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“Yeah, I got it”

(18+ mdni) Bucky Barnes says “Yeah, I got it” a lot and here are some of the times he says it:

ೀ At work

“Yeah, I got it,” Bucky mutters, eyes locked on the target through the scope.

He inhales deeply, holds it, then exhales as his finger curls around the trigger. The target, zigzagging through trees and brush, glances over his shoulder for someone in pursuit. He has no idea the threat is waiting for him at the top of an outcrop half a mile away.

Bucky doesn’t blink as he fires. A specially-designed, Widow-inspired projectile zips through the air, exploding into a half-crescent cuff of nanotech brilliance that locks around the target’s wrist. The target drops before he can hear the echo of the shot, seizing as 500k voltage renders his body incapacitated. Not dead, but not stirring either.

Bucky habitually clicks the safety on before popping out the magazine. There’s static from the comm. He can just barely hear Sam’s voice through the ringing in his ears.

“That the last of them?”

Clear blue eyes scan the forest sprawling before them. “Looks like it.”

“Send the location. Clean up crew will pick him up.”

Bucky pushes himself up from the ground, brushing dirt off his knees before swinging the rifle around his back. “Yeah, yeah — don’t get your red, white, and blues in a twist. Now, are you gonna come pick me up, or do I have to walk all the way back to the jet?”

“Been getting a little soft along the middle, Barnes, a little jog wouldn’t hurt ya—“

“You wanna talk about getting soft? What’s that girl’s name from Sal’s the other night? The one whose shoulder you cried on after she told you about her dead grandma?”

A year ago a comment like that would have dominoed into a week-long standoff. Now, Sam laughs freely, and Bucky can hear the wind whistling in the background as he turns to head in the direction of the jet.

“I warned all of y’all I don’t do rum for a reason,” Sam replies.

“So does that mean I should cancel the Tahiti team retreat?”

“For some reason I’m finding it hard to picture you on a beach. Probably because you’re physically incapable of relaxing.”

“I can relax,” Bucky says indignantly, eyes on the sky, “I’m very good at relaxing.”

“The fact you have to convince me that you can says differently.”

“Maybe I just can’t relax around you.” Bucky slows his steps, rolling his shoulders a few times before lifting his vibranium arm over his head. Sam chuckles in his ear.

“Then you’ve got bigger issues, because I’ve been told I have a very calming presence. Incoming.”

Sam dive-bombs out of the clouds, pulling up just in time to snag Bucky’s arm. The war heroes’ bickering doesn’t stop all the way to the jet.

ೀ Being helpful

“Yeah, I got it,” Bucky says, stepping carefully through the pond that used to be your kitchen floor. He picks a spot that he thinks is slightly less wet (it isn’t), then crouches down to open the cabinet under your sink. Sponges, a bottle of dish soap, and other odds and ends river-raft their way to the floor, escaping on the wave of dammed up water behind the cabinet doors. Bucky makes a surprised sound, jumping out of the way.

“Oh, God — I should’ve just called the plumber—“

“No, no,” he says quickly, “I can do it. Probably a loose washer.”

He nudges a ScrubDaddy out of the way with his foot and kneels. Inside the cabinet, water pours from the pipe attached to the wall. Bucky reaches in until his vibranium hand finds the valve next to it. Tongue peeking out between his teeth ever so slightly, he carefully twists and twists so that the water comes to a standstill.

But it doesn’t.

From your spot perched on the edge of the sink, you can see the look of pure confusion cross his face. He ducks his head low to peer back into the cabinet. The water continues at its same speed.

So, Bucky reaches back in and twists the valve the other way. Twisting and twisting until he meets resistance. He’s pretty sure righty-tighty-lefty-loosey is one of Newton’s laws by this point, but whatever works.

He pauses, waiting for something to happen. You’re watching him through the spaces between your fingers. “Uh…”

Miraculously, the water lessens to a trickle. Bucky tells you so with a pleased smirk on his lips, eyes bright as they lift to your position hanging over him. “Now just need to tighten the washer, turn the water back on, and you should be good to—“

CRACK!

Not even Bucky’s super serum senses could have prepared him for the spray hose nozzle exploding off the counter and hitting the light fixture above him. Glass rains down just as water gushes from the sink’s brand new open wound, instantly soaking the both of you.

“Bucky!” you shout, launching yourself over America’s lamest geyser.

“Fuck!” is all he can say back

ೀ In case of an emergency

“Yeah, I got it!” he calls out to you. “Just stay back!”

The flames are licking the ventilation shaft now, easily surpassing three feet in height. You don’t know what was the match that lit the fuse - literally - but one moment it was oil and garlic in the pan, and the next, it was flambéd away.

Within seconds, you felt like you showed up to a gun fight with just your fists. The fire grew to something beyond your control, an orange and red monster on top of your stove that couldn’t be slayed by a lid or a cloth. You had scrambled to the cupboards, knocking over bowls and spices and cat food in your search for flour, but of course you had used up the last of it making your anniversary cake the week before.

And of course this all happened just as Bucky walked through the door, shouldering a fourteen-hour shift at Capitol Hill and harboring a deep desire for peace and quiet.

“Baby!” Bucky had shouted. “What did you do?”

“What do you mean?” you whipped back at him, a sweaty strand of hair falling into your eyes. “I didn’t do this on purpose!”

