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amethystmoonempress · 1 day ago

Note

if you’re comfortable writing smut for yelena, i think i might have one: reader is embarrassed about having a sexy dream about yelena—especially because despite being on the same team, they haven’t really hit it off, and reader suspects that yelena isn’t fond of her. reader tries to go about her day, ignoring both the dream she had AND yelena, but we all know how perceptive yelena is and she catches onto reader being weird and asks her what her deal is, and isn’t even the least bit shocked when she finally pries the sex dream information out of her 😂 (in fact, she’s so un-shocked and intrigued, that she proposes recreating the dream 👀)

just a lover - y.belova

yelena belova x fem!reader

・❥・summary: Though you would prefer to keep the fact that you’ve been inadvertently dreaming of your attractive Russian teammate under wraps, you overlooked one crucial fact: she’s way more perceptive than you give her credit for.

・❥・warnings: SMUT ‼️MINORS, DNI; one (1) spicy dream description (though not too descriptive, i don’t think?), R being weird and not handling her crush well in the slightest, top!yelena, more Russian petnames because i can and i want to, nipple sucking, grinding, fingering (r receiving), praise kink, two seconds of edging, lap riding, cute banter

・❥・word count: 3.9k

・❥・a/n: i’m on my period and feeling a lot of things, and writing this fic made me need Yelena biblically, but that’s neither here nor there. thanks for the request and hope you enjoy!

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

It feels like it’s 100 degrees and climbing by the minute.

Your nerve endings are tingling, your head is swimming and you can’t think straight. The gorgeous blonde below you calls out sensual instructions to keep going, to keep moving against her as her calloused fingers grip your hips for purchase. A glorious sheen of sweat gathers in the hollow of her throat that you’d like to kiss away. The heat is almost too much to bear, and you’re so close to breaking that you can almost taste it.

That’s when she pushes herself up, catching her balance on one elbow as she pulls you down on top of her, your chest flush against her own, her hot breath fanning your neck as she whispers in your ear. “What are you waiting for? Come for me, y/n…”

You gasp awake as if your very breath is being torn from your lungs. A furtive glance around your room tells you that whatever you just experienced wasn’t real. Just a product of your incredibly horny imagination. “What…what the fuck…” you whisper to yourself in the dim lighting of your bedroom. The sun wasn’t even over the horizon yet, the pinkish-purple hue of dawn barely visible through your drawn curtains.

You whisper “what the fuck,” once more because it’s all that comes to mind as you run a hand through your matted hair. “Did that really just happen?” was the perplexed question that followed. And an incredibly appropriate one it was, because did that really just happen? Did you really just have a wet dream about Yelena?

Yelena, as in Yelena Belova. Your scary Russian teammate who wouldn’t have anything to do with you.

Well…that much had never really been confirmed or denied, but you assumed she wanted nothing to do with you based on the energy you were likely to receive from her whenever you made the mistake of light conversation

Sure, Yelena wasn’t exactly a social butterfly. But you’ve seen her let her guard down with Bob, with Ava, and even with Bucky sometimes. But when it came to you, you might as well have been dog shit on the bottom of her shoes.

The first time she brushed you off, you figured that she was having a bad day. Or an off day. Things were weird right now, and she wasn’t used to being part of a ‘team’. Hell, neither were you, and you completely understood that. But the more she continued to develop friendly (or at the very least, cordial) bonds with everyone except for you, the more and more discouraged you became.

And despite all of that, you held no animosity of any kind toward her. There was something admirable about the way she carried herself despite everything she’s been through. She knew how to look out for herself and she was damn tough. You actually liked her a lot. Maybe more than you anticipated given the dream that you just had. But all this time you’ve been around her? Seems a little late to realize that you might—

No. You shook the thought from your head before it could even think about forming. That’s not what that was. Your feelings for Yelena absolutely did not stray past platonic. As for why you had that dream? You chalked it up to the fact that you probably just wanted to get laid in general. It has been a while. And your vibrator was tired.

You dismiss any and all thoughts of Yelena, your dream, and whatever other weird feelings might’ve been lingering beneath the surface as you pull yourself from your bed and grab a shower. It was still quite early by the time you finished and got dressed though. There was a bit more brightness outside than when you first awoke, but if you had to guess, it was barely seven a.m. And since there was no mission or assignment today, you figured that everyone else was sleeping in. Which meant having the kitchen to yourself for at least an hour.

That thought was motivation enough to hurry downstairs, to soak up the peace and quiet in the tower that came with early mornings off. But once you reach the kitchen’s threshold, you realize that you’re not the only one who had that idea.

Yelena stands in the kitchen, her back to you as she mixes what seems to be some sort of batter in a bowl. She hasn’t noticed you yet, and for that, you’re grateful, because you’re trying to figure out how to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth.

