Chris Evans 4 me

Horny!Bucky who wanted you the second he saw you. The beast inside him clawed to get out and take you. 

Horny!Bucky who did everything the “right” way. He courted you, treated you well, and waited a reasonable amount of time before he slept with you the first time.

Horny!Bucky who got hard just from kissing you. It was like all the blood in his body went south because of your lips.

Horny!Bucky who spent a generous amount of time worshipping your breasts, alternating between pinching and sucking on your nipples. How could he not when you’re so responsive.

Horny!Bucky who wondered if you’d like him fuck your tits one day. He’s always wanted to try that with the right person.

Horny!Bucky who went down on you because real men appreciate the delicacy of eating pussy. Real men also put their partner’s pleasure above their own.

Horny!Bucky who humped the bed in time with his tongue because you tasted so good. Your sounds made you taste even sweeter.

Horny!Bucky who came in his pants when you came on his tongue, both of you moaning. And he didn’t stop tongue-fucking you until you begged for him to fuck you.

Horny!Bucky who felt a surge of pride when he fisted himself and your eyes went wide. He’d fit, even if he had to make it fit.

Horny!Bucky who was thankful you didn’t want him to use a condom because he didn’t want anything between you two. If by any chance he did knock you up, he’d be happy to have a family with you. 

Horny!Bucky didn’t realize he had a breeding kink until that moment. Or maybe it was just you. 

Horny!Bucky who had to grit his teeth when he pushed inside you, willing himself not to come from how wet and tight you were. He did anyway.

Horny!Bucky who swore he died when he painted your walls since his soul left his body. He’d happily spend the rest of his life deep inside you if he could manage it.

Horny!Bucky who then felt embarrassed for finishing so quickly until you shushed him with a kiss. Your perfect pussy gripped his throbbing cock like a vice until he thrust again. 

Horny!Bucky who held your chin gently so he could see your pretty eyes. He wanted to see how much you loved being fucked by him

Horny!Bucky who thinks you’re perfect, but even more so when you’re taking his cock. Parted mouth and tears in your eyes, you’re ruined and beautiful

Horny!Bucky who suddenly felt possessive and vowed that no one else would ever have you like this again. You were his and only his.

Horny!Bucky who almost blurted out that he loved you when you came with his name tumbling from your lips. He does love you, but the middle of sex may not be the best time to say so.

Horny!Bucky who kissed you when he came again and knew he was addicted. You had a hold on him that would never be released.

Horny!Bucky who wanted to make love to and fuck you. He wanted to watch you shatter so he could put you back together.

Horny!Bucky who fucked you into the early hours of the morning and only stopped because you needed rest. He cleaned you off and praised you. 

Horny!Bucky who held you while he slept and couldn’t sleep himself because he wanted you again. But it would be wrong to wake you after he wore you out.

Horny!Bucky who cancelled his plans for the weekend so he could fuck you on every surface of the apartment. He made sure you stayed fed and hydrated. 

Horny!Bucky who tries to calculate how long he can be away from you on a mission because he craves you that much. Does absence make the heart grow fonder or will it make him snap?

Horny!Bucky who leaves marks all over you. You joke that he’s marking his territory, and you leave little marks on him in return. 

Horny!Bucky who can’t have you in the kitchen without putting you on the counter. You’re basically a pre-meal before the food.

Horny!Bucky who humps you in his sleep and holds your breast like a security blanket. Cockwarming happens often, too, right before you fall asleep.

Horny!Bucky who thinks your mouth is just as perfect as your pussy. He knows your ass will be the same. 

Horny!Bucky who has a list of things he wants to try with you. He has the order listed alphabetically. 

Horny!Bucky who eventually has photos, videos, and audio so he can jerk off when he’s alone. He doesn’t need to fantasize about anyone else since he has you.

Horny!Bucky who constantly touches or kisses you because he needs the connection. It makes him feel needy, but you don’t seem to mind.

Horny!Bucky who loves when you tease him and grind on his lap or shove your chest in his face. You look so innocent when you do it, but you both know better. 

Horny!Bucky who loves when you initiate sex. He’s yours just as much as you’re his. 

Horny!Bucky who follows you around like a puppy because he adores you and doesn’t care if the gang teases him. They’d do the same if they had you, which they never will. 

Horny!Bucky who isn’t afraid to beg for it. He’ll get on his knees for you any day of the week.

Horny!Bucky who will have you anytime, any place. He doesn’t need a reason. 

Horny!Bucky who doesn’t stop even if someone walks in. He’ll shield you for your dignity, but he isn’t stopping unless you say so.

Horny!Bucky who is all about consent. You each have safewords and make sure to communicate.

Horny!Bucky who worries he’s too much and doesn’t want to push you away. But you’re just as crazy for him as he is for you.

Horny!Bucky who loves you and can’t get enough of you, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Nothing to see here, lovelies. Go about your business. ❤️

Though I wonder when he said he loved you. 😏

moonlight stripes the room in silver and shadow, catching on the faded flower wallpaper your mama picked out when you were ten.

straightening up, he brushes dust off his jacket, and grins that crooked grin that always makes your stomach flip.

“thought your old man was gonna spot me climbin’,” he whispers, voice going low in a way it gets when he’s trying not to laugh. “nearly took a header into the rose bushes.”

you’re already tucked under the covers, heart going a mile a minute.

your parents left for bridge night an hour ago. they just said they’d be back late. and the house feels huge and quiet without them.

you pat the mattress beside you. “ma and pa left an hour ago. get in here before someone calls the cops on you.”

he shrugs out of his jacket, and slides in next to you like he’s done it a hundred times, even though this is only the third time he’s managed to sneak over.

the bed’s narrow. it's your childhood bed with the iron headboard that squeaks if you move too fast. and he has to curl around you so you both fit comfortably. well, comfort might be a bigger word.

he smells like the cold night air and the gel he uses to keep his hair slicked back, and something that’s just him.

his hair’s all messed up from the climb, cheeks pink from the cold.

“hi, doll,” he whispers, voice soft so the floorboards don’t give him away, and then he’s right there in front of you, hands finding your waist like they belong there.

you’re in your nightgown, the off-white one with the tiny roses your ma sewed on last summer, with the covers pulled up to your chin like some nervous kid. which you kind of are, tonight.

when you tip your face up, he meets you halfway.

you’ve kissed plenty. behind the bleachers after ball games, in the dark of the movie theater when the newsreels were on, pressed against the alley wall behind the diner when he walked you home from your shift the day before.

but tonight there’s no curfew ticking in the back of your head and no worry about headlights sweeping the street.

tonight the house is yours. and so is he. his mouth moves slowly, lazily almost, like he’s got all the time in the world to taste you.

you fall back onto the pillows together, the mattress springs groaning just enough to make you both freeze and listen for footsteps that definitely aren’t coming.

when it stays quiet, bucky huffs a laugh against your mouth. “think we’re safe now, sweetheart.”

“you always say that,” you whisper back, “and then mrs. gallagher’s dog starts barking.”

“mrs. gallagher’s dog can go jump in the east river.”

his mouth opens against yours again, tongue sliding in carefully like he’s asking permission even though you’ve done this countless number of times. you make that little sound you always make when he does it right, and his hands tighten on your waist.

sliding up your side, his thumb brushes the edge of your breast through the thin cotton, and you make a small surprised sound against his lips.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark in the dim light. “that okay?” his voice is hushed.

you nod. “yeah. just… tickles a little.”

he smiles. a small one, a shy one. and kisses you again, much deeper this time.

his fingers keep exploring, tracing the neckline of your gown, slipping under the fabric to find skin. your breath catches when his palm cups your breast.

you can feel that he’s trembling a little and that makes you feel less alone in how your own hands are shaking.

“you’re so soft,” he murmurs against your mouth, like he’s surprised by it every time. his thumb brushes over your nipple and it stiffens instantly, sending a spark straight down between your legs. you arch without meaning to, and press closer to him.

you’ve never let him touch you like this before. you’ve thought about it— lord, have you thought about it. lying in this same bed you've had your hand pressed between your thighs, not knowing why you like it, but wondering what his hands would feel like.

but thinking and doing are entirely two different things, and now that it’s happening you feel heat crawling up your neck.

“jamie,” you whisper, not sure if it’s fast or too slow to your liking.

searching your face, he asks,“too much?”

you shake your head quickly. “no. just… feels funny… good funny.”

his grin comes back softer. “good funny’s the best kind.” he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the spot under your ear that makes your toes curl.

his hand keeps moving, gentle circles that make your nipple ache in a way you’ve never felt before. you didn’t know it could feel like this. like every touch is lighting little fires under your skin.

the buttons down the front of your gown are small and fiddly, and he fumbles with them, muttering “darn things” under his breath when the third one sticks.

a giggle slips past you as you reach down to help. together you get them open, and cool air hits your chest. he pushes the fabric aside slowly, like he’s unwrapping something precious, and when he sees you bare his breath stutters.

“you’re shaking,” you tease, even though your own hands aren’t much better.

“yeah, well, you’re beautiful,” he mutters, like that explains everything. his eyes are wide like he’s trying to memorize you. “jesus, doll.”

“don’t take the lord’s name in vain in my bedroom, james buchanan barnes,” you whisper, prim as sister mary margaret, and he snorts.

“sorry, sister.” but his hands are gentle when he pushes the gown off your shoulders, down your arms, until it’s bunched at your waist. you’re bare from the waist up now, and the shyness hits you.

“jeez. you’re… you’re so pretty.”

you want to hide, instinct making you cross your arms, but he catches your wrists and presses them to the pillow beside your head. “don’t. please. lemme look.”

there's a vulnerability in his voice even though you're the one who's undressed now. so you let him.

his gaze feels like a touch all its own. he lowers his head and kisses the slope of one breast, then the other. open-mouthed and soft kisses decorate your skin.

when his lips close around your nipple you gasp loud enough you’re glad the neighbors’ houses are far apart.

a tentative lick is what he starts with, then he gets bolder when you clutch at his hair. your nipple tightens under his touch, and he pulls back just enough to look.

“they do that,” he says, wonder in his voice, like he’s discovering something brand new. “in the magazines, the girls— well, they get 'em hard like this.”

“you and your dirty magazines,” you mumble, but you’re arching into his hand without meaning to.

“they’re educational,” he grins, but the grin fades when he lowers his head again and takes your nipple into his mouth again.

wet heat, gentle suction, and you make a sound you didn’t know you could make. his tongue flicks experimentally, and you feel it everywhere. your fingers thread through his hair, holding him there because stopping feels impossible.

he switches to the other breast, hand kneading the one his mouth just left, rolling the wet nipple between his fingers carefully like he’s afraid he’ll hurt you.

it doesn’t hurt. it feels like the fourth of july in your chest, sparks running down your spine. you’re squirming under him now, thighs pressing together, trying to ease the ache that’s building.

“jamie,” you breathe, not sure what you’re asking for.

he lifts his head, and his lips are shiny. “yeah? you okay?”

you nod fast. “more than okay. just—don’t stop.”

he groans like you’ve said something filthy and kisses down your stomach, pushing the nightgown lower as he goes. you lift your hips to help, and suddenly you’re naked except for your panties. those simple white cotton one with a little lace trim your ma bought you for your eighteenth birthday.

bucky sits back on his heels, just looking, taking you all in, and you want to die of embarrassment and also never want him to stop looking.

your hips shift restlessly against the mattress. there’s a throb starting low in your belly, an emptiness you don’t have words for. you’ve felt something like it before, alone in the dark with your own fingers. but never this sharp. and never this urgent.

bucky’s breathing hard now. his forehead ispressed to your sternum, “tell me if i do somethin’ wrong,” his voice stays muffled. “i only know what i read in those magazines.”

you should tell him to stop bringing up the magazines every single sentence because you cannot fathom him looking at other girls who aren't you, even in paper. but you're way too breathless for that.

“it's mostly just ladies in their undies. but sometimes there’s… diagrams.” his ears go pink. “fellas doin’ things with their mouths.”

your eyes widen. “their mouths?”

he nods, but there's a look on his face that tells you even he's a little unsure. “yeah. down… down there.” he gestures vaguely toward your lap and then looks like he wants the bed to swallow him. “i thought maybe… if you wanted… i could try.”

you stare at him. the idea is so shocking your brain stalls out for a second. “you wanna put your mouth on my… my…”

“privates,” he supplies helpfully, then winces. “geez, that sounds awful. your pussy, i mean.” he says the word like he’s testing it, and you can clearly see his cheeks flaming.

you’ve never heard him say that before. you’ve barely heard anyone say it. heat floods your face and other places. “jamie, that’s… that’s scandalous.”

“i know,” he says quickly. “we don’t have to. i just thought— the magazines say ladies like it a whole lot. and i wanna make you feel good. more than just kissin’ and touchin’ up here.” he cups your breast again gently. “but only if you want.”

you bite your lip. part of you— the part raised on sunday school —wants to say no, that’s too much. but the bigger part, the part that loves bucky barnes so fierce it hurts, wants to know what it feels like.

because you’re scandalized and curious in equal measure and nobody has ever told you about anything like this. your ma’s big talk was “keep your knees together till your wedding night” and that was that.

but this is jamie. your jamie, who’s been walking you home since fifth grade, who punched tommy hanagan for stealing your lunch in seventh, who held your hand the night your granddad died.

you trust him with everything else. why not this?

“okay,” you whisper finally. “but i’m… i’m nervous.”

“me too,” he admits, like he's relieved you said it first. “i never done this either. we’ll figure it out together, yeah?”

when you nod, he kisses you again. this one's sweeter, like he’s thanking you.

then he’s moving down the bed, pushing the covers aside. the white cotton stares back at him, but he looks at them like they’re silk.

his fingers hook in the waistband. “can i?”

you lift your hips in answer, and he slides them down your legs carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind any second. cool air kisses the curls between your thighs and you squeeze your eyes shut, mortified at him seeing a part of you, even you haven't properly seen before.

you kick your panties off when they get tangled at your ankles, and then you’re completely bare under him.

you squeeze your thighs together on instinct.

