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It was well past two am when you gave up on sleep. The tower was dark and quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the tick of the clock in the hallway. You padded barefoot into the kitchen, the rolled up borrowed sleep shorts brushing your thighs, Bucky’s t-shirt once again hanging loose on your frame.
Another impromptu sleepover.
Once game night went south, you’d all settled on watching a movie instead and by the time the credits rolled you couldn’t bear the thought of an Uber.
“So stay. It’s not even the spare room any more, it’s yours.” Bob told you. “You stayed in it, like, all last week?”
Last week, while the team were gone. You’d offered to Bob that you could stay and he readily agreed, so you’d turned up with a duffle bag. They’d all been back a few days now though, and you were less prepared and too sober to be sleeping a few doors down from Bucky.
Ever since he walked back through the door, something inside you had been wound tight. Like the hug in the pantry had cracked something open - some raw, aching need you couldn’t shove back down. You wanted him with a kind of urgency that felt impossible to contain, let alone hide. So you overcorrected. You laughed a little too loud at everyone’s jokes. You didn’t look at him for too long, didn’t let yourself remember how his chest had felt under your palms. You trod carefully. Because if you didn’t, if you got too close, you knew you’d lose the thread and give everything away.
You hadn’t let yourself be alone with him since the pantry. Not really. Not long enough for him to notice the way your hands shook, or the way your breath caught when he said your name.
“I didn’t bring anything -”
“I left your pajamas in your room.” Bucky said from the other couch. A safe distance away. If anyone else noticed the your pajamas, your room comment, then they were remarkably restrained about it. Because they were not your pajamas. They were his.
Bucky had ended up on the other couch, but not before his hand brushed yours when he passed the blanket down the line. Just enough to make your skin prickle. He didn’t look at you when he did it. He didn’t need to.
The air had changed. Not in a way anyone else would notice, but it settled in your heart like static.
So that had settled it. You were staying over.
And now, sleep was not your friend.
You didn’t think. You just moved around, opening cupboards, searching for something sweet to take the edge off the restless pull in your chest.
Your fingers found a jar of honey. Familiar and comforting. You grabbed a spoon and dipped it in, the amber liquid slow and thick as it curled around the metal. You knew you should probably make toast to go with it, but without really thinking, you licked it straight from the spoon. Lazy, indulgent, you let the sugar melt on your tongue.
That was when you heard the voice.
“I thought I was the only one who couldn’t sleep.”
You froze, spoon halfway to your mouth again. Bucky was leaning in the doorway, all shadow and stillness, black shorts - matching yours - low on his hips, tank top snug against his chest. His hair was messy from sleep, or lack of it.
You hoped the drop of your jaw wasn’t picked up in the dim, ambient under counter lights.
“I needed sugar,” you offered, your voice stronger than you expected. “Helps my brain settle.”
His eyes dragged over you, slow. Heated. “You found some?” he said, and there was something in his voice that wasn’t sleep.
You raised the spoon again, “honey.”
“You calling me honey?”
The question curled around your spine like smoke. You looked up, spoon still raised, heart thudding far too loud in the quiet.
“Maybe,” you said, your voice quieter now. Throat drier. “If the shoe fits.”
He made his way over slowly, you tore your eyes away, looking at the jar in your hand, willing your breath to steady and your heart to stop pounding.
With you distracted, honey had started creeping down the spoon, catching in your fingers.
You dropped the spoon into the jar and looked around for something to clean up with.
His hand caught your wrist.
His eyes flicked from your honey-slicked fingers to your mouth.
“You gonna share?” he asked.
You could’ve said something smart. Something teasing, but every whip smart response you’d ever thought of died on your sticky lips.
And then, without breaking eye contact, he leaned in, and licked the honey from your fingertips.
Your knees nearly gave out.
His tongue was warm, his mouth soft, his grip steady.
“You taste sweet,” he murmured.
Your breath caught hard in your chest and your brain fizzled and popped
“You’re not helping me settle,” you whispered.
“Not trying to,” he said, voice rough.
He didn’t let go of your wrist.
Instead, he stepped closer, the space between you vanishing with the shift of a breath. You could feel the warmth radiating off him, the tension winding tight between your ribs.
“Been thinking about this,” he said, voice low and steady, “for weeks.”
“You can hear it, can't you?” You asked, barely above a whisper but you knew he'd heard.
He reached past you to set the jar down on the counter, fingers brushing yours again, slow and deliberate.
Then his thumb dragged lightly across the edge of your bottom lip, catching on the honey.