Within a heartbeat, Bucky had dropped his keys and his coat and yanked you out of the kitchen. He threw you unceremoniously onto the couch.

“Where’s the flour?” he barked at you, rifling through the open cupboards like you had moments before.

“In the chocolate cake that you had to have—“

He made an impatient noise at you, waving you off like a bug by his head. You were about to tell him where to shove the cake when something popped in the pan, causing the flames to nearly double in size; black smoke was filling the kitchen like you had been attempting to cook marbles to well done.

“Uh— Bucky?“

Now he’s pushed up his sleeves, a kitchen towel in his right hand, assessing the best move to get the situation under control.

He doesn’t wait long before he executes on his plan. With a flick of his wrist, Bucky knocks the pan off the stove using the towel, clearly aiming for the sink just to his left. But whether it was the adrenaline, the long day, or the buzz of an almost-fight with you, he miscalculated. The pan goes flying past the sink and out the window. Glass smashed like a Tom and Jerry specialty.

You shriek. Bucky swears. You almost don’t hear the clatter of the pan against the fire escape. Then silence.

Bucky steps over to the window and looks down. Your hands are tightly pressed against your face as you wait for him to speak.

“Well,” he says, “fire’s out.”

You release the breath you didn’t know you were holding, hand shaking as you point severely at him. “You— you—“

“You’re welcome,” he adds, leveling you with an expression so textbook Bucky, it makes you want to scream. Instead, you walk around the couch to shove your finger in his face.

“Why didn’t you use your arm?” you hiss. “You could have picked up the pan!”

You’re satisfied to see that whatever fight he had prepared in him is blinked out of existence.

“Ah,” he replies very intelligently. “I…forgot. Right-handed, so…” You stare at him like he’s grown antlers. He huffs, getting defensive. “It was a long day, alright? And I come home to my girl almost burning down our place. Excuse me for acting quick — next time I’ll let you burn the curtains before stepping in.”

You scoff and move to turn your back on him, but he wraps the human arm around your waist before you can make it very far. With a grunt, he pulls you into his chest, metal hand resting on the back of your neck and soothing the flush you felt from the flames.

Instinctively, your hands slide up his back, gripping and pulling him closer to you. He sighs.

“Remind me to sue the landlord for faulty fucking fire alarms,” Bucky mutters darkly into your hair.

ೀ When he’s feeling stubborn

“Yeah, I got it,” Bucky mutters darkly. He pushes himself up off the couch with a wicked deliberateness, shooting you a glare as you struggle with the wine bottle opener.

You look up just in time to catch it, immediately giving it back to him with fervor. He wasn’t expecting that, and his surprise at being caught shows when he quickly turns away, eyes anywhere but you; he knows he will be paying for that at a later date and time.

As he makes his way down the hall, there’s another knock on the door, louder and longer than the first. Bucky rolls his eyes, aiming a petulant kick at the stray boot in his way that hits the wall with a much heavier thud than he planned for. It leaves an ugly black mark roughly the size of his foot. His shoulders are around his ears before he even hears your voice.

“What was that?”

“Nothing! It’s nothing, babe. Tripped on a shoe.” He uses his sleeve to scrub at his mistake. The paint blisters and peels beneath his efforts. “Shit,” he whispers, gritting his teeth.

The door shakes with the third knock.

“Bucky! Door!”

He freezes, stuck between the mark on the wall, the door, and your voice. His hands hover in front of him like they’re waiting for instructions.

“Buck, you gonna let us in or is there a waitlist?” Sam teases from the hallway. Bucky feels steam coming out of his ears.

“Yeah, I’m coming! Jesus!” he calls out.

“Be nice!” he hears you hiss. He runs his vibranium hand down his face before quietly dragging the runner table in front of the mark. It’s a lost cause thinking you won’t notice that it’s moved half a foot to the right, but bandages before stitches.

“This wasn’t my idea,” Bucky says as he opens the door for Sam and Joaquin.

“Nice to see you, too, brother,” Sam replies. With a clap on his shoulder, he moves past Bucky and into his home, calling out your name. Joaquin follows across the threshold, eyes bright and with the tiniest pep in his step.

“Hey, Barnes, we just got the all clear from R&D to try out that new magnetic repulsar in the field. I’m thinking if it’s what you were looking for, they’ll be able to size it down to something you can have with you at all times. For, y‘know—“ He gestures to the vibranium arm with a grin. “Just in case. Anyway. Here!”

Joaquin shoves a ridiculously large and colorful bouquet into Bucky’s chest. His eyes drop to it, then move back to Joaquin.

“Are these for me or for her?”

Joaquin’s face falls for a second. “Oh, I mean— yeah, her, but—“

“Then give them to her. And say ‘thank you for having me’ when you do. Don’t be rude,” Bucky orders, pushing Joaquin down the hallway. Hopefully the kid can soften his girl up a little before Bucky faces the music later.

And for a few moments, he thinks it might actually work. You take the flowers with big, round eyes, all appreciative words and warm smiles, making Joaquin blush and Bucky’s face relax just a little. The wine is poured for you and Sam, a soda’s opened for Joaquin, and Bucky’s nursing a beer; conversation flows around work, past missions, upcoming holiday plans and even a concert Joaquin’s trying to convince everyone to go to. Bucky’s silent during the battle between you and Sam over who has the superior taste in music, hiding a tiny smile behind his beer bottle as he settles in for the show.