“hey,” his hands are on your knees. “open up for me, doll? just a little?”

“jamie—” your voice comes out squeaky.

“hey,” he says softly. “look at me.”

you open your eyes. he’s settled between your legs, propped on his elbows, gazing up at you with so much tenderness it makes your chest ache.

“you’re perfect,” he says. “every inch.”

then he lowers his head and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. another higher up. your legs want to close but he nudges them apart gently.

he’s staring again, closer now, and you feel yourself getting wetter under his gaze which is again — mortifying.

“it’s—pretty,” he says, awed. “all swollen and—god, look at you.” his thumbs part you, spreading you open, and you almost hide your face in the pillow.

“jamie!”

“sorry, sorry—just never seen one up close.” he sounds like a kid who just got a new bike for christmas. “this part here—” his thumb brushes something that makes your hips jerk—“that’s the part that feels best, right?”

“i don’t know!” you squeak. “nobody tells girls anything!”

“well i’m tellin’ you now,” he says. “gonna figure it out together.”

he leans in and you feel his breath first, warm against sensitive skin. then the flat of his tongue, one long slow lick from bottom to top, and your whole body lights up.

“oh my god.”

“tastes good,” he mumbles like he's embarrassed and proud all at once. “sweet.”

you’d laugh if you had breath. instead you just clutch the sheets, hips rocking without your permission.

pleased with himself, he does it again. and again. learning by the way you twitch, the sounds you make. when he circles that little bud at the top you nearly levitate off the bed.

“there,” you gasp. “right—right there, jamie—”

he focuses there, licking soft at first then firmer, figuring out the rhythm that makes your thighs shake. his hands slide under your hips, lifting you closer to his mouth like he can’t get enough.

he’s messy about it, truly inexperienced, getting your taste all over his chin, but the enthusiasm more than makes up for technique.

it feels… indescribable. like every nerve in your body just woke up and decided to sing at once. you’re wet. you can feel it. and he must too because he groans quietly, the vibration making you twitch.

you feel the pressure building, unfamiliar and scary-good. your legs try to close around his head and he holds them open gently but also somehow firm.

“james—something’s—i think i’m gonna—”

“yeah?” he pulls off just long enough to talk, voice muffled against you. “that’s it, doll. let it happen. wanna feel you cum on my mouth.”

you have no idea what that means exactly but your body does. long nights with your hands between your thighs never felt this good, never hit this high.

the wave crests suddenly, pleasure crashing over you so hard you cry out his name into the pillow to muffle it. your hips rock against his face, riding it out while he keeps licking soft through the aftershocks until you’re boneless and whimpering from overstimulation.

he crawls back up your body slowly, kissing your hip, your belly, between your breasts, until he’s hovering over you again. his mouth is shiny with you and his eyes are wild.

“was that okay?” he asks, doubt laced questions. “did i do it right?”

you pull him down into a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, and wrap your arms around his neck.

“you did more than okay,” you mumble. “i didn’t know it could feel like that.”

he wraps his arms around you, pressing kisses to your hair. “me neither. magazines didn’t say anything about how pretty you sound when you cum.”

you swat his chest weakly. “jamie!” but he pulls you closer, pressing soft kisses to your temple, then your jaw.

you’re still catching your breath, chest rising and falling quick over the rumpled sheets, when the curiosity hits you like a sudden itch.

you shift a little, legs still tangled with his, and poke him in the side like you used to when you were kids fighting over the last eclairs.

“hey,” you whisper, voice scratchy from all the noises you just made. “you said you saw pictures of girls doing… that. have you seen pictures of boys too? like, all of ‘em?”

bucky lifts his head and blinks slowly as if he's processing it, and then starts laughing. it's quiet at first, then louder until he has to bury his face in the pillow so he doesn’t wake the whole block.

you feel his ribs moving against yours and you start giggling too, because it’s such a dumb question but also not. definitely not tonight.

“doll, i got the equipment,” his voice is so fond. “i see it every day when i take a shower. ain’t exactly a mystery to me.”

you swat his chest, but you’re laughing harder now, the kind of laugh that hurts your stomach in the best way. “shut up, barnes. you know what i mean. like… close up. like you just did to me.”

he turns his head on the pillow, looking at you with that half-smile that’s been getting you in trouble since sophomore year. “yeah, i seen some. not as many. the fellas pass around the ones with dames mostly. but yeah, there’s pictures.”

you bite your lip, feeling bold and shy at the same time, the way you felt when you asked him to the sophomore dance even though everybody said girls weren’t supposed to ask boys.

“well,” you tryto sound casual and fail, “i ain’t seen any. and you just got an eyeful of me, so… fair’s fair, jamie.”

his eyebrows shoot up. he wasn’t expecting that. you can tell because his mouth opens and closes once like a fish, and his ears go pink. “you wanna see me?” he asks, like it's unbelievable what just came out your mouth.

“yeah,” you nod quickly before you lose your nerve. “i mean, i’ve only ever felt you through your slacks when you got hard like some kinda pervert when i kissed you. i wanna see what all the fuss is about.”

he laughs again. “pervert, huh? that’s rich coming from the girl who just came on my tongue.”

“james buchanan!” you hiss, but you’re grinning so wide your cheeks hurt.

he shrugs out of his shirt first, fingers fumbling the buttons because he’s watching your face instead of what he’s doing.

the shirt lands on the floor next to your nightgown, and you get your first real look at his chest without a undershirt in the way and between four walls.

there’s a faint line of hair running down the middle, and his shoulders are broader than you remember from swimming at the beach last summer.

you reach out without thinking to trace the scar on his ribs from when he fell off his bike delivering papers in eighth grade.

“still there,” you murmur, thumb brushing it gently.

“yep. you kissed it better back then, remember? told me i was gonna have a cool story.”

“you cried,” you remind him.

“i did not cry. i had something in my eye.”

“both eyes?”

he tackles you back onto the pillows, kissing you quietly, and you’re both laughing into each other’s mouths again.

when he pulls back his eyes are serious even though his mouth’s still smiling. “you sure?” he asks. “i ain’t exactly clark gable.”

“you’re better,” you say, and mean it. “you’re mine.”

you see in the way his throat moves, that it gets him.

standing up, his buckle clinks loud in the quiet room. and you sit up too, pulling the sheet to your chest even though he’s already seen everything.

he shoves his slacks down, steps out of them awkwardly when one foot gets caught, and then he’s just in his boxers. it's the white cotton gone a little gray at the waistband from too many washes.

there’s a bulge there that’s been pressing against your thigh all night, and now you can see the shape of him clearly. your mouth nearly goes dry.

“go on,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “all of it.”

bucky hooks his thumbs in the waistband and hesitates. “you’re starin’ like i’m about to do a striptease at the club.”

“maybe i want a private show,” you tease, but your hands are twisting the sheets.

he pushes the boxers down slowly, and his cock springs free, curving up towards his stomach.

you’ve felt it before, grinding against you in the back of movie theaters, but seeing it is different.

it’s thicker than you pictured, flushed dark, with a bead of wet at the tip. the hair at the base is darker than on his head, and to be honest, a bit curly.

bucky kicks the boxers away and stands there, hands on his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “well?” he tries for cocky and misses by a mile. “this what you were expectin’?”

you shake your head. it's not exactly no, but not an yes either. you're just overwhelmed. “it’s… bigger than i thought.”

he groans. “jesus, doll, you tryin’ to kill me?”

“no!” you say quickly. “it’s good bigger. i think. i don’t know, i’ve never—” you gesture helplessly. “can i touch it?”

he just nods. “yeah. please. i mean—if you want.”

you scoot to the edge of the bed, sheet still clutched to your chest with one hand, and reach out with the other. your fingers brush the length of him, and he jerks like you shocked him.

the skin’s hot, softer than you expected. when you wrap your hand around him, he makes a low sound.

“like this?” you ask, stroking him the way you’ve imagined when you’re alone in this same bed thinking about him.

“yeah—god, yeah—just like that.” his hands hover at his sides, then settle on your shoulders. “little tighter if you want. or not. whatever feels—ah—feels right.”

you experiment, thumb swiping over the head to spread the wetness there. “that part’s real sensitive,” he hisses. “like your—uh—the little button i found earlier.”

you keep stroking, watching his face, the way his eyes flutter half-closed. it’s power and love all mixed up, knowing you’re doing this to him. knowing he trusts you this much.

“does it always stick up like this?” you ask.

“only when i’m thinkin’ about you,” he says, and then winces. “that sounded cheesier out loud than in my head.”

you laugh and lean in to kiss his stomach just above where your hand’s working. “i liked it.”

he threads fingers through your hair. “you can—explore all you want, doll. i ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

you trace the vein along the underside, and feel the weight of his balls when you cup them. he jolts and mutters your name.

you lean closer, nose brushing the hair there to breath him in. he smells like soap and sweat and something sharper, and you want to memorize it.

“tastes salty,” you say after one brave lick at the tip.

bucky’s knees almost buckle. “christ, give a guy some warning.”

“sorry,” you say, not sorry at all, and do it again just to hear that exact sound he makes.

he pulls you upafter a minute, hands under your arms like you weigh nothing, and kisses you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue probably.

“your turn to lie down,” he says against your mouth. “i wanna look at you some more while you touch me. fair’s fair, remember?”

you let the sheet fall, nerves buzzing again because now you’re both completely naked in the lamplight. there's no more hiding.

pulling you close so your front’s pressed to his side, one of his legs slides between yours. his cock’s trapped between your bellies, hot and twitching every time you move.

bolder now, you reach down again, and he mirrors you, hand sliding between your thighs to pet you, still slick from earlier. you’re both shaking a little, breathing the same air.

“we’re really doin’ this,” you whisper, like saying it louder might jinx it.

“yeah,” he whispers back. “been waitin’ forever for you.”

“me too,” you kiss him while your hand keeps moving on him, learning every inch, every sound he makes when you do something he likes. his fingers circle that spot again, and you rock into his touch because it still feels like magic.

you realise he's not touching you to get you off, but just touching because he cannot seem to stop.

you shift your hips a little bit, feeling him against your thigh, and the question that’s been bouncing around your head since he climbed through the window finally tumbles out. “jamie,” your voice is small in the quiet, “is this… is this what people do on their wedding night? all the touching and the—the mouth stuff?”

hair falls in his eyes as he lifts his head, and gives you that look he’s had since you were kids. like you just asked if the sky’s really blue. “this is part of it,” his fingers still moving, touching you there. “but there’s more. the big part.”

you blink up at him, brain fuzzy from everything he’s already done. “more? like what?”

embarrassed and turned on all at once, his cheeks go red again. “you know. when the guy… puts it in.”

your eyes go wide. you knew that much. well, sort of. whispers from older girls at school, your ma’s tight-lipped warnings about “marital duties”

but nobody ever said how or what it felt like or anything useful. “oh,” you breathe. “that.”

“yeah, that.” he kisses your forehead, then your nose, like he’s trying to gentle the idea into you. “the magazines show it. and the fellas talk. but i ain’t never—obviously.”

“me neither,” you chime in quickly, like he might’ve forgotten. “so how do we even…?”

his shoulder bumps yours teasingly. “i guess we figure it out. like everything else tonight.” his hand leaves you to trail up your belly, and he rolls half on top of you again.

his cock nudges your thigh, leaving a wet streak, and you feel that ache start up again in your stomach. like your body already knows what it wants even if your head’s still catching up.

“you want to?” he is serious now. “we don’t have to. we could just keep doing what we been doin'. i liked that plenty.”

you think about it for a second because this feels big, bigger than sneaking out or stealing kisses behind the gym.

but again it's james, who told you he loved you first under the stars at coney island on the fourth of july.

“i want to,” you say, and it comes out steadier than you feel. “with you. tonight.”

his whole face softens when he kisses you, you understand it's just thank you without words. when he pulls back his eyes are shiny. “okay. but you tell me if it hurts or if you wanna stop, alright? i ain’t gonna be mad.”

“same goes for you,” you tease, poking his chest. “if i’m too much for you, james barnes, you just say the word.”

“doll, you’ve been too much for me since we were twelve. ain’t stoppin’ now.”

you both laugh and he reaches down between you, hand wrapping around himself to line up.

you feel the blunt head nudge against you, sliding through the wet heat, and you suck in a breath. it’s hotter than you expected, and bigger feeling than looking.

“little bit at a time,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

just the tip breaches you when he pushes forward slowly, and you both freeze at the stretch.

“oh,” you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders.

it doesn’t hurt exactly. it just feels full.

“you okay?” his voice is tight, like he’s holding back hard.

“yeah. just… a lot.”

“tell me about it,” he mutters and his laugh is breathy. “you’re so—tight. jesus.”

when you wiggle a little to try and adjust to him, he groans out loud. “don’t do that yet, doll, or this’ll be over before it starts.”

“sorry,” you whisper, but you’re smiling because he looks wrecked already, with his eyes squeezed shut.

he rocks forward another inch and you feel yourself open around him, the burn starting now. your legs spread wider on instinct, knees hitching up to go right around around his hips.

“more?” his voice cracks.

“yeah. keep going.”

he slowly slides forward, pulling back a tiny bit each time to ease the way, until he’s halfway in and you’re both sweating. you can feel every throb of him inside you, the way he twitches when you clench without meaning to.

“god, you feel—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head like his words are failing him.

“you too,” you manage. “like—like you belong there.”

surging forward, he buries the rest of him in one smooth push, and you both moan at the same time. he’s all the way in now, hips flush to yours, and you feel so full you could cry.

he stills, while panting against your neck. “tell me when,” he whispers. “i ain’t movin’ till you say.”

you take a minute to just breath deep, letting your body get used to him. you can feel the burn fading, turning into something else. it's a sort of pressure that feels good when you shift your hips experimentally.

“okay,” you say finally. “move. please.”

he pulls out damn slowly, almost all the way, then slides back in to the hilt. the drag feels incredible in every way, making you arch up into him.

“like that?” he asks, like he's seeking reassurance.

