Your possessive boyfriend accuses you of cheating on him with his best friend- and you decide to rile him up.
Loki x Reader đ
Yearn for You đ¶ïžâš
Youâve been friends since childhood, after all this time could he truly feel nothing for you?
Winter Rose Drabbles
The Winter Rose, an ex HYDRA assassin trauma bonded with Bucky Barnes in the aftermath of their deconditioning. Theyâre walking the fine line of love and friendship and both of them are too afraid to cross it.
You text your boyfriend a nude selfie while heâs working and now he canât stop thinking about it.
Good Girl â€ïžâđ„
So close you could taste it- but only if you begged him well enough.
Wants and Needs â€ïžâđ„
You come home late from girls night knowing Bucky will still be up. You want need him and youâre finally going to let him know.
Little Bookworm â€ïžâđ„
Your boyfriend canât think of anything more adorable than watching you read. One night while youâre in the shower he picks up the book you left on the nightstand: âHaunting Adeline by H.D. Carltonâ and thumbs through it, very quickly realizing just what kind of books his sweet little bookworm is really into.
Watch Me â€ïžâđ„
Anon request: âcould you do something enemies/rivals where bucky accidentally finds out that you have a mirror kink during a training session?â
Youâve always wanted to be a mother but your husband is too tormented by his past to believe he could ever be a good father. For so long youâve accepted that it will never be in the cards for you- after all, itâs only a small price to pay to continue to live the life youâve built with the man you love. But what happens when you finally admit that you want what he refuses to give you? Will you push him away with your confession or will you finally make him realize that heâs not the man he believes himself to be?
Unbreakable- The After Years âšđ¶ïž
The conclusion to your story.
Stucky x Reader đâ€ïž
Untitled - In progress â€ïžâđ„
Multipart fics
Bucky Barnes x Reader đ
Ready to Comply Part One â€ïžâđ„
Tony Stark's shy, curvy intern finds herself fighting for her life when the quiet and reserved ex-assassin she's been pining after for nearly a year has been activated by HYDRA and given the order to kill her to prevent the completion of the new tech she's been developing alongside Tony Stark and Stark Industries.
Ready to Comply Part Two â€ïžâđ„
The second installment of Ready to Comply.
Ready to Comply Part Three - In progress â€ïžâđ„
pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader
mcu timeline. tfatws.
synopsis. bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you.
warnings. smut ( pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025âą, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy ), no use of y/n, angst, fluff, frenemies to lovers, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky ( if that even makes sense ) ( it doesn't ), jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky's hobby is baking bc i said so.
reader inclusivity. bucky can pick the reader up ( but he's literally a super soldier so đ§ââïž ), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader's hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian ( neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian )
word count. 16.3k
hydeâs input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don't let this flop, it's my birthday tomorrow and i'm not above crying over poorly-received erotica ( i'm joking ) ( no i'm not )
Bucky Barnes is not someone youâd call a friend.
Heâs more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: âCan he crash here for a few days?â
That was four months ago, and Buckyâs still living on your couch.
Which is exactly where heâs 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.
âHow do I look?â You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.
Unfazed by your appearance, he doesnât bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, âWith your eyes, like the rest of us.â
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, itâs vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.
âHa. Ha.â Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. âNow if youâre done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?â
âThatâs your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.â
âBetter than waging a world war every few years.â
âConsidering the current state of the world, I wouldnât rest too comfortably on that one,â 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. âAnyway, you look fine, as always.â
âI look fine?â You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. âCareful Barnes, donât get too excited, itâs not healthy for a senior citizenâs heart.â
âYou know what I mean,â a heavy sigh slips out the soldierâs mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. âI donât understand why you worry so much about all of⊠this.â He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.
âGod forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,â youâre 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. âGee 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!â
The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottleâs 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?
Buckyâs by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug heâs wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam â 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- Heâs not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.
âDonât you think youâre being a little ridiculous?â 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 youâve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. âThereâs no way youâre worth two goats.â
âEvery day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.â
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 heâs 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 youâre some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect heâs having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.
âThose boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?â His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if thatâs how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you donât actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. âOr is that your job too, like the bill?â
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 âKiss the Bakerâ apron â which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday â tied around his waist. Heâll 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 heâs gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain.Â
âBoys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,â you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. âAnd Iâll have you know, they do pay me compliments.â
Licking your finger clean, you canât 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.
âReally? What kinda things do they say?â 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. âHands off. Itâs a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.â
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 heâs having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while youâre 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; heâll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.
Besides, youâve yet to answer Buckyâs question.
âIâd tell you but Iâm too sober to stomach you yelling âHeaven to Betsy!â and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.â
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.
âI think thereâs a leak under the sink,â 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.
âThatâs funny,â thereâs 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. Youâve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. âCause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.â
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 canât 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 â 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.
Buckyâs 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 youâre teary-eyed.
âSee how clumsy you are?â Thereâs 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. âCanât even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.â
You need distance.
You need to move.
You need to leave.
âHeâs here!â 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 heâs summoned. âOkay, thereâs some leftover pasta in the fridge if youâre hungry, and youâre 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 Iâm away, okay?â
âQuit talking to me like Iâm some kind of guard dog,â he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.
âOh, Iâm sorry!â You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. âI wasnât aware you were going to start contributing rent, Iâll send you my bank details.â
With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: youâll flirt, youâll fuck, and you wonât think about your roommate.
Only one of those things ends up happening.
Itâs 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 â of course, heâd accidentally left them in his parentâs home. Where he lived. In the basement.
And the thing is, youâre not shallow. Timeâs 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 shouldnât.
Buckyâs 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 â definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion â 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.
âDid you eat my ice cream?â Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.
Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, thereâs a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.
âWow, good morning to you too,â you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.
Thatâs 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.
âGood morning. Did you eat my ice cream?â If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, thereâs 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.
âSo what if I did?â The painkillers go down effortlessly, though thereâs a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. âWhat are you doing, anyway?â
âI paid for it!â For all his outrage, he doesnât care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. âYou said there was a leak, so Iâm checking your pipes. Iâm quite good with my hands, you know.â
Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you havenât 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, youâre not quite sure.
You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Buckyâs unrequested help.
âAnd I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,â you donât intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. âSo I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.â
Youâve 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 itâs 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 carâs 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. Youâd have to watch over the whole thing, of course â 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-
âYour date was that good, huh?â You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.
âHe bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,â the pause in your sentences seems to capture Buckyâs attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. âUsing a shotgun instead of cues.â
As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you canât help but note the five-oâclock shadow heâs sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.
To Buckyâs credit, he doesnât 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 â 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.
âMind feeding me a bite?â 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.
âCan you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?â The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.
âWhy?â
âIâm making this list,â 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. âIâm calling it âthe manchild filesâ.â
âThatâs not even funny,â 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.Â
âWell âthe stupid filesâ sounds so simple, I was worried youâd try to jump into bed with it.â
âAre you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?â Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and youâre about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you donât say aloud.
âIâm critical but Iâm not hypocritical,â there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. âI wasnât exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-â
âYay, more grandpa lore!â Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.
âIâm not slut-shaming you, Iâm taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.â
âIt is not!â You gasp, yet youâre hardly surprised â Buckyâs not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.
If there is anything to be thankful for, itâs 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.
âAfter being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, youâre allergic to cum?â Youâd always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. âTommy 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-â
âBucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesnât shut up.â
âI rest my case,â 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 youâre 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 Adamâs apple bobs as he drinks?
A thought pops into your mind.
âDid you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?â Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.
âYou have a headache, right?â
âUh-huh,â your eyes narrow skeptically.
âYeah, I figured you would,â Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. âYou always have one after eating Thai food.â
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 isnât supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, heâs 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 itâs not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe youâre 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 youâre home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.
âBy the way,â heâs calling out from beneath the sink again. âYouâll be happy to know Iâm touring an apartment next week.â
âOh.â The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. âThatâs great. Finally! Youâre going, and Iâm staying here, and Iâll have my apartment back to myself. Thatâs⊠Great. Itâs great!â
No, really, itâs great.
âYouâre joking,â a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.
âI wish,â you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging thatâs captured your eye.
After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.
âLet me get this straight,â Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. âYou lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just⊠What, crashed his car?â
âInto a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,â as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. âHe literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!â
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 â 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 otherâs 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 â 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.
âI think itâs time we had an intervention about where youâre finding these men,â Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.
âThey find me!â You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. âAs generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?â
His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers
âYou picked it up,â his tone is riddled with confusion. âDonât you want them?â
âContrary to popular belief, Iâm not made of money.â
âOkay?â He replies, like itâs the most irrelevant piece of information youâve ever given him â and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your officeâs printer. âIâm paying, so do you want it or not?â
âSince when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean⊠You are old enough. Also, arenât you literally a vet?â
 âYou managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.â
A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. Itâs the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff âexcuse meâ, 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: âYou wanna know what my theory is?â
âNope,â you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. âBut youâre going to tell me anyway.â
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 itâs 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?
âI think you date idiots because theyâre idiots.â
âGee whiz, grandpa, thatâs so insightful. I sure do hope Iâm as wise as you when Iâm your age, but Iâll probably just be dead.â You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.
âDating those incompetent men, itâs likeâŠâ 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. âJumping 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, thatâs it, youâre safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.â
âI donât know when you last jumped out of a plane-â
âRemember that Karli situation a few months ago?â
âBut not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.â
âSo my metaphor isn't perfect,â 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 theyâre the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldierâs lips, but he wonât let it take over his stoic features. âBut you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, youâd date someone better than those men.â
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 youâve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses youâve made for the way they talk to you, how many times youâve 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.
âOkay, psychoanalysing me aside, whatâs left on the list?â You ask, making your way round to Buckyâs side of the cart.
âWell, I still need to write down Jeff G.âs cliff accident.â
âThe other list.â You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.
âEggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,â his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. âGrapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.â
âI was in a rush!â
âAnd sitting on a jack-hammer?â
âGimme that,â you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Buckyâs right, your handwriting is shit. âIs grapefruit even in season?â
âHuh,â itâs the sound of hollow amusement.
âWhat?â
âJustâŠâ 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. âYou really donât notice whatâs right in front of you, do you?â
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.
âI forgot to ask,â 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 â you insisted on helping and he insisted heâd get it done quicker alone. âHow did the apartment viewing go?â
âOh. Fine,â you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. âThe current lease isnât up yet, so youâre stuck with me a little longer.â
Are you supposed to feel this relieved?
In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, itâs 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. Heâll no longer be your roommate and youâll 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 womanâs distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.
Knuckles brush down your arm, and thereâs Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.
âYou mind handling the rest?â He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe thatâs why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet heâs holding out to you. âCash is in the back pocket. Iâll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.â
Thereâs no time to get a single word out before youâre 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 womanâs personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Buckyâs cheeky grin â with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume heâs made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Buckyâs 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 â youâre stubborn, not blind â 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; itâs the queasy feeling of knowing youâve 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, Buckyâs quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: âI told you to leave these to me.â
âYeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didnât appreciate me hogging up the cashier,â the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldierâs stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.
Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever heâs contemplating doing to him.
âĐĐœĐ° ŃĐČĐŸŃ Đ¶Đ”ĐœĐ°?(Is she your wife?)â Sheâs looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you donât understand. âĐŁ ĐœĐ”Đ” лОŃĐŸ Đ°ĐœĐłĐ”Đ»Đ°. (She has the face of an angel.)â
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 heâs 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.
âĐŻ Đ·ĐœĐ°Ń. (I know.)â He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before heâs 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.
âWhat did she say back there, that lady you helped?â
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.
âDo you spend your time getting bumped into when Iâm not around?â His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. âAnd, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man sheâs ever seen.â
Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.
Youâre 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 friendâs 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, donât bring strangers home. B.Â
The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.
Thereâs a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.
Before he was dumped on your front door, youâd 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 youâre 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.
Itâs 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 thereâs an echo down the line of your own sleep stained âhello?â.
âYou can go back to sleep now.â
You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because itâs only ever meant to be a way to let you know heâs safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. Itâs just an unrequested favour heâs 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. Heâs not missed a call since, once a day while heâs away.
So, when he doesnât call, itâs 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.
Itâs Saturday and thereâs 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 thereâs 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 âback in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.â
You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.
Thereâs 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 â Be safe, says a man who clearly canât take his own advice.Â
Then, why should you?
You agree to go on a date, one youâve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide youâre not pleased with the way Buckyâs lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.
And, hey, the guyâs not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. Heâs handsome, tall, and an athlete â ex-athlete, really, but you donât bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, heâs eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Buckyâs warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, youâll do it.Â
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.
âI finished,â 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 strangerâs snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and youâre 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.
âYouâre up!â Everyoneâs 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. âUhh, I was hoping youâd sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-â
âHe couldnât figure out how to boil the kettle.â
And thereâs 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 thatâs 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 couldnât call.
Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.
âYour brother was kind enough to help me.â Itâs unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. âWhatâs so funny?â
âOh, nothing, nothing, justâŠâ Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. âIn what world do me and her look related?â
âWait, if youâre not her brother then, are you-â Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnastâs face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. âHoly shit, is he your boyfriend?â
âHusband, actually,â the soldierâs all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. âBut donât worry, weâre open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.â
Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.
âOh, theyâre nice!â
That does it for you.
âBucky, shut up!â You snap, finger pointed over at the menace whoâs 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? Youâd prefer the punishment to be a little more⊠hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. âHe is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.â
âYou see how she treats me, Vince?â
âItâs Lance,â 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, youâre left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.
Thereâs a relief to having him back, and itâs wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.
âWhat are you doing here, anyway? Arenât you and Sam still meant to be⊠I donât know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?â The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the islandâs stools.
âWe finished early,â 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.
âAww, donât worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,â 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, whoâs too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.
Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?
âHow do you take your coffee?â 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.
âMmm,â one sip of your coffee is all you need to know itâs perfect, made exactly to your taste. âCoffee and baked goods⊠I knew I kept you around for a reason.â
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 couldnât taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds.Â
âSo messy,â 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 thereâs 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
âYou like that?â More than youâll 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 heâs enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? âAre you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?â
Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.
âMy bad!â Your date â who you damn near forgot was even here â is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. âWhere do you guys keep your dustpan?âÂ
Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you werenât fully back to your rational senses, youâd miss it.
âIâll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.â
âOkay!â 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 Buckyâs 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 thereâs 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, thereâs 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 thatâs grown over the course of this last week, during which youâve 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 Buckyâs company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence â most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed â 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 âScrew You, Barnes!â.
âEverything okay in there?â Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. âThought you had your big date at seven.â
The gymnastâs text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, âHeâs not answering my calls.â
âYouâve been stood up? By that loser?â Thereâs every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Buckyâs voice. Disgust, even.
Thereâs 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. Heâs entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.
âMaybe he broke his phone?â 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.
âMore likely he forgot to charge it.â
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 youâre not willing to address. Not right now.
âShut up!â It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but youâre 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, heâs 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 youâve 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.
âDidnât I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?â
âDidnât I tell you to move out?â 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.
âDonât do that,â you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.
âDo what?â Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though heâs none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.
âThat,â another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesnât grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. âReaching over me like you canât just ask me to move.â
âFine, if it really bothers you that much,â are the last words you hear before youâre airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.
The soldier doesnât struggle, not even for a moment, the serum thatâs 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.
âWell arenât you a ray of sunshine today.â With the rate heâs going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. âIs this princessâ first time being stood up?â
Youâd slap him, right here and now, if it didnât mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your âThings To Not Doâ 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, âWhy didnât you call?â
âAre you serious?â Now heâs the one scowling and taking a step closer.
âDeadly,â you dig the spoon back into the carton. âNow answer the question.â
âYouâre pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile Iâm the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?â
Heâs moving closer. You try to step backwards.
âYeah, well, if youâd called like you were supposed to, I wouldnât have ended up with said asshole.â
Buckyâs eyes narrow, âOh, so now itâs my fault that you date degenerates?â
The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.
âWow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!â 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. âOkay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? Itâs not exactly like thereâs anyone else lining up to date me.â
âI am!â His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. âMaybe Iâm the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers. I just⊠Fuck!â
You donât move, donât blink, donât 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 heâs shaking his head, he steps closer.
The kitchen counter is right behind you, thereâs 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.
âI am,â 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 heartâs in your throat, and thereâs 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.
Itâs 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. Itâs 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, thereâs the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Buckyâs eager mouth.
Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.
âLook at you, whining already. Whereâs all that fire gone?â Itâs practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. âOr were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?â
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 Pandoraâs box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.
Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.
âAh, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,â 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 heâs 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 youâve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.
How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?
While youâre overcome with epiphany, heâs taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. Itâs 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.
âAre you stealing my ice cream right now?â His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely a moment after youâve scooped the spoon into your mouth.
âIâm warm, and it's melting,â his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. Thereâs 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. âDonât want it to go to waste.â
His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, âThen letâs cool you down.â
At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dressâ 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.
âSo responsive,â 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.Â
Heâs 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 youâve 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 theyâre 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.
Heâs 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.
âNo,â 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. âWanna feel you.â
The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Buckyâs 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 soldierâs hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.
âSheâs so wet, darling,â his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. âYou gonna let me touch her?â
Something about the way heâs speaking to you, the words heâs choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a manâs 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 BuckyâŠ
âPlease, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,â heâs pleading for it, begging for you â wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. âPromise Iâll be real sweat, make you feel good.â
Too caught up in his own head, he doesnât notice you nodding, until youâre granting him salvation verbally, âTouch me, Bucky.â
He doesnât hesitate, doesnât 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 heâs exactly where he wants to be.
As his middle finger slips in, itâs 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.
âDonât hold back,â he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. âLet me hear what Iâm doing to you.â
He must have a magic touch, youâre 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 heâs unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Buckyâs 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 heâs instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.
âLook at me,â 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 thereâs 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. âDo you want to cum?â
Never has a more needless question been asked.Â
You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but thatâs not what he wants, frown deepening.
âSay it,â needy, helpless, spoken like heâs the one on the brink of ecstasy. âPlease.â
âBucky,â it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. âI want you to let me cum.â
âLet you?â Heâs offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. âI beg of you.â
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 Buckyâs 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 donât 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. Buckyâs 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.
âIs this what I do to you?â 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. âSay it.â
He doesnât.
He says something much better.
âDâyou even realise how many nights Iâve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?â
âThatâs your generation's problem, you know?â You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. âYou swear more than you breathe.â
âCâmere,â heâs rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like itâs 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, heâs 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.
âLance would have fucked me by now.â
âVince would have cum by now, too,â heâs still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.
Meanwhile, youâre a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.
âYou- Oh!â Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. Itâs a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before heâs retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. âYou heard us?â
âUnfortunately,â and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. âIâm not great when it comes to timing.â
âI only slept with Lance because you-â Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.
âNew rule,â a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. âNo speaking another manâs name when youâre in bed with me.â
âTechnically, this is the kitchen counter-â The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick â if it didnât feel so damn good, youâd slap him.
Heâs 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 thereâs 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 â 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.
âJesus, doll, you okay?âÂ
âPlease donât stop,â you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when youâve got him inside of you.
Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.
âMight have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?â 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, youâll 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 wouldnât think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.
âYou can give me a cockcussion for all I care,â 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.
âAdding that to the list,â 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 heâs 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, Cinderellaâs 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.
Thereâs 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.
âThe shoes stay on, but this,â Buckyâs fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. âI need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?â
There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you werenât already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesnât 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: youâre completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.
âBuck,â 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. âI donât think we should⊠I mean, people eat off this counter!â
âDonât worry,â 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. âI intend to eat.â
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 youâre the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.
