𝔎𝔫𝔦𝔣𝔢𝔶-𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔫

You had many regrets in life, but your most recent one was once again letting Johnny rope you into something absurd.

Strip poker.

Maybe a part of you was unfoundedly confident, thinking that your ability to keep a straight face would make it an easy win against Johnny (who, maybe, you wouldn’t mind seeing lose a couple of layers), but that notion quickly went out the window when you saw Peter lounging on Johnny’s bed like it was his own. You promptly leaped on the bed to try to make him leave, the man laughing in response, as he gripped your wrists to stop your attack.

You really want to wring Johnny’s neck.

Although, you belatedly realize, even if Peter, regular poker player that’s won against even Daredevil before, wasn’t here, you’d still be stuck in the same position.

“…Call?”

“Need me to explain the rules for you again?” Peter asks, lips quirking up, still donning all of his clothes. With him sitting next to you, you’re tempted to elbow him.

“Shut up, I know you’re probably just using your weird spider senses to win,” you scowl, looking down at your cards, deciding your hand is probably worthless once again.

“Or maybe you don’t know how to play poker?” Johnny pipes up from the floor, but you keep your gaze averted from him, already knowing if he sees your eyes linger on his shirtless form, he wouldn’t let you live it down.

“I can see why you skip poker nights now,” Peter chuckles, “but does it really matter if you lose when you’re wearing that many layers? We would have had a loser by now if you weren’t somehow so…dressed.”

“Somehow? I told you that you shouldn’t have let her watch count. Or her hair tie. Or each individual sock—“

“If you’re that impatient, let’s just end it here, we’ve already been playing for, like, a hour,” you complain. “And, for the record, if we were playing KOF or Mortal Kombat, you’d both be naked by now.”

“I appreciate your eagerness, but maybe next time, babe,” Johnny huffs out a laugh, leaning back on his hand (you’re definitely not looking at his abs), “but you know the rules, we’re not stopping until we have a loser.”

“I think you just want to see me naked,” you say.

“Obviously.”

“Why do you think he invited me?”

You peak at Peter’s cards in revenge.

With the two ganging up on you, it doesn’t take long for you to lose your pants, as you tug down your hoodie as if it will cover more.

“This is so unfair…”

“I’m in my underwear right now,” Johnny raises his eyebrows, Human Torch boxers that you’ve seen before proudly on display.

“What’s new…” Your eyes are glued to your cards as you say that, face impassive.

Peter stifles a chuckle, placing a hand on your thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You’re actually doing a lot better, you’re picking this up quick. I’ve always thought you had a good poker face. I mean you somehow deal with Deadpool without even twitching.”

“Don’t act so nice when you’re about to win again,” you say, dropping your cards with a groan as Johnny begins to chant ‘take it off’.

“Next time, I’ll insult your bloodline, if that will make you feel better,” Peter solemnly declares, but the amusement in his eyes betrays him.

You shuck off your hoodie, throwing it at Johnny’s face, crossing your arms over your chest.

“That’s,” Peter starts, suddenly at a loss for words, “a really nice set—of underwear, high quality stuff right there, really loving the blue—“

“You know what? Maybe we should end it here,” Johnny asks shuffling closer resting his hands on your bare knees, peering up at you in between long eyelashes. “Can think of something a lot more fun—“

You use a a single finger to push him away by his forehead as he lets out a noise of discontent, “Shut up and keep playing.”

The temperature of the room seems to rise, and for once not because of Johnny (you checked), as a restless tension thickens the air. None of you called out the obvious change, the same way no one mentioned the tent in Johnny’s boxers or how you kept fidgeting, squeezing your thighs together. You and Johnny however did exchange glances at how distracted Peter’s become to have actually start to lose, the man rubbing the back of his neck is frustration, losing his own clothing until he was shirtless, dark eyes no longer pointed at his cards.

But, even with Peter’s sudden decline, the game went on long enough for you to lose once again. You deliberated briefly on what to take off before reaching back to unclip your bra, tossing it at Johnny as you did with the rest of your clothing. You bring your knees to your chest, back hitting the wall, putting on a nonchalant face, ignoring the more than obvious stares from your companions.

You’re not surprised when the next round ends with your loss again, Peter finally locking in again, a moment of silence passing afterwards.

You sigh and Peter tenses up from besides you as you bring your legs down to shimmy your underwear off, your dignity long gone from embarrassing defeat after defeat. You have to spred your legs apart slightly and you hear a strangled noise when your soaked state is revealed, damp panties falling to the ground.

“Fuck,” Johnny curses as you move to squeeze your legs shut again when Peter’s hand intercepts you, gripping the meat of your thigh as he moves off the bed and in between your parted legs in one motion, looking up at you, not unlike how Johnny was earlier.

“Knew you were getting worked up this whole time even when you acted like you weren’t,” Peter muses hands trailing further up your thighs before pulling you closer until his face was level with your warmth, “It was cute seeing you squirm from seeing a little skin, thought you’d be used to seeing flamehead naked by now.”

“Hey!”

“Could say the same to you,” you retort, eyes looking up at the ceiling, counting each tile, “You weren’t exactly subtle either.”

“No,” he agrees, “but I played along with Johnny’s obvious scheme and I’m not stopping now.”

“Hello? Literally still here?”

Without any further fanfare, his tongue slipped in between your wet folds, lapping at your slit.

You press a hand against your mouth to muffle a startled moan, jolting when you feel Johnny nuzzle against your neck, taking Peter’s prior spot.

“Can’t believe you were this wet the whole time, if you actually knew how to play, you’d be unstoppable,” Johnny comments, running his hands up and down your arms as you struggled to keep still. “Was kinda disappointed you didn’t seem too phased, but, uh, clearly not.”

“I’m going to kill you,” you grit out, Peter sucking on your clit, seemingly on a mission to make you unravel.

“My kind of foreplay, but I think you’re the one in need of some love right now,” Johnny laughs, now groping your chest, “Honestly, you can just let us know that you need someone to play with your—“

You shut him up with a rough kiss that he melts into, Peter groaning against you, no doubt enjoying the show, voyeur you’re sure he is.

“You won’t wake up tomorrow,” you mutter against his lips.

“In a sexy way?”

You’re saved from responding when Peter works a finger into, mouth still focused on your clit and you near flinch away from the stimulation as you feel something coiling in your gut.

You don’t realize your nails are digging into your skin until Johnny unclenches your hand, pressing it against his still clothed bulge.

“Kiss me if I’m wrong,” Johnny begins still holding your wrist, bucking against your palm watching an orgasm rack through you as you near strangle Peter with your thighs, “but I think you like losing.”

When you want to have a chill game with your buddy but a spider is there…

Recently, you had been planning on getting a cat, but after moving in with the rest of the team, the plan had been put on hold.

It was a tragedy. You were really looking forward to adopting one for yourself. You weren’t exactly sure if pets were allowed in the Watchtower. Technically, you didn’t see any rules against it, but you didn’t want to adopt a pet immediately after getting new roommates.

That being said, you did ask Valentina, but that didn’t really go well.

-

You shuffled anxiously, hearing the phone ring before it eventually picked up. “Hey, so—”

“Is this an emergency? You do know this number is for emergencies only, correct?” She said, and you could practically see the eye roll.

“Welllll, not exactly, but you haven’t exactly been around for us to ask any questions. You also don’t respond to my texts…” You trailed off, mumbling the last line. It’s not as if you wanted her around, but it would have solved this issue ages ago.

She remained silent for a moment, and you heard her sigh, exasperated. “Well, what is it?” She asked.

“The policy for pets?”

She sputtered for a moment, “I’m sorry, what?”

“Pets,” you said slowly as if talking to a child, “can we have them?”

She huffed, and sharp laughter rang in your ears. “Oh, absolutely not.”

You exhaled, “Damn…” You mutter to yourself, thinking she wouldn’t catch it.

“I do not want to see a pet there. I don’t care if it’s a dog, cat, guinea pig, snake, or turtle. No pets. Now, please, save this number for emergencies only. Goodbye.” She hung up the phone before you got a word in.

You soon realized after that incident that either people didn’t know about the policy, or didn’t care (likely the latter).

You didn’t immediately notice the animals. You weren’t even sure if they were always there or a new addition. The story of how you found out is actually pretty anticlimactic.

Yelena walked in with a guinea pig in hand.

That's really about it.

You watched as she sat down on the couch, petting the animal without a care in the world. You raised an eyebrow. You weren’t sure if this was a deliberate act of rebellion or if Yelena just didn’t know. Either way, you didn’t mind. You just needed to know where everybody stood, you know, for… reasons.

“Did Valentina ever mention the policy for pets?” You asked casually, walking over to sit next to Yelena. The guinea pig crawls over her lap into yours. You smile as you pet them gently.

Yelena pauses, “You know what? I don’t know.” She looks down at the guinea pig on your lap, “I also don’t really care. I don’t think Valentina knows I have her anyway.”

You nod, chuckling. “Fair enough. Would you care if she told you otherwise?”

Yelena laughs before her smile falls, “Not one bit.”

Frankly, you find it hard to believe Valentina did not notice the guinea pig. She seems like the type to have cameras everywhere and have constant monitoring. However, you let that slide, after all, it wasn’t exactly an animal that freely roams the tower.

What truly surprised you was the cat, or “Tower Cat” as you began to call her. She just appeared one day. Nobody said anything, no “hey guys we’re going to have a cat around, hope you don’t mind!” You wouldn’t have minded, but it's the principle that matters.

You had just finished up a solo mission. It was nothing too difficult, but you were exhausted nonetheless. You walked into the empty common area, blinking in confusion. Normally, there’s always one person here. You cautiously entered the space, looking around for any signs of life.

“Uhh, anybody home?” You asked, your voice echoing slightly in the empty space.

You walk over to the couch to try to catch a breather for a moment before you see her.

A cat. A fluffy white cat.

How’d she get in? You aren't sure, but you weren’t going to complain. You look around one more time to make sure nobody is nearby.

“Hello there!” You slowly moved to the cat loafed up on the couch. You tried to extend a hand to her, but she immediately moved away as if offended by your attempt to pet her. “Not the cuddly type, huh? That’s okay.” You now had a new goal: befriend the cat.

Over the next few weeks, you had taken to various methods of befriending Tower Cat. You had bought some toys and treats for her. While she was initially very hesitant, and you mean very hesitant, she slowly started to warm up to you. She would now walk up to you to eat the treats you offered her. You considered that progress since the first time you tried to feed her treats, she hissed at you.

The first time she approached you was a moment to be written down in history. You were hanging out in the kitchen, making yourself a quick snack, when suddenly you noticed something fluffy next to you.

You immediately paused whatever you were doing, looking down at Tower Cat. You didn’t want to scare her away, so you slowly started to turn your attention away from her. As you cooked, you noticed that she didn't leave the area. She didn't try to engage with you, but she watched you cook, never straying very far.

Eventually, when you finished, you went back to your room to grab the cat treats. To your surprise, she actually followed and made herself comfortable on your desk.

“Oh, so you just own my space now?” You asked her, grabbing a treat out of the bag. You hesitantly offered her a treat from your hand. You hadn’t tried this since the initial scratch incident. She stared at you for a moment before eventually deciding to approach you and take the treat. You withheld your gasp, allowing her to lick your hand before she became disinterested and claimed your desk as her own once more.

“You’re cool there?” You asked her.

She watched you silently.

“Okay, have fun, I guess.” You smiled, leaving the door to your room ajar in case she wanted to leave.

You weren’t sure if the rest of the team noticed the new addition, but you can’t imagine they didn’t notice. With how many former assassins and super soldiers you live with? No way they didn't notice. The first time you heard anything about it was when you were talking with Bob and Yelena.

“Oh, damn it.” Yelena sighed, groaning in frustration. You and Bob, being the only ones in the room, turned towards her. She was looking into her room, looking less than pleased.

“What happened?” You ask.

“Damn cat got into my room again. Knocked over all my stuff.” Yelena responded, walking into her room, leaving the door wide open. You watched as Tower Cat came out from her room looking innocent.

You blink, “The cat? Didn’t realize anybody knew she was here.” You looked between Yelena and Bob.

“She’s not exactly hard to miss,” Yelena said, walking out of her room, closing the door behind her. She looks down at Tower Cat before shaking her head and walking back over to you and Bob.

“It’s just that nobody talks about her. I just assumed it was one of those things that everybody sees, but never speaks about.” You leaned against the armrest of the sofa. “So I’m assuming she isn’t any of your guys’ cat?” You raised an eyebrow, looking between Yelena and Bob.

Yelena shook her head, “Nope.”

Bob similarly shook his head, “Not mine either.”

“Huh, do we know whose cat she is?” You asked.

Yelena shrugged, “I thought she just wandered in one day, and everybody let her stay. Haven’t really asked though.”

You hummed, “That’s funny. I was actually considering getting one too. Maybe it’s fate.” You joke, smiling.

Yelena laughs, “Please, take her. The first, and only, time I tried to pet her, she hissed and tried to scratch me.” You nodded in sympathy.

“Yeah, she did that to me the first time, too. She eventually warmed up to me, kinda. She actually came into my room the other day just to relax.” You said, looking over to the cat in question, who is walking through a hallway. Bob and Yelena followed your gaze, watching as the feline slowly walked over to your door before waltzing in like it was her own. “Oh, hey there she goes, what timing.” You laugh at their stunned faces.

“Does she have a name?” Bob asked.

“Well, I was gonna name her, but her original title of ‘Tower Cat’ just kinda stuck.” You explained.

“How’d you get her to like you?” He asked, looking at you with genuine curiosity.

“Treats and patience. Wanna see if we can try and get her to warm up to you a bit?” You asked, grinning.

Bob smiled, nodding silently. Yelena laughs sharply before bidding her goodbyes for the night. She did not want to deal with that cat any more than she already did that day.