“yeah—again.”

he finds a rhythm, shallow at first, rocking more than thrusting, watching your face like it’s the only thing in the world. your heels dig into his back, urging him deeper.

“harder?” he asks after a few minutes, when your moans get louder.

you nod fast and whisper. “yeah. i won’t break, jamie.”

kissing you deep like he never wants to leave, he snaps his hips sharper. the bed creaks under you both, headboard tapping the wall, and you hope the neighbors are heavy sleepers.

you’re climbing again, that same feeling from his mouth but deeper now, wound tight around where he’s moving inside you.

your hands roam his back, nails scratching whatever slope of muscle you can find, earning a shudder from him.

“i love you,” he mutters against your lips, over and over like he can’t stop. “love you so damn much.”

“i love you too,” you gasp into his mouth, letting him eat your words right off your tongue. “always—always have.”

shifting his angle a little, he grinds against that spot inside you that makes you see stars. your whole body tightens around him, clenching so tight you don't know where you end and he begins.

“there—right there—don’t stop—”

he hammers that spot relentlessly, one hand snaking between you to rub messy circles over your clit. the pleasure coils brutal, tighter and tighter until you’re sobbing his name into his mouth.

“bucky—i’m—”

“yeah,” he pants. “me too—god, you’re squeezin’ me—”

you come hard, clenching around him in waves, crying out into his shoulder to muffle it. he follows right after you, burying deep and spilling hot inside you with a broken groan of your name.

you think maybe this is what all the songs are about, the ones on the radio that make your ma sigh and your pa roll his eyes. this shaky, perfect thing between you and your jamie, built on years of shared candy and secrets and now this. your bodies learning each other in your childhood bedroom.

he collapses half on top of you, careful not to crush you even as he comes down from his high. both of you are breathing like you ran from brooklyn to queens.

and that's when you feel him pulse, still inside you where he belongs..

when he's finally caught his breath, he lifts his head with hair plastered to his forehead. a goofy grin greets you. “so that’s the more, huh?”

swatting his arm yet agaun, “yeah. think i like the more.”

it was nothing like the first time he kissed you, but also everything like that at the same time.

he kisses you again lazily, tasting salt and you, and stays inside, softening slow, neither of you willing to break the join just yet.

the steady thump of his heart against yours lulls you, but you fight the pull of sleep because you don’t want this night to end, not ever. and right then, with him still buried deep and your legs tangled tight, the world outside the window feels a million miles away.

“so,” you say after a bit, staring at the ceiling where the streetlight paints stripes through the blinds. “that was… the real thing. not just fooling around in steve’s car with the windows fogged up.”

“yeah,” he breathes, fingers drawing lazy circles on your hip. “the real thing.” he pauses wondering whether to say or not, then adds, “better than any magazine ever made it look.”

you feel your face heat up again, even after everything. “you’re comparing me to those girls?”

he props himself up on an elbow. his eyes are wide and serious, like he's deciding whether to defend himself or apologise. “no! god, no. those girls ain’t got nothing on you. they’re just— paper. they're posed and fake. this—” he gestures between you, hand waving vague at your naked bodies under the sheets—“this was us. it's us being messy, loud and perfect.”

you smile at that, reaching up to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “you weren’t so quiet yourself, jamie. thought for sure you were gonna wake the whole neighborhood when you—”

“shut up,” he groans, flopping back down and hiding his face against your neck. but he’s laughing too, you can tell by the way his shoulders are shaking. “i couldn’ help it. you were squeezin’ me like—christ, i don’t even know.”

“like a lemon?” you tease.

"sweetheart, there's so many things you coulda said and you went with lemon?" he snorts.

heat crawls up to your neck, the way he's teasing you back, reminding you of how much you love him and want him. "oh no, jamie! now i wan' the lemonade they sell in coney island."

blue eyes stare back at you in earnest, "i'll get it first thing tomorrow morning, what do ya say?"

"yes," you let the enthusiasm get to you as you pepper kisses over his jaw.

he mimics your antics, then finds your lips like that's what he was destined for and pulls you in for a slower, hungrier, deeper kiss.

you tilt your head up, nose brushing his jaw. “now now, what's that for, barnes?”

he huffs this soft laugh that shakes his chest. “tryin’ to figure out how i got this lucky,” he says. “and also wonderin’ if i hurt you more than you’re lettin’ on.”

"you didn’t,” you quickly say, pressing your palm over his heart to feel it thump steadily under your hand. “i mean, it stung at first, yeah, but then it was… i don’t even have words, james. it was you inside me. that’s all i could think. not pain. just you.”

his eyes go soft, that blue you’ve known since you were six and he shared his popsicle with you on the stoop even though it was cherry and he loved cherry.

he leans down and kisses presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. “kept thinkin’ i was gonna wake up,” he admits quiet. “like this was one of those dreams i have where we’re older and married and i wake up reachin’ for you and you ain’t there yet.”

your throat gets tight. you hate those dreams for him. hate that he’s had them since he was sixteen and his pa started talking about the war like it was coming whether they wanted it or not.

“i’m here now,” you whisper. “not goin’ anywhere.”

he nods against your hair, but you feel the worry still clinging to him. bucky’s always carried tomorrow on his back. you figure tonight just added a few more. what if you get pregnant? what if he ships out? what if this was the only time you get?

you push the thoughts awaybecause they’re yours too and you don’t want them ruining this.

instead you think about how safe you felt even when it hurt a little, how his arms shook but he held himself so carefully over you. you think about the way he looked at you when he came inside. like you gave him something huge and sacred and he knows it.

“you’re thinkin’ loud,” he murmurs, lips against your temple.

“am not.”

“are too. i can hear the gears turnin’.” he pulls back enough to see your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “tell me.”

you hesitate, then let it out in a rush. “i keep thinkin’ about how much i love you it hurts sometimes. like right now my chest feels too small for it. and i’m scared that’s gonna make me cry and then you’ll think you did somethin’ wrong.”

his face does this thing. it goes soft and fierce at once. “cry if you want,” his voice goes rough. “i love you so much it hurts me too. been hurtin’ since we were kids and i didn’t know what to do with it except walk you home every day and carry your books.”

you feel the tears prick and blink fast to wish them away, but one slips out anyway. he catches it with his thumb, kisses the wet trail.

“happy tears?” he asks, like he's uncertain.

“the happiest,” you mean it when you say.

he settles back down, tucking you closer, and you listen to his heartbeat.

your own thoughts drift softer now. how his shoulders felt under your hands, the little sounds he made when he was close, the way he kept checking your face like your pleasure mattered more than his. you think about how clumsy you both were and how perfect it still felt.

you think maybe love isn’t just the big moments like this. maybe it’s the quiet after, when he’s tracing your spine and you’re counting his freckles and neither of you needs to say anything because you already know.

“jamie?” you whisper after a while.

“hm?”

“when we get married someday… can our bed be bigger than this one? my hip’s kinda hangin’ off the edge.”

he laughs, this big rumbling sound that shakes you both, and rolls so you’re on top of him instead. his hands settle on your back.

“deal,” he says. “biggest bed in brooklyn. and no creaky springs.”

“and no mrs. gallagher’s dog barking,” he adds.

you smile into his neck, listening to him make plans like tomorrow’s promised, and for tonight you let yourself believe it is.

after all, you will always have the perfect night with the love of your life. and nothing's more perfect than all your firsts belonging to him.

my masterlist!

extras. i just googled ‘attractive actor of the 1940s’ and got clark gable’s name, so i have no idea who he is 😭 also, in my head, the war never comes and these two babies live forever. 40s bucky is such a sweetheart, i love writing him sm 🥹

taglist. @devililithh @buckyfmd @sheriff-bodecker @honeysucklewatr @demiebarnes @kqtholins @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @barnes-babydoll @miraclediviner @of-sanguine-eyes @solivagant-reverie @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @manly-man-whore @indigo123789 @wasa-bby @biggestfangirl @ornateglass @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysbunnny @highhopes1008 @castielscaplan @grumpysunnybarnes @luvyoupxmimi @slutdier @yes-ilovetowrite @cautiouscas17 @astridphantom @delusionalwomsn @cinnamon-girl-writes @wherewinterblooms @stifflyspeedyquirk @sassandscribbles @marvelouslyme96 @stesha02 @floatingvalhallasea @goobers-mcgee @t1redphoenix @vickynguyennn @bluellamacheesecake-blog @serenityrjd @pitabread79 @galaxygoddess30 @biggestfangirl @chenoadouble-o7 @phoenix-in-writing @ceoofdisappointment @wsoldiersgf + to get added to the taglist!

You huff, unwilling and grateful. “Director’s cut.”

“Hit me, baby.” His hand makes steady circles on your back. “I’m all ears.”

You unload. The email that moved the goalposts. The meeting that could’ve been an email. The co-worker who “just had a thought” right after you said the exact same thing. The way your chest felt tight at 3 p.m. for no reason except the thousand tiny reasons stacked under it.

He doesn’t interrupt. He nods in the right places. He goes soft-mouthed and furious in a way that means he’s on your side, not just mad at the air.

 When you finally run out, you expect him to fix it. He doesn’t.

“That sounds exhausting,” he says simply, forehead resting to yours. “No wonder you’re wrung out. I’m proud of you for getting through it.”

You swallow. Something unknots. “Thank you.”

“Always.” He kisses your temple. “Couch. Shoes off. I’m making you tea.”

“You don’t—”

“I know,” he says, already steering you with a palm at the small of your back. “I want to.”

He tucks you into the corner of the couch like you’re the most valuable thing in the room, plucks your shoes off, slides a throw over your legs. The kitchen light clicks on. You hear the kettle, the small domestic music of a spoon against a mug. He returns with chamomile and honey and the good mug—the one with the chip you like—and kneels to hand it to you with two hands like an offering.

“For my queen,” he says, soft and proud.

The steam kisses your face. You take a sip; the honey blooms on your tongue. Bucky moves behind the couch and sets those hands—one cool, one warm—on your shoulders. He doesn’t push. He listens with his thumbs.

“Here?” he asks, kneading lightly at a knot.

You melt. “There.”

“Mm.” His fingers go to work. Slow pressure, careful mapping. He finds the line where tension hooks behind your skull and rubs it until your breath evens out. Then he cards through your hair, scritching lightly at your scalp the way he knows will make your eyes heavy.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, a litany of comfort leaking out in between slow, sure strokes. “You did more than enough today. You don’t have to be anything for me except here. I’m so lucky I get to take care of you. That’s it, baby. Let it go.”

If you were standing, you’d fall over. As it is, you sag back into his hands and the couch makes a contented little creak like it approves.

“You want a warm bath?” he asks your crown. “Epsom salts, the lavender stuff you pretend you don’t like and then steal. I’ll run it. Wait here.”

You nod, boneless. He kisses the top of your head and slips away.

You try to obey. You last nineteen seconds.

He’s in the bathroom when you pad down the hall—sleeves shoved up, faucet purring, steam frosting the mirror. He’s set a towel on the radiator to warm and your favorite candle is already flickering on the counter. He glances up when he hears you and smiles, that private one he saves for you.

“I said wait,” he teases lightly, reaching for the bath oil.

“You don’t have to go above and beyond.” You lean in the doorway, hands tucked in your sleeves. “Really.”

He looks over his shoulder, brow lifting. 

“What do you mean I don’t?” He turns the tap down to a perfect, steady run. “I said, I want to.”

The way he says it—like it’s obvious, like wanting to is enough—lands in your chest and spreads. He tests the water with his metal fingertips, adds a dash more hot, then pours a ribbon of lavender that sends the room to a field at dusk.

“Arms,” he says gently, and when you lift them he peels your day off: cardigan, top, skirt, then the weight of your bag strap that still ghost-hangs from your shoulder. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t reach for more than you give. When you shiver, he takes the warmed towel from the radiator and drapes it around you like a cape.

“Phone,” he prompts. You hand it over; he flips on Do Not Disturb and tucks it in the drawer. “Crime scene handled.”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I am,” he says, smug and soft. He taps the counter. “Jewelry tray.”

You pass him your jewellery; he lines them up in the little dish your aunt gave you, careful as a museum curator. 

Then he tilts his head at your hair.  “May I?”

At your nod, he steps behind you and gently gathers it. He twists a loose bun high on your head, secures it with one of your scrunchies like he’s handling something priceless, then smooths your flyaways with his palm.

“Look at you,” he says to your reflection, sincere and a little awed. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, even on a terrible day.”

You roll your eyes because that is the law, but your mouth betrays you with a smile. He sees it. He always does. He winks and turns back to the tub; the water has climbed into that sweet spot—warm enough to unravel you, not so hot it scolds.

He kills the tap, swirls the bath once with his hand to distribute the heat, then sets a folded washcloth on the rim like he’s setting a table. 

“Okay,” he says, stepping back to make space, “we have: perfect temperature, cozy towel staging area, candle that smells like cinnabon, and a playlist that is ninety percent piano and ten percent songs that make you roll your eyes but secretly relax.”

“Which ones make me roll my eyes?”

“Any that start with ‘acoustic version.’” He grins when you snort. “Come here.”

You let the towel slip, and he looks at you like you’re something he’s allowed to gaze at, not devour. He offers his hands—one warm, one cool—and helps you step in. The water sighs around you; you do, too.

“Too hot?” he checks.

“No, it’s perfect.”

He kneels by the tub, forearms on the porcelain, chin propped on his wrist. Close enough to be there, far enough that you have space to float. 

“Sip,” he says, passing you the mug he somehow thought to bring along; the steam curls up to kiss your face.

You take a drink. The next breath you release feels two pounds lighter.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs. “We’re gonna soak for ten. Then I’m gonna wash your hair, put you in my biggest hoodie and your stupidly soft socks. Then we’re ordering dinner from the place that puts too many sesame seeds on everything you love, and we’re watching that show where everybody stares out windows and says ‘We can’t.’”

“They do more than that.”

“They occasionally kiss dramatically in the rain,” he concedes. “But mostly? Window-staring.”

You bite your smile and sink until the water kisses your collarbones. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm. I’m yours.” He traces a fingertip over the top of your shoulder, a barely-there touch that says I’m here more than any speech could. “And I’m not leaving you alone with your brain tonight.”

