence wasn’t as comfortable as it used to be. You found yourself replaying his words over and over like a stupid broken song.

“Maybe if you weren’t so desperate…”

God.

What hurt most wasn’t even what he’d said. It was how fast he’d said it. Like he’d been waiting to.

And the part of you that had once wondered what it would feel like to touch his metal arm again—to be close to someone like him—shrank away, quiet and small.

Maybe you were wrong about him.

Maybe you always had been.

You weren’t sulking.

You weren’t.

You were just… tired. That was it. Long days in the lab. Tony had dumped three design reports on you before he left for some expo in Dubai. The prototype arm you were helping adjust was being temperamental. Vision’s new AI patch had crashed twice. It had nothing—nothing—to do with a certain super soldier who liked to appear in shadows and say things that stuck like thorns under your skin.

You hadn’t even thought about him.

Much.

Well. Except maybe when you walked past the kitchen again and avoided looking toward the hallway where he usually brooded. Or when Sam cracked a joke at lunch, and you didn’t laugh quite as hard as usual. Or when you found yourself skipping game night and hiding in your lab with your laptop instead.

But that wasn’t sulking.

It was self-preservation.

You weren’t stupid. You knew when someone didn’t like you. And Bucky Barnes had made it abundantly clear: you talked too much. You took up too much space. You looked for attention, and worst of all—you’d made the mistake of looking for it from him.

And he’d shoved it right back in your face.

So now, you were adjusting.

Quieting.

Backing off.

Just a little.

“Where’s your shadow?”

Natasha’s voice cut into your thoughts the next afternoon as you leaned over a blueprint in the tech lab. She was half-smiling, arms crossed, a brow lifted with casual suspicion.

“My what?”

She nodded toward the empty space beside you. “You know. You. Talking. Laughing. Giving Barnes a headache.”

You forced a smile. “I think he’s had enough of that.”

Nat’s eyes narrowed, reading between the lines like she always did. “Something happen?”

“Nope.”

Your tone was light. Breezy. Convincing, even.

Except Nat wasn’t convinced.

“You sure? Because he’s been staring at you like you kicked his cat.”

That caught you off guard.

You blinked. “What?”

She shrugged, nonchalant. “He’s not subtle. Just broody. There’s a difference.”

You laughed—but it didn’t reach your eyes.

“Well, good for him. I’m giving him what he wanted. Space.”

And you meant it. You were. You weren’t lingering in rooms he entered. You weren’t teasing him anymore. You didn’t even glance at him in morning briefings. And if you felt his eyes on you when you made a joke or passed him in the hall—you ignored it.

You were done trying to be liked by someone who clearly wasn’t interested.

The lab was quiet.

Not just quiet—still. It was that hour where the compound seemed to exhale, stretching out into silence after a long day. The buzz of machinery had dulled to a low hum, the lights overhead dimmed slightly, casting a bluish glow over the workshop benches. You sat hunched over one of the touchscreen panels, stylus in hand, pretending to be absorbed in wiring schematics that you’d reviewed twice already. You weren't focused. You hadn't been in days.

Not since that night.

You hadn’t meant to keep replaying it. But it looped in your brain every time you caught a glimpse of him—or worse, when you didn’t.

Maybe if you weren’t so desperate…

God. What a thing to say. And the worst part? You hadn’t even said anything flirty that time. Just made a joke. Just tried to crack the weight in the air between you. Like always. Like you did with everyone.

You weren’t some heart-eyed intern with a crush. You just didn’t like watching people carry the world like it owed them something. Bucky carried it like it owed him everything.

The door hissed open behind you.

You didn’t flinch—but your chest did tighten slightly.

Footsteps. Hesitant ones. Heavy. Slow.

You already knew it was him.

You kept your gaze on the screen.

“If you’re here to lecture me about my caffeine habits,” you said, tone light, stylus still clicking against the corner of your tablet, “I’ll have you know I’m limiting myself. Two cups a day now. Very adult of me.”

Silence followed.

Then Bucky’s voice—gruff, low, almost uncertain. “I’m not here to talk about coffee.”

You stilled your hand, but didn’t look at him.

“Then I’m not sure what you’re here for,” you said casually. “This is the part of the building where people talk and make eye contact, remember?”

That landed. You didn’t have to look to know.