That’s how you started your “Cat Time” with Bob. You grew close over your similar love of cats. However, there’d be times where Tower Cat wouldn’t be anywhere in the Watchtower, betraying her name entirely. You and Bob would walk around, checking around, but there’d be nothing. She always showed up the next day or two after, so you assumed somebody would just let her into their room, but you didn’t know who.

Eventually, after weeks of exposure, she warmed up to both you and Bob considerably. She’d hang out with you two while you watch TV or talk. Everything was going well. You finally got the cat you wanted.

Then you found she wasn’t your cat to claim.

-

If there was one person on the team where you weren’t sure where you stood, it was Bucky Barnes.

To be clear, you had tried to establish friendly relations, seeing as you were living together, but after multiple attempts being met with nothing, you eventually gave up.

When you first moved in, you wanted to make a good impression on everyone, and for all intents and purposes, you were successful.

Alexei was not very difficult. You just engage in conversation with him often and laugh. He could actually be pretty funny sometimes, much to Yelena’s embarrassment.

Ava was a bit more difficult, but she eventually warmed up to you. Sometimes when you baked, you’d offer her some cookies, and you two would talk. Yelena would join in too occasionally. Those nights were always fun.

John was John, meaning he was kinda an asshole. You eventually got somewhere with him... kinda. You both would banter back and forth, but initially it was not banter. The insults over time turned less aggressive and more along the lines of “you annoy me, but you’re alright, I guess.” In your defense, you did try to be nice to him at first, but he made that very difficult with the way he treated other people, especially in the beginning. You eventually figured it out, though.

Yelena was the easiest next to Bob. She immediately became one of your best friends. She was one of the people on the team you really looked up to. You two would often end up hanging out with each other. This was how you were introduced to Bob.

Initially, it was kind of awkward with Bob. Both of you were friends by association, meaning you both liked Yelena, but didn’t really know each other. Eventually, once Tower Cat came into the picture, you both would hang out. You realized how funny he was once you actually got to know him. This led to a lot of late nights with you, Yelena, Bob, and Tower Cat. Sometimes Yelena would insist that Tower Cat must go, but for the most part, that was your little group.

So overall, you thought you did a good job establishing a positive relationship with the team. If you try to forget about Bucky, that is. You almost feel embarrassed thinking about it. By the end, you had gotten pretty desperate and had tried bringing him coffee in the mornings, or checking in to see if he was injured after missions. If you two were friends and your efforts had succeeded, you wouldn’t be embarrassed. However, they failed, and failed miserably.

The coffee incident? You wince even thinking about it.

“Oh, hey, I left some coffee on the counter for you. Not sure how you like it, so I left the sugar to the side.” You smiled as you watched Bucky walk in. He looked like he had just woken up, hair disheveled, rubbing his eyes.

He looked over to you before glancing at the mug you left for him, filled with coffee. He nodded slowly, walking over to it hesitantly. He stared at it for a bit before clearing his throat, “I was actually going to go to the gym.”

You tried not to sigh and look over at him. “No worries. I’ll just, uh, clean it up.”

He nods, looking at you, muttering a small “Thanks anyway.”

As he walks away, you immediately feel embarrassed. Well, that was pathetic.

Of course, that wasn’t the only embarrassing incident.

Bucky had been returning from a mission with John. However, you only saw Bucky exit the elevator and head toward his room. You noticed that his face had a deep cut on it.

“Hey, you need help with that?” You asked, walking over to him. He paused before looking at you.

He smiled reassuringly, but you can see in his eyes he’d rather be anywhere else than talking with you. “I’m good, thanks.”

You blinked, watching as blood dripped down his face from the wound. “You sure? I don’t mind-”

“I am fine.” He cut you off. “I will be fine, thanks.” He told you, not even looking you in the eye. His words sounded so final that you didn’t even try to follow him. He closed the door behind him, leaving you staring at it.

That was when you realized that the “good impression” mission you had was a failure.

You had tried, and maybe it was because of your personality, you aren’t sure. He just did not like you. After that incident, you backed off of him, not offering aid or doing small gestures for him. His previous interactions sent you a clear message, and you received it.

Were you hurt by it? A little. You did put effort into trying to make him at least think you were an okay person. You couldn't help but admire him from a distance. Anyway, you tried not to take it too personally, after all, he’s been through a lot. He probably just isn’t comfortable with you, which you get, but it still hurts putting in effort for such blatant disregard.

So you can imagine your surprise when he approaches you on a random day.

-

“. . . and I was so confused, like how did you come to that conclusion?” You raise your hands, gesturing confusedly. Bob chuckles at your outrage.

You sigh, putting your hands down, petting Tower Cat on your lap softly. “I dunno, I was just so over it. I eventually confronted her, and she had the AUDACITY to act confused.” You continue to rant, neither you nor Bob noticing the elevator opening.

“And I’m assuming you weren’t going to let that slide?” Bob asks with a soft, amused smile on his face. You grin back at him.

“Not a chance. So—”

“Is that Alpine?”

You and Bob immediately turn toward Bucky. You blink. “When’d you get here?” You ask.

“Just now,” he pauses, “since when did Alpine start hanging out with you two?” Bucky furrowed his eyebrows.

“‘Alpine?’” You repeat the foreign name back at him. You and Bob look at Tower Cat, or apparently “Alpine.”

You look up at Bucky, “She’s your cat?” You feel your mouth drop in surprise.

“Whose cat did you think she was?” He asks, looking at you in disbelief.

“I thought she was like the communal tower cat or something.” You say, your voice quiet as if that will quell Bucky’s growing bewilderment.

“The ‘communal tower cat?’” He repeats incredulously.

“Okay, sorry, sorry.” You apologize profusely, hoping that he won’t murder you for taking his cat. Bucky seems to stare at you for what feels like forever. You shift uncomfortably under his stare.

“Uh, you can have her back, if you want.” You eventually say, mumbling the last part. Bucky just continues to stare at Alpine in your lap. You look toward Bob to see if he is feeling the same awkward tension you are. He quickly glances at you, then Bucky, then back at you before shifting awkwardly.

You try to pick up Alpine without disturbing her. The moment you try, her eyes snap open. “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart.” You coo softly to the cat. You offhandedly notice Bucky shifts stiffly.

“Bucky’s back, though. Wanna go with him?” You speak softly to her. In response, she pushes herself closer to you, purring against your collarbone. “Aw, I’m sorry, I wanna cuddle with you more too.” You frown at her before gently handing her to Bucky. Your hands brush his as you try to give her to Bucky without disturbing her too much.

She meows softly, and you feel your heart break. “Didn’t realize you liked cats,” Bucky says.

Bob laughs, and you both turn to him before he covers it with a cough and low “Sorry.” He knows you love cats.

“Love them.” You respond with a strained smile. He looks at you for a moment longer. Eventually, you clear your throat and look away from his gaze, “Sorry, Bucky.”

Bucky seems to stare at you for a moment longer before leaving. Not a word said, he just leaves.

“Well, at least we know why Tower Cat or ‘Alpine’  disappears some nights,” you comment, Bob shaking his head, amused, “but damn, he hates me.” You whisper as if Bucky will hear you, and knowing him, you can’t be too sure.

“I doubt that. He just has…” Bob pauses for a moment, trying to find the word for it, “struggles.”

You huff, “Yeah, that’s one way to say it. I don’t even know what I did to him. It’s not my fault your cat likes me.” Actually, it is your fault, but Bucky doesn’t need to know the details.

In your defense, Alpine did just waltz around the entire place like she owned it. There was no indication she was owned, let alone owned by Bucky of all people.

“He do that often?” Bob asks. You raise an eyebrow at him to elaborate. “The staring.”

You scoff, “Only in days that end in ‘y.’” You shift on the couch so that you’re lying down instead of sitting. “I assumed it’s one of his weird quirks. I thought it was just a former assassin thing where he just stares at you as if assessing if you’re a threat,” you hold your hand up to emphasize your next point, “which I am not.”

“Maybe he thinks you’re pretty?” Bob suggests, and you laugh loudly, making him raise his eyebrows at you in slight concern.

You smile at Bob, “That’s so sweet,” you put your hand on his shoulder gently, “but so very wrong.”

Bob shakes his head but smiles, “You never know.”

You shake your head confidently. “No, I do. He’s probably planning different ways to kill me if needed. The stare of ‘I’m planning your murder because you took my cat.’” You stick your hands up into the air, doing jazz hands, still staring up at the ceiling.

“Is that a thing?” Bob asks, doubtful.

You look at him, contemplative. “I don’t know, but if it was, he definitely invented it.” You respond.

Bob frowns, but he nods, agreeing with the sentiment anyway.

-

You initially thought Bucky was jealous of you.

After all, Alpine decided that you were now her favorite person, and Alpine was his cat. Therefore, it’d make sense if he were a little upset over how Alpine clung to you.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little smug.

“Hey, whatcha guys doing?” You walk into the common area, watching as the team stands surrounding the center coffee table.

“Don’t fuck this up—”

“Shut up, John. I’m trying to concentrate.” Yelena cuts him off.

You eventually walk over and see the situation.

“What are you doing?! Don’t pick that one!” John points at the Jenga tower in front of him. Yelena leans over it, slowly tugging at a piece that’s halfway out.

Yelena stops, turning toward John, “John, I swear if you don’t be quiet, I will knock over this tower on purpose.” She points a finger at him, and he mutters a quick “Okay,” his hands held up in mock surrender.

You notice that on the couch sits Bucky Barnes himself, which immediately strikes you as odd. Bucky, while not explicitly against these little bonding activities, didn’t ever seem to care for participating in them. He’d support them, but from his own room. Seeing him actively engaging with these activities is definitely new. You also notice that Alpine is curled up on his lap.

Everybody else is standing, eagerly watching the game of Jenga. It appears that Yelena and John are on a team, which is a concerning team-up on its own, and Ava and Alexei are on a team. Bob seems content watching the game.

“GOT IT!” Yelena raises the Jenga piece into the air in victory.

Ava groans, looking at the tower, and you feel her pain. There were seemingly no good moves. You decide to walk up to Yelena and John to see how they’re doing.

“Oh, finally decided to join us?” Yelena pats you on the shoulder as you walk up to her.

“Didn’t realize you guys would be out here still.” You admit, you’d come back from a walk around the city.

John shrugs, nodding his head slightly, “Yeah, I didn’t think we’d still be here either.” He mutters.

You raise an eyebrow, “How long have you guys been at it?”

“Eh, not that long.” Yelena waves a hand casually.

”Two hours.” John deadpans at the same time.

You chuckle, deciding to sit down. “For one game?”

“We’re determined.” Yelena joins you on the couch.

You smile, nodding, “Say, since when did he start joining?” You quickly glance at Bucky, sitting on the other couch.

Yelena shrugs, “I don’t know, why?”

“Well, I mean, he just doesn’t ever show up to these. Was wondering how you guys got him to actually sit through a game.” You whisper, hoping he can’t hear you. However, you suddenly get the feeling that he’s watching you. You try to discreetly look at him, but when you do, he’s still staring at the game in front of him.

“What happened?” John asks, hovering over you and Yelena sat over on the couch.

“None of your business.” Yelena rolls her eyes.

“Well, if you are talking about B—”

“Oh, so now you’re eavesdropping.” You click your tongue, disappointed in him.

“You guys aren’t quiet.” He looks unimpressed.

“That’s not fair. We are quiet by normal people’s standards.” You turn to face him. You’re so focused on proving John wrong that you don’t even register Ava yelling “Alpine! No! Get off the table!”

“Well, I thought to inform you that perhaps the person you’re discussing can hear you, seeing as he wouldn’t fall into ‘normal people standards.’” John does air quotes.

You slowly turn to see if Bucky is watching you three have your not-so-quiet discussion. To your surprise, he is looking at you. Also, to your surprise, everybody is looking at you.

You feel yourself shrinking under their scrutiny. Did they all hear your conversation? “What?”

“The kitty cat likes you! I did not think she liked anybody.” Alexei laughs, and you furrow your brows, confused. You eventually sit up to find Alpine looking up at you, sitting right at your feet.

“Oh.”

She meows before hopping onto your lap. Yelena immediately shifts away from you, and John similarly moves away.

“Keep her there, please? She almost knocked over the tower.” Ava sounds exhausted.

“Uh, yeah sure.” You respond, still processing everything that just happened. No wonder Bucky was looking at you.

You glance up at him to find him no longer sitting laxly, but instead leaning forward, staring directly at you.

You grimace, trying to mouth an apology to him, but his expression stays the same. By this point, everybody else is sucked into the game again, except you two. You think that maybe he’ll just resolve to stare at you for the rest of the game, but no, he stands up.

Alpine purrs on your lap, but not even that can ease your growing stress levels as you see Bucky maneuver his way to your couch. You expected him to talk to you, perhaps ask for his precious cat back, but he does none of that.

Instead, he sits on the couch with you, saying nothing. He makes himself comfortable as if this is a normal occurrence. He decided to sit on the other side of the couch, pretty much the furthest he can sit from you while still being on the cushions. You can’t help but glance at him a few times, as if that would elicit an explanation.

Alpine looks up at you as you stare at the game in front of you, rigidly. You don’t dare to move or say anything. After minutes of silence from you two, you eventually turn toward him.

“Did you want Alpine back?” Your voice is barely louder than a whisper, as if afraid that any louder would garner the team’s attention once more.

He turns toward you, and for the first time, you are struck by how blue his eyes are.

“It’s fine.” He matches your volume, glancing toward Alpine on your lap. If you weren’t looking for any sort of reaction, you wouldn’t have caught the way his eyes narrowed as he gazed upon Alpine in your lap.

You feel obligated to give Alpine back, even if every bone in your body is telling you to keep her. He even said, “It’s fine,” meaning it is definitely not fine. That, combined with the narrowed look towards his cat, probably means that he wants his cat back right now.