Of all the ways he had wanted to spend his Friday night, hosting his best friend and his partner — who he sees almost more than you — was not on the top of his list. He imagined something a little more quiet, a little less crowded, and a lot less clothing.

But he’s shocked to find himself not absolutely hating this like he thought he would. He likes the way Sam gets up to refill your glass before he can, he likes the way Joaquin asks you for permission to show you something on his phone, he likes the smiles you flash him when you notice him staring.

You had done the lion’s share of work turning this apartment into a home for the two of you, through time and labor and by just being you. He loves this little world of yours more than any other place out there, and sometimes that makes him reluctant to open it up to others. After all, having something — and someone — to call his was only a very recent rediscovery.

But this…this is okay, he supposes. He could get used to doing this once, maybe twice a year.

You throw your head back and laugh as Sam explains his most listened to genre of the past year. “Have you ever even heard jazztronica? I’m gonna say no, because if you have, then you wouldn’t be giving me that reaction, you’d be agreeing with me—“

“Sam, how the hell did you find jazztronica?”

Before Sam can dig himself a deeper hole, Joaquin speaks up. “Whoa. Hey, what happened to your guys’ window?”

There’s a heartbeat of silence as Sam turns to check out the shoddy patchwork on the window above the sink.

“Did a bird fly through?” Sam jokes.

Bucky’s eyes slide shut, a sigh leaving his soul. He can feel you tense beside him. So much for softening you up.

“Why don’t you tell the story, Buck?”

ೀ Being responsible

“Yeah, I got it!” Bucky shouts, scooping up the missing leash in one hand and setting down the chair with the other. Your feet slide over the hardwood floors as you come around the corner.

“Okay, great,” you say, cheeks flushed. “Now for the hard part.”

You both turn to the window on the far side of the room, the one letting in the last few rays of the mid-December sun. On its ledge rests the purring, oversized cotton ball named Alpine.

“Don’t show any fear,” Bucky whispers. You make a soft noise in the back of your throat.

As if in slow motion, she turns her head to meet your gazes, assessing the two of you like she would her toy mouse. Then her pupils dilate. Bucky’s had Alpine long enough to know that she just declared war.

The smallest step forward triggers the cat to pounce, dropping to the floor and beneath the dining table and out of your sights.

“On your left!” he barks. “Block the way to the kitchen!” He scrambles to close any doors to rooms that could offer Alpine refuge. You drop to your knees in the kitchen’s archway, ready to catch the feline if she charges your way.

“The couch, Bucky!” you cry out. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as a white streak dives for the gap between the couch and the floor. Instantly, the vibranium arm hefts the couch onto his shoulder, exposing the white cat curled up into a ball; Bucky swears her eyes look betrayed.

“Come on, princess,” he pleads, “don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

He tries to move slowly, his warm hand extended in a peace offering; Alpine doesn’t even twitch, just watches, and now Bucky’s fingers are close enough that he thinks his cat has actually listened to him this time.

But just as he brushes her light blue collar, she bolts.

“She’s headed your way!”

“I see her!”

In a moment of spectacular athleticism, you throw your hands out just in time to catch Alpine around the middle before she sneaks into the kitchen and waits the two of you out on top of the cupboards. She lets out an indignant meow before stilling; shifting her carefully, you cuddle her to your chest as Bucky moves to pick you up from the floor.

“I know,” you coo, slightly out of breath, “the vet’s no fun. But if you don’t get your shots, you get ringworm, and then Mommy and Daddy can’t pet you for a month.”

Bucky, mid-scratch on Alpine’s head, glances at you. “‘Mommy and Daddy’?”

You shoot him a look, wry smile on your face. “What else would she call us?”

“Uh, human one and human two?”

“How dare you. She’s more tactful than that. She just made us chase her around the apartment for the last hour because she knew where we’re taking take her.”

“You’re not wrong about that,” he murmurs.

“Too smart for her own good,” you declare, nuzzling your face into the corner of Alpine’s neck; your gaze finds Bucky over the tufts of white fur. “Now go get her crate, Daddy. We’ve got an appointment to get to.”

Eyes burning into yours, he reluctantly heads toward the hall. “Yes, Mommy.”

ೀ Following orders

“Yeah, I got it,” Bucky chuckles, holding out his hand for you to place the string of lights in it. You surrender it slowly, eyes narrowing as they take in his expression.

“Red lights only,” you repeat. He smiles sweetly. But something doesn’t feel right when you watch him head into the living room, the plug on the end of the lights dragging across the floor behind him.

A quiet ten minutes pass as you swap out your plain hand towels for Santa-themed ones in the bathroom, add a hand-stitched Christmas tree pillow to the preexisting mountain of pillows on your bed, and twist up a few fairy lights for good measure (and a touch of mood lighting, wink-wink) into the wrought-iron bed frame.

Your eyes sweep the bedroom, satisfied with your work. Outside in the living room, you hear Bucky moving around. The rattle of ornaments, the hiss of lights against tree limbs, all of it painting a nervous picture inside your head.