âYou should see her, doll,â thereâs a rasp in Buckyâs 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. âSheâs drooling for me, all pretty and wet.â
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. Heâs renewing his effort, a touch thatâs more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body â 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 â a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine â 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 doesnât 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 youâll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.
âJa-mes,â 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.
Heâs 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: âFor a fossil, youâre pretty kinky.â
âWar camps arenât exactly known for being fun,â as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. âYou find ways to keep yourself entertained.â
âBet you were quite the pleaser, huh?â Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up at the ceiling, praying he doesnât notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. âProbably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-â
âJealousy looks cute on you,â he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.
âIâm not jealous!â 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.
âI was,â his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. âEverytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.â
âWho knew,â 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. âAll along I had my own loser at home.â
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. Youâre more interested in his jeans â in removing them, to be exact. It doesnât take much, a sharp tug at the hem before theyâre 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 heâs breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.
âYou must be close,â a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet thereâs still room for doubt â to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?
âPut me back down on my knees and Iâll cum to the taste of you,â the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.
Almost, if you hadnât already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.
âPretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.â
âMy age may be a hundred and six but-â
âExactly my point.â
âBut my body isnât,â heâs using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while youâre full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.
âRemind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?â
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.
âI donât remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,â admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.
âShut up and fuck me, Barnes.â
âYes maâam.â
Just like that, youâre 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 heâs 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.
âShe fits me like a fucking glove,â 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. âDoing so good for me, darling.â
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 â 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 â 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.
âBucky,â 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.
âI know,â he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that heâs 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.
âI lied,â an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. âAbout the apartment viewing. I didnât go.â
âBucky,â is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.
âIs that all you can say? Huh?â His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. âIâm giving pivotal revelations here, and youâre just gonna reply with that?â
Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.
âBucky, Bucky,â heâs mocking you, a torturerâs laugh as he moans his name into your ear. âKeep going, you sound so pathetic itâs almost cute.â
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.
âYou see that?â You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag â innnnn and outtttt â 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. âSee how full she is, how good Iâm making her feel?â
Pressing your hand against it, you canât 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.
Youâre 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 heâs cutting them off with something new.
âDonât deserve this-â He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. âCâmon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.â
âWant you to fall apart too,â you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. âPlease!â
Like any good soldier, he obeys.
Crashing over you like a wave, heâs 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 heâs got. When your mouths meet, itâs less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.
âSo,â you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. âAre 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 youâre 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, heâs quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, âthink I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.â
Heâs unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. Itâs 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 â your own isn't any better.
âSamâs going to kill me,â you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.
âIâm sorry,â you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you canât fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. âHave I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?â
âThereâs a serious chance Iâll die and youâre thinking with your dick,â he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. âYouâre no better than the men on your list, Barnes.â
Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.
âWhy would Sam kill you?â He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder. âHe knows you have a crazy guard dog.â
Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.
âHe made me swear I wouldnât get involved with you. He said you werenât in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.â
âTurns out inner peace is being inside of you,â you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesnât run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. âSo, Wilsonâs to blame? I can get behind that.â
âTo blame for what?â
His handâs now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes.Â
âWhy it took you so long to jump my bones.â
âYou think I jumped your-â 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. âWait, so these past few weeks, Iâve not been hallucinating? Youâve been⊠flirting?â
âItâs been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,â 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. âYou donât seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?â
âSo you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!â
âThink the kitchenâs seen worse,â worse might be the understatement of the century.
Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldierâs only priority, and you werenât in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.
A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.
âStop fighting it, youâre tired,â you hear him whisper.
âI want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,â itâs nothing but a weak protest.
âWe have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,â you donât hesitate to comply when Buckyâs hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. âYouâre going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.â
+ 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:
Needy | Thunderbolts*!Bucky x Female Reader| Oneshot 1.1k
Bucky needs to leave for a mission, but you need him back between your legs. Maybe there's time for both?
Warnings: 18+ for adult content! P in v, unprotected sex, little bit of exibitionism kink, creampie, armour kink/hero worship if you squint. Hint of Thunderbolts spoilers, if you know you know.
"Babydoll, I've got to go." Bucky bent down to put his combat boots on, pulling the laces tight and tucking them in the top, no time for neat army knots. It gave you the perfect view of his shoulders though, rounded by muscle and trapped beneath his tight t-shirt.
You bit your lip.
"But Bucky," you pouted, "please, just quickly, I'm gonna miss you so so much." You dragged each syllable.
"God, don't do that face at me â or that." He gestured to where you lay on your bed, sprawled over the sheets biting the end of your finger as you spread your bare legs slowly.
"Why?" You asked, innocently, batting your lashes and earning yourself a growl of disapproval. God that growl did things to you, made your heart beat faster in your chest (between your legs).
"You know damn well why, I have to go." He said, shrugging his leather jacket on and checking each of his holsters in turn, knives at the small of his back, guns in his chest holster and at his thigh, a few bits of new tech stored alongside his fingerless gloves in his pockets. Bucky brushed his long hair back from his face, one hand on his hip as he surveyed the top of the dresser as if a rouge dagger may have escaped him.
"You've got a few minutes," you let your hand trail down your chest, fingers spreading over your wet folds and parting them so Bucky could see your sticky arousal.
"If I get back in that bed I want more than a few minutes." He allowed himself a smirk, winking before checking his watch and his earpiece.
"Oh, well, if it's the bed that's the problem..." You happily bounced up from the bed and jumped at him. Instinctively Bucky opened his arms, lifting you under your thighs so you could wrap yourself around him.
"You're making this so hard." He groaned, dropping his head to your shoulder and kissing your neck.
"Ohhh, I hope so," you giggled back, squirming enough that you could rub yourself against the rough contours of his tactical gear. "Do you know how sexy you look like this, all scary and mean with all your weapons. Makes me just wanna â" you didn't finish your sentence, closing your eyes and moaning instead.
"Fuck â " Bucky whispered into your neck, already relishing and regretting his next actions.
"That's the plan big guy â" you rubbed your hands over his shoulders and down his pecs where his skin tight t-shirt moulded to every contour. "God damn it just look at you." You pressed your fingers into the muscle, desperate to feel his body without anything in the way.
Bucky slipped his metal fingers between you, pushing his tactical belt up and his zipper down, just enough to free his cock from the confines of his underwear.
"Yes â yes â yesâ" You were squirming so hard he could barely get enough purchase to push inside of you, but then he was in, helping to guide you down his hard length at an agonisingly slow pace. "Oh â fuck â Bucky you fuck me so good, baby, thank you." You babbled incoherently, happy enough just to have him back between your legs. Wrapped around him you could feel every inch of his cock, his hard body, the hilts of his knives cold against your calves, the guns that bumped your knees when you moved. "I fucking love you, Bucky Barnes, so fucking sexy and â and â ugh â you're my hero â" you tried to move in his grasp, a slow up and down thrust.
"Okay, Babydoll, no messing about." He started a quick pace, keeping his fingers between you to rub at your clit, driving you quickly towards release with relentless precision. His vibranium thumb was cool, the perfect contrast to the burning heat you felt pumping through your body.
KNOCK
"Hey â Bucky, I think everyone's going." Bob's soft voice floated through the door.
"Just a minute." Bucky clenched his jaw and focused his gaze on you,piercing and perfect. You clenched around him, having Bucky's full attention was always delicious but knowing he was needed elsewhere, and he'd chosen you, was the cherry on the cake.
"Don't go, baby."
KNOCK KNOCK
"Bucky, hurry up I don't want to have to sit next to John on the transport."
Ava called, her boots already echoing down the hall along with John's grumbling.
"Buh â Buh â" You keened against him, body flush at both Bucky's ministrations and the thought that the entire team were just on the other side of the door.
Bucky pushed you up against the wall, half holding you up so he could speed up his pace and you pressed your face into his leather jacket, scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders and neck where his hair had grown longer.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
"Bucky, it is time for us to go now, let's go."
"FUCK OFF." Bucky shouted, his voice mingling with the sound of Yelena's chuckling.
He pushed you higher, holding you open while he fucked up into you. Helpless you gasped, letting your mouth fall open as you watched him chase your body towards release.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
"Mr Winterrrr, we must go, save the day time, let us hurry to glory!"
Bucky moved again, tipping you back on the bed, your legs up over his shoulders, he bent down and kissed you, messy and deep, "you gotta cum now, Babydoll, I'm not kidding - I've gotta go."
"Bucky! Tell me to cum again â oh my god â make me cum!" You twitched around him, so close.
"Cum, now, Babydoll, cum on my cock right now." He used that low, gravelly tone again and your couldn't control yourself any longer.
You screamed your release, clenching around him as he throbbed between your legs and you grinned at the feel of your combined release slipping out between you.
Bucky panted, hard, and pinched your cheeks between his vibranium fingers, "god I love you, I'll be back soon." He kissed you quickly, stuffing himself back into his combat trousers and heading for the door.
"Love you too, Bucky-baby, be back soon!" You stood at the door of your room, wrapped in just the sheet from your bed, and waved at him as he half-jogged backwards towards the others, eyes still on you.
"Hey, Barnes, what's that on your trousers." John pointed at a drying white smear of your arousal, stark on the matt black of the fabric.
"Not now, John, we've got a mission." Bucky slapped him on the back and strode up to the waiting helicopter.
Content Warnings: unprotected sex (p-in-v), rough sex, dirty talk, size kink, dubcon kink (as long as Bucky can keep a straight face), tummy bulge, language, a good ole coochie slap (once), cum play, a little fluff, some aftercare
Your boyfriend canât think of anything more adorable than watching you read. One night while youâre in the shower he picks up the book you left on the nightstand: âHaunting Adeline by H.D. Carltonâ and thumbs through it, very quickly realizing just what kind of books his sweet little bookworm is really into.
Inspired by my IRL husbandâs reaction to my smutty reads.