“No, really,” you start to shift, Alpine’s purring ceasing, “it’s okay. Sorry about that.” Just as you’re about to pick her up to give her to Bucky, he reaches over and gestures for you to stop, putting a hand on your shoulder.

He says your name, making you pause as your hands freeze under Alpine, ready to pick her up. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. If she likes you, she can stay with you.” You nod, very aware that his hand is still on your shoulder.

“If you’re sure…” You trail off hesitantly.

“I am.” He looks at you smiling, but can’t help but think it looks forced.

The rest of the night continued without a hitch. The game of Jenga eventually ended, with Ava and Alexei winning. John swore that he saw Ava cheat and phase her hand through the tower in order to grab a piece at just the right angle, but he couldn’t prove it. He grumbled about it for the rest of the night, taking snips at them, but he eventually let it go.

Throughout the entire night, you sat there with Alpine. Bucky did not ask for her. However, you did notice that every now and then, he’d turn to look at you, or more accurately, look at Alpine. You thought that maybe he did want to say something, but didn’t want to cause a huge scene. You would’ve assumed it’d be to ask for his cat back, but he seemed insistent that you keep her.

So you sat, watching as the team started slowly turning in for the night. As one by one went, you waited for Bucky to say something, anything, yet he sat there.

By the time almost everybody left, it was just you two. You had pulled out your phone by this point in order to look as if you were busy. Feeling a weight lift itself from your lap, you look and see Alpine get off of you, slowly walking across the couch to make her way to Bucky. You decide that this is your cue to leave.

You stand up, brushing off loose cat fur left on you. Just as you are about to leave, you sneak a glance toward Bucky, only to find he is already staring at you.

“Sorry about that.” You break the silence, casually pointing at his cat, as if his whole behavior hasn’t put you on edge all night.

He seems surprised that you spoke to him, looking from you down to Alpine. “It’s alright. She seemed to like being close to you.” You thought you could detect a hint of bitterness in his tone.

“Yeah,” you chuckle, unsure how to respond.

Silence permeates the room once again. “Well, I’m gonna head out.” You slowly start walking towards your room. “Good night,” You bid him before turning around and heading out, not expecting a response.

“Night,” he returns softly.

You pause in your retreat, turning around, to see him looking down at Alpine. You offer him a small smile before heading back into your room.

-

So yeah, you thought that between the constant looks, bitterness, and not-so-subtle glares, he was jealous.

Not wanting to fuel his anger, you tried to avoid being in the room at the same time Alpine would be with Bucky. Alpine could be cuddled next to you, but the moment Bucky walked in, you’d vanish.

He gave you weird looks, as if he were trying to figure out what your deal was. You just continued to give him a polite smile every time.

Cooking in the kitchen was always an invitation for Alpine to join. She liked it when you cooked because she’d just watch you, and Alpine decided watching you cook was the most fascinating thing. You didn’t mind, so you let her.

You wash the final dish before going to consume the results of your Alpine-monitored cooking session. Just as you’re about to eat, Bucky comes walking in. You make direct eye contact with him, before glancing to Alpine perched on the counter next to you.

“What are you doing?” He asks, approaching you two.

“Eating,” you look down at your plate of food, “I was going to go eat in my room anyway. Alpine is all yours.” You did not plan on eating in your room, but you did that night.

Incidents like this didn’t stop as you had hoped.

Whenever you folded your laundry, Alpine would magically find her way onto your clean clothes. She liked the warmth, and so she’d make herself cozy. You pretended to be upset, but you enjoyed her company.

Then you hear a knock at your door, which was already open, so you turn around to see Bucky.

You can’t mask your surprise before he makes a comment. He clears his throat, “Sorry, I was just wondering if Alpine was in here.” You shift to the side, allowing him to see the very asleep feline on your bed in a pile of clothes. You immediately put down any hangers in your hand.

“I am so sorry. Here, sorry.” You gently pick up Alpine, apologizing to both her and Bucky. She meows softly, annoyed at being disturbed from her rest. You would be upset too if you were suddenly woken up and removed from warmth. “Sorry, she just likes sitting on the warm clothes. Here, take her back.” You give Bucky the fluffy cat, and he looks hesitant to accept her, but does so anyway.

“I’m sorry about that, won't happen again.” You smile, embarrassed. Bucky stares at you as you slowly shut the door on him and cover your face in embarrassment.

What made all of these incidents worse is that instead of becoming less frequent over time, they seemed to almost increase in frequency as time went on. You’d always see Bucky or Alpine. You couldn’t walk around the tower without seeing one of the two. Even worse, once one shows up, it wouldn’t take long before the other magically appeared.

You would be sitting with the team, Alpine on your lap, when the sound of the elevator would ring out. Most of the time, it wouldn’t be an issue, but since you had Alpine on your lap, it had to be Bucky because the universe hates you.

“Do you still want to try that new cafe you were talking about earlier?” Ava crosses her legs as she leans back in one of the chairs.

You grin, “Oh yeah! I heard their pastries were amazing.” You pet Alpine as you pick her up to walk around with. She wouldn’t let anybody else hold her, even Bob, but she would allow you to hold her. Actually, now that you think about it, she’d probably let Bucky hold her too, but you haven’t asked him (and you don’t plan to).

“Did you wanna try and go today? I don’t know when exactly they’re busy, but we can always check.” You walk around the coffee table already thinking about what you might order once you get there.

Then the elevator rang out.

Unconcerned, you turned around to welcome the newcomer. That is, until the doors open to reveal Bucky.

Feet frozen in place, you look down at Alpine in your arms. Bucky walks out of the elevator and immediately meets your eyes before he looks at your arms.

You don’t break eye contact with him as you slowly put Alpine down on the ground. Immediately, she heads over to Bucky and rubs up against him.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, despite not being very apologetic. If given the chance, you'd absolutely pick her up again. To make things worse, you completely forgot that Bucky can definitely hear you. Feeling his focus shift from Alpine onto you, you internally wince.

Forgetting Ava is witnessing this interaction, you hear her call your name out, and you turn to face her. “Sorry, what?”

“Do you wanna head out now?” She looks between you and Bucky, raising an eyebrow.

“Absolutely, let’s go.” You nod enthusiastically, ignoring the piercing eyes on your back.

“Where are you two going?” Bucky asks, grabbing Alpine for himself and holding her in the same position you were sporting not even a minute before. Hoping Ava won’t say anything, you look dead into her eyes, pleading.

“New cafe,” she ignores your plea, “wanna come with us?” Feeling your stomach drop, you decide to confront the problem yourself by doing the one thing he does best: staring directly into his eyes.

He matches your stare, unsurprisingly, and then looks towards Ava. “You sure?” He asks hesitantly.

“Yeah, it’s all good. We were planning on asking Yelena to come with us anyway.” Ava dismisses casually, as if this isn’t gonna be a miserable trip.

Continuing your staring contest, he breaks the silence with one dreadful word: “Sure.” He ends whatever trance you two were in, turning to smile at Ava before returning his gaze to you.

“Alright,” Ava gives you two an odd look, “well, I’m gonna go grab Lena, I’ll be back in a minute.” She starts to walk away, and you feel your soul leave with her.

“You sure this is okay?” Bucky questions, startling you.

You nod, turning to face him, “Yeah, she said it was all good.” You smile at him.

He nods slowly, “Yeah, ‘she said,’” he quotes, “I was asking if you are okay with me coming along.”

You nod, “Yep, no issue with it.” You lie.

He nods, watching you and definitely not believing you, “Alright, if you say so.” He walks over to the couches where you’re standing by. “Didn’t realize she liked you that much that she let you carry her.” He comments casually.

You immediately understand the hidden meaning. He may seem all innocent there, standing with a fluffy cat in his arms purring up against his chest, but you know it isn’t that simple. He is challenging you right now. He is asking you how you managed to win her affections over and is silently reminding you that she is not yours. Talk about being passive-aggressive.

You keep your smile, “Yeah, it’s actually pretty crazy. She doesn’t even let Bob hold her. To be honest, I’m surprised she let me carry her around.”

Bucky smiles, it’s softer than you expected. “Perhaps she feels as if you’re a safe person to be around.

You nod, humming in acknowledgment.

“Alright, are we ready? Come on, I want to get some coffee.” Yelena walks out, Ava at her side.

“It’s almost nine at night.” Ava comments in disbelief.

“Yeah?” Yelena pauses, “Well, I like coffee. Let’s go.” She enters the elevator, waiting for you all to join her.

The elevator ride wasn’t as awkward as you thought. Yelena and Ava managed to ease the tension for the most part. Whether or not they were even aware of it is a discussion of its own, but knowing them, they probably knew.

The walk to the coffee shop wasn’t very eventful either, for the most part. About halfway through, you realize that Ava and Yelena are heavily engrossed in their own conversation. Earlier, you couldn’t stop talking, but as the topics changed, you started to say less and less as they transitioned to your less knowledgeable topics. By this point, you didn’t even know what they were talking about. This led to you walking ahead of them.

To your surprise, somebody else decided to join you in what you thought was your brief solo walking moment.

“They seem to be passionate.” Bucky comments, and you both look behind you to see Ava nodding her head with a drawn-out “Yes!” All of this occurs while Yelena gestures wildly, seemingly approving of Ava’s agreement.

“Huh, yeah, I guess so.” You add on, amused. You two walk in silence for a moment before you eventually just decide to ask the question bugging your mind. “So, uh,” you pause as Bucky immediately gives you his full attention, “why exactly did you want to come?” You look at him.

He seems slightly taken aback by your question, but smiles anyway. “I like coffee, you guys said the cafe was good.”

You nod along, finding yourself questioning previous incidents. You had offered him coffee before, and he had decidedly not accepted it. So either he was lying, or he just really wanted to embarrass you that one time. You can’t tell which one is worse.

“You do? Really?” You ask, unconvinced.

“Yeah.” You laugh at his answer, “What?” He asks, matching the smirk on your face. “You don’t believe me?” He asks, acting as if he’s offended.

You continue to laugh, and he once again stares at you, resolute. “No, no, I believe you.” You smile at him.

He looks at you, nodding as if accepting that to be the end of that discussion. You eventually stop at the door of the cafe. The moment you’re about to open it, Bucky puts his hand in front of you, halting your action. You pause. What is he about to do?

Dazed for a moment, you watch as he opens the door for you. You smile at how unabashedly old-fashioned he is.

“Thank you.” You tell him, walking in. He smiles at the gratitude, garnering Yelena and Ava’s attention.

“What is it you are doing?” Yelena asks him as she walks inside. Bucky follows in behind her and Ava.

“Holding the door?” Bucky raises an eyebrow.

“No shit. I meant the” she gestures to her own face then to Bucky, “smile.”

“Am I not allowed to smile?” Bucky asks, disbelief written all over his face.

“I mean, you can,” Ava asks, but even she seems doubtful of her statement, “you just… don’t.”

“Oh, so you want me to have a restriction on being happy now?” Bucky asks, shaking his head in a disapproving manner. The three of them join you in line.

“I mean, I thought you already did.” Yelena blatantly admits. You all turn to her, “What?”

“Next up!” You roll your eyes at their discussion before going to the counter and telling the barista your order. Yelena and Ava peep over your shoulder and tell her their order as well. However, Bucky stands behind you three silently.

“What do you want?” You ask him.

He pauses, “Uh, black coffee.”

“‘Black coffee?’” You repeat, and he nods in confirmation. It was the exact same coffee he had rejected months ago.

“Okay, black coffee for him.” You turn back towards the barista, telling her your name before pulling out your card to pay.

Just as you’re about to tap the card, Bucky pulls you back, “Hey—” He taps his card.

“Oh, thanks, Bucky.” Yelena nods at him. Ava also gives him a quick “Thanks.”

You look up at him, suddenly feeling unsure about everything. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs, “I wanted to.”

“Thanks.” You tell him, and he accepts your gratitude with a nod before you all find a table to sit at.

This whole situation is odd. You genuinely thought he hated you. Well, hate is extreme, but he decidedly went out of his way to avoid your previous attempts at friendship.

Tagging along to a cafe with you, walking with you, and generally acting like a gentleman was not exactly what you expected this trip to be. You expected more backhanded compliments like before. If this was some sort of way to get to you, he was really playing the long game.

He hasn’t mentioned Alpine once during this whole excursion. It makes you wonder if you’ll have to be the one to confront him about that. That’s not exactly something you want to do, but you feel like it’s coming anyway.

You take a look at him to see how he’s faring here. He’s in a deep conversation with Yelena and Ava, all leaning away from you. You can’t hear what they’re discussing, but Yelena and Ava both make eye contact with you throughout their little talk. You aren’t even sure if you want to know what they’re talking about.

Hearing the barista call your name, you grab the drinks and pastries for the group, and you thank them before heading back to the table.

“So,” Ava starts cautiously at your return, glancing at Bucky for a split second before looking back at you, “when did you two… start?” She gestures between you and Bucky.

You take a slow sip of your drink. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You know this whole,” Yelena interjects, “thing you two have going on. It’s painful.” She takes a sip of her coffee.

Suddenly, the room feels hot, and it doesn’t help that your drink is also hot. You turn to Bucky, but he just looks at Yelena and Ava, bored. You take another sip, hoping he will say something, anything.

After a period of silence, you accept the fact that he will not be denying anything, so you eventually speak up. “No idea what you’re talking about.” You shrug.

What makes it worse is that you truly don’t know. Your excuse is terrible, and so they will think you’re lying when you genuinely have no idea.

Ava nods her head, “Mhm, okay.” She says, looking between you two.

You turn towards Bucky, who has not taken a sip of his coffee once. “Thought it was your favorite.” His attention snaps to you.

”I never said that.” He shakes his head.

“Then why’d you order it?” You raise an eyebrow, amused.