There was a pause. A breath. Then the faint creak of metal fingers flexing—a tell he probably didn’t even know he had.

“I wanted to say… I shouldn’t have said what I did. That night.”

Your stylus hit the desk softly.

You leaned back in your chair, eyes still fixed forward, blinking at a mess of meaningless numbers. You waited for more. For something.

Bucky didn’t offer it right away.

So you turned—slowly—until you were facing him.

He stood a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable but strained. His shoulders were tense. His eyes didn’t quite meet yours.

“I was an ass,” he added gruffly.

You smiled a little, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Was?”

He winced, and you hated how satisfying that felt.

Bucky shifted his weight, then looked at you again—and this time he really looked. There was something underneath the quiet. Guilt, definitely. Something else, too. Hesitation.

“You don’t make it easy to think straight sometimes,” he said, voice low.

That caught you off guard.

You narrowed your eyes. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“It’s supposed to be honest.”

You stood slowly, crossing your arms, mirroring him without meaning to. The distance between you was just wide enough to hold the silence comfortably—until you broke it.

“I wasn’t trying to make you think anything, Barnes,” you said, quieter now. “I was just being nice.”

“You’re not just nice,” he said quickly, like the words slipped out before he could stop them.

Your lips parted slightly—but you said nothing.

Bucky hesitated. His metal fingers flexed again, thumb brushing over the edge of his palm like he needed something to do with his hands.

“I didn’t mean it. The attention thing. I—It came out wrong.”

“No,” you said simply, “it came out exactly how you wanted it to.”

You could see it in his face—that quiet twist of shame, the way his jaw tightened like he wanted to take it back but didn’t know how.

You took a small step forward—not aggressive, just enough to close the emotional gap.

“I don’t know what I ever did to make you think I was some walking spotlight junkie,” you said. “But I’m not. I just tried to be kind. That’s who I am. And I won’t apologize for it.”

“I know.”

You shook your head slowly, letting out a breath. “Do you?”

He blinked.

“Because I don’t flirt with you because I want something. I don’t laugh at your terrible dry humor because I expect anything in return. I talk to you because I thought… I don’t know. Maybe you needed someone to.”

Bucky didn’t say anything.

And you realized he wasn’t ready. Not really.

Not yet.

You swallowed down the rest of what you wanted to say, because if you said more, it would spill into vulnerable territory. Into feeling territory. And you weren’t sure you could handle another hit like the last one.

“I’m not angry,” you said, more gently now. “But I’m not going to keep doing this thing where I chase after someone who clearly doesn’t want me around.”

You moved past him—slowly, brushing just close enough to make his breath catch—and headed toward the door.

You paused in the doorway.

Didn’t look back.

Just said, quietly, “Try not to say things you don’t mean next time. Some people actually listen.”

And then you walked out.

Leaving him in the blue glow of the lab, the scent of solder and soft electric hum the only things left to keep him company.

He stayed there a long time.

Long enough to realize this time, you weren’t going to come back first.

The common room buzzed with easy laughter, the smell of buttery popcorn, and that relaxed kind of chaos only the Avengers could create when off-duty. The TV was blaring—something loud and overly dramatic, probably one of Sam’s reality shows that he insisted he “hated” while somehow always knowing the exact moment the villainous ex walked into the beach resort.

Bucky sat at the edge of the sectional couch, one arm draped over the side, water bottle in hand. He wasn’t really watching the show, though his eyes occasionally flicked toward the screen. Mostly, he was letting the noise wash over him, grounding himself in the present. The casual warmth of everyone’s banter. The occasional clink of glass. The distant hum of the elevator.

And your absence.

He’d noticed it right away, the moment he stepped into the room. You weren’t perched on the armrest next to Natasha with a bowl of snacks, or curled up in the corner throwing quips back at Sam. You weren’t draped across a chair, fiddling with a gadget while pretending not to be listening.

You were just… gone.

It unsettled him more than it should have.

He’d told himself it was a good thing. Quieter. Easier. But the space you usually filled felt noticeable, like someone had dimmed the lights just a little.

A low whistle cut through the noise, and Nat tilted her phone toward Sam with a smirk.

“I wonder how her date’s going,” she said, casually but not without intent.

Bucky blinked, attention snapping into sharp focus.

He kept his expression neutral. Relaxed.

