𝔹𝕝𝕜𝔾𝕣𝕝⭐️𝕍𝕚𝕟𝕘

[blackgrlsworld]

I finally finished my Steve Rogers x Black! Reader one shot!!! Enjoy

“If You’re So Mad, Fight Me”

The rhythmic thud of fists against leather echoed through the sparring room, a steady, punishing beat. Steve Rogers was pissed.

Not at the punching bag, though it was certainly bearing the brunt of his frustration.

Not at himself, though the anger was dangerously close to turning inward.

No, he was pissed at her.

Y/N.

His knuckles drove into the bag again, sending it swinging violently on its chain. His breath came hard and fast, sweat slicking his skin, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

He hadn’t meant to overhear. The last thing he wanted was to eavesdrop like some jealous idiot. But when you’re in a confined space like the Quinjet, overhearing things wasn’t exactly avoidable.

“Steve’s a good guy, but come on. He’s from the forties—there’s no way he’d go for me. Look at me, Nat.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m Black, Nat. It means I know how people from his time saw people like me. It means that no matter how much things have changed, some things don’t.”

Steve had felt his stomach drop out from under him.

She thought so little of him.

Like he was just another relic of the past, still clinging to outdated ideals. Like he was incapable of seeing her—really seeing her.

He gritted his teeth, slamming his fist into the bag with so much force that it snapped clean off the hook, crashing to the floor with a heavy thud.

“Jesus, Steve,” came a voice from the doorway.

Steve exhaled sharply, rolling out his shoulders before turning to face the intruder.

Y/N stood there, arms crossed, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and concern.

She was breathtaking. Even now, even in his frustration, he couldn’t deny it. Deep brown skin, smooth and radiant under the sparring room lights. Full lips that pursed slightly in thought. Sharp eyes that missed nothing. Her hair, coiled and wild from the day’s mission, framed her face in a way that made his chest feel too tight.

She was everything.

And yet, she thought she could never be his.

“Everything okay?” she asked, stepping further into the room.

Steve barely acknowledged her, grabbing a towel and wiping the sweat from his face. “Fine.”

Y/N raised a brow. “Yeah, because that—” she gestured to the lifeless punching bag on the floor—“looks real healthy.”

Steve sighed, his jaw tightening. “Not in the mood, Y/N.”

That made her pause. He never used that tone with her.

She tilted her head. “Okay, what’s your problem?”

Steve scoffed, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been giving me the cold shoulder since the last mission. You barely look at me, barely talk to me—if I did something, just say it.”

He clenched his fists at his sides. “Drop it, Y/N.”

“No, I won’t,” she shot back, stepping closer. “You wanna be pissed at me? Fine. But at least have the guts to tell me why.”

Steve took a steadying breath, trying to keep his temper in check, but the frustration—the hurt—was boiling over now.

“You really wanna know?” he asked, voice tight.

Y/N squared her shoulders. “Yeah, I do.”

Steve looked at her then, really looked at her.

“Because I heard you,” he admitted. “On the Quinjet. Talking to Nat.”

Y/N stiffened. “What?”

Steve took a step forward, closing the distance between them. “I heard you say there was no way I could ever like you because I’m from the forties and you’re Black.” His blue eyes burned into hers. “That’s what you think of me?”

Y/N opened her mouth, then closed it, like she wasn’t sure what to say.

Steve shook his head. “After everything, after all this time, you think I’d see you as anything less?”

Y/N exhaled sharply, her own frustration rising to match his. “Steve, it’s not about you—”

“Then what the hell is it about?”

“It’s about history,” she snapped. “It’s about knowing what men from your time thought of women like me. It’s about not wanting to set myself up for heartbreak because I thought there was no way in hell you—”

She stopped short, realizing what she was about to say.

Steve scoffed. “Right. No way in hell I what, Y/N?”

Her hands curled into fists. “If you’re so mad at me, why don’t we fight?”

Steve blinked. “What?”

Y/N threw down her gloves, stepping onto the sparring mat. “You’re pissed. I’m pissed. So let’s go.”

Steve let out a humorless chuckle. “You wanna fight me?”

Y/N smirked. “What, scared I’ll knock the wind out of you, old man?”

That did it.

Steve rolled his shoulders and stepped onto the mat. “Alright,” he said, settling into a stance. “Don’t hold back.”

“Oh, I won’t,” she promised.

The Fight

They moved like a storm—blows dodged by a hair, counters delivered with measured precision. But Steve was stronger, more disciplined, and it showed.

Then—an opening.

Steve twisted, catching her off guard, and in a single, fluid motion, he swept her legs from under her, flipping her onto her back and pinning her down.

Y/N struggled, breathing hard, but Steve had her locked in place.

She glared up at him. “That was cheap.”

Steve smirked. “No, that was strategy.”

She tried to shove him off, but he held firm.

And then—the tension shifted.

They were close. Too close.

Y/N stilled beneath him, her chest rising and falling against his. Her gaze flickered to his lips before snapping back up.

Steve swallowed hard.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured.

Y/N’s brows furrowed. “Steve—”

“I don’t care where—or when—I’m from,” he interrupted. “I don’t care about history. I care about you.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

Steve’s voice dropped lower.

“You really think I wouldn’t see you?” His fingers tightened slightly around her wrists. “That I wouldn’t want you?”

Y/N’s heart pounded.

The look in his eyes—the conviction in his voice—it was real.

And then, softly—hesitantly—she whispered:

“You do?”

Steve exhaled. “Yeah. I do.”

A beat of silence.

Then, his voice was softer, but firm.

“You’re beautiful, Y/N.” His eyes searched hers. “Regardless of your race. Regardless of anything.”

Y/N felt something deep inside her crack.

All this time, she had convinced herself it was impossible. That Steve couldn’t love her.

But he did.

And before she could think—before she could talk herself out of it—she kissed him.

Steve reacted instantly, his hands loosening around her wrists and instead cradling her face, pulling her closer. The kiss was deep, desperate, like something long overdue.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless, Steve rested his forehead against hers.

“Still think I don’t see you?” he murmured.

Y/N let out a shaky breath. “No,” she admitted.

Steve smiled. “Good.”

And then, just to prove his point—he kissed her again.

[houseofhyde]

manchild. ⤷ bucky barnes x fem!reader ⌇ 16.3k

✶ ― 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.ᐟ mdni! no use of y/n, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky (if that even makes sense) (it doesn’t), frenemies to lovers, 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), angst, fluff, 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. 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) ᯓ★hyde's input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don’t let this flop, it’s my birthday and i’m not above crying over poorly-received erotica (i’m joking) (no i’m not) (edit: wtf guys)

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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:

click here to join my taglist.

[knowledgeableknitter]

Thin Walls

A smutty Neighbor Bucky one-shot. 18+ ONLY, MDNI.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you (curvy reader, female)

Word Count: 4.5k

Summary: You never meant to fall for the guy in 3B. You just heard him cursing at his oven and talking to his cat through the wall. Thin drywall, one vibrator, and exactly zero boundaries later, you’re moaning while he fucks you against the same wall that started it all. And you don’t even know his name.

Trigger Warnings: 18+ ONLY, MDNI; mutual masturbation (fem with a vibe); bit of audio voyeurism on both sides; P in V sex (against a wall).

Author’s Note: The... nicer "neighbor bucky" fic that I've been writing...

Masterlist

You heard him curse at the oven before you ever saw his face.

It was low and muffled, but carried clearly enough through the cheap drywall to tell you he hadn’t meant for anyone to hear it. Just a flat, frustrated mutter, followed by the dull clang of something metal, maybe a pan, and the unmistakable sound of a cat meowing in protest.

“No, Alpine,” he said, voice softer. “It’s charcoal now.”

That was how you learned he had a cat. You didn’t know his name. He didn’t know yours. But you learned things.

You learned he had a short temper with machines and no patience for his own cooking. He learned you liked to play music when you did laundry, low and familiar, songs that carried the rhythm of memory. He heard you talk to your mother too loud on speakerphone, pacing barefoot, stepping over unfolded laundry piles and empty takeout boxes. You heard him talk to Alpine like she was someone who answered back.

Your lives ran parallel through thin walls. You tried not to listen, at first. But the quiet in this building had its own gravity, and sometimes his voice was the only sound that reminded you that you weren’t entirely alone.

He’d grown used to your sounds too. The creak of your couch springs. The uneven rhythm of your footsteps on the hardwood floor. The way you hummed, not shyly, but like you didn’t think anyone was around to hear.

He liked the sounds of you existing.

You never tried to speak through the wall. That would’ve made it real, and you weren’t sure you were ready for that. Neither was he.

One afternoon, you came home with grocery bags cutting into your fingers and sweat cooling at the base of your spine. Your thighs brushed with every step, your bra strap dug into your shoulder, and you hated how aware you were of your body as you climbed the stairs. You were soft, solid, full, and taking up too much space.

He turned the corner at the same time you reached the landing, going out somewhere with a leather satchel over one shoulder. His hoodie was slouched low, sleeves pushed halfway up one arm. His hair was pulled back, and his expression was unreadable, at least until he saw you.

He noticed you. Not with surprise, not with appraisal, but with that same quiet awareness you’d felt through the wall. You weren’t what he expected, not in that moment, not in the clothes you wore or the way you filled them, but he didn’t flinch from it.

His gaze dropped once, briefly, involuntarily, to the place your blouse lifted, revealing the curve of your stomach, and then back up. He didn’t flinch, didn’t react, just a simple acknowledgment. 

You nodded, enough to be polite. He gave a small smile in return, barely there, but not unkind. You passed each other slowly in the hallway, two ships in the narrow channel between lives. You didn’t speak, but curiosity crackled in the silence between your steps. 

Later, from your kitchen, you heard his door open, then close. You heard the faint thump of shoes being toed off, the rustle of paper as Alpine tried to investigate the contents of the bag. You leaned your back against the counter and listened until it was quiet again.

You didn’t know his name. He didn’t know yours.

But he knew the sound of your laugh when you watched something stupid on TV. And you knew the weight of his sighs, the unevenness of his sleep. And the wall between you, old, more paint than plaster, let everything through.

And somehow, that didn’t feel like a bad thing.

*****

The oven in 3B went quiet for a few days.

You still heard other things, the low sound of music, barely-there conversation with Alpine, the dull impact of something heavy being dropped or kicked. But there was no cursing, no banging of pans, no smoke alarm chirping through drywall. It almost worried you.

You’d baked because you needed the warmth. Not a metaphor, you needed actual warmth. The heater in your apartment had clanked twice and then given up for the day, and your sweater, stretched thin at the sleeves and worn soft at the elbows, hadn’t done much to fight the draft. So you made banana bread because you had three overripe ones on the counter and not much else. 

When it cooled, you sliced off two center pieces and wrapped them in foil. Two fat, warm slices, still slightly sticky in the center. No note, just a plate, a quiet knock, and the sound of you walking away.

You didn’t plan to linger by the door afterward, but you did. You weren’t close, just by the coat rack, pretending to look for your keys. Just long enough to hear the door down the hall open, a brief pause, and then close again. You listened, and moments later you could swear you heard a faint moan, as of someone enjoying the bread. 

The plate returned the next day, clean, outside your door. Nothing else. You smiled anyway.

That night, your door didn’t stick. It had been doing that since you moved in, catching at the bottom corner unless you yanked it hard. It usually closed loud enough to echo and announce every time you came or went. You’d grown used to bracing for it, pulling at the knob with your full body weight, thighs shifting, arm flexing awkwardly to hold the frame steady. Sometimes you swore at it under your breath. Once or twice, louder.

Now it moved like butter. Just a whisper of friction, then open. You found the note a moment later, stuck slightly askew beside the frame. Old-school yellow sticky, blocky handwriting that looked careful, like it had been practiced but not used in a long time.

Oiled the hinges. Shouldn’t have to slam it. —3B

No smiley face, no sarcasm. Just the plain fact. You kept it on the inside of your door for a week. He’d fixed it at some point when you were gone. 

You started paying more attention after that.

The shuffle of his steps. The clink of dishes. The way he cleared his throat when reading something aloud, like he wasn’t sure of the words. You imagined him sitting at a small kitchen table, hoodie sleeves pushed up over one forearm, the other covered, always covered, no matter how warm it got in the building. You didn’t know if he did it to protect something or hide it.

He heard you sing again. He heard the rhythm of your hands kneading dough you wouldn’t eat all of. He heard the way your voice softened when you played old love songs and let yourself sway through the room, hips moving with more care than confidence.

He liked that too. The sound of your movement. You didn’t try to be graceful, you were just you.

You both stayed in your lanes. He never knocked. You never thanked him aloud. But that slice of bread had said enough. And the hinge said it back.

*****

It had become a kind of lullaby, the sounds from 3B as he settled in for the night.

First, the creak of his bed. Then the low mutter, always the same cadence: something soft, gravel-edged, irritated more at himself than anything else. You never caught the words, just the rhythm of them, followed by the thud of feet hitting the floor again. Then the fridge opening, a bottle clinking, and the faint, questioning meow of Alpine.

Then the microwave beeped. Twice.

You lay on your side, under the worn cotton quilt your grandmother had pieced together years ago. The lights were off, but your apartment hadn’t gone quiet.

Neither had his.

The air felt different that night, less separate. “Warm milk?” you called through the wall, voice light. There was a beat of silence, just long enough to make you think maybe you’d crossed some line. 

Then, “…You been spying on me, 3C?”

Your breath caught on a surprised laugh. “You’re not that stealthy, 3B.”

You could hear the smile in his voice, even if you couldn’t see it. The way he shifted a little closer to the wall, barely a breath, but there.

He liked the sound of your voice when it was playful. When it wasn’t colored by exhaustion or your mother’s judgment or the lonely edge of the television.

You liked the sound of his when it was amused. When the gravel in it had softness behind it.

On the other side of the wall, he leaned back into bed with a grunt. Alpine chirped once, complaining, maybe, about her share of the blanket. He murmured something to her, voice too low for you to catch.

You stared up at the ceiling in the dark, the silence stretching just enough to make it feel like a question.

And then you said it. “Goodnight.”

It was small. Not loaded with meaning. Not asking for anything. Just a quiet offer in the dark.

There was a pause. He shifted again. “Goodnight.”

Simple, but he spoke with meaning, like he hadn’t said it to someone in a long time, or like he’d meant it more than you were supposed to hear.

You didn’t speak the next night, neither did he. But the silence between you wasn’t empty. It had tension and anticipation now. It felt almost as though the wall between you was holding its breath.

In 3B, he lay awake with Alpine curled into the bend of his knee, her purring barely audible over the hum of the radiator. He was thinking too much, again. 

He didn’t plan to speak, but his voice came anyway. “I liked your singing.” That was it. Nothing more. Just the words, resting gently in the dark.

You blinked. Then sat up a little, as if the act of moving might help you hear better. “…What?” you said, barely above a whisper.

“You were singing. Yesterday,” he said, still quiet. Still casual. “It was nice.”

You paused, let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Thanks,” you said, just as softly.

There was a faint rustle, like he’d shifted against his sheets. “Night, doll.”

Your lips curved into a small, private smile. “Night.”

And that was all.

You stayed facing the wall for a while after that, tee pulled down over your hips, one hand tucked under your cheek, eyes wide open, listening.

The sound of him, still breathing on the other side.

*****

You hadn’t planned to do it that night.

But the apartment was still in a way that made even the sound of your own breathing feel loud. The street outside had quieted. No more sirens, no thud of footsteps overhead, no slamming pipes behind the wall you shared with 3B.

And the heat building between your thighs had long stopped being something you could reason with. It sat there, an ache, a demand, humming low and urgent in your belly. It had been following you around all day, a tension that lived in your spine, curled around your ribs, and now, stubborn and molten, refused to let you sleep.

You hadn’t heard a sound from 3B in over an hour. Not the scrape of a chair, not a muttered curse at whatever old appliance had offended him this time. Not even the occasional thud of his boots hitting the floor.

You figured he was asleep, and that assumption made you bold.

You reached into your nightstand, fingers pushing aside the soft folds of a scarf until they brushed against the familiar shape of your toy. A quiet flutter ran through you. Your heart thudded behind your ribs from the thrill of doing it with him just on the other side of the wall. He wasn’t in the room, he didn’t, couldn’t know, but the threat of possibility still thrilled you. 

Your hand trembled slightly as you pulled it free. You shifted onto your back, head sinking into the pillow as your thighs parted, the cotton of your underwear already clinging to damp skin. You pushed it aside with one hand, the other lowering the toy between your legs. The hum started low.

*****

In 3B, he froze mid-breath.

He should have been asleep. He’d been lying there in the dark, body splayed across the mattress in lazy defeat, one arm folded behind his head, the other draped low across his abdomen. The sheets were twisted around his legs, too warm and too tight. Static filled his skull, leftover adrenaline, leftover thoughts.

The ache had been with him all week, a slow build he’d tried to ignore. He wasn’t even sure if he’d touch himself tonight. It felt too risky, too intimate, and too close to the kind of thoughts he shouldn’t be having.

And then he heard it.

A soft, mechanical buzz, barely there, muffled by drywall and distance. He knew the sound, and worse, he knew what it meant.

He held his breath and strained to hear. He got his wish when your breathing changed.

A ragged exhale escaped him. His hand flew up to his face, covering his eyes like that would stop the image forming in his mind.

Fuck. You were doing it. Right now. Right there.

And God, you had no idea he was listening.

*****

The slow pulse of the toy wasn’t enough.

You shifted, one knee drawn up, foot planted against the mattress. Your other leg stretched long, toes curling, but you needed more. You pressed the toy harder against yourself, angling it slightly upward until it grazed just right against your g-spot. A wave of pleasure bloomed through you, and your hips rocked in search of release.

Your free hand slid over your stomach and down, fingers splaying, gripping where your thigh met your hip as your back arched. You turned your face into the pillow, lips parting as you tried to stay quiet, to keep your breathing measured, to hold in the little gasps threatening to slip free.

Your thighs tightened around your hand and the muscles in your stomach fluttered. You could already feel the pressure building, high and hot, your center pulsing.

The thought of being overheard should have stopped you, but it only made the heat rise faster. A secret exhibition, the thrill of unspoken risk. You even imagined you could hear him as well, you almost could, and it spurred you on.

You bit down on the inside of your lip to keep in a whimper. Your eyes squeezed shut.

*****

He was already stroking himself, fast and frantic. His fist was slick and tight around the base of his cock, his other hand braced against the headboard as if holding himself back from something. His hips jerked up into the rhythm, desperate and raw.

Your breath, that buzz, he could hear it all. Hell, he could feel it in his bones, like the sound alone was enough to get him off.

He was picturing you now, couldn’t stop if his life depended on it. You, laid out on the other side of the wall. Legs spread, mouth open, trying to stay quiet, chasing your pleasure. 

He heard your voice, that soft sound you made, almost a moan. It destroyed him.

His orgasm punched through him with no warning, sharp, blinding, and brutal. His hand barely kept up as he spilled across his knuckles, hot and messy, chest lifting in a sharp gasp.

“Fuck—” he groaned, the word ripped out of him, way too loud. His head tipped back, eyes screwed shut. His legs trembled with the aftershocks, the last few strokes wringing everything out of him.

*****

Your eyes flew open.

That wasn’t just a random noise. You knew that voice. That was him.

The vibrator was still pulsing against you, but the moment you heard your neighbor’s rough groan echo through the wall, your body jolted, like it had been touched, directly. A tight, aching surge swelled in your belly.

Your thighs snapped closed around the toy. Your back arched, your breath caught, your fingers twitched. 

And your climax broke over you like a wave cracking against stone.

Your body locked up, muscles clenching in a deep, desperate spasm. The sound that tore from your throat was soft but helpless, an unguarded cry still muffled into your pillow.

Your toes curled, one hand clawing at the sheets as the pulses dragged through you, wave after wave. You trembled, thighs wet, the hum of the toy pushing you almost into oversensitivity. Your chest heaved.

And somewhere inside the collapse, where your mind stopped whirring and your thoughts went white, you realized: It may not have been his name you moaned, but it was still him in your mind. He was always in your mind.

*****

His breath was still shaking out of him when he heard your gasp.

A soft, broken sound, barely a whisper, but it reached him like a slap. His whole body tensed again, already oversensitive, nerves raw. He’d just finished, hand still messy, chest still tight, when that sound bled through the wall.

Not an imagined moan, but real. Now he knew what you sounded like when you came. 

It was followed by silence so total it rang in his ears. His fingers curled into the sheet beneath him, knuckles tight, tendons flaring. He sat up slowly, like something delicate had been balanced on his spine and might shatter if he moved too fast.

The room was too warm. His skin felt hot and chilled at once, like shame and arousal were fighting under his skin for dominance. He stared at the wall, your wall, like it might open up, show him something, say something.

He imagined your mouth parted. Your chest rising and falling in soft gasps, still trying to come back down. Your legs still shaking.

He realized you heard him and you chose not to stop. You heard him and that was what sent you over the edge. 

And now you knew, you had to know, that hearing you was what sent him over the edge, too. 

*****

You were still breathing hard.

Your chest rose in uneven bursts. One leg bent at the knee, foot flat on the mattress, the other still stretched out and trembling. The toy lay beside you on the sheets, powered down now but still warm from use. Your wrist twitched like it hadn’t gotten the message yet.

Your thighs were wet and your pulse was louder than your thoughts. You didn’t want to open your eyes and face reality yet.

You’d heard him. You thought you’d been imagining it, but you’d heard every ragged gasp, that last choked curse, and every desperate stroke.

He hadn’t stopped. Hadn’t even tried to be quiet. And you hadn’t either at the end.

You turned your head toward the wall, slowly, cautiously, like it might bite if you moved too fast.

Your hand lifted, fingers trembling as they hovered. You pressed your palm flat to the drywall.

The surface was cool and smooth.

You weren’t sure what you expected. A tremor? A heartbeat?

But it stayed solid and blank.

Still, something had broken, and you weren’t sure which side the crack had come from.

*****

There was thirty seconds of silence.

A silence so thick it felt like sound itself had drowned. Only the faint tick of a pipe somewhere deep in the walls. Your blood rushed in your ears, and sweat cooled in lines down your neck.

Your whole body curled slightly on instinct, a small, shame-wracked shape of disbelief. You couldn’t pretend you hadn’t done it. You couldn’t pretend he hadn’t either. There were no illusions left.

You’d heard him come.

He’d heard you moan.

You should have run, covered yourself, hid. You should have done something, anything. But all you did was lay there, frozen, your hand still on the wall, as if it were the only thing keeping you tethered.

Then you heard sounds from across the wall.

Just the creak of a floorboard, then pacing back and forth: two steps, turn, two steps, turn.

It was like he didn’t know what to do with his own body. Like the air inside him was burning, and the movement was the only way to keep from combusting.

You pressed your palm tighter to the wall as if you could press yourself through it. 

And then his footsteps were moving away. You heard his door open and slam shut. 

A moment later there were three solid raps at your door. Not at all tentative; like he knew exactly what he was about to do.

Your pulse spiked. You sat up too fast, legs shaking, and stumbled toward the door.

You didn’t think, you just opened it.

He stood there, shirtless and flushed. You saw all of him, scars, a metal prosthetic, and you realized that was why he always wore long sleeves. But it was beautiful. All of him was beautiful. 

His chest moved with every short breath, his hair a mess, his lips parted, like he hadn’t quite come down from it. His hands hung loose at his sides, but his eyes?

God, his eyes looked at you like he held a storm back just behind them. He wasn’t sorry and he didn’t regret a second of it.

He didn’t say a word.

He just moved.

*****

His kiss was immediate. It was rough, desperate, and completely unapologetic.

His mouth crashed into yours like he was making up for every night spent on the other side of that wall. He kissed like he needed to taste proof that this was real, that you were real, under his hands, against his chest, and letting him take you without hesitation.

One arm wrapped around your waist, crushing you against him. The other tangled into your hair, fisting at the roots with just enough pressure to wrench a gasp from your throat. Your lips parted against his, and he didn’t wait, his tongue swept in, hot and demanding, tasting every inch like he’d been starved for it.

You kissed him back like your mouth had been shaped for his. Your body had been waiting for this, for him, and that pressure behind the drywall hadn’t been keeping you apart, it had been the only thing holding you together.

Your hip hit the door as you pulled him inside, and you slammed it shut with your heel. The echo cracked through the apartment, loud, final, and irreversible.

He gripped you hard under your ass and lifted you like you weighed nothing. You yelped into his mouth, but didn’t resist, your thighs wrapping around his hips on instinct as your back collided with the shared wall. The wall you’d both touched, breathed against, come against.

It made a sound, and somewhere through the drywall, Alpine meowed, displeased at the noise. You both ignored her. 

His mouth broke from yours, trailing down the curve of your jaw, over the line of your throat, down to your collarbone where he bit, and not softly. His hands were everywhere now, under your shirt, dragging up your ribs, gripping your waist like he owned it. One hand slid to your ass, squeezing roughly as he rocked you harder against him.

His breath was hot and ragged, teeth scraping over your skin as he muttered something low into your neck, words slurred by need, by heat. You didn’t catch it but you didn’t care.

You reached down between you, fingers sliding under the waistband of his sweatpants. The skin beneath was hot, fever-warm and slick with sweat, and maybe something else. You curled your fingers around him and gripped hard.

He gasped, a soft, broken noise into the crook of your neck.

You pushed his pants down fast. They caught around his thighs but you didn’t stop. You wanted his skin on your skin. You wanted him.

His cock was hard, heavy in your hand. He thrust once against your palm, groaning like the contact was already too much for him to handle.

“Fuck,” he gasped against your ear, voice shredded. “You feel so fucking good.”

Your shirt hit the floor, peeled up over your head and flung aside. Your underwear followed, dragged down between you in a tangle of legs and friction and impatience before he lifted you against the wall again.

He didn’t hesitate for even a second.

He didn’t ask permission.

You both knew you’d given it the second you moaned through drywall.

*****

The first thrust knocked the air from your lungs.

You cried out, head dropping back against the wall with a dull thud.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, nails digging in for something to hold onto as he drove into you, deep and unrelenting, his strokes smooth like he already knew the exact rhythm that would destroy you.