Note: I donât own any characters or works referenced in this oneshot and shout out to H.D. Carlton for creating Zade Meadows and giving us the house of mirrors chapter thatâs been living rent free in both me and @lilackaâs head for over a year.
Bucky absolutely loved to watch you read.
The subtle way your expressions changed as your eyes would glide across the pages made his heart swell with admiration.
He found himself entranced with your concentration, your eyebrows knitting together in thought, your lips quirking up into a smile and even the soft laughter that would sometimes escape you as you delved deep into the world you held in your hands.
He was always more than happy to accompany you to the bookstore, leaning against the shelves and observing you as you thumbed through new titles, stacking your choices in his strong arms before darting down the next aisle to browse further.
He looked forward to the evenings where he could lay his head comfortably in your lap, his arm draped across your thighs as you worked your fingers lazily through his hair while you read quietly above him.
Tonight he lay in bed with his hands folded behind his head, listening to the gentle sound of the shower from the bathroom as you bathed when his gaze fell on your most recent read on the nightstand. The cover was dark with a skull and roses, something about a âHauntingâ and an absurd amount of sticky notes jutted out from the pages. His curiosity overtook him and he sat up, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. He thumbed through it carefully before letting it fall open to one of the tagged pages, his eyes scanning the text and widening slightly at the content.
He flipped to another tab, quickly reading through the passage, his breath quickening as he took in the words.
âIf I catch you, I fuck you.â
Jesus Christ.
The bathroom door creaked open and he slowly lifted his gaze up to you.
Your damp body wrapped in a towel with your wet hair against your neck and shoulders did absolutely nothing to combat the heat that was already rising within him at what heâd just read.
Your eyes connect for a beat before you glance down to notice the book in his hand, opened to one of your tagged pages.
It was hard to discern if the flush across your cheeks was remnant of the heat of the shower or from the slight embarrassment of feeling caught by your boyfriend discovering the absolute filth youâd been reading.
He raises a brow at you, lifting the book and tapping on the open passage.
âIf I catch you, I fuck you?â He asks, tilting his head curiously. âReally?â
You huff and roll your eyes, stepping forward and reaching to snatch the book from his hands but heâs quicker, snapping it shut and holding it just out of your reach.
âNo, no. Weâre gonna talk about this, doll.â He says, his lips curling into a smirk. âThis is what youâve been reading?â
You shift from foot to foot.
âSometimes.â You reply with a weak shrug.
He turns the book over in his hands again and idly runs his palm back and forth against all the flags poking out from between the pages. âAnd do you.. like this stuff?â He asks, not looking up. âDoes it turn you on?â
You swallow hard and nod despite the fact heâs not looking at you.
âSometimes.â You repeat quietly.
âHuh.â
He purses his lips and nods thoughtfully, standing up and tossing the book onto the bed. âI guess you oughta run then.â
Your eyebrows shoot up to your hair line.
Did he just?
Is he going to?
âW-what?â You stutter out, taking a small step back as he closes in on you.
He tsks and reaches out, brushing your wet hair back off your shoulder with two fingers. âYou heard me, baby.â
You open your mouth to reply but the words are lost the moment he seizes the edge of your towel in his large hand.
Your eyes connect for a brief moment before he yanks the towel free of your body and discards it on the ground, leaving you exposed, confused and incredibly aroused.
His hand settles on your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple and sending a rush of desire straight to your core. He dips his head to nuzzle his forehead against your temple, his tongue flicking against your earlobe.
âYou should probably run now.â He warns in a whisper, taking a step back to give you space for a head start.
You stare wide eyed in disbelief, your head barely able to wrap around what was happening.
âFive.â He says in a threatening tone, bringing his hand down to palm his growing erection under his sweatpants.
Youâre frozen to the spot.
Thereâs no fucking way heâs about to do this.
âFour.â
Okay, maybe he is.
You take off at a run, reaching the bedroom door and flinging it open with him hot on your tail.
Your bare feet pound against the hardwood floor and you rush down the hall towards the staircase, making it only two steps down before his strong arm catches you around the waist and picks you up effortlessly.
You wiggle against his hold, kicking your feet and thrashing.
âYouâre not very fast, you know.â He teases, tightening his grip on you, his cock straining against his sweatpants and pressing into your backside.
He carries you back into the bedroom, his arm locked around you in a vice grip and tosses you onto the bed as if you were weightless. He tugs his sweatpants down and kicks them off, his cock bobbing with every step as he stalks towards you.
He braces his palms on the bed, preparing to climb up and pin you but you scramble backwards off the bed and take off again. He pauses, his brows furrowing in confusion. âWait, what-?â he straightens up and turns, watching as you sprint across the room and he frowns, realizing you werenât going to let him catch you that easily.
âDamnit.â He grumbles, launching himself up over the bed.
He chases you with heavy footsteps towards the bathroom and you rush to shut the door but his hand catches it and forces it open, leaving you completely cornered with nowhere else to turn. âShit.â You breathe out, looking around for a possible way out. He laughs, a cute and genuine laugh that is just so Bucky, completely betraying the role he was attempting to play.
You cross your arms over your bare breasts and frown. âIâm sorry.â He says, shaking his head. âI- just.. why did you run into the bathroom?â He asks, gesturing around the small room with amusement. âI donât know!â You huff, your lips pressing into a pout. âI wasnât thinking.â
âNo, you definitely werenât.â He agrees, swinging his foot back to kick the door shut behind him. âGuess youâre trapped, huh?â
You nod, letting your arms fall away from your breasts. âI guess I am.â You breathe out, your body thrumming with a mix of excitement and desire as your eyes trail down his toned body to land on his fully erect cock. Heâs on you in an instant, grabbing your wrist and tossing you to the ground.
You fall hard on your hands and knees onto the plush bath mat, barely able to steady yourself on all fours before heâs on your back, arm hooked around your waist and sinking his cock into your wet, throbbing cunt. You arch back into him, fingers digging into the bath mat and a choked gasp catches in your throat as he pulls you flush to his pelvis, burying himself to the hilt. He snakes his free hand up your abdomen towards your chest, a trail of goosebumps following in his wake, dipping his forehead down to rest against the back of your shoulder. He palms your breast roughly, rolling your peaked nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
âBucky..â You whisper, your head falling back.
His forearm tightens around your waist and he releases your nipple with a gentle tug, sliding his hand up to curl around your throat. You moan and wiggle your hips, desperate for him to move, but he holds you still, lifting you up with him as he leans back on his heels.
âIâll never get tired of this.â He whispers, unhooking his arm from your waist and resting his large hand over the slight bulge in your abdomen. âThatâs my cock.â He murmurs, squeezing your throat gently before grasping your jaw and tilting your chin down to look at how heâs stretching you. You whimper and he moves your hand to press down on the bulge of his cock in your belly. âAnd this is my pussy.â He growls, delivering a slap to your aching clit before he draws his hips back and begins to thrust himself up into you at a steady pace.
A string of soft curses falls from your lips and your head drops back against the crook of his neck, your hand leaving your abdomen and reaching backwards to fist in his hair. âI didnât realize you were such a freak, baby.â He whispers, his hand tightening around your throat. âI shoulda thumbed through one of your little books sooner.â
His free hand kneads at the flesh of your thigh and he groans, his balls slapping against your ass as he fucks up into you. âI- I-â You stutter, unable to think straight as your head grows dizzy with pleasure. âOh no, am I fuckinâ my baby stupid?â He asks with a grin, bringing two fingers to tease at your bottom lip. You open on instinct and he slips them into your mouth, letting out a shaky breath as you suck and swirl your tongue around the digits.
âFuck.â He hisses, pressing his slick fingers to your clit. You gasp, your fingers curling around his wrist as he strokes your sensitive bud, pulling you closer towards your impending orgasm.
âYou gonna come, little bird?â He whispers, trying to reference your book and quickening his fingers against your clit. âItâs âlittle mouseâ.â You correct, your lips quirking up into a smirk at his admirable attempt. âWhatever.â He hisses, pinching your clit between his fingers and sending a jolt of white-hot pleasure through your body. You choke out a strangled cry as you come, your legs trembling and back arching against him as your cunt clenches around his cock.
âFuck, fuck, fuck!â He grunts, shoving you forward to the floor and falling to his knees. You scramble forward, his cock slipping from your dripping hole as you try to steady yourself in the dizzying wake of your orgasm.
âOh no, no you donât.â He growls, grabbing your ankle and dragging you back towards him. You lose your balance and fall flat, your breasts smashed against the cold tile as he presses his weight down on you, running his cock back and forth along your folds before thrusting back into you. âT-too much!â You whine, squirming underneath him.
âTell me to stop.â He grunts, knowing damn well you never would. He hooks his forearm under your waist again and angles your hips upward, taking you deeper than you even thought possible.
Choked sobs of euphoria escape your throat as your cheek rests against the floor, dragging back and forth across the tile from the force at which heâs fucking into you. Your limp body shakes uncontrollably as your pussy spasms and waves of ecstacy crash over you faster than you can count them. Your orgasms explode through you like a string of firecrackers as you curse and mumble incoherently.
He pulls out abruptly, grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your back, moving to straddle your chest while he frantically fucks his fist. He comes with a shout, gasping as he paints your face with ropes of hot, sticky cum. âFuck.â He pants, looking down at you in admiration as he brushes his thumb along your cheek, gathering up his seed.
He pinches your flushed, sticky cheeks together with his free hand. âOpen.â He says softly, slipping his thumb into your mouth when you do. You suckle his thumb, greedily cleaning it with a swirl of your tongue, looking up at him through half lidded eyes. He sighs contentedly before moving off you and rising to stand, reaching into the shower to turn on the water.
âAnd I had just showered.â You mumble as you take the hand he offers you and pull yourself up on wobbly knees. âDonât you dare bitch about the water bill when it comes.â You tease.