“What, that?” he asked as your breath shuddered. “Or this?” He asked, his fingers moving to the pulse point on your neck.
“Both. Either -”
“All of it,” he confirmed. “The way your pupils dilate, the way your body temperature rises, the way your hands tremble…”
His mouth hovered just over yours, and you knew he could feel the way your heart stuttered in your chest.
“And I know how wet you are,” he added softly. Not cocky. Not smug. Just true.
You flinched, pulling back to look at him. The heat between you flared, but underneath it, something else flickered. The fear.
“Oh god, then that means… Alexei. John,” you breathed, your voice suddenly smaller, you started to pull your wrist from his grip.
His hands came up to cradle your jaw, grounding, steady. His gaze locked to yours, intense but soft at the edges.
“No,” he said firmly. “Not like I can.”
Your brows pinched together, still unsure.
“I don’t just hear it. I feel everything. I know you. They could be in the same room and they’d never know - because they’re not listening for you like I am.”
Something in you unclenched at that. Not just desire now, but relief and trust.
And then he kissed you. More slowly than you expected, searing, like he had time to prove it.
There was no hesitation. No asking. Just weeks of heat and tension snapping loose all at once. His mouth was soft but certain, your gasp swallowed by the kiss, his hands bracketing your waist and pulling you in.
You didn’t remember setting your hands on his chest, but they were there now, fingers fisting in the fabric, trying to pull him impossibly closer and leaving sticky fingerprints behind.
When he finally broke the kiss, it was only to whisper against your mouth, “You want me to stop?”
You shook your head firmly, “No, don’t stop -”
Because this was the moment you’d both been aching toward, and it was too late to pretend otherwise.
He exhaled, slow and heavy, his forehead resting briefly against yours. His hands were still at your waist, unmoving.
“I’ve been trying not to push,” he said, voice rough with restraint. “Trying to wait until you were sure.”
Your hands slipped under his shirt, greedy for the heat of his skin. “I am.”
His jaw clenched, just for a second.
“I know. I just needed to hear you say it.”
And then it snapped.
The tension, the restraint, the careful space he always left between you - that he was still leaving between you.
His mouth was on yours again, hands on your waist, lifting you onto the cool marble countertop. The jar tipped over and rolled off, shattering on the floor.
Your legs wrapped around his hips. His hands pushed into your hair.
There was only the heat. The need.
And finally, the softest words, murmured against your lips, “Been losing sleep over you.”
He kissed you again, deeper, his hand slid up your thigh, “been hanging by a thread, sweetheart.”
With a desperate sigh, you pulled at his tank top, taking it over his head and somewhere behind you.
Cool vibranium, warmed by your skin, slid under the hem of your t-shirt. You gasped as his fingers spread wide against your ribs, hungrily moving up to take the weight of your breast in his hand. You felt his breath hitch at the feeling of bare skin at his fingertips and arched into his touch, encouraging him to take more.
You reached for him, fingers dragging down his spine like you needed to memorize it.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” you breathed. “I’ve tried.”
His mouth crushed into yours at that, a low groan lost against your lips.
His hand flexed against your skin, like he couldn’t believe you were real. His mouth dropped to your neck, lips and teeth dragging against the most sensitive spot.
You shivered, fingers digging into his shoulders, dragging him closer, “Bucky -”
He growled. A low, desperate sound, and kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. His hands were everywhere, thumbs grazing over your nipples, making you whine.
Your shirt went next, lifted over your head and tossed somewhere behind him. He paused just long enough to take you in, the way your chest rose and fell, the flushed heat of your skin under his hands.
Then his mouth was on your skin, your ribs, your stomach - kissing, licking, tasting. Desperate. Like he couldn’t decide where to worship first.
When his fingers found the waistband of your shorts, he looked up at you, eyes burning.
“Tell me you want this.”
You nodded, breathless. “I want you. All of you, please -”
His hands gripped your thighs like he needed you to anchor him, his mouth reverent against your skin, tasting his way down your body.
This wasn’t just heat. It wasn’t just need.
It felt like something deeper, something unspoken.
A craving that lived in his chest and only answered to you.
His lips dragged lower, tongue tracing the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate. You felt him breathe you in - like the scent of you alone was something he’d been starving for.
“Fuck,” he whispered, almost to himself. “You smell so good.”
Your thighs instinctively tried to clench, but his hands held you open like he’d dreamed of this - of you - and now that he had you, he wasn’t going to rush a second of it.