He set a punishing pace, hips snapping forward, dragging you down against him with each thrust. The stretch burned, full and thick, but it made your toes curl, your eyes roll, your lips part for air you couldn’t seem to find.

His mouth found your neck again, open and wet, tongue tracing the line of your pulse before he bit, hard enough to mark, hard enough to make your hips jolt forward. You whimpered into his shoulder.

You could feel every inch of him. Every drag, every deep, maddening thrust sent you spiraling.

His hands gripped the back of your thighs, lifting you higher, angling deeper until the next thrust made you sob.

“God,” he choked out, voice right at your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve wanted this—”

“Wanted you.” You finished for him.

You clenched tight around him, muscles spasming, hips bucking forward in a sharp, involuntary rhythm. You gasped out a simple plea, not a just moan this time, but a confession, raw and helpless.

Your orgasm surged like a livewire down your spine, a sharp electric pulse that left your body shuddering in his arms. Your vision went white at the edges. You clutched at him, pulled him in, held him close as your body unraveled.

“Yes—fuck, yes—” you whispered into his skin, voice shaking, breath shattered.

That sent him over the edge. He drove into you once more, deep and hard, and then buried himself there, his whole body seizing with a growl. He came with a full-body tremor, forehead pressed hard to yours, chest shuddering, mouth open.

He stayed there, still pulsing inside you, jaw clenched, arms locked tight around your waist.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

*****

The air between you went quiet, but not still.

Your foreheads stayed pressed together. You were both still breathing hard, chests brushing with every inhale. Your shirt was a puddle at your feet. His pants hung low around his thighs. The wall behind you was damp with sweat, yours and his, and something more.

You didn’t look away.

You touched his jaw, soft now, your thumb brushing along the scratch of stubble. He leaned into the touch like he needed it more than the orgasm.

And then, quietly, as your breath caught, you asked, “What’s your name?”

He blinked, something in his expression softening at the edge. 

“James,” he said, voice low and uncertain.

He paused in the silence before asking,

“Yours?”

Tag list:

@lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess @yesiamthatwierd @kitasownworld @sensuouscactus @cyacola @justalittle47 @bunniotomia @mayal0pez @star-yawnznn @bartonsparrow25 @globetrotter28 @sebastians-love

[mydear-corinthian]

❦ steve rogers p links

note: you need to sign/log-in in order to view the links. mature videos below ! ctto:D

steve cums inside you tw: unprotected sex, p in v, creampie

all the way in tw: unprotected sex, rough sex, p in v, creampie

he's too big.. and you're a moaning mess tw: unprotected sex, p in v, size kink, rough sex

steve fucking you inside the car in the middle of a mission tw: car sex, semi-public, unprotected sex, creampie

riding steve tattoed!steve tw: riding, size kink, unprotected sex, p in v

daddy's lap girl tw: fingering, overstimulation (f), squirming?, power play

"steve, it won't fit!" tw: unprotected sex, p in v, size kink, vaginal penetration

feeling him deep inside tw: unprotected sex, p in v, size kink

his and only his jealous!steve tw: unprotected sex, p in v, rough sex

sending him a video of you touching yourself tw: masturbation (f), fingering, pillow humping

bouncing on it tw: unprotected sex, p in v

steve fucking you after how many days of being away tw: unprotected sex, p in v, rough sex

captain america's personal fuck toy tw: unprotected sex, p in v, creampie

making you cum with just his fingers tw: fingering, overstimulation

watching how his cum drips after breeding you tw: unprotected sex, p in v, creampie

virgin? yes. innocent? probably? professor!steve tw: fingering, overstimulation, teacher-student trope (R is 18+)

SPECIAL: your friends helps you with your ovulation stucky! x reader tw: unprotected sex, p in v, anal, overstimulation, size kinks

[hanasnx]

MINORS DNI 18+

STEVE ROGERS never gets your references and takes you out for coffee dates too much, but what he can do is lay down some killer pipe. you weren’t sure about him at first, he seemed like the type to say he prefers friendship or he’s staying single to better himself - or whatever. you thought that he was too good to be true because of how reserved he was, but after you coaxed him out of his shell—and got him up to your room—you were pleasantly surprised. all that weight on you, every poised muscle dedicated to using those seven inches to their fullest, grunting out of his slack lips as he hovers his chest over yours n curls his hips in a way that rolls your eyes into the back of your head. he’s a little more quiet that you would’ve hoped, but you can learn to appreciate it, all your focus is on the way your core feels getting filled up. his brows furrow, a chuff escaping his nose as he raises himself up. big hands clamp onto your hips to bring you with him, sitting on his haunches while he lifts your tailbone, realigning, and returning to the pace he set. his biceps swell as he moves you, reminiscent of some toy, his abdomen n chest flex n the dull light catches on their curves. there’s sweat in his hair, hanging down into his eyes as they’re downcast - you’re not exactly sure what they’re looking at. you can’t even form a sentence, you just enjoy the ride.

[blackgrlsworld]

Meet my OC(freya) x Bucky

Made by AI!!!!!

[buckyseternaldoll]

eighteen hours.

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Weeks apart on separate missions leave you and Bucky Barnes aching, desperate, and one heartbeat away from unraveling. The reunion? Eighteen hours of pure, breathless release.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, multiple rounds, overstimulation, edging, mutual desperation, shower sex, window sex, kitchen counter sex, use of restraints (soft), masturbation mention, lingerie tease, squirting (f), super soldier stamina, mild teasing from tb* members

It started like any other assignment.

A sharp morning. Polished boots. Steel chairs arranged around the Watchtower’s mission table. The kind of day where even the light felt clinical—too white, too bright, too final.

Valentina entered with a clipboard in hand and that usual glint in her eye, the one that said she already knew something you didn’t want to hear.

“Barnes, Yelena, Alexei, Bob—Bucharest first. Bogotá by week three. Rotating safehouses. No crossovers.”

You stiffened.

“Walker, Ava, and…”

She looked straight at you.

“You—Algeria. Then east through Istanbul. Targets on the move. You’re expected to stay mobile and out of range.”

The silence afterward said everything.

That pause before your name wasn’t a slip.

It was surgical.

Across the table, Bucky’s jaw tensed. He didn’t look at you, but his shoulders rolled tight. His metal hand flexed once, resting flat on the table like he was physically grounding himself.

This wasn’t routine.

This was designed.

The room shifted. Teams gathered their gear. Orders confirmed.

But neither of you moved.

Bucky brushed your fingers beneath the table—the kind of small, hidden touch that wasn’t meant to say goodbye. It was a promise.

We’ll find each other.

However we can.

—

Packing was mechanical.

Weapons, suits, coordinates, clearances.

Everyone was buzzing around the hangar level, focused on countdowns and jet fuel. But Bucky caught your wrist with a glance that made your breath hitch—then gently steered you down a side corridor.

He didn’t stop until you ducked into a quiet auxiliary room—once used for archive storage, now mostly forgotten. The lights were dim. A narrow bench ran along the wall. A few old mission files sat boxed in the corner.

He shut the door behind you.

“Just for a minute,” he said, voice low. “Just wanna be where you are.”

You barely nodded before he pulled you into his chest. He held you like he needed it—not tight or desperate, but complete. His warmth poured into you as you buried your face into the space between his neck and shoulder.

You ended up straddling his lap on the bench, both of you half-armored, half-undressed—hands roaming like you were trying to memorize every line, every scar, every breath.

“I hate this,” you muttered into his neck.

“I know.” His voice was steady. Anchoring. “But we’ll be okay.”

His mouth found the slope of your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then lower—teeth grazing before lips closed around your skin and sucked.

You gasped—part surprise, part pure heat.

“Bucky—”

“Gonna leave a few. Let ‘em wonder how many more are where they can’t see.”

He left another. And another. The bruises bloomed warm beneath your skin—high enough that your tactical suit wouldn’t cover all of them.

When he pulled back to look at you, his pupils were blown wide, lips kiss-bitten and breath ragged.

“You’re mine,” he murmured. “Even if they split us across the damn planet.”

You ran your hands up under his shirt, nails scratching lightly across his ribs—grounding yourself in the solidity of him.

“You’ll text me when you can?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Even if it’s just one word?”

“Even if it’s just a photo.”

You smirked. “Of what?”

He grinned, leaning back like he had all the time in the world—even though you both knew better.

“I’m waiting for boob pics, love. Minimum one per timezone.”

You laughed into his neck and kissed his jaw, soft and smiling.

“You’re such a menace.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

When the comm finally buzzed for final departure prep, you lingered another moment, forehead pressed to his.

“We’re good?”

“Always.”

And then you slipped out—his warmth still clinging to your skin, and his hickeys hidden beneath your collar like the loudest secret in the world.

—

The first few days weren’t unbearable.

Busy hours blurred the worst of it—briefings, drone recon, field scans. The kind of missions that demanded your hands stay full and your focus sharp. You told yourself it helped. That staying in motion kept the ache at bay.

But the nights were something else entirely.

By the third night, sleep wouldn’t come. The cot beneath you was too narrow, too cold. You rolled over instinctively and reached for the other side—empty. Your palm flattened against the mattress like it could summon him there.

It didn’t.

You’d already stripped out of your tactical suit, skin flushed from a lukewarm shower and a restlessness that refused to settle. The mirror over the sink caught your reflection just as the last of the sun dipped beneath the window—warm dusk light casting gold across your damp collarbone, your bare shoulder.

You grabbed your comm. Lifted your phone.

Pulled down your undershirt just enough to let the neckline dip low—sweat clinging to the curve of your breasts, a faint bruise from his mouth peeking out beneath the edge of the fabric.

The angle was deliberate.

Head tilted back. Lips parted. Not a full reveal. But it said everything.

Still thinking about the way your hands fit around my waist.

Bet you’d wreck me if you were here.

You hit send before you could talk yourself out of it.

—

His reply came six hours later. No text. Just an image.

The lighting was shit—whatever rooftop he was on barely lit by the glow of city spill—but it didn’t matter.

He was shirtless.

Dog tags heavy and low over his chest.

Hair a little messier than usual, as if he’d just run a hand through it before taking the shot.

But the part that made your thighs press together?

His sweatpants.

Slung low. Way too low. Obscene, really—the waistband clinging just above the vee of his hips, and beneath it? A thick, unmistakable bulge pressing upward. Not subtle. Not suggestive.

Hard. Veined. Heavy. Angry.

Like he’d taken the photo mid-thought, right before palming himself. Like maybe he had.

Your name was probably still on his tongue when he snapped it.

You sucked in a breath, cheeks hot, and held the screen to your chest like it could warm the parts of you he was supposed to be touching.

This was manageable, you told yourself.

Just teasing. Just playing.

It would pass.

—

It got worse.

What started as playful—just a little edge, a little fun—turned into something raw. Unbearable. Every picture, every breathy message only twisted the knife deeper.

Bucky cracked first.

The signal finally held long enough for him to send a voice note.

You were mid-gear check when it came through, tucked into a corner of the safehouse with your earbuds in.

“Woke up with my hand around my cock,” he rasped, voice low, wrecked. “Thought it was you at first. Swear to God, I could feel you there. Your breath on my neck, your legs wrapped around me. Then I realized I was alone again.”

A pause. A harsh exhale.

“And fuck, baby… I nearly lost it.”

You played it three times.

Nearly dropped your comm on the third.

—

You didn’t just tease back. You retaliated.

The next photo was a mirror shot—deliberately filthy. You stood in the dim light of your bunk, chest bare, your breasts fully visible this time, no shame. One hand was sunk into your panties, fingers clearly pressing against the soaked fabric. The other held your phone steady, angled to catch the full view: your messy hair, parted lips, heavy-lidded eyes, and the slick glint of sweat on your chest. No caption. Just raw hunger in pixels.

This help you sleep tonight? Or should I take more?

He didn’t respond immediately. But when he did, it was short.

You’re not playing fair.

My cock’s been hard since sunrise. Haven’t touched it. Saving every second of this for you.

You sent a quick clip later—just a few seconds long. You didn’t even speak in it.

Just six seconds. The camera angled low—your hand slipping beneath the blanket between your thighs. No real view, just the movement. The blanket shifted slightly with every circle you traced over your clit. Soft moans escaped—broken, breathy, like you were trying to stay quiet. Then a whimper—his name, trembling from your lips. No skin shown. No climax caught. Just the sound and the hint and the promise of you falling apart.

Bucky watched it on repeat like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

—

Then came Ava.

You’d crashed hard that night—exhausted, sweaty, and stripped down to just your lingerie. The maroon lace set he liked. The same one he’d picked out. It had become a habit—wearing it when you missed him. A reminder. A tether.

Ava had been reviewing footage by the window for perimeter movement when she caught it.

The camera was focused outward. But the mic had picked up your sleep sounds in the background.

She wasn’t trying to be cruel when she played it back.

She just raised an eyebrow and pressed play—a grin tugging at her lips as the soft moans filled the air. You were murmuring his name. Restless. Breathless. Like you were dreaming of him—no, feeling him.

“Mmh… Bucky—please… inside me… deeper—oh god… please—”

Your voice cracked on the last word, a sharp gasp like you were right on the edge.

You could’ve died.

“Jesus,” Ava had laughed, not unkind. “Want me to send it to him? Y’know, for motivation?”

You didn’t answer fast enough. She already hit send.

—

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even text back. Just disappeared for a few hours.

Locked himself in the bathroom of the Bogotá safehouse, palms braced on the sink, sweat dripping from his temple to his jaw. The floor was cold. His cock throbbed painfully in the tight grip of his tactical jeans, already slick with precum from the sound of your voice in his ear—played over and over again like a goddamn drug.

He groaned low, forehead resting against the mirror as he finally undid his fly—reached in and freed himself with a hissed curse.

Hard. Angry. Red at the tip and twitching. His hand flexed uselessly beside him, trembling from restraint.

He closed his eyes and whispered, “Fuck, baby… what are you doing to me…”

But he didn’t stroke.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

Not without your hands.

Not without your thighs tight around his hips.

Not without your voice whispering that he could let go.

So he tucked himself away again—biting down hard on the side of his fist until it bruised, his pulse roaring like a storm.

Later, when the signal held again, he finally texted:

This was supposed to help.

All these videos. These fucking pictures.

It’s making everything worse, doll.

I need you so bad, I swear I’m gonna lose my mind.

—

He stopped sleeping properly.

The circles under his eyes were darker now, sharp enough to draw questions if anyone had the nerve. His mouth was constantly pressed into a tight, agitated line. The usual post-mission calm he carried—that calculated, steady presence of command—was cracking.

Every time he sat down to write up route plans, his hands twitched. His left hand—the metal one—wouldn’t stop flexing. Clenching. Releasing. Like he was trying to ground himself in anything that wasn’t your voice moaning his name.

The last time he tried to issue orders midbriefing, he nearly snapped a comm tablet in half.

“Safehouse Delta’s too close to the highway,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ll reroute south. Four klicks. We’ll—”

He trailed off.

Everyone stared at the map table, then at Bucky—who was clearly no longer looking at anything but the wall. Or rather, through it.

His jaw clenched again. He tried to redirect.

“We’ll send Bob first to—”

But Bob was already looking sideways at him.

“You gonna pass out?”

“No.”

“You look like your brain’s buffering.”

“I said I’m fine.”

But his voice had cracked. Just slightly.

Yelena leaned back in her seat with a dramatic sigh, chewing on the end of a protein bar like this was better than Netflix.

“Alright,” she announced loudly, “I’m just gonna say what everyone else is thinking.”

Bucky didn’t even turn his head.

She kept going.

“You’re clearly about three days from spontaneously combusting from blue balls. You’ve been staring at walls, misreading maps, and grinding your teeth like it’s a fetish. Which—respectfully—gross.”

Alexei smothered a laugh. Bob coughed loudly into his fist.

“You need to jerk off or jump off a building,” Yelena finished, deadpan. “Pick one.”

Bucky finally looked up.

His eyes were bloodshot. His voice was tight when he replied.

“I’m not jerking off.”

That shut them up.

Yelena blinked. “…Okay. That’s not where I thought that was going.”

“I’m saving it. All of it.” His hand twitched again. “She deserves every goddamn second of it.”

A pause. The silence stretched—not awkward, just charged.

Even Alexei nodded solemnly, as if that was the only acceptable answer.

Yelena rolled her eyes but muttered, “Romantic. Disgusting. Continue suffering, I guess.”

—

Later that night, Bucky paced the rooftop alone. Fingers twitching. Breath uneven.

He pulled up your last photo again.

Your hand between your thighs. Lips parted. That little text below it:

I’d spread for you right here on this cot if you were with me.

He groaned into his palm.

Pressed the heel of his hand against the painful bulge in his pants.

Didn’t move. Didn’t stroke. Just gritted his teeth and endured.

“You better be ready for what I’m gonna do to you,” he muttered into the dark.

—

It was just after 7:00PM when the jet touched down.

The sky above the Watchtower was bruised in golds and fading gray, clouds curling low like dusk had rolled in too early. Your shoulders ached. Muscles stiff from too many hours strapped in gear, too many days sleeping with one eye open.

Your boots hit the floor with more weight than usual—the kind that didn’t come from exhaustion alone. It was something else. Something thick in your chest, pressing behind your ribs.

Inside the compound, it was unusually quiet.

Operatives passed by in pairs. Brief nods. No chatter.

Ava veered off toward medical, threw a wink over her shoulder, and mouthed, “Go get your man.”

You didn’t smile. Not yet.

Not until your fingers brushed the key panel of your shared room, and the door clicked open beneath your touch.

Something shifted the moment you stepped inside.

The air smelled like candle wax, clean linens, and something warmer underneath—musk and sandalwood, with a trace of vanilla. The room glowed gold in low light. Flickering candles burned on the desk, by the bed, and one small one beside the bathroom mirror.

It was quiet. But not empty.

He was there.

And the second he saw you, his face lit up.

“Hey,” Bucky breathed, already halfway to his feet. His voice was low but clear, as if speaking pulled breath right back into his lungs. “You’re home.”

That ache—the one locked in your chest—snapped clean open.

You dropped your duffel just as he reached you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, your cheek pressed against his collarbone. He smelled like soap and steel and something distinctly him—warm skin, freshly showered, a hint of cologne that clung to his shirt.

He didn’t devour you. Didn’t grope, didn’t rush.

He just held you.

One arm around your back, the other cradling the back of your head. His lips brushed the top of your hair.

You clung back like it might hold you together.

His hand ran slowly down your spine. You could feel the control in it—the way his chest rose hard against yours, like he was barely keeping the rest of him contained.

“I changed the sheets,” he murmured softly. “Lit a few candles. Put your shampoo out. Thought maybe you’d want a hot shower first.”

Your heart cracked, melted, rebuilt itself.

You nodded against him, cheek brushing the curve of his neck.

“You remembered.”

“Of course I did.” His smile touched his voice, even as his hand lingered low on your back. “You always say you wanna feel clean before we get dirty.”

That earned a small laugh from you—quiet, but real.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, cupping your cheek in one hand. His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye, like he was checking you for damage.

“I missed you,” he said. “Like breathing stopped.”

You kissed him, soft and slow—lips barely parting, just enough to feel the warmth of him beneath the quiet.

“Missed you more.”

He didn’t rush you when you stepped out of your gear. Just watched with quiet reverence, helping peel the layers off your shoulders and arms. He kissed your shoulder once—right over the old bruise he left weeks ago—and whispered:

“I’ve been thinking about this moment for 36 days. But I’m not rushing it. Not until you’re ready.”

Then he took your hand, kissed the inside of your wrist, and nodded toward the bathroom.

“Go on. I’ll be right here.”

—

You hadn’t even closed the door behind you.

The steam was already thick, curling from the shower where hot water slammed against tile. You peeled your clothes off slowly, shaking the last of the travel dust from your skin, limbs heavy from the mission—but your chest felt lighter. He was here. You were home.

You stepped into the spray and let it hit you.

Heat flooded your shoulders. Rolled down your spine.

The ache you’d ignored for weeks cracked wide open across your bones.

You arched slightly under the pressure of the water, fingers dragging slowly down your stomach. Your thighs pressed together at the memory of his voice—his lips on your neck, his hands gripping your hips like they belonged there.

You knelt briefly to grab a bottle you knocked over. Bent forward. Stretched.

And then—

“Mmh…”

Just a sound. A breath.

But it came from somewhere deep—unconscious, raw, and aching. It slipped from your throat like his name was caught beneath it.

The floor creaked.

You turned, startled—and everything inside you tightened.

He was there.

Bucky Barnes. Standing in the doorway of the bathroom like something ancient and carved from firelight. His chest rose fast, hard, like he’d sprinted across the room. Hair damp with sweat, not water. Shoulders tight. Fists clenched at his sides.

And he was naked.

Completely.

You hadn’t even heard him undress. But there he stood—broad, solid, his cock achingly hard and already slick with precum, flushed dark and twitching with every strained breath he took.

His eyes drank you in.

Steam wrapped around his body, clinging to every line of him. You watched his jaw twitch, chest heave. His cock twitched again—another thick drop of precum beading at the tip.

“Baby…”

His voice cracked. A breath. A prayer. Hoarse and wrecked.

“Please…”

“Please stop torturing me.”

But he didn’t move. Not yet.

Like he was waiting for your permission—even now, even while unraveling at the seams.

You reached for him.

One hand. Simple. Open. You pressed your palm to the center of his chest—felt the hammering heartbeat beneath it, the way his breath hitched.

He whimpered.

The sound broke from his lips like it had been fighting its way out for days. He stepped forward, cupped your waist, then your jaw, thumb trembling against your cheek.

“You’re real,” he whispered. “Fuck—you’re here.”

You smiled softly. Nodded.

He stepped into the shower with you—no hesitation this time.

The water soaked him instantly, but he didn’t care. He was already soaked in you. The scent. The need.

His hands were everywhere. One warm, the other metal, both reverent. They dragged up your spine, gripped your hips, held your face like it was holy.

“Missed you,” he rasped between frantic kisses.

“Missed your mouth. Your voice. Your thighs. The way you sound when I’m inside you—fuck, baby, I’ve been dying.”

Your back hit the tile with a dull thud. His body pressed into yours, all solid heat and desperation.

His cock bumped against your stomach—hot, heavy, leaking.

He gasped. “Touch me… please, just—let me feel you.”

You did more than touch.

Your hand curled around the base of him, felt him throb in your palm. He swore low against your neck, forehead pressing to yours as his hands skimmed lower, between your thighs.

“Jesus, sweetheart—”

His fingers slid through the slick between your legs.

“You’re soaked…”

He groaned. Slid two fingers inside you.

You gasped, walls clenching hard around the intrusion.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Tight… tighter than I remember. You really waited for me?”

You bit his jaw. “I didn’t even let myself finish, Bucky. You ruined me.”

That was all it took.

He gripped your thighs, lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing, and pinned you to the shower wall. You wrapped your legs around his waist, arms around his neck.

“Hold on to me,” he breathed. “That’s it… Good girl.”

He lined himself up. Slick head pressed against your entrance. And then—

He sank in.

One thrust. Deep. Full.

You both cried out—voices echoing in the tile and steam.

The stretch. The heat. The sudden, perfect fullness.

He fucked into you with short, desperate thrusts—buried all the way, hips snapping with precision. You met him every time, nails clawing his back, gasping against his mouth.

Your orgasm ripped through you without warning—sharp, wet, loud.

“James, I—I’m coming!”

“I’ve got you. Let go. Soak me, baby.”

You did. You clenched so hard around him he almost collapsed.

He followed seconds after—buried deep, groaning your name as he came hard inside you, hips jerking, forehead pressed to your shoulder. His body trembled with the force of it. He held you there, still wrapped around him, his cock twitching inside your pulsing heat.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Not letting you out of this room for days.”

You kissed him through the fog, smiling against his lips.

“Good. I’m not going anywhere.”

—

Your legs were still shaking when he carried you out of the bathroom.

No towel. No words. Just the heat of his arms around you, the steady thump of his heart against your ribs, and the way the air between you still crackled like static. You smelled like him. He smelled like you. It wasn’t over. It had only begun.

He laid you on the bed like something sacred.

Candles glowed around the room, casting golden halos over damp sheets and flushed skin. The maroon lace slip sat untouched where he’d left it—delicate, sheer, wicked.

You reached for it with trembling fingers.

But Bucky caught your wrist gently. “Let me,” he said.

His voice was lower now. Hoarse. Reverent.

He lifted the slip over your head slowly, letting the lace fall like a whisper down your body. It hugged your hips, clung to your breasts just enough to tease—translucent and sinful. His lips brushed your spine as he adjusted the straps, hands shaking.

“I thought about this every night,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder.

“Fantasized about it. About you, straddling me in this. Had to lie there with my fists clenched, cock aching, just—breathing through it. Didn’t touch myself. Not once.”

His voice cracked. “Didn’t want to waste a single drop that wasn’t for you.”

You whimpered.

He hovered above you now—fully naked, flushed, his cock already hard again. Veined and glistening, twitching with the pulse of how badly he needed to be inside you.

But he didn’t rush.

Didn’t even move until you cupped his jaw and pulled him down into a kiss.

Mouths met softly, then harder.

Tongues sliding slow.

His body sinking into yours, heat to heat, heartbeat to heartbeat.

You grabbed the back of his neck and whispered against his lips, “Come here. Let me ruin you.”

He groaned, deep in his throat, and you flipped him onto his back, straddling his hips with shaking thighs. The lace slip rode up your thighs, leaving nothing in the way when his cock pressed hot and heavy against your dripping heat.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasped. “You’re soaked through.”

You leaned down, your breasts brushing his chest, and ground your hips against his length. “You did this,” you whispered. “With every text. Every picture. Every breath.”

He was gone. Let you take full control.

You gathered the hem of the lace slip, just enough to bare yourself to him, and guided him in—sinking down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until he was buried to the hilt.

Both of you moaned, raw and open, mouths slack with need.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, head thrown back, fists clenched in the sheets.

“Still so tight, baby. Still fucking perfect.”

You started to move—slow at first, grinding your hips in deep, lazy circles that dragged the tip of his cock right against your most sensitive spot. His hands clamped hard on your thighs, trying to keep his control, but you didn’t make it easy.