When your boyfriend told you he wanted to lead the charge on the living room, and more specifically, the Christmas tree, you had laughed. Loudly. In his face. You thought he was joking.

But as soon as you saw that crease between his eyebrows, you sobered up. “Really?” you asked. “You usually…stay out of the way when I’m putting up the Christmas stuff.”

“Can’t a guy help his girl out?” he countered defensively. You noticed the way he avoided your eyes.

“Just wondering why you’re interested all of the sudden.”

“Not all of the sudden…you just, uh— inspired me this year.”

You made him sit with that sentence for a moment as he opened up another box of what he previously called “holiday junk” (said lovingly).

“Uh-huh,” you replied. “Sure. I had a theme planned out for the tree, you know.”

“I’ll follow it.”

You eyed him down, your ears still not fully believing what they heard.

“Okay,” you finally relented. “You’ve got the tree this year.”

And that was thirty minutes ago. After handing him the keys to your most important Christmas tradition, you brought him the box marked ‘XMAS TREE,’ pulling out ropes of lights and containers of ornaments. Every year you went with something different, since it was hard to pick which Christmas style was the best, and this year was red-and-gold and everything old-school. Truthfully, you’d picked it this year because you thought it’d remind Bucky of the holidays when he was growing up; you had a detailed vision in your head of the living room draped in soft lights and timeless decorations. A mistletoe in the archway between the hall and the kitchen, a wooden Rudolph with a red lightbulb for a nose tucked under the tree, a Yule log burning (on the tv screen), and the scent of pine wafting from every candle.

And it’s not that you didn’t trust Bucky to handle something like decorating a tree, but you wanted to create this Christmas feeling for him. Not have him do half the work.

Biting your lip, you peek your head out the door. He had ordered you not to step foot in the living room until he gave you the ‘ok,’ but you had just emptied your last box and needed another.

“Bucky?” you call out to him.

“Yeah?”

“Can — can I come out now?”

“Wait! Not yet. Don’t come out.” You hear him before you see him, coming around the corner to usher you back into the bedroom. His hand comes up to brush the hair out of your face while cupping your cheek, and you instinctively lean in. The warm smile that pulls at his mouth makes you want to run a marathon at a sprint, or break down into sobs — either are proper reactions. “Almost done, just another five.”

And then he pulls the door closed in front of you. You blink before sitting down on the edge of the bed. Seconds tick by at half speed. You’re restlessly bouncing your knee when the handle turns and he’s standing in the doorway, wearing soft eyes and a “come hither” look on his face.

Damn him.

“Come on,” he says, “you can see it now.”

You take his offered hand and let him pull you into the living room. A part of you feels guilty for holding your breath, a knee-jerk reaction when preparing for the worst, but you truly aren’t sure what you’re about to walk into.

Upon entering the room, all you see at first are the blinding lights.

Hundreds of them, curled around not only the tree, but the entertainment center, the bookshelves, thumbtacked into the wood of the archways and doorframes. And all in a million different colors. He did not, in fact, follow the ‘red lights only’ rule.

Adorning the tree are none of your predetermined choices, but all of your old ornaments from growing up, gifted to you by your parents when you set off on your own for the first time. It’s like a photo album stretched out across the branches, raw and bare for you to see.

Something new catches your eye next. Thick, wool stockings dangling from the shelf above your tv, simple and elegant, with cursive lettering spelling out yours and Bucky’s names. The bulge at the bottom of yours tells you there’s something in it.

Bucky squeezes your hand hard enough for you to look his way. You can tell he’s anxious for your reaction. “I know it’s not what you wanted…”

Your eyebrows lift fractionally.

“And if you really hate it, I’ll take it down. But it’s all of your favorite things from the boxes. And I thought you could use a little more of your favorite things this year.”

Something lodges itself in your throat as you glance between the earnest expression on his face and the tiny details you hadn’t picked up before. The butchered hand-made coasters you and your best friend did a few years back; the tree topper that your teacher gave to every student in the third grade, complete with your school picture right in the middle of the star; the tree skirt with the maroon stain you couldn’t get out no matter how many times you washed it, but you still kept it because it used to be your grandmother’s.

“Bucky,” you say, turning to face him, painfully aware of how tight your voice sounds, “I love it. Thank you. Thank you.”

Your hands find his face and bring it down to yours; he kisses you sweetly, slowly, fingers trailing down your spine. You pull back, shaking your head.

“How did you do all of this in fifteen minutes?”

He looks sheepish, maybe even a little embarrassed. “Well, I kind of had a vision in my head of how I wanted it to look.”

You croak out a laugh that could also be a sob, depending on who’s listening. And it’s Bucky, so he hears both versions, carefully threading his warm hand through your hair, thumb tracing over your ear. A shiver runs down you, your body running hot and cold all at once; he pulls you into his chest without a word.

“Y’know,” you begin after a slightly teary-eyed moment or two, “I also had something planned for you. I also had a vision.” You lift your head to smirk at him. “But looks like I’ll save it for next year.”

He nudges your nose with his, grinning ear-to-ear. “Oh, yeah? Well, not to pat myself on the back, but I think it’s gonna be pretty hard to follow this.”

“So competitive,” you tease, using your tip-toes to meet his lips with yours. He hums his agreement into your mouth.