He looks at you before taking a long, slow sip of his coffee. You can’t tell what he’s thinking, but he doesn’t break eye contact. “Happy?” He asks.

You smile, “Thrilled.”

Walking home is not exactly silent, after all, you’re in New York, but it’s definitely quieter. Once again, Bucky decides to walk next to you. He makes a big deal about you being on the outside of the sidewalk, you roll your eyes, but let him have his moment.

You turn around every now and then to check and make sure Ava and Yelena are behind you. However, every time you turn around, they are already looking at you. Ava gives you a nod with a small smirk, and Yelena gives you a thumbs up. You give them a horrified look the first time it happens. However, by the third time you turn around and they repeat their same shenanigans, you give up, shaking your head, trusting that they will stay behind you and Bucky for the rest of the walk.

When you get back to the tower, you all enter the elevator. The ride up is relatively quiet, but then the door opens. You walk out, Bucky on your left, and John walks by, turning to see who came back, only to look at you two with an appalled expression.

“Did you two go on a date?” John looks at Bucky as if doubting what he’s seeing.

Ava and Yelena step out right after John’s question. “No, they just walked side by side together, and got coffee while teasing each other across our table.” Yelena walks over.

Alpine makes her presence known and walks over to you, rubbing herself against you. “You wanna take her for the night?” Bucky leans toward you, whispering to your ear. You feel your heart rate increase.

“Oh God, they’re sharing custody over the damn cat.” You hear John remark, exasperated. You both ignore him.

You frown at him. For somebody who is so protective of his cat, you would never have expected an offer as gracious as this one. “Are… are you sure?” You ask him hesitantly.

He smirks, amused, “Yes, I’m sure.”

You nod slowly, “And you won’t be upset?”

He tilts his head slightly, “Why would I?”

You look at him, his eyes on you with a fondness that sends your stomach whirling. You feel instantly conflicted. Why is he acting like this? What happened to being upset about you stealing Alpine’s affection? Were you wrong? There’s no way you were wrong. He was definitely upset when he commented about how much she liked you.

“We should go.” Ava looks towards the remaining team members who are watching you and Bucky. “Give them some privacy.”

John scoffs, “‘Privacy?’ There is no privacy here.”

“Just because you ruined your love life doesn’t mean you have to be bitter over other people’s, John.” Yelena snaps, disapprovingly.

His eyebrows raise, “Jesus, okay. Let’s give them some privacy.” He walks away from them, not even checking to see if Yelena and Ava follow behind him.

As that whole discussion went down, Bucky continued to look at you, confused.

“I just thought you might be upset?” You eventually respond to his question, unsure whether you're stating something or asking.

“Over you sleeping with my cat next to you?” He asks, sounding progressively more perplexed.

You open your mouth to say yes, but the look he gives you leaves you speechless. You try to say something, but everything that your brain comes up with sounds unreasonable. How do you tell somebody that yes, you thought they’d be upset that you were snuggling with their cat?

He huffs, his voice softening, “Why would I be upset about that?” You briefly wonder if he can read minds, but shove that thought away.

You eventually muster enough brain power to speak, “It’s stupid.”

He looks at you, shaking his head, “I doubt that.”

“No, it’s really fucking stupid. You’re going to think I’m insane after this.” You reiterate.

“I promise I won’t think you’re insane.” He chuckles, picking up Alpine, who was demanding attention.

You remain silent for a moment, staring at him, holding Alpine in his arms. Both Bucky and Alpine stare at you as if awaiting your response. You look around, as if checking to make sure nobody is going to hear what you’re about to say.

“I thought you were jealous…” you look up at him, finding him patiently waiting for you to explain, “of me taking Alpine all the time.” You look away from him.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you look at him once more. He isn’t reacting at all. You shift on your feet, unnerved. Suddenly, he cracks a small smile, exhaling amused. However, your dismayed reaction causes his smile to fall.

“How on Earth did you come to that conclusion?” He desperately tries to keep the amusement out of his voice, but you can hear it as clear as day, much to your chagrin.

You open your mouth to explain, but hesitate for a brief moment. “So you’re not jealous of me taking Alpine… I just wanna confirm.” You mutter.

He shakes his head, amusement lighting up his eyes, but he humors you, “No. I am not jealous of you taking Alpine.”

You walk over to the couch and sit down, leaning over and placing your palms against your eyes. “So you weren’t making passive-aggressive comments about me taking her?”

“No, promise.” He confirms, joining you on the couch.

“Okay, well,” you look towards Bucky, who nods for you to continue, “I thought you hated me cause in the past every time I tried to talk to you, you’d just ignore me. So eventually I just kinda assumed that you did not like me. Then you saw me with Alpine, and started acting weird, so I was like ‘oh no, he’s going to be upset that I took his cat.’” You ramble, watching Bucky’s eyes get wider as you progress.

“You thought I hated you?” He asks, as if the concept were absurd.

“Yeah, I mean, there was that time I made coffee for you and you just rejected it. Then I also tried to help out with an injury you got during a mission, and you said no and sounded upset at me, so I just figured you didn’t like me around you.” You explain sheepishly.

Bucky exhales harshly, “I never disliked you. I thought it was sweet when you did all that.”

You blink, “You did?”

He laughs, Alpine moving off his lap onto yours. “Yes, I did.”

You frown, “But you always rejected my offers.”

Now he avoids eye contact, “Well,” he locks eyes with Alpine, “I didn’t know how to approach you. I didn’t know how to talk to you without messing everything up, so I didn’t. I was scared.”

“‘Scared?’ Scared of what? Me?” You repeat.

He laughs softly, “Terrified.”

“I am like the least scary person on the team. Why the hell would you be scared?” You laugh at the idea.

“Because,” he looks at you, his eyes flickering down to your lips briefly before going back up to your eyes. You look at him, anxiously awaiting his response.

“You said you thought I was jealous of you,” he shifts the topic, “because you won Alpine’s affection.” He shook his head at the thought. “I was never jealous of you.” He reiterates, moving closer to you. You remain in your spot, watching as he grabs your hand. “I was jealous of her.” He looks down, smiling at the ridiculous notion.

“Of… Alpine?” You repeat dubiously.

“Because,” he looks up to meet your eyes, “she was able to get close to you. She was able to just insert herself into your life like she always belonged.” He looks down at Alpine purring on your lap. “Something I wasn’t able to do.”

You take a deep breath, “I thought you disliked me…”

He shakes his head, “I could never. I was stupid, but I have never once disliked you. I never wanted to hurt you, but I guess I did that anyway.” He exhales with a soft huff of laughter, but there’s no humor.

“This whole time?” You ask softly. “This whole time you’ve…” You glance down at his hands, clasped in your own.

He nods slowly, “All this time.” He confirms softly.

You gape at him, not saying a word. You can tell he’s waiting for you to say something. Instead, you say nothing, shifting closer to him on the couch, closing what little space is between you two. Alpine doesn’t even move from your lap despite the disturbance. You look at him, and his lips part open. Your eyes flicker between his eyes and lips, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of you. Slowly, you inch closer, giving him time to back out. You feel his breathing quicken before you close the gap.

It wasn’t a long kiss, but a soft one. You barely linger, removing yourself from him, before he can react. His mouth is slightly open out of pure awe. He looks at you, as if ready to lean in again, pupils dilated. You put your hand on his chest, causing him to raise his eyebrows in surprise.

“At least take me out on a date first, Barnes.” You smirk, chuckling breathlessly despite the short-lived kiss.

He grins, looking awestruck, eyes lighting up with that same amusement from earlier, “I did.” He squeezes your hand tighter, trying to move you closer once again.

You shake your head, “No. You tagged along to my cafe quest with two other team members.”

He chuckles, looking down in disbelief that this is even happening. “I would take you out on a date every single day if you asked me,” he rubs his thumbs along your hands. “But all I want right now, all I need right now, is you.” He slowly raises his arm up to hold your face, his hand cradling you gently.

You feel your face heat up at his words, “You drive a hard bargain…” You pretend to think about it. Eventually, you shift yourself so that you're leaning against him. Alpine looks up at you two, annoyed. “Aw, did we disturb you?” You ask her. She meows before climbing to rest on both you and Bucky. You laugh, feeling her purring resume and leaning just a little closer to him.

-

“Oh my God.” You blink away the sleepiness from your eyes. Oh, right, you’re still on the couch from last night. Alpine is on top of Bucky’s chest, peacefully asleep. You are cuddled up next to Bucky’s side.

“What the fuck, we sit there.” John sounds affronted, loosely gesturing to you and Bucky on the couch. “You could’ve gone to your room to do that.”

Bucky, now also awake, raises an eyebrow at him. “Sleep?”

“You know what you did.” John narrows his eyes at you two. You stand up, stretching as the rest of the team walks in.

“What happened?” Yelena asks, walking in.

“Nothing, we just fell asleep on the couch last night. Nothing crazy.” You shrug, giving a pointed look to John.

“Oh, so you two figured it out, great.” Yelena walks over to make herself coffee.

“You knew?” You walk over to her, not entirely surprised. You notice in your peripherals that Bucky, still lying down, is now being scrutinized by the rest of the team, John standing over him disapprovingly.

Yelena pauses, giving you a look. “Yes, I knew… Everybody knew. You even asked me about him.”

“Yeah! He stares at you like you hung stars.” Alexei adds on, pointing to the ceiling.

“You mean the moon?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Eh, moon and stars.” He adds on.

You roll your eyes, looking over at Bucky. He’s sitting on the couch, the rest of the team asking him various questions, presumably about you two. Seeing him now, he looks so stoic. Then, almost as if he can feel you watching, he turns towards you, and you physically see his eyes soften.

“Oh wow, he’s bad,” Yelena comments next to you, watching him. You laugh at her, but continue to admire just how soft he looks. The image is something you could not have imagined merely weeks ago, but now you have the pleasure of experiencing it.

“I’m glad it worked out, it was getting difficult to watch,” Yelena adds.

You give a small smile, “Thank the cat.” You look down at the feline rubbing up against your legs.

except, with bucky's infamously bad timing, this is the one time you're not in silence, you're not in bed, you're not even at home. you're stood completely still in the middle of a club's dance floor, drunk out your face (or not, wtv floats you boat), with your friends dancing all around you, and you're just staring. out into space, wide eyed, while pitbull or neyo or wtv early 2000s pop song is playing over the speakers.

that (sweet) motherfucker has just stained the first i love you in the taste of vodka, the stench of sweat, and he has the nerve to not even physically be here for you to berate him over it, and then kiss him ofc bc he's so handsome, and sweet, and he loves you.

you don't bring it up when he calls the next day. or the day after. or even the day after after. so bucky is, of course, doing what bucky does best: panicking!

good. serves him right.

safe to say his hands are a little shaky when he's eventually unlocking the front door to your apartment, until he sees you, cursing under your breath and holding your hand under the running water of the kitchen sink.

attentive and worried, his bags are abandoned on the floor in favour of racing over to you, heart beating harder than it was when he was actively being shot at two days ago (he will definitely not be telling you about that, ofc). all that panic just to see you've accidentally burnt the tip of your fingers taking something out the oven and, even though you try to shrug off his worried chastising, you fold instantly to his silent request to kiss your fingertips better.

"i think i'll just stick to letting you bake," you eventually cough up in shame, and that's when he finally notices something on the kitchen island.

a very poorly decorated cake, featuring your awful handwriting that he's learnt to understand: i love you too.

he eats the cake, and then you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

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

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

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

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

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

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

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

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

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

Only one of those things ends up happening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

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

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

A thought pops into your mind.

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

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

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

Something inside of you stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, really, it’s great.

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

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

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

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

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

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

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

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

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

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

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

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

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

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

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

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

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

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

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

A series of beeps capture your attention.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky is charming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You clench your fist shut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky leaves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can go back to sleep now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, why should you?

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

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

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

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

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

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

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

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

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

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

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

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

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

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

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

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

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

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

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

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

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

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

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

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly my point.”

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

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

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

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

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To blame for what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

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

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

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

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

“Jesus, baby,” he groans. “You’re soaked. That all for me? Hm?” He pauses to drag his tongue over you again, a slow, hot stripe. “This little pussy’s never been touched, and she’s already this fuckin’ needy?”

You nod again, helpless, undone, and wrecked. He pulls back just far enough to look at you, his mouth wet and glistening, lips pink from sucking. His pupils are blown, jaw tight, and you can feel the tension in his grip, like he’s barely holding back.

“You don’t even know how good you look right now,” he mutters. “All spread out and trembling f’me.”

You make a sound, high and breathless, and his grip on your waist tightens just a little.

“That’s it. Let go for me, baby. Wanna feel you come on my tongue. Wanna taste your first fuckin’ orgasm.”

And when it hits you think he might be the only reason you don’t fly apart. He holds you down, sucks you through it, lets your body thrash and quake beneath his weight. You cry out his name like it’s the only word you remember, and he groans, grinding his hips into the mattress like he’s losing his mind from just tasting you.

After, he’s panting against your thigh, voice low and reverent as he growls, “Fuck. You’re perfect.”

You’re still trembling. Tears on your cheeks. Heart somewhere in the clouds. You try to speak, but all that comes out is a whimper. He crawls up your body, muscles rippling, mouth slick and smirking.

“You okay, baby?” he asks, voice all gravel and honey. He kisses your jaw, your cheek, your temple. “Did so good for me.”

You blink at him, lips parted, breath shaky. “I-I think you broke me,” you whisper.

Bucky just smiles. Crooked and flushed and so fucking proud of himself. He brushes your hair back from your damp forehead and kisses your cheek, your jaw, the tip of your nose like he’s trying to stitch you back together with his mouth.

But the moment he inhales, the moment he smells you still warm and slick and messy between your thighs, his gaze darkens again. He groans. Low. Raw. Like the sound’s been ripped out of him.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, eyes dropping between your legs like he needs another look. “Look at you.”