He chuckles softly and pulls you into him, holding you against his chest with one strong arm while the other reaches out to test the temperature of the water. âI wonât.â He says, stepping in first and gently helping you in after him. He wraps his arms lovingly around you and rests his chin atop your head as the warm water cascades over you both.
âLetâs clean you up, doll. Itâs late and we have plans in the morning.â He says quietly, his eyes slipping closed as his hand runs idly up and down your back. You lean back and look up at him with your brows furrowed in confusion. âWe donât have plans tomorrow.â
His eyes flutter open and he grins. âThe hell we donât.â He replies, reaching for the shampoo bottle and squeezing the contents into the palm of his hand. You open your mouth to protest when he doesnât answer your question but he simply twirls a finger, gesturing for you to turn around.
You sigh, turning your back to him and he begins to lather the shampoo in your hair, gently massaging your scalp with his fingers. âSo whatâre these plans?â You ask quietly after a long moment of silently enjoying his hands tenderly working through your locks. He leans forward, his broad, wet chest pressing against your back and brings his mouth to hover beside your ear.
His breath sends a shiver down your spine as he lets out a low, breathy laugh and whispers, âIâm taking you to buy more books.â
"If I catch you, I fuck you?" He asks, tilting his head curiously. "Really?"
You huff and roll your eyes, stepping forward and reaching to snatch the book from his hands but he's quicker, snapping it shut and holding it just out of your reach.
"No, no. We're gonna talk about this, doll." He says, his lips curling into a smirk. "This is what you've been reading?"
You shift from foot to foot.
"Sometimes." You reply with a weak shrug.
He turns the book over in his hands again and idly runs his palm back and forth against all the flags poking out from between the pages. "And do you.. like this stuff?"
He asks, not looking up. "Does it turn you on?"
You swallow hard and nod despite the fact he's not looking at you.
"Sometimes." You repeat quietly.
"Huh."
He purses his lips and nods thoughtfully, standing up and tossing the book onto the bed.
Content Warnings: unprotected sex (p-in-v), rough sex, dirty talk, size kink, dubcon kink (as long as Bucky can keep a straight face), tummy bulge, language, a good ole coochie slap (once), cum play, a little fluff, some aftercare
Your boyfriend canât think of anything more adorable than watching you read. One night while youâre in the shower he picks up the book you left on the nightstand: âHaunting Adeline by H.D. Carltonâ and thumbs through it, very quickly realizing just what kind of books his sweet little bookworm is really into.
Inspired by my IRL husbandâs reaction to my smutty reads.
Note: I donât own any characters or works referenced in this oneshot and shout out to H.D. Carlton for creating Zade Meadows and giving us the house of mirrors chapter thatâs been living rent free in both me and @lilackaâs head for over a year.
Bucky absolutely loved to watch you read.
The subtle way your expressions changed as your eyes would glide across the pages made his heart swell with admiration.
He found himself entranced with your concentration, your eyebrows knitting together in thought, your lips quirking up into a smile and even the soft laughter that would sometimes escape you as you delved deep into the world you held in your hands.
He was always more than happy to accompany you to the bookstore, leaning against the shelves and observing you as you thumbed through new titles, stacking your choices in his strong arms before darting down the next aisle to browse further.
He looked forward to the evenings where he could lay his head comfortably in your lap, his arm draped across your thighs as you worked your fingers lazily through his hair while you read quietly above him.
Tonight he lay in bed with his hands folded behind his head, listening to the gentle sound of the shower from the bathroom as you bathed when his gaze fell on your most recent read on the nightstand. The cover was dark with a skull and roses, something about a âHauntingâ and an absurd amount of sticky notes jutted out from the pages. His curiosity overtook him and he sat up, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. He thumbed through it carefully before letting it fall open to one of the tagged pages, his eyes scanning the text and widening slightly at the content.
He flipped to another tab, quickly reading through the passage, his breath quickening as he took in the words.
âIf I catch you, I fuck you.â
Jesus Christ.
The bathroom door creaked open and he slowly lifted his gaze up to you.
Your damp body wrapped in a towel with your wet hair against your neck and shoulders did absolutely nothing to combat the heat that was already rising within him at what heâd just read.
Your eyes connect for a beat before you glance down to notice the book in his hand, opened to one of your tagged pages.
It was hard to discern if the flush across your cheeks was remnant of the heat of the shower or from the slight embarrassment of feeling caught by your boyfriend discovering the absolute filth youâd been reading.
He raises a brow at you, lifting the book and tapping on the open passage.
âIf I catch you, I fuck you?â He asks, tilting his head curiously. âReally?â
You huff and roll your eyes, stepping forward and reaching to snatch the book from his hands but heâs quicker, snapping it shut and holding it just out of your reach.
âNo, no. Weâre gonna talk about this, doll.â He says, his lips curling into a smirk. âThis is what youâve been reading?â
You shift from foot to foot.
âSometimes.â You reply with a weak shrug.
He turns the book over in his hands again and idly runs his palm back and forth against all the flags poking out from between the pages. âAnd do you.. like this stuff?â He asks, not looking up. âDoes it turn you on?â
You swallow hard and nod despite the fact heâs not looking at you.
âSometimes.â You repeat quietly.
âHuh.â
He purses his lips and nods thoughtfully, standing up and tossing the book onto the bed. âI guess you oughta run then.â
Your eyebrows shoot up to your hair line.
Did he just?
Is he going to?
âW-what?â You stutter out, taking a small step back as he closes in on you.
He tsks and reaches out, brushing your wet hair back off your shoulder with two fingers. âYou heard me, baby.â
You open your mouth to reply but the words are lost the moment he seizes the edge of your towel in his large hand.
Your eyes connect for a brief moment before he yanks the towel free of your body and discards it on the ground, leaving you exposed, confused and incredibly aroused.
His hand settles on your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple and sending a rush of desire straight to your core. He dips his head to nuzzle his forehead against your temple, his tongue flicking against your earlobe.
âYou should probably run now.â He warns in a whisper, taking a step back to give you space for a head start.
You stare wide eyed in disbelief, your head barely able to wrap around what was happening.
âFive.â He says in a threatening tone, bringing his hand down to palm his growing erection under his sweatpants.
Youâre frozen to the spot.
Thereâs no fucking way heâs about to do this.
âFour.â
Okay, maybe he is.
You take off at a run, reaching the bedroom door and flinging it open with him hot on your tail.
Your bare feet pound against the hardwood floor and you rush down the hall towards the staircase, making it only two steps down before his strong arm catches you around the waist and picks you up effortlessly.
You wiggle against his hold, kicking your feet and thrashing.
âYouâre not very fast, you know.â He teases, tightening his grip on you, his cock straining against his sweatpants and pressing into your backside.
He carries you back into the bedroom, his arm locked around you in a vice grip and tosses you onto the bed as if you were weightless. He tugs his sweatpants down and kicks them off, his cock bobbing with every step as he stalks towards you.
He braces his palms on the bed, preparing to climb up and pin you but you scramble backwards off the bed and take off again. He pauses, his brows furrowing in confusion. âWait, what-?â he straightens up and turns, watching as you sprint across the room and he frowns, realizing you werenât going to let him catch you that easily.
âDamnit.â He grumbles, launching himself up over the bed.
He chases you with heavy footsteps towards the bathroom and you rush to shut the door but his hand catches it and forces it open, leaving you completely cornered with nowhere else to turn. âShit.â You breathe out, looking around for a possible way out. He laughs, a cute and genuine laugh that is just so Bucky, completely betraying the role he was attempting to play.
You cross your arms over your bare breasts and frown. âIâm sorry.â He says, shaking his head. âI- just.. why did you run into the bathroom?â He asks, gesturing around the small room with amusement. âI donât know!â You huff, your lips pressing into a pout. âI wasnât thinking.â
âNo, you definitely werenât.â He agrees, swinging his foot back to kick the door shut behind him. âGuess youâre trapped, huh?â
You nod, letting your arms fall away from your breasts. âI guess I am.â You breathe out, your body thrumming with a mix of excitement and desire as your eyes trail down his toned body to land on his fully erect cock. Heâs on you in an instant, grabbing your wrist and tossing you to the ground.
You fall hard on your hands and knees onto the plush bath mat, barely able to steady yourself on all fours before heâs on your back, arm hooked around your waist and sinking his cock into your wet, throbbing cunt. You arch back into him, fingers digging into the bath mat and a choked gasp catches in your throat as he pulls you flush to his pelvis, burying himself to the hilt. He snakes his free hand up your abdomen towards your chest, a trail of goosebumps following in his wake, dipping his forehead down to rest against the back of your shoulder. He palms your breast roughly, rolling your peaked nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
âBucky..â You whisper, your head falling back.
His forearm tightens around your waist and he releases your nipple with a gentle tug, sliding his hand up to curl around your throat. You moan and wiggle your hips, desperate for him to move, but he holds you still, lifting you up with him as he leans back on his heels.
âIâll never get tired of this.â He whispers, unhooking his arm from your waist and resting his large hand over the slight bulge in your abdomen. âThatâs my cock.â He murmurs, squeezing your throat gently before grasping your jaw and tilting your chin down to look at how heâs stretching you. You whimper and he moves your hand to press down on the bulge of his cock in your belly. âAnd this is my pussy.â He growls, delivering a slap to your aching clit before he draws his hips back and begins to thrust himself up into you at a steady pace.
A string of soft curses falls from your lips and your head drops back against the crook of his neck, your hand leaving your abdomen and reaching backwards to fist in his hair. âI didnât realize you were such a freak, baby.â He whispers, his hand tightening around your throat. âI shoulda thumbed through one of your little books sooner.â
His free hand kneads at the flesh of your thigh and he groans, his balls slapping against your ass as he fucks up into you. âI- I-â You stutter, unable to think straight as your head grows dizzy with pleasure. âOh no, am I fuckinâ my baby stupid?â He asks with a grin, bringing two fingers to tease at your bottom lip. You open on instinct and he slips them into your mouth, letting out a shaky breath as you suck and swirl your tongue around the digits.