You look at him. He looks back like he means every word.

“Thank you,” you say, because it doesn’t cover it and is all you have.

He leans in and presses a kiss to your damp forehead. “You don’t have to thank me for loving you.”

“I know.” You reach, wet fingers curling around his wrist, the cool metal and warm skin both yours. “I just like saying it.”

“Then say it,” he says, smiling. “Say it as many times as you want. Say it while you eat dumplings. Say it while I blow-dry your hair. Say it while you fall asleep on me in the third episode because you always do.”

You laugh, full-bodied now, and the day loosens its grip for good. He watches your shoulders drop, watches your face soften, and you can feel the satisfaction roll off him like sunlight.

He stands, squeezes your hand, and starts for the door. “I’ll grab the hoodie and the socks,” he says over his shoulder. “And the remote, so I can pretend I’m not gonna give it to you.”

“Bucky.”

He pauses. “Yeah, baby?”

“Can you… join me instead?”

His smile tilts—soft and a little dazzled. 

“You want me to join you? Of course.” He toes off his sweats, peels his top over his head, and in two unhurried motions he’s bare and beautiful in the lamplight. “Scoot, my love.”

You slide forward through the lavender water; he steps in behind you and sinks with a pleased exhale, long legs bracketing your hips. Heat and him close around you like a second bath. His chest warms your back; the cool kiss of vibranium settles at your waist, anchoring.

“Hi,” he murmurs against your temple, like it’s the best word he knows.

“Hi,” you breathe, already melting.

“Turn for me.” He lifts your hair, fingertips reverent. “Let me take care of you.”

You tip your head forward. He finds your scrunchie and eases it free, letting your hair spill into his palms. He reaches for the cup on the tub ledge and pours a slow ribbon of warm water from crown to nape. It runs over your scalp, your neck, your shoulders; his thumb follows the path in lazy circles.

“Pressure okay?” he asks.

“Mmm—perfect.”

“Good.” He works a little shampoo into his hands, then into your hair, massaging with careful, hypnotic strokes—temples, behind your ears, the base of your skull where all the day’s sharp edges hide. 

Your eyes flutter. The world narrows to the rhythm of his fingers and the steady rise and fall of his breathing at your back.

“Want me to make you forget your day?” he whispers, all praise and promise. “Can I make you feel good, my love?”

“Yes,” you sigh, boneless.

“Good, now lean onto me.” 

He tips a cup of warm water over your crown, shielding your eyes with his palm while he rinses you clean. The lavender slips away; his touch doesn’t. Those hands map lower—slow, reverent passes down your neck, along your collarbones—thumbs drawing lazy circles at the dip of your sternum. He hums like he likes the way your heartbeat stutters under his fingers.

“Just relax,” he murmurs. “That’s it, baby.”

His flesh hand glides over your chest, cupping you with tenderness that turns your ribs to honey. He teases, feather-light at first—fingers skimming, circling, learning the way you arch into the touch—then a gentle roll of his thumb that has your breath catching. 

“So responsive,” he praises, voice a low current in your ear. “Look at you, my love. Such a good girl for me.”

The cool band of vibranium anchors you at your waist while his warm palm coasts down your belly, lower—patient, sure—until his fingers slip between your thighs. He finds heat and slick and groans softly against your temple like he’s the one being touched. 

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, circling your clit with slow, perfect pressure. “Let me have it. Give me every bit of that tension. I’ve got you.”

Your head tips back to his shoulder; he follows the line of your throat with his mouth, dropping kisses like breadcrumbs—tender, claiming—while his hands work in tandem: one coaxing soft, aching sparks over your nipple, the other stroking you in tight, pressured rhythms below.

“You’re doing so well,” he breathes, pace unhurried and coaxing. “Such pretty sounds. You feel how easy you open for me? Mmm. Take what you need.”

“Bucky—” it escapes you, a small, helpless plea that makes his jaw flex against your cheek.

“Right here,” he promises, tightening the arm at your middle to hold you when your knees go warm. “Do you want more pressure? Want me to for faster, Mm?”

“Please.”

He gives it to you—just enough—and you shiver, hips answering for you under the water. He smiles against your skin, proud and a little wrecked. 

“Let me draw it out of you. Let me replace every bad minute with this.”

His fingers circles faster but keeps you exactly where the heat crests and curls, praising you in that low, sinful voice that melts your bones. 

“You deserve to be worshiped after a day like that. Can you feel it building?" Your fingers clutch his forearm; he groans at the cling, at the trust, at the way you anchor yourself to him like he’s the only solid thing left in the room. "Uh-huh, I know. I know.”

A helpless sound catches in your throat. His fingers keep the rhythm—patient, coaxing—until your knees go loose and the tub cradles you both.

“Should I put a finger in?” he asks, voice low, checking your eyes even though your body’s already begging.

You nod, breath hitching. “Please.”

“Yeah?” His smile tilts, tender and a little wicked. “Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, my love? Tell me what you need.”

“Need. . . Your fingers,” you whisper. “Fill me….”

“As you wish,” he breathes, and does exactly that—one thick finger sliding in, warm and sure, knuckle by careful knuckle. He waits, letting you melt around him, then curls. Electricity skates through your belly. Your free hand finds the back of his neck; you pull him closer, mewling into his jaw as his thumb draws tight, merciless circles over your clit.

“That’s it,” he praises, voice going husky. “Hold on to me. Use me. I'm right here.”

He strokes again, precise and . Your hips answer on instinct, a small roll that drives him deeper. He groans softly, forehead tipping to your temple. “So sweet for me. So soft. You’re squeezing my finger like you never want to let go.”

“More,” you breathe, trembling. “I can take more.”

“Anything for you, baby.” He eases his middle finger out just a hair, slicks it with your heat, and slides his ring finger in beside it—slow, careful, praising against your ear. 

“There you go… open for me… good girl.” Both fingers seat to the hilt; you gasp, nails biting the nape of his neck. He stills, gives you one heartbeat, two, then curls both in tandem and finds the spot that makes your vision spark.

Your head falls back to his shoulder; a wrecked moan spills out before you can catch it. He hums approvingly and keeps working that angle—steady, toe-curling pulls, thumb never breaking rhythm.

“Oh baby, you sound so beautiful.” He feels your answer shiver through you. “Right there. Feel it… let it roll through you. You’re doing so well.”

Water laps the porcelain, lavender steam rising while he plays you with unhurried skill. 

The cool arc of vibranium bands your waist; his warm chest cages your back. You’re strung tight between them, every nerve tuned to the slick slide of his fingers and the low river of his voice.

“Listen to yourself,” he murmurs, kissing the hinge of your jaw. “That pretty little whimper—music to me. Give me more. Give me everything.”

You do, helpless and greedy, rolling into his palm. He answers by tightening the circles of his thumb, by scissoring the slightest bit and then curling again, relentless and sure until your thighs start to shake under the water.

“Bucky—” your voice breaks, “you feel so good.”

“Yeah?,” he chuckles, pace tightening. “Let go for me. I’m right here. Fall, baby—I’ll catch you.”

The edge pulls taut—bright, inevitable. He curls just once more, thumb pressing perfect, and the world snaps. Heat bursts low and fast; you clamp around his fingers, shuddering, breath snagging on a fractured cry as he murmurs through it:

“Good girl… that’s it… give it to me… so beautiful… I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

He keeps moving you gently—lighter strokes, reverent circles—working the aftershocks until the tremble becomes a lazy ripple and your whole body goes molten against him. He kisses your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, smiling when you chase the last one.

“Hi,” he whispers, thumb stroking slow at your hip. “You with me?”

You nod, boneless, fingers still looped around his neck. “Y-yeah.”

Your fingers still looped at his nape, you shift to face him—slick, giggly—and your knee slipped on the porcelain. Water sloshes; you both laugh, breathless and bright.

“Are you okay?” Bucky braces you instantly, big hands steadying your waist.

“I’m okay,” you grin, climbing into his lap and kissing him like the relief of a long day breaking—deep, hungry, grateful. Your hand slides down, stroking his thick length under the water until his breath hitches against your mouth.

“Baby…” he groans, forehead tipping to yours as you guide him. “Easy. Take your time.”

“I’ve got it,” you whisper, lining the thick crown to your entrance. You breathe, sink—slow, thick inches—until you’re seated all the way and both of you swear into the steam.

“God, my love,” he rasps, palms spreading over your hips to hold you there, not forcing, just anchoring. “So warm. You feel like heaven.”

Water laps the rim in soft waves as you start to move—small, rolling circles that grind you down on him. His head falls back; his jaw flexes; then he’s looking at you again like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense. One hand drifts to your lower belly, splayed to feel the depth of him; the other slips between you, thumb finding your clit with that patient, perfect pressure.

“That’s it,” he praises, low and wrecked. “Ride me, baby. Let me see you feel good. You deserve every bit of it.”

You take what he offers—pace unhurried, greedy, wet sounds turning the tiny room into something holy. He meets your mouth between breaths—kisses that land on a sigh, on a moan, on your name. 

When your rhythm stutters, he bucks up—once, hard—and your breath breaks against his mouth. 

“Faster,” you whisper, fingers curling at his shoulders. “Please.”

“Yeah, baby.” His hands lock your hips and he drives up to meet you, turning those slow, rolling circles into a slick, urgent bounce that sends water sloshing in greedy sheets over the rim. The tub rocks; the candlelight jumps. He keeps his thumb steady on your clit, tightening pressure just a breath with every snap of his hips.

“Just like that,” he grits, eyes on your face like he’s memorizing each stutter, each gasp. “You look so beautiful riding my cock. Take it—all of it.” 

You do, chasing the pace he sets, thighs burning, breath gone ragged as the rhythm sharpens—up, down, grind—until you’re helplessly meeting him, matching him, losing track of where you end and he begins.

“Bucky—” Your voice pitches high; his palm slides to your lower back, arching you into the angle that ruins you.

“I’ve got you,” he rasps, fucking up into you harder, deeper, water spilling warm around your hips. “Come on, my love, that’s it—come for me.”

It hits—fast, white, toe-curling. You clamp around him and keen into his mouth; he swears, breaks, and follows with a guttural sound, holding you down while his seeds pulses deep, thumb still soft on your clit to milk every last tremor.

You collapse against him, both of you laughing breathlessly when another wave slaps over the edge. He strokes your spine, kissing your temple, then your smile. 

“Worth the cleanup,” he murmurs, smug and tender.

“Totally,” you pant, nosing his jaw.

“Stay,” he says, easing you down until you’re draped along his chest, still joined, water lapping gentler now. “Catch your breath. Then I’m wrapping you in a towel and carrying you to the bed like the princess you are.”

“Bossy,” you tease, eyes half-closed.

“Devoted,” he corrects, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead, thumb idly tracing your hip as your pulse settles. “And completely yours.”

TAGS:

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¹ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴᴀʀʏ/ᴍᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱ. Bucky's been around long enough to respect the classics. There's nothing better than watching your face as he slowly slips between your legs, his cock filling you one delicious inch at a time. The way your eyes widen, your breath hitches, the dizzying look that turns your gaze hazy as he slides home until he bottoms out completely. He takes his time, letting you get all stretched out before he takes his pleasure for himself. Sometimes, he bends you into a fold, legs over him, every inch of your skin on his as he drives into you with every intention to fill you up. And maybe one day, he'll make it stick.

² ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʟʟ. He knows you get turned on by how strong he is, so sometimes, he sets out to prove it. He'll hold you off the ground with just his metal arm, his cock buried deep inside your weeping cunt, your legs wrapped around his waist, feet hooked against his muscular ass. His other hand is on your face, a soft ghost of his touch, directly contrasting the relentless force of him fucking you. Just so you remember his love. And sure, sometimes you won't make it to the bedroom, and he has to improvise. Either way, every surface of your apartment is christened.

³ ᴄᴏᴡɢɪʀʟ. Bucky has seen decades worth of fine art (and maybe stolen a few pieces along the way, as the soldat), but you're his favorite sight in the world. The bounce of your tits, the way your belly bulges as he slides in and out of your pussy. The way he can see himself deep inside you as you ride him. He loves watching you grind desperately on his cock until you come so hard you can't ride anymore. He likes taking over, taking care of you, all while devouring the sight of you, sweaty, blissed out, and his.

⁴ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ʟᴀᴘ. Often, the safest place in the world for both of you is in each other's arms. Sometimes you're pulled off in an alley somewhere, riding him on top of his motorcycle, bodies pressed together, chest to chest. Other times, you find him in his office, or a conference room after a mission, or sitting in a chair staring out of the city. His cock inside of you, buried in your plush pussy, just keeping warm, holding him everywhere. A lazy roll of your hips. A song between your bodies, face to face, chest to chest. Until the darkness fades.

⁵ ꜱᴘᴏᴏɴɪɴɢ. With his stamina and the fact that he wakes up beside you, Bucky can't help himself. He starts his day desperately wanting you. It's so easy to pull your panties down or shove them aside, so he can slip right inside you as he holds you tightly. It's your favorite way to start the day. Or, after a difficult mission where you're both so exhausted you can't move, it's the easiest way to make love, to find a haven in each other. And it feels just as good.

His actions are severely different from his cock disappearing in and out of you. He’s pressing kisses along your sweat-slick skin. He’s completely supported by his arms, they’re not shaking, he’s not struggling to hold himself up as he fucks you.

“Jus’ such a pretty girl. So beautiful. Look better when you’re in my bed.” He teases as his tip kisses your cervix over and over again. Your cunt is sensitive and overstimulated from your two previous orgasms, only allowing him to hit deeper inside if you.

You moan beneath him as your phone vibrates and buzzes repeatedly on Bucky’s side table beside the bed.

Bucky grunts as he hears yet another vibration and he stops abruptly.

“Can’t blame him, sweetheart. If I lost this I’d be pissed too.” He laughs, but it’s tight and frustrated.

Your ringtone begins to play, the fucker is seriously calling you right now. Bucky grins sadistically as he recognizes the tune, he looks at you, silently asking for permission. When you nod, it’s game over.