“You gonna come again just from riding me?” he asked, breathless.

You nodded. “Already close.”

He groaned, slipping one hand between your bodies to rub firm, precise circles over your clit.

“There you go… let me feel you. Let go for me.”

And you did.

Your second orgasm hit like a goddamn wave—crashing through your spine, stealing your breath, squeezing around his cock so tight he choked on a moan.

He didn’t last much longer.

You kept grinding, whispering filth into his ear—how full he made you feel, how wrecked you were for him, how you still weren’t done.

That tipped him.

He came hard with a strangled moan, cock pulsing deep inside you, hips jerking as he flooded you for the second time. His arms locked around your waist as he gasped into the crook of your neck, trembling from the force of it.

You stayed like that, slumped against his chest, bodies stuck together with sweat and slick and heat.

“You alright?” he asked, voice scratchy.

“I’m feral,” you whispered back. “And I’m not finished.”

He chuckled, still panting. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not tapping out anytime soon.”

—

Later.

The wine sat untouched on the desk.

The lace slip lay discarded in a crumpled pile on the floor.

The candles had burned halfway down, wax pooling thick at the base.

And you?

You were flushed. Sweaty. Trembling.

Knees sinking into the mattress as you straddled his thighs once more, this time with your back to him—hips hovering, your whole body tingling.

He leaned against the headboard, sweat shining on his chest, watching you like a man possessed.

“You sure?” he rasped, voice ragged and frayed.

You didn’t answer.

You just reached back, gripped his cock at the base, and lowered yourself onto him slowly—inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt inside you.

Both of you moaned. Loud.

Deep.

Almost pained.

Your hands braced against his shins behind you for leverage, thighs spread wide as you rode him hard—your ass slapping against his hips, slick and flushed with every bounce.

“Oh, fuck—”

His hands gripped your waist like he was anchoring himself.

“Jesus, sweetheart—you’re still so fuckin’ tight…”

You started to move—slow, heavy grinds, rolling your hips like you needed every inch of him rooted inside you. Bucky gasped behind you, his hands traveling from your hips to your thighs to your breasts, groping, squeezing, completely feral.

“You ride me like it’s the only thing keeping you alive,” he growled.

“Look at that ass—fuck, I can see it bounce every time you fucking slam down.”

You moaned—head tilted back, chest rising and falling—sweat glistening between your breasts.

And then—his fingers slid between your thighs from behind. Two of them, circling your clit with ruthless precision.

“I wanna feel you come again, baby. Let me feel you fucking gush on my cock.”

Your thighs trembled. Muscles locked. Your core started to spasm.

“Bucky, I—I think I—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Do it. Come on, baby. You’re dripping, you’re so fucking close—let it happen.”

You broke with a cry.

Legs shaking. Hands digging into his thighs.

Your pussy clamped down hard, and then it hit—

You squirted.

Hard.

Hot wetness sprayed between your thighs, down over his cock, soaking the sheets. Bucky let out a strangled moan, clutching your waist like he was going to lose his mind.

“Goddamn—fuck, look at you. You’re gonna make a fucking mess, aren’t you, baby?”

He didn’t stop.

He snapped his hips up into you, relentless now—grinding deep as your soaked cunt fluttered around him, so overstimulated your vision blurred.

“Still want more?” he panted, thrusting up again, angling perfectly.

“I can feel how much you need it. So greedy for me—so fucking full of my cum, and still not satisfied.”

You couldn’t answer. You just moaned, nodding wildly, nails dragging down his thighs, thighs shaking uncontrollably.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his breath hot on your shoulder as he leaned forward, one hand now wrapped tight around your throat.

“You gonna come for me again? Gonna make a mess on my cock one more time?”

“Yes—James, please—”

And you did.

A second wave slammed into you.

You screamed, back arching, body locking as you squirted again—wetter this time, gushing down over his balls, onto the sheets, soaking everything beneath you.

Bucky lost it.

“Shitshitshit— I’m coming—fuck, baby—I’m—”

He grunted, jerking up into you with three final brutal thrusts as his cock pulsed deep inside you, filling you again, so hot you felt it flood your walls.

You collapsed forward onto the mattress, his arms catching you just before you slumped completely. He held you tight from behind, your body still twitching, both of you covered in sweat, slick, and release.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, voice dazed, completely gone.

“You just… soaked me, baby.”

You half-laughed, half-whimpered. “I couldn’t help it. You broke me.”

“Good,” he growled, kissing your neck. “You can break me next.”

—

You should’ve been done.

You should’ve been shaking, satisfied, breathless from three rounds and nothing left to give.

But you weren’t.

The ache still lived in your bones.

The emptiness still throbbed between your legs.

And when Bucky’s lips brushed your temple—slow, tender, trembling—you felt it in him too.

He needed more.

You both did.

The sheets beneath you were damp. Your thighs were slick. Your chest rose with every sharp breath, nipples flushed and sensitive, body still twitching from your last orgasm. And still… the hunger hadn’t dulled.

“You okay?” he whispered against your throat.

“No,” you rasped, voice cracking.

“I need you again. Right fucking now.”

Bucky exhaled a shaky breath. His cock twitched against your thigh—already stiffening again.

“Jesus, doll… you’re insatiable.”

He kissed your jaw. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Then he shifted—slow but deliberate—and suddenly, your wrists were gathered above your head. You gasped at the motion, but his grip was careful, tender. He reached for the discarded shirt at the foot of the bed and looped it around your wrists—soft, warm, not tight.

“Just wanna keep you here,” he murmured, kissing your palms one at a time.

“Let me take care of you.”

Your stomach fluttered. Your thighs clenched.

And when he dropped between your legs, your breath hitched so hard your back arched off the bed.

“James—”

“Shhh,” he purred, brushing his stubble along the inside of your thigh.

“Gonna keep you right here, sweetheart. Gonna make you come until your body forgets what rest feels like.”

His tongue dragged through your folds—slow, warm, filthy.

The first flick over your clit sent your hips off the bed—but he was already holding you down, fingers firm, spreading you open like he was fucking home.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he growled into your cunt, voice rough with disbelief.

“Jesus, baby, you taste like both of us… fuck. You’re perfect.”

He devoured you.

Long, slow licks that lapped up his own cum still leaking from you. Wet, obscene noises filled the room—every slurp, every moan against your pussy like it was the only thing that ever mattered.

You whined. Cried out. Legs trembling.

His mouth worked faster, tongue flicking your clit with maddening precision—soft then hard, gentle then firm, always changing, always knowing exactly how to ruin you.

“Bucky—fuck—baby I—”

Your voice broke.

Your hips bucked.

You were so close again, already, already—

He pulled back.

“Not yet,” he rasped, lips wet and eyes dark.

“Not until you beg for it.”

You sobbed—from the overstimulation, from the ache, from how badly you needed to fall apart.

“Please—please, baby, I can’t—just let me—let me come, please—!”

That broke him.

He groaned, deep and guttural, and latched onto your clit with his mouth wide and relentless—tongue flat, dragging fast and rough, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs.

You exploded.

A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm hit like a strike of lightning—your whole body shook, fists clenched, toes curled, thighs trembling. You gasped so hard your ribs ached. The headboard thudded behind you.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice soaked in reverence.

“One more, baby. Just one more for me.”

You didn’t even get to respond.

Didn’t even breathe.

Because his tongue never stopped.

He kept sucking—soft at first, then harder—until another wave curled sharp behind your ribs. You sobbed his name, pulled at the binds, tried to run but couldn’t move.

You came again.

Harder.

Legs seizing, slick gushing between your thighs, soaking his face, your body curling from the sheer force of it.

He kissed your trembling thighs through the aftershocks.

Pressed his forehead to your belly.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“I don’t even know where I am,” you panted.

“And I think I like it.”

—

Later—

Maybe thirty minutes.

Maybe five.

Time had stopped meaning anything.

It warped, curled, bled together beneath the hum of overstimulation and breathless ache.

You lay curled on your side, one leg bent, sheets tangled around your calves. Sweat cooled on your skin in sticky rivulets. Your breathing had started to even out, but your body still pulsed from the inside—too full, too stretched, too tender to be still.

And then—

The mattress dipped behind you.

You felt his warmth before you felt his hands.

He slid in close—chest to your back, thighs pressed to yours, breath curling against your neck.

His lips brushed your shoulder.

“Still want me?” he asked, voice soft as fog.

You answered with a sigh. Reached back without looking, your palm wrapping around the hard length of him, thick and hot and already twitching against your fingers.

“Always.”

You rocked your hips back, slotting yourself perfectly into him.

He kissed your spine.

Tucked his face into the crook of your neck, and whispered like a man undone.

“I’ll never stop wanting you.”

One hand lifted your top leg, just slightly—fingers gliding over your thigh. His other arm wrapped low around your waist. You felt the weight of him, the warm press of his tip teasing at your entrance—slow, so fucking slow—until he finally pushed inside.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, as if the heat of you had burned him.

“You’re still tight. Still fluttering around me.”

You whimpered.

He thrust deep.

Steady. Gentle.

Every movement an unspoken prayer.

No rhythm. No pace. Just a rolling, molten motion—his cock dragging deep and slow, slick with everything you’d already shared, stroking right against the spot that still trembled.

“I could live here,” he breathed. “I want to live here.”

Your hand gripped his forearm where it wrapped across your middle. He pulled you back against him with every gentle thrust, grounding you in the heat of his body, his breath stuttering where it ghosted along your neck.

“You’re so good to me,” he murmured. “So fucking good.”

“Still feels like a dream,” you whispered.

“Then don’t wake up. Just… stay right here. Let me have you like this.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. Tears stung, soft and sudden. It wasn’t pain—it was too much pleasure. Too much love. The way he moved inside you like your body was a temple. Like every inch of you was his.

“Tell me you’re mine again,” he whispered, voice breaking.

You choked on a moan.

“I’m yours, James. Always.”

You came first—slow and quiet. A gentle quake that rippled from your core outward, your body trembling against him as your inner walls clamped down tight. You gasped softly, a sob in your throat, your hands fisting in the sheets.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder.

“Let go, doll. Let me feel you.”

He wasn’t far behind.

He buried himself deep, groaning low into your hair, his whole body taut as his release surged inside you again—slow and warm, his cock pulsing deep as he held still, hips locked to yours.

You lay there, body slack and soft, his cock still inside you.

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

His fingers traced lazy shapes on your belly, his lips pressing soft, almost absent kisses to your damp shoulder, your neck, your cheekbone.

“You okay?” he asked eventually, voice quiet.

You nodded.

“I think I’m in love with you again.”

He smiled against your skin. “Good. I never stopped.”

—

Your body was trembling again.

Not with the sharp, writhing spasms of climax—but the deeper, low-grade tremor of exhaustion.

The kind that came after too many orgasms and too little rest.

Muscles fluttering, breath short, limbs weak. You felt boneless and heavy, like your body had melted halfway into the mattress.

And yet—

Your core still throbbed.

Your nipples still ached.

Your cunt still ached for him.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Bucky sat back on his heels beside you, eyes trailing over your form with something like worship—something like worry.

His hand reached out slowly. Brushed your sweat-slicked hair off your forehead. Pressed a soft kiss there.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice gentling. “You with me, sweetheart?”

You nodded once, eyes glassy. Your throat was too dry to speak right away.

“Breathe for me. C’mon.”

His thumb stroked your cheek.

“You look wrecked.”

“I am…”

Your voice came out hoarse.

“I’m so tired.”

That broke his heart a little—you could see it in the way his brows creased. His jaw clenched like he was trying to talk himself down from his own feral hunger.

“Then let’s stop, okay?” he offered softly. “Let me clean you up, hold you for a bit. You need rest.”

But your hand was already moving.

Shaky, slow—but determined.

You reached between his legs and wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock.

Still hard.

Still thick and flushed and leaking at the tip like he’d never finished.

His breath caught.

“Baby—”

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, tears suddenly springing to your lashes.

“Please, don’t stop. I need you.”

He looked stricken.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he murmured. “I don’t wanna take too much.”

“Then be gentle,” you gasped, stroking him slowly.

“But don’t pull away. I need more. I want you again. I want you.”

His restraint cracked like glass.

With a low, ragged sound, Bucky leaned down to kiss you—soft, shaky, like a prayer being answered. He whispered against your lips.

“Tell me when to stop, baby. Or I won’t.”

You nodded.

Wrapped your arms around his neck.

Pulled him into you.

He guided your legs open with reverent hands—watching your face the entire time, watching for any flinch or hesitation. You were sensitive. Sore. Spent.

But not done.

“I love you,” he said quietly, kissing the inside of your thigh.

“So much it hurts.”

You barely had breath left to answer.

“Then have me,” you whispered. “Take what’s already yours.”

His cock slid into you slow—so slow—inch by inch, the stretch deep and aching, but your body welcomed him like he’d never left.

He moaned into your throat.

“Fuck, baby… still so tight. I can feel your pulse around me.”

He moved gently. Just the slow grind of his hips, the full drag of his cock over soaked, sensitive walls. His hand slid under your back, pulling you flush to his chest.

“You tell me when to stop. You hear me?”

“Don’t stop,” you whimpered. “Just keep giving me all of you.”

And so he did.

With every thrust, he kissed you. With every shift of his hips, he whispered your name. His fingers stroked your side, your hip, your waist—every inch of skin he could reach. You shook beneath him, moaning soft and high each time he bottomed out.

“You’re incredible,” he rasped. “You’re still taking me like it’s the first time. My perfect girl.”

Your orgasm crept in like fog, soft and wet and overwhelming.

You came with a shuddered cry, barely able to hold him, but your body squeezed around him tight—fluttering, spasming, claiming him all over again.

“That's my girl,” he whispered, voice shaking. “So fucking good for me.”

And then he followed—hips stuttering, forehead pressed to yours as he groaned your name like a benediction. His cock throbbed deep inside, spilling more warmth into the mess already flooding between your legs.

He collapsed next to you, immediately pulling you into his arms. Your body was trembling. His thumb stroked your cheek.

“No more unless you ask,” he murmured against your hair.

“I’ll only give you what you want.”

—

The sky was beginning to lighten.

A dusky indigo bled into grey, softening the skyline behind the Watchtower’s windows. But inside the room, time was a blur of candlelight, heat, and the thick, dizzying scent of sweat and sex.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d fully caught your breath.

Your whole body felt glass-thin. Shivering. Sensitive. The sheets clung to your skin with sweat, and your legs barely worked. But the ache was still there. Nestled low. Pulsing. It didn’t fade.

Bucky’s palm slid over your thigh—soft, slow, as if testing your response.

His voice came a moment later, raspy and hesitant. “Sweetheart… we can stop. You need rest. I can wait.”

But you turned to him, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. Your fingers found his, laced through them.

“I want more,” you whispered. “Please… take me there.”

He exhaled like you’d just saved his life.

Guiding you gently toward the windows—your legs shaky, but moving—he kissed your shoulder and whispered, “I’ll be gentle. Just let me see you.”

The whole room swam around you, golden in candlelight and glimmering sweat.

The skyline stretched before you. Towering buildings, distant lights. No eyes. Just your reflection—flushed, ruined, hair damp and tangled across your shoulders.

“Fuck,” Bucky exhaled when he saw you.

“Look at yourself, baby. Look what I’ve done to you.”

You braced your palms against the cool glass, breasts pressing to it as your body arched. The contrast of heat and chill made you gasp. Bucky moved in behind you, spreading your thighs with his knee. One hand on your hip. The other wrapped around his cock, dragging the head through your soaked folds.

“Still dripping,” he muttered. “Even now. Jesus, you never stop, do you?”

“I need it,” you whispered. “Still need you.”

He didn’t make you wait.

Not this time.

He slid into you with one deep, brutal thrust—your bodies colliding with a smack so loud it echoed off the glass. Your moan fogged the window instantly, your hands flattening harder against it.

“Bucky—fuck—”

He set a hard rhythm, pulling your hips back to meet every thrust, the wet sound of your bodies filling the room. You could barely stand, legs shaking, forehead pressed to the glass.

“That’s it. Just like that,” he groaned. “So fucking perfect like this. My girl. My pussy.”

His hand slid around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, grounding. His mouth hovered by your ear.

“You were made for me,” he said. “Fucking built for this.”

“Harder,” you begged. “Please—please don’t stop.”

“Look at your reflection,” he rasped. “Look how good you look. Look how you’re taking me.”

You opened your eyes—and the sight of yourself, cock-stuffed, sweat-slick, wild-eyed, flushed and wrecked against the window, nearly sent you over the edge.

He thrust harder. Faster. Your thighs trembled violently.

“Gonna come,” you sobbed. “Can’t—Bucky—I can’t hold it—”

“Then don’t,” he growled. “Come for me, baby. Come with the whole fucking city watching.”

You shattered.

Legs giving out.

A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm slammed through you like lightning. Your vision blurred. Your body buckled. Bucky caught you before you hit the ground—arm locking around your waist as he kept moving, groaning into your neck.

“Fuck—fuck—gonna fill you again—”

His hips snapped hard, once, twice—and then he came with a guttural sound, spilling inside you with a heat that pushed out around the edges. His head dropped to your shoulder, body shuddering as he emptied himself again.

You stood there for a long time—pressed to the glass, panting, twitching. Your hands limp against the windowpane. Bucky held you like you were breakable.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded faintly.

“Good. ‘Cause we’re not done.”

—

The sun was climbing now.

Pale gold spilled across the Watchtower skyline, casting long streaks of light onto the floor like it was forgiving the sins you were still committing.

Your whole body ached—but not in the way that begged for rest.

It was a deep, needy pulse. Faint, but still there. A hunger that wouldn’t let go.

You stumbled barefoot into the kitchenette, still bare, still slick between your thighs, wearing nothing but Bucky’s hickeys. Your hair was tangled. Your lips were swollen. Your legs trembled with every step.

Your hand landed on a protein bar. You peeled it open with shaking fingers and leaned on the counter for support.

“You better be looking for food,” you said over your shoulder, breathless and hoarse.

You heard the footsteps.

But they didn’t head for the fridge.

Bucky’s body pressed into you from behind—solid, burning hot, and still hard. He slid one arm around your waist, the other reaching up to gently move your hair aside so he could press a kiss to your neck.

“I am hungry,” he rasped, his voice low and feral.

“Just not for that.”

“Bucky,” you groaned, half-laughing, half-destroyed. “I can’t even feel my legs—”

“Good,” he whispered. “You don’t need ‘em.”

Before you could blink, he bent you over the kitchen island.

Your palms slapped down on the cold countertop, and you gasped as your bare nipples brushed the smooth marble.

You didn’t even get the chance to speak.

He lined himself up and pushed in fast—no prep, no warning, just the slick glide of his cock stretching you open again, sliding back into your wrecked body like it was home.

“Fuck, Bucky—!”

“Still so wet,” he growled behind you.

“Still squeezing me like you want more.”

His hands slid to your hips, gripping tight, pulling you back against him with every hard thrust.

This wasn’t slow.

This wasn’t tender.

It was filthy, frantic, barely-in-control fucking. Not because he didn’t care—but because he still needed you that badly.

The sound of skin slapping echoed in the tiny space. The sticky squelch of your soaked cunt taking him again and again filled the air. Your moans bounced off stainless steel and tiled walls.

You dropped your head onto your forearm.

“We… already did this—eight times,” you whimpered.

“I know,” he growled, fucking into you deeper.

“And you’re still fuckin’ perfect. Still taking it all.”

“You’re gonna kill me—”

“Then what a fucking way to go, sweetheart.”

He slid a hand around your front, fingers seeking out your clit, stroking with maddening precision. The way he touched you was still worshipful—even in this chaos.

Your whole body clenched.

“You want one more?” he asked, voice thick, rough, hungry.

“You got one more in you for me, doll?”

“Yes—yes—please—just one more—!”

You came hard. Your scream was ragged, echoing through the kitchen, and your knees nearly gave out from the force of it. The overstimulation blurred your vision with white-hot static, but your body still took every inch of him.

Bucky groaned deep and low, hips jerking as he spilled inside you one last time—his cock pulsing, his chest pressed to your back as he moaned your name like a blessing.

He didn’t sag against you. Didn’t drop.

He stayed upright, body still buzzing, cock still twitching inside you. You could feel him—full, ready again. You were the one shaking. Not him.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered. “You’re still hard.”

“Told you,” he murmured, breath warm against your ear.

“I could do this for days.”

“James…”

He slid his arms around your waist from behind and pulled you upright, holding you there with his cock still buried deep.

“I’ll stop if you need me to,” he whispered.

“Just say the word.”

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, heart thudding weakly.

“…I think my soul already came twice.”

Bucky laughed softly. Kissed the crown of your head.

“Rest, baby. I’ll still be here when you wake up. Hard as a fucking rock.”

—

You didn’t know what time it was when you finally woke.

Only that the light outside was warmer. Honey-gold, slipping through the windows in slow streaks. The world felt distant. Blurry. But the weight behind you wasn’t.

Bucky’s arm was still around your waist, his chest pressed along your back. Warm. Steady. His breath ghosted over the back of your neck in a soft, familiar rhythm.

Your body ached in the best ways—sore thighs, puffy lips, bruised hips—but it was the ache in your chest that hummed the loudest.

You blinked. Shifted slowly.

He stirred.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice still sleep-rough.

“You okay?”

You turned to face him—carefully, slowly—and found his eyes already open, watching you.

“Mhm. Everything hurts,” you whispered. “In a good way.”

Bucky smiled. Just a little. One of those soft, private smiles he saved for no one but you.

“Told you I’d wreck you.”

“You did. Multiple times.”

He chuckled, then leaned forward to kiss you.

No tongue. No hunger. Just warmth. Lips brushing yours with slow reverence, like he was re-learning your taste now that the storm had passed.

You melted into it.

Pressed your forehead to his.

His fingers traced lazy lines across your spine, slow and aimless.

“Missed this,” he whispered. “Missed you.”

You whispered it back. Quiet. Honest.

Then let the silence settle over you both for a while—safe, sacred, slow.

Eventually, after a second nap and a shower where no one tried to fuck anyone against the tiles (God bless you), you both managed to drag yourselves into clothes and make your way toward the common area.

Bucky wore a black tee and gray sweatpants that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. You were in a loose hoodie and biker shorts—though judging by the soreness between your thighs, sitting might be a challenge.

His arm was around your waist the whole walk.

Your legs still wobbled slightly, and he adjusted his pace to match yours. Not a word about it. Just his warm palm pressing steady against your hipbone like a grounding wire.

—

The squad was already gathered around the Watchtower’s long dining table.

It was pasta night.

Yelena sat at the end, spooning pesto onto her plate with war-like intensity. Ava nursed a glass of wine. Bob looked half-asleep. Alexei was double-fisting garlic bread.

John Walker looked up the moment you stepped into view.

“Oh look,” he said dryly. “It lives.”

You flipped him off without stopping.

“Someone got their back blown out,” Ava added sweetly, raising her glass.

“We heard everything,” Alexei boomed. “Whole floor shook.”

“I had to wear my noise-canceling headphones,” Bob mumbled, half amused, half scarred.

Yelena didn’t even look up from her plate.

“I placed eight rounds in the pool. I win. Pay up, losers.”

You covered your face with your hands.

Bucky didn’t blink.

Just leaned in close, mouth brushing your ear, voice low and smug.

“We could’ve made it nine.”

You choked on your wine, burst out laughing, and slapped his chest as he grinned like the devil himself.

And when his hand slipped onto your thigh under the table—warm, firm, possessive—you didn’t move it.

You just smiled.

And yeah…

You weren’t done.

💜 @iamthatonefangirl @sonja-blayde

[iheartsebstan]

[widowvivi-deactivated20251003]

imagine bucky who’s obsessed with eating your pussy, not dramatically, not roughly, but almost soothingly.

he’d developed the interest once you got together, the first time he had his mouth on you being mind blowing, your whole system shaking and almost giving up.

it had become a constant, if he returned after a long day at the tower? he’d bury his face between your legs, taking one orgasm after one from you, as if stacking them into his pocket.

if someone pissed him off? he’d say that the only thing that could calm his heated thoughts down was the taste of you on his slick tongue.

bucky had returned after a week long mission, somewhere in asia, you were told when he departed from the door, kissing you until the last minute.

now, he was back home, back in your arms, and more specifically, back between your welcoming folds.

“bucky—oh!” tugging on his soft and unbrushed hair, your back arched off the bed beautifully, bringing him deeper into you.

his tongue thrusting professionally into your hole, bringing you closer to the edge was ruining your thinking, ruining your body.

it might’ve been hours since he firstly licked a strip up the sweetest spot of you, teasing, before diving into the meal like the starved man that he was.

you already lost count on how many times he made your body explode with pleasure, never even thinking about relieving his aching cock, focusing on you instead.

“good girl, so wet f’me, huh?” his smile was unmistakable, only making you whimper louder than before—begging without words, “thought so.”

he commented, as you whined and tried to close your strong thighs around his head, failing miserably as his palms settled on them, spreading you wide to the night.

the climax was around the corner when he pressed his metal thumb on your clit, the temperature of it throwing you off guard, your eyes rolling back into your head.

“beg for it, mhm,” he licked a teasing shape into your pussy, the saliva meeting your soaked walls and connecting with his mouth.

your mind was blank as you muttered a weak, “please, buck—need it so bad..” you dragged out the last word, as if it was meant to have an effect on him.

and it did, his efforts doubling, bringing you to the edge, your whole body being consumed by the pleasure, shaking and squirming under his tight grip until you were calmed down.

“we’re not done, baby.” his voice held a warning, and you were suddenly aware of the fact that by the end of the night, you wouldn’t be capable of walking.

📋 taglist — @umbreoni @opheliabbarnes @metal-armed-muse @sheriff-bodecker @demiebarnes @buckyfmd — this one’s for the girls that deserve the right and obsessed man.

[umbreoni-deactivated20260114]

the winter soldier fucking you in a headlock.