Yelena is dressed in a white tank and black lounge shorts. You’re not sure if the spicy-sweet scent that hits you is her perfume or if she simply smells that divine naturally, but you don’t mind either way. And though you fight to keep your gaze above her neck, your eyes seem to have a mind of their own, taking in her toned arms, the line of her back, the sliver of skin at her waist where her tank top stops.

You want to back out of the kitchen and pretend you were never there. You definitely want to pretend like hadn’t just been ogling Yelena, but you can’t get your stupid feet to move. And it’s too late anyway. Yelena must feel your presence because she turns around, looking right at you. Your breath hitches.

“Good mo—“ Yelena starts, but before she can even finish the casual greeting, you rush to say. “Sorry, I thought I was the only one up,”

Yelena raises a brow. Your ears burn. And so does your face. And your neck. “I’ll just go,” you add.

“Well, you’re already here and I’m going to make waffles. You might as well stay,” Yelena says.

You swallow hard. Now that Yelena is turned to face you, you notice the way her cropped tank stops right above her belly button; a patch of her skin that you’ve never had the liberty of seeing before. Your dream flashes back through your mind—Yelena beneath you, her hands on your hips, and suddenly, you have to catch yourself on the counter behind you before your legs give out.

“That’s okay, I…I’m not that hungry,” you say, studiously avoiding Yelena’s very confused gaze.

“Why are you being so—“

“I’ll talk to you later,” you blurt, cutting Yelena off. Then, while still avoiding her gaze, you turn and rush out of the kitchen before she can ask you why you’re acting like an absolute freak.

***

By some miracle, you managed to avoid Yelena for the rest of the day, complete with finding excuses not to be in the same room with her and using Ava and Bob as carrier pigeons should you have a message to pass along to her. And though your methods were a bit unorthodox, and you definitely earned some raised eyebrows from Ava, you seemed to have successfully avoided your Russian teammate.

Or so you thought.

Around seven in the evening, after you’ve forgone dinner with the group and chose to have takeout in your room instead, you get a knock at your door. But before you have a chance to tell whoever it is that it’s open, the door knob turns and in struts Yelena. And suddenly, your heart is in your throat.

“It is later,” she says simply, closing the door behind her. “Time to tell me why you’ve been weird all day,”

“I haven’t been weird all day,” you reply on impulse. But even now, your gaze is somewhere around Yelena’s socked feet and you can’t meet her eyes.

“You’re being weird right now!” Yelena points out. “You can’t even look up at me. And all day, you’ve been practically racing out of the room any time I walk in. I have a hard time believing that you find me that scary,”

You scoffed. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it,”

“Don’t tell me not to—“

“You think I’m dumb or I don’t know, annoying or something,” you cut her off. “You don’t like me and it’s so obvious, so you don’t have to concern yourself with why I act the way I do. If I told you, you’d only make fun of me anyway,”

Yelena’s brows furrow and then her features soften just the slightest bit. “You think I don’t like you?” She asks.

You shrug, picking at a loose stitch on your duvet.

Yelena lets out a heavy exhale, raking a hand through her hair. “Look, I don’t dislike you, y/n. I may not be a fan of your constant optimism and cheerfulness, but I don’t dislike you. I’ve actually been impressed by you since the time I saw you stronghold that guy at the bar,”

You smile at the memory. A “girl’s night” that Ava had organized led the three of you to a nice bar. And some guy had seemed intent on ruining your night by ignoring your collective disinterest and constantly asking to take you home.

When Ava told him no for the tenth time, he got in her face which prompted you to wrench his arm behind his back, advising that he fuck off if he knew what was good for him. Your protective nature and your strength has been a surprise to both Ava and Yelena. But Ava had been the only one to voice that she was impressed. Until now.

“So, is that really why you’ve been evading me all day?” Yelena’s voice pulls you from your daydreaming. “Because you thought I disliked you?”

You mull over just how much you’re willing to share. “No, not exactly,” you say. “The real reason is a lot…” you grapple around in your mind for the right word as you look up at Yelena. “…odder,”

“Odd how?” Yelena prompts.

“Well, I had this dream and…” you trail off, biting your lip. “…and it was a lot,”

“So…a dream made you act weird?” Yelena’s tone is dubious.

You nod slowly.

“I’m still not really following,” Yelena says.

“You have to promise not to laugh,”

“Why would I—“

“Just promise. Please, Yelena?” Your pleading gaze is enough to make Yelena sigh and concede.

“Alright, fine. I promise I will not laugh. Now hurry up and spit it out. The suspense is killing me,” she says.