He grabs your phone, pressing it to your ear as he answers.

“Why the fuck aren’t you answering my texts? You’re supposed to be my girl!” You hear your boyfriend angrily yell into the phone. Bucky grins down at you as he slowly begins to thrust again, pulling a low whimper from you that has you glaring at Bucky.

“Yeah, well, you lost her. She’s mine now. Stop callin’, we’re clearly in the middle of somethin’.” He grunted as his thrusts increased, a hand flew to your mouth to muffle your moans beneath him, earning a grin from Bucky.

“What? Who is thi—wait… is this Bucky? The Bucky that’s been goin’ after my girl?” Your ex puzzled together, making Bucky laugh as his other hand trailed over your chest, squeezing your breasts with a playful wink.

“The Bucky that’s got ‘your’ girl.” He corrected with a grunt as he pounded into you. The sound of skin slapping skin only grew louder and you wondered how long it would be before your ex realized.

“Just…just give her the damn phone!” Your ex mumbled angrily. Bucky laughed before looking down at you, hand covering your mouth, biting on it to suppress your moans.

“Not sure she can talk right now, she’s a little… busy.” Bucky hummed suggestively. Your ex began to spew curses and insults at Bucky as he fucked you. He leaned down, sucking on your nipple as your ex rambled on in his ear.

“—And that metal arm? Tacky! I can’t believe she would replace me with some—“ His words are drowned out by the noises of your pleasure. Bucky hums against your skin before pulling away with a grunt.

”Unless you want to hear her fuckin’ moan my name, it’s best to hang up.” Bucky rumbles into the phone. Your ex grows silent before he hangs up, Bucky grunts as he sets your phone back down and you finally uncover your mouth.

“T-thanks.” You whimper as his cock is grazing that spot. You moan and writhe beneath him, head buried in his pillow as your pussy clenched around his erection, coaxing another orgasm out of you.

“‘Course, doll. If he calls again, don’t cover your mouth.” He mumbles and that sends you over the edge.

You moan his name, panting as you give him another orgasm. This time, he’s comping with you. When you clamp down around him, he can’t hold back. He practically growls as he comes with you. His breathing labored. He collapses beside you, breathing in the scent of your shampoo as you both relish in the silence for a moment.

“I love you too, James.” You mumble, the weight of your previous orgasm collapsing on you as you drift off to bed. Bucky peels away, grabbing a warm wash cloth and dabbing along your messy thighs, cleaning you up. He kisses you as you lull to sleep.

The next morning, you wake up with Bucky’s arm around you, holding you firmly in place against his chest.

He’s snoring softly which makes you chuckle. You grab your phone, seeing at least twenty new messages from your ex.

You sign and set your phone back down. You really don’t feel like dealing with that today. You slowly peel away from Bucky’s grip, naturally awakening the super soldier.

“Sweetheart.” He rumbles, his sleepy voice making you stop in your trails. He sits up with a smile. Bucky has never been a morning person, but waking up next to you was so worth it.

“Shh, go back to bed.” You murmur with a cheeky grin. Bucky rolls his eyes, standing and following you on your feet. Your headed for his shower, and he’s right behind you.

“Please, doll. Can’t without you.” He rolls his eyes, hands gripping your waist and pulling you back against him. He’s insatiable. His morning wood pressed against your ass. You groan sarcastically, making Bucky chuckle.

“Buck.” You whine in complaint. Bucky hums, walking you forward to the shower. He turns on the water for you, noticing how shaky your legs are, making him laugh knowingly.

“Shut it.” You snap. He puts up his hands defensively, a grin wide across his face. The two of you step into the shower, the warm water cascading around you as he cradles your body against him.

Comfortable silence falls over the two of you as he ‘helps’ you wash your body, his cock pulsing with every drag of the loofa against your skin.

“Lemme take you out, doll.” He murmurs gently as his hands come to rest on your soapy stomach from behind you. You hum, blush spreading across your cheeks.

“Make you mine, for real. Not just fuck this pretty body.” He laughs, making you giggle as you turn around in his hold and smack him playfully on his shoulder.

“What makes you think I want to go out? I just got cheated on by my long-term, committed, relationship.” You laugh, your words clearly playful and sarcastic. Bucky rolls his eyes and scoffs playfully.

“Seemed like you wanted to go out when ya’ let me fuck you with your ‘long-term’ boyfriend on the phone.” Bucky laughed, your face flushed as you gasped, making him laugh. He turns you around, pressing you against the cool tile of the shower.

“Dinner then. Tomorrow. I’ll come by and pick you up.” Bucky insisted with a grin as he nipped on your shoulder, making you shudder against him.

“I’ll think about it.” You grin as he lines himself up again.

—————————————————————

Bucky was obsessed with you. From your head to your toe. You showed so much hospitality. You didn’t treat him like a failed experiment, or a killer, or a broken object, or a frightened animal, nor did you walk on eggshells around him as if he could strike at any moment.

You treated him like a friend.

He wanted to be more than that, but he’d never say it.

Plus, you had a boyfriend.

And it infuriated him. You were under appreciated. In his mind, anyone who wasn’t him would under appreciate you.

But he also felt like he didn’t deserve you. He was a conflicted man. Constantly second guessing himself. Except when he was with you, he was decisive. He wanted you. That never changed. Never wavered.

Stark’s personal assistant. Therefore, all of the avengers personal assistant. You had grown really close with Bucky, but you appreciated all the avengers just the same.

Stark had complained that Bucky had been ‘non-descriptive’ in his report regarding his latest solo mission. Meaning, you had to go fetch Bucky and make him fix it. Only problem was Bucky was working out in the towers’ gym. And you questioned all loyalty to your boyfriend when you saw Bucky working out.

“James!” You called as you entered the gym. You were the only one allowed to call him that, and it made his cock twitch.

Your eyes canned over the weight room. Sam and Steve sparring, Natasha stretching before her workout, a few S.H.I.E.L.D. agents here and there lifting weights, then, there’s Bucky.

He’s marvelous. Sweat dripping down his body, biceps bulging as he benches, metal arm glistening in the light, face barely contorted as if he’s not struggling. He’s currently benching 3 plates (315 pounds). It’s just his warmup weight. And it does something to you. His warm up weight is more than you. He’s not even struggling. Your boyfriend can’t lift you up. Can’t throw you around like you weight nothing. But Bucky can.

He grins when he sees you, getting in one more rep before he racks the bar. He sits up on the bench, his head motioning you to come over.

He’s just as affected by you as you are by him. And you have no clue.

“Hey, doll. What’s goin’ on?” He drawls, his voice a bit ragged. You blush with a kind smile. Bucky was a charmer. And he was kind to you. Respectful. A gentlemen.

“Mr. Stark says your report was inconclusive. He wants you to add more detail to the battle and the outcome.” You remark professional. His eyes drop and he curses under his breath. Bucky in his gym clothes, working out, looking like a greek god, and all you wanted from him was a damn report?

“C’mon, sweetheart, you could at least add some sugar f’me.” He grinned as he looked back up at you, gently taking the paper into his hands as he read over it.

“Right. Let me rephrase.” You clear your throat, ridding of your ‘professional’ voice that Bucky acted like he hated, but secretly found so sexy. “Tony wants you to add more to your report, Buck. Can you do that f’me?” You repeated in a sweet, less professional tone. You let your words slur sloppily. Like a real person.

Bucky grinned and nodded as he tossed the page beside his water bottle. He stood abruptly, towering over you as he moved to go add more weight to the bar.

He added another plate on both sides (405 pounds), and you swore you were gonna lose it if you watched him. You found your mind slipping. Your boyfriend starting to drift into forgetfulness. You knew you had to get out of there before you were licking the sweat off of his arms.

“Yeah, doll, I’ll handle it.” He winked with a cheeky grin as he slid back onto the bench, getting himself back into position to bench press the weight. You watched for a moment before you realized you really needed to get out of there.

So you did, after one final look of Bucky tossing around twice as much as your weight with no struggle, you left the gym with an undeniably flutter in your heart that you desperately tried to ignore.

It was wrong, you thought. You had a boyfriend. Bucky could have anyone he wanted. This was just a silly, school-girl crush. Or at least, that’s what you thought.

—————————————————————

“You know Bucky likes you, right?” Natasha inquired. She truly didn’t know if you were that clueless or not. Turns out, you were.

“What? No he doesn’t, Nat.” You laughed, as if she was playing some cruel joke on you. People had tried to tell you before that he liked you, but you never listened.

Your mind played sick tricks on you. Bucky could have anyone girl he wanted, why would he want you?

“—Plus, even if it’s true. I have a boyfriend.” You reminded, earning a playful groan from Natasha. It seems no one really liked your boyfriend along the tower.

“I’m serious! I heard him and Steve talkin’ about it. I dunno, ‘doll’, seems like he could have the ‘hots’ for you.” Natasha implied. You rolled your eyes. Truly, she was persistent and relentless. That was nice. You still didn’t believe her, but the effort was there.

“You’re ridiculous.” You’d laugh. Though you didn’t know if you were talking to yourself, or Natasha.

—————————————————————

Weeks gone by since that little encounter with Natasha. You and Bucky remained normal, close friends, professional. Even if he would call you little names, and even if you would giggle and smack his shoulder when he said something too flirty.

Bucky was a charmer. You reminded yourself. Steve constantly teased him about the 40’s, how every woman left satisfied after a night with Bucky Barnes.

You figured, it was nice to let him flirt with you. Even if you didn’t reciprocate too much. It helped build his confidence. You thought. You’re being a good friend. You reminded.

Bucky wanted you so bad it hurt. At every turn, he was reminded he couldn’t have you. That so other asshole could. He would never get to hear you laugh intimately, or take you out, or have you writhing beneath him as he worships every—

“You got it bad, Buck.” Steve sighed as he sat down by his friend. Bucky didn’t deny it. Didn’t grow defensive. Didn’t push away his friend and fire back with his own remark. He just bowed his head into his hands with a groan.

“I know.” Was all he could say. Everyday you stayed on his mind. I bet she would like these flowers. Bucky would think as he passed by a local shop. I bet she would kiss every damn scar. Bucky would think as he looked over his ruined body in the mirror. His brain constantly taunted him with the thoughts of what you might be like.

“What are you gonna do?” Steve murmured. They had just gotten back from a mission, sitting together as they flew back to Stark’s Tower.

“I don’t know.” Bucky sighed, lifting his head to finally meet Steve’s gaze. Nothing but empathy. Steve had been there before. When he was scrawny, and no girl would even look his way.

But Bucky wasn’t scrawny. Girls looked his way all the time. Why couldn’t he just get over you? In all honesty, he didn’t want to. You were one of the best people he had ever met, and he didn’t want to let you go.

“James! You’re back.” You beamed as you saw him enter the tower. Snacks all in your hands. You were restocking the fridge for everyone again. So thoughtful. So kind.

“Hey, gorgeous, you need some help?” He asked, even as he was already grabbing all the grocery bags off your arms without responding. You laughed as he took them, a big lopsided grin as his face as you two walked together.

Steve sent him a look. Bucky ignored him.

“Yeah, thanks, Buck.” You smiled. Christ. Your smile. So bright, and genuine, and beautiful. It was his favorite thing to see on your face. He smiled back. Something soft, genuine, but gentle.

“No problem, sweets. Can’t believe no one came n’ helped ya sooner.” He grinned. Ever the tease. The charm. The flirt. His Brooklyn accent was enough to make your head spin. It was so effortlessly him. Nothing mechanic, or programmed.

“What do you got planned this week?” Bucky indulged in small talk. He hated small talk. Unless it was with you. He set the groceries down, handling it himself as you chatted his ear off.

“Oh! I gotta do the dry cleaning for the tower, arrange a few meetings for Tony, and…” You drawled out the word. You didn’t like telling Bucky about things between you and your boyfriend. You didn’t like to involve him in that.

“—got a big dinner planned on Saturday with my boyfriend.” You finished. Bucky stiffened but he didn’t miss a beat. He didn’t want you to know how much he hated the thought of you with someone else.

So he plastered a fake grin, not the soft one he held earlier. His teeth were gritted. His jaw clenched as he finished unloading the groceries.

“That’s nice, doll. Real nice.” He gritted out, maintaining every inch of composure he could muster. He didn’t wait for a response, he just turned and left. You quirked a brow. Bucky didn’t ever leave a room with you first. Really, never. You always initiated the ‘goodbye’.

“Uh, okay, bye!” You called after him, utterly confused on what his deal was. Steve glanced at him knowingly as he stormed by, beelining straight for his room within the tower.

————————————————————

Saturday was a nightmare.

Firstly, you had no clue what to wear. Everything you put on made you feel horrendous about yourself. Sometimes the fabric would grip your stomach pudge, sometimes your stretch marks were showing, sometimes your thighs looked gigantic and you felt simply terrible.

Finally, you find the perfect dress. It’s black and sparkly. It highlights your curves, not your flaws (what you think are flaws), and pairs perfectly with your matching strap heels and purse. Your body looks fantastic and you feel like you can finally breathe again. You take at least five spins in the mirror (yes, your butt looks good too), and when you finally decided you’ve twirled enough you head to the fancy restaurant.

You take a seat at your reserved table, excitement tumbling out of you. You can only picture your boyfriend’s reaction to how good you look. Maybe he’ll drop to his knees, maybe he’ll kiss you so hard your breath is stolen, maybe he’ll even pay the full bill. What a dream.

You’re a drop-dead, beautiful goddess. And your boyfriend is… late. Not even late. He doesn’t show.

You’ve been stood up. You call him, text him, and you get no response. You check his location. It’s off.

You’re not scared, you don’t think he’s ‘hurt’ or bleeding out in an alley. You think he’s cheating.

You don’t think, you know. It’s a gut-feeling. An instinct. You’re certain you’re right. That’s when you receive the picture.

You don’t recognize the number, it’s unsaved. It’s a photo of some girl sucking your boyfriend off. All she sends along with it is two winking emojis. You’re pissed.