Sam leaned over to see. “Oh, right—the coffee guy. The one she matched with last week. Man bun, works in tech support or something?”

“R&D,” Nat corrected, not missing a beat. “She said he had ‘soft hands and sad eyes.’ Honestly, that’s her type to a T.”

Bucky took a sip of water to hide the way his jaw clenched. He didn’t remember you saying anything about a date. Then again, why would he? You didn’t owe him details.

Still.

Sad eyes and soft hands? What the hell did that even mean?

“Apparently he volunteers at an animal shelter and bakes sourdough,” Nat added.

“Oh, he’s definitely trying too hard,” Sam said with a laugh.

“He brought her a book of poetry on their first coffee run,” Nat said.

Sam winced. “Okay, yeah, that’s jail.”

Bucky barely heard the rest. The words were there, but they blurred. He was too busy staring at the edge of the coffee table.

You were out. On a date. With someone who had gentle eyes and poems and flour on his fingers.

Why the hell did that bother him?

“You alright, Barnes?” Sam asked, too casually.

Bucky didn’t answer.

Nat raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re invested.”

“I’m not,” he said evenly.

Sam grinned. “Come on, man. You’ve had the grumpiest look on your face since you heard about her date.’’

“I always look like this,” Bucky said, standing abruptly.

Nat tilted her head. “You know, if you’re curious, you could just ask her how it went.”

“I’m not curious,” he said. “I’m just wondering what kind of guy brings a poetry book on a date in 2025. What does he think this is, a Jane Austen adaptation?”

Sam burst out laughing. “There it is.”

Nat smirked. “You sure you’re not jealous?”

“I don’t get jealous.”

“Liar,” Sam and Nat said in unison.

Bucky muttered something under his breath and left before they could add anything else. He didn’t even realize he’d clenched his metal fist until he passed the hallway mirror.

The halls were dark when he wandered down to the tech wing hours later. He wasn’t looking for anyone, just… pacing. Thinking. Being still made the thoughts worse.

But then—there you were.

You rounded the corner fast, a tote bag slung over your shoulder, phone pressed to your ear. You looked different—more casual than usual. Hair slightly tousled, a touch of makeup smudged at the corner of your eye like you’d wiped it mid-laugh.

You weren’t glowing the way he expected.

You were muttering something about leaving your charger behind and having to “sneak into the damn lab like a raccoon.” You almost ran into him.

“Shit—sorry,” you said, stopping just short.

Bucky froze.

You blinked up at him, clearly startled. “Didn’t expect anyone to be down here this late.”

He shrugged. “Could say the same.”

“I left something,” you said simply, pulling your phone from your ear and tucking it away. “Didn’t want to deal with it in the morning.”

He nodded, but didn’t move. There was a moment—too long to be casual, too short to be intentional—where neither of you spoke.

He didn’t want to ask. But it clawed at him.

“How was the date?” he said, trying for detached. Instead it came out sharp, unfiltered.

You paused, brows lifting slightly. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

You tilted your head at that, studying him for a second. “Right.”

Silence.

He hated how uncomfortable it felt. He used to enjoy silence. Silence meant no expectations. No weight.

But this? This was different. This was you, pulling away.

“I didn’t mean what I said before,” he muttered.

You blinked. “You’ll have to be more specific. You say a lot of things you don’t mean.”

His jaw tightened. “Back in the lab. About the attention again.”

You smiled, but it didn’t touch your eyes. “Oh. That.”

You didn’t say anything else for a moment, just shifted your tote bag on your shoulder and looked past him down the hallway. He hated the distance in your body. Hated the way your voice had cooled.

“I shouldn’t have said it,” he added.

“No,” you agreed softly. “You shouldn’t have.”

He took a small step closer, and you tensed.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said.

“And now?” you asked.

He hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

That—that—made you pause. Your gaze flicked up to his. It was brief, but raw.

You gave a tired smile. “That’s the thing, Barnes. I think you are sure. You just don’t want to admit it.”

Before you could take another step, Bucky’s chest tightened, his breath catching in a way that surprised even him. Without thinking, he reached out—his metal hand brushing against your arm, steadying you.

His eyes locked with yours, searching for something—an answer, permission, maybe even a sign that he wasn’t alone in feeling this way.

Then, before his mind could catch up, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.

The kiss was brief, hesitant, but charged with everything neither of you had dared to say aloud.