( content warnings ) 18+ what the title says. overstimulation. dacryphilia. drawing blood (sorry i'm a freak). for bri — @iamthatonefangirl <3.

you were so fucked. the both of you were. and not just metaphorically.

both you and the winter soldier were hydra’s best weapons, his sharp senses and strength on the field matched your speed and snipe shots from afar, causing the world to be no match for hydra. neither of you spoke to the other aside from mission details and status reports, but a tension between you both grew and a unspoken agreement was formed to deal with it— for the sake of focusing on the mission at hand.

for the sake of the mission, you thought. but this? this seemed more like enjoyment. like lust. especially with the way his hips snapped up into yours like a ruthless force, never slowing down or stopping until he had his fill, and had you full.

his back stayed pressed up against the brick wall of the alleyway he had dragged you into, metal arm cold against your midriff as he kept you locked against him. his assault on your cunt was endless, rough grunts in your ear and the sound of his hips against your ass more criminal than you both. your fingers curled tight in his hair, tugging him closer into the crook of your neck with every thrust, your moans a sweet song of a busker— except you weren't getting paid for your services.

your whimpers only grew louder as his pace continued, causing him to scoff. you were being too loud. being too loud leads to being caught. and the punishments that come with that are something neither of you want to deal with. his flesh arm came up to trap your neck in a headlock, muscles flexing under your chin as his lips pressed against you ear.

"bite."

your breath hitched softly at the command, his cold tone of voice and his heat stretching out your walls causing a hurricane within your body. your teeth sunk into his arm, canines drawing blood as his veins flexed against your tongue. he groaned roughly, lowly, his hips stuttering and balls tightening as he painted your walls white, each drawl of spend pulling an erotic sound from his throat. your eyes threatened to roll back, his cock still fucking his come into you as your cunt convulsed around him. your fluids mixed together, the natural lube providing easy access to your cervix as his hips picked up again, overstimulating your poor pussy.

your head lolled back against his broad shoulder, knees buckling as tears pricked the corners of your eyes. the scarlet that bled from his bicep dripped down your chin, his arm between your teeth being the only thing that kept you grounded as he continued his rapid pummeling of your hole. his titanium arm tightened around you, holding you up and using you as if you were nothing more than his fleshlight. salty drops slipped from your eyes and onto his flesh arm, you swore you felt his lip quirk up against your skin.

asshole. of course he got off on that.

it wasn't long until he came again, not with the way your cunt continued to clench around him with his every thrust, your orgasm prolonged to a length even a super solider couldn't handle. his come drooled out of your hole and down his dick, his chin hooked on your shoulder as he watched it spill out of you. he let out a soft hum, satisfied with his work.

sliding out of you, he watched as you fell to your knees, trying to stabilize yourself as best you could. pathetic, he thought as he wiped off his cock, zipping his pants back up as he stared down at you.

"extraction team in five. compose yourself, solider."

bitch.

( taglist ) @irysque @sophiek222 @voidsuites @bullseyebullseye @jordiemeow @gibsongirrl @inbred-eater @opheliabbarnes @leleynsversion @rexythebitch @halliej2 @iwritejustforfun @iwasjustsendingwater @groggywoman811 @jdnymos @charlesxavierswife @iamthatonefangirl @houseofhyde @flockoff-featherface @oraclic ( to join )

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ © UMBREONI. do not copy or steal my work.

[superbassbuck]

one hundred sleepless nights

ii. "keeps us together" || part one || masterlist

civil war!dark!bucky x f!reader

Warnings: 18+, noncon, smut with a sprinkle of plot, p in v, stalking, brainwashed bucky, guilt, hurt/no comfort, coercion, dirty talk, manipulation, panic attack, hyperventilation. please tread carefully.

Summary: After three months of hiding since Hydra fell, he thought he had finally rid himself of you. But when he runs into you at a market in Bucharest, the Winter Soldier programming in his mind kicks in instinctively, urging him to claim you as his once again.

Word Count: 3.8k

Your mind was now fractured and broken. Since your escape—or rather, since the soldier let you go—you’ve been on a painful journey, gathering your shattered pieces and trying to put yourself back together one by one.

Three months into your freedom, the headlines exploded. Captain America had gone against the Winter Soldier, and in the process brought down Hydra—and S.H.I.E.L.D along with it.

The man you once knew as the Winter Soldier was revealed to be James Buchanan Barnes, a soldier who had fought alongside Steve Rogers before Hydra captured and twisted him into their deadliest weapon.

When his familiar face appeared on the screen—the same face that haunted you both in dreams and in waking life—your body froze with fear. Since then, you’ve only seen him through television reports and newspaper clippings. 

Every article said the same thing. 

The Winter Soldier vanished after the battle, a deadly ghost still running free.

Now the thought that stalks you day and night, is what would you do if you saw him again? Would you turn and flee? Would you regret not pulling the trigger when you had the chance, when he handed you his own gun?

Or would you stay rooted to the ground, unable to see the monster that abused you, and instead see the broken boy Hydra had stolen—tortured and used, just as you had been?

When Hydra fell, so did their files. Among the wreckage were documents proving you had been forced into serving the Winter Soldier for his “pleasure.” The release of those records left you feeling reeled and… utterly alone.

You half-expected sympathy—maybe even pity. And in truth, you craved it. You wanted people to comfort you—someone, anyone to tell you that you’ll be okay. But the world is cruel. Instead, some people saw your face and branded you nothing more than a killer’s whore.

Bucharest was meant to be a fresh start. A city large enough to disappear in, yet quiet enough to keep to yourself. You rented a small apartment above a cluster of grocers, where no one asked questions or even looked your way. But despite that, the silence was a gift. It was better than the judgemental stares, the whispers, or the endless questions about Hydra that you had no answers for. 

You found work cleaning rooms in a dingy hotel—a job that kept your hands busy and your mind mercifully blank. You didn’t need to speak the language, and no one cared about who you had been before. But with each small step forward, that dreadful shadow of your past trailed with you—looming over you from behind. 

You were only able to sleep with the lights on, and even then you woke up in a cold sweat, clutching at yourself and checking if your clothes were still on. You looked around the bed frantically, trying to silently reassure yourself that the soldier wasn’t there, laying beside you. 

Getting through the nights was the hardest, but at least your days were busy enough to distract you. It was a Saturday when you found yourself at the market, crowded as always. You liked it that way, losing yourself in the chatter of voices, the shuffle of footsteps, the comfort of being hidden.

You stood at a vegetable stall, weighing potatoes in your palm, when someone brushed past your shoulder. The contact made you flinch. You turned, but the man kept his head down. 

Dark jacket. Baseball cap pulled low. Backpack strapped across his chest. 

You shrugged and kept to yourself, but what you didn’t realize was that the man who lingered just a few steps away, kept stealing glances from beneath the brim of his cap.

Bucky swallowed hard, his gaze tracing the familiar slope of your arms—arms he had once bruised with his grip and lovemarks. His eyes followed the line of your neck, remembering the way his fingers wrapped around it, the way his mouth had marked it. Then his focus dropped to your lips.

Your lips. The same ones that once moaned for him, cried for him, begged him to stop. Now, they were asking casual questions about produce, and it made his chest tighten, his cock twitch, his pulse quicken.

The man at the stall he was hovering by was trying to get Bucky’s attention, but his eyes were still stuck on you. When you adjusted your bag and turned to leave, he followed. He took quiet steps, trailing you through the streets, past corners and alleys, until you reached your small apartment.

He stayed far enough behind to remain unnoticed. Years of training had made him a ghost when he wanted to be. You didn’t hear him when you unlocked your door. You didn’t hear him break in seconds after, slipping in silently the moment the shower faucet turned on.

Now, he stood in your living room, still as stone. 

Waiting. Watching.

He didn’t know what he’d say to you when you stepped out. Would guilt make him apologize?

But guilt wasn’t the only thing in his chest. His body naturally ached for something else. The soldier inside him didn’t crave forgiveness or closure. He wanted your body again. 

He wanted you. 

After your shower, your bare feet padded into the hallway, tugging the towel tighter around your body. Drops of water clung to your skin, your hair still damp as you hummed softly to yourself. You stepped into the living room, then froze.

He was there.

The man from the market. The soldier.

He stood in your living room, those familiar broad shoulders shadowed by the dim light, his eyes stared down at you, completely unreadable. 

For one fragile and tortuous second, you couldn’t move. You thought you were free. You thought that you finally left the nightmare behind. No more being his. No more being the Winter Soldier’s whore. 

But freedom had been an illusion. And here he was, tearing it apart.

“Wh—what are you doing here?” the question slipped out, thin and broken, your voice betraying the fear you fought hard to swallow.

His head lifted towards you, those sharp blue and scary eyes catching the light. He stepped forward, then paused, raising his flesh hand slowly, palm up steady as if he was trying to soothe you. Your gaze naturally darted to the other hand—gloved, concealed, yet you could still feel and taste the metal that’s hiding beneath it. 

“Don’t,” he rasped out, his voice low. “Don’t be scared. I’m not here to hurt you.”

He claims he’s not here to hurt you, yet all you knew being around him was hurt. 

You clutched the towel tighter against your chest, silently cursing yourself for being caught in such a vulnerable state—even though none of this was your fault. With a pounding heart, you took a cautious step back.

“I… I had to see you,” he said, taking a step closer as you took another one back. “I don’t even know if I should’ve come. But I couldn’t stay away.”

Couldn’t stay away.

You knew what that meant. You knew what it implied.

Back in your cell, the walls echoed with your screams as he came to you only to take, to break, to claim your body until your mind shattered piece by piece. That’s what it means to not be able to stay away.

And now, in this quiet town you’d hidden yourself in, he had found you again.

Your devil.

“Please,” you whispered, voice trembling. “You don’t have to do this anymore. H–Hydra’s gone… you’re free now.”

The words spilled out desperate and pleading. You searched his face, hoping—begging—for him to hear you. The way he spoke now was different than before, different from when he’d been Hydra’s weapon. There was a hitch in him, a hesitation.

He paused. His expression shifted, a slight frown and his eyebrows furrowing—the same expression you’d seen once before, in the moment he let you go.

“I’m not free,” he mumbled so quietly, it was like he was speaking to himself. 

Your chest tightened. But that was something. A crack in the soldier’s shell. Something you could work with. After all, you knew what it meant to be a prisoner. You two were different sides of the same coin—kidnapped, broken down, used by monsters.

You swallowed hard and forced yourself to take a small, careful step forward.

“W–we’re the same, you know? You… you don’t have to do this. I don’t even know why you’re here, or what you plan to do to me, but you don’t have to use me anymore. You can just…” your throat tightened, the words trembling out of you, “…leave. I’ll pretend you were never here. You can just turn around and walk away.”

Your voice cracked, timid and thin, and you hated yourself for how small you sounded as you tried to talk your way out of this. 

“Just leave, okay, James? Th–that’s your name, isn’t it? I… I saw it on the news.”

His shoulders stiffened at the sound of his name. Slowly, he stood up straighter, eyes locking onto yours. Just the look of his cold eyes alone was enough to knock the wind out of your lungs. Every instinct screamed at you to run, towel be damned, but your body refused. You stayed. Because you knew what he was capable of. 

Even here, under your own roof, he held the power.

Three months of hiding without your body to use did a number on him, hollowing him out. 

He knew it was wrong—God, it was so fucking wrong—but the wanting never stopped, and he didn’t know why. At night, he dreamed of you, his body betraying him, craving you. 

And now that you were in front of him again, his whole body burned—stiff with restraint, hot with need. A part of him wanted to hold you, to whisper how sorry he was for everything. But the stronger part ached to pull you in, rip that towel away, and take back what he’d lost the night he let you escape.

It was wrong. So utterly wrong. But it felt carved into him—like the Winter Soldier had been programmed to claim you.

“I couldn’t help it,” he rasped, voice fraying. “I saw you and… it’s like something in my head tells me to come to you.”

He stepped forward. You took one step back. 

“I want to apologize,” he continued, his voice unsteady. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what you’ve been through. For what I’ve done to you.”

He took another step closer. This time, you didn’t move.

“I don’t think I could just let you go without saying it. I know I don’t deserve forgiveness, but…” his voice dropped even lower and rougher, as though the words themselves dragged against him.

You said nothing. You didn’t even know what to say. Ironic, really—how you used to beg for him to speak to you back in your cell, and now that he stood here apologizing, your voice failed you.

“Can… can I hold you?” he asked, the words trembling and heavy. “Just once more. One last time. After that, I’ll go. I’ll leave you alone. Forever. You won’t have to see me again. You’ll never even know I was here.”

You didn’t know if you could believe him. God, you wanted to—you were desperate for him to be out of your life forever. But hadn’t he let you go once before? And still, here he was. If he could hand you freedom once and take it back, what was to stop him from doing it again?

But still. You wanted to believe him. Just one embrace. That was all he claimed to need to finally release you. 

One hug… and then you’ll truly be free. 

Your feet started moving before you could think. Slow, cautious steps carried you forward until you were standing right in front of him, towel clutched tight against your body. He raised his arms stiffly, like he was silently asking if you were sure this was okay. 

When he pulled you in, it was hesitant—awkward, almost human. His chin dropped, breath brushing the crown of your damp hair. For a long second, it felt like the kind of embrace he might have given if life had been different. 

If neither of you had been broken.

But the longer he held you, the less it felt like an apology.

His grip tightened around your waist, practically crushing you against his strong chest. He inhaled you, his chest rising and falling against you—harder and rougher like he was struggling to keep control. 

“God,” he murmured against your hair. “I can’t get enough of you.” 

You shuddered in his arms, the towel slipping against your damp skin. You pressed lightly at his chest.

“O-okay, that’s enough—”

“Just a little longer, baby,” he cut you off, his grip tightening. “Your soldier needs this.”

Your eyes widened as his hands began to roam, rough against the thin fabric, the towel rustling under his touch. His breathing grew heavier, chest rising hard against yours, until you felt the unmistakable press of his arousal straining through his pants.

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Please. Let go of me.” 

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” his head shook slowly, his nose brushing through your damp hair. “My body craves you. It always has. I let you go once, that was mercy. This…” his voice dropped, almost reverent, “…this is my reward. The soldier always gets his reward.”

A cold chill ran through you as his hands left your hips, sliding up until both circled your throat. Pressure built around the fragile column of your neck.

You pushed your hands harder against him, gasping. “No, stop! You don’t have to do this anymore!”

“Don’t scream too loud, baby,” he murmured. “I could snap this pretty neck of yours in an instant. You remember that, don’t you?”

Your throat bobbed against his palm as you swallowed hard, eyes squeezing shut to keep the tears from spilling.

“Please. Don’t do this. Don’t do this…” you cried. “You said you would go.” 

The words trembled out of your mouth like a prayer with no hope of being answered.

He gazed down at you, thumb stroking your jawline—what was supposed to be a soothing gesture felt like a cruel mockery. 

“I know, angel. I know. But I just need you one last time,” his voice softened to a whisper, coaxing, poisonous. “Then I’ll set you free. I promise.”

The false promise rang in your ears. You didn’t dare meet his eyes—those blue eyes that had been dragged through hell and back, through Hydra’s torture. Eyes that had once spared you.

You hated this. Hated yourself for standing frozen instead of screaming, for trembling instead of fighting. But if he let you live before… maybe he would again. Maybe if you endured, if you gave him what he wanted, he would finally leave you alone.

So you told yourself you’d survive this, just once. 

And then you’ll finally get your freedom. 

“You… you promise?” 

“With everything I have, angel.” 

But you knew how hollow those words were. He was a man running, a man who barely recognized his own name, a man without a home. In truth, he had nothing. Nothing to sacrifice.

“And you’ll leave me alone? Forever?”

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. One hand moved gently under your chin, tipping your head upward. “Open your eyes.”

You remembered the last time he barked those same words in your cell, but this wasn’t the same. His tone was softer, coaxing, as if he were luring you into a trap.

Slowly, reluctantly, you blinked your eyes open, one hand clinging to your towel, the last scrap of modesty you had left.

His eyes drifted down to your towel. “Take it off,” he ordered. 

You shook your head, breath shaking. “I… I don’t want to—”

His grip on your throat tightened, just enough to make you gasp again. His face hovered close, voice sharp as a blade.

“I said take it off. Now.”

Your hand trembled as you loosened your grip and let the towel slip down. It fell to the floor, pooling at your feet. You kept your gaze on him, fighting every instinct to turn away. Because if you did, you knew you’d be in trouble. 

His face remained unreadable as his eyes moved down slowly. Then his hand moved, rough fingertips brushing along your fragile neck before gliding even lower. He traced the hollow of your collarbone, pausing at the soft curve of your breast, and you shivered under his touch.

“You’ve got goosebumps,” he murmured, tracing slowly over your hardened nipple. “I know you’re nervous… but we’ve done this plenty of times before, haven’t we?”

Your breath hitched in your throat. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. And it didn’t seem like he was waiting for a response anyway.

A low and amused hum escaped his lips as his fingers circled and teased, tugging lightly with unexpected care. The softness unsettled you. He was never gentle like this with you in the cell.

“You always begged me to be gentle,” he said, his breathing getting heavier. “So I’ll give it to you gently this time. Just like you wanted.”

Hearing him speak this much was strange.

Back in your prison, his words had been rough, sharp, and commanding. Now they were quiet and… almost soft. And it was worse, because it sounded like a twisted imitation of kindness. Whatever part of him that wasn’t The Winter Soldier anymore was still broken and fractured.

“Just… please make it quick,” you pleaded. 

He glanced at you, his brow twitching slightly in annoyance. “I can’t do that, sweetheart.”

His hands slid lower, gripping your waist and pulling you snug against him. “I haven’t seen you in months. I need to take my time… savor you… before I leave you for good.”

Before you could say anything, his mouth crashed onto yours, his tongue forcing its way past your lips. He said he would take his time, yet he kissed you like there was no more time left in the world—tasting, consuming, devouring—until his hunger overtook every emotion. 

His hands tightened on your waist, forcing you to stay still. You stayed rigid, unresponsive, until he arms shifted and lifted you easily by your hips. His gloved left hand—the one you remembered was metal—steadied you effortlessly against his chest, while his flesh hand hooked beneath your thigh, spreading your leg to wrap around his waist.

You clung to his shoulders instinctively as your body was being carried helplessly down the hall toward your bedroom. He lowered you onto the mattress slowly, his lips never leaving yours, claiming you with every breath.

When he finally pulled back, he stood at the edge of the bed, staring down at you with ravenous eyes.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” he ordered, peeling off his jacket. 

Then his henley. Boots. Belt. Pants. 

Until at last, he was completely bare before you.

For the first time, you saw him stripped of his gear, stripped of the leather and belts that had always shielded him. Scars marred the place where flesh met metal. His chest was broad and scarred, his arms large, and his legs sturdy.

And his cock—hard, leaking, and eager—ready to take you once again. 

He stepped closer to you, his eyes lingering on your body.

“You’ve taken good care of yourself,” he muttered. “I’m… happy for you.”

His knees sank into the mattress as he crawled towards you, eyes burning with unsatisfied hunger. His hand slid along your side, pausing at your waist.

“You’ve been eating right. Better than whatever they fed you back in your cell. I can see it in your curves… like here,” his fingers squished down on the soft flesh of your hip, “...and here.” He squeezed at your bare leg.  

You whimpered at the contact—a small, helpless sound that made his cock twitch against your thigh.

He groaned low in his chest, grabbing his cock and giving a few rough pumps before dragging his tip along your reluctantly slick folds. The faintest brush of your warmth against him had his breath stuttering, his whole body shaking like he might lose control right there. This—this heat, this softness—was what exactly he’s been starving for.

“When I fuck you,” he rasped, voice heavy with hunger, “I don’t want to hear ‘soldier’ anymore. Not even James,” his gaze locked on yours. “You’ll call me by my real name. Bucky. Understand?”

You nodded weakly, but his eyes narrowed.

“Say it.”

“I… I understand, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

A satisfied sigh escaped him as he pushed forward, slowly forcing himself past your entrance. The stretch made him grunt, his cock throbbing hard inside your tight and warm walls.

“Fuck,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “After all the times I had you in that cold cell, you’re still so goddamn tight. Like this little pussy was made to take my cock and mine only.”

You whimpered beneath him, your body trembling against the mattress as the bedframe creaked under each thrust. One of his hands pinned firmly to your hip, steadying you, while the other roamed your body—grabbing, groping, desperate to feel every inch of you.

At first, he moved slowly, his hips rocking against yours. But you can tell with the way his jaw clenched and his arms flexed that he was holding himself back. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your temple softly. 

“Gentle… just like I promised,” he murmured softly, yet there is a strain in his voice. 

The longer he stayed buried inside you, the more his restraint unraveled. His thrusts grew heavier, his breath harsher against your ear. The poor bed groaned louder, as though it might give out at any moment.

“I’m sorry, angel,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours. His words shook with guilt, but his body betrayed him, driving faster, harder. “I’m… trying. I swear, I’m trying—but I can’t. I can’t stop.”

You gasped when his hand gripped your thigh, hauling it upward and angling your hips. His cock slid deeper, impossibly so, forcing you to take every thick inch. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, clinging to him as his pace pushed you further into the mattress.

Every movement was filled with borderline desperation. 

“Fuck,” he grunted, hips snapping hard against yours. “Too rough—I know. I know. But I need you… I need you too much.”

His words slurred together as he continued rutting inside you, his hips moving with a litany of guilt and desire. You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your lips together to keep yourself from spilling out any noise. 

“Look at me,” he ordered when he noticed your eyes were shut. “Eyes. On. Me.” 

You opened your eyes reluctantly—dazed and trembling. He let out a wicked grin at the sight, his chest heaving and his pupils blown wide. He rolled his hips, making you whimper again. 

“Good girl,” he breathed. “You remember how to take me.”

“Y-you said you’d be gentle…” you whimpered, tears spilling down your cheeks as he slammed into you. 

His face twisted into a snarl. “I know, angel,” he groaned, his thrusts growing rougher and deeper. “I know I promised. I’m sorry—I can’t stop. I can’t.”

Your body shook beneath him, every punishing drive making the bedframe rattle even more. His flesh hand clamped down hard on your thigh, forcing your legs wider, forcing you to take him to the hilt.

“I shouldn’t be doing this to you,” he rasped, voice breaking even though his pace turned merciless. “But I need you. God, I need you. It’s like my body remembers you… programmed to claim you… no matter how much I fight it.”

You gasped as he rutted harder, his cock digging deep inside against your tight walls. His metal hand pinned your wrist above your head. His chest heaved, his eyes dark and wild, but also wet with guilt.

“Fuck,” he groaned, shaking his head, his thrusts savage despite the apologies spilling from his lips. “I’m hurting you, I know I am. I’m sorry, angel—so fucking sorry—but I can’t slow down. I can’t stop needing you.”

His mouth crashed against yours in a desperate, devouring kiss, like as if kissing you would make you forgive him. 

His thrusts turned frantic, every snap of his hips were hard and rough, like he was punishing himself as much as he was using you. 

“C-can’t stop… I can’t stop wanting you,” he gasped. “It’s been too damn long, baby. Too fucking long—” 

“Angel…” his voice cracked as he rutted deeper, his metal hand forcing your hips still against the mattress. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—but I need to finish inside you. I need to claim you one more time.”

Your body arched beneath him, his cock stretching you, filling you until all you could do was whine and groan beneath the weight of him. “P-please… just hurry up!” 

His thrusts started getting sloppy and messy, his pace completely losing rhythm as his dark mind took control. His jaw clenched, his eyes squeezing shut as his hips slammed into you one last time—bottoming out completely. 

A loud and broken groan escaped his lips, his cock twitching and pulsing deep inside you as his release flooded into your tight walls. The warmth spread through your core, and you felt utterly full and disgusted.

His body slumped against yours, his hold on you softening just slightly.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice raw with guilt. “Forgive me—I couldn’t let you go without leaving a part of me inside you.”

You couldn’t breathe. Your chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven pants. Your trembling hands pressed against his strong bare chest, weakly trying to push him away even though he was still buried deep inside you. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but his words were lost in the ringing in your ears. You shook your head, sobs tearing free as your body shook violently beneath him.

Then his arms gathered you close, pulling you tight against him. He tried to rock you gently, but your body remained stiff, broken. He murmured against your ear, words you couldn’t catch—or tried to tune out. You didn’t know. 

You felt wet kisses trace your hair, your temple, your cheeks. But your body reeled at the contact. 

Little by little, exhaustion took over. Your eyelids grew heavy, your sobs softened, and your trembling eased. Your breathing slowed. His arms never loosened. He cradled you, rocking you gently until sleep finally claimed you.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, even though you were long gone in unconsciousness. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

When you finally woke up, the room was silent and cold. His warmth was gone, his presence erased.

Only the faint imprint of his body remained in the sheets, the lingering scent of sex in the air a haunting reminder. Your body still bare, still trembling from the night, proof that he had been here.

And then, just like a deadly ghost, he was gone.