You try to close them, shy, trembling, but he’s already pushing your thighs back open, gently, greedily, and settling down like he never left.

“Wait, Bucky,” you gasp, breath catching.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, baby,” he breathes, already kissing the soft inside of your thigh, already dragging two wide palms up the backs of your knees to spread you open for him again. “You’re just too fuckin’ pretty for me to stop.”

You squirm beneath him, whimpering as his breath fans over your still-sensitive pussy. “C-can’t…feels too! Too good!”

“I know it does,” he soothes, voice thick, but his eyes are wild with need. “But I need one more taste. Just one more, sweetheart, I swear.”

“Can’t believe you kept this from me all this time,” he murmurs into you, like a confession. Your stomach flips. Your thighs twitch in his grip. He groans again, louder this time, and presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your soaked cunt.

“All this time,” he murmurs again, like he can’t wrap his head around it. “You had this sweet little pussy and I didn’t even know what I was missing. Didn’t know you were fuckin’ made for my mouth.”

Your eyes roll back. He moans into you.

“I would’ve had you like this every damn night,” he growls, dragging his tongue over you again, slow and messy. “Would’ve lived between your thighs.”

You sob something incoherent. Your fingers tangle in his hair, your hips trying to lift, but he holds you down, again, pressing the weight of his arm across your hips so he can keep you still while he devours you.

“This pussy’s mine now,” he mumbles, voice hoarse. “You hear me, baby? You don’t get to hide her from me anymore.”

And you’re already trembling, already climbing again, like your body knows better than your brain now. Because he means it. Every filthy word. And this time, when you come apart, it’s messier. Wetter. Your whole body clenches, and Bucky moans with you, grinding his hips into the bed like he’s losing it too.

He doesn’t stop until you’re wrung out and boneless, panting and gasping and crying his name like a prayer. When he finally pulls back, lips slick, cheeks flushed, he grins like he’s just won something.

He’s still panting when he crawls back up your body, mouth swollen and slick, stubble damp with you. He doesn’t kiss you right away, he just looks. Looks at your face. Your trembling thighs. Your chest rising and falling like you’ve run a marathon. And then he settles above you, weight balanced on thick forearms, and groans like he’s in pain.

“Jesus, sweetheart…” His voice is a rasp, ragged with restraint. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You blink up at him, dazed and breathless. But then you see it, see his hand down between his own thighs, fist working slow over the thick, flushed length of his cock. He’s big. Thick at the base, head slick and flushed, veins running along the underside in a way that makes your stomach twist.

You gasp, thighs twitching.

“I’ve got you,” he says, soft and low, like he feels your nerves. “We’ll go slow, baby. I’d never hurt you. I just…” He groans again, jaw tight. “I’ve wanted this for so fuckin’ long.”

You reach down, tentative, shaky, and wrap your fingers over his wrist where he strokes himself. His breath catches. You tug, gently guiding him. And you whisper, “I’m ready.”

His whole body shudders. “You sure?” he asks, like it kills him not to just take you. “You still feelin’ okay? You tell me if anything hurts, alright?”

You nod. You kiss him. It’s soft, salt-sweet, a little desperate. And you whisper again, “Please, Bucky. I want you. I want this.”

He nods like he’s been given a mission. A purpose. Like he’d die to do this right. You feel the blunt, hot head of his cock slide through your slick folds first, just once, then twice, like he’s easing both of you into it. He groans into your neck, hips trembling.

And then he presses in.

Slow.

Your mouth falls open on a gasp, your body stretching around the thick intrusion, muscles fluttering as he works just the tip inside.

“Oh my God!”

“I know,” he chokes. “You’re so tight, baby, fuck. Gotta go slow. You’re doin’ so good, so fuckin’ good for me.”

He grits his teeth, arms trembling with restraint, forehead pressed to yours as he inches deeper. Every twitch of your hips, every soft sound you make, makes his cock jerk inside you like he’s fighting every primal instinct not to thrust.

You cling to him, overwhelmed and full and aching for more. “You’re so big,” you whisper, voice cracking.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” His hand slips between you, thumb circling your clit, trying to ease the stretch. “Let me in, baby. Just a little more. I’ve got you.”

And finally, finally, he’s seated all the way inside, his cock buried to the hilt, thick and throbbing and perfectly fit inside you. You’re gasping. Panting. Tears sting the corners of your eyes, not from pain, but from how much it is. How full. How close.

He doesn’t move. He just cups your face in both hands like you’re something holy, kissing you slow and deep while your body adjusts.

“Look at me,” he murmurs. “Wanna see your face when I start movin’.”

And when he does, it’s devastating. A slow, careful roll of his hips that drags his cock against every sensitive spot inside you. You cry out, legs wrapping around his waist without even thinking, trying to pull him deeper.

“Sweetheart,” he gasps, “you feel like heaven.” He thrusts again, a little deeper. Then again. And each one wrings a new sound from you…so good, so much, so full…and he doesn’t stop whispering to you.

“You’re mine now,” he groans. “This pussy? All fuckin’ mine.”

You nod, whimpering, nails clawing down his back. He rolls his hips again, slow and deep.

“You’re takin’ me so well, baby. Look at you.”

You look at him, his flushed cheeks, the sweat on his brow, the way his mouth falls open like he’s aching for every inch of you. You’ve never been this full. Never been this wanted. Never been loved like this, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“Bucky,” you whisper.

He groans, slowing again, pressing his forehead to yours. “I know, baby. I know. I’m gonna take care of you. Gonna make this the best thing you’ve ever felt.”

You don’t know when the pace changes. Maybe it’s when your hips start rolling up to meet him, greedy and aching for every deep stroke of his cock. Maybe it’s when your fingers curl in the thick muscle of his back and you whisper his name like a secret, like a plea.

Maybe it’s when he sees the look on your face, wrecked and starry-eyed and so fucking in love, and he can’t hold back anymore.

“Bucky,” you gasp, voice trembling as he thrusts deeper, harder. “Please…please don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t. He grits his teeth, eyes wild, hand sliding under your thigh to hitch your leg higher around his waist. The new angle makes you gasp, he hits something deep and perfect inside you, again and again, and it’s too good, too much.

“Oh, baby,” he groans, voice tight with restraint. “You’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight, gonna make me lose it.”

You can feel it building, hot and intense, a low coil tightening in your belly. It’s different than before. Bigger. Fuller. Deeper.

You cry out as he thrusts again, dragging the thick length of his cock along your walls like he knows exactly where you need him. Like he’s mapping you from the inside.

“I’m close,” you whisper, nails digging into his skin. “Bucky….I can’t! Please!”

He leans down, kisses your lips, your cheek, your throat. “Yes, you can. You’re gonna come for me, baby. Wanna feel you lose it while I’m inside you. Wanna feel you fall apart on my cock.”

You whimper, hips bucking up to meet his. You’re chasing it now. So is he. His thrusts turn messy. Desperate. The arm under your thigh tightens, holding you there, as his other hand comes down to press between you, rubbing fast, tight circles on your clit.

“That’s it,” he pants, “come on, sweetheart. Give it to me. I need it, I need it.”

And then it hits. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, white-hot, overwhelming, your body clenching hard around him as your thighs tremble and your mouth falls open in a broken cry.

He shouts, like he’s never heard or felt anything more beautiful. “Fuck, fuck, baby…I’m gonna,” His hips stutter. His jaw goes tight. “Where do you want it…where?”

“Inside,” you breathe, eyes glassy, legs still shaking. “Want you to come inside me, Bucky, please.”

His whole body shudders. And then he’s coming with a loud, guttural groan, burying himself deep as his cock throbs inside you, thick spurts of heat filling you up.

He doesn’t move. Just stays pressed to you, trembling, breathing like he’s just survived something holy. His face buries in your neck, mouth open on your skin, whispering soft curses and your name like they’re the same thing.

You feel full. Owned. Loved. And when he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse and warm and so gentle. “You’re mine now,” he whispers. “All of you. Every fuckin’ inch.”

And you nod, still catching your breath, tears in your lashes. “I’ve always been yours.”

You don’t know how long you lie there, tangled and trembling beneath him, but it could be forever and you’d still think it’s not long enough.

His weight is still pressed to you, warm and grounding. One big hand cups your jaw. The other rubs slow circles into your thigh where it’s wrapped around him, his touch reverent, like you’re made of silk and starlight and he’s still too stunned to speak.

You can feel him still inside you, softening, but thick and full, buried deep. The way you stretch around him, the slow throb of your own body trying to keep him close… it makes your breath catch.

Then you feel his mouth at your temple. “You okay?” he whispers, voice wrecked and low.

You nod, barely. A breath. “Yeah.”

“You sure?” He shifts just enough to look at you, his blue eyes soft and searching, the flush still high in his cheeks. “Wasn’t too much?”

You reach up, curl your fingers around the back of his neck. “Was perfect.”

He exhales shakily. Presses a kiss to your cheek. And then your forehead.

“I’m gonna pull out now,” he says gently, nuzzling your jaw. “Slow, sweetheart. I promise.”

You nod, but you still flinch when he moves, your body clinging to him, every inch aching from how deep he was.

He groans as he slides out, slow and careful, one hand bracing your hip, the other holding his base like he’s trying not to come again from the way your slick walls flutter around him on the way out.

“Oh, baby…” he murmurs.

You shiver.

Because he sees it, watches it: his cum leaking out of you, dripping slowly down your thighs, glistening and warm, and his breath catches like he’s just witnessed something sacred.

“Look at you,” he breathes, awestruck. “Fuck. That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your cheeks burn. Your legs twitch. “Bucky…”

“No, don’t hide,” he says, voice going soft and dangerous. “You took me so good. Let me see what I gave you.”

You bury your face in your hands with a whimper.

He chuckles. But it’s low, affectionate. Tender.

“‘M gonna clean you up, alright?”

You start to shake your head, saying, “You don’t have to,” but he’s already moving.

“Nope,” he says, grabbing his shirt from the edge of the bed, using the clean corner. “My mess, my girl. Let me take care of you.”

He settles between your legs again, this time not to devour you, but to tend to you. Gentle, patient strokes as he wipes you clean, checking your face every few seconds to make sure you’re okay.

“Still with me?” he murmurs.

You nod, tears prickling your eyes from how sweet he is.

“Does anything hurt?”

“No,” you whisper. “I just feel… full.”

His breath catches. He leans up to kiss you, slow, deep, lingering.

“You are full,” he whispers against your lips. “You’re full’a me.”

You whimper. He grins, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“C’mon,” he says softly. “Let’s get under the covers.”

He climbs into bed and pulls you to his chest like you weigh nothing, wrapping his big arms around you and tucking your head under his chin. His hand strokes your back. His nose presses to your hair.

“You’re mine now,” he whispers again, just for you. “And I’m gonna spend the rest of my life taking care of you.”

You believe him.

you whimper, instinctively squirming under the weight of him pinning you down. it’s futile. he doesn’t yield an inch. his other hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back, exposing your throat.

"that scare you?" he breathes against your ear. "or does it make that sweet little cunt weep? does it make you wet, knowin’ a man like me… a man who’s seen things, done things… could take you apart? could ruin you for anyone else?" his lips brush your earlobe, like a mockery of a kiss. "could ruin you just for the fuck of it?"

you shake your head, denial trembling on your lips, but your body betrays you. your thighs press together, seeking friction and relief from the ache he’s stoked in you. he tsks.

"fuckin' liar," his knuckles, trails a path of fire over the fragile wings of your collarbones, stopping just above your breasts.

"i can smell it on you, baby. reeks of it. pure, desperate want. you like this? like bein’ small? like bein’ put right where you belong? like knowin’ these hands, don'tcha?" his free hand flexes near your face, "could snap your pretty neck or cradle it. could snap you in half like kindling if i had the mind."

his hand slides lower, past the hem of your shirt. he cups your cunt roughly through the soaked panties. all you can give him in response is a shocked gasp. "fuck me," he breathes with disbelief and raw lust. he presses down, grinding his palm against your pussy. "you’re fuckin’ drippin’, baby. soaked right through. all that juice… all for me? for this old man?"

you nod, gasps that catch in your throat. your hips lifts against his palm involuntarily.

"words," he demands, squeezing, not quite painful, but nearly a promise of it. "i wanna hear that pretty mouth confess."

"y-yes!" you choke out. the humiliation is written all over your face, your cunt, the way your body reacts to his touch. "all for you—only you—"

"damn motherfuckin’ right," in one brutal motion, he hooks his fingers into the side of your panties and rips it. the fabric tears like paper, baring you completely for his eyes. two thick fingers spear into your cunt immediately, curling ruthlessly against that spot deep inside that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

you cry out a broken sound, your back arching violently off the thin mattress, hips surging upwards towards him.

he doesn’t let you chase it. instead, he stills. his fingers become an immovable intrusion, buried to the knuckle, holding you suspended on the pleasure.

he watches your face contort with frustration and with desperate yet unfulfilled need. a dark satisfaction covers his features.

"look at you," he says with perverse affection. "so fuckin’ needy. so fuckin’ empty without me filling you up. were you made just for this, princess? just a soft, warm, greedy little hole desperate for my cock? is that all you are?" he twists his fingers slightly, wringing another moan from you.

you whine, making him pull out his fingers entirely, leaving you clenching around nothing.

he lifts his glistening fingers to your lips. "suck," he orders, "clean your mess off daddy’s fingers. show me how hungry you are."

trembling, you obey, taking his fingers into your mouth, tasting your own saltiness. he watches, eyes hooded with lust, as you suck them clean.

"answer me," he repeats, pulling his fingers free. "what are you?"

"yes!" the humiliation is a wildfire spreading in your veins. "i’m—i’m just a hole! a stupid, wet hole, just for you—just for daddy to use!"