You spent the better half of two hours doing your makeup, finding the perfect dress, choosing the right heals and bag… You’ve been waiting at the restaurant for an hour.

You storm out furiously. No waiters or servers try to stop you, you’re headed straight for Stark Tower with a clenched jaw and gritted teeth. You slam your car door shut and storm into the elevator. You hit the button for Bucky’s floor. Tears start brimming in the corner of your eyes before you’re brushing them back.

You’re angry. Pissed. A little relived. You get an excuse to go sleep with Bucky. You’re not insecure. You don’t fear he might not want you. You just want to teach that asshole a lesson. And you want it to be Bucky. Because your boyfriend hates Bucky.

You knock on the door once. Twice. He answers. “Sam, what the hel—“ He begins to chastise, then he sees you. You’re gorgeous. Your dress clings to every curve. Your ass, your breasts, your thick thighs… He could bust right now. He can even see the highlight of your stomach pudge poking out and it turns him on.

He liked his women bigger. He hated the 40’s. Everyone following the same beauty standards, trying to all be as thin as paper. He loved that you were womanly. With a womanly figure. It takes him a second to realize how mad you are and how you’re pushing past him into his apartment. Your eyes were glassy, he notices.

“Oh, fuck, sweetheart.” He sighs. He shuts the door and is pulling you into one of his—much needed—bear hugs. His large hands cradle the back of your head, pressing you against his hard chest. He’s beefy. You can feel his muscles pressing against you. “What happened, doll?” He murmurs. His voice so soft it could lull a baby to sleep.

You take a few deep breaths to collect yourself. The tears finally stop flooding and you lift your head off his chest.

“I-I got all dressed up, got to the restaurant and just sat there. Alone. For an hour.” You sniffled. Bucky nodded, his gentle blue eyes peering into yours, wordlessly coaxing more information out of you.

“He stood me up! I texted, I called, he didn’t answer. Then I get this!” You exclaim, your voice cracking as you showing Bucky the message the girl sent you. Bucky repulses. He’s… small. He wants to laugh, but he knows better right about now.

“—I even did a full body shave, Buck. Thinkin’ maybe, just maybe, he’d want to finally fuck me when he saw me lookin’ s’good.” You complained. Bucky nodded along, criticizing himself mentally for the way his cock twitched and his eyes darkened at your words.

“Listen to me, sweetheart. Any man that wouldn’t want to fuck you, at all. Is a fool. And an ass.” Bucky grunted. His large hands gripped your waist, pulling your curves flush against him. He tried to ignore how good your hips felt under his hands.

Just comfort her, Bucky. His brain would remind. Don’t be a horny asshole right now. He shamed himself.

“You are the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen. Y’hear me? I’m sorry he did that, baby. Shoulda’ called me. Woulda’ came n’ ate with you. Showered you in compliments.” He murmured so sweetly your chest ached.

“I just want you to make me feel better, Buck.” Your voice dropped, suggesting at something much more than a friend comforting a friend.

Bucky stiffened. His eyes blown with lust. His hands gripping your hips tightly.

“Plus… I need a picture to send back.”

That’s how Bucky got you undressed and was trying to convince you to ride his face.

“C’mon, doll. What a better way to get back at ‘em than to sit on my face?” He teased playfully. He was still dress at the center of the bed, now propped up on two elbows as he saw your hesitation.

“Need help, baby?” He purred as he saw you begin to undo the straps to your heels. You nodded with a little pout. He grinned as patted his thigh, prompting you to put your foot there, in which you did.

He slowly began to undo the strap to your heels, gazing up at you lovingly as he planted little kisses along your ankles.

“Even painted ya’ toes, huh?” He teased playfully, watching as you erupted into a fit of laughter. He loved your laugh. It had to be one of the best sounds heaven could bring to him.

“Oh, shut up.” You giggled as he finally peeled off your heels, leaving you completely bare. He practically scrambled back to his position on the bed as he awaited you charmingly.

“Please, sweetheart? Just wanna live between those pretty thighs of yours.” He pleaded. You whimpered at his words. Slowly, hesitantly, you crawled onto the bed, up his body.

“Jus’ smother me in your pretty cunt, please?” He murmured. That did it. You stubbornly climb your way up his body till your dripping cunt was approaching his mouth and he groaned.

“Jesus Christ, baby.” He breathed at the sight of your soaked pussy. Gorgeous. Undeniably mouth-watering. He was so ready to drown in you.

“You’re gonna tell me if you can’t breathe, right? Don’t wanna crush you.” You murmur, whining as his breath ghosted over your cunt. You’re dripping over his chin, and you’re worried about suffocating him?

“No, i’m not, doll. Just gonna sit there and take it. Like I should.” He rasped. You can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not. You’re sure he’s serious. Because he is. He would gladly die between your legs.

You’re hesitant as you adjust on top of him. You don’t want to hurt Bucky, really.

“C’mon, baby, just sit on my fuckin’ face ‘fore I make you.” He huffs as your thighs shake on either side of his head, desperately trying not to clamp down on his head.

Before you can protest, he’s pushing you down onto his awaiting mouth.

“James, I—ahh!” You moan as his tongue connects with your dripping sex. He cut you off expertly, grinning against you smugly as he begins to suckle on your clit.

You’re a moaning, whimpering, mess.

Your hands fly to his hair, entangling in the brown locks.

When your thighs tighten around his head, he groans and his hips buck upward to meet nothing, only causing another groan to spill from his lips.

“Fuck me.” He gasps as he pulls off your cunt, his lips glistening and chin wet with your slick. He could bust right now, your cunt is that sweet. It’s enough to get him off. “Let’s get me picture-perfect first, sweetheart. Not sure i’m gonna last any longer like this.” He grins charmingly. You chew down on your bottom lip as you grab your phone, fingers trembling.

“Alright, c’mon Bucky, pose.” You tease playfully as Bucky laughs.

His large hands are on your thighs, prying you open for him, his mouth is enveloping your cunt hungrily, his nose bumping against your clit, his hair is a bit messy in all the best ways, and his eyes, that’s what makes the picture. His eyes are piercing, hooded, dark. Eyebrows stern and you shudder at the picture.

The picture is perfect. In every entity of the word. It captures everything about Bucky. His desire is easy to spot. You send it back to the number, then to your boyfriend for good measures.

He eagerly gets back to work when you’re satisfied with the photo. “Go ahead n’ send it to me too, doll.” He grins as he delves back in your cunt. His nose bumps your cunt and you moan whorishly. It’s wanton and It makes him groan against you.

When he redoubles his efforts, you’re practically bucking against his face. He’s grunting and gasping against your cunt, unable to contain himself as his cock is throbbing and thrusting against the confines of his pants.

He groans quietly, each delicious drag of his lips and tongue making you shudder. He holds you down on him, face buried in your pussy. He sucks gently on your clit, then circles it with his tongue, only to trail down and flutter it against your throbbing cunt.

You gasp as your back arches and you roll your hips. Your stomach coils and your thighs tense. Bucky groans softly as you ride his face, grinding and dragging your cunt over his tongue. He grips your hips tightly and guides your motion, controlling your pace.

“S’beautiful, baby, could die happily between these thighs.” He rasps. You’re so close to coming it’s intoxicating. You’re chasing your high with vigorous need. Your hips buck just right and hit his tongue and nose at the perfect spot.

“Fuck, James!” You cry as you squirm and convulse on his tongue. He doesn’t waste a single drop of your sweet cum. He’s lapping it up eagerly and filthy slurping at your cunt. You’re whining as he finally releases you from his iron-grip.

He pulls back and his cunt and mouth are dripping with your essence. He presses sweet little kisses to your thighs that surround his head. He adores how thick they are, lavishing your stretch marks in worshipping attention.

“Thought I was gonna cream my pants, sweetheart. That’s how good your cunt is.” He mumbles against your thighs as his own lips trail down your body. He nips at your skin hungrily. He needs more.

Your hands rest on his chest, holding yourself up with a whine as he teased you.

Bucky adores having your weight on top of him. He would flip you around, give you the fucking you deserve, but he wants you to ride him, first. He wants to feel your weight on top of him before he truly fucks you.

“Gonna give me another, doll? Jus’ want you to ride me, yeah? S’not hard. I’ll help you.” He murmurs pleadingly. You don’t have to time to protest before he’s gripping you by your hips and lifting you up and off his face to his own hips.

The breath is knocked out of your lungs. He’s not struggling. He’s not flaunting his strength or flexing. He just effortlessly lifted you, all arms, and sat you above the tent of his pants.

It makes a whole new wave of arousal wash over you, and it shows on his pants. He glances down at the wet patch with a predatory grin that says everything you need to know.

He’s figured you out.

You don’t give them the time to tease you because your grinding your wet cunt against the crotch of his pants, making him groan and glare at you.

“Doll.” He warns. You shush him playfully as you continue to shamelessly grind yourself against the dent in his pants.

His metal armed grips your hips, the cool metal clashing against your warm skin. It’s pleasant and welcomed. You whine, not sure if you’re teasing him or yourself at this point.

“How ‘bout you have the real thing, sweetheart?” He murmurs and before you know it, he’s lifting you off his crotch and unfastening his belt. He tugs down his pants as you pull off his shirt, revealing him to your eyes.

He’s magnificent, of course. There’s scars and gashes along his torso, only serving to make him more sexy in your opinion.

You lean down, pressing a kiss to one of his larger scars along his stomach. He suppresses a whine from under you. He knew you would kiss his scars.

“You’re so handsome.” You smile as you press another lingering kiss. Bucky could stay like this for hours, but he needs you.

“Stop teasin’.” He huffs, even with his dopey grin on full display. You laugh softly as you crawl down his body.

Your hands dip beneath his waistband, still a tease as you slowly, agonizingly, tug the material down his body. His cock eagerly slaps up against his stomach when it’s freed from his boxers.

Despite how his hands are twitching at his sides, Bucky lets you set the pace. He wants you too feel worshipped. Pretty, admired, adored, everything that asshole ex of yours couldn’t do. Wants to prove why he’s better.

Firstly, his cock is a lot bigger. It’s an undeniable fact. He’s thick and long, a vein running down the base to make you shiver.

Slowly, teasingly, you sink onto his cock. He hisses, head rolling back into the pillow. His hands fly to your hips, guiding you as you take his cock.

The stretch is immense. You whimper as you sink onto him, panting.

“Oh, fuck,” You breathed. Bucky cursed beneath you as you set a slow, torturous, pace. Every roll of your hips was euphoric. Bucky was fighting every single nerve inside of his body to just pick you up and slam you back down on his dick, setting a new pace.

“feels s’good.” You slur as you pick up the pace. It’s not enough for him. He’s filling you up. He can see himself in your tummy as he rests two hands under his head, propping him up slightly.

After a few more rolls of his hips, he really can’t take it anymore.

Honestly, you’re surprised he lasted this long.

“Jus’ sit there and take it, baby. Lemme help.” He murmurs as he picks you up and slams you back down on his dick. He sets a brutal pace, fucking up into you as you bounce on top of him.

You moan and whine as he finally slowly back down. His tempo is maddening. One second he’s manhandling you up and down him, the next he’s gazing up into you lovingly as you rock back and forth.

It’s amazing.

“B-buck, James, fuck.” You babble. One hand slides up you body, thumbing at your nipples and cupping your heavy chest. You moan softly for him. So sweetly, his own personal choir.

“Yeah, I know, doll.” He grins smugly as you roll your eyes. He sets his faster pace back into action, making your eyes roll in a different kind of way.

You whine as his hand leaves your chest to play with your clit. You’re positive you won’t last any longer, Bucky knows. He can feel you. He knows it’s just a matter of time.

His thumbs laps lazily at your clit as he bounces you on top of him. Your weight is so comforting to him. The constant ‘fight or flight’ in his mind subsides. His heart isn’t thumping, per usual. He’s not scared or anticipating the next strike.

“Gonna give me another, sweetheart? Wanna feel it. You’re grippin’ onto me like you don’t want to let go.” He rasps. You whine. You don’t last much longer with his cock dragging along your walls, his thumb teasing your clit, and his words making your whole body vibrate.

You clench around him one last time and with a deafening cry you collapse for him. It’s magical to watch you come undone, and he can feel his balls twitching, urging him to let go as well.

He doesn’t. He wants this night to last for you. Plus, his stamina is insane. He plans on taking you over and over till you physically can’t anymore.

“There ya’ go. Let it all out f’me.” He murmurs as he slowly stops your rocking on top of him. You whine as your cum gushes out of you, trialing down his cock and across his abdomen.

You’re not done.

He knows it.

He’s going to have you cum again on his cock.

Before you can process, he’s capturing your lips in a wind-stealing kiss as he swiftly switches your positions. Your beautiful hair splayed out across his pillow as he grins down at you.

“Just one more, m’promise.” He coo’s sweetly. You’re not sure if he’s mocking you or being sarcastic at this point. Your brain is a haze. The only thing you know is when his thrusts start again, so do your moans.

“I love you, doll.”

—————————————————————

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

You stiffened.

“Walker, Ava, and…”

She looked straight at you.

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

The silence afterward said everything.

That pause before your name wasn’t a slip.

It was surgical.

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

This wasn’t routine.

This was designed.

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

But neither of you moved.

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

We’ll find each other.

However we can.

—

Packing was mechanical.

Weapons, suits, coordinates, clearances.

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

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

He shut the door behind you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gasped—part surprise, part pure heat.

“Bucky—”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ll text me when you can?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Even if it’s just one word?”

“Even if it’s just a photo.”

You smirked. “Of what?”

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

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

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

“You’re such a menace.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

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

“We’re good?”

“Always.”

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

—

The first few days weren’t unbearable.

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

But the nights were something else entirely.

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

It didn’t.

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

You grabbed your comm. Lifted your phone.

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

The angle was deliberate.

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

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

Bet you’d wreck me if you were here.

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

—

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

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

He was shirtless.

Dog tags heavy and low over his chest.

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

But the part that made your thighs press together?

His sweatpants.

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

Hard. Veined. Heavy. Angry.