You froze at first, wide-eyed, heart pounding, caught between shock and something else—a flicker of hope, maybe.

When he pulled back just a breath, his voice was rough and low.

For a long moment, all you could do was stare.

You stepped back.

Slow, cautious, like a deer backing out of a clearing.

Bucky’s brows drew together immediately. “Did I—did I misread that?”

Your eyes flickered up to his. “I don’t know. Did you?”

He looked stunned for a second, like he wasn’t prepared for it to feel like rejection. But it wasn’t—not exactly.

“It was just… a lot,” you said, shifting the weight of your tote bag again. “You don’t speak to me for days. You act like I’m a nuisance. And then this?”

“I didn’t plan it,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to—I just saw you, and—”

“And what?” Your voice was low now. Measured. “You saw me and decided it was convenient?”

“That’s not fair.”

You gave a hollow laugh. “Neither is this.”

He looked lost. Frustrated.

You took a deep breath, voice softening—just barely. “I don’t want to be some impulsive moment for you, Bucky. I’m not a distraction. I’m not background noise you suddenly noticed because you were bored.”

“I wasn’t bored,” he said sharply. “I was scared.”

That stopped you.

He almost regretted saying it. But now it was out there, hanging between you like smoke.

“Scared of what?” you asked after a beat, something in your chest cracking despite yourself.

He hesitated.

“That you’d mean something,” he admitted. “And I wouldn’t know how to handle it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold this time—it was thick. Fragile.

But you still took another step back.

“I can’t do this half-hearted, Barnes,” you said gently. “Not with you. So figure it out. Whatever this is—what you want it to be. But don’t kiss me unless you’re ready to mean it.”

You gave him one last look—something caught between hurt and hope—and turned down the hallway.

Bucky didn’t stop you.

He just stood there, lips still tingling from the kiss, heart caught in the echo of your footsteps as they faded down the corridor.

You hadn’t slept. Not really.

You’d curled up beneath the covers, phone beside your head, eyes fixed on the crack of light spilling through the curtain. Hours passed, but your body never fully settled — too tense, too alert. Your brain spun in endless loops, trying to make sense of something that wasn’t supposed to happen.

And yet—

It did.

He kissed you.

And not by accident. Not in a moment of heat or confusion. No, he reached for you. Pulled you in, let the silence stretch between you like a thread, and then he broke it — not with words, but with that kiss.

And now?

Now you were here. Awake, underslept, a bitter taste in your mouth that wasn’t just coffee. You hadn’t told anyone. Not Nat. Not even Pepper, who always somehow knew when something was off. You didn’t want to explain, because you couldn’t explain it to yourself.

The kiss hadn’t been bad.

That was the problem.

It had been… soft. Unexpected. Measured, like he was afraid you’d disappear halfway through. Like he’d been waiting, even if he didn’t know why.

And for one full second, you kissed him back.

And then?

You’d said the words.

Cold, sharp, half-defensive:

“Don’t kiss me unless you’re ready to mean it.”

You didn’t know if you’d meant them. You weren’t even sure what they meant. You just knew something had shifted. And you didn’t know how to shift with it.

That morning, you got dressed slower than usual. Picked up your makeup brush, then set it down. Looked in the mirror and barely recognized yourself — eyes too puffy, mouth too tight. You didn’t look like the version of yourself he kissed. She’d been looser. Warmer.

You layered on something safe — jeans, a plain hoodie, your badge clipped to your pocket like a shield. You wore your hair up, like you always did when you didn’t want to feel things brushing your skin.

When you entered the hallway, the compound was already buzzing. You smiled at people in passing. Forced yourself to answer questions in the lab like everything was normal. It was muscle memory. Pretend. Perform.

Until you saw him.

You hadn’t meant to look — really, you hadn’t. But your gaze found him anyway, standing in the kitchen, back half-turned, talking to Sam and Nat like it was any other day.

He looked normal. Relaxed.

And God, that hurt.

He wasn’t sulking in his room. He wasn’t quiet or withdrawn. He wasn’t chasing after you, saying something — anything — to make the weirdness disappear.

He was fine.

And you were unraveling.

You ducked into a side hall before anyone could see your face, the back of your throat tight.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

You’d always known where you stood with people. You flirted, teased, kept things light. That was your space. Your control. And Bucky Barnes? He was the opposite of control.