“I had an intimate dream,” the words rush out, falling into each other as you speak. “About you. That’s why I avoided you all day,”

You wait for your confession to land. You wait for the exclamations of disgust or embarrassment. But all you get is silence. And when you can’t take it anymore, you look up at Yelena, who’s expression is carefully neutral.

“Intimate how?” She asks.

You lift your arms and let them fall back down, exasperated. “God, it was a sex dream, Yelena, okay? I was…I dunno, riding you. And you were praising me the whole time,”

Yelena’s expression belies nothing, and if it weren’t for the fact that her pupils were slightly dilated, you wouldn’t have thought your confession made any impact on her.

It’s as if you blink and she’s stood right in front of your bed, looking down at you. Now, you have to tilt your head to look up at her. “In the dream, did you…” she trails off, expecting you to pick up her thought.

You do, and it makes nerves flutter low in your abdomen as you admit, “I woke up before I could get off,”

Yelena nods, her gaze still on you. “That’s a shame,” she says it in such a low tone that you almost think you imagined it. The flutter of nerves in your stomach slowly start making their way up, the butterflies hovering right behind your belly button. Yelena is still staring at you, and she keeps her gaze trained on you as she lowers herself onto the mattress beside you. The bed dips a little with her added weight.

“What did you do?” Yelena’s gaze drops to your mouth for a brief second, but long enough to make you want to part them. Then, her eyes catch on yours again. “When you woke up from that dream, what did you do?”

“I dunno,” you’re embarrassed by the breathlessness in your voice as you respond. “Showered and then went down to get breakfast?”

“You just left yourself high and dry? You didn’t take care of yourself?” Yelena asks.

“No, I didn’t,”

Yelena hums, her eyes slipping slowly down your figure. The air between the two of you suddenly feels charged, like there’s a chance you’d get shocked if you even breathed a little too deeply. You couldn’t figure out what Yelena was thinking, and it was driving you absolutely wild in the best way.

“I feel like that’s not okay,” Yelena says, her eyes once again darting back to yours, but not before sneaking yet another peek at your lips. “I feel like it’s not okay for you to be left hanging like that,”

You feel the tips of Yelena’s fingers on the edge of your knee and suddenly, it’s so much harder to breathe.

“Yelena—“

“Y/n,” Yelena doesn’t use your name often. You know this because hearing her use it now feels like the first time, and makes you realize how fucking great your name sounds when it falls from her perfect lips. Her hand travels higher up on your knee. “Is this okay?” She asks.

You’re afraid that if you try to speak, you’ll end up whimpering, so you nod your head instead. Yelena scoots closer, bringing both her body heat and her deliciously spicy-sweet fragrance so much closer to you.

“You’re needy,” Yelena says it like a statement, not a question. “I can fix that,”

You’re so caught up in the way Yelena’s hand feels on your thigh that it takes your brain a minute to catch up, the nature of her statement slow to cut through the fog.

“You mean you want…” you trail off, searching Yelena’s eyes. She holds your gaze.

“I want to help,” She says simply. Her hand is higher now, palming softly at your thigh, and making your stubborn hips buck softly with the touch. “But only if it’s okay with you,”

Of course it was okay. It was so goddamn okay that you couldn’t breathe. So instead of answering with words, you let your body guide you forward to capture Yelena’s lips in a heated kiss.

You don’t know what you were thinking this morning—all that nonsense about only having platonic feelings for Yelena. Because the way the two of you kiss is anything but platonic. It’s dynamic. It’s passionate. It’s bruising. It’s hungry.

You’re more than happy to let Yelena dominate the kiss, her tongue sliding against your lower lip in silent permission that you didn’t even have to think about granting her. Her tongue is warm as it slides into your mouth and it’s here that you’re no longer able to keep your moans at bay.

“Yeah, you sound good,” Yelena mumbles against your lips as she guides you onto your back. She pulls back from the kiss way before you’re ready, pulling a whine of protest from you in the process. She only smiles and shushes you, kissing her way down your neck, your chest.

She lifts your arms above your head, then rids you of your shirt and bra. She utters a soft swear against your breast before taking the left one into her mouth and palming the right with her rough, warm hand.

You moan again, hips writhing beneath Yelena’s body as she works you over with her mouth. And when she grinds down against you, it only makes you moan louder. You can feel your nipple harden as Yelena lavishes the sensitive nub with her tongue. And she pulls away just long enough to grant you a devilish grin before switching over to your right breast, providing it with the same skilled suction while her left hand gets to work on the neglected breast. You buck up against her again, and she meets you, her hips grinding back into yours.

Her hand slides away from your breast to work the waistband of your sweats down your legs, leaving you in just your underwear. But before she can rid you of those too, your hands reach out, sliding under her tank top, and finally touching the warm skin of her stomach that you’d been aching to feel earlier this morning.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you breathe.

“Maybe you should do something about that,” she replies.