When you break apart again, he says, “Baby, when it comes to showing you how much I love you, you know I’m always going overboard.”

You laugh. “I don’t stand a chance, do I?”

“You can try,” he murmurs, burying his face into your neck. You stroke the back of his, reveling in the warmth, the softness, the smell of him. Your eyes land on the stockings again.

“What’s in there?” you ask, nudging him toward the shelf. He looks down at you, a gleam in his eyes, before reaching in and pulling out a small picture frame with a ribbon attached to the top. He gives it to you.

In your hands is a pocket-sized picture of you and Bucky. It’s one of your first ones together, captured unknowingly, but fully appreciated by the both of you once Sam showed you it. The two of you were standing at a table at Sam’s house, a heap of pictures scattered across the tabletop; Bucky had his right arm around your shoulders, hand dangling close to your face, and the left arm was pointed to a specific photograph, one with him and Steve. You were leaning into him, arms crossed and expression content as you listened to him explain the story behind it. You were about two months into dating at the time, right when Bucky was beginning to open up, trust you, share things he had never shared before.

“Merry Christmas, honey,” he murmurs into your hair, kissing you there. He holds out a hook.

You attach the hook to the ribbon before reaching around him to hang it up, front and center, on the tree. You both step back to admire it, his arm around your shoulders just like it is in the picture. Smiling to yourself, you look up at him, arms encircling his waist.

“Merry Christmas, Bucky,” you whisper, and place a soft kiss to his cheek.

ೀ For you

“Yeah, I got it,” he mutters, eyes dark and full of ideas that dry out your mouth and send it all south. “‘Don’t stop, don’t stop.’ Is that all you can say right now? Huh, baby?”

He bends down to lick a mean stripe up your center. You groan in frustration, pissed he’s not giving you enough, pissed he’s enjoying this way too much, pissed he’s got you exactly where he wants you.

Both of his hands tighten around your thighs, bringing him closer to the leaking heat between them.

“Come on, tell me what you want,” he teases, mouth hovering over where your body craves him the most. You wriggle your hips towards him, seeking an end to the torture he’s inflicting, but he keeps you pinned in place. One corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk.

“Bucky,” you snap, “just eat me out already. Please. God, please, just put your mouth on me right n—ah-ah-ah!”

His lips capture your clit and pull. You exhale a hiss as he rolls it with his tongue, up and down, side to side, fast then slow; there’s no rhyme or reason, no pattern, and it drives you insane. The pressure in your belly rises and falls like a plane in turbulence. Is he trying to give you an orgasm, or break your will to live?

Just as your legs begin to twitch from oversensitive nerves, his tongue flattens over your clit, soothing you before it slips through your folds. He repeats this again and again until your whimpers are whines, shrill and impatient.

Your hand drops from your hair to the mattress with a smack. “Christ, Bucky, you’re a tease.”

He has the audacity to laugh.

His beard scratches your thighs, your folds, a sharp contrast from his wicked tongue. Despite the chaos he’s subjecting you to, you’ve become downright soaked, the sounds of his mouth on your pussy filthy and detailed. Bucky presses open-mouthed kisses to your center, receiving a shiver in response every single time.

“Ungh— need you. Need you inside. Now. Please.”

You’re getting embarrassed with the amount of begging you’ve done tonight.

Bucky pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. You know you’ve said the magic words, but he’s also a man that follows through. “Inside, like this?”

He presses his thumb to your opening. It’s dry and rough and makes your walls flutter quickly at the thought of it going in. But that’s not what you mean.

“Bucky,” you breathe. He applies more pressure until it’s almost inside of you. A bead of sweat runs down your forehead.

And then it’s gone. You let out a dry sob at the loss of contact, head falling back on the pillows. Bucky’s quiet as he observes.

It’s been a while since you’ve had a night like this one: when he plays with you until you fall apart, using gentle touches that sometimes lead to nowhere, sometimes lead to too much, and loaded words that bring out the worst in you. He likes to watch your reaction to each of his ministrations, face stony in concentration as he commits all of them to memory.

His breath fans your center, your body jolting off the bed. “Inside,” he murmurs, “like this?”

His tongue enters you without warning; his nose drags up your slit as he pushes in deeper. A groan rips from your chest as he hums straight into your center. It’s good it’s so, so good but you need more—

“James, I swear to God.”

You reach down and grip his hair with purpose. He makes a noise caught somewhere between a yelp and a moan before it dissolves into a dark chuckle.

“Greedy girl,” he says, sounding like an insult and praise at the same time. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous tonight.”

With one last push inside of you, his tongue rolls out to begin his grand finale. He frenches your pussy with devotion and recklessness, pulling your legs in around his head. He squeezes you, you squeeze him. Your spine stretches like a cat’s as you arch off the bed, hips canting down to increase the pressure building inside of you. He laps at the drips of arousal leaking from you, mixing it with his own spit and lathering the rest of your pussy in it. He mouths at your clit before drawing stars with his tongue at your opening. He’s everywhere all at once.

And the whole time, he watches you. Doesn’t glance down, doesn’t break eye contact. He just stares.

Does he have no shame?

You’ve been reduced to an hysterical state, nothing but moans and his name dropping from your mouth like a Bucky cult mantra.

“Oohhhh, Buck…”

“Bucky-yyyy—”

“Ja-ah-ames!”