The first press of his mouth made you gasp, your hips jerking under the weight of his grip. He didn’t pull back. He groaned, low and deep, and held you there, letting you feel every slow, reverent stroke of his tongue.
It was too much. It wasn’t enough.
Your fingers tangling in his hair as your head fell back, a soft moan leaving your lips, and you whispered his name like a prayer.
“Bucky…”
He hummed in response, the sound vibrating through you, dragging another broken moan from your chest. His arm curled under your thigh, holding you steady as he worked you open, tasted you like he’d dreamed about it for weeks.
And god, maybe he had.
You knew you had.
He pushed your thighs further apart, gaze locked on yours as he slipped two fingers into you, slowly and surely, like he wanted to feel every inch of you give way under his guidance.
Your back arched against the cold marble, a gasp catching in your throat.
There was honey on your skin and in your hair, forgotten in the heat of it all. Sticky on your fingers, in the crook of your elbow, tacky where his mouth had been.
He curled his fingers just right and your hips bucked, a soft, broken sound escaping you.
“Ohh, god -” you sighed, “you’re killing me.”
He looked up at you from between your thighs, voice rough. “Nah, sweetheart. I’m worshipping you.”
Your hand searched for him, for something to hold onto, and you gripped the hand that still held your thighs open for him.
Words half formed and fell away as his tongue circled and fluttered against your clit. His fingers inside you curled, pressing into that spot that made your whole body jolt.
You could hear it - the wet slide of his fingers, the broken sounds leaving your mouth, the low groan he gave in response.
“Please - Bucky, fuck, please -”
You were right there, trembling, aching.
He groaned against you, the vibration tipping you straight over the edge. Your whole body tensed, breath shattering as pleasure rolled through you in waves.
Your back arched off the counter, fingers trying to grip his hand like you’d fall apart without him to hold you together.
“Good girl,” he murmured against your skin, kissing you through it, not stopping, not letting up until your thighs were trembling and your hips tried to jerk away from the overstimulation.
Only then did he slow, pressing a kiss just above your navel before looking up, eyes wild and dark and so full of something it made your chest ache.
Bucky rose slowly, eyes locked on yours, and slid his arms around your waist, pulling you up against him.
Your legs instinctively wrapped around his hips again, your bare chest pressed to his, heat coiling between your bodies like a live wire. He kissed you hard. Messy, sweet, devastating.
The taste of you was still on his lips. You could feel the honey sticky between your thighs, catching in the creases of your skin, and it made you shiver.
“We’re a mess,” you giggled, your tongue swiping at a smear of honey on his jaw.
“You want to get cleaned up?” He asked, his hand dipping between your legs and his fingers finding you still aching for him.
“No, oh god don’t stop -”
With one arm around your back, he turned and carried you across the kitchen, stepping over the broken jar on the floor without even looking. You barely noticed.
He lay you down across the table, following you, covering you with his body and settling between your thighs like he belonged there.
“Look at you,” he murmured against your collarbone. “You’re a goddamn mess.”
You could barely breathe. “Your fault.”
“Damn right it is,” he said, his fingers dragging sticky-sweet up your skin. “And I’m not finished with you yet.”
He paused there, chest rising hard against yours, like the sight of you wrecked beneath him was almost too much to bear. His thumb brushed a smear of honey from your breast.
“You sure you’re mine?” he asked, voice low.
Your hips lifted in answer, heat pulsing between you.
“Because I’m gonna remember this,” he murmured, mouth ghosting your skin, “every time I look at you.”
“I’m gonna have to quit,” you sighed as his tongue followed the path of his thumb. He laughed softly against your skin.
“Yeah?”
“They’re gonna eat breakfast at this table.”
He dragged his teeth across the sensitive underside of your breast, then bit down just enough to make you gasp.
“Good,” he smirked. “Let ‘em. They’ll never know I fucked you across it ‘til you couldn’t take any more.”
You rolled your eyes even as heat sparked under your skin. “I think they’ll know, Bucky -”
He bit again, and the rest of your protest broke on a moan.
Your back arched as his mouth closed over your nipple, tongue circling, sucking, making your toes curl against the smooth wood of the table. One hand braced on your thigh, the other dragging up your side, leaving streaks of heat and honey in its wake.
“Look at you,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “You gonna fall apart for me again?”
You nodded, breathless. “Please.”
He shifted his hips, the thick press of him nudging against you, just enough to make your breath catch. His hand slid under your knee, hitching your leg higher around his waist, opening you wider.