So you do.

Yelena lifts her arms as you slide her tank over her head. Her bra is next to go, and then her sweatpants. Your hands are on the waistband of her underwear when she suddenly grabs both of them and pins them to the bed, making you gasp. “Keep them here,” she whispers, her tone of voice making you want to do anything and everything she says.

“Okay,” you reply.

“Good girl,” The praise goes straight to your core, making you clench your thighs together.

Yelena keeps one hand on your pinned wrists, keeping you in place, while the other travels between your legs, spreading them open so she can cup you through the fabric of your panties.

Your body jolts and you moan Yelena’s name as you move to meet her touch. She drags a finger through your center, and the whine it makes you utter would’ve been embarrassing if you had any self awareness left. But you can’t remember having any kind of cohesive thought since the moment Yelena’s hand first landed on your knee.

“How’s this?” She asks, working at your increasingly-damp entrance through the material of your panties. Not once even teasing one of the edges. Not making any move to rid you of the stubborn barrier.

“Yelena please. Please, please, please,” you beg. You buck your hips up, but when you do, Yelena just moves her hand further away. You let out a frustrated moan along with what has to be five more pleases in a row.

“Please what, little one?” Yelena says.

“Touch me,” you panted. “Please, I’ll do anything. I’ll be so good. Just touch me. I can’t take it, this isn’t enough. Please,”

“See what happens when you ask nicely, milaya?” You don’t have a chance to respond to Yelena’s cheeky reply before she follows up with. “Lift your hips for me,”

You do as you’re told, letting Yelena slide your underwear down and off your thighs. Again, she drags a finger ever so gently through your folds before hooking two fingers inside and curling them. You’re already seeing stars and she just started and you can only pray that no one can hear your breathless moans outside your bedroom.

“Oh god, oh god,” you babble as you rock against Yelena’s fingers.

“You’re so wet,” Yelena remarks. Her fingers slide in deeper and you have to bite your lip so you don’t scream. “Who did that to you?”

You look up at Yelena through lidded eyes, but it doesn’t seem to service her as much as a verbal answer would. And she proves this by curving her fingers again, letting her thumb brush against your clit in a way that pulls another moan from you.

“I said who did this to you?” She prompts you again.

“You. All you, just you,” you gasp. “It’s all you, Yelena,”

You think you hear Yelena call you a good girl again, but it’s hard to focus on anything aside from the way her fingers feel inside you, bringing you so much higher, closer to what will likely be the most intense orgasm you’ve ever experienced. But just when you’re about to be sent hurtling over the edge, Yelena pulls her hand away.

You practically sob at the loss of contact, already aching for more. “No, please. I’m so, so close, Yelena. I just need—“

“Shh,” Yelena leans closer, pressing a kiss to one corner of your mouth and then the other. “I am not done with you yet. I just want to make you come the way you were robbed of in your dream,”

Yelena’s proposition alone is enough to make you see stars and you already feel boneless as she switches your positions, lying down on your sheets where you had been previously and pulling you down on top of her to straddle her waist. The anticipation builds back up inside of you, hot and needy, and you don’t even need to wait for a command before you take off, hips grinding into Yelena’s.

Just like in your dream, her fingers grip your waist, guiding your movements. Though Yelena is more subtle in the way she showcases her pleasure, you can tell she’s into this just as much as you are, if her parted lips and the soft furrow of her brows is anything to go on. If none of those gave her away, her soft Russian curses every time you moved, definitely did.

Your bodies move in tandem, a hypnotic rhythm that’s easy to lose yourself in. Yelena’s hands stay mostly on your hips, but she does steal a playful ass grab that makes you squeak and she laughs when you do. When her teeth sink into your neck, you’re pretty sure you’ll break then and there. But you hold out long enough to wait for her signal.

“You want me to say it, don’t you?” She whispers against your ear, her hands sliding up your hips to the curve of your waist, the outline of your ribcage, before settling on either arm. “You want me to tell you to come?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes please. I need it,”

“Okay,” Yelena takes a hand and tilts your chin up to meet her eyes. “Then come for me,”

This time, you don’t have to wake up. Because this is very, very real, and so is the way that you spin out into oblivion as you chase and capture your release on top of Yelena, letting your orgasm fall over you like an avalanche.

Yelena’s climax is more understated, but not any less pleasurable—a pinch between her brows and parted lips giving away her pleasure as she guides you through your own.

Soon, you collapse forward, your head on Yelena’s chest. For a moment, you think she’s going to reject the physical contact, but just when you’re about to move away and apologize, her arms come up to wrap around you, pulling you closer. You hide your smile in the junction of her shoulder.

“Can I say something?” You’re the first to speak after a prolonged silence.

“Sure,” Yelena replies.

