31 with Bucky from the prompts you just reblogged please 🥺
hi my love!!!!!! 🖤 you want 31, you got 31.
Bucky knows he’s distracting, knows he can command all attention by flashing a disarming grin, handing out that Brooklyn charm like it’s candy. He knows he draws eyes when he walks around the compound post-workout in compression t-shirts that leave very little mystery to the sheer artwork that is his body.
You’ll never fault him for it, oh no. He’d worked too hard, relived too much, to not be able to feel comfortable and confident and so self-assured. In your eyes, he’d earned it - you just wish it wasn’t so frustrating for you.
You, who’d been reprimanded by Natasha for nearly drooling on the breakfast counter when he walked in post-shower, broad, bare chest and gleaming prosthetic on full display; you, who’d taken a Falcon punch to the nose because Bucky had been in the corner at the squat rack; you, who just can’t seem to pull yourself together around him.
It’s so aggravating living with some of the most attractive people in the world, but it’s even more so when Bucky seems to know the effect he has, how your tongue feels fat and heavy in your mouth whenever those massive biceps flex, or those icy eyes glitter with mirth.
It’s one of those days when he strolls into the kitchen, once against without a shirt, basketball shorts drooping low enough on his hips to show off both his black boxers and that delectable Adonis belt carved into his form. The cereal you’d just shoved into your mouth plops back out, splashing into the bowl and sending milk and granola onto the counter.
The sound draws the super soldier’s gaze, and— is it just you or is he already smirking?
You attempt to pull yourself back together, but the jerk simply saunters forward, leans that beautiful torso across the counter, and reaches with his flesh hand towards you. Your brain freezes, and so does your body. Like an out of body experience, you can only watch and wait with held breath as his thumb brushes across your lip.
“Hey, sweetheart, you’ve got something on your lip. Here, let me.”
And then, just to really kick your heart into cardiac arrest, he brings his thumb, dotted with spilled milk, to his mouth and sucks. A smarmy sparkle in his eye, he takes a water bottle from the fridge and exits the room.
You don’t breath until you’re back in your bedroom.
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