"good fuckin’ girl," he croons. the praise is mocking yet saccharine sweet. his hands drop to his belt. the heavy clink, the leather sliding free, sounds like doom and salvation.

he shoves his jeans and briefs down just enough, freeing his cock. it’s thick and heavy yet ruddy and straining against his stomach. his veins stand out in relief. it slaps wetly against your stomach, already covered with your slick from his fingers wrapped around it.

"beg," he orders. he drags the swollen, leaking head through your soaked folds, coating himself in your arousal, teasing your pussy. "beg your daddy to wreck that tight little cunt. beg him to fuck you dumb. make it pretty."

"please," you gasp as tears spill over your face, tracing hot paths down your face. "please, daddy, please—i need it, i need you inside—i need you to ruin me—please fuck me, please—!"

he doesn’t even let you finish the pathetic plea. with one thrust, he sheathes himself in your pussy, stretching you wide.

"that’s it," he groans. his hands find your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises tomorrow. "take it. take all of it. swallow daddy’s cock whole, you greedy little bitch. ain’t nobody else," he each word is accompanied by snap of his hips, going deeper and deeper.

"no one's ever gonna fill you," thrust, "like this," thrust, "ever gonna stretch you," thrust, "make you scream," thrust, "like i do."

you sob, nails raking down the muscles of his shoulders, drawing red lines. you're lost in the rhythm, the fullness, the friction that burns so good.

"gonna cum alreadt?" he taunts, watching your face. "gonna cum all over your daddy’s fat cock like the desperate, cock-hungry little slut you are? gonna paint my dick with your juices? that fast?"

you nod, eyes squeezed shut, teetering on the edge.

smack! his open palm lands hard on your outer thigh. the sharp sting is shocking, amd makes you yelp. suddenly your eyes fly open wide.

"say it!" he says through gritted teeth, his own control is fraying and his thrusts becoming savage, almost animalistic. "tell daddy what you are. tell him what you’re gonna do."

"i’m gonna cum!" you wail, the words ripped from you in desperation. "i’m gonna cum on your cock, daddy. i’m your stupid slut, your greedy hole, please—please let me cum! please!"

he grins then, a feral smile of pure possession blazes in his eyes. "cum," he snarls, and leans down as he pistons into you with bruising force. "cum on daddy’s cock, you perfect little fucktoy. show me who owns this cunt."

your orgasm tears through you like a wildfire. you moan out loud, arching as your cunt clamps down on his invading thickness.

"good fuckin’ girl," he says against your skin. he doesn't slow nor does he stop. he fucks you through the violent orgasm, his own rhythm stuttering into slams. "that’s it… take it… take what’s yours… take daddy’s seed… mark you… inside…"

his thrusts lose all control, becoming deep, primal lunges.

a moan comes from his whole chest as he buries himself impossibly deep and pulses his cum into you, flooding your pussy with hot, thick, white spurts.

his teeth sink deep into your shoulder, claiming you, as he empties himself inside you with posession.

he collapses onto you for a moment, his cock still twitching deep inside you, spilling the last of his claim.

slowly, trembling himself, he pulls out, the loss making you whimper. but before the emptiness can fully register, he’s gathering your limp body against his hard chest.

one large, a surprisingly gentle hand cradles the back of your head. he presses a kiss to your forehead, stubble scraping your skin.

You withdrew from your spring courses. Stephen was beyond pleased, though he’d kept a level head about it. He’d helped you move what little you had out of a terrible little apartment near campus and into the Sanctum Sanctorum. You had a massive room— a beautiful room, much like Stephen’s. You only ever slept in it when he was away. When he was at the Sanctum, you were expected in his room. You didn’t mind that at all.

When Stephen was away you spent your time housekeeping, tasks you found you were surprisingly good at. It could be rather tiring in a place as large as the Sanctum, but it was worth it to see everything so pretty and neat. It was worth it to see Stephen completely at ease when he was home.

It was doubly worth it when he rewarded you so well. No whim of yours was too small, no request ever seemed stupid. The only time you ever saw Stephen upset was when you withheld your wants. He always came home ready to please you, in any and every way he could.

If you mentioned seeing a shirt you liked, it would show up in your closet. If there was some food you wanted to try, he would bring it to you… sometimes from halfway around the world if he thought it’d be better. You were bored? Would you like a book? Ten? Twenty? One-hundred? He’d buy out any bookstore for you. And God’s-sake, let him get you and new phone and laptop while he was at it.

You’d never understand what you did to deserve him… this life he’d given you. You’d never met a sugar baby or sugar daddy before you and Stephen began your little arrangement, but you always wondered if all sugar babies were treated this well. Did all sugar babies come to rely on their caretakers so much? Did they all start to… love… them?

It wasn’t something you would ever admit to Stephen, but it was the truth. It was the truth long before you’d moved in, but your feelings had only doubled since then. It had been four months and you were still wondering if any of this was right. In truth, you had your doubts. 

But you hid those well enough.

At least, you hoped you were hiding it.

“Hey, Doll Face,” His voice reverberates deep through the phones speaker, “What are you doing?”

“Just folding some laundry,” You answer, a sly smile on your face as you tease, “What’re you doin’, Daddy?”

He chuckles lowly and says, “Well, it looks like I’m going to be stuck in my office all day today. I was wondering if you’d like to pay me a visit?”

You perk up at the invitation, “Really? You want me at Kamar-Taj?”

“Why not? It’d be nice to have some company while I read. I can get us some lunch and you can take the day to relax.”

“Let me finish this load of laundry, but then I’m all yours.”

You hear him tut before the line goes dead and suddenly a giant, golden portal opens in front of Stephen’s bed. On the other side he sits behind a large wooden desk, his fingers drumming against an open book.

“Last I checked, you’re mine, period,” He says nonchalantly, “I think I take precedence over the laundry.”

You place the shirt you were folding to the side and slide off the bed, smiling as you reassure, “Of course you do.”

Stephen looks you up and down, noting, “You look gorgeous.”

You had a soft natural glam on your face with your hair pulled into a neat voluminous ponytail. Today you’d opted for a more comfy-casual look, wearing a simple midi, baby-pink slip-dress. Given you’d been lounging in the bed, you weren’t wearing any shoes, but you didn’t think Stephen was feeling patient enough for you to slip a pair on.

You step through the portal and say, “Thank you.”

“Do you get ready this early every day?” He asks curiously.

“As soon as I get up in the morning,” You nod, looking over your shoulder and watching as the portal snaps shut behind you, “I like to be ready in case you come home early… or if you need me.”

Stephen felt himself melt. So sweet, so attentive. You’d been absolutely perfect since you moved in. You fulfilled every agreed upon duty and each of his whims. He was thrilled with it all. It was hard to believe that this was all just an arrangement.

Most days he preferred to let himself believe it wasn’t an arrangement. He preferred to believe it was real.

“How has your day been so far, Sweetheart?” Stephen asks, gesturing you over with the crook of his finger.

You eagerly skip to his side and stand, waiting for your next instructions as you say, “Boring. Cleaned the kitchen, did some laundry… checking the books in the library was next on my to do list.”

“Mm,” He hums out, “That does sound tedious. I’m certainly glad it’s not my job anymore.”

You give him a playful swat on the shoulder and he catches your hand, pulling you forward as he turns his chair to face you. He pats his lap with his other hand and obediently you take your place. You throw your legs over one of the chair’s arms and lean into his shoulder. His arm wraps tight around your waist as he buries his nose in your hair and takes a deep breath.

“This reminds me of the first night we met…” You say, “We say like this for a long time. I wondered if you were going to make a move or if you were waiting for me to.”

“I was just happy to hold you,” He laments, “It’d been a long time since I had anyone around,” He pauses for a beat before admitting, “I was trying to decide how to take it further. You were so… bold. It was intimidating. Sexy, but intimidating.”

You giggle and bury your face in his neck, planting a whisper of a kiss against his skin and teasing, “I’m not so scary, am I?”

“No, you’re not,” He agrees, “But I was scared then. I had a great opportunity in front of me. I didn’t want to screw it up.”

“Well, you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Conversation was so easy with Stephen. It always had been. You could banter and be genuine all in one breath together. You’d never experienced anything else like it. Even though most older men took a more stoic route, Stephen did so in a way that didn’t make him seem impenetrable. He was still willing to speak and listen.

You press another kiss to his neck and ask, “How has your day been?”

“Long.”

“It’s not even noon.”

He peers down at you and gruffs out, “Exactly.”

You pout and reach up to pick at his cheek, cooing, “My poor baby. Is my magician having a hard time collecting tips in Times Square?”

He turns his head and playfully nips at your fingers, catching your hand as you move to pull it away and pressing a kiss to your fingertips. 

He shakes his head and answers, “I’ve been… sidelined until further notice. The Avengers have me on lock down in case I’m needed. Stark apparently has some satellite tracking something big in space,” He rolls his eyes, “Of course, he can’t say what it is, he just needs me on call in case.”

You frown, “I’m sorry, Stephen. I know that must be annoying.”

“It is,” He agrees, “I feel like a sell-sword.” 

“Oo,” You wiggle your brows, “A dashing sell-sword with his hired whore. Now that sounds like a story!”

He chuckles and shakes his head, “You need to read a bit more non-fiction.”

“I just dropped out of college so I could stop reading non-fiction. Let me have my fun.”

He holds up one hand in surrender, “Read away, Doll Face.”

“So, what are you doing now?”

“Just practicing some new spells,” He gestures to the book laying open on his desk.

“What kind of spells?” You ask curiously, leaning forward to peer at the pages.

“Well,” He turns his chair back to the desk to show you the pages, “This one is called the Icy Tendrils of Ikthalon. It can conjure up freezing temperatures and ice… snow, if you can control it well enough.”

“Ooo…” You breathe out, reaching out to run your finger along the printed words in the page.

The paper feels different. It’s slightly rumpled and has an odd texture to it. Maybe your crazy or it’s a case of the placebo affect, but you swear you can almost feel energy radiating from the paper.

“What language is it in?” You ask, looking at the foreign characters in utter confusion.

“Sanskrit,” He replies, “Dead language— still has a lot of influence on other languages though.”

“How do you learn a dead language?”

“People learn Latin all the time,” He shrugs, “Patience is all it takes.”

You turn your nose up at the idea and remark, “I’ll leave you to it.”

He chuckles in your ear and you turn, sliding between his legs to sit facing the desk, cautiously and carefully beginning to flip through the pages in the book. Stephen sits behind you, watching silently, his arms around your waist. He’s patient, not making a fuss about you losing his page or touching ancient objects. He may act like a hard ass from time to time, but he was always secretly enthralled to show you this part of his life.

You pause on a page with an intriguing image. What looks like diamonds floating in the atmosphere surrounded by flames catches your eye.

“What’s this one?”

Stephen reaches forward, a trembling finger tracing a particular line as he reads, “The Crystals of Cyndriarr.”

“It looks pretty,” You muse.

Stephen reads a bit further before quoting, “This spell should not be used lightly. Upon contact with Cyndriarr’s crystals a natural being will immediately perish.”

“Oh!” You exclaim in surprise, “Okay, so maybe don’t practice that one right now.”

He laughs and squeezes your hip, “Understood.”

You keep flipping through the book, occasionally pausing to look at the characters as though they might start making sense. They never do. If anything, they start making less and less sense. How Stephen ever learned to read this was beyond you.

“You’re so smart,” You mutter, turning your head to look up at him, “Every time I see this— see what you do— I’m in awe. The dedication you have… it’s inspiring, Stephen.”

His cheeks turn a faint shade of pink and he says, “You’re so sweet to me, Baby.”

You give him a soft smile and reinforce, “I mean it. You really are the smartest man I’ve ever known.”

“Is that what you tell all your boyfriends?” He teases.

“Might’ve said it a time or two,” You tease back, giving a nonchalant shrug before whispering, “But I mean it this time.”

His body shakes with silent laughter as he pulls you back, eliminating any space between you. The two of you just sit there for a long while, Stephen watching as you continue to clip through the pages, only vaguely aware that you don’t understand a word of what’s scrawled out in ink. Really, he just liked watching you in moments like this. You seemed so relaxed, so happy. He loved seeing you smile and knowing he played a part in that.

“I lost your page,” You announce at the end of the book, “I have no idea where we started.”

“Well, I imagine it’s quite hard to remember when you don’t know what any of it said.”

You tilt your head back and smile up at him, “Sorry.”

He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your lips and soothes, “I don’t mind. I was bored of that spell anyway.”

“That why you called me? ‘Cause you were bored?” You pout up at him, “To think, I just thought you wanted to see me.”

“I do,” He remedies quickly, pressing another kiss against pouty lips, “I always wanna’ see my baby.”

You grin at this like the spoiled brat you are and give a little shake of delight, “I know.”

He playfully rolls his eyes and moves his lips to your shoulder, brushing your hair out of the way with a slightly shaky hand. He presses his lips to your neck and inhales, taking in the scent of Electric Cherry. He’s brought it home as a gift for you one day, saying that you needed a scent to compliment his own bottle of Tom Ford. It was sweet and just a touch floral. They did smell beautiful together.

He trails his along the fabric of your dress and compliments, “This dress looks lovely on you.”

You look down at the soft pink fabric. It hugged around your chest and waist just right, then fluttered out around your hips and legs. It was a silky sort of material that you had always been fond of, and it was extra comfortable for hot summer days as it had been in New York before you were whisked away.

“I bought it last week. I thought the color was nice… different. You know I prefer darker colors,” You explain, “But I thought you might like it.”

“Money well spent on my part,” He smiles, “I do like it. It makes you look brighter.”

“We should get you a pink shirt to match!” You suggest eagerly, “I bet you’d look nice in pink.”

He smiles and says, “You buy it and I’ll wear it, Baby Girl.”

Your cheeks flush at that specific term of endearment. It never got old hearing him call you that. It made you feel safe and secure and loved. No matter how many times he used it, it still made your heart do somersaults. 