“I really needed that,”

Yelena laughs breathlessly, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head that surprises you. “Maybe I did too. I’m glad we cleared up the whole ‘me not liking you’ thing,’”

“And just for the record, you do? Like me, I mean?” You lift your head and look up at Yelena. She doesn’t answer immediately, but you catch a hint of a smile on her lips before she quickly schools her features.

“Hey, I saw that!” You tease.

“You saw nothing,” she deadpans.

“Yeah, you just smiled!”

“Shut up. I did not,” But Yelena can’t hold back the corners of her mouth from twitching, even if she tries.

“You’ve got it bad for me, don’t you?” Your smile matches Yelena’s as you poke a finger into the soft skin of her naked hip.

“If I kiss you, will you stop talking?”

The question only makes your grin widen. You don’t respond with words, however, leaning down and capturing Yelena’s lips in another kiss. And there’s no more talking after that. Nothing but pleasured sighs and soft breaths to fill the quiet of your bedroom as you take each other apart for the second time that night.

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amethystmoonempress · 2 days ago

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I spent so long making sure that I smell nice and that my skin is soft and moisturized and for what

No one here to appreciate it </3

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amethystmoonempress · 2 days ago

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why isn’t there a passenger princess femme in my car with my hand on her thigh and her hand scratching my head life is so unfair 🙄

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amethystmoonempress · 2 days ago

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hungry like a wolf

pairing: lumberjack!bucky barnes x female reader

summary: your morning gets derailed when you dare to get out of bed without waking your lumberjack; it turns into him chasing you down—and mounting you.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, possessive sex, creampie, predator and prey kink/primal play kink/chase kink, choking, biting, some breath play, bit of dumbification, very brief overstimulation, dirty talk, daddy kink, praise kink, pet names (bunny, baby), aftercare, established relationship

word count: 3.3k

a/n: here's my week 4 entry in @buckybarnesevents's Hot Bucky Summer event!! y'all voted for lumberjack!Bucky chasing and mounting reader, and i'm very happy to deliver this fic. it's just a fun bit of smut, i don't even have much to say about it except i really enjoyed writing lumberjack!Bucky 🤭 he's just so big and beefy in my head!! anyway, i hope y'all enjoy!! ♡

prompt: FREE WEEK | [Optional prompts: “A” - Auto-fellatio, Aftercare, Aphrodisiac, Anal Play, Ass-to-mouth, Ahegao]

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

You slipped from beneath the warm blankets just as the sun was beginning to peak out from between the nearby mountains. Pale, pearly light crept across the cabin’s wooden floorboards, which were cool beneath your toes, the chill of night still clinging to the corners of the bedroom.

Lingering at the edge of the bed, you glanced back at the small mountain of blankets, knowing your lumberjack, Bucky Barnes, was buried beneath it. You could hear his soft, rumbling snores, and could easily imagine the comforting weight of his arms wrapped around your waist, his nose buried in the back of your neck.

It was tempting to get back into bed and snuggle up to your beefy lumberjack, but you knew it was time to start the day. So you pushed up from the mattress and padded across the room on silent feet.

Although it was the start of summer, it still got cold at night up in the mountains, and it seemed to be chilliest just after dawn. So, as much as you knew Bucky would love to find you in the kitchen without a stitch of clothing on, you needed to grab something to ward off the chill.

One of Bucky’s flannels was draped over the arm of a chair in the corner by the dresser, and a smile tugged at the corners of your mouth when you recognized it as the shirt he’d worn the day before. You knew it would smell like him, and you couldn’t stop yourself from snatching it off the chair.

You probably should’ve tugged on some leggings and a sweater, and gotten dressed for the day in your own clothes. But as you slid your arms into the sleeves of the flannel shirt, Bucky’s scent filled your senses—like woodsmoke and oakmoss—and you couldn’t imagine wearing anything else.

Especially since you knew how Bucky would react when he eventually followed you out of bed and saw what you were wearing. Your lumberjack always loved seeing you in his clothes, and you knew that morning would be no different.

The worn wool of the flannel shirt was warm against your bare skin, and you closed your eyes, savoring the feeling of it as you swiftly did up the buttons. Before you left the bedroom, you tucked your nose into the collar and breathed deep, letting Bucky’s scent calm you before you started your day.

Not wanting to wake your lumberjack, you moved quietly through the rustic, cozy cabin he’d built. The floorboards were smooth and clean beneath your feet as you padded down the stairs from the lofted bedroom, and made your way to the kitchen.

With perfect, practiced movements, you set about making coffee, snacking on some leftover strawberry rhubarb pie you’d made earlier that week. While the coffee brewed, you stood at the sink, watching the sunlight creep across the yard, illuminating the stack of wood that fed the cabin’s furnace, and the dense forest beyond.