In a brief show of mercy, Bucky drags his middle finger over your hip and along your thigh until it reaches your center, offering a half-hearted warning before he slips it in; it still rocks your world and tilts your center of balance and makes you release of choice string of curses, as if he hadn’t warned you at all.

Bucky exhales like he’s feeling everything you feel — and from the way he’s rolling his hips forward, maybe he is.

“Look at you,” he muses, throwing a chaste kiss on your clit. “Coming apart like this, like you haven’t ever been touched before. Like I haven’t made you take my cock every night this month.” He licks his lips, eyes flicking to your balled up fists, your messy hair, your heaving chest; he smirks. “Think my girl might have overestimated herself.”

Through the haze of arousal, you have enough of your wits about you to feel a ping of irritation. “Need more,” you moan, eyes defiantly finding his. “Still need you inside.”

“More? You sure you’re up for it, baby?”

Though breathless, you still find the energy to scowl at him. “Don’t…even…”

He answers by spitting directly onto your clit, letting it slide down your folds until he catches it with his tongue, right where your little button is. He pushes in, not a sliver of space between his face and your center. You’re mewling like a damn cat.

Good Lord. And all who are Holy above. Is this what Heaven is?

Pleasure is building into something solid and real and so close as he continues to feast on your spread. His finger curls and presses into the most sensitive parts of your walls, gentle, deliberate, and unrushed compared to his mouth. He wraps his lips around your clit once more, sucking as his tongue swirls it side-to-side, over and over and over again until your eyes are looking at your brain.

Your orgasm explodes like the sun rising over the horizon; hips lifting off the bed, heels digging into his back, a long and drawn out moan torn from your lungs. You’re tingling. You’re floating. You’re dragging air into your lungs desperately.

Bucky’s pulling you back to earth by mouthing at your pussy, licking up your folds, sliding his finger in and out slowly; he’s extending the feeling but grounding you with his touch, and for that, you’re grateful. You throw your arms over your face, shaking, panting, and embarrassed at the fact that you want another — need it — right away. How can someone make you feel so good — too good — yet still make you feel like it wasn’t enough?

Is this what addiction is? If so, you’re fully addicted to Bucky Barnes.

“Still want more?”

His voice breaks the post-orgasm stillness, and you feel the heat rush to your cheeks.

You pause before nodding, still hiding your face from him, but he needs to hear you.

“Words, baby. I’ve asked you nicely what you want. Don’t make me ask again. And look at me when I talk to you.”

Whimpering from his lips brushing your center while he speaks, you obey his command, pulling your arms sluggishly from your face. He’s watching you with so much sinful interest, eyes wide and bright and focused, you can’t help but go shy on him.

“I…need…more, Bucky…please…”

He smirks. “If I give her more, will my girl be good? Will she take what I give her?”

You erupt in goosebumps when he says your favorite words, nodding frantically, another dry sob exploding from your chest. Oh, God, yes — you’ll be his good girl. The goodest girl. His special good girl—

“She asked for it, so she should take it,” Bucky murmurs, placing featherlight kisses along your thighs. His finger still pumps slowly in and out, keeping you stretched and open. You’re watching his actions, struck dumb with want and anticipation and the retreating bliss, and his eyes snap up to yours. They’re no longer blue, you notice with a shiver, just blown pupils and desire.

“But if she can’t, I’ll still make her take it.”

You think you black out — just for a second.

Bucky’s all business as he watches you absorb his words, leaning in slightly to wet his lips against your slick pussy; he nuzzles in a little harder as you begin to stir, the pressure inside of you kickstarting again. And this time, it’s back with a vengeance.

“Oh, God,” you whisper.

Bucky’s slowly easing his finger out of you with a few strokes; he just barely grazes that little notch inside of you that makes you see stars when touched, triggering a beautiful wail from you, and only then does he stop.

Because there’s only one way Bucky can reach the notch to give it the attention it deserves.

He pulls back with one last lick from bottom to top, smacking his lips in appreciation; you’re seeing red over the fact that he looks so calm, so composed, like he just read the paper instead of handing you nirvana.

His eyes find yours again as he stands. In the dark room, half of him is wrapped in shadows, the other half bathed in moonlight, and all of him is burning with desire.

Bucky lifts his shirt over his head sans urgency, watching how you squirm onto your forearms to see better, to get closer, your teeth sinking into your lower lip. His face is unreadable as he undoes the clasp on his pants, at the same leisurely pace, and pushes them down with his briefs. Your exhale is short and sharp through your nose as he bares himself to you; your pussy throbbing, nipples aching, and heart expanding with a glorious amount of love for him. He notices, notices your eyes zeroing in on his cock like it’s the first time all over again, and he smiles — cheeky and knowing.

Your pulse is pounding in your ears when he climbs over you, looking outrageously cute for the situation, and you almost feel predatory for wanting him to manhandle you — or to manhandle him. You’ll take either.

He slides in between your legs with the precision of a fighter pilot, warm hand grabbing a healthy amount of your waist while the vibranium hand steadies himself by your head, careful not to tangle in your hair. His skin on your skin feels like protection and pleasure all at once.