“Now,” Stephen announces, “I do have to get some actual work done. I have to research on a specific shield that they’re having trouble breaking down in Europe.” 

You nod and move to stand, but Stephen isn’t having that. He holds you firmly in place and asks, “Where are you going?”

“I was just going to give you some space to work,” You explain, pointing to the couch, “I figured I’d just lounge on the couch—“

“Nuh-uh,” He shakes his head, voice dropping an octave as he murmurs, “You’re staying right here. I need your help. But you need mine first.” 

Before you can ask what he needs, one hand is creeping down and hiking up the skirt of your dress. You hold your breath as his hand gently caresses your leg, his fingertips tracing the most sensitive bits of your inner thigh. Your body tenses slightly as his fingertips brush against the lace of your panties, your hips involuntarily shifting forward.

His thumb finds your clit, the friction of the rough material against your clit making you whine. Stephen finds that sensitive spot on your neck and nips at it a few times before attaching his lips and sucking. His free hand reaches up, fondling at your tits as his other continues to trace circles against your clit.

“God, you’re so perfect, Doll,” Stephen praises, his lips leaving your neck to peer over your shoulder. His eyes rove back and forth between the different points of contact he has with your body, but as per usual, they settle on your tits. Quietly he demands, “Slide the straps off.”

You reach up and gently slide the straps off your shoulders, giving a little shimmy and pulling your arms through. Stephen moves his hands enough for the dress to slide from your chest and bunch around your waist. An animalistic sort of sound rumbles in his throat as both hands come up to cover your tits. You whine at the loss of contact to your clit, but he shushes you gently with a kiss on your cheek. 

Your back bows as he takes your nipples between his pointer and middle fingers. You let out a soft moan, your head falling against his shoulder. Stephen takes advantage of your lax state, craning his neck downward to press his lips to yours in a feverish kiss. You automatically part your lips for him, knowing he wants to taste you. You reach behind you and grab a fistful of Stephen’s hair, tugging harshly to deepen the kiss. That same low rumble comes from his throat, traveling into your own mouth and seemingly shaking your soul. 

He continues to tug at your nipples, teasing the stiff peaks until they’re unbearably hard. You shift between Stephen’s legs, pushing your ass back against him eagerly, feeling that your lower half is now being ignored. But that was the point. He liked to work you up like this. He would turn all of his attention to one part of you and ignore the other until you begged for more of his attention.

Stephen pulls away from your lips to leave aggressive love bites down the column of your throat. You whine as he sucks on the same spot as before, certain that the already tender area will be brusied the next days. 

“You have the prettiest body, Baby Girl,” Stephen murmurs, “Can’t resist these tits. Just need to have my hands on them whenever you’re around.” He pauses, seeming to consider for a moment before amending, “I prefer to have my mouth on them, but I’ll save that for later.”

“You can do whatever you want,” You agree, scratching at his head, “Doesn’t matter what you do to me. Always feels good, Daddy.”

Stephen hums and smiles at you, one hand leaving your chest and slipping under your skirt. You push your hips forward, seeking his touch. He places the hand on your stomach and pushes back to still you, giving you that “be patient” look. You look up at him shyly through your lashes but settle down, relaxing against him again. He rewards your good behavior by slipping his hand in your panties, running his middle finger up and down through your slick, brushing against your clit. 

“So slick for me already. Just from me teasing these pretty nipples and kissing your skin. Is that all it takes to get you ready for me?”

“I’m always ready for you,” You say honestly, “Just knowing you’re coming home is enough to get me excited most days. Imagining kissing you, touching you… fucking you. S’all I’m ever thinking about these days.”

You’re pretty certain if Stephen could purr, he would be. A cocky smile curves his lips, his eyes shining with pride. You gasp as he succinctly slides one long digit into you. Your eyes go a bit wide at the sensation, your cunt clenching instinctively around him. You bite into your bottom lip, staring up at Stephen with those big eyes he adores. He smiles and rests his forehead against yours, watching your face carefully as he adds a second finger, pumping them in and out at a torturously slow pace. 

Behind you, poking into your back you can feel Stephen’s hard cock. His length never fails to impress you, and his stamina is incredible for his age. He could often go multiple rounds in very short periods, something you had asked for your first night together. Your first round had been so intense you didn’t think you’d make it through a second. He helped you through it anyway. It had been perfect.

You reach behind you and slide your free hand between your back and his erection. With a slight bit of contortion, you’re able to palm over him. The thick material of his sorcerer garb made it harder to feel and be felt, but he seemed to be responsive from the breathy sigh in your ear.

“Someone feels excited,” You tease, throwing his earlier words back at him, “So excited just from a few kisses and groping my tits?”

“No man in his right mind would be unerect after seeing you like this,” Stephen defends, “But I’m just some perverted old man. And that makes you a very dirty girl getting all wet for me.” You giggle and Stephen continues, “I don’t mind. You’re the sweetest little whore I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“Mm, your whore, Daddy,” You say, groping his cock a bit harder.

“That’s fucking right,” He breathes out, “You know your body is mine.”

“All yours.”

You let your eyes close, relaxing completely in his hold, one hand still buried in his hair and the other fondling him. You feel your face growing hot, your entire body warm under his attention. Your arousal soaks his fingers and your panties, likely staining the chair below. It doesn’t take long for you to loosen up and Stephen begins working faster, a soft squelching sound coming from between your legs. He curls his fingers to rub against your front walls, searching for that perfect spot that he had damn near mapped out at this point. He knows he’s found it when you let out a low moan, lips slightly parted, and brow tensing in pleasure.

“Look so beautiful like this,” He praises, “Such a pretty little toy for me to play with. Always letting me take what I need. Knowing I’m always gonna’ take care of you. Isn’t that right?”

You nod lazily and give a quiet, “Yes, sir.”

“And I do always take care of you, don’t I?” He checks.

You open your eyes to look at him as you reassure, “No one has ever taken better care of me.”

“No one ever will,” He says confidently, voice slightly gruff and possessive, “But I need you to do something hard for me today. You’ll have to practice your patience.”

The corners of your lips turn down ever so slightly at this. There were many things you were good at and many things Stephen had trained you to be good at, but you were still thoroughly lacking in the patience department. 

What could you say? You liked getting what you wanted when you wanted it. And it was a hard habit to curve when your sugar daddy was so amenable to your every need and want.

Apparently, he had a different plan for this afternoon. Though you weren’t ecstatic about the idea, you were willing to try anything once, and doubly willing to please Stephen. 

“What do you want me to do?” You ask, moving your hand in his hair to his face and scratching at his goatee, “Y’know I’d do anything for you, Stephen.”

He smiles softly and agrees, “I do know. You’re so sweet for me.” He pauses before saying seriously, “Although, you know you can—“

“Always use my safe word,” You finish for him, smiling as he rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Stephen. I know.”

“Good,” He nods, slowly withdrawing his fingers from your cunt. 

You watch as he licks them clean, your face growing even warmer at the sight. You loved how unabashed he was about loving your body. Every bit of it. You hoped he saw you felt the same way about his own.

“Stand up for a second, Baby Girl. Let me pull down my pants.”

You stand obediently, your hole fluttering in anticipation. You watch over your shoulder as Stephen raises his hips and pulls down his pants and boxers. His cock is nice and hard like you’d teased him for earlier, but he wasn’t as worked up as usual. Normally he turned nearly red with want and anticipation, a bulging vein showing itself along the underside of his shaft. Now, he seemed more or less in control. 

He explains, “While I do some research, I want you to sit in my lap and keep my cock warm.” You blink at him several times before he continues, “While I am doing this research, you may not move, bounce, grind, wiggle, or stimulate me or yourself. If I so choose, I may play with your body from time to time, but overall you should be prepared to feel immensely frustrated. Do you understand?”

You pout and ask, “I can’t even touch or kiss you?” 

“You may touch my upper body and give me small kisses from time to time, but I will be preoccupied with my  reading and I’d prefer not to be distracted very often.”

You gnaw at your bottom lip and ask, “What happens if I can’t sit still?”

“You’ll lose your allowance for next week and won’t cum during that time either.”

Your eyes go wide, “Stephen!”

“No arguing. Don’t be a brat.” You snap your mouth shut and sulk silently to yourself. “If you don’t want to try this, I understand that, and you will not be punished for it. But, if you would like to try it, those are your rules and I expect you to follow them.”

You mull it over for a while. On one hand, you were already horny and didn’t want to leave yourself or Stephen high and dry. On the other hand… you were already horny. You didn’t know how long you’d be able to sit in his lap with his cock buried inside you and not move. Any proximity to Stephen was overwhelming, but this was on another level.

But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t curious. You wanted to do this for him. You liked trying new things and you typically loved the rewards that came along with it.

“I’ll try,” You agree, putting on a flirty smile and saying, “I’ll take your cock however you’re willing to give it, Daddy. You know that.”

He smiles and only then do you realize he’s been playing with his cock as you stand there contemplating. His eyes tracing your curves and often looking at the space between your thighs that your dress still has covered.

“Stick that pretty ass out and sit back slow,” He instructs.

You do as he instructs, one of his hands coming up to slide your skirt out of the way. His fingers slip to your cunt, parting your lips to give his cock more direct entrance. He gives a grunt as his head breaches your entrance, the noise turning into a moan from both of you as you seat yourself fully atop him. 

“If you need to readjust or get comfortable do it now, Sweetheart,” He says softly, somehow managing to pull his chair closer to the desk, “Settle in. You’ll be here for a while.”

You give a slight whine as you shift, trying to get comfortable. There’s not enough room in the chair to be comfortable in this position.

“Can’t, Steph,” You say, “Not like this… I need to be in a different position.”

He nods and asks, “Am I hurting you?”

You shake your head, “No, I’m just not gonna be able to sit still. I’ll slip around. Can I turn to face you?”

“Of course, Baby.”

You stand slowly, not being able to resist giving yourself one push back down. Stephen gives a little growl and playfully slaps your ass in warning. You smile and stand, turning to straddle him. His eyes take in the view of your breasts, his lips parting slightly on a silent sigh. 

You carefully place your knees on either side of his waist and bring your arms around his neck. Stephen’s eyes meet yours, an intensity in them that causes your brain to short circuit. When he looked at you like that, you couldn’t breathe. So much emotion swirled in those bright, blue eyes, but never enough to tell you what he really thought.

You slowly lower yourself onto him, your head lulling back as he bottoms out. Stephen groans, his large hands squeezing roughly at your ass, pulling you closer. You bury your face in his neck, your lips skimming over the slight stubble forming after missing a day or two of shaving. His cock twitches inside you from the contact and your breath hitches.

“Better?”

You nod, “Better. Thank you.”

“Of course,” He murmurs, running a hand through your hair, “Now stay still. Be a good girl for me, and I’ll make sure I take care of you when I’m done.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stephen smiles as you whimper into his shoulder, “How long’s it been?”

He glances to the clock on his desk and says, “Just under half an hour.”

“Half an hour?” You all but yell, followed by a pitiful groan, your knees tensing around his waist, “Are you joking? It feels like ten years.”

He chuckles, gently pulling your ponytail to tilt your head back so he can look at you as he says, “You’re doing so well for me. Keep being patient.”

Your lashes flutter as you look down where the two of you are joined and ask, “H-how much longer are we gonna be here?”

Stephen tsks and points out, “Knowing will make it worse.”

You give a little huff and drop your chin back to his shoulder, pressing your lips to his neck, making him shiver. Stephen wraps his arms around your back once more and focuses his gaze back on the book in front of him.

Reading was harder in this position than he had anticipated, but that’s was the point. He had to focus harder than he normally would. It helped him focus his energy instead of feeling as though he was being pulled in twenty different directions. Now, there was only you and the book.

It was nice to have you close like this. You were warm, comfortable, and taking a much-needed break. He knew how hard you worked to keep the Sanctum in order while he was away, and he appreciated knowing you had this moment to just relax.

You were clearly experiencing a bit more frustration, getting a bit wiggly every so often, but a quick squeeze to your ass as a silent warning would half you settle down. He would also frequently press kisses to your forehead and run his hands up and down your back, trying to soothe you. That would only make the situation worse for him. Your walls would clench around him involuntarily and he would force down the noises he knew would only rile you up further.

“You’re doing so well,” He repeats, stroking your hair soothingly, “So proud of you.”

“Thank you,” You murmur, cuddling closer, “M’trying.”

“I know. You’ll get whatever you want for it too. Just like you always do.”

You giggle and the vibration rocks through Stephen’s body, a groan escaping him despite his best efforts to keep it down. You all but purr in his ear and whisper, “I love it when you make that sound,” Your cunt clenches around him as if to emphasize a fact he already knew to be true, “So sexy.”

Stephen clears his throat and tries to focus on his book again, but he’s distracted once more as you start nibbling on his earlobe and kissing his neck. Truth be told, he was going to be distracted either way. It just got to him when you called him sexy. It may have been cliché and played out to some people, but he would never get enough of it. It wasn’t the kind of word someone would just through around, it was a word used when someone meant what they were saying.

Stephen eventually settles his gaze back on his book, his body relaxing as you start to play gently with your hair. You loved his hair, another compliment you gave him often. “Thick and soft” you called it, always running your thumbs over his gray streaks that grew larger and larger by the day. Your touch was confounding for Stephen. One moment desperate and rough, then tender and meaningful the next. But that’s what this entire arrangement had felt like. 

He wasn’t sure how long it could reasonably drag on before he got himself hurt— or worse, make you uncomfortable if you if you didn’t feel the same.

Fuck, what if you didn’t feel the same?

What if this arrangement… what if that’s all it was to you? Stephen knew it was likely you’d only accepted this deal out of convenience. He’d been able to get you out of a situation you didn’t want to be in, bought you more time to figure out what you wanted to do with your life. But what happened when you did figure it out? Or what happened when you met another guy? 