âFuck.â He hisses, pressing his slick fingers to your clit. You gasp, your fingers curling around his wrist as he strokes your sensitive bud, pulling you closer towards your impending orgasm.
âYou gonna come, little bird?â He whispers, trying to reference your book and quickening his fingers against your clit. âItâs âlittle mouseâ.â You correct, your lips quirking up into a smirk at his admirable attempt. âWhatever.â He hisses, pinching your clit between his fingers and sending a jolt of white-hot pleasure through your body. You choke out a strangled cry as you come, your legs trembling and back arching against him as your cunt clenches around his cock.
âFuck, fuck, fuck!â He grunts, shoving you forward to the floor and falling to his knees. You scramble forward, his cock slipping from your dripping hole as you try to steady yourself in the dizzying wake of your orgasm.
âOh no, no you donât.â He growls, grabbing your ankle and dragging you back towards him. You lose your balance and fall flat, your breasts smashed against the cold tile as he presses his weight down on you, running his cock back and forth along your folds before thrusting back into you. âT-too much!â You whine, squirming underneath him.
âTell me to stop.â He grunts, knowing damn well you never would. He hooks his forearm under your waist again and angles your hips upward, taking you deeper than you even thought possible.
Choked sobs of euphoria escape your throat as your cheek rests against the floor, dragging back and forth across the tile from the force at which heâs fucking into you. Your limp body shakes uncontrollably as your pussy spasms and waves of ecstacy crash over you faster than you can count them. Your orgasms explode through you like a string of firecrackers as you curse and mumble incoherently.
He pulls out abruptly, grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your back, moving to straddle your chest while he frantically fucks his fist. He comes with a shout, gasping as he paints your face with ropes of hot, sticky cum. âFuck.â He pants, looking down at you in admiration as he brushes his thumb along your cheek, gathering up his seed.
He pinches your flushed, sticky cheeks together with his free hand. âOpen.â He says softly, slipping his thumb into your mouth when you do. You suckle his thumb, greedily cleaning it with a swirl of your tongue, looking up at him through half lidded eyes. He sighs contentedly before moving off you and rising to stand, reaching into the shower to turn on the water.
âAnd I had just showered.â You mumble as you take the hand he offers you and pull yourself up on wobbly knees. âDonât you dare bitch about the water bill when it comes.â You tease.
He chuckles softly and pulls you into him, holding you against his chest with one strong arm while the other reaches out to test the temperature of the water. âI wonât.â He says, stepping in first and gently helping you in after him. He wraps his arms lovingly around you and rests his chin atop your head as the warm water cascades over you both.
âLetâs clean you up, doll. Itâs late and we have plans in the morning.â He says quietly, his eyes slipping closed as his hand runs idly up and down your back. You lean back and look up at him with your brows furrowed in confusion. âWe donât have plans tomorrow.â
His eyes flutter open and he grins. âThe hell we donât.â He replies, reaching for the shampoo bottle and squeezing the contents into the palm of his hand. You open your mouth to protest when he doesnât answer your question but he simply twirls a finger, gesturing for you to turn around.
You sigh, turning your back to him and he begins to lather the shampoo in your hair, gently massaging your scalp with his fingers. âSo whatâre these plans?â You ask quietly after a long moment of silently enjoying his hands tenderly working through your locks. He leans forward, his broad, wet chest pressing against your back and brings his mouth to hover beside your ear.
His breath sends a shiver down your spine as he lets out a low, breathy laugh and whispers, âIâm taking you to buy more books.â
"If I catch you, I fuck you?" He asks, tilting his head curiously. "Really?"
You huff and roll your eyes, stepping forward and reaching to snatch the book from his hands but he's quicker, snapping it shut and holding it just out of your reach.
"No, no. We're gonna talk about this, doll." He says, his lips curling into a smirk. "This is what you've been reading?"
You shift from foot to foot.
"Sometimes." You reply with a weak shrug.
He turns the book over in his hands again and idly runs his palm back and forth against all the flags poking out from between the pages. "And do you.. like this stuff?"
He asks, not looking up. "Does it turn you on?"
You swallow hard and nod despite the fact he's not looking at you.
"Sometimes." You repeat quietly.
"Huh."
He purses his lips and nods thoughtfully, standing up and tossing the book onto the bed.
Thinking about authors who have my entire heart an soul in an absolutely unhealthy way cause they're so talented and I'm obsessed with their fics. I'm talking I read them multiple times a day over and over again even though some are years old. I'm talking : @navybrat817 @jobean12-blog @lovelybarnes @povlvr @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky @pellucid-constellations @metalbuckaroo @sinner-as-saint @becca-e-barnes @dailyreverie @kinanabinks @dirtychocolatechai @ohtobeleah @dilemmaontwolegs @adrinktostopyourthirst @bucky-barnes-diaries @holylulusworld @bucksfucks @buckymylove @cadencejames87 @themotherofhorses @jessybarnes @wheredafandomat @imyourbratzdoll @buckybabesonly @pocolottie @myfictionaldreams @witchywithwhiskey @ellemj @bucks-babe @buck-buck-buckaroo @heytheredelulu @marvelouslizzie @notafunkiller @ofstarsandvibranium @thevillainswhore @skaye44 @subwaysurf45 @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @nickfowlerrr @redwing4life @thenhewaswrongaboutme @brook-e-lynns @vesearlee
What happens once you kill yourself? Because I'm ready to go.
You wanna know what happens once you kill yourself? Your mother comes home from work and finds her baby dead and she screams and runs over to you and tries to get you to wake up but you wonât and she keeps screaming and shaking you and her tears are dripping onto your face and your dad hears all the screaming and runs into the room and he canât even speak because the child that he loved and the child that he watched grow up is gone forever and finally your little sister runs into the room to see what all the fuss is about and she sees you dead. The person she looked up to and loved. The person she bragged about to  her friends, the person she wanted to be just like when she grew up, the person that made her feel safe. But sheâs never really going to get to grow up and smile and laugh and love because sheâll always be consumed with this feeling of missing you. And now thereâs something missing from your family and they can barely look at each other anymore because everything reminds them of you but youâre gone and hurts more than anything. and you think that your mom never cared because she was always busy and yelling at you to finish your homework and clean your room and forgot to say I love you sometimes but really, she loved you more than anything and she doesnât leave the house anymore, she canât even get out of bed and sheâs getting thinner and thinner because itâs too hard to eat. Your father had to quit his job and he doesnât sleep anymore, every time he closes his eyes he sees his baby dead, and the image never goes away no matter how much alcohol he drinks. And at school your best friend sees that your seat is empty and she gets this sick feeling in her stomach and thatâs when she hears the announcement. You killed yourself. And suddenly sheâs screaming and crying in the middle of class and no one even bothers comforting because theyâre all  busy sitting there staring at your empty seat with tears dripping down their cheeks and all she wants is for you to hug her and tell her itâs gonna be okay like you always did, but this time, youâre not there to do it, everything is dark now that youâre gone and her grades are slipping, she barely goes to school anymore and she ended up in hospital after taking too many pills because she wanted to see you again. the girls who used to make fun of the way you dressed feel their throats get tight, they donât talk to each other anymore, they donât talk to anyone, theyâre all in therapy trying so hard not to blame themselves but nothing works. and your teacher who always gave you a hard time stares blankly at the wall, she quits her job a few days later. And then your boyfriend hears the news and he canât breathe, he still calls you a lot just to hear your voice and he talks to you on facebook but you never message him back, he canât fall in love again because every girl he meets reminds him of you, heâs never going to get over you, he loved you and he cries himself to sleep every night, hating himself and slicing his skin because he couldnât save you and heâs never going to hold you in his arms or hear you laugh again. Now everyone who knew you, whether they were a big part of your life or someone you passed in the hallway a few times a week, they carry this aching feeling around inside them because youâre gone, and they miss you, and they donât know why you left but it mustâve been their fault and they shouldâve stopped you and they shouldâve told you they loved you more and that feeling is never going to go away. And so you killed yourself
I never usually reblog things like this.. but if it saves just one persons life⊠please take thime to read this even if you think there is no point in living. Please.
Lifeâs too precious. If you feel like this, please know that it gets better. And that people are always happy to lend an ear; heck drop me a message too. But never, ever think about taking your own life.
Some of the filthy and downright unhinged things Iâve written Bucky Barnes saying in my fics. đ«Ł
âI gotta be honest, baby girl. If the good lord hadnât intended for me to fuck you everytime my cock was hard, he wouldnât have blessed you with such a perfect little pussy.â
- To Have and to Hold
âYou thought you could send me picture of those pretty tits of yours while I was in a briefing and I wouldnât wanna come home and watch âem bounce while I fucked you stupid?â He asked.