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

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

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

This was manageable, you told yourself.

Just teasing. Just playing.

It would pass.

—

It got worse.

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

Bucky cracked first.

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

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

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

A pause. A harsh exhale.

“And fuck, baby… I nearly lost it.”

You played it three times.

Nearly dropped your comm on the third.

—

You didn’t just tease back. You retaliated.

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

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

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

You’re not playing fair.

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

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

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

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

—

Then came Ava.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could’ve died.

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

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

—

He didn’t laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn’t stroke.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

Not without your hands.

Not without your thighs tight around his hips.

Not without your voice whispering that he could let go.

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

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

This was supposed to help.

All these videos. These fucking pictures.

It’s making everything worse, doll.

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

—

He stopped sleeping properly.

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

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

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

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

He trailed off.

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

His jaw clenched again. He tried to redirect.

“We’ll send Bob first to—”

But Bob was already looking sideways at him.

“You gonna pass out?”

“No.”

“You look like your brain’s buffering.”

“I said I’m fine.”

But his voice had cracked. Just slightly.

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

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

Bucky didn’t even turn his head.

She kept going.

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

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

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

Bucky finally looked up.

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

“I’m not jerking off.”

That shut them up.

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

He pulled up your last photo again.

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

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

He groaned into his palm.

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Inside the compound, it was unusually quiet.

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

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

You didn’t smile. Not yet.

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

Something shifted the moment you stepped inside.

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

It was quiet. But not empty.

He was there.

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

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

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

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

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

He just held you.

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

You clung back like it might hold you together.

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

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

Your heart cracked, melted, rebuilt itself.

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

“You remembered.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Missed you more.”

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

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

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

“Go on. I’ll be right here.”

—

You hadn’t even closed the door behind you.

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

You stepped into the spray and let it hit you.

Heat flooded your shoulders. Rolled down your spine.

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

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

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

And then—

“Mmh…”

Just a sound. A breath.

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

The floor creaked.

You turned, startled—and everything inside you tightened.

He was there.

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

And he was naked.

Completely.

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

His eyes drank you in.

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

“Baby…”

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

“Please…”

“Please stop torturing me.”

But he didn’t move. Not yet.

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

You reached for him.

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

He whimpered.

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

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

You smiled softly. Nodded.

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

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

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

“Missed you,” he rasped between frantic kisses.

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

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

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

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

You did more than touch.

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

“Jesus, sweetheart—”

His fingers slid through the slick between your legs.

“You’re soaked…”

He groaned. Slid two fingers inside you.

You gasped, walls clenching hard around the intrusion.

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

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

That was all it took.

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

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

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

He sank in.

One thrust. Deep. Full.

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

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

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

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

“James, I—I’m coming!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Good. I’m not going anywhere.”

—

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

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

He laid you on the bed like something sacred.

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

You reached for it with trembling fingers.

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

His voice was lower now. Hoarse. Reverent.

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

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

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

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

You whimpered.

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

But he didn’t rush.

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

Mouths met softly, then harder.

Tongues sliding slow.

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

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

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

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

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

He was gone. Let you take full control.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. “Already close.”

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

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

And you did.

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

He didn’t last much longer.

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

That tipped him.

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

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

“You alright?” he asked, voice scratchy.

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

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

—

Later.

The wine sat untouched on the desk.

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

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

And you?

You were flushed. Sweaty. Trembling.

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

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

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

You didn’t answer.

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

Both of you moaned. Loud.

Deep.

Almost pained.

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

“Oh, fuck—”

His hands gripped your waist like he was anchoring himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky, I—I think I—fuck, I’m gonna—”

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

You broke with a cry.

Legs shaking. Hands digging into his thighs.

Your pussy clamped down hard, and then it hit—

You squirted.

Hard.

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

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

He didn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes—James, please—”

And you did.

A second wave slammed into you.

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

Bucky lost it.

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

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

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

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

“You just… soaked me, baby.”

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

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

—

You should’ve been done.

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

But you weren’t.

The ache still lived in your bones.

The emptiness still throbbed between your legs.

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

He needed more.

You both did.

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

“You okay?” he whispered against your throat.

“No,” you rasped, voice cracking.

“I need you again. Right fucking now.”

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

“Jesus, doll… you’re insatiable.”

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

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

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

“Let me take care of you.”

Your stomach fluttered. Your thighs clenched.

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

“James—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He devoured you.

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

You whined. Cried out. Legs trembling.

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

“Bucky—fuck—baby I—”

Your voice broke.

Your hips bucked.

You were so close again, already, already—

He pulled back.

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

“Not until you beg for it.”

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

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

That broke him.

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

You exploded.

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

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

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

You didn’t even get to respond.

Didn’t even breathe.

Because his tongue never stopped.

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

You came again.

Harder.

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

He kissed your trembling thighs through the aftershocks.

Pressed his forehead to your belly.

“You okay?” he whispered.

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

“And I think I like it.”

—

Later—

Maybe thirty minutes.

Maybe five.

Time had stopped meaning anything.

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

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

And then—

The mattress dipped behind you.

You felt his warmth before you felt his hands.

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

His lips brushed your shoulder.

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

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

“Always.”

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

He kissed your spine.

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

“I’ll never stop wanting you.”

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

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

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

You whimpered.

He thrust deep.

Steady. Gentle.

Every movement an unspoken prayer.

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

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

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

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

“Still feels like a dream,” you whispered.

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

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

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

You choked on a moan.

“I’m yours, James. Always.”

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

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

“Let go, doll. Let me feel you.”

He wasn’t far behind.

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

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

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

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

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

You nodded.

“I think I’m in love with you again.”

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

—

Your body was trembling again.

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

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

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

And yet—

Your core still throbbed.

Your nipples still ached.

Your cunt still ached for him.

He noticed. Of course he did.

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

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

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

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

“Breathe for me. C’mon.”

His thumb stroked your cheek.

“You look wrecked.”

“I am…”

Your voice came out hoarse.

“I’m so tired.”

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

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

But your hand was already moving.

Shaky, slow—but determined.

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

Still hard.

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

His breath caught.

“Baby—”

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

“Please, don’t stop. I need you.”

He looked stricken.

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

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

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

His restraint cracked like glass.

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

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

You nodded.

Wrapped your arms around his neck.

Pulled him into you.

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

But not done.

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

“So much it hurts.”

You barely had breath left to answer.

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

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

He moaned into your throat.

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

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

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

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

And so he did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll only give you what you want.”

—

The sky was beginning to lighten.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He exhaled like you’d just saved his life.

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

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

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

“Fuck,” Bucky exhaled when he saw you.

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

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

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

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

He didn’t make you wait.

Not this time.

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

“Bucky—fuck—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He thrust harder. Faster. Your thighs trembled violently.

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

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

You shattered.

Legs giving out.

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

“Fuck—fuck—gonna fill you again—”

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

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

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded faintly.

“Good. ‘Cause we’re not done.”

—

The sun was climbing now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You heard the footsteps.

But they didn’t head for the fridge.

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

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

“Just not for that.”

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

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

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

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

You didn’t even get the chance to speak.

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

“Fuck, Bucky—!”

“Still so wet,” he growled behind you.

“Still squeezing me like you want more.”

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

This wasn’t slow.

This wasn’t tender.

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

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

You dropped your head onto your forearm.

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

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

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

“You’re gonna kill me—”

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

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

Your whole body clenched.

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

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

“Yes—yes—please—just one more—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I could do this for days.”

“James…”

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

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

“Just say the word.”

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

“…I think my soul already came twice.”

Bucky laughed softly. Kissed the crown of your head.

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

—

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

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

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

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

You blinked. Shifted slowly.

He stirred.

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

“You okay?”

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

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

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

“Told you I’d wreck you.”

“You did. Multiple times.”

He chuckled, then leaned forward to kiss you.

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

You melted into it.

Pressed your forehead to his.

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

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

You whispered it back. Quiet. Honest.

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

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

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

His arm was around your waist the whole walk.

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

—

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

It was pasta night.

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

John Walker looked up the moment you stepped into view.

“Oh look,” he said dryly. “It lives.”

You flipped him off without stopping.

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

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

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

Yelena didn’t even look up from her plate.

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

You covered your face with your hands.

Bucky didn’t blink.

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

“We could’ve made it nine.”

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

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

You just smiled.

And yeah…

You weren’t done.

Your heart stuttered. The bar faded around you. His fingers dipped under the edge of the hat, adjusting it just so, then trailing down your neck with a featherlight touch that left goosebumps in their wake.

“You gonna follow the rule?” he murmured.

You swallowed. “Yeah. I think I will.”

His house sat on the outskirts of town, secluded enough that when he backed you up against the door and kissed you like he’d been starving for it, there was no one around to hear your gasp.

Bucky was all rough hands and controlled strength, lifting you like you weighed nothing and pinning you against the wall, grinding his hips into yours as your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively.

“You been teasing me since the day I met you,” he growled, lips dragging along your throat, teeth grazing the skin just hard enough to make your breath hitch.

“Swaying those hips, looking at me with those eyes. Know what you do to a man?”

“James-”

He silenced you with another kiss, this one deeper, filthier, tongue pushing into your mouth with purpose.

His hands roamed, cupping your ass, then spanking it hard enough to make you whimper and cling tighter.

“That’s sir tonight, doll.” he corrected, voice thick with heat. “You wearing my hat. Means you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you whispered, voice trembling.

He carried you to the bedroom, tossing you onto the bed like a rag doll. The hat stayed on. Bucky made sure of it.

“Don’t you dare take it off,” he said, stripping his shirt and revealing that sculpted chest you’d imagined too many times.

He undid his belt with slow, deliberate movements, letting the anticipation curl hot and tight in your stomach. “Looks too good on you.”

Then he was on you. Mouth at your collarbone, hands everywhere, peeling your clothes away like wrapping from a present. His palms skated over your bare skin, thumbs brushing your nipples until they peaked. You arched into him with a gasp.

He kissed a line down your stomach, dragging his stubble along the sensitive flesh and making you squirm.

Then his mouth was between your thighs, tongue flat against your clit, slow and torturous.

“Fuck.” you breathed, threading your fingers into his hair, holding him between your things.

“You taste like heaven,” he groaned, lips slick and hungry. His fingers worked in tandem, curling inside you just right, thumb circling your clit with maddening precision. “You gonna come for me, doll? Come on your sir’s tongue like a good girl?”

You broke with a cry, legs trembling as your orgasm hit hard and fast. “Sir!”

He didn’t stop. Licked you through it, over and over, until you were shivering from overstimulation and begging for more.

When he finally pulled away, his mouth and chin were wet, and his pupils were blown wide with lust.

“Still with me?” he rasped.

You nodded, dazed, only for him to flip you onto your stomach and pull your hips up.

You felt the blunt head of his cock press against your entrance, and then he was inside. Slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, both hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “Taking my cock like you were made for it. So fucking pretty in my hat.”

He set a punishing rhythm, hips slapping against yours with every thrust, the sounds obscene and raw.

You were half-wild beneath him, cheek pressed to the mattress, hands gripping the sheets.

“Let me hear you, baby,” he said, grabbing the brim of the hat still perched on your head and tugging it back, forcing your face to tilt toward him. “Tell me who owns you.”

“You, sir. It’s you. Yours!” you gasped through each thrust.

“Damn right.”

He pulled out suddenly, flipping you onto your back again and plunging in even deeper, one hand around your throat, thumb stroking gently as contrast to the brutal snap of his hips.

“I want to watch you fall apart,” he murmured, eyes locked on your face as he fucked you harder. “Want to see you come with my name on your lips and my hat on your head.”

You did. You shattered beneath him, second orgasm wracking through you like a wave. He followed with a groan, spilling inside you and collapsing onto your body, the sweat-slicked heat of him wrapping around you like a blanket.

Even then, he didn’t pull out right away just stayed there, buried deep, mouth at your ear.

“Don’t think you’re getting away from me now.” he murmured.

You smiled sleepily against him, the brim of his hat brushing your forehead.

“Didn’t plan to.”

The next morning you woke to the smell of bacon and fresh coffee.

For a second, you didn’t know where you were. The sunlight was warm, the sheets soft, and your body was very sore in all the right places.

Then you shifted.

And the cowboy hat fell off your head, landing on your face.

You snorted a sleepy laugh, brushing it away and blinking at the bright morning light filtering through the window. The hat still smelled like him, leather, cedarwood, and just a hint of smoke.

And last night. God, last night.

You were never going to look at that hat the same again.

Padding out of the bedroom with the sheet wrapped around you, you followed the sound of sizzling into the kitchen. And there he was.

James Bucky Barnes. Your cowboy.

Still shirtless, wearing those same jeans from the night before, hung low on his hips now and whistling as he flipped a piece of bacon in the pan.

He looked up when he saw you and gave you the softest damn smile you’d ever seen.

“Well, morning, doll.” he said, voice all low and husky.

You leaned against the doorway, biting back a grin. “You cook too? What don’t you do?”

He chuckled. “Plenty. But breakfast ain’t one of ‘em. You hungry?”

You nodded, stepping into the kitchen, sheet trailing behind you like some ridiculous lacy robe.

He handed you a mug of coffee without even asking how you liked it. One sip told you he already knew.

“James,” you said between sips, eyeing him playfully, “you’re being very sweet this morning.”

His brow quirked. “That a bad thing?”

You laughed and leaned against the counter. “No, it’s just funny. You were so…” You paused, pretending to search for the right word. “Interesting last night.”

Bucky’s ears turned pink.

“Doll,” he drawled, turning off the stove, “a man’s got layers.”

You grinned. “Oh, you’ve got layers, alright. One minute it’s ‘yes, sir’ and a whole lot of- ” you gestured to his shirtless self.

He groaned and ran a hand over his face. “and the next, you’re frying bacon and makin’ me coffee like a perfect southern gentleman.”

He turned and gently caged you against the counter, one hand braced beside your hip.

“I can be both,” he murmured, eyes twinkling as he leaned down. “Real rough when I wanna be,real sweet when you need it.”