You were far younger than he was and he knew somewhere in the back of his mind that his age was a kink for you. He wasn’t sure at what point the scale would tip, making his age repellant rather than part of your attraction. What happened when a younger man finally worked up the courage to approach you on one of your shopping trips while he was here in Kamar-Taj? A younger man with a decent job— or simply a plan for his future— would have to be more appealing than relying on some old man’s charity. 

The idea makes him puff with anger. Not at you, but simply at the idea. The thought of losing you…

“You’re mine, you know that, right?” Stephen asks suddenly.

You pull back to look at him, taking his face in both hands and nodding, “I’m yours.”

“And you know you have me too?” He continues, “That there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Nothing I won’t do to provide for you and keep you safe?”

Your hips shift, whether intentional or not, he didn’t care now. He only cared about the way your eyes softened, the way you ran your thumb across his bottom lip so softly. You rest your forehead against his own and your noses brush against each other.

“I know, Stephen,” You murmur, “I’m grateful. You know that.”

He swallows hard. He feels the urge to tell you that it’s not something you have to thank him for— you don’t have to thank him for any of it— it was all just something he wanted to do for you. Not for the arrangement or the sex or whatever else you wanted to call it. All of it was just because he liked you. But he doesn’t say that. He bites his tongue and instead nods gently, your head moving with his.

He almost doesn’t hear you when you ask sweetly, “Can I kiss you?”

Stephen nods and says, “Kiss me, Baby Girl.”

You don’t hesitate, pressing your lips to his immediately. Your walls clamp down around him at the touch, a soft sigh leaving your lips on contact. Your hands stay on Stephen’s face, reverently tilting his head to allow you to get closer. You lick at his bottom lip and he parts them, letting you lick into his mouth, tasting him and perhaps a hint of yourself from earlier.

Though the kiss starts slow and sweet, it quickly evolves into something desperate and needy. Stephen’s grip on your arms and hips are rough and quick, never staying in one place for too long, always looking for the next place to mark with his touch. Your grip against his face grows rougher as well, pulling him into you as if afraid he might be gone the next second.

Stephen, finally at his limit and spurred by unreasonable jealousy, reaches down to grab your ass. He lifts you up quickly and shoves you back down, his cock sliding in and out of you. You let out a cry of shock and ecstasy, immediately responding to the movement with more of your own. You plant your hands on the back of the chair and begin moving yourself up and down his length. You use your knees to bounce up and down, the quickness of your movements causing Stephen to groan.

He keeps his hands planted on your hips, his calloused, rough skin slipping against the silk of your dress. He looks forward to stare at your tits bouncing up and down in front of him, your position on top of him putting him in the perfect position to lean forward and capture one nipple between his lips.

You pulse, moaning, “Fuck, that feels so good. You feel so good, Steph.”

He looks up at you through his lashes, entranced by the vision he finds. Your head was thrown back, lips parted on another moan, one of your hands coming down to grab at your ignored breast. You tease your nipple, drawing your bottom lip between your top lip as you ride him. You slowly change up your pattern, starting to grind your hips forward rather than just bouncing up and down and Stephen smiles. You were a giver in bed but had no problem seeking your own release when you wanted it. You were greedy and he loved that about you.

“You trying to find that good spot, Baby?” He teases, “Trying to rub that pretty clit against me?”

“It feels so good like this,” You say breathlessly, “And I’m so fuckin’ wet. It’s all over you.”

Stephen nods, “I know, I can feel. Gonna’ leave Daddy all sticky. Gonna’ smell you on me for the rest of the day.”

“Good,” You groan out, “Maybe all the little sluts that flirt with you during sparring classes will smell it too.”

He had made one off-hand comment about a student being inappropriate with him once, and you’d been pouting about it since. He didn’t mind.

Stephen reaches up and grabs your ponytail, tugging it roughly as he mutters, “You’re the only slut I pay any attention to. You know that.”

You peer down at him and throw back, “Doesn’t mean I can’t mark my territory.”

A growl rumbles in Stephen’s throat, “That’s right. I’m yours to mark, Baby Girl. This cock is yours to use. Gets you off whenever you need it, yeah?”

“Always,” You agree eagerly, “And it’s all mine. Only mine. None of your little fan girls even come close to me. None of them could take you the way I do, serve you the way I do, make you feel the way I make you feel.”

“Good fucking girl,” Stephen grunts out, giving your ass a harsh slap before reattaching his lips to the previously unattended nipple.

You give a pleased hum and ask, “Do you ever think about them? Ever think about their lips on you? Think about them sucking your cock or using them as a cock sleeve?” You hide your snarl as you ask, “Do you think they’d be as willing as I am?”

“Never,” He answers breathlessly, his fingers digging into your skin in an act as possessive as you sounded, “None of them could ever compare to you.”

Stephen smiles as your walls quiver around him, a desperate, “C’n I cum, Daddy?”

He pulls away just long enough to say, “Of course. You’ve been a good girl for me. You can cum.”

You don’t last a moment longer, your body tensing as an orgasm rocks through you. Stephen helps you continue your movement along his length with two strong hands on your hips. He smiles up at you, praising you through your release, telling you how good you were, how patient you’d been, how pretty you were when you came for him. The praise only intensifies your already leg-shaking orgasm.

“That’s my girl,” He whispers, “Take what you need. M’right here.”

You dig your fingers into his hair, letting your forehead fall to his shoulder, lips parted on a whine. You leave kisses where his collar-bones would be if the damned robes weren’t in the way. Fuck, you’d need him again tonight. All of him. You’d need every inch of his skin against yours to fully soothe the ungodly ache in your cunt. You were usually a horny wreck with him, but this was something else. You didn’t think one-hundred orgasms would do you in. You just needed more.

“Stephen, I want another,” You whine, “Need you to fuck another orgasm out of me.” He growls lowly at the admission, shoulders tensing slightly as you claw at his neck, “Want you to fuck me hard and play with my clit,” You reach up and tug on your nipples as you explain your need, panting against his shoulder from the stimulation. “Need you to cum inside me too. I’ll be a good girl, I’ll keep it all in. Sit in your lap and let you plug me up after the fact. Don’t care. Just need you to fuck me through another one now.”

Stephen hisses and demands, “Stop talking like a fucking slut before I blow too soon to give you what you want.”

You whimper, already starting to bounce up and down again, “M’sorry, but please. Please, Daddy, please. Need it so bad.”

“Fuck,” He groans in your ear, “God, I’m so fucking hard for you. My cock is throbbing,” He groans and you shiver at the sound, “Shit— it almost hurts. Don’t squeeze me so hard, Sweetheart.”

Before you can say another word, Stephen is standing. Your body is laid out over his desk, your legs instinctually wrapping around his waist. You stare up at him, his face hot and sheening with a thin layer of sweat, his hair a mess from all of your touching. Stephen took just as much pride in looking good as you did, and to see him so messy was a privilege. Especially when you were the reason he looked that way. 

Stephen looks down to where the two of you are connected and curses under his breath, placing his hands on either side of you against the desk as he slowly slides out. He pulls out only enough to get a clear view of the base of his cock, his eyes rolling back when he sees the thick, white, creamy ring you’ve left behind. And that made sense. It made sense why you were feeling so needy, why your nipples were even more sensitive than normal, why your scent was so strong.

Stephen slowly slides back home, leaning his full body weight against you, causing you to groan. He cages your head with his arms and places his lips by your ear, his breaths ragged. 

“You’re ovulating, Baby Girl.” 

Your pussy clenches around him and he nods, “That’s right. Perfect time to fill you up and keep you plugged, just like you asked. Perfect time to get you all knocked up.” You keen at the idea, arching your back upward to rub your taught nipples against the rough fabric of his robes. “That’s what you want, yeah? Want Daddy to put a baby in you? Get you pregnant and spend the rest of my life caring for you and the little one?”

“S-Stepehen…” You stutter out, eyes rolling as he begins moving his hips, short, harsh thrusts that have you sliding up the desk. 

“You wouldn’t have to go back to the real world if I did,” He continues, “Wouldn’t have to go to school get a job. Wouldn’t ever worry about anything again, Baby Girl. Daddy would take care of you, forever,” He ducks down and sucks on one of your nipples, a scream of delight following shortly after.

Stephen was so very far past caring if anyone heard. In fact, he hoped they did. What the fuck were they gonna’ do? Would it really be so bad if another Master or student walked in on him pleasing his girl?

“Fuck, I want that, Stephen,” You moan, your fingers back to pulling at his hair once more, “Want you to put a baby in me. Wanna’ carry your child.”

“Yeah?” He grunts, hammering his hips against your ass, an incredibly lewd noise echoing through the room, “Wanna’ tell everyone you’re gonna’ be a mom? Tell ‘em who got you pregnant? Show off to the world that you’re mine?”

You nod erratically, “God, yes. Want that so bad.”

“You’d look so pretty pregnant, Baby. I’d keep you nice and safe, bring you ‘round here every chance I got. Sit you down in the courtyard to sunbathe all day while I teach classes. Help you cool off with an ice bath afterward. Rub this pretty pussy and eat it right. Take you shopping for new clothes— for you and the kid. Hold you every chance I get. Show you off to anyone I can. Let ‘em see just how bad you needed me. Show ‘em how bad I needed you.”

Stephen feels the vein in his neck pop, his own daydreaming making it harder and harder to keep control. He reaches down and presses his thumb into your clit, letting the natural jostle of your body against the desk provide the friction. You moan, throwing your head back and reaching behind you, gripping the edge of the desk. Stephen takes this as permission to pound harder, several of the thrusts rough enough to slide the solid oak desk across the floor.

Stephen loses himself completely, not hearing a word of what he says as he mutters, “Gonna’ toss that fuckin’ birth control of yours in the trash. Then what? Then there’s nothing between you, me, and the life I want for us.”

Breathless and starry-eyed you mewl, “I want it too.”

Stephen’s heart hammers against his ribcage, his vision blurring as he goes tunnel-vision, only one thing on his mind.

“Fuck, yes. Take it. Hard and fast, just how you like it,” He pants, “Gotta’ get deep in there. Gotta’ flood every last inch of your pretty little pussy.”

“Mm, yes,” You roll your hips up to him, your eyes squeezing shut as liquid heat begins to pool in your core, “Fuck, Stephen, yes!”

“That’s it. That’s a good girl. Cum around me and milk my cock while you do. I’m ready for you, Baby Girl. Cum. Cum for me.”

You cum with a silent scream, head slamming back against the table, rattling pens and several artifacts that you’re certain are worth more than your life. But fuck, you couldn’t help it. It was bliss, pure bliss. You could feel every atom of your being this time as you came, and that only intensified the pleasure of feeling Stephen’s release flood into you. On top of that, his hips were still moving, his strokes more staccato, but just as powerful.

“Oh… shit,” He whines.

Whines.

Doctor Stephen Strange whines.

“Fuck, Baby Girl. There’s so much. I was so full for you,” He huffs, dropping his head to your chest as he continues thrusting, “Fuck, fuck, fuck… can’t stop. S’too much. Can’t stop cumming.”

You groan at the desperation in his voice a clear sign that his ecstasy matched your own. Your abdomen trembles as Stephen runs his lips along your naked skin, one hand leaving its post by your head to tug at the material of your dress. He needed something to ground him, anything, or at this rate, he’d pass out right there on top of you.

“Oh, God…” You groan, squirming beneath him, “S’much, Stephen. I can’t…” You finally reach up and pry his lips away from your skin, cradling his face in your hands as you soothe, “It’s alright. Keep going. Get me nice n’ full like you promised.” He can’t help but turn his head to the side, trying to nip at your thumb. You give him a stern look and intentionally squeeze your walls around his finally softening cock in warning, “Easy.”

He huffs, his eyes still clouded with lust, his gaze nearly animalistic. Something in his eyes is different; Something darker than what you’re used to seeing. Maybe it should scare you, maybe you should be concerned, but you aren’t. All you feel is security, a promise that for this moment he feels the same way for you that you feel for him.

Stephen’s back heaves as he stares down at you, his arms the only thing propping up his weight. You reach up and gently rub at his shoulders, fighting through your own haze to comfort him in the way he so often comforted you.

“You okay, Steph?” You ask softly, moving one hand up to the side of his face. He nods curtly, his throat bobbing. You nod back and smile kindly, “What do you need? You need to sit down, Old Man?”

He huffs out a laugh, his breath hot against your skin, and rolls his eyes, but nods his agreement. You nod back and move to sit up, but he keeps you in place. He carefully wedges his arm between you and the desk, pulling you up to his chest. Slowly, he stands, your legs still wrapped tight around his waist, and arms loosely around his neck. He lowers you both back into the chair and leans his head back, closing his eyes.

“Can I do anything for you, Stephen?” You ask, “Do you need some water? A fan?”

He chuckles softly, “You think I’m going through menopause or something?”

You shake your head, “No. Just offering what you would normally offer me…” You smile sheepishly, “Guess I’m not as good at reading you as you are at reading me.”

He cracks open one eye and reassures, “You’re perfect. In every way. I just don’t need any of that. Just need to sit here with you and calm down. My blood is still pumping.”

You roll your lips together and oh so gently roll your hips from side to side, “I can feel that.”

He squeezes your ass gently and demands, “Behave.”

“Yes, sir.” You hesitate before asking, “Round two tonight?”

He peers down at you, bright blue eyes once again clear with soft emotion as he says, “Obviously.”

tag list: @yuu-chan-is-still-a-student12 @fireworksinthesky @pinkthick @newavenger @aphroditesdilemma @ironstrange1991 @strangeobsessed @iamsherlocked1479 @vickiee-mcmuffin @rmoonstoner @the-royal-petals @vi0letdaze

a/n pt. 2: hey guys!! i'm so happy to be back and posting a bit more regularly.