“Bucky,” you whisper, feeling the hard tip of him nestle in the crook between your thigh and your center. It’s warm and wet, leaking with excitement. You want to kiss it, grind on it, feel it in your hands and on your tongue. You reach down to stroke it a few times, fingers brushing over your clit as you do. The hand on your waist tightens, and he groans when your hand circles him completely, but he’s still smiling.

“You want this?” he asks, lips trailing from the corner of your mouth and down your jaw. “Want my cock, sweetheart? Can’t keep your hands off it, huh?”

Your pride has left the room. You’re salivating on command as he dirty talks you in a low tone, his warm hand venturing from your waist and around your hip to clutch your thigh.

You squeeze him, enough to pull a grunt from deep within his chest, and snap at his ear with your teeth.

“Can’t live without it, Buck. Need it every day, all the time. Need you. Let me have it, please, Bucky. Please.”

His chest rumbles with satisfied laughter — he loves that you give as good as you get.

“A minute ago you forgot your own name,” he whispers, lips collecting the sweat on your throat. “And you still beg for my cock.”

“I’m a woman who knows what she wants,” you breathe as he bites into the skin between your neck and your shoulder.

“And what do you want?” Bucky asks, finally lifting your leg around his waist.

“I want you to fuck me.”

He pulls back to meet your eyes, grinning again. “Whatever my girl wants.”

Bucky’s cock finds your entrance with ease, sliding in with little resistance, thanks to his warm up performance. You delight in the soft stretch, the feeling of being filled by him. But once he’s halfway in, he slows to a crawl; you both let out hisses as your walls close in around him. It’s a normal occurrence, but it still brings the two of you to your knees — figuratively and sometimes literally — as you attempt to adjust.

“Come on, honey, take it all,” Bucky murmurs before covering your lips with his in a searing kiss. You moan as you roll your tongue against his, eyes fluttering from the taste, the warmth; he’s sweet and sour with your arousal, swollen with overuse. It sends tingles down your spine.

Your cunt yields another half inch to him, pulling a sharp gasp from you. He groans and grabs hold of your waist again, moving his hips around to carve out more room, which allows him another inch.

“Take it,” he says, sharper now, eyes on your face. “Be a good girl.”

“Yes, Bucky,” you breathe, meeting his gaze, “Feels so good.”

You roll your hips up, feeling full, feeling used, feeling like it’s no longer just your body, but his as well. This angle opens up his path and Bucky’s able to drive home, pushing to the hilt.

“Oh!” you gasp as he bottoms out, that notch inside of you finally, finally touched. His moan evolves into a chuckle while you blink the stars out of your eyes.

“My girl. There you go. Did so well.” He kisses you again, forehead pressed to yours. “Gonna be so good to you. Thank you.”

Your heart flutters when he expresses his gratitude, a new wave of warmth pooling down there. He sighs contentedly as he marvels in the feel of you wrapped around him. Tight and hot and made for him and him alone to fit into.

“How do you feel?” he asks gently, watching your face. You’re melted into the mattress by this point, feeling heavier than normal with Bucky inside of you; it’s like all the noise and thoughts in your head have slipped away for the moment. There’s only him, and the feel of every pulse and ridge of him inside your walls. Your smile is lazy as it curls your mouth.

“The best I’ve ever felt,” you say. Bucky chuckles again.

“Oh, yeah? Think I can make you feel even better.”

You hum, reaching up to share a long, slow kiss. “Only one way to find out.”

Bucky buries his face into your neck. He pulls out a fraction before slowly pushing back in. He always builds it up, never skipping a minute of making it easier for you. Each time he pulls back, he’s farther out than before, but it’s your whine from the lack of feeling him that lets him know you’re ready.

Because Bucky Barnes likes to fuck. Hard.

Once he hears that little sound you make, his mind goes blank. White-hot pleasure trickles down his spine and travels through every vein and nerve ending in his body, turning him into something less human, more animal, and double the loverboy. There’s not a noise or twitch of yours that doesn’t make his heart explode with adoration, especially when you’re underneath him like this, curled around his body and chasing his lips with yours, eyes expectant and trusting. If his love for you were a tangible thing with weight, it’d crush him to a fine powder — no, a mist. He’d cease to exist under the full force of it.

And when you’re lying wide open for him, ready to take whatever he has for you, that love only grows exponentially bigger.

Warm hand shaking, he uses it to cup your face, thumb gently sweeping across your cheek.

“I love you,” he says fiercely, quietly. He slides his mouth over yours in another heart-stopping kiss. You’re both breathless by the time he pulls back. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Your eyes close. And Bucky begins to fuck you.

He pulls out until just the tip remains, holding it there for a moment, one painful, exciting moment, before plunging back in. The force of his hips pushes you up the bed. A moan falls from your mouth, shaky and lingering.

He repeats. His strokes are long and deep, emphasizing every inch of his cock; you know it so well that you could close your eyes and draw a portrait from just the feel of it alone. He’s back to holding your leg, but this time it’s to keep you open. The stretch is a minuscule nuisance, one you can easily ignore while rolling your hips up to meet his thrusts. You clench around him as his tip begins to routinely brush the notch deep inside you, a surge of arousal spilling down his cock and dripping onto the bed. He swears under his breath but his pace does not falter. The sound of your bodies meeting is messy, slippery. Music to your ears.