[juniebjonesin]

waking you up in kind tw: slight somnophilia

bucky waking you up from a wet dream has me weak

there’s this sound you make in your sleep. not loud. just a breathy little whimper that slips past your lips like a secret.

but bucky knows it. deep in his bones he knows that sound. and when he hears it he always knows what he’s going to find under the sheets.

you only make that noise when you’re absolutely in it. those deep dark and dirty dreams that make you shift in your sleep, that make your hips twitch, that leaves your thighs sticky and your cunt soaked before the sun even comes up.

and you made it tonight.

that soft and needy sound that makes buckys cock harden instantly. makes him shift under the covers, biting down a groan as he watches your body move in a way that means you’re halfway to begging and don’t even know it yet.

so he tests a theory.

his hand sliding down under the blankets, over the smooth expanse of your thigh. the gritty contrast between your soft skin and his calloused hands practically wrecks him.

he’s still in shock that you choose him. after everything you still hold him close like he isn’t the hollow shell of a man he thinks he is.

he doesn’t think he was made to touch something this soft, but fuck him he does it anyways. slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the softness he’s got no business holding.

you don’t twitch or flinch. just softly breath out like your body feels his familiar touch, and welcomes it like it’s been waiting.

that’s when he pressed his fingers between your legs.

to that wet and soft heat.

you’re still in your panties but he can feel how your slick has seeped through the fabric, sticking it to your skin with unabashed fervor.

he leans closer and has to swallow the moan that threatens to escape. pulling the covers back he’s met with your barely dressed body.

panties clinging to you with a ditch effort, his shirt had ridden up those torso from your tossing and turning, hair splayed out across the pillow as your chest rises and falls with soft even breaths.

he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a woman more beautiful than you. and he can’t help himself.

slowly shifting on the bed he lowers himself between your legs to your pleading cunt.

his cock is throbbing and damn near growling at him to stop stalling and to bury himself deep inside you, claim you from within and hold you tight.

but he wants to savor this. savor you.

he drags his tongue over the hot and slick fabric, flat and slow from bottom to top.

you make another noise. louder this time. your legs spreading for him instinctively.

he willing accepts the invitation and dives in. lazy, open mouthed kisses through the measly cotton barrier, sucking and licking until your grinding back against his face like a slut too far gone to care whether she’s dreaming or not.

after enough torture he pushes your panties to the side, just enough to see the way your pussy clenches on nothing, desperate to filled with anything she could get.

all patience and manners are out the window. bucky eats you like you’re his last meal, ravenous and lust blown.

and when your eyes flutter, hand tucks into his hair, gripping and pulling him harder against you, moaning his name like you’re not even awake he smiles.

because this is all his. this version of you. all wet and whimpering. pretty and pathetic.

when you finally reach down and pull him away he’s already gripping your thighs and yanking you to the edge of the bed. cock already out and leaking down onto you, and he doesn’t say anything. he doesn’t need to.

he pushes in with one single stroke. straight to the hilt making you both shudder.

then he’s mean with it. fucking you soft and slowly, leaving you aching for more with each teasing roll of his hips.

he holds you open and watches your face twist and contort. the way you pout and beg makes him twitch inside of you. it isn’t until he sees the tears welling up that he breaks.

“god— please bucky.” your voice is thick with sleep. eyes low and lidded with lust and love.

he groans deep in his chest. how could he ever deny anything as sweet as you?

he grips your thighs and brings them to the side, turning your face against the sheet as he snaps into you. he’s brutal yet efficient, each thrust tipped upwards to hit your perfect little sweet spot, each smack to your ass making you whine and clench around him even tighter, each broken whimper of his name bringing him closer and closer.

“cmon baby, lemme have it. you were so desperate to give it to me earlier, cmon now.” lifting up one leg he rests it against his chest as the other wraps around his waist.

this is how he always imagines you. open and wide and willing for him, on the verge of coming undone. this is how he always wants you.

once his thumb finds your clit, dipping into your wanted and pressing tight small circles onto it you shatter and bucky thinks he goes to heaven.

there’s nothing compared to feeling your cunt squeeze and flutter around him as you cum. except maybe watching you as you do.

the way your eyes flutter, your breath hitches and you stutter over his name. hands gripping into his skin leaving crescent shaped marks behind as you tense up and writhe underneath him, beginning him to fill you up in pathetic haze of pleasure.

and of course he abides, pushing you down into the mattress as he ruts into you like and animal in heat. erratic, rhythmless and rough thrusts as he chases downs his own high, you reduced to a puddle of pleas and moans.

when his crescendo hits the world whites out as if a flashbang had been set off inside of him. ears ring and his hips come to a slow grind into you as he pumps each rope deep inside.

he pulls out with a gentleness that he hasn’t used since you woke up, and presses a kiss to your head.

then he gets up to make you some coffee. i mean he is a gentleman after all.

[rulerofstars]

told you i’d come

oneshot: you send him one wet, towel-clad pic while he's away on a mission. next thing you know? you're waking up to his tongue in your pussy and his cock buried so deep you’ll be walking funny for days.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

tags: (18+). 3.2k words. SMUT. feral yearning. phone sex. video call tease. sex on phone. creampie. post-mission bucky who books a damn flight just to ruin you. fingering. oral sex f!receiving (waking-up edition). overstimulation. raw dogstyle & missionary bc he needs it that deep. listening to earned it by the weeknd will be the cherry on top of this filth. minors dni.

You shouldn't send it.

Oh, darling, you really shouldn't. This is a reckless, deliciously terrible idea—teetering on the edge of moral ambiguity and an international scandal wrapped in a single, impulsive click.

And yet.

Here you are, standing before your mirror, a vision of damp locks and wet skin, the towel clinging to your curves like a lover's desperate grasp. Droplets of water trail down your neck, catching the light. There's something wild in your eyes, something about your heavy lids and parted lips, like you've unlocked a secret angle of yourself that only a front-facing camera could capture.

And you? You're going to send it.

Because Bucky Barnes—your Bucky, with his storm-blue eyes and that vibranium arm that hums with quiet power is a thousand miles away.

Prague, maybe. Serbia, possibly. He's on a mission, one of those shadowy, leather-gloved affairs that probably involves scaling rooftops or disarming a bomb with seconds to spare. You don't know the details. But the ache in your chest? That's all the intel you need.

Ten days.

Ten days since you've felt the heat of his body pressed against yours, since you've tasted the soft, devastating edge of his mouth. Ten days since you've run your fingers through his dark hair, felt the shudder in his breath when you tug just a little too hard. You're unraveling, fraying at the edges, a woman starved for the man who's both her anchor and her storm.

So, naturally, you do what any rational, touch-starved, love-drunk soul would do. You grab your phone. You swipe open the camera. And you pose.

It's not graceful. You're not some sultry vixen trained in the art of seduction. You're just you—heart pounding, towel slipping just enough to tease, hips tilted in a way that feels like a dare. You stare into the lens and think, What would make Bucky lose his mind?

The answer is this: you, glistening from the shower, skin dewy and warm, the towel barely holding on, one hip cocked, your lips parted in a look that's half-innocent, half-come get me. It's a snapshot of longing, of I miss you laced with I dare you.

You snap the photo. Your thumb hovers over the send button for a heartbeat—two, three. Then you press it.

The wait is electric.

Your phone buzzes, and your pulse spikes.

Bucky Jesus, sweetheart.

Another buzz, and it's like his voice is in the room, low and rough, curling around you like smoke.

Bucky What are you doing to me?

I'm in a goddamn surveillance van with two other agents and a shared screen. Had to throw a blanket over my lap like some kid who can't control himself.

You bite your lip, a slow, wicked smile spreading across your face. The towel feels heavier now, like it's conspiring with your racing heart. You type back, fingers trembling with mischief.

oops! just wanted to say hi... all clean and wet. is that a crime now?

Bucky You're lucky I'm not there, doll. You wouldn't be standing.

Your breath catches, a soft laugh spilling from your lips. Heat pools low in your belly, and you can almost feel the ghost of his hands—calloused, warm, possessive and grazing your skin. You type again.

hmm, i'm all wet and lonely. you're out there being dangerous and armed... we're not playing fair, are we?

Bucky Say that one more time, and I'm on the next flight home. Mission be damned.

You laugh again, loud and unguarded, because you know he means it. He'd burn the world down to get to you if you asked. And that's the sweetest, most dangerous part of all—this love that's so big, so consuming, it's hard to breathe without pulling him into your orbit.

You sink onto the edge of your bed, still clutching the phone, the towel slipping just a fraction lower. Your skin hums with the memory of him, and you wonder how long it'll be before he's back, before you can trade these teasing texts for the real thing—his hands, his mouth, his everything.

Until then, you'll just have to keep torturing him. One sultry selfie at a time.You spend the next three hours doing completely ordinary, non-sinister things like brushing your hair and moisturizing your soul. Also, watching Mamma Mia! for the hundredth time and pretending you don't keep glancing at your phone every seven minutes.

You do. You absolutely do. And yes, you are tracking Bucky's location like the clingy menace you are.

And it turns out he's checked into his hotel.

Which means—oh.

He's alone.

And probably grumpy.

Which means Bucky Barnes, Sergeant of Chaos, is probably somewhere in Europe brooding shirtless in soft lamplight. All sharp jawline and stormy eyes, still simmering from the situation you personally orchestrated.

Your body hums. Full-body anticipation. Wicked little pulses of mine mine mine under your skin. So naturally, you do what any well-adjusted, emotionally stable girlfriend would do.

You hit the video call button.

He answers on the first ring.

His face fills your screen—all chiseled bone structure and dark stubble and mussed hair like he's been running his hands through it since your last message. His voice is a low growl, sleep-rough and laced with something entirely more dangerous.

"Baby,"

You sprawl across your bed, the towel you're still wearing—barely—slipping dangerously low, exposing the curve of your thigh, the dip of your collarbone. You tilt your phone just right, letting him catch the glint of your damp skin in the soft light. "Hi, Sergeant," you purr, your voice a velvet blade, sharp and sweet.

He groans, head tipping back against the headboard, the sound vibrating through you like a physical touch. "Don't start with that Sergeant shit," he warns, but his eyes are already darkening, pupils blown wide as they rake over you. "I'm barely holding it together."

"Why?" You tilt your head, letting a damp curl fall across your shoulder, your lips curving into a smirk that's pure sin. "I'm just being respectful. Honoring your rank." You shift, the towel riding up just enough to make his jaw clench.

"Fuck," he mutters, the word a prayer and a curse. You hear the creak of his hotel bed, the rustle of sheets as he adjusts himself, and it's enough to make your thighs press together. "That picture you sent? I've been hard since. Had to lock myself in this room just to breathe."

You laugh, low and sultry, stretching out on your bed, letting the towel slip another inch, teasing the edge of decency. "Poor baby," you coo, your voice dripping with mock sympathy. "All worked up because of little ol' me?"

"You know exactly what you're doing," he growls, his eyes narrowing as he leans closer to the screen, like he could reach through it and grab you. "You're a fucking menace."

"I miss you," you whisper, and it's not just teasing now—it's raw, aching truth. Ten days without him, without his hands, his mouth, his weight pinning you down. It's too long. Too empty.

His expression softens, just for a second, before the hunger takes over again. "Miss you so damn much, sweetheart," he says, his voice thick, almost reverent. "It's killing me. Ten days, and I'm dreaming about you, waking up hard, thinking about your taste, your smell, the way you fucking move."

Your breath hitches, heat pooling low in your belly. "Then show me," you challenge, your voice a husky whisper. You prop your phone against a pillow, angling it so he can see every inch of you—towel barely clinging to your hips, your skin flushed and glistening. "Show me how much you miss me."

His eyes go molten, and he shifts, the camera catching the flex of his vibranium arm as he adjusts himself. "You want to play dirty?" he murmurs, his voice dropping to that dangerous, filthy register that makes your toes curl. 

He shifts, grunts softly, and sets his phone down too—somewhere low, tilted up just enough to give you the full view. And oh. Oh, God.

He's shirtless. Hair a mess. His thighs spread wide and bare.

And his cock. Thick, flushed, already hard rests heavy against his stomach.

"Like that, baby?" he asks, a little breathless, a little too smug for someone stroking himself with a metal arm like he's trying to kill you with lust via satellite.

You whimper. That's it. That's your only response. A noise of full-body, feral yearning.

Because his vibranium fingers? Wrapped around the base of his cock like a fucking vice. The gold plating catches in the low light, gleaming wickedly as he strokes once—slow and deliberate, like he wants to ruin you before he even touches himself properly.

"I thought about you all day," he murmurs, lazy now, letting his thumb rub over the head, watching your mouth fall open. "Tried so fucking hard not to do this until I saw you. But then you called, lookin' like you wanted me to lose it... Take that towel off, baby. Let me see you."

You comply, agonizingly slow, peeling the fabric away until it pools beneath you, leaving you bare and breathless under his gaze. His groan is primal, a sound that vibrates through your core. "Fuck, look at you," he breathes, his hand disappearing below the frame, the motion unmistakable. "So fucking perfect. You know what I'd do if I was there? I'd bury my face between those thighs. Lick you so slow, so deep, you'd be begging me to let you come."

You whimper, your fingers trailing down your stomach, teasing yourself as his words burn through you. "Bucky," you gasp, your voice trembling with need. "Keep talking."

"Oh, I'm just getting started," he says, his voice a low, filthy promise. "I'd spread you open, taste every inch of that sweet pussy. Fuck, I can still taste you from last time, all wet and warm and mine. I'd suck that clit until you're screaming, until you're pulling my hair so hard it hurts. You'd be dripping for me, wouldn't you? Soaking the sheets, begging for my cock."

Your fingers move faster against your hot core, chasing the heat of his words, your hips bucking as you moan his name. "Yes," you pant, your body arching off the bed. "God, Bucky, I need you."

"You have no idea," he growls, his breath hitching as he matches your rhythm, his camera shaking slightly as he moves. "I'd fuck you so deep, baby. Pin you down, make you take every inch. You'd feel me for days. I'd fill you up, make you scream my name until your voice gives out."

"Fuck, Bucky—" Your hand trails down again, desperate, twitchy.

He smirks. "Go ahead. Touch yourself while you watch me." His jaw flexes, the vibranium grip stroking tighter. "Wanna see how wet you are for me."

And you do. With him watching. With him moaning. With the sound of slick metal pumping against his cock, slow and devastating.

"I'm gonna fuck you so deep when I get back," he growls, voice wrecked now, gaze locked on you like a threat. "You won't be able to walk straight, baby. Not after this. Not after seeing me fuck my fist thinking about that perfect pussy of yours."

You gasp, your rhythm matching his, your thighs trembling.

"I'm gonna come all over this hand," he grits out. "And the second I land, I'm putting my mouth where this hand's been. Gonna taste you, taste me on you. Make you take it."

The words push you over the edge, your body shuddering as you come, his name a broken cry on your lips. He's not far behind, his groans rough and ragged, the camera catching the tense line of his jaw, the way his eyes flutter shut as he chases his own release.

For a moment, there's just the sound of your heavy breathing, the shared silence of two people wrecked and sated. You're sweaty, flushed, your body still trembling, but you feel alive, tethered to him through the screen.

"Jesus Christ," he pants. "I'm booking the next fucking flight."

You collapse into sleep, hard and heavy, your body still humming from the filthy promises of Bucky's voice over the video call. The blankets cocoon you, your pulse a lazy flutter, your skin tingling with the ghost of his words. You're not even sure if you ended the call, too drunk on pleasure to care. One moment, you're sinking into the soft haze of afterglow. The next—

Oh. Fuck.

You wake to a sensation so sinful it rips you from sleep. A wet, searing heat between your thighs, deliberate and unrelenting. Your hips buck instinctively, a sharp, needy jolt as your eyes flutter open, vision blurry with confusion and want.

Another slow, possessive lick drags up your core, and your brain stutters, short-circuits, melts. Your breath catches, a broken gasp, as you blink down and see him—Bucky Barnes, all six-foot-something of him, nestled between your legs like he was made for it. His hair's a tousled mess, dark strands falling into his eyes, his beard scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin. Those broad shoulders, carved from years of violence and redemption, pin your thighs open against the sheets. And his tongue—fuck, his tongue—is inside you, lapping at you like you're the sweetest thing he's ever tasted.

"Bucky—what—?" Your voice cracks, half a moan, as you try to process the impossible. "How—?"

"Shh, pretty girl," he murmurs, his lips brushing your clit, the vibration of his voice sending a fresh wave of heat through you. "Heard you whimpering my name in your sleep. Fuck, you sounded so needy. Couldn't just lie there and listen."

"You're here?" you gasp, trying to sit up, but his vibranium arm curls over your hip, pinning you down with gentle, unyielding strength. "You—ohmygod—Bucky."

"Told you I'd be on the next flight," he growls, his voice rough with hunger, his eyes dark and feral as they meet yours. "Couldn't stay away. Not after that little show you put on." He dives back in, his tongue swirling deep, dragging a wrecked moan from your throat. "You taste better than I remember. So fucking sweet."

Your hands fist the sheets, your hips grinding up to meet his mouth as he devours you, slow and reverent, like he's worshiping every inch of you. His tongue flicks and curls, teasing your entrance before plunging inside, and you're already trembling, your body a live wire under his touch. "Bucky—please," you whimper, your thighs quaking as he hooks them over his shoulders, spreading you wider, claiming you completely.

"Love hearing you beg," he murmurs against your pussy, his beard scraping your inner thighs, the burn only amplifying the pleasure. "Missed this. Missed you. Been dreaming about this pretty cunt every fucking night." He sucks your clit hard, a deliberate pull that makes your vision blur, your body arching off the bed as you cry out. "Gonna make you come so hard you forget how to breathe."

You do. You come so fast, so violently, it's like a supernova bursting behind your eyes, your entire body seizing as you scream his name. He doesn't stop, lapping at you through the aftershocks, drawing out every shudder, every broken gasp, until you're a boneless mess beneath him.

But he's not done. Not even close.

Before you can catch your breath, he's up, his hands—flesh and metal—flipping you onto your stomach with effortless strength. "Ass up, sweetheart," he growls, his voice a dark, filthy promise that makes your core clench all over again. You scramble to obey, your knees sinking into the mattress, your back arching as you press your hips back toward him, desperate, aching, needy.

"Fuck, look at you," he groans, his hands gripping your hips, his thumbs spreading you open as he kneels behind you. "So wet for me. So fucking perfect." You hear the rustle of his clothes, the clink of his belt, and then he's there, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance.

Not yet.

Instead, he presses the hot, leaking head of his cock on your wet pussy and just… holds it there. Teasing. Taunting. Letting you feel the weight of him, the heat, the pressure, everything you want but not giving you an inch.

He grinds in slow, maddening circles, rubbing right where you're soaked and aching, coating his tip in your slick. The sensation is enough to make your knees shake.

You whimper. Push back against him. Beg with your body.

But he only chuckles, low and wrecked. "You want it that bad, sweetheart?" he rasps, dragging his tip up through your folds, nudging your clit before sliding back down and rubbing against your entrance again. "Fuck, look how wet you are for me. Just from my voice. Just from thinking about me."

You sob his name, fingers curling in the sheets, desperate for friction, for fullness, for him.

But Bucky stays exactly where he is. Letting the swollen tip of his cock press against your cunt without breaching it, just enough to make your whole body burn. Just enough to make you feel like you're going to snap.

He groans like he's punishing himself. Like this is torture for him, too. "Could slide in so easy," he murmurs, grinding slow and shallow against you, your slick coating both of you now. "You're begging for it, baby. This tight little cunt's fuckin' fluttering, pulling me in."

Your hips buck helplessly. "Bucky... please—"

"Please what?" he growls, jaw tight. "Please put it in? Please fuck you stupid? You want this cock, doll?"

"Yes—fuck—yes," you cry, nearly delirious. "Please, don't tease, just fuck me..."

"Oh, I'm gonna fuck you," he says, his tone dripping with dark, delicious intent. "Gonna fuck you so deep you'll feel me for days. Gonna ruin this pussy." He slides in slow, inch by agonizing inch, stretching you, filling you, until you're gasping, your hands clawing at the sheets. 

"You're mine, baby. This tight little cunt? Mine."

He starts moving, hard and deliberate, each thrust driving you into the mattress, his hips snapping against yours with a filthy rhythm that makes you sob with pleasure. His vibranium hand grips your hip, cool and unyielding, while his flesh hand slides under you, finding your breasts, cupping them possessively. His fingers pinch your nipples, rolling them just hard enough to make you gasp, your body arching further into him as he groans against your skin. "These fucking tits," he growls, squeezing them from beneath, his touch rough and reverent. "Been dreaming about these, too. So soft, so perfect in my hands."

"Yes—yes," you moan, your body shaking as he pounds into you, each thrust hitting that perfect spot that makes you see stars. "Love it. Love you. Bucky, harder."

He growls, low and feral, and gives you exactly what you want, his pace turning brutal, his cock slamming into you so deep you feel it in your bones. "Fuck, I want to taste you again," he rasps, leaning over you, his chest pressed to your back, his lips grazing your ear.

It's too much. It's everything. Your body is a live wire, oversensitive and overstimulated, but you can't stop, can't pull away from the way he's claiming you, body and soul. His filthy promises, his bites, the way he fills yoU, it's all-consuming. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, white-hot and blinding, your walls clenching so tight around him you feel him falter. You scream his name, a broken, desperate sound, your body shaking as you come so hard your vision goes dark, your pussy gripping him like it's trying to keep him forever.

"Fuck—fuck," he chokes out, his thrusts stuttering as he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spills inside you, hot and thick, wave after wave filling you up. His forehead presses against your spine, his breath ragged, his hands trembling as they lock onto your hips, anchoring himself to you like you're his only tether to the world.

But he's not done. Oh, God, he's not done.

He pulls out just enough to catch his breath, his cock still slick and half-hard, and then he flips you over with a strength that steals the air from your lungs. You land on your back with a startled gasp, your legs trembling as he nudges them apart with his knee, his vibranium hand curling around the back of your neck, possessive and grounding. His dark, wild, starving eyes—lock onto yours as he lines himself up again, pushing back inside with a slow, deliberate thrust that makes you whimper.

"Need to see you," he murmurs, his voice low and wrecked, his lips brushing your temple as he rocks into you, deep and unhurried, like he's savoring every second. "Need to come inside you while I watch those pretty eyes fall apart." His flesh hand slides down to your thigh, hooking it over his waist, opening you up so he can fuck you deeper, his cock hitting places that make your breath hitch.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, his forehead pressed to yours, his hips rolling with a rhythm that's both tender and devastating. "Feel how full you are? That's all me. Gonna fuck you so deep you'll feel me for weeks. Wanna mark you inside and out, make sure you're dripping with me." His vibranium hand slides up to your breast, squeezing hard, his thumb brushing your nipple until you're gasping, your body clenching around him again.

He bites your shoulder again, harder this time, his teeth sinking in as he growls against your skin, the sharp sting blending with the pleasure of his cock filling you. "Love these fucking tits," he murmurs, his hand kneading your breast, his fingers pinching just enough to make you moan. "Love how you shake for me, how you take every inch like you're made for my cock."

You're a mess, slick with sweat, your body trembling as another orgasm builds, unstoppable and overwhelming. "Bucky," you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders, his back, anything to hold onto as he drives you higher. "I love you. I love you so fucking much."

That's what breaks him. A shattered groan of your name spilling from his lips as he comes again, his cock pulsing deep inside you, filling you until you're dripping, claimed in every way. His thrusts slow but don't stop, drawing out your pleasure until you're shaking, your own release crashing through you, your moans mingling with his as you cling to him, utterly ruined.

He collapses over you, chest heaving, his body a warm, heavy weight pinning you to the mattress. He doesn't pull out, just stays there, softening inside you, his lips brushing soft, reverent kisses over the bite marks on your shoulder, soothing the sting he left behind. "Missed you so fucking much," he whispers, his voice raw, trembling with something deeper than lust. "Couldn't stay away from you. Never can."

You hum, too fucked-out to speak, your arms wrapping around his back, holding him close as your body thrums with the afterglow, the marks on your shoulder a delicious reminder of his claim.

"You okay?" he murmurs after a moment, nudging your nose with his, his voice a mix of concern and that smug, bastardly charm.

You manage a breathless laugh, your head still spinning. "I think I died. Twice."

He grins. Smug bastard.

"Good."

You roll your eyes. "You and your fucking audacity," you mumble, barely coherent.

He chuckles, still inside you, still hardening slowly. Still not done.

"I am so in love with you," he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. "'And I'm not going anywhere."

[knowledgeableknitter]

Thin Walls

A smutty Neighbor Bucky one-shot. 18+ ONLY, MDNI.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you (curvy reader, female)

Word Count: 4.5k

Summary: You never meant to fall for the guy in 3B. You just heard him cursing at his oven and talking to his cat through the wall. Thin drywall, one vibrator, and exactly zero boundaries later, you’re moaning while he fucks you against the same wall that started it all. And you don’t even know his name.

Trigger Warnings: 18+ ONLY, MDNI; mutual masturbation (fem with a vibe); bit of audio voyeurism on both sides; P in V sex (against a wall).

Author’s Note: The... nicer "neighbor bucky" fic that I've been writing...

Masterlist

You heard him curse at the oven before you ever saw his face.

It was low and muffled, but carried clearly enough through the cheap drywall to tell you he hadn’t meant for anyone to hear it. Just a flat, frustrated mutter, followed by the dull clang of something metal, maybe a pan, and the unmistakable sound of a cat meowing in protest.

“No, Alpine,” he said, voice softer. “It’s charcoal now.”

That was how you learned he had a cat. You didn’t know his name. He didn’t know yours. But you learned things.

You learned he had a short temper with machines and no patience for his own cooking. He learned you liked to play music when you did laundry, low and familiar, songs that carried the rhythm of memory. He heard you talk to your mother too loud on speakerphone, pacing barefoot, stepping over unfolded laundry piles and empty takeout boxes. You heard him talk to Alpine like she was someone who answered back.

Your lives ran parallel through thin walls. You tried not to listen, at first. But the quiet in this building had its own gravity, and sometimes his voice was the only sound that reminded you that you weren’t entirely alone.

He’d grown used to your sounds too. The creak of your couch springs. The uneven rhythm of your footsteps on the hardwood floor. The way you hummed, not shyly, but like you didn’t think anyone was around to hear.

He liked the sounds of you existing.

You never tried to speak through the wall. That would’ve made it real, and you weren’t sure you were ready for that. Neither was he.

One afternoon, you came home with grocery bags cutting into your fingers and sweat cooling at the base of your spine. Your thighs brushed with every step, your bra strap dug into your shoulder, and you hated how aware you were of your body as you climbed the stairs. You were soft, solid, full, and taking up too much space.

He turned the corner at the same time you reached the landing, going out somewhere with a leather satchel over one shoulder. His hoodie was slouched low, sleeves pushed halfway up one arm. His hair was pulled back, and his expression was unreadable, at least until he saw you.

He noticed you. Not with surprise, not with appraisal, but with that same quiet awareness you’d felt through the wall. You weren’t what he expected, not in that moment, not in the clothes you wore or the way you filled them, but he didn’t flinch from it.

His gaze dropped once, briefly, involuntarily, to the place your blouse lifted, revealing the curve of your stomach, and then back up. He didn’t flinch, didn’t react, just a simple acknowledgment. 

You nodded, enough to be polite. He gave a small smile in return, barely there, but not unkind. You passed each other slowly in the hallway, two ships in the narrow channel between lives. You didn’t speak, but curiosity crackled in the silence between your steps. 