It wasn’t until after the coffee was brewed and you were nearly done sipping on a warm mug, still watching the growing light of day, that you heard Bucky’s lumbering gate crossing the bedroom above you.

He’d no doubt risen when he’d discovered you were no longer in bed with him, and you tracked his movements as he followed you to the kitchen.

Thick, burly arms wrapped around your waist from behind and his broad chest pressed to your back, his big body curling around your smaller form. His chin rested on your shoulder, his scruffy cheek brushing against your soft skin enough to make you giggle softly.

“G’morning, bunny,” Bucky rumbled in a deep, sleep-roughed voice that sent gentle sparks darting down between your thighs.

Already, your body was responding to the closeness of your lumberjack, a warmth blooming in your core as your desire unfurled like the petals of a flower searching for the sun.

With a little hum of delight, you rose up on your tiptoes until you felt the bulge in Bucky’s sweatpants, a smile teasing your lips when the hard length wedged between the curves of your ass. Turning your head to the side, you caught his eye over your shoulder.

“Good morning, Buck,” you murmured, reaching up, your nails scraping teasingly through the scruff on his jaw. You dug in, pulling his face close enough to press a kiss against the corner of his mouth over your shoulder. “Did you sleep well?”

There was a teasing lilt to your tone, and you weren’t surprised when a playful growl rumbled in your lumberjack’s chest. After all, you’d been the one to keep him up late into the night, riding his cock until you were both too exhausted to move.

“I slept great,” Bucky rasped, pressing his face into your neck and brushing a kiss to your pulse point. Then without warning, he nipped that same sensitive spot and your breath hitched in your throat. “Until I woke up in a cold bed when I should’ve had a sweet bunny warming my cock.”

You hummed not-so-sympathetically and took another sip of your coffee before putting it in the sink. You were trying your damndest not to let your lumberjack know just how tempting his words were.

But when he hugged you more tightly in his arms, pinning your hips against the counter and grinding his cock deeper into your ass, it was all you could do to bite back a moan.

“You look good in my shirt,” Bucky purred in your ear before nipping the fleshy part. His bite was sharp enough to make you gasp, your spine arching and pressing your ass harder against his bulge.

You knew Bucky well enough to know what he was doing—trying to delay the start of the day by working you up with his cock and his mouth until you were a whimpering mess begging him to fuck you.

Well, two could play that game. You didn’t want to go to work anymore than he did.

Turning in Bucky’s hold, you wrapped your arms around your lumberjack’s broad shoulders and dragged him closer, until his bulge was throbbing against your belly. You gave him your most innocent smile, and said, in your sweetest voice, “Thank you, daddy.”

The playful smirk slid off Bucky’s face, replaced by a hungry snarl. As you watched, his eyes darkened, growing hungry like a wolf’s after a hard winter. Between your bodies, his cock twitched with an impatience you knew all too well.

“I see you’re choosing violence first thing in the morning, huh, baby?” Bucky asked, his hands grabbing your hips and holding you pinned against his broad, muscular body.

His bulge was digging into your soft belly so deliciously that you wanted to lift your leg and hook it over your lumberjack’s hip. You wanted the thick, hard length of his cock grinding against your pussy, making you both desperate until he’d had enough and took you right there in the kitchen.

But instead, you gave an insolent shrug.

“It’s not first thing in the morning for me, daddy,” you said sweetly, putting extra emphasis on the dirty pet name that drove Bucky wild. “I’ve been up for a little while now.”

Another growl rumbled in Bucky’s chest, this one low and menacing. His blue eyes were dark with lust as he stared down at you, and his hands were hungry in the way they groped your hips roughly.

It took every bit of your self-control to suppress a victorious grin, knowing you’d won by getting Bucky all riled up before he could do the same to you. You held your breath, waiting with breathless anticipation to see how he’d respond to your teasing provocation.

“You better run, bunny,” Bucky warned in a deep, rumbling tone, giving your hips one last squeeze before he began easing away. “Because when I catch you, I’ll make you scream for daddy.” With a sharp, encouraging swat to your ass, Bucky stepped back, giving you room to flee.

For one long, delicious moment, you stared into Bucky’s eyes, reveling in the tension crackling between the two of you. This was one of your favorite games to play, and Bucky knew it. He knew how much you enjoyed being chased, being caught, being fucked with your body pinned beneath his beefy form.

All thoughts about going to work and how you should’ve started getting ready for the day were completely abandoned by the time the moment ended—and you took off like a shot.

Scampering through the lower level of the cabin, you bounded up the stairs to the second floor as fast as you could, your feet pounding on the wood. Your heart was racing in your chest, your blood pumping in your ears, and yet you could still feel the heavy, thumping footfalls of Bucky giving chase.

