I can't control their fear, only my own

Bucky isn't rough. I want to refute many things, including how he's portrayed as a rough man, an expert in sex, brusque and sadistic. Excuse me? Are we talking about the same man who grew up in the 1940s, who was used as a killing machine for over 70 years, the same man who can't even sleep in a soft bed because he has nightmares and therefore sleeps on the floor? Yeah, no, we have very different ideas.

My Bucky is the one who sits uncomfortably, doesn't know what to do with his hands—shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his smiles look like grimaces, his brow is almost always furrowed, sometimes he forgets to wash his clothes, he's not the best at shaving, he's uncomfortable in large crowds, he sighs a lot like the old man he is, if his face isn't expressionless then it's the least discreet when it comes to judging someone.

He finds it difficult to be polite, not because he is rude, but because he doesn't know what to say after the other person's “thank you” and nice smile. He pets all the cats on the street, helps elderly people cross the street, and swallows his compliments when he sees a pretty person because he feels he might sound like a stalker when he wants to say something nice from the heart. He likes to leave tips, do community service, walk at night, enjoy silence, and read until he falls asleep. I have a very specific vision of the character.

He's an excellent boyfriend. Have you had partners before him? They pale in comparison; no one can beat him. He's caring, polite, gentlemanly, romantic, funny, thoughtful—this man has it all. He knows how you like your coffee, the exact time you eat breakfast, how to iron your clothes, the type of shoes you wear, how you comb your hair, how you walk down the street—I said it all. 

He loves details like flowers, sweets, or any small gift at least once a month. He may not know his own birthday, but he would never forget yours. If you ever mention an important date in front of him, he will remember it, along with the looks you give him at the stores you see when you walk together on the street. You are her world. She cannot imagine a life without you, without waking up with you in her arms or your care when she is having a bad day and the memories become too painful to fight. 

He's scared. Isn't that obvious? Scared of messing up, of scaring you, of hurting you, even of looking ridiculous because he still has some pride to protect. He has no idea what people like to receive in bed these days. He barely knew what girls liked in the old days, so now? What the hell is a kink?

He knows he's very lost, he has no idea what to do, how to do it, or why dirty talk is suddenly not taboo. Yeah, he's a flirt, he's not innocent, just clumsy. The man has his fantasies, damn it, he spent 70 years with possible accumulated sexual frustration, but it becomes so big that... he doesn't know what to do with it. He doesn't know where to start or where to end. He'll accept your help, but that doesn't mean he'll magically become a beast. He knows the basics, the basics of penetration and orgasms. I don't think he was taught much during the years of brutal war.

His limits are easy to learn. At first, they weren't there, when it was just make-out sessions that turned hot, leading to sex. He survived on the basis that no one cared what he thought, what he felt, what he had to say—he thought it was normal for you to decide everything, even for him. Once you did something he didn't like; you pulled his hair too hard, it hurt him to the root and his eyes went blank, dead. He jumped up, almost looking like he was going to hit you, but he realized where he was and that you hadn't done it on purpose.

He discovered that his boundaries were as important as yours, that you both needed to know how far you could go before he stopped liking certain treatments. At first it was difficult for him, but after thinking about it a little more, he came to simple conclusions: no hair pulling, humiliation, hard blows—literally anything that reminded him of HYDRA.

He gets turned on when you climb onto his lap. No matter what kind of body you have, he can handle it—he can lift a truck with one hand if he wants to, carry five times your weight, sit you on his shoulder and barely notice you're there, making sure you don't feel insecure about it. That's why, when you straddle his hips, his brain short-circuits.

He says it's okay, but his cheeks turn red, his voice becomes hoarse, and suddenly he looks everywhere except at your face. He likes having you on his lap, staying curled up together forever as if the world didn't exist, being the big spoon, having his head in the crook of your neck, his beard tickling your exposed shoulder skin—it's magical for him. 

But when you're making out, when he feels like he can't breathe properly, that he needs to rest his forehead against yours, when his pupils dilate, unable to take his piercing gaze off yours, that's when he realizes that you've suddenly moved from having your legs over his to moving on his lap, your hips on his, your hands on his face and pulling his face to yours. His breath catches, he struggles to keep up, but a hoarse moan rumbles in his chest, unable to escape, and that's when his hands, heavy and hesitant, rest on your hips, closing his eyes and matching your enthusiasm.

Jealousy isn't a word for him, not in the conventional sense. He doesn't mind you talking to other people, having friends, leaving the house, going out partying. He's used to being alone, he trusts you... he doesn't trust others. Why would he let someone else touch his partner? That's ridiculous! Getting too close? It's your personal space, and his too!