- Temptation
âNo, youâre not gonna play shy, doll.â He said, his voice taking on an almost menacing tone. âYou werenât too shy to make my dick hard when I was workinâ. I gotta say, I was pretty disappointed when I came home and found you settinâ the table for dinner instead of laying up on it with your pussy spread open and waiting for me.â
- Temptation
âYouâre so beautiful like this.â He mumbles. âSo fucking beautiful when you come all over my cock.â
- Temptation
âLook at me.â He demands, picking up rhythm. He dips down to press his forehead to yours, a shuddering breath escaping his lips as you flick your eyes up to meet his gaze. âIâm not pullinâ out.â He growls, nipping at your bottom lip. âEyes on me, doll. Iâll be damned if you donât watch when I fill you.â
- Temptation
âNo, you can take it baby.â He murmured, lifting a hand to stroke your cheek with his thumb. âI know itâs big, angel. But youâre my good girl, you can take all of my cock, canât you?â
- Good Girl
âYouâre so horny, arenât you?â He asks, tightening his hold on you. âSucking my cock probably has you soaked, doesnât it? Fuck, youâre such a slut.â
- Good Girl
The corners of his mouth twitch up into a smirk and he leans down, pulling you into him and pressing a kiss to your temple. âGood girl.â He whispers against your ear, goosebumps crawling across your skin in response. âSuch a fucking good girl.â
- Good Girl (Obviously)
âAre you gonna keep being a fucking tease?â He asks, spitting into his palm and pumping himself with his fist. âOr are you gonna cut the bullshit and let me wreck that pretty little pussy?â
- Wants and Needs
âNo.â He says sternly. âYou wanted to be a brat? You can crawl over here.â
- Wants and Needs
He looks up at you with a menacing grin, his hands traveling to your hips and holding them tight in his grasp. âI wish you would have asked.â He repeats, that gentle tone gone again as he lines himself up with your entrance. âBecause I wouldâve been nice.. fucked you real sweet. But since you wanted to be a brat-â
- Wants and Needs
âThere you go, angel. Thatâs it. Come all over my dick.â He breathes against your ear, resuming control in the wake of your climax and fucking up into you again. âYouâre dripping all over my balls, baby. Making such a mess. I should make you suck âem clean.â
- Wants and Needs
âDonât go all dumb on me now, not before Iâve fucked you full of my cum.â He warns, settling his hands against your lower back. âLean back.â
- Wants and Needs
His mouth parts and he lets out a low moan. âI know, baby. I got you. Gimme one more. Câmon.â
- Wants and Needs
âJesus, Princess. Youâre so fucking wet.â
- Watch Me
He grips your jaw and roughly tilts your head back down to look in the mirror. âYou're gonna watch me when I make you come.â
- Watch Me
âIâm not gonna be gentle. You know that, right?â He asks in a low voice, dragging the head of his cock along your slick folds. You catch your bottom lip between your teeth and choke back a moan as he releases your hand and widens his stance.
- Watch Me
âYou like that, huh?â He taunts, his voice low and husky as he fucks into you with unrelenting tempo. âYou like to watch yourself when youâre getting fucked, donât you? Kinky little slut.â
- Watch me
âThatâs right Princess, come all over my cock.â He moans, his hips stuttering as he trails his fingers away from your swollen clit.
- Watch Me
âIâm gonna fuck you. And itâs gonna hurt.â He mutters, his calloused fingers moving to unbuckle his belt.
- Watch Me
âIâm gonna fuck every hole in your body, every day, until you canât fucking take it anymore.â
my 10 holy grail pieces of writing advice for beginners
from an indie author who's published 4 books and written 20+, as well as 400k in fanfiction (who is also a professional beta reader who encounters the same issues in my clients' books over and over)
show don't tell is every bit as important as they say it is, no matter how sick you are of hearing about it. "the floor shifted beneath her feet" hits harder than "she felt sick with shock."
no head hopping. if you want to change pov mid scene, put a scene break. you can change it multiple times in the same scene! just put a break so your readers know you've changed pov.
if you have to infodump, do it through dialogue instead of exposition. your reader will feel like they're learning alongside the character, and it will flow naturally into your story.
never open your book with an exposition dump. instead, your opening scene should drop into the heart of the action with little to no context. raise questions to the reader and sprinkle in the answers bit by bit. let your reader discover the context slowly instead of holding their hand from the start. trust your reader; donn't overexplain the details. this is how you create a perfect hook.
every chapter should end on a cliffhanger. doesn't have to be major, can be as simple as ending a chapter mid conversation and picking it up immediately on the next one. tease your reader and make them need to turn the page.
every scene should subvert the character's expectations, as big as a plot twist or as small as a conversation having a surprising outcome. scenes that meet the character's expectations, such as a boring supply run, should be summarized.
arrive late and leave early to every scene. if you're character's at a party, open with them mid conversation instead of describing how they got dressed, left their house, arrived at the party, (because those things don't subvert their expectations). and when you're done with the reason for the scene is there, i.e. an important conversation, end it. once you've shown what you needed to show, get out, instead of describing your character commuting home (because it doesn't subvert expectations!)
epithets are the devil. "the blond man smiled--" you've lost me. use their name. use it often. don't be afraid of it. the reader won't get tired of it. it will serve you far better than epithets, especially if you have two people of the same pronouns interacting.
your character should always be working towards a goal, internal or external (i.e learning to love themself/killing the villain.) try to establish that goal as soon as possible in the reader's mind. the goal can change, the goal can evolve. as long as the reader knows the character isn't floating aimlessly through the world around them with no agency and no desire. that gets boring fast.
plan scenes that you know you'll have fun writing, instead of scenes that might seem cool in your head but you know you'll loathe every second of. besides the fact that your top priority in writing should be writing for only yourself and having fun, if you're just dragging through a scene you really hate, the scene will suffer for it, and readers can tell. the scenes i get the most praise on are always the scenes i had the most fun writing. an ideal outline shouldn't have parts that make you groan to look at. you'll thank yourself later.
Hey i hope youâre doing well i have an idea for a one shot and was wondering if you could write it.
So basically Bucky hears the reader talking to Natasha or anyone that she thinks sheâs too heavy for any partner and that she has given up on dating for a while because of that, and of course Bucky hearing that he starts lifting heavy stuff such as weights, machines or even Steveđ around the reader to show her he can easily lift her weight as well because he has feelings for her and you can add or change whatever you like and make it smutty idk whatever you think is right i trust your skills.
Hi! Iâm doing good, how are you?
This request? Uh, YES. đđ»
I love this idea!
I wrote this fully intending on Steve being like, âShe ainât lookinâ, Buck. Lift me.â and then changed my mind and rewrote it when it took on a life of its own. đ
I live and breathe smut so I definitely threw that in there in the form of Bucky needing to blow off some steam when he thinks about the reader. đ
Anyway, thank you for the request and I hope itâs what you were looking for!
đSj
Bucky Barnes x Plus!Size Reader
18+
Word Count: 2.9k
CW: Male masturbation while fantasizing about oral (f receiving) and sex
âBullshit.â
Buckyâs ears perk up as he passes the garage and hears Natasha fussing at someone in a string of curses, but itâs your voice that has him peering around the concrete wall with interest.
âI ainât lyinâ Nat.â
Youâre bent over the open hood of an old hot rod, your ass accentuated by the denim jeans hugging your curves. You blindly reach out towards the red headed assassin wiggling your fingers at her that are blackened with grease. Natasha rolls her eyes, pushing off the wall and picking up a socket wrench that she holds just barely in your reach. You let out a sigh, standing upright and snatching it from her.
âLook.â You tell her pointedly, blowing a loose piece of hair back from your face with a huff from your pouty lips. âItâs been months. Iâm sufferinâ, I am, really. But Iâm just over it, you know?â
âNo, I donât know.â She replies, leaning her hip against the side of the car, watching you with a skeptical frown. âIf youâre suffering, just come out with me. We can hit up that rooftop bar downtown. Have a couple drinks, dance a bit, pick up some hot strangers and scratch that itch. Come on.â
Scratch that itch?
A muscle jumps in Buckyâs jaw at Natâs comment and he can feel his jealousy simmering low in his gut.
Heâs been pining after you damn near since youâd arrived at the compound. The sweet little engineer Tony brought on to help take on his workload was only supposed to stick around and help out for a few months but when the team expressed their disappointment in you leaving and Tony realized despite his astronomically sized ego that he could get twice as much done with your help, giving him the opportunity for more free time with his family- you were brought on full time.
âI can scratch my own itches, thanks.â
Your curt reply to Nat brought Buckyâs attention back to the conversation he was eavesdropping on while the implication caught the attention of his cock, his jeans suddenly feeling tighter as he continued to listen.
âYouâre crazy. You need to get laid.â
âNat.â You warn and turn your back to her to grab a hand towel.
âCome on.â She pleaded, crossing her arms. âYouâve been so wound up. Nothing loosens you up better than a big, thick-â
Natâs cut off by the hand towel being tossed in her direction and she catches it with a chuckle.
âI donât understand why youâre so hung up on this.â
âI donât understand why youâre so afraid to get laid.â She counters.
âIâm not afraid.â You protest, raking a hand through your hair. âIâm just- I donât know. Itâs hard to explain.â
Natâs expression softens as she hangs the hand towel over the open hood. âTry?â She asks. âWeâre friends, you know you can talk to me.â
Bucky watches you shift uncomfortably and for a moment he feels guilty for listening in, as itâs clear youâre debating on confiding in Natasha and it feels wrong to eavesdrop on something so private. But as soon as you let out that defeated sigh and begin to explain yourself, heâs so goddamn grateful that this was the conversation he had a chance to overhear.
âMen just donât know how to handle me.â You admit, leaning back over the car and pretending to inspect something to avoid eye contact with Natasha but she isnât having any of it, bending down to hold your gaze. âHow so?â
âThey just-â You huff out a breath of annoyance, bracing your palms on the front of the car and standing upright. âIâm curvy, yeah? And I want a man thatâs gonna pick me up, toss me around, hold me up and fuck me on a wall or somethinâ but the last couple guys I went home with theyâre so.. boring. Missionary. Doggy. Like for once, would it be too much to ask for a dude to want to, I dunno, have me sit on their face? I swear, itâs like theyâre afraid. I ainât ashamed of my body, I like the way I look but shit, Nat. It really fucks with a girls head to feel like sheâs too heavy or something to really be satisfied.â
Natashaâs moving closer to you, beginning to say something about âweak men with noodle armsâ but Bucky canât hear it over the steady thrumming of his heartbeat in his ears.
He canât believe that your experiences have been so lousy that you wonât even entertain the idea of going out with Nat if she was wanting to pick up guys. Honestly, heâs relieved by that, since the idea of you hooking up with anyone has the knuckles of his flesh hand bleached white with how hard heâs clenching his fist. He flexes his fingers, trying to relax his hand as he feels a wave of embarrassment wash over him. How could he be angry or even jealous when heâs been too shy to make a move?
Câmon Barnes, grow a pair.