He’d given you a few seconds head-start, but you knew it was an inevitability that he’d catch you. And that was exactly what you wanted.

You wanted him to snatch you off your feet, bend you over the nearest surface and fuck you like a beast staking a claim on your cunt. He was the wolf and you were his prey—his bunny.

You could feel your heartbeat hammering against your ribs and thrumming between your thighs, you pussy growing more and more damp with every desperate step you took. You knew Bucky was hot on your heels, and you anticipated the moment he’d grab you even as you raced across the loft to escape him for just another second.

The hungry lumberjack caught you at the edge of the bed, tackling you onto the soft blankets. His arms wrapped protectively around your body, one big hand tucking your head beneath his chin to ensure you weren’t hurt while he took you down to the mattress.

Before you could even gasp for breath, Bucky rolled you under him, your back to his front, his cock brushing your ass through his sweatpants. He yanked you up onto your knees, kneeling behind you while his hands groped your hips and thighs hard enough to leave marks.

Bucky’s big body curled around yours, and he was everywhere—surrounding you, overwhelming you. His hands snuck under your soft flannel shirt, groping your tits and pinching your nipples while you gasped and squirmed beneath him.

When he dragged his blunt teeth down the curve of your neck, you shuddered. Instinctively, you melted into the bed, your body going pliant in your lumberjack’s hands as you submitted to his delicious torture.

“Gotcha,” he growled into your skin before sinking his teeth mercilessly into the base of your throat, where your neck met your shoulder.

“Ah!” you cried, trembling from the exquisite edge of pain and pleasure. Already, you were dripping down your thighs, and you pushed your ass back into Bucky’s bulge, a whine rising in your throat as you tipped your head to the side in a show of submission.

“That’s my good bunny,” Bucky rumbled, his hands kneading roughly at your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers and dragging needy whines from your lips. “Such pretty, perfect prey for daddy, yeah?”

There was a slight breathlessness to Bucky’s voice, like he was still catching his breath from the chase you’d led him on, and it made pride surge in your heart. A dazed smile curled the edges of your mouth and your eyes were glazed over, but you nodded slightly.

“Yeah, daddy, your prey,” you mumbled, barely knowing what you were saying.

Bucky pressed his grin into your cheek, growling, “Good girl,” before he caught your lips in a fierce kiss. You moaned at the taste of him, and he licked the sound from your mouth, his lips hungry as they devoured yours.

All too soon, Bucky pulled away, leaving you gasping. But then you felt him pushing down his sweatpants, one arm still curled around your waist to hold you in place.

His thick cock bounced between your legs, and you moaned obscenely, your cheek pressed to the blankets as you pushed your hips back, squeezing your soft thighs around his stiff length. You could feel him slipping through the desire coating your skin, but he wasn’t inside you, which was what you really needed.

Before you had a chance to beg Bucky to fuck you, he was lining up the tip of his cock with your entrance, dragging the head teasingly between your folds. Then, with a vicious grunt, Bucky shoved inside, burying his cock deep in your cunt with one thrust.

“Bucky,” you choked out, pleasure slicing through you like a winter wind through the trees, stealing your breath and leaving you trembling. Your eyes rolled back in your head as you let the pleasure overwhelm you, turning you into a babbling mess. “Oh god, it’s s’good, s’full—daddy.”

Your lumberjack chuckled huskily against your neck, clearly delighted that he’d already made you mindless with his cock.

Then he was wrapping you up in his big, burly arms, one strong hand going around your throat while the other curved around your shoulder from the front.

In seconds, he had you pinned so securely to his chest, you couldn’t move. Something about his hold settled you, and you relaxed in his arms, giving your body over to his.

He’d won the chase, he’d caught you, and you wanted him to do whatever he wanted with you.

“If you think that’s good, baby,” Bucky began, grinding his hips into your ass, making you feel every inch of his cock where it was buried to the hilt inside you. “Just wait till daddy fucks your sweet cunt so hard you’ll be screaming my name.” He squeezed your throat lightly. “You’re my prey, bunny, now be a good girl and take my fucking cock.”

Even if you’d had anything to say to Bucky’s filthy words, even if you’d managed to formulate a tart response to sass your lumberjack, you wouldn’t have been able to voice it. Because just then, Bucky started fucking you—hard and fast and so deep, you swore you could feel him in your guts.

Bucky rutted into you like a man possessed, pounding his cock into your cunt as if he was intent on making you feel him for every minute of that long summer day while you were apart from each other. His hips clapped against your ass with every brutal thrust, his balls swinging between your thighs to smack against your clit.

And all the while, he held your throat in his strong grasp, squeezing you firmly, possessively. His hand collaring your throat was a constant reminder that you were his while he claimed your body in the most primal way possible.