Later, from your kitchen, you heard his door open, then close. You heard the faint thump of shoes being toed off, the rustle of paper as Alpine tried to investigate the contents of the bag. You leaned your back against the counter and listened until it was quiet again.

You didn’t know his name. He didn’t know yours.

But he knew the sound of your laugh when you watched something stupid on TV. And you knew the weight of his sighs, the unevenness of his sleep. And the wall between you, old, more paint than plaster, let everything through.

And somehow, that didn’t feel like a bad thing.

*****

The oven in 3B went quiet for a few days.

You still heard other things, the low sound of music, barely-there conversation with Alpine, the dull impact of something heavy being dropped or kicked. But there was no cursing, no banging of pans, no smoke alarm chirping through drywall. It almost worried you.

You’d baked because you needed the warmth. Not a metaphor, you needed actual warmth. The heater in your apartment had clanked twice and then given up for the day, and your sweater, stretched thin at the sleeves and worn soft at the elbows, hadn’t done much to fight the draft. So you made banana bread because you had three overripe ones on the counter and not much else. 

When it cooled, you sliced off two center pieces and wrapped them in foil. Two fat, warm slices, still slightly sticky in the center. No note, just a plate, a quiet knock, and the sound of you walking away.

You didn’t plan to linger by the door afterward, but you did. You weren’t close, just by the coat rack, pretending to look for your keys. Just long enough to hear the door down the hall open, a brief pause, and then close again. You listened, and moments later you could swear you heard a faint moan, as of someone enjoying the bread. 

The plate returned the next day, clean, outside your door. Nothing else. You smiled anyway.

That night, your door didn’t stick. It had been doing that since you moved in, catching at the bottom corner unless you yanked it hard. It usually closed loud enough to echo and announce every time you came or went. You’d grown used to bracing for it, pulling at the knob with your full body weight, thighs shifting, arm flexing awkwardly to hold the frame steady. Sometimes you swore at it under your breath. Once or twice, louder.

Now it moved like butter. Just a whisper of friction, then open. You found the note a moment later, stuck slightly askew beside the frame. Old-school yellow sticky, blocky handwriting that looked careful, like it had been practiced but not used in a long time.

Oiled the hinges. Shouldn’t have to slam it. —3B

No smiley face, no sarcasm. Just the plain fact. You kept it on the inside of your door for a week. He’d fixed it at some point when you were gone. 

You started paying more attention after that.

The shuffle of his steps. The clink of dishes. The way he cleared his throat when reading something aloud, like he wasn’t sure of the words. You imagined him sitting at a small kitchen table, hoodie sleeves pushed up over one forearm, the other covered, always covered, no matter how warm it got in the building. You didn’t know if he did it to protect something or hide it.

He heard you sing again. He heard the rhythm of your hands kneading dough you wouldn’t eat all of. He heard the way your voice softened when you played old love songs and let yourself sway through the room, hips moving with more care than confidence.

He liked that too. The sound of your movement. You didn’t try to be graceful, you were just you.

You both stayed in your lanes. He never knocked. You never thanked him aloud. But that slice of bread had said enough. And the hinge said it back.

*****

It had become a kind of lullaby, the sounds from 3B as he settled in for the night.

First, the creak of his bed. Then the low mutter, always the same cadence: something soft, gravel-edged, irritated more at himself than anything else. You never caught the words, just the rhythm of them, followed by the thud of feet hitting the floor again. Then the fridge opening, a bottle clinking, and the faint, questioning meow of Alpine.

Then the microwave beeped. Twice.

You lay on your side, under the worn cotton quilt your grandmother had pieced together years ago. The lights were off, but your apartment hadn’t gone quiet.

Neither had his.

The air felt different that night, less separate. “Warm milk?” you called through the wall, voice light. There was a beat of silence, just long enough to make you think maybe you’d crossed some line. 

Then, “…You been spying on me, 3C?”

Your breath caught on a surprised laugh. “You’re not that stealthy, 3B.”

You could hear the smile in his voice, even if you couldn’t see it. The way he shifted a little closer to the wall, barely a breath, but there.

He liked the sound of your voice when it was playful. When it wasn’t colored by exhaustion or your mother’s judgment or the lonely edge of the television.

You liked the sound of his when it was amused. When the gravel in it had softness behind it.

On the other side of the wall, he leaned back into bed with a grunt. Alpine chirped once, complaining, maybe, about her share of the blanket. He murmured something to her, voice too low for you to catch.

You stared up at the ceiling in the dark, the silence stretching just enough to make it feel like a question.

And then you said it. “Goodnight.”

It was small. Not loaded with meaning. Not asking for anything. Just a quiet offer in the dark.

There was a pause. He shifted again. “Goodnight.”

Simple, but he spoke with meaning, like he hadn’t said it to someone in a long time, or like he’d meant it more than you were supposed to hear.

You didn’t speak the next night, neither did he. But the silence between you wasn’t empty. It had tension and anticipation now. It felt almost as though the wall between you was holding its breath.

In 3B, he lay awake with Alpine curled into the bend of his knee, her purring barely audible over the hum of the radiator. He was thinking too much, again. 

He didn’t plan to speak, but his voice came anyway. “I liked your singing.” That was it. Nothing more. Just the words, resting gently in the dark.

You blinked. Then sat up a little, as if the act of moving might help you hear better. “…What?” you said, barely above a whisper.

“You were singing. Yesterday,” he said, still quiet. Still casual. “It was nice.”

You paused, let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Thanks,” you said, just as softly.

There was a faint rustle, like he’d shifted against his sheets. “Night, doll.”

Your lips curved into a small, private smile. “Night.”

And that was all.

You stayed facing the wall for a while after that, tee pulled down over your hips, one hand tucked under your cheek, eyes wide open, listening.

The sound of him, still breathing on the other side.

*****

You hadn’t planned to do it that night.

But the apartment was still in a way that made even the sound of your own breathing feel loud. The street outside had quieted. No more sirens, no thud of footsteps overhead, no slamming pipes behind the wall you shared with 3B.

And the heat building between your thighs had long stopped being something you could reason with. It sat there, an ache, a demand, humming low and urgent in your belly. It had been following you around all day, a tension that lived in your spine, curled around your ribs, and now, stubborn and molten, refused to let you sleep.

You hadn’t heard a sound from 3B in over an hour. Not the scrape of a chair, not a muttered curse at whatever old appliance had offended him this time. Not even the occasional thud of his boots hitting the floor.

You figured he was asleep, and that assumption made you bold.

You reached into your nightstand, fingers pushing aside the soft folds of a scarf until they brushed against the familiar shape of your toy. A quiet flutter ran through you. Your heart thudded behind your ribs from the thrill of doing it with him just on the other side of the wall. He wasn’t in the room, he didn’t, couldn’t know, but the threat of possibility still thrilled you. 

Your hand trembled slightly as you pulled it free. You shifted onto your back, head sinking into the pillow as your thighs parted, the cotton of your underwear already clinging to damp skin. You pushed it aside with one hand, the other lowering the toy between your legs. The hum started low.

*****

In 3B, he froze mid-breath.

He should have been asleep. He’d been lying there in the dark, body splayed across the mattress in lazy defeat, one arm folded behind his head, the other draped low across his abdomen. The sheets were twisted around his legs, too warm and too tight. Static filled his skull, leftover adrenaline, leftover thoughts.

The ache had been with him all week, a slow build he’d tried to ignore. He wasn’t even sure if he’d touch himself tonight. It felt too risky, too intimate, and too close to the kind of thoughts he shouldn’t be having.

And then he heard it.

A soft, mechanical buzz, barely there, muffled by drywall and distance. He knew the sound, and worse, he knew what it meant.

He held his breath and strained to hear. He got his wish when your breathing changed.

A ragged exhale escaped him. His hand flew up to his face, covering his eyes like that would stop the image forming in his mind.

Fuck. You were doing it. Right now. Right there.

And God, you had no idea he was listening.

*****

The slow pulse of the toy wasn’t enough.

You shifted, one knee drawn up, foot planted against the mattress. Your other leg stretched long, toes curling, but you needed more. You pressed the toy harder against yourself, angling it slightly upward until it grazed just right against your g-spot. A wave of pleasure bloomed through you, and your hips rocked in search of release.

Your free hand slid over your stomach and down, fingers splaying, gripping where your thigh met your hip as your back arched. You turned your face into the pillow, lips parting as you tried to stay quiet, to keep your breathing measured, to hold in the little gasps threatening to slip free.

Your thighs tightened around your hand and the muscles in your stomach fluttered. You could already feel the pressure building, high and hot, your center pulsing.

The thought of being overheard should have stopped you, but it only made the heat rise faster. A secret exhibition, the thrill of unspoken risk. You even imagined you could hear him as well, you almost could, and it spurred you on.

You bit down on the inside of your lip to keep in a whimper. Your eyes squeezed shut.

*****

He was already stroking himself, fast and frantic. His fist was slick and tight around the base of his cock, his other hand braced against the headboard as if holding himself back from something. His hips jerked up into the rhythm, desperate and raw.

Your breath, that buzz, he could hear it all. Hell, he could feel it in his bones, like the sound alone was enough to get him off.

He was picturing you now, couldn’t stop if his life depended on it. You, laid out on the other side of the wall. Legs spread, mouth open, trying to stay quiet, chasing your pleasure. 

He heard your voice, that soft sound you made, almost a moan. It destroyed him.

His orgasm punched through him with no warning, sharp, blinding, and brutal. His hand barely kept up as he spilled across his knuckles, hot and messy, chest lifting in a sharp gasp.

“Fuck—” he groaned, the word ripped out of him, way too loud. His head tipped back, eyes screwed shut. His legs trembled with the aftershocks, the last few strokes wringing everything out of him.

*****

Your eyes flew open.

That wasn’t just a random noise. You knew that voice. That was him.

The vibrator was still pulsing against you, but the moment you heard your neighbor’s rough groan echo through the wall, your body jolted, like it had been touched, directly. A tight, aching surge swelled in your belly.

Your thighs snapped closed around the toy. Your back arched, your breath caught, your fingers twitched. 

And your climax broke over you like a wave cracking against stone.

Your body locked up, muscles clenching in a deep, desperate spasm. The sound that tore from your throat was soft but helpless, an unguarded cry still muffled into your pillow.

Your toes curled, one hand clawing at the sheets as the pulses dragged through you, wave after wave. You trembled, thighs wet, the hum of the toy pushing you almost into oversensitivity. Your chest heaved.

And somewhere inside the collapse, where your mind stopped whirring and your thoughts went white, you realized: It may not have been his name you moaned, but it was still him in your mind. He was always in your mind.

*****

His breath was still shaking out of him when he heard your gasp.

A soft, broken sound, barely a whisper, but it reached him like a slap. His whole body tensed again, already oversensitive, nerves raw. He’d just finished, hand still messy, chest still tight, when that sound bled through the wall.

Not an imagined moan, but real. Now he knew what you sounded like when you came. 

It was followed by silence so total it rang in his ears. His fingers curled into the sheet beneath him, knuckles tight, tendons flaring. He sat up slowly, like something delicate had been balanced on his spine and might shatter if he moved too fast.

The room was too warm. His skin felt hot and chilled at once, like shame and arousal were fighting under his skin for dominance. He stared at the wall, your wall, like it might open up, show him something, say something.

He imagined your mouth parted. Your chest rising and falling in soft gasps, still trying to come back down. Your legs still shaking.

He realized you heard him and you chose not to stop. You heard him and that was what sent you over the edge. 

And now you knew, you had to know, that hearing you was what sent him over the edge, too. 

*****

You were still breathing hard.

Your chest rose in uneven bursts. One leg bent at the knee, foot flat on the mattress, the other still stretched out and trembling. The toy lay beside you on the sheets, powered down now but still warm from use. Your wrist twitched like it hadn’t gotten the message yet.

Your thighs were wet and your pulse was louder than your thoughts. You didn’t want to open your eyes and face reality yet.

You’d heard him. You thought you’d been imagining it, but you’d heard every ragged gasp, that last choked curse, and every desperate stroke.

He hadn’t stopped. Hadn’t even tried to be quiet. And you hadn’t either at the end.

You turned your head toward the wall, slowly, cautiously, like it might bite if you moved too fast.

Your hand lifted, fingers trembling as they hovered. You pressed your palm flat to the drywall.

The surface was cool and smooth.

You weren’t sure what you expected. A tremor? A heartbeat?

But it stayed solid and blank.

Still, something had broken, and you weren’t sure which side the crack had come from.

*****

There was thirty seconds of silence.

A silence so thick it felt like sound itself had drowned. Only the faint tick of a pipe somewhere deep in the walls. Your blood rushed in your ears, and sweat cooled in lines down your neck.

Your whole body curled slightly on instinct, a small, shame-wracked shape of disbelief. You couldn’t pretend you hadn’t done it. You couldn’t pretend he hadn’t either. There were no illusions left.

You’d heard him come.

He’d heard you moan.

You should have run, covered yourself, hid. You should have done something, anything. But all you did was lay there, frozen, your hand still on the wall, as if it were the only thing keeping you tethered.

Then you heard sounds from across the wall.

Just the creak of a floorboard, then pacing back and forth: two steps, turn, two steps, turn.

It was like he didn’t know what to do with his own body. Like the air inside him was burning, and the movement was the only way to keep from combusting.

You pressed your palm tighter to the wall as if you could press yourself through it. 

And then his footsteps were moving away. You heard his door open and slam shut. 

A moment later there were three solid raps at your door. Not at all tentative; like he knew exactly what he was about to do.

Your pulse spiked. You sat up too fast, legs shaking, and stumbled toward the door.

You didn’t think, you just opened it.

He stood there, shirtless and flushed. You saw all of him, scars, a metal prosthetic, and you realized that was why he always wore long sleeves. But it was beautiful. All of him was beautiful. 

His chest moved with every short breath, his hair a mess, his lips parted, like he hadn’t quite come down from it. His hands hung loose at his sides, but his eyes?

God, his eyes looked at you like he held a storm back just behind them. He wasn’t sorry and he didn’t regret a second of it.

He didn’t say a word.

He just moved.

*****

His kiss was immediate. It was rough, desperate, and completely unapologetic.

His mouth crashed into yours like he was making up for every night spent on the other side of that wall. He kissed like he needed to taste proof that this was real, that you were real, under his hands, against his chest, and letting him take you without hesitation.

One arm wrapped around your waist, crushing you against him. The other tangled into your hair, fisting at the roots with just enough pressure to wrench a gasp from your throat. Your lips parted against his, and he didn’t wait, his tongue swept in, hot and demanding, tasting every inch like he’d been starved for it.

You kissed him back like your mouth had been shaped for his. Your body had been waiting for this, for him, and that pressure behind the drywall hadn’t been keeping you apart, it had been the only thing holding you together.

Your hip hit the door as you pulled him inside, and you slammed it shut with your heel. The echo cracked through the apartment, loud, final, and irreversible.

He gripped you hard under your ass and lifted you like you weighed nothing. You yelped into his mouth, but didn’t resist, your thighs wrapping around his hips on instinct as your back collided with the shared wall. The wall you’d both touched, breathed against, come against.

It made a sound, and somewhere through the drywall, Alpine meowed, displeased at the noise. You both ignored her. 

His mouth broke from yours, trailing down the curve of your jaw, over the line of your throat, down to your collarbone where he bit, and not softly. His hands were everywhere now, under your shirt, dragging up your ribs, gripping your waist like he owned it. One hand slid to your ass, squeezing roughly as he rocked you harder against him.

His breath was hot and ragged, teeth scraping over your skin as he muttered something low into your neck, words slurred by need, by heat. You didn’t catch it but you didn’t care.

You reached down between you, fingers sliding under the waistband of his sweatpants. The skin beneath was hot, fever-warm and slick with sweat, and maybe something else. You curled your fingers around him and gripped hard.

He gasped, a soft, broken noise into the crook of your neck.

You pushed his pants down fast. They caught around his thighs but you didn’t stop. You wanted his skin on your skin. You wanted him.

His cock was hard, heavy in your hand. He thrust once against your palm, groaning like the contact was already too much for him to handle.

“Fuck,” he gasped against your ear, voice shredded. “You feel so fucking good.”

Your shirt hit the floor, peeled up over your head and flung aside. Your underwear followed, dragged down between you in a tangle of legs and friction and impatience before he lifted you against the wall again.

He didn’t hesitate for even a second.

He didn’t ask permission.

You both knew you’d given it the second you moaned through drywall.

*****

The first thrust knocked the air from your lungs.

You cried out, head dropping back against the wall with a dull thud.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, nails digging in for something to hold onto as he drove into you, deep and unrelenting, his strokes smooth like he already knew the exact rhythm that would destroy you.

He set a punishing pace, hips snapping forward, dragging you down against him with each thrust. The stretch burned, full and thick, but it made your toes curl, your eyes roll, your lips part for air you couldn’t seem to find.

His mouth found your neck again, open and wet, tongue tracing the line of your pulse before he bit, hard enough to mark, hard enough to make your hips jolt forward. You whimpered into his shoulder.

You could feel every inch of him. Every drag, every deep, maddening thrust sent you spiraling.

His hands gripped the back of your thighs, lifting you higher, angling deeper until the next thrust made you sob.

“God,” he choked out, voice right at your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve wanted this—”

“Wanted you.” You finished for him.

You clenched tight around him, muscles spasming, hips bucking forward in a sharp, involuntary rhythm. You gasped out a simple plea, not a just moan this time, but a confession, raw and helpless.

Your orgasm surged like a livewire down your spine, a sharp electric pulse that left your body shuddering in his arms. Your vision went white at the edges. You clutched at him, pulled him in, held him close as your body unraveled.

“Yes—fuck, yes—” you whispered into his skin, voice shaking, breath shattered.

That sent him over the edge. He drove into you once more, deep and hard, and then buried himself there, his whole body seizing with a growl. He came with a full-body tremor, forehead pressed hard to yours, chest shuddering, mouth open.

He stayed there, still pulsing inside you, jaw clenched, arms locked tight around your waist.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

*****

The air between you went quiet, but not still.

Your foreheads stayed pressed together. You were both still breathing hard, chests brushing with every inhale. Your shirt was a puddle at your feet. His pants hung low around his thighs. The wall behind you was damp with sweat, yours and his, and something more.

You didn’t look away.

You touched his jaw, soft now, your thumb brushing along the scratch of stubble. He leaned into the touch like he needed it more than the orgasm.

And then, quietly, as your breath caught, you asked, “What’s your name?”

He blinked, something in his expression softening at the edge. 

“James,” he said, voice low and uncertain.

He paused in the silence before asking,

“Yours?”

Tag list:

@lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess @yesiamthatwierd @kitasownworld @sensuouscactus @cyacola @justalittle47 @bunniotomia @mayal0pez @star-yawnznn @bartonsparrow25 @globetrotter28 @sebastians-love

[buckets-and-trees]

What's a Little Sex Pollen Between Neighbors?

Characters/Pairings: soft dark Bucky Barnes x curvy Millennial female!Reader Word Count: 7.8k Summary: Your super soldier next door neighbor puts some of his old skills to good use. (Unspecified post-Endgame Bucky)

Content/Warnings: SEX POLLEN-DRIVEN DUBIOUS CONSENT; explicit smut: oral (female receiving), unprotected vaginal intercourse, insemination; alternating POV sections

Notes: This is my week WEEK SIX submission for @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - "please, I need help" and sex pollen.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

As the Winter Soldier, they made him master many skills, including branches of chemistry specifically so he could create compounds necessary and advantageous to fulfilling and expediting his missions. He was so good he even helped develop some of the compounds used by Hydra and in The Red Room.

It had been years since he’d applied the long dormant skill.

But it had also been a year since you moved in next door, and he was tired of waiting.

You were so sweet, so good, and he would treat you so well if you were his.

And you were so deserving.

You ought to have someone dote on you, take care of you. You were fiercely independent, fully capable, but you shouldn’t need to be.

He was more than willing to take care of you. He always insisted it was no trouble to hold a door open for you, to help carry your groceries, to pick up your mail when you were out of town, to help you put together the table you ordered online when it was delivered. Not only was it no trouble, he liked doing those things for you.

He wanted to do more.

He heard you late at night with your vibrator.

He could give you so much better.

How many times had the super’s wife said to him what a sweet couple the two of you would make?

What was the harm with hurrying you along into something he was so sure you wanted with a little sex pollen?

Before he’d been The Winter Soldier, the efficient and essentially untraceable assassin for decades, he’d been a damn good soldier as Bucky Barnes. He was still an asset now whether he was consulting or going into the field. Constantly valued for his keen mind.

Why shouldn’t he use his expertise and strategy now?

It was just traces at first. You hardly noticed.

There’d be the odd moment when you hesitated in a sentence, blinking, eyes glossy as you lost your train of thought. That little fluster was delicious, but not enough. He watched you closely, reading the microexpressions that drifted across your features: confusion, a tiny flicker of heat, embarrassment you squashed down. You’d shake your head briskly, recenter yourself, and apologize with a laugh he could tell was forced.

And he always smiled warmly at you, but inside, it was with the energy of a satisfied smirk.

It was working.

He made minute adjustments. Ratcheted the levels up and down, spiked your mail with just enough to make you breathe deeper when you opened it. He traded in your regular coffee beans for a new bag from the “cool indie shop on the corner,” slipped the powder into the grounds. It was a delicate balance: he never wanted you to feel sick, just hungry. Desirous. Needy.

Once, he heard you through the wall, weeping with frustration. He’d never heard that in your voice before, and it made him burn with satisfaction and anticipation.

But he was always successful in his missions because of his expertise, his ability to gage proper timing.

He struck early, before the city could shake off its Saturday morning haze. Heat already radiated from the bricks, the kind of July swelter that made people yearn for lemonade and picnics and pools. He moved in darkness as much out of habit as necessity, crossing the handful of feet between your fire escape and his with the ease of a man who’d spent too many years navigating roofs and ledges and the soft places between shadows.

The mixture was clear, almost invisible, but he applied it in a glistening line along the edges of your window frames, working methodically. His hands did not shake.

He returned to his own apartment and pulled up the port he’d developed to control your HVAC system, and shut it down just before he knew you were typically up and stirring around on a Saturday morning.

And then he waited.

By 8:37 a.m. your apartment was growing warmer than usual, and you woke with a slick hairline, a sheen of sweat over your skin. He watched you from the camera he installed as you slipped out of bed and down the hall. You pawed at the digital thermostat first, muttering under your breath, but only the error message blinked back at you: HVAC ERROR. CALL MAINTENANCE. You let out a laugh, brittle and bitter, and trudged to the windows, pushing up the panes to at least get the fresh air. You left every window open, desperate for a through breeze.

You braced your palms against the sill and he could see the relief already blooming in your posture as the pane slid open. The breeze was gentle but constant, carrying with it the faintest hint of the compound’s sharp, metallic sweetness. It was immediate, the way it worked instantaneously: you inhaled, unaware, then blinked rapidly. Your jaw slackened for a fraction of a second, mouth parted in an unintentional invitation. Your hands lingered on the window frame, before you pulled them back and wiped one over your brow, while the other went to your chest, and no wonder since he assumed that you’d be feeling an uptick in your heart rate.

And now, he would wait.

He watched you pad into your little kitchen, tugging at the hem of your sleep shirt. You filled the kettle, set it on, and stood at the counter, hands fluttering as if you’d forgotten what to do with them. You took a breath—he could see the shudder of your shoulders—then craned your neck, face tilted to the open window, and inhaled again, a long, greedy drag.

Inside a minute, you began to fidget. Your thighs pressed together, then parted, then pressed again, the rhythm building. Your head tipped forward, eyes closing as you gripped the countertop, knuckles going white. A slick little shiver wound through you. The kettle whistled, shrill and out of place, and you startled so hard the mug tumbled from your hands, landing on the floor with a muted thunk.

Bucky chuckled.

This was going to be fun.

You were not, generally, this unbalanced. You could ride out a wave of sexual frustration for weeks, even months, and never let it show in your polite smile or the hand you’d lend to old Mrs. Lopez on 5B with her packages. You had learned to live with your little obsession with your neighbor Bucky Barnes in the same way you’d learned to ignore the drip in your bathroom sink: a low-level, constant irritant, a fixture of your life that you could, with sufficient self-control, simply tune out.

It was only a quarter past nine in the morning and you were already panting like you’d just climbed six flights in July, not merely rolled out of bed. Something was wrong with your body. Not sick—more like your skin had outgrown you overnight, every inch of you thrumming with an ache that had nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with need.

Because as bad as the heat was, you’d woken up at 3:21am, rolled onto your stomach and pressed your thighs together and rocked your hips, humping your mattress to no avail. It was as unfulfilling as the dream you’d woken up from, a dream featuring your neighbor Bucky Barnes pinning you in place, fucking you so well, so close you could taste the climax, only to have jolted awake, desperate and empty.

Now with no AC, it just figures that the universe would align for the worst day of your sexual frustration to peak when your AC went out.

You had lived through enough New York City summers to know the heat would try to kill you, but you’d never expected it to go for the slow, erotic smother instead.

Great. Now your brain was writing romance copy.

You took a cold shower, or as cold as the pipes allowed, and stepped out feeling more feverish and frustrated than ever. After that you stood in front of the open fridge for several minutes, eating string cheese in small, desperate bites, willing the chill to transfer from your tongue to your bloodstream. It didn't work. Cold air kissed your shins momentarily, but it was already evaporating.

Your phone, sticky with sweat, offered no solutions. The building super had already responded to oyour texts, but with the city-wide sweltering temperatures, he said it was going to be difficult to get someone to come look before Monday. You scrolled through social media, found only posts about the heat, people frying eggs on their windowsills, and, for some reason, an uptick in thirst traps. You slammed it facedown on the kitchen table, stood there, and considered your options.

Maybe you would have to resort to leaning on your own personal thirst trap and endure the torture.

Look but not touch.

As always.

You jogged your memory for Bucky’s likely status. His AC always worked, a source of neighborly gloating he pretended to feel sorry about. You’d seen him on the fire escape last night, watering an improbable pot of basil, so he hadn’t left for one of his mysterious, week-long trips.