Your breath hitched. Even now, he could melt you with a few words.

“But you’re not sore, are you?” he added softly, brushing a thumb across your cheek.

Your face flushed. “I am, actually. A little.”

He gave you a slow, satisfied smile. “Then I did it right.”

You let out an embarrassed laugh and smacked his chest lightly, but he just kissed your forehead and handed you a plate.

“Eat up. You’re gonna need your strength,” he teased.

You arched a brow. “Oh?”

“Mhmm,” he said, sitting beside you at the table. “After breakfast, I’m takin’ you out to see the horses. Show you around proper. Maybe get you up on a saddle again.”

You blinked. “Is this a second date or are you just trying to get me sore again?”

He smirked. “Can’t it be both?”

You couldn’t help it you burst out laughing, resting your forehead against the table as he sat there, sipping coffee like he hadn’t just said the most casually filthy thing imaginable in the most charming tone.

Bucky reached over and gently adjusted the hat on your head, which you hadn’t even realized you were still wearing.

“You’re keeping that, by the way,” he said.

“Your hat?” you asked, looking up.

“Mmhm. It looks better on you anyway.”

You shook your head, smiling. “What if I wear it in public?”

He leaned closer, voice soft and honeyed.

“Then everyone’ll know you’re mine.”

Bucky’s at the kitchen counter, his time split between bottle sterilisation and the dishes, while you’re at the sofa’s, organising and piling the excessive amounts of baby grows and other laundry. Each of you doing jobs to lighten the giant load.

You stack the clean laundry in the basket and set it on your hip, using your free hand to drag the laundry hamper with you as you walk. You set it in your shared bedroom and meet Bucky back in the kitchen.

You stand beside him and rest your head on his shoulder, eyes closing as if to soak up the calm quiet. He presses a kiss to your temple and lays the side of his head atop yours, giving you a moment of attention while he focuses on the tasks at hand: carefully attaching bottles with lids so as not to contaminate the sterile vessel.

You wrap your arm around his back, snuggling into his side as you watch him. Whoever would have thought that the hands that were made for death and destruction could now be preparing bottles for your baby in a few rooms over. 

“Good news about the doctors today, huh?” 

He pauses and lifts his head from yours. So you turn and see his expression confused, brows furrowing.

“What news?” he asks, utterly perplexed.

“I texted you this morning,” you match his befuddled tone and reach into your robe pocket for your phone. “The doctor gave me the all clear. I told you about it as soon as I found out…” you mindlessly reiterate, eyes then beginning to narrow as you look at your screen. “Oh my god,” you whisper, and shake your head. “I never send it.”

“Is it bad news?” he questions, eyes softening slightly as they meet yours.

“God no, well… depends how you look at it,” you smile and turn your phone, showing him the screen.

He stills as he reads your unsent text, brows continuing to furrow. “What is that? Is that an eggplant?”

“Yep,” you nod.

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why is it there?”

“It’s supposed to be sexy,” you playfully frown.

“Sexy?”

“Yeah,” you nod, pointing to the emoji beside the eggplant one. “See, the peach.”

“I don’t understand,” his head shakes, eyes flickering between you and your phone.

You inhale and close your eyes. “Okay, alright,” you focus on him. “I saw my doctor today, and she gave me the all clear…” you pause, watching the connections slowly being made in his tired blue eyes.

“So we can have sex?”

“So we can have sex,” you repeat, mirroring his tone and expression. 

Part of you questioned whether you should wait until the weekend, wait until you’ve dropped your daughter off with your family. It had been a long time since you’ve been properly fulfilled by your husband, everything but full penetrative sex to suffice during your weeks of healing. 

So this was quite the confliction.

You give it a moment's thought and meet his eyes again.  “Are you tired?” you ask.

“Are you?” he deflects and returns the question, wanting to hear what you have to say before he answers for himself.

“I mean…” you shrug your shoulders. “Yeah, very. But… a quickie can’t hurt, right?”

“Who doesn’t love a quickie?” 

“Exactly,” you smile and turn so your back is against the counter. You lift yourself up onto it, sitting on the edge with your feet dangling down.

He moves to stand between your knees and settles his hands beside yours. “And then this weekend…” he pauses and itches forward, lips ghosting yours briefly. “I can take you up to the lake…” he presses a slow lengthy kiss to your lips.

“Yeah…” you wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him again. “What else?”

He pretends to give it some thought but the plan was already extensively created in his head. “I can make us some dinner,” he begins to list and reaches for the bow of your robe, tugging on it gently. “We can go for a walk around the woods, maybe collect some firewood. Sit on the deck and watch the sun go down.”

You drop your hands from around his neck and move to the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, fingers mindlessly slipping into the top. You reach down the front and begin palming over his cock, eyes focused on his as you listen.

“Mhm-hm,” you prompt, eager to hear more.

“Well,” he pauses and reaches into the elastic of your underwear. “We can sit in the cabin, maybe have some wine by the fire…” he starts, voice drawing to a whisper, speech halting when he leans in to kiss you again. But he doesn’t continue on with his plan. Instead he grows quiet, quite like he was wanting to reserve the more intimate moments for a surprise. 

And so he slips your underwear down your thighs, the lifting of your ass from the counter aiding the removal. He watches the fabric drag across your skin, the material grazing flesh until it gets caught between your knees. You feel the resistance and lift a knee, letting the underwear fall from one leg and down the length of the other.

The hand you had tucked down the front of his boxers moves back up to the waistband, fingers resuming their prior finnicking into the elastic. You drop your hand from around his neck and join the one at the top of his pyjama bottoms — both of them hastily yanking on the fabric. 

Bucky helps, moving his hands from your underwear to his own. He gives both garments a heavy tug, each catching around the swell of his thighs — revealing just enough of himself as required.

He spits into his palm and smears it messily over his dick. You both watch the lewd display between you, eyes transfixed on the slight twitching of him, cock growing hard under his touch. 

Guiding himself closer he smacks his head against your cunt. The little slaps an attempt to speeden up his erection. 

He holds himself within his left, metal hand and spits once again into the palm of his other, only this time he smears it over your pussy — a makeshift lube saving you both a trip to the bedroom. 

Lining up with you, he teases at your entrance briefly, quite like he was refamiliarising you with the contact of his cock and himself with your cunt once again. He sinks into you slowly and both of your faces contort, the feeling of sheer, unadulterated, lustrous bliss growing with each passing inch.

Your arms wrap around him as if you’re in dire need of his touch, your hands squeezing tightly around his bank. And with the close contact, his forehead falls to press against yours, bodies close as you both delve into the bliss of what got you your daughter in the first place. 

Although this brief, fatigued session was about to reopen a massive can of worms for your sex life, it was clear that this time it may have to be cut short — the long awaited sensations could not quite be replicated by one to the other meant things tonight were bound to end prematurely. 

And so this little session might just have to serve as an appetiser, a taster for the weekend to come when you both finally get around to rekindling things properly in the bedroom.

“Did something happen to my wife?” Bucky asked and was scared what she would say.

“She had a car accident and is in the hospital. Your wife is currently getting operated.” She said and Bucky’s heart began to race. The woman explained some more things to Bucky, but he was too nervous to listen to everything.

“Thank you, I’ll be there as soon as possible.” Bucky said and as the call ended, he took a deep breath. He looked at the ground for a second and his eyes began to get blurry. Sam and Joaquin who could hear the conversation looked at each other with a worried expression. Sam walked over to Bucky and laid his hand on Bucky’s shoulder to give him some comfort. Bucky looked at Sam with a worried expression.

“I have to go to her.” Bucky mumbled and Sam nodded.

“We’ll drive you.” Sam said and looked at Joaquin who was already grabbing his car keys.

“Thanks, Sam.” They made their way to the car. Bucky didn’t pay much attention to the drive. He looked down at his wedding ring and softly touched it with his thumb and thought about this morning. The morning started so good. The day always starts good when you’re in his arms. A light smile appaired on his face as he thought back to today’s morning conversation. You had to get up and go to work but Bucky didn’t want to let go of you. So, you stayed a few more minutes and cuddled.

“Bucky we’re here.” Sam softly said and interrupted Bucky’s thoughts. Bucky looked up at him and then they walked to the hospital. As they walked into the hospital a nurse told Bucky where they could wait for a doctor. The three of them sat down on the chairs and Bucky looked at his ring again and started to play with his hands.

“I can’t lose her too.” Bucky suddenly whispered while a tear ran down his cheek. He thought about his sister, his parents and about Steve. You were the only family he has and he loved you so much.

“Buck, you won’t. She is a fighter.” Sam said and a light smile appeared on Bucky’s face.

“Yeah, you’re right. She is.”

“Thanks for being here with me.” Bucky said.

“Of course.” Sam said and Joaquin nodded. You are also important to them. They are one of your closest friends.

A few more minutes passed until a doctor came to them. Bucky, Sam and Joaquin all looked to her.

“Mr. Barnes?” She said and Bucky stood up.

“Is she okay?” Bucky asked.

“Your wife is stable. She is still asleep, but you can go to her, I’ll come and check on her in a bit.” The doctor said and Bucky felt relieved knowing that you were stable and that he could see you. Before walking away Bucky looked at Sam and Joaquin who both also looked very glad that you were okay.

“We’ll wait here.” Sam said and Bucky nodded. Then he followed the doctor to your room. Bucky opened the door and quietly walked over to your bed. He sat down next to your bed and reached for your hand, drawing soft circles on the back of your hand. A couple of minutes passed until you woke up. A soft smile appeared on his face as he noticed that you started to wake up.

When you woke up you looked into Bucky’s beautiful blue eyes.

“Bucky.” You mumbled and looked around.

“You’re at the hospital my love.” Bucky said and you could remember what happened.

“I had an accident.” You whispered and Bucky nodded.

“I’m so glad you’re okay, doll.” Bucky admitted as he softly held your hand and gave it a gently squeeze. You gave him a small smile.

“Sam and Joaquin are also here.” Bucky said after a moment, and you were relieved that he wasn’t alone. A while later there was a knock on the door and a doctor walked in.

“Mrs Barnes, how are you feeling?” She asked and looked at you.

“I feel tired and exhausted.” I admitted.

“That’s understandable, you have been though quite a bit. The surgery went well but you have to stay here for a few days.“

“So, she is okay?” Bucky asked to make sure.

“Yes, they both seem to be in perfect health.” The doctor said. You looked at Bucky with a confused look. Bucky was as confused as you and looked back to the doctor.

“You said they both?”

“I did. Mrs. Barnes. You’re pregnant.” She said and you couldn’t believe it. You began to smile and looked over to Bucky who also had a huge smile on his face.

“We’re gonna be parents.” Bucky said with a smile.

“I’ll let you two alone.” The doctor said with a smile and left the room.

“I can’t believe it, doll.” Bucky said and moved closer to you. He gently placed his hand on your cheek and gave you a passionate kiss.

“I love you.” You whispered as you broke the kiss.

“I love you too.” Bucky said with so much love.

“Can I see Sam and Joaquin?” You asked Bucky after a while.

“I think you should get some rest, doll.”

“Just for a bit.”

“Okay, just for a bit. I’ll be right back.” He said and kissed your cheek before going out of the room. It didn’t take long until Bucky returned with them.

“We are so glad that you’re okay.” Joaquin said with a smile as he entered the room.

“Thanks for being there for Bucky.”

“That’s what friends are for.” Sam said and you smiled back at him and then looked over to Bucky. Bucky nodded at you answering your silent question.

“I bet you will be great uncles.” You suddenly said with a grin.

“What?” Joaquin said confused but Sam started to smile.

“My beautiful wife is pregnant.” Bucky announced with a smile.

“Wow, congrats you two, that’s amazing.” Joaquin said with full excitement and Sam also congratulated you and Bucky. They stayed for a few minutes until you decided that it’s better to rest now.

“If you need anything, just call me.” Sam said before leaving. When they left you tried to move a bit to the other side of the bed.

“Woah, take it easy doll.” Bucky said and quickly stood up to help you.

“Just wanted to make some space for you.” You mumbled and could see how he began to smile.

“You want to cuddle?” Bucky asked in a soft voice, and you nodded. Bucky laid down beside you and gently put his arm around you. You laid your head on his chest, and he gently kissed your forehead. Bucky held you close and began to slowly draw circles on your arm, knowing that it always brings you comfort when he does that.

“I’m gonna be a dad.” Bucky suddenly whispered.

“I already know you’re going to be a great dad.” You whispered and slowly began to fall asleep.

“And you’re going to be the best mom.” Bucky whispered even though you were already asleep. Having you close and knowing that you were okay, finally brought Bucky some peace.

Taglist:

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His beautiful eyes open, dark with desire as they lock on your tits that bounce along with each thrust, he uses his metal hand grabs one, you gasp as he twists the nipple. He plays with both tits for a while, pinching, sucking, and biting. Both are covers in marks when he’s done, but you don’t mind.

“Doll… you feel incredible… fuck,” he manages to groan out, finally looking to your eyes, “so wet for me… feel so good around my cock,” he was as addicted to you as you were to him. You moan as your pussy pulses, squeezing his cock and communicating that you were close.

Moving his head to the crook of your neck, he kisses it; biting and licking the sensitive skin; his thrusts become slower, but harder. he was close. Heavy balls hitting your skin, the hard thrusts making your mind go fuzzy as you play with his dark hair.

“Buck, I’m gonna-“ you moan out, but are unable to finish after a particularly hard thrust. Now kissing your lips deeply, he rubs your clit hard, encouraging the orgasm; desperately wanting you to cum for him.

Seconds later, you do. You cum all over his cock, with a moan and you can’t help but smile into the kiss. He continues to thrust hard into you, his orgasm shortly follows yours as you milk his cock dry.

He fills you up nicely, his cum leaking out of you, even before he pulls out. Pulling out, he groans at the sight of his cum leaking out of your used pussy, a sign that he’s breaded you well.

He falls down next to you, pulling you in for a kiss. “I think we should go for that shower you were saying you wanted,” he says, and you know that this wasn’t going to be the only load of cum he pumps into you this morning.