She wants strong? You can show her strong.
He sucks in a breath, steeling his nerves before rounding the corner and strolling into the garage with his hands stuffed in his pockets. âHey Nat.â He says with a friendly nod before slowly swinging his gaze over to you. âDoll.â He drawls. âWhat are you ladies up to this morning?â Your cheeks heat under the warmth of his cerulean eyes roaming over your body and you fumble the socket wrench, earning a lopsided grin from the handsome brunette. âJust- just workinâ on my project.â You stammer, bending down to pick up the tool. Damn, one flash of this manâs pearly whites is all it takes for you to lose control of your fine motor skills? Maybe you do need that itch scratched more than youâve let on to your best friend and she can tell too, her brow lifting as she watches the scene unfolding.
âMustang?â He asks, planting his hands on his hips. His eyes follow you as you bend over and reach for the socket wrench thatâs just out of your reach underneath the car. When you stretch, your baggy t-shirt rises up your midriff, giving him a glimpse of that cute little pooch tucked into the dark-wash denim jeans that are deliciously hugging your hips and thighs.
He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. â1960âs?â He asks, leaning down behind you. God, what heâd do to bring his palm down hard on your perfect, round ass and watch the flesh redden with each swat of his hand.
ââ62.â You grunt, your fingertips brushing the tool thatâs just barely out of reach. Bucky shrugs off his leather jacket and tosses it lazily over the workbench before stepping in even closer to you. âHere, lemme get that for you, doll.â He murmurs, his vibranium hand settling on the underside of the Mustang. Before you can eke out a reply, heâs lifting the vehicle off the garage floor like a goddamn carjack with enough ease that it makes the 3500 pound car seem as if it were cut from styrofoam. Youâre frozen in place on your hands and knees from the show of brawn so itâs Natasha that crouches down and quickly grabs up the socket wrench before you snap out of your trance and scramble to your feet.
Nat presses the tool firmly into your palm while giving you a look that screamed, âdo not fuck this upâ and saunters backwards admist the low groan of your car being set back down on its tires. âI gotta meet Steve for a briefing.â She tells you, which you know is a damn lie- but you nod nonetheless and stutter out a, âY-yeah, yeah. Catch you later.â She gives you a little wave and jogs off, her red waves bouncing in stride. When you turn back around, Bucky is leaning against the car with his arms crossed, his biceps testing the integrity of his black tshirt.
Goddamn, thatâs some quality fabric.
His gaze is locked on you, making you sweat a little under the intense stare so you awkwardly begin picking up the rest of your tools and putting them back in their rightful place at your workbench. A strong arm comes into view in your periphery as Bucky plucks up his jacket and you nearly lose your breath at the scent of cedarwood and leather. He slings the coat over his right shoulder, holding it with his flesh hand, his vibranium hand reaching up to rake through his cropped hair. âFinished so soon?â He asks. âYou ainât gotta quit workinâ just âcause I stopped by.â
âOh, no. No, I-â You swallow thickly at the way the corner of his mouth twitches up into a smirk. âI actually was just getting to a stopping point.â You tell him, absentmindedly pulling your hair up into a ponytail. With your neck exposed, he wets his bottom lip at the thought of dragging his teeth across the skin and that little glimpse of his tongue flicking out has you struggling to focus anywhere but his mouth. âGot somewhere you gotta be?â He asks, his voice low and gruff.
Fuck, this man is sex on legs. On two thick, strong legs.
You nod quickly. âYeah, I got a meeting with Tony about a new project.â You explain, though it comes out an octave higher than usual. He quirks a brow. âYeah? You got a new project?â
âYep. Yeah. I better get going.â You teeter on your heel, ready to flee.
Chicken shit.
âHey, wait. Hold on.â He says gently, reaching to grab your wrist and setting your skin ablaze with the touch. You glance over your shoulder at him. âHm?â
âWhatâre you doinâ tonight, doll?â
âWhat am I..?â
Holy fucking shit. Is he gonna-
No, no way. This is Bucky fuckinâ Barnes. You two are friends. Heâs your friend. Your insanely hot friend that youâve definitely had some filthy, sinful thoughts about, but heâs never led you to believe that heâs ever thought of you as more than a friend.
Or has he? I mean, youâve caught his eyes lingering on you on a few occasions but that doesnât mean-
âLemme take you to dinner.â
Oh. Oh.
It takes you a few seconds to realize that youâre staring at him like an idiot with your mouth agape before you click your jaw shut and nod. âUh, yeah. Yeah, alright.â You manage.
A slow grin spreads across his face. âYeah? Iâll pick you up at 6?â He asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets as tries to reign in his eagerness.
âThat sounds- that sounds great.â
âGreat.â He repeats, toeing the ground with his boot before taking a step backwards towards the open garage door. He sweeps his eyes over you one last time. âItâs a date, then.â And he ducks out of the garage back toward the compound.
You said yes.
You said yes.
He slips into his bedroom, the door clicking shut behind him and he falls back onto his bed, letting out a breath of disbelief. Heâs taking you out. He finally fucking asked.
Laying in silence for several minutes he replays the interaction over in his mind like he typically did after he was around you. He had a tendency to over analyze your body language, your expressions, hang on to your every word like it kept him afloat in his sea of anxiety; though sometimes, most times, he let himself drown. He drowned in the worry that maybe he was imaging the way your voice caught around him. The way you tensed when he got close.
But you said yes.
You wouldnât have said yes if he was just imagining it, right?
He lets out a huff, scrubbing a hand down his face as your words to Nat echo through his head like a shout in a cavern.
âLike for once, would it be too much to ask for a dude to want to, I dunno, have me sit on their face?â
And thereâs his cock again, straining against his jeans just from the thought.
He groans softly, flicking the button open and unzipping his fly to give himself some relief from the pressure as he stares at the ceiling, watching the fan spin round and round and..
It takes all of the self control he can muster not to reach into his boxers so his hands fist in the sheets in restraint.
It wouldnât be the first time heâs fucked his fist to the thought of you. Hell, it wouldnât be the 2nd, 5th or even 10th time heâd done it.
He lets his eyes slip closed, imagining your plush thighs straddling his head as you smother him with your pretty, wet cunt. His aching cock twitching with need from neglect as he focuses all of his attention on delving his tongue into your tight, warm, hole.. closing his lips around that swollen button that makes you writhe in pleasure.. your puffy pussy lips grinding against his face as you use him to chase your release .. your sweet, sweet slick coating his chin and-
Fuck it.
He shifts his weight on the mattress, tugging his jeans down enough for his erection to spring free, spitting in his flesh hand and slowly stroking himself. He groans, squeezing the crown of his cock, a bead of pearly precum gathering at his slit that he rubs roughly with his thumb. Bucky can imagine you on top of him, your pouty lips parting with a soft gasp as you sink down onto him, maybe even a hiss or shit- a whimper from the stretch when he splits you open. He knows heâs thicker than most men, a side effect of the serum- everything about him is bigger, thicker, better. Fuck those other men who couldnât satisfy you. Fuck them. He strokes himself faster, the thought of you bouncing on his cock making his toes curl. Your tits, those big beautiful tits, swinging, slapping together with every thrust.
Heâd reach up and pinch one of your pebbled nipples, rolling the sensitive peak between his fingers, cupping the other with his hand to give it equal attention. Itâd be heavy in his palm, he just knows it. Heavy, warm and filling his whole fucking hand. He imagines yanking you forward and burying his face in those perfect breasts before trailing sloppy, open mouthed kisses up through the valley of them. Heâd trace the tip of his nose across the swell and sink his teeth into the supple flesh, soothing the sting with a lave of his tongue, making you collapse forward against him as you cry out in pleasure. He could fuck up into you deeper at that angle, feel the tip of his cock kiss your cervix over and over until you see stars and lose your rhythm as your orgasm tears through you.
Yeah, heâd make you come so hard youâre limp on top of him and heâd reach behind you, grabbing a handful of your plump, round ass and taking control, moving you up and down the length of him at a frenzied pace until he-
His fantasy fades as his climax crests and he grunts, thick ropes of come spilling over his fist and onto his pubic bone.
He lies still and silent, his heartbeat a metronome in his ear, keeping time of the minutes that stretch on while he steadies his ragged breathing. With a sigh he sits up, looking down at the mess in his lap as his euphoria dissipates and the shame starts to creep in.
Heâs certain of two things in that moment-
One, he needs a goddamn shower and two, this will be the last time he fantasizes about fucking you.
Pulling himself to his feet, he glances over at the clock.
14:17.
He smiles to himself, crossing the threshold into the bathroom and twisting the shower on. His flesh hand tests the water, the warm spray cleaning the sticky release from between his fingers before he steps in, letting the water cascade over him.
Less than four hours. He thinks to himself.
In less than four hours heâll be sitting across from you in a dimly lit restaurant, watching your eyes sparkle in the candlelight as he prompts you about your favorite things just so he can see the way you light up when you talk about your passions. He smiles to himself at the image of your hands gesturing wildly as you talk, the sound of your infectious laugh and the way your breasts bounce when it bubbles up from your chest.
He begins to stiffen again at the thought.
Goddamnit, his cock just wonât quit, will it?
He turns the knob, the water quickly growing ice cold and he grits his teeth at the temperature change, cursing the serum for making his refractory period so short. Heâs grateful for it in the proper circumstance, but when heâs alone itâs a fuckinâ nuisance.
Buckyâs eyes slip shut, focusing in on the feeling of the frigid water splashing against the top of his head and rolling down the taut muscle of his back. Eventually the ache ebbs and he cranks the temperature back up, reaching for his shampoo. The cedarwood fragrance clings to the steam, filling his nostrils as he massages it into his scalp. Tipping his head back under the steady stream, he sighs contentedly.
I hope every writer who sees this writes LOADS the next few months. Like freetime opens up, no writers block, the ability to focus, etc etc you're able to write loads & make lots of progress <3