“God, yesss-”
His mouth met yours again, fierce and deep, as he pushed into you slowly, inch by inch. His hand gripped the curve of your hip so tightly you knew there would be bruises. You didn’t care.
You cried out at the stretch, fingers clawing at his back, his name catching on your breath like a prayer. He didn’t move at first, just stayed there, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours
“Move, fuck -” You pleaded. That broke something in him.
He rocked into you with a slow, devastating rhythm, every thrust deep and deliberate. His mouth was on your throat, your shoulder, your lips - everywhere he could reach. You gasped his name again and again, your body meeting his with each roll of your hips.
His hand slipped from your hip and between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, slick and swollen. It didn’t take long.
“Come for me, baby. Let me feel you.”
You shattered with a broken cry, clenching around him.
“Fuck - you’re perfect - gonna come - where -?”
“Inside, need to feel you,” you gasped, hooking your foot around his thigh.
He shuddered against you, his thrusts sloppy and desperate until he stilled, his forehead pressed into the crook of your neck. You ran your fingertips up and down his spine, across his shoulder blades, “your arm needs to go in the dishwasher,” you muttered, feeling dried honey settling between the metal plates.
“Hey Shuri, can I get another arm? Fucked my girl in a puddle of honey and broke it” he sniggered.
“Your girl?” You asked, pinching his side. He shifted against you, still inside you, still half hard. “Ohh,” you breathed, arching your body into his.
“More?” He asked, kissing his way along your jaw to look at you.
You didn’t answer right away.
You just looked at him, flushed and breathless. His eyes searched yours, still dark, still hungry, but softer now.
“You ok?” he asked, voice low.
You nodded, brushing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m - God, I’m so ok.”
He let out a breathless laugh, kissed your cheek, your jaw, the hollow of your throat. Like he couldn’t stop.
“You’re still inside me,” you whispered, even saying the words made your hips roll again, and he hummed like that was exactly where he planned to stay.
“I know.” Another slow kiss. “Don’t think I’m ready to let you go yet.”
You smiled, eyelids heavy, hands roaming lazily down his back. “Good. Just… give me a minute to remember how breathing works.”
“Take all the time you need,” he said, kissing your shoulder. “Night’s not over.”
He eventually pulled out with a quiet groan, and you both winced as he moved, the mess between your thighs making a slow, sticky trail as he helped you sit up.
“I think we broke the kitchen,” you murmured, brushing your hair back, wincing as it tangled in your hand, and glancing around - smeared honey on the counter, the shattered jar on the floor, all of your clothes somewhere yet to be found.
“Yeah we did,” he said, grinning proudly against your shoulder. “Worth it.”
You laughed, breathless, and tried not to blush at the sight of him standing there, naked and smug and gorgeous, reaching for a dish towel. “You know we have to actually clean this, right?”
“Sure. But we’re not cleaning you up yet,” he said, stepping back between your legs and kissing the corner of your mouth. “That’s mine.”
You rolled your eyes. “I am disgusting -”
“Sticky, maybe, but definitely not disgusting.” he murmured, dragging his finger through the mess on your stomach and licking it off, like it proved his point.
You shoved at his chest, laughing. “Go get paper towels! And put some clothes on, you're a distraction.”
He winked, grabbing his shorts first and then tossing you a dishcloth before crouching to scoop up the broken glass.
You hopped down from the table gingerly, wincing at the messy floor beneath your bare feet. You spotted yours - his - t-shirt and pulled it on, hearing his little growl of complaint as you did so.
You bent to wipe up a streak on the table, feeling his eyes linger on the hem of your t-shirt riding up as you reached. “Eyes up, Barnes.”
“They are up,” he said, stepping behind you and sliding a hand around your waist, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Up, down - all over.”
You should’ve told him to behave. You should’ve finished wiping the table. Instead, you leaned back into him with a sigh that turned into a shiver.
“I thought we were cleaning.”
“We are.” His fingers trailed under your t-shirt and up across your ribs, your breasts. “Eventually. I told you, I'm not finished with you yet.”
He nudged your feet a little further apart and traced a line down your spine, pushing lightly until you were bent over the table ready for him.
You braced your hands on the sticky wood, heart hammering as he stepped in close behind you, his breath warm against your ear.
“You sure you’re ready for more?” he murmured, fingers trailing down to lift the t-shirt.
“Please. I can’t - I need you again.” You all but begged, your back already arching for him.
And then there was only the rustle of clothes, the creak of the table, and the sound of your name on his lips as the night started all over again.