He was silence and sharp glances. Hesitation laced with tension. He was the constant wall you pushed against just to see if he’d crack.

And now, you had. He’d kissed you. And it felt like falling — fast, unexpected, right until you hit the ground.

You spent the next hour in the lab, pretending to check inventory.

Anything to keep your mind from drifting back to the hallway. To the brush of his fingers on your sleeve. The weight of his eyes on yours. The kiss.

You hated yourself for checking your phone. For hoping he’d texted. For hoping he’d explain.

But there was nothing.

Maybe he regretted it.

Maybe it hadn’t meant anything.

And maybe — just maybe — he didn’t kiss you because he wanted you.

Maybe he just wanted the power back.

You were halfway through re-sorting equipment you’d already logged twice when Pepper peeked in.

“You okay?”

You smiled too quickly. “Fine. Just catching up on some things.”

She didn’t press. But she lingered a second longer than normal before stepping back into the hallway.

When she was gone, you let the fake smile fade. Pressed your palms against the cool surface of the counter and leaned in until your shoulders slumped.

You hadn’t done anything wrong. You knew that. And yet—

You’d let him see a part of you no one else did. The one that didn’t flirt. The one that froze. The one that wanted something more than banter.

And now you didn’t know how to take it back.

You hadn’t meant to stop.

You were just passing through, late-night folder in your hands, hoping to cut through the lounge unnoticed on your way to the tech wing. But the sound of laughter caught you mid-step.

You glanced up instinctively — and froze.

Bucky sat on the far end of the couch, shoulders relaxed, laughing softly at something a woman beside him had said. She was unfamiliar — probably someone from PR or medtech, from the way she looked like she didn’t carry a gun but still wore confidence like armor.

He looked different.

Loose. Casual. Almost… charming.

His arm draped along the back of the couch. The woman leaned closer, smiling. And he didn’t pull away.

You weren’t close enough to hear the words, but that didn’t matter. You saw enough.

He was fine.

And you were not.

You took a step back, slow and quiet — not wanting anyone to notice the crack in your chest. But as you turned to disappear into the hallway, his head shifted.

You didn’t look back.

But Bucky did.

He caught your silhouette in the corner of his eye — the familiar shape of you, just before you vanished behind the wall.

His smile faded instantly.

He stood.

The woman said something else — something he didn’t hear.

Because he was already walking out, following the direction you’d gone, heart suddenly beating louder than before.

You didn’t expect him to follow you.

You really thought he’d stay in that room — with that woman, with his easy smile and his arms stretched across the couch like he hadn’t just kissed you and disappeared for days. You thought maybe that had been it. One impulsive moment. One mistake.

But then the lab door opened.

And there he was.

You didn’t turn right away. You stared straight ahead at the desk screen, pretending to focus, pretending not to feel your chest tighten.

“I’m finishing up,” you said. “If that’s what you came to ask.”

“I didn’t come to ask anything,” he said, voice quiet. “I came because you’re avoiding me.”

You laughed under your breath. “Observant.”

He took a few slow steps into the room.

“And you’re angry.”

“More observant,” you muttered.

“I’d say sorry, but I think you’d spit it back in my face right now.”

You turned then. Slowly. Arms crossed, eyes hard.

“You kissed me, Bucky. And then you acted like it didn’t happen.”

“I never acted like it didn’t happen,” he said. “I acted like I didn’t know what to do with it.”

You blinked. “That’s not better.”

“I know.” His jaw tensed. “But it’s the truth.”

You stayed silent, unsure if you wanted to scream or cry or both.

He exhaled sharply, like he was trying to keep his voice from breaking. “That night—I didn’t plan it. You were there, and you looked at me like I wasn’t something broken. Like I was worth being seen. And I panicked.”

“So you kissed me?” you snapped. “That was panic?”

“No,” he said immediately, stepping closer. “That was me giving in to something I’d been trying not to feel since the day I met you.”

You blinked hard, suddenly breathless.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once before facing you again. “You have this… way. You walk into a room, and I forget how to be quiet. You talk, and I want to listen. I’ve spent most of my life trying to disappear — and then you show up and ruin that.”

Your chest tightened.

“Because you’re loud. And warm. And messy and stubborn and brilliant, and you say exactly what’s on your mind and you don’t let me push you away even when I tried like hell to do it.”