“Always so tight for me,” he breathes, mostly to himself, awe in his voice. Your core is deliciously warm from the friction of his cock against your walls, turning your thoughts soft and hazy.

Bucky picks up speed, spurred on by the noises leaving your mouth, which is slack jaw and drooling onto the pillow. He thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful than this moment right now.

Your hips take a beating from his movements. Every other thrust, he stops to grind his pelvis into yours, breathing deeply and muttering praise non-stop while he enjoys his cock touching the deepest parts of you.

“Look at you. Look at you take it. Good girl.”

He brushes his tongue against yours.

“You don’t have to do a thing. Let me,” he mutters, earning a whimper from you. He kisses your nose, your cheek, your jaw, leaving no part of you untouched by him. His warm hand slips from your thigh and lands between your bodies, where his thumb applies just enough pressure to your throbbing clit. The air leaves your lungs, your nails digging double-time into his back, marking him with red-hot stripes. Sparks are flying up your spine, making you twitch and convulse as your body chases the feeling down every inch of skin. The heat between you and your boyfriend, the way your bodies mold against each other like an original Rodin, steals every drop of your focus; there’s nothing else in this world but him. Your walls clench at the idea of staying in this moment with him for the rest of eternity.

Feeling you tighten around him, Bucky shudders and lets out a strangled moan, but finds it within himself to throw you a cocky look mid-thrust. You’d be annoyed with him if he wasn’t touching you exactly how you were dying to be touched.

“Is this what you wanted, baby?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

You barely let out a gasp, nodding against his shoulder, the delicious push, roll and grind of his hips against yours rendering you mute; he nibbles at your ear while his thrusts keep up the steady pace. Smack—smack—smack. Your head lolls to the side.

“Don’t go quiet on me now. Talk to me — is this what you wanted?”

You struggle to remember words. “F-feel so…so full. Can’t — think…”

Well, that’s one way to put how you’re feeling.

Bucky gobbles it up, groaning in earnest as he feels your body twitch around him. His fingers on your clit are growing sloppy as he fucks you faster, but the sounds you make tell him that you’re close.

It isn’t much longer before you’re curling yourself into him, the heat in your core tightening, coiling, burning. He feels it all, feels your walls cling to him tighter than before.

“Bucky,” you warn, voice high and trembling. He cuts you off with another bruising kiss, swallowing the rest of your whine. You twist in his hold, head jerking back, and he watches you welcome your orgasm with downright obsessive eyes.

“Fuck,“ he gasps as your mouth falls open. “Let me have it, baby. Give it to me.”

You comply, fulfilling your destiny by breaking apart on his cock. Your whole body shudders around him, vibrating with the pleasure that washes over and drowns you even more viciously than the last time.

He fucks you through it, talks you through it.

“That’s it, honey — so fucking beautiful. God, she—she’s holding on so tight. Doesn’t — wanna — let — go—“ He punctuates each word with a cruel thrust. Your legs shake around him. “She needed my cock — s-so bad—.”

You cry out softly as your orgasm leaves you wrecked and sensitive, the notch inside of you properly and lovingly abused.

Bucky’s breath is a shallow rattle as he rushes to finish with you. Where his thrusts lack in rhythm, they make up for in force; he pounds into you, eyes on yours, before colliding with your hips and stilling. Bucky lets out a low moan. His release is powerful, rolling down his body in one giant wave of pleasure, so strong it knocks him over. His metal arm folds as he collapses, barely keeping himself up by his forearm so that he doesn’t crush you. Your mind is spinning through an endless abyss of pleasure as you feel his come fill you up and slip out the sides of his cock.

Only half your brain is working as you move your hands up and down his back, soothing the scratches you left behind. His breath is warm and wet against your neck. He slowly presses a soft kiss to the hallow between your collarbones.

“You okay?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod. “Yeah, baby. More than okay.”

He lifts his head to meet your eyes. A gleam of possessiveness in them as he takes in the state of your hair, the sweat on your forehead, the red flush of your lips and cheeks. Very subtly, you feel his cock stir inside of you. He grinds his hips down gently, just to feel, and you offer him a whimper.

“You’re a dream,” he mumbles, kissing your cheek. “Don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You sigh as he pulls out slowly, leaving you raw and aching and empty. He rolls off of you to catch his breath, and the two of you lie there for a moment, reveling in the peace of post-coital bliss.

“I love you,” you say.

“I love you more,” he answers, before pulling you to his chest, still hot and sticky from sweat. His lips brush the space between your eyebrows. “Thank you for being you. And for letting me be me.”

You press kisses to his skin, sliding a leg over his hips and enjoying the feel of his cum slipping down your thighs.

“Don’t want anyone else but you, Buck.”

It’s quiet for a moment as he strokes your back and presses a hundred little kisses to your brow. But the outside world slowly creeps in, and you’re shivering from being naked for a little too long.

Bucky notices and sits up, hands reluctantly leaving your skin as he slides off the bed and moves for the bathroom.

“Can you grab me a towel?” you call to him.

“Yeah, I got it,” he calls back.

my first published post! happy holidays everyone, I hope you’re all enjoying time off from work or school or enjoying being with friends and loved ones.

more to come! this is just the beginning ;)

(taglist tbd)

- Sam 🤍

dividers credit to @uzmacchiato !!!

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