You counted on him to be up, and you counted on him to be kind and neighborly. How many times had he said to let him know if you needed anything?

You slipped your feet into flip-flops and padded across the hall, the chill of the corridor almost pornographically relieving. Ignoring the urge to just lie down in the communal patch of coolness, you knocked. Not politely, but as un-desperately as you could manage.

His door opened before the second knock. He wore an old t-shirt and gym shorts in the way of a man who didn’t expect guests but was always ready for them. He grinned, broad and easy, and you wanted to slap it off his face or maybe—maybe—sink your teeth into the soft underside of his jaw, alternate violence and adoration. If it weren’t for the white socks on his feet, he would have been wholly unapproachable. He blinked at you, a little surprised, before his expression softened in recognition.

His blue eyes slid from your face down the length of you—bare-legged, sweat-sheened, half-dressed. If he noticed how untethered you looked, he didn’t say a word.

He just leaned against the doorframe, forearm braced above his head, a little smirk twitching at the edge of his mouth. “Hey, neighbor,” he said, voice just hoarse enough to sound like he, too, had just woken up. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. No, you were not okay. “Yeah, no, my AC’s dead. Reuben says maybe Monday.”

“Damn. That’s rough.” He stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come on in, you can cool off in here. It’s like an igloo compared to the hallway.”

You tried to say “thanks” but it came out thin and breathy. You hesitated in the threshold, pulse hammering in your ears, palms sticky. You were acutely aware of every inch of your skin and the patches where your tank top clung and stuck to your warm skin. You kept your arms tight at your sides and followed him in, trying not to look too hard at the wide set of his shoulders and the deliciously lived-in swoop of his hair.

His apartment was frigid. A gasp left you, startled, as the coolness curled around your ankles and up your shins, relief so sharp it tasted almost like salt. You braced a hand on the wall, felt your knees threatening to buckle for a whole, embarrassing second.

Bucky closed the door behind you and put a hand in his pocket, rocking his weight once up and back on the balls of his feet. As you adjusted to the temperature, your brain came back online, time stretching out but your thoughts not clearing so much as multiplying, all scrambling around the same basic theme: need.

Every little physical sensation felt magnified and weirdly erotic—Bucky’s clean-laundry scent, the chill bristling your nipples, your own rapid breathing, every sound echoing in his silent apartment.

Bucky peered at you with gentle concern, vaguely amused, like he could hold both those things in his expression at once. “You want some coffee?” he offered, casual, normal.

“Only if it’s iced,” you answered, following him into the kitchen.

You perched at his breakfast bar, gripping the edge, trying to appear unbothered. Up close, the scent of his skin and aftershave filled the air, a dizzying magnetism that was entirely unfair. You shifted, restless, gnawing the inside of your cheek.

Bucky moved with measured, assured movements behind the counter, opening a cupboard for glasses, filling them from a pitcher of cold brew. You couldn’t help but follow the flex of his forearm, the way his veins pressed up beneath the thin skin, the way his hands dwarfed the glass when he reached to set it in front of you.

His close proximity, the press of cold air from the vent above, the frisson of want that kept pooling in your belly and lower—god, was there anything left of you but need, at this point? It was getting hard to think, and you had to grip the glass hard to keep your hand from trembling. The iced coffee gave you the jitters. Or maybe it was just him, and the way he looked at you—just for a second, a slip out from behind his affable neighbor mask. It made your skin flare with fresh heat, the want sharper now for the momentary suggestion that maybe he knew exactly how ruined you felt by him.

He didn’t sit, just stood at the other counter a few feet away, tilting back his own glass.

He watched you over the rim, unhurried, eyes steady and watchful, and you thought, briefly, incoherently, that if you didn’t put something else in your mouth besides ice, you were going to say something reckless and humiliating. The coffee wasn’t helping at all. The caffeine sharpened your need, made it into a nervous, electrified ache, made you more aware of the incessant want.

“How’s your week going?” he asked, mild as ever. His voice was a low vibration, something pleasant you wanted to crawl inside.

You tried to recall anything that had happened since Monday, but it all seemed distant, unrelated to the desperate present. “Um. Work’s a lot,” you said, then, quickly, “How about you?”

He waited a beat, as if debating whether to give the default “fine” or to try for something more interesting. “You know. The usual. Little consulting, some paperwork, surveillance for an old friend. Watered the plants.”

There was a small silence. When you spoke, your voice was tight. “Your place is always freezing.”

He shrugged, a smile tugging the edge of his mouth. “Just lucky for once, I guess.” He was looking at you—really looking, with that steady, disarming focus of his, like he was cataloguing everything from the way you shivered to the fact that you couldn’t seem to unclench your legs. “You can hang out as long as you want. I’ve got snacks, TV, whatever you need.”

You needed something, and it was not TV.

But you had worked so hard to manage this—all your strange, out-of-joint attraction to Bucky, your embarrassing daydreams about what it would be like, the impossible softness that sometimes came over his face when he listened to you talk. You knew it was only the pheromones, the chemical trick of proximity that had you feeling so desperately out of control.

God.

He was just being the nice neighbor and friend he always was, and here you were actively fighting some itchyearndesperateneed to fuck him.

Maybe it wasn’t the heat or the coffee. Maybe it was just you, and the unsolvable, hungry problem of wanting him.

You finished your glass with a gulp that left your throat sore. The chill bloomed through your veins, hitting the heat in your core and swirling the want into a sharper, thinner line that tethered you, drove you. You wiped condensation from your lip and found Bucky staring at your mouth. You caught him, or he let himself get caught, because he didn’t look away—he watched, and then, slow and unapologetic, he smiled.

You could feel the edges of yourself getting fuzzy, your boundaries dissolving in the cold and the ache. His name was a bell in your head, a reflex: Bucky Bucky Bucky. You wondered what it’d be like to say it while he was inside you. Or after. Or never.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, but he came closer, leaned over the counter, invading your space as if he knew you weren’t, as if he needed to be sure.

Instead you cleared your throat. “Yeah. Sorry. I think I’m just a little, uh, loopy from the heat.”

His gaze flicked purposefully down your throat, over the pulse jumping there, then back up to your face. “Don’t apologize,” he said, softer than before, which made it worse. “It’s not your fault. Heat’s a killer.”

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound that came out was so thin it hurt. “Is it weird if I jus sit here for a little?”

“You sure you’re okay? No fever?” he asked, his eyes on the exposed column of your throat as you swallowed.

You shook your head and then realized that wasn’t entirely true. “I don’t know. Kind of feels like it.”

“Want me to check?” His question was so innocent you almost missed the note beneath it, the glimmer of amusement in his gaze. “Had to pick up some medical skills in the field. Got really good at feeling foreheads.”

Some combination of mortification and anticipation made you pulse all over. But you wanted the excuse—needed the contact.

“Sure,” you managed, low and hoarse as you scooted your stool a few inches closer to the counter.

He reached across the bar, his cool metal fingers a sharp relief, thumb feathering just under your jaw, palm broad and hot against your cheek. You wanted to press into it like a cat, you wanted to be ruined by it.

He drew in a breath, slow, deliberate, as if he were inhaling more than just your scent. His thumb brushed the hair back from your forehead, and his skin was so much colder than yours—you tingled where he touched you, the contrast as intoxicating as his closeness. “You’re burning up,” he said, with a gravity that made it sound like it was your fault and also exactly what he wanted.

You must have made some noise, some keening thing, because he chuckled, low in his chest. “You okay?” he said again, but this time, not moving back, not letting go.

It wasn’t the move of a guy checking for fever in a platonic way, not really—the way he cradled your chin, thumb brushing over your face, was too familiar, too practiced. His callouses rasped against your skin, a roughness you liked maybe too much.

He started to draw his hand back, and your own moved lightning fast to catch his wrist and bring his touch back to your face. “I…”

“Yes?” he asked, infuriatingly patient.

“Please, I need help,” you whimpered.

The words hung between you, unbearable. He held there, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You stayed, rooted, nails warm on the metal of his wrist, breath short and staccato.

He ducked his head just a fraction, eyes still on you, as if waiting for more. “What kind of help?” he asked.

You couldn’t say it. Not outright. Your grip on him was enough, maybe. You hoped. You hoped not. It trembled out of you: “I don’t know. I just—” You let go, finally, as if releasing his wrist would break the spell. Instead the ache in your palms was replaced instantly by the ache everywhere else.

“You can ask me anything,” he said, as if the answer was simple. You felt the tenderness in the way his hand returned to cup your cheek with unexpected gentleness, thumb stroking along the apple of your cheek, cooling it, coaxing you to keep going.

You shuddered, half in mortification and half in surrender. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you managed, voice high and thin. “It’s not just the heat, I swear, I just—” You pressed your thighs together, pulse jackhammering. “I can’t even think.”

His smile softened, the smugness replaced by something darker, intent. “Hey,” he said, voice lower now, “it’s okay. You trust me, right?”

You nodded, feeling the flush climb to your ears. “Of course I do.” Because you did, more than you’d ever admit. If you didn’t, you’d never be here, letting him touch you, letting your body confess the truth your voice couldn’t find.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, so steady, so direct it made you dizzy.

You tried to answer, but it caught in your throat, a wordless plea. Maybe the problem wasn’t just the heat. Maybe the problem was that your body had been braced for so long against this tidal pull; now it was finally time to give in.

You pressed your thighs together, yet again, and his eyes dropped to the movement immediately.

Then he leaned in, crowding your space, his presence as immediate as the frozen air and the thump of blood behind your ribs. You held your breath, and when he spoke, the words ghosted over your cheek.

“Let me help,” he said. It wasn’t a request.

You nodded, and it was like the cord inside you snapped. He moved so fast, so fluid, that you barely registered being turned—his hands a gentle but unbreakable grip as he rotated you on the barstool, so your knees faced him directly. His palms, one human and one metal, slid up your thighs, thumbs stroking the inside seam, and he sunk to his knees in front of you, the nearness of his face a gravitational force.

The world funneled down to the place where his hands pressed, and you realized he was holding you apart. Not obscenely, not yet, but enough that you were completely open to him, the thin cotton of your shorts doing nothing to hide the flush, the damp.

You made a soft, startled sound—the kind of sound that would have mortified you any other day, but now just seemed like a necessary release valve. The edge of the counter pressed into your back, bracing you, and there was nowhere to look but at him.

He glanced up at you, eyelashes impossibly dark, the blue of his eyes cool and unhurried as the rest of him. “Is this what you need?” he asked softly, one thumb circling closer, not quite touching you where he must have known you needed it most.

“I—” You gripped the counter as your own breath left you high and bright. “Yeah,” you whispered, then stronger. “Yeah. Please.”

Something old and hungry flickered in his eyes; for a second, it was like witnessing a mask falling away, exposing the pure, adoring greed underneath. He nodded, almost formal, and then both his hands bracketed your hips, holding you steady on the stool.

He started at your knee, a glancing scrape of blunt nails and calloused knuckles that sent shivers up your thigh. He traced the seam of your shorts slowly, as if there was all the time in the world, as if he wasn’t about to devour you.

His eyes didn’t leave yours, even as his mouth hovered over the thin cotton barrier. He ghosted a breath across the damp spot he found, and you lost all chance of composure. There was no longer any you, only some open, yearning thing perched on a stool, barely holding itself together. He thumbed the edge of your shorts aside just enough to press against you directly, the heat of his mouth and the shock of his cool fingers alternating in a way that broke your sanity into a thousand flickering, animal senses.

You grabbed at his hair without even meaning to, the urge so primitive it felt like a survival reflex. He hummed appreciatively at the contact, as if you’d pleased him, as if you were doing him a favor by yanking his mouth closer to your cunt. The sound vibrated through you, under your skin, rattling your bones. You tipped your hips, your nerves on fire, and his tongue licked a slow, deep stripe from your inner thigh up, not touching your clit, not yet, just lavishing the tender skin in a way that felt almost teasingly reverent.

You made a strangled noise, one part protest and one part plea, and Bucky’s hands tightened ever so slightly, anchoring you. He mouthed softly at you through the cotton, kissing and tasting like he had planned this moment, fantasized about it, orchestrated it down to seconds.

“God, Bucky, please—” you heard yourself say, shame gone, language stripped down to pure imperative.

He obliged, finally, dragging the fabric aside with both thumbs and kissing you directly, a cool blast of breath ghosting over your slick heat before his tongue pressed flat and broad against your clit. The relief was so acute you almost sobbed, hands convulsing where they tangled in his hair. You heard the low, satisfied growl in his throat as he set in, slow at first, until your hips bucking.

He didn’t tease, not in the sense of withholding; he controlled the pace only so you wouldn’t go off too soon, so you wouldn’t lose yourself before he had you in exactly the state he wanted. He gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking up and down, pinning you gently but completely, and sucked softly at your clit, laved it, flicked it until you heard yourself choking on a sob. Your hands curled into his hair, desperate for more, for anything, and he let you grind against his mouth, so attentive that he’d match every desperate movement with the exact pressure you needed.

It was embarrassing how quickly you came, shameful and glorious at once. You still had enough self-awareness to gasp his name in something like apology. “Bucky, Bucky, ah—fuck, so close.”

He growled, mouth pressed to you, and angled his tongue just-so, and the orgasm hit with staggering force, a white-out that blitzed your vision and stole any words from you. He didn’t stop. He held you through it and past it, swallowing down the shudders and the desperate sounds you made, like he’d known exactly how this would unfold. When you came down it was only because he let you, retreating from your cunt with a last, obscene kiss to your inner thigh.

He stayed on his knees as you caught your breath, looking up at you through the mess of his hair with a carefulness that could almost have passed for concern, were it not for the dark, starved edge to his gaze.

“It’s not enough, is it?” he asked, voice warm and hoarse, a dangerous temptation.

You shook your head before you realized what you were doing. The need was still there, louder if anything, a metabolic demand your body had never known before. The aftershocks of your orgasm didn’t blunt it; they just made you more sensitive, skin electric, greedy for any touch. The taste of his name was still burning on your tongue.

“I don’t—” You tried to get your breath, but every inhale was a plea, an invitation. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.” It sounded like a lie as soon as you said it. You did know, and so did he; the only thing you didn’t know was how far either of you would let it go.

Bucky’s hands slid up your thighs, palms broad and possessive suddenly, not the gentle friend but a man answering a hunger of his own.

He rose in a single uncoiling, smooth and predatory, and you found yourself wanting to press back, to get some space, but you didn’t want space—what you wanted was to be pressed under him, to feel the full weight of him locking you down, holding you together.

He didn’t say another word, just bent and swept you up. His hands were careful, but the grip was decisive, one arm braced under your ass, the other curling around your upper back so your body instinctively folded against his chest. You clung to his shoulders, dizzy from the abrupt motion, but he was already hauling you past his kitchen, navigating the hall with a single-minded purpose. In the living room he set you on your feet behind the couch, spun you so you faced the window, city sun slicing in through the blinds and painting stripes over the room.

He nudged you forward until your hips bumped the cushion, then planted his hands on your waist, pressing you down in a gentle but unmistakable command. You braced your palms on the back of the couch, arms locking to hold yourself upright, the cool leather shivery against your bare thighs. His breath ghosted over your shoulder as he leaned in, mouth at your ear.

“You’re desperate for me to ruin you, aren’t you, pretty girl?”

His tone was so wicked, so knowing, that you felt your knees threaten to buckle. Before you could respond, Bucky’s hands slid down, splayed wide over your hips, and then he used a foot to nudge your legs apart.

The movement was so natural, so certain, that you obeyed without thinking, planting your feet wider, arms braced. Your shorts were still tangled around one thigh and even that didn’t matter, there was nothing in the world but the way his hand slid between your legs and the sound you made when he did. He pressed the heel of his palm right to your cunt, pushing up against the fabric, feeling exactly how soaking, how frantic, you were for him.

Bucky made a low, appreciative noise, and you could feel the shape of his cock, hard and urgent, as he moved in closer behind you. He raked his thumb up your spine and you arched for him, made yourself an offering.

There was a trembling pause as his hands found the elastic, hooked under it, peeled the shorts and your underwear down in a single, devastating motion. He left them tangled around your knees, a shackle you could feel, and then he was there—close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the shape of him, hard and insistent, through his gym shorts.

You heard the rustle of his clothes behind you, the elastic snap of his waistband, the uneven jolt of his breath. You tried not to turn back, to break the spell, but his hand fisted gently in your hair, holding you forward, not cruelly but as if he worried you might float away from him. You felt the graze of his knuckles against the small of your back and then the soft, heavy head of his cock against your inner thigh, thick and achingly hot. You made another helpless sound, impossible to disguise as anything but want.

You half heard him whisper, “Good fucking girl,” and it was more grounding than anything—the way he said it, not for praise but as a pure statement of fact, as if you’d always belonged to this moment.

A heartbeat later you felt him line up, one broad hand bracing your hip, the other guiding himself between your legs. He slid in slow, first just crowning the tip, then a steady, unhurried advance until you pulsed around him, all the breath knocked out of you. He was big, God, he was fucking huge, and you felt every inch of him, slow and relentless, until your body gave up its resistance and let him in all the way.

You choked on a sob and he stilled, letting you adjust, the metal of his hand biting into your hip in an anchoring grip that kept you from collapsing. He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, feather-light, before rolling his hips forward, testing. The drag was so exquisite, so sharp, that your eyes filled up and spilled over before you understood you were crying. It didn’t feel sad or even humiliating; it felt like relief, like every nerve in your body finally tuned to the right frequency.

“There you go,” Bucky murmured, and the silk in his voice slid down your spine. “Let me take care of you.”

You arched back into him, jaw gone slack, and he took the cue, holding onto your hip with steel precision as he drew out, then thrust in to the hilt. The both of you made sounds then—animal, necessary, a tangled braid of shameless arousal. You were seared open, body and brain in ruins for him, and Bucky’s every move felt designed to keep you right at the rawest possible edge without letting you tumble off. With each slow, grinding thrust, he’d flex his fingers into your skin, and you were glad for the force. Otherwise, you might have rocketed apart.

He fucked you like he had nowhere else to be for the rest of his life. Each pass in and out was deep, so deep you saw stars, and he bit down on every gasp and whimper you made like treasure, hoarding them, making sure there was nothing you could give that he wouldn’t take. When you shuddered, he braced you. When you tried to hide your face in your arms, he made you look out the window.

“Imagine how wrecked you look if someone could see you like this, how good you are, how pliant, how utterly fucked out and feral for me.”

You could only groan beneath him.

But that wasn’t good enough.

“Because you are, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you managed to gasp.

“Fuck yeah, you are. Should film you next time so you can see.”

And that promised sentiment or threat or blessed assurance of a next time only barely registered in your head.

You felt the shape and girth of him everywhere, not just inside you but in your fingertips and jaw and even your toes, curled white-knuckled against the plush carpet. It felt like a breaking-open, a shudder that rattled the cage of rib and skull and emptied you in the best way. After the first spasm hit, it didn’t really stop; it just crested and broke, and then again, and again, as he drove you relentlessly through every aftershock.

Your throat was raw from the sounds you made, but you didn't care. Let the whole damn building know, let the heatwave carry it down to the street—anyone who heard would only know what you’d always suspected: that you were made, and remade, by the hands and cock of James Bucky Barnes.

He came with a groan that sounded like it had been torn up from the pit of him. You felt it, impossibly deep, an anchoring warmth at your core. He didn’t pull out right away, just pressed you down and into the couch, his breath ragged against your shoulder, sweat mixing with your own. The sun striped you both, pale and blurred, in the window’s glare. He cupped your waist, held you like he was scared you might disappear. The sound of your pulse was everywhere, in your mouth, your cunt, the tips of your fingers.

Eventually he eased out, then tossed you gently over the back of the couch and onto its cushions, hoisting himself immediatle after you, and settling between your thighs.

You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, he cupped your jaw in both his hands, and you met halfway in a kiss. Slow, charting, but eager to map, to pour into each other.

You should be spent, you knew that, and yet there was still a flickering need for even more, and ultimately you couldn’t keep from squirming your hips up beneath him like a bitch in heat.

Bucky growled but grinned against the crook of your neck. "Already? Thought I wore you out." He was half-teasing, half hopeful, and all of it made you ache more.

You panted, little strains of whimper leaking out as you shifted beneath his weight. "It's not—" You couldn't catch your breath. "It's not gone."

He drew back enough to see your face, the marvel and hunger written in every line of him. He was giddy on it now, drunk on you, the endlessness of your need. His thumb traced a path under your eye, along your jaw, a tenderness just as striking as the force when he'd bent you over the couch.

His hand was already sliding down, finding the tremor in your thigh where you'd hooked your heel into the small of his back. “C’mon, pretty girl, take what we know you need.”

He was still hard, not as superhumanly so as thirty seconds ago, but the evidence of his stamina pressed hot and thick against your thigh. The animal edge to his smile dared you to test him. So you did.

Your hand slid down between the bodies, still trembling, and guided his cock back home. Then you canted your head up, eyes wide, mouth open to him even before he took it. The kiss was deep and viscous as he slid his thick length back into you.

“You gonna let me fill up this tight cunt all day?”

Your head fell back, the surrender automatic. “Yes,” you managed, “please, Bucky—just—”

He didn’t give you time to finish the thought before he buried himself again, the shock of it so perfect you clenched hard around him, a plea and a welcome and a thank you all at once. You couldn’t believe there was anything left in you to give, but every stroke proved you wrong, dragged up a new, desperate need that was only satisfied by the relentless rhythm of his cock and his hands and the way his mouth fixed on you, starved.

He took you harder this time, body layered over yours on the couch, arms caging you in, fists in the cushions, the infected animal in your belly delighted to be conquered. The slap and drag, the obscene wet noise of your bodies meeting, should have been mortifying, but you couldn’t care less. All you could think about was the way he felt inside you, the fullness.

You fucked up into him like it could ever be enough, like you could reach the end of it, but all it did was ratchet higher the more you got. Illogical. Perverse. You wanted it so bad you felt like you might splinter from it.

He kept his eyes open, watching your every twitch and lost syllable, and when he spoke, it was a benediction and a dare all at once. “That’s it,” he cooed, “—take it, sweetheart, take every fucking drop.”

This man who you’d pegged as your polite, kind, helpful, funny neighbor, a gentle giant, a friend but not possibly interested in anything more… how could you have been any more wrong about him? It seemed his need was as insatiable as yours, as rough as yours.

He braced a hand on your ass and fucked into you so deep your vision actually blurred, and you had a moment of floating, refracted through heat and sensation, no thought in your head but the total occupation of Bucky’s cock and Bucky’s hands and Bucky’s words, which were now a white-noise loop of fuck, that’s so good and look at you and you greedy little thing.

You lost count of how many times you came, whether it was three or four or one long endless melt that crested and crashed and kept cresting again. Each time you clenched harder, he grunted, all approval and gratitude, like you were thriving on the mutual destruction. The only thing that finally stopped him was the way your body seized under him, shaking with exertion, whole frame slick with sweat and blown wide open—and even then, he only slowed to kiss the tears off your cheek before pumping in shallow, locking thrusts, filling you a second time.

He rolled and shifted so he was below and you were arranged on top of him, cock still inside you, and petted your head and back, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

But somehow your body still wasn’t done. The pitch of wasn’t as feverish, but you still ached for more, and you shifted, pressing your hands firmly onto his chest and pushing your hips back.

He growled and grinned up at you in approval, letting you take the pace, lazy hip rolls and shallow thrusts, like he was content to be used if only you’d keep him inside your cunt.

"That’s it, baby," Bucky murmured, hands cupping your hips in living brackets of steel and warmth, "workin’ it all out of your system, huh?" He let you ride him at your pace, let you grind and flex and arch your spine in a slow, deliberate torture, as if the last hour hadn’t emptied you. He watched the place where you were joined with worshipful fixation. Sometimes his hands drifted up your plump sides, moving over the sweat slicking over your ribs, sometimes they hovered beside your tits, thumbs circling the soft underside without quite squeezing. He wanted you to take, to use.

It was so much. The room, the man, the way your senses flattened and then sharpened around only the pressure and friction, the molten bracket of his thighs under yours. You could feel the outline and density of him in your gut, could feel the part of him inside you as an ache in your own bones.

Your hair stuck to your face, skin flushed and slick. You looked down at him, saw the blue of his eyes gone wild with something that wasn’t just lust but an infatuation so raw it jolted you harder than any thrust. You felt gorgeous and filthy and alive.

You braced your palms on his chest, the sweat-slick warmth of him grounding you to the world, to the precise coordinates of this couch, this apartment, these four walls where everything inside you had been rewritten. You rolled your hips, slow at first, test-driving this new sense you’d grown this morning. Each drag, each grind made the both of you moan, made his jaw go slack with admiration and something wild behind it.

“You look so good like this,” he whispered, almost reverent. His hands continued to wander, kneading your waist, your ass, committing every detail like a man who’d been in a famine so long he didn’t trust that the feast would last.

You uncurled from his chest and sat up, knees braced against the outside of his thighs. The angle changed everything—it let you drop down with gravity on your side, and the sudden invasion made you gasp, then laugh a little at the reckless power of it.

“Didn’t know you had this in you, pretty girl,” he said, eyes bright with admiration and a little awe, as your bodies met again and again. You shuddered, every nerve ending tuned to the raggedly sweet friction. You braced one hand on the couch back for support, the other pressing his chest flat to the cushions so he couldn’t move, so you could wring every last drop out of him.

He let you, his hands only guiding, though you could feel they itched for more, alternately cupping your ass and tracing the slick line along your spine. He never looked away, and you couldn’t either, not really. Part of you was afraid if you stopped, you’d never start again, that all of being alive was compressed into this blinding, needy cycle, the slow slide up, the brief gasp at the crest, the smashed-together bodies and the static-burst of coming apart.

You both dissolved into it, rode out the rhythm together, a storm system of skin and sweat and salt air. You wanted to memorize every flicker in his face, the way his jaw tensed when you clenched around him, the soft snarl of delight when you scraped your nails up his stomach, the groan from somewhere ancient when you rocked down, hard, and took him to the hilt. Like this, you were animal and angel at once, an ache shaped just for him, every ounce of pain and pleasure remade as a message to Bucky that he could have you, all of you, if only he asked.