You tried to keep your expression neutral, but something cracked in your chest.

“And I told myself it meant nothing,” he continued, softer now. “The way I noticed when you weren’t around. The way I watched the door every time I came into the lab. The way my day felt better when you teased me about that stupid water bottle I never drink.”

You looked away, throat tight.

“I thought,” he said slowly, “if I just kept pretending… maybe you’d get tired of me. Maybe I wouldn’t have to admit I wanted something.”

He took another step toward you. Close enough to see the faint eyebags under your eyes. Close enough that his voice lowered without meaning to.

“But then you were walking away that night, and it felt like someone was ripping something out of my chest.”

Your eyes flicked to his.

“So yeah,” he said. “I kissed you.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your whole body was buzzing, but you weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or fear or something dangerously close to hope.

“And I stayed away because I didn’t know how to face you,” he added. “Because if I saw your face and you looked like you regretted it, I think it would’ve wrecked me.”

You let out a slow breath. “You saw me walk away and assumed I regretted you.”

He nodded.

“I didn’t,” you whispered.

His eyes searched yours. “Then why did you leave?”

“Because I didn’t want to be just a moment for you,” you said, voice trembling. “I didn’t want to be the thing you used to feel something and then threw away once it scared you.”

“I’m scared,” he admitted. “Every damn day.”

You blinked.

“But not of you,” he added. “Of how much I want to not mess this up.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears.

“I thought I was doing you a favor by staying away,” he said. “But all I did was prove I don’t know how to hold something good without crushing it.”

He stepped closer, now just a breath away.

“I don’t want you to be small,” he said. “I don’t want you quiet. I want the girl who rolls her eyes at me, who challenges every word out of my mouth, who flirts with everyone but me just to piss me off.”

A breathy laugh escaped you despite the lump in your throat.

His gaze softened. “I want you. Not a version of you that’s easy. The real thing.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out.

Because your heart was fluttering so hard it hurt. Because you hadn’t felt like this — breathless and brimming — since the moment he kissed you. Maybe not even then.

“I’m still figuring it out,” he said. “But I’m here. And I’m not going to pretend anymore.”

You swallowed, lips parting to speak.

But instead of words, you took a step closer and rested your forehead gently against his chest.

He froze for a moment when you stepped in like you were finally letting him hold you without conditions. But he didn’t pull away. His arms wrapped around you instead, strong and steady, grounding you with a warmth you hadn’t realized you’d needed until now.

You stayed like that for a long moment. Breathing. Centering.

The silence between you had shifted no longer heavy, no longer uncertain. Just calm. Present. Real.

When you finally stepped back, your hand stayed lightly on his chest.

His eyes searched yours steady and open this time. Unafraid.

No masks. No hiding.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “I don’t want to run.”

You nodded slowly, your expression soft but edged with something playful something you.

“I know.”

A beat passed.

Your fingers brushed down his chest, just a little.

And then, you tilted your head slightly, voice low and a little smug but warm.

“Now’s the time, Barnes.”

His brows twitched a small, stunned smile tugging at his lips. “What?”

You arched one brow. “To kiss me again.”

This time, it was him who didn’t hesitate.

He leaned in and kissed you but unlike the first time, this wasn’t tentative or rushed. It wasn’t afraid. It was deep and sure and full of everything he’d wanted to say but didn’t know how to until now.

And when his hand cupped your cheek and you melted into him, he knew this was the moment he’d been running from.

And he never wanted to run again.

2K notes · View notes

buckmepapi · 3 days ago

Text

manchild.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. tfatws. synopsis. bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you. warnings. smut ( pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy ), no use of y/n, angst, fluff, frenemies to lovers, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky ( if that even makes sense ) ( it doesn't ), jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky's hobby is baking bc i said so. reader inclusivity. bucky can pick the reader up ( but he's literally a super soldier so 🧍‍♂️ ), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader's hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian ( neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian ) word count. 16.3k hyde’s input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don't let this flop, it's my birthday tomorrow and i'm not above crying over poorly-received erotica ( i'm joking ) ( no i'm not )

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain.

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail.

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

“You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B.

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice.

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it.

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds.

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?”

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers. I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers.

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked.

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?”

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder. “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes.

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde ! · 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

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