Your lumberjack fucked you so thoroughly, all you could do was moan and take it, so that’s what you did. You took his cock happily, eagerly. Your lips were parted in an endless stream of obscene sounds, your pleasure spilling from your mouth so Bucky knew how much you were enjoying him using your body.

He held you so securely, that there was nothing for you to do as he pulled you back and forth to meet his cock with every thrust. Your hands fisted in the blankets of the bed, nails digging into the soft fabric as you sobbed and moaned in pleasure, heading toward a decimating release.

You were helpless to the bliss Bucky wrought on your body. All you could do was feel, and it felt so. Fucking. Good. Heady, prickling pleasure swirled through your body, gathering like a thunderstorm intent on breaking the heat and tension coiling tight in your belly.

Your lumberjack must’ve recognized the signs of your body hovering on the edge—the way your voice went higher-pitched and needier, the way your pussy fluttered around his pounding cock—because he started fucking you harder and faster, his harsh breaths filling your ears.

“Come for me, baby, come on daddy’s cock like my perfect little bunny,” Bucky commanded in a gruff voice, his scruffy cheek jaw over your cheek. “C’mon, let me feel that cunt milking my cock, baby—come for me.”

Bucky’s fingers dug into the sides of your throat, choking you enough that your head went a little fuzzy and your sounds of pleasure turned to rasping whimpers and desperate mewls. At the same time, his other hand slipped between your thighs and rubbed your clit, and it was exactly what you needed to push you over the edge.

“BUCKY!” you screamed your lumberjack’s name as you shattered apart. The storm broke and the tension in your body snapped, giving way to a torrent of pleasure that swept over you and carried you away.

Distantly, you were aware of Bucky grunting viciously when he felt the tight clench of your pussy, and he fought against the rhythmic pulsing of your body to fuck you harder. His thrusts turned wild as he chased his own pleasure in your squeezing cunt.

A moment later, he gave a deafening roar and spilled inside you, his cock twitching and dragging a mindless moan from your lips as he filled you up with his come. His hands tightened on your body while his hips worked, fucking his come deeper and deeper into your hot cunt as he shot rope after rope inside you.

You gave a weak whimper, your pussy throbbing around his thick cock as he dragged out your pleasure. But Bucky wasn’t done—he kept fucking you until you were both trembling from the overstimulation. Then, he finally relented.

The two of you collapsed into the blankets of the bed, Bucky rolling onto his side and turning you to face him. The movement caused his cock to slip from your well-used pussy, and his come spilled down your thighs, making a mess.

Neither of you cared, though, as you caught your breath together, tangled up in each other’s arms. You placed a hand gently over the center of Bucky’s chest, feeling the power of his racing heart beneath his skin. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, holding you tight in his strong arms.

“Now that is how you have a good morning,” you joked, your voice still a little breathless. With a smile, you tipped your head back, your mouth searching for Bucky’s.

When he ducked his head, his lips meeting yours, you shared a slow, sweet good morning kiss with your lumberjack, the both of you basking in the afterglow of your pleasure. The growing sunlight was streaking across the bedroom, teasing your bare feet with its warmth, but you couldn’t be bothered to pull away from Bucky just yet.

“I always have a good morning with you, baby,” Bucky rumbled, his tone steeped in so much affection and warmth, it nearly took your breath away. Then he nipped gently at your lower lip, catching it between his teeth in a teasing bite. “Even if sometimes I have to chase you down to get it.”

Your lumberjack’s taunting words had a laugh bubbling up your throat and spilling from your lips. Before he could rub it in any more that he’d caught you, you dragged him back in for a longer, deeper kiss. Soon, your hands began to wander over his broad shoulders and down his beefy, burly chest.

By the time you and Bucky dragged yourselves from bed and actually started your days, morning was half over and the coffee in the pot had long since burned. Still, you took your time getting dressed, making more coffee and sharing kisses in between, both of you getting to work late.

But you wouldn’t have traded your morning for anything. You loved every minute you spent with your lumberjack, Bucky Barnes—and you couldn’t wait for the weekend when you got to have him all to yourself. Then the two of you would really have some fun.

thanks for reading!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated ♡

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

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amethystmoonempress · 2 days ago

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Please universe let something super lesbian happen to me during pride month

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amethystmoonempress · 2 days ago

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“i can fix her, i can fix him, i can fix them”

i think we need to work on you first.

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amethystmoonempress · 2 days ago

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I wanna take care of a butch

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amethystmoonempress · 2 days ago

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no I Will Not Do Casual. worship me and only me or simply leave me alone !!!!!!!!!!!

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amethystmoonempress · 2 days ago

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I desperately want to fall head over heels in love, but do you know what I want even more? Romantic cuddles!!

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amethystmoonempress · 2 days ago

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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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