This time when you came, it was a slower surrender, a low-voltage tremble that climbed your spine and made you shake all over. You fell forward onto him, collapse and comfort in the same gesture, and Bucky wrapped his arms around you, rocked you gently even as you whimpered from the aftershocks. He kissed the top of your head, and it was tender but also bespoke a possessiveness that you felt curl happily inside you.

“That’s it,” he crooned, lips against your hairline, “breathe. You did so fuckin’ good.” His hands swept over your back, grounding you, stoking the heat that was already beginning to spark again in the depths of your belly. You wanted to fight it, or at least express some normal human embarrassment at the way you’d let yourself melt into a horny puddle in your neighbor’s arms, but the pleasure sparked with every breath and touch, making defiance impossible.

It was fortunate that this man was a super soldier and could give you what you needed.

You wondered how many times you would come before you burnt out completely, or if you’d just fuse into something new, a singularity of slick and want and Bucky’s name.

Bucky knew he could see you through all of it.

He looked forward to being the conduit you found your relief in since he was the architect of this sweet, filthy, exquisite destruction.

And he couldn’t imagine that this brain-altering type of experience wouldn’t yield him exactly what he’d been waiting so long for: you, surrendering to him completely, admitting there was more than neighborly friendship between you, content and eager to finally be his.

The chemicals would burn out of your system in a few more hours, and then he’d take such good care of you in your recovery. He’d keep the AC off in your apartment so he could coax you to accept his invitation to stay all weekend.

He was sure two days was all he needed to secure you forever.

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[buckets-and-trees]

Thermostat's Set at Six-Nine [Bed Chem collection]

Characters/Pairings: Bucky Barnes x curvy!Millennial female!reader Word Count: 3k Summary: Bucky invaded your bed the night after you bumped into each other at the bake sale, and it trips a streak...

Content Warnings: modern AU; hook up culture/bootycall; established no-strings sexual relationship; explicit smut (vaginal fingering, vaginal intercourse, unprotected sex and ejaculation)

Logistical Notes: We met Bed Chem Bucky last summer during HBS, so what better time to bump into him again than for the FIRST WEEK of @buckybarnesevents Hot Bucky Summer 2025?! Using the dialogue prompt "Mind your own damn business" and the themes of secret sex and loosly embarrassment and denial as well.

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You meant for it to be a one-time relapse, but Bucky’s been in your bed three nights in a row.

The first night, he left before sunrise. The next, he lingered in your bed, snoring with his arm casually possessive across your waist, until you wriggled free and locked yourself in the bathroom, equal parts annoyed and turned on by the hickeys blooming over your breasts and neck. But last night, he stayed so late into the morning that you had to tell him directly to get out, that you needed to get ready for work, that your boss had already noticed you showing up late twice this week. You thought it would embarrass him, or at least make him reconsider, but he only smirked, pressed you up against the wall in your entryway, and left you with an orgasm and a rude little text before you’d even made it to your car.

Tonight, you promised yourself, you’re going to turn him away. 

You never imagined—when you started sleeping with the man who once got you off in the back of a security truck, who barely bothered to learn your last name and only ever texted after midnight—that he would become… clingy.

And yet, night four, 2:07 am, your front door clicks open with the softest of sounds. You should have changed the code on the lock. You shouldn’t have given him the code in the first place. But the truth is, you wanted this. You wanted to be wanted, even by the worst possible man for you.

You lie very still in bed, feigning sleep, as Bucky pads through your tiny apartment in stocking feet, nearly quiet as an assassin. 

You know you should have locked him out—especially tonight, when your phone is full of sweet, anticipatory texts from Aiden about your brunch plans in the morning, about whether you like lemon curd or if you have any allergies. You even set an early alarm, put out the dress you planned to wear, and prepped the coffeepot. But Bucky’s shadow falling across the threshold, the shiver of anticipation snaking up your spine, undoes all logic.

He doesn’t say your name. Instead, he sits on the edge of your bed as if summoned. He runs a palm up your calf, kneading an absent bruise on your thigh he probably put there the night before.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. 

You pretend to still be asleep. You strive for even breathing, for a slack jaw and closed eyes, but you know the way your body betrays you—how your back arches with the tiniest invitation, how your breath catches in the silence of the room.

Bucky leans in, his stubble dragging along the inside of your knee. He doesn’t hesitate. Two fingers sweep up to your hip, his thumb hooks into the elastic of your shorts and panties, and then he’s tugging, impatient, taking your bare ass in the palm of his hand.

He pushes your shirt up. His lips blaze a hot trail up your spine that you can’t ignore, and you have to let out a soft, desperately contented moan. 

You feel the grin on his lips against your skin. “Knew you’d be ready to play,” he says, pressing a hot kiss to the crook of your neck. His breath is faintly minty and cool, as if he knew you’d be auditioning him again tonight. 

“I have to get up early,” you say, and you finally open your eyes, staring up at the ceiling. “I have plans.”

Bucky’s hand finds its way back to the inside of your thigh, two thick fingers gently circling as if the entire world is only the small of your body beneath his touch. “You gonna let some other guy taste you?” His lips curve against your shoulder, half-mocking, half-possessive. The two of you know you’re not exclusive. That’s been the understanding since the beginning. 

You snort, turning your head to glare at him. “Maybe I will. Maybe he’ll let me sleep.” 

He smirks, unperturbed. “You don’t want sleep, you want this.” His fingers slide inside you, slow and devastating, his thumb finding your clit like it was programmed to ruin you. “You don’t need to get up early if you never go back to sleep.” His words melt into the curve of your ear, a criminal’s confession offered in the hush before dawn.

You want to protest, to tell him no, that you need to banish him from your apartment, your bed, and, most importantly, your mind. 

If only he wanted you in the daytime the way he wants you now.

Wait. 

Do you even want that with him? 

And Aiden might be satisfying in bed in the future. 

Bucky’s mouth is on your hip, then your waist, then the lowest curve of your back. “You want me to be gentle, or do you want it how you like it?” he asks, and it’s not a question at all because he already knows.

He fucks you with his fingers until you whimper, until your thighs tremble and your pajamas are halfway down your calves and you don't even remember ever owning resistance.

"I have to…" you whisper, but he cuts you off with a sharp slap—equal parts attention and punctuation—on your left cheek.

"You have to nothing," he says, and then he flips you, one-armed, so you're faceup, and he slides his cock in so slow, an intrusion, invasive and inevitable. He's watching your face, the way the corners of your mouth go slack, the way your eyes glass over. He jerks your thigh up, knee to his ribcage, and leans in to bite your jaw, not enough to break the skin but enough that you know he could. You whimper and he pulses inside you, his breath ragged and animal. 

"Fuck, you're tight," he grits, voice thick with the edge of darkness that always follows him through the door. His hand tightens on your hip until you're sure you’ll bruise, until he’s moving your body to his rhythm like you’re just another tool, a favorite toy finally brought out and admired. You are too tired to protest, too sated by the animal logic his body impresses upon yours.

He fucks you slowly at first, which is almost a taunt. You know how Bucky likes his rhythm—hard enough it feels like a fight, paced at some devil’s tempo—and when he goes slow, it means he’s in it not for the chase but the capture.

You hate that the way he holds your throat now feels like the safest place in the world, or that no one else even comes close to this, to you clinging to the back of his neck as if the entire earth would drop away if you ever let go.

You realize, in the few lucid spaces of pleasure between losing yourself, that you’re not even angry at him for breaking into your apartment or for making himself at home in your bed. You’re angry at yourself, for loving the way he doesn’t ask for permission, for loving that you never have to be good or gentle or careful. Here, with Bucky, you get to be feral. You get to let it all go.

He’s not saying anything, not even the little dirty nothings he usually mutters, just breathing against your skin, breathing with you, in you, all around you. The silence of your room is disturbed only by the slap of flesh and the needy little whimpers slipping past your lips despite all intentions otherwise. He watches you nearly the entire time, eyes open and hungry, as if he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of the moment when you finally break for him, the muscle memory of your shudder and sigh. Every time you try to look away, his hand turns your face back to his, and when you clench around him, he lets out a sharp, desperate sound that tells you more than words ever could—tells you he’s come unravelled, too.

You come. Of course you do. You always do with him. It wrecks you, the kind of orgasm that wracks a sob from you, trembling so hard your teeth chatter. He holds you down, fucking straight through your climax. He doesn’t slow; he chases his own finish with ruthless single-mindedness, the only sign of tenderness the gentle way his thumb wipes beneath your eye as you cry.

When he finishes—when he comes inside you, without a word, only a primal groan—he collapses on top of you. He’s big and warm and so heavy on you. You breathe around the urge to bite his ear, to bury your nose in the salt of his neck, to drag him deeper somehow. You wait for the weight to become unbearable, and then you wait some more. 

You simply lie there, but nothing is insignificant in this simplicity-Bucky heaving, face pressed to your collarbone, his hair damp and loose from its tie. You slide your hands up from his back to his scalp, gentle, selfish, not willing to let him go yet, and you feel the rare tremble in his body, the aftershock of release. He doesn’t move except to adjust his grip, his hand splaying wide over your chest as if to imprint you, mark you out as his. You’re not sure if he’s prepared to fall asleep right there, or if he’s waiting for you to break first and send him away.

He’s so much body, sometimes you think he could just smother you and you wouldn’t even mind.

When you finally speak, it’s not to dismiss him. 

“I’m getting up at seven-thirty,” you say, like an ultimatum. 

He lifts his head, squinting at you, at your hair plastered across your forehead and the haunted redness of your cheeks. His hand drags up from your chest to curl around your jaw, thumb fitting against your lower lip. You want him to say something cruel or lewd, something to dilute the intimacy, but instead he kisses your chin with a slowness that’s almost hesitant. "I’ll wake you up," he says.

The way he says it makes you ache and angry. 

He pulls out carefully, and you feel the mess he’s made of you, the slick that leaks between your thighs. Bucky tugs the covers over you, then lies down on his back, one arm cradled beneath his head, the other crooked so his palm rests on your belly, thumb drawing absent circles near your navel. It's almost sweet—almost—and so unlike what you'd expect from him that it flusters you. From the cast of his profile in the faint city light, you can tell he's still awake, maybe even as wired with adrenaline as you are.

After a minute, he says, "You think he’s boyfriend material, don’t you?" 

You let out a huff that could be laughter or contempt. 

“Mind your own damn business.”

He shifts a little closer, drags his knuckles up your ribs in a way that says I know every inch of this body, and you’re not keeping secrets from me. 

You’re wary of the tenor of the moment. 

“He’s what you’re supposed to want, right?” 

You don't answer right away. You want to laugh, to roll away from his touch and blurt something bitchy and final, but the honest answer is you don’t know. You wanted someone to take you to brunch, maybe even to dinner. You don’t need that, but you want that. 

"I haven't even decided if I like him yet," you say, your voice hollow with honesty.

Bucky grunts. "Yeah. Liar." The hand on your belly tightens, his thumb pressing into the soft curve above your hip. "You wouldn’t agree to go out with him if you didn’t."

"You don’t know that." You want to sound sharp, but it comes out softer, almost plaintive.

He shrugs, then moves his hand. “Sure, I do. Neither of us has slept with someone else for months now, right?”

You’re not surprised—he’s not wrong—but you’d never said that out loud, not even to yourself. You open your mouth to lie, to say “You can’t possibly know that,” but the words never surface. He knows. He’s always known. When you’re together, it’s like the whole world is distilled down to just this; sweat and friction and the comfort of never saying too much. 

The silence stretches, stretching out into a palpable thing. He traces lazy shapes against your skin, his breath evening out, a counterpoint to your hammering heart. 

“Go to sleep,” you mutter, but you don’t mean it as an order. You say it because you want the moment to end before you lose your nerve and ask him to stay. Because you don’t want to tell him to go either. 

He’s already drifting off, you can feel the slack gravity of him giving in. Bucky’s never been clingy, but here he is, falling asleep in your bed on consecutive nights. 

You lie there in the dark for a long moment, feeling his cum start to trickle down your thigh, and wonder what it would be like to have him in your bed every night, to know that’s what you both want. 

In the morning, he wakes you up and tugs you to the shower that’s already running. You step under the spray, goosebumps rising on your skin, both from the chill and from the awareness of Bucky’s heavy presence behind you.

You expect him to crowd you, to push you up against the cold tile and pin your wrists, but instead he lathers up his hands and runs them down your back, scraping gently with his blunt nails. No groping, no sly grabs; he’s just methodically cleaning you, as if that’s what you do when you fuck someone four nights running—you wash them, you take their old skin and strip it off. 

He makes a show of rinsing you off, turning you under the water, palming his hand across your brow to keep the suds out of your eyes. He doesn’t so much as steal a squeeze of your ass, doesn’t press his dick into the small of your back; he just does the job, brisk and pragmatic, like he’s washing a pet or a very dirty child.

You don’t know what to do with your hands, so you settle for lathering up his shoulders, scrubbing down his back, the broad expanse of him. There’s a long, pale scar just above his right hip, and you outline it with your fingertip. He flinches, ever so slightly, but lets you do it. Neither of you talks. You swap places, you share the soap. You know the choreography now, and you almost wish he would revert—grab the nape of your neck, make you look at him, demand you finish things the way only you can. But he doesn’t. 

When you step out, he grabs a towel and wraps it around your shoulders, tugging you into him. He’s still naked, still dripping, but somehow this moment is less erotic than domestic, less slick with want and more layered with something you can’t bother to name. At least not until caffeine.

You look up at him, clutching the towel to your front, and say, “You’re a menace.”

He grins, a wolfish can’t-help-himself grin. “You’re welcome.”

You notice the raw pink marks left by your fingernails across his shoulders, the lingering evidence of your own hunger. He pretends not to see you seeing him, but you catch the smirk on his face, feeling more settled to have that more familiar expression back in its place.

You towel off in the bedroom, Bucky sitting at the edge of your bed, already half-dressed, scrolling through his phone. You think he’ll have a text from one of his buddies, or maybe his ex-wife, but when you catch a glimpse of the screen, it’s a weather app and then, jarringly, a photo of the cupcakes from the PTA bake sale. There’s a text chain open—he’s sent the picture to someone, captionless.

You want to ask, but you think it would be too much, too close to real. You and Bucky are filthy, nasty, relentless sex without strings, no schedule, on a whim when someone sends up a flare. 

Maybe you’re both just fucking lonely.

You don’t ask.

Instead, you get dressed for brunch with Aiden, pulling on the dress you picked out last night and staring at your reflection. The map of bruises and bite marks that Bucky left on your shoulders and chest are somehow miraculously hidden, but you meticulously check to make sure.

Bucky hangs around until you start on your hair and make up, then plants a kiss on your shoulder blades and tells you, “Knock ‘em dead,” and leaves with his hands in his pockets. You tell yourself you should change the code, but you know you never will.

You spend the rest of the morning in a kind of liminal jet lag, floating through the motions of getting ready. You make it to the café five minutes late—a miracle for someone who has slept very little the past four nights.

Aiden is already seated at an outdoor table, sunlight sifting through the awning and lighting up his hair in a soft gold halo. He stands when he spots you, an old-fashioned but endearing gesture, and you feel immediately self-conscious, like you’re an imposter in a skin that doesn’t quite belong to you, meeting up with the prince from a Disney movie. 

He pulls out your chair with a quiet, “You look amazing,” and the words are so gentle your chest aches. 

You’re not sure what to do with this new vector of attention.

There’s nothing to do except order the French toast. 

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[mcrdvcks]

saw this tweet and got inspired that i wrote it at 3 am in the morning before going to bed, lol (insomnia my old friend).

warnings/tags: 2.1k words, soft!bucky, fem!reader, smut, soft sex, oral (f!receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, mention of brushing hair from face, aftercare (that gets interrupted by a certain little kitty)

You’re sprawled on the living room floor, arms tucked behind your head, watching Bucky knock out push-ups like it’s nothing. His hair is half-tied, sweat clinging to his neck, and every time he dips low above you, he presses a quick kiss to your lips.

“Twenty-seven,” he murmurs against your mouth. Another peck. “Twenty-eight.”

You try to keep still, to be good, but it’s hard when he’s hovering over you like that—shirtless, muscles flexing, eyes flicking down to your lips every few seconds like he’s starving. You arch a brow. “Are you actually counting or just making out with me between sets?”

His grin is unfair. “Multitasking.”

You roll your eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“Twenty-nine.” This time the kiss lingers—soft and warm and just a little bit… distracted. His lips move against yours like he’s forgetting the workout altogether, his body lowering a touch too far as his chest brushes yours.

Then, without warning, your hands slide up to grab his shoulders, pulling him down fully until he collapses over you with a huff of laughter.

“Hey,” he says, voice muffled as he nuzzles into your neck, “you’re interrupting my form.”

“Maybe I wanted a longer kiss,” you mutter, already trailing your fingers through the damp strands at his nape. “Sue me.”

His chuckle rumbles against your collarbone. “Gotta finish my reps, baby.”

You tilt your head, letting your lips skim his jaw. “Then consider this your new set.”

That does it.

He shifts, one metal hand bracing by your head, the other sliding down your side until his fingers grip your thigh. He parts your legs with his knee slowly, deliberately, slotting himself between them as his mouth finds yours again—deeper now, slower. Hungrier.

Your breath catches, your fingers tightening in his hair.

“Still multitasking?” you whisper against his lips.

Bucky smirks. “Not anymore.”

His mouth was warm on yours again, slow and deep this time, his tongue teasing at the seam until you opened for him with a sigh. Your fingers slipped under the band of his shorts, nails dragging gently over the curve of his lower back, the skin hot and damp with sweat.

"Fuck," Bucky murmured into your mouth. "This is a way better workout."

You laughed softly, but the sound caught in your throat when he rolled his hips down against yours—slow, measured pressure that made your breath hitch and your thighs tighten around him instinctively. You weren’t wearing much, just your sleep shorts and an old tank top, and he… he was hard.

Very.

"Jesus, Buck—"

"Mmh. That’s what happens when you lie under me bein’ all cute ‘n kissable." He mouthed along your jawline, his voice honeyed and rough. "You think I’m made of steel, baby?"

"Parts of you, maybe," you teased, rocking up against him. That earned you a low groan, and the sound raked straight through your core.

"Keep that up and I’m gonna fuck you right here on the yoga mat."

"Promises, promises," you breathed, pulling his mouth back to yours.

Bucky shifted, kneeling between your legs just enough to drag your shorts down, the fabric catching slightly on your thighs before he peeled them off entirely. His gaze dropped, metal fingers brushing down the curve of your inner thigh, warm and reverent.

"Goddamn," he muttered, like it physically hurt to look at you. "You’re fuckin’ soaked already."

"Wonder why," you whispered, hips lifting toward him in offering.

He didn’t dive in. Not yet. He leaned down again, pressing kisses along your belly, your hip, the inside of your thigh like he was trying to memorize the map of you. Then his mouth reached your cunt, and the first warm flick of his tongue made you arch off the mat.

"Ah—f-fuck, Bucky—"

"Shhh." He pressed your thighs open with both hands, slow and firm, tongue curling just enough to drag a ragged little moan from your throat. "I got you."

The strokes of his tongue were gentle at first—just long, unhurried laps that made your muscles twitch. But then he sucked, just once, right over your clit, and you damn near came off the floor.

"Bucky!" you gasped, one hand flying to his hair.

He groaned low at the sound of his name on your lips like that, like it meant something. Like you couldn’t help it. His tongue flattened against you again, slower now, savoring every twitch of your hips beneath him. You tugged at his hair—half encouragement, half desperation—and he smiled against your skin.

“That good, sweetheart?” he murmured, lips brushing your inner thigh.

You nodded, too breathless to speak, hips already chasing after his mouth when he pulled back just slightly to look up at you. Your chest was heaving, tank top twisted and barely covering you now, eyes glassy and dazed with want. He could’ve stared at you like that forever—completely undone for him.

“Jesus,” he whispered, almost reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

Then he ducked his head again. This time his tongue moved with purpose, working tight circles around your clit while his fingers slid up to tease at your entrance. You moaned when he pushed one inside, then two, stretching you slowly, curling just right until your back arched off the mat.

“B-Bucky—oh my god—”

“I know, baby,” he crooned. “I know. Feels good, huh?”

He fucked you with his fingers, steady and gentle, mouth never leaving your clit. You were soaked—slick and pulsing around him—and when your legs started to tremble on either side of his head, he only doubled down.

“C’mon, give it to me,” he whispered hoarsely. “Wanna feel you come on my fingers.”

Your release crashed over you moments later, your thighs squeezing around his head as you cried out his name. He kept going through it, coaxing every last tremble and twitch from you until your hand tugged at his hair again in a half-sob, overwhelmed.

He finally pulled back, lips slick, eyes dark with adoration.

“Hi,” he said softly, crawling up your body and pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek, then your lips. You could taste yourself on his tongue and it only made you whimper.

“Hi,” you breathed back, still trembling a little. “That was… not a push-up.”

He laughed, a warm rumble against your chest as he pulled you into his arms, cradling you like you were breakable.

“Nope,” he agreed. “That was cardio.”

You buried your face in his neck, giggling breathlessly. “God, I love your workouts.”

“Yeah?” he grinned, nudging your nose with his. “Good. ‘Cause I’m nowhere near done with my sets.”

You were still trying to catch your breath when he hooked an arm under your thigh and shifted—rolling his hips against you again, cock heavy and throbbing against your sensitive center. Even through the fabric of his shorts, the pressure made your body jolt with aftershocks.

“Bucky—” you breathed, voice catching. “Too soon…”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, slow and sweet. “Then let me be gentle, sweetheart.”

You didn’t have the strength to argue—not when he pulled back just far enough to shove his shorts down, revealing the thick line of him, flushed and dripping at the tip. He stroked himself once, then again, groaning low in his throat as he looked at you. Legs still spread, body flushed and trembling, eyes locked on him like he was something holy.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost like it hurt. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty it makes me stupid.”

You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing along the stubble on his cheek. “Then come be stupid with me.”

That broke him. He lined himself up, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, slow and teasing until you whimpered and lifted your hips in a silent plea. Bucky groaned at the sound, bending down to kiss you as he started to push in—inch by inch, filling you until you gasped into his mouth.

“Shit, baby,” he hissed, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re so warm… always so tight f’me.”

He moved carefully at first, rocking his hips in smooth, shallow thrusts as he kissed you—your mouth, your cheek, the tip of your nose. Everything about him was overwhelming in the best way: the stretch, the heat, the love in his eyes as he watched your body take him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in, needing him close—all of him. His chest pressed against yours, heartbeat pounding through both your bodies as he began to move a little faster, a little deeper, letting the rhythm build naturally.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Feels so good, Bucky…”

“I know, baby.” His voice was rough and low, but gentle. “You’re doin’ so good for me. Always so perfect.”

Each thrust made your toes curl, the way he filled you just right—just enough pressure, just enough drag. He kept one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your thigh to anchor himself as he rocked into you, slow and worshipful.

“I love you,” you whispered.

That did something to him. His movements faltered for half a second, and then his mouth was everywhere—your jaw, your neck, the hollow of your throat—as he thrust deeper, groaning like he couldn’t bear to hold back anymore.

“I love you too,” he gasped against your skin. “So fuckin’ much, baby—don’t even know what to do with it.”

You were close again, the pressure building so sweetly it almost hurt. Your nails dug into his back, your breath coming in gasps, and Bucky felt it—knew it.

“That’s it,” he panted, lips brushing your cheek. “Let go for me. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

You came with a shuddering cry, clinging to him as he held you through it, whispering soft praises into your ear. A few more thrusts and he followed with a low, broken groan, burying himself deep as his release spilled inside you, warm and pulsing.

Bucky didn’t move for a while, just breathed with you—your heartbeats slowly syncing in the warm silence of the living room. The yoga mat was definitely not meant for sex, but the way his body covered yours, keeping you grounded and safe, made everything else irrelevant.

Eventually, he shifted just enough to look at you, brushing the damp hair back from your face with gentle fingers. “You okay, doll?”

You nodded sleepily, your legs still loosely wrapped around his waist. “Mmm. Might be dead, actually.”

He chuckled, nose brushing yours. “You’re not dead. You’re just well-exercised.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, but you were grinning. “Your definition of cardio is criminal.”

He kissed your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You whined when he pulled out, hips twitching at the loss of warmth. He soothed you with another kiss, this one soft and lingering, before standing—naked and shameless as ever—and offering you his hand.

You took it with a dramatic groan. “If I can’t walk, I’m blaming you.”

“You say that like it’s a threat,” he smirked, helping you upright and into his arms. He didn’t even bother grabbing your shorts—just scooped you up bridal-style and padded down the hall toward the bathroom like you weighed nothing.

“Show-off,” you muttered, resting your head against his shoulder.

He just hummed and pressed a kiss to your hair.

The bath was quick, lazy, and full of sleepy kisses and wandering hands—but no more than that. He washed you gently, careful with every touch, even when you teased him for the way he cooed over your sore thighs. He even gave your forehead a little kiss after toweling you off.

“Such a sap,” you whispered, smiling into his chest as he wrapped you in one of his old T-shirts.

“Only for you,” he murmured, his voice low and sweet.

Back in the living room, Bucky tossed the rumpled yoga mat aside and collapsed onto the couch with you on top of him, arms wrapped securely around your waist. You nestled against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, your fingers tracing the faint line of a scar near his collarbone.

Just when you were about to fall asleep, a soft meow broke the peace.

You cracked one eye open. “No.”

But it was too late.

Alpine jumped delicately up onto the couch, tail flicking, and immediately made her way across Bucky’s stomach like it was her designated nap zone.

“Alpine,” Bucky said, voice full of fake betrayal, “I just had her, baby, c’mon…”

Alpine responded by kneading into his abs and curling up in the most inconvenient position possible—smack between the two of you.

“She’s jealous,” you said sleepily, reaching over to scratch behind her ear. “You ignored her during your little cardio routine.”

“I was a little busy.”

“She doesn’t care.”

Bucky sighed dramatically, stroking Alpine’s back with one hand while the other curled tighter around your waist.

“Fine. Family cuddles it is.”

You smiled and nuzzled into his neck. “Best set yet.”