He's possessive but never toxic. He knows you're his, body and soul. He knows you're the person he's committed to spending the rest of his life with, the only one who keeps him stable, the one who makes him a better person. When he sees someone getting too close to you, he looks like an angry Doberman, standing behind them, his soft metal arm wrapping around your waist, his chin on your shoulder, and his killer stare that earned him the title of Winter Soldier. The other person never heard from you again.

He loves kissing your neck. It's probably his favorite part of your body, burying his head there when his back is to you, his arms around your waist, swaying from side to side and letting himself get dizzy there. 

Sometimes he wants to tell you he wants to take it a step further, but the words won't come out. After a deep sigh, he starts kissing all the skin he can reach. It's when he bites your skin, leaving small marks that become more and more pronounced, that you realize he wants to take you to the bedroom. 

He loves waking up marked. Scratches on his back, bruises on his ribs, bites on his biceps, hickeys on his neck, shoulders, chest, and even thighs. When he has to get up to brush his teeth and see how he ended up the night before, a smug smirk spreads across his face as he looks over his shoulder at the cause (you) of it all.

Yeah, he likes to mark you, but he's more discreet than he likes to be seen. I mean, he likes to be marked as if you were an animal marking its territory, but he's more passive when it comes to marking you. Unless he's too jealous.

He's not the horniest person in the world. He has other things to do, he's a busy man; fucking isn't his priority. But he starts to get to know you, to love you, to promise you a life together, and he knows he's lost, both romantically and sexually. At first, he surprises himself imagining himself between your legs, but after the second or third mental image, he starts to get a taste for it. He's quiet, he doesn't say anything about it, he keeps it all to himself and just watches, like an animal watching its prey. 

Suddenly his touches become more prolonged—one hand on your hip, another on your chest, kisses on your thighs when his head is in your lap, deeper gazes, more intense kisses. He knows what he's doing (partly) when he takes his time getting to know your body beyond cuddling on rainy nights, when Alpine snuggles between you and the world stops. 

He doesn't know what to do when he's horny. When you're not around and suddenly... it happens, he gets nervous. He feels that a handjob isn't enough, that he needs more than just his hand. He doesn't know how to use Pornhub, so that's not an option. He might call you; they've even had phone sex without knowing it existed. When you get home, he's full of energy, more than he should be—he does things very quickly, from dinner to pampering you because he wants to get you into bed, but above all, he's still a gentleman.

Once he was on a mission, the schedules were too tight because of the distance, and calling you wasn't an option, so he tried to jerk off—he didn't like it. Well, he moaned, he came, he had spasms, but it wasn't the same. When he caught his breath, he felt... unsatisfied, something was missing, and he immediately felt frustrated and bitter, almost ashamed for having put on a whole show only to end up feeling inadequate.

His moans are like purrs. He's not very loud, actually quite quiet. Growls, broken sighs, heavy breathing; he doesn't moan directly, but when he does, it's hoarse, a purr with a broken tone at the end. Any touch or brush provokes him, agitating his breathing, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek because he's sure his moans aren't very masculine.

Going right there—he curses a lot, trying to keep his voice hoarse and deep, but it actually becomes quite high-pitched. King of whimpers, especially when his thrusts become frantic and fast, he's a mess of crying, begging, and compliments that go nowhere. That's when his brain shuts down and he looks like a hormonal teenager instead of the hundred-year-old adult he is when he's close to climax. When he cums, he hisses loudly, his teeth clenched and his shoulders stiff. If you tell him you like to hear it, maybe he won't be so embarrassed.

He's very serious in bed. Let me explain myself better, because he takes intimacy and the moment very seriously, wanting to give you his full attention, the time he dedicates to you, how he takes care of you, but that doesn't mean he's not provocative. Seeing you eventually destroyed by him makes him smirk smugly because it inflates his ego and strokes his pride to know that he did all that to you. 

He makes a couple of jokes, flirty comments, hoarse laughter between his teeth, teasing touches—he's serious, but there comes a time when he likes to tease you, push you to your limits, or see you pout because he didn't give you what you wanted. 

He has a lot of resistance. We all know that move, “the super soldier with a lot of resistance,” yes, but even before the serum he was already resistant. I believe he had the ideology of “virgin until marriage” like many others—although it never happened, he still had the same strength to last at least four rounds with one or two glasses of water and a few minutes of rest in between. After the serum, the number rose to eight, with no breaks.

He does it for you, he wouldn't want to hurt you, he usually brings you water or a snack you can have while you catch your breath. Your body trembling, the adrenaline still at its peak, sweat beading on your skin, tears welling up, gasping for breath. The bastard is proud but doesn't say anything because he knows he might not get any more sex for the rest of the night.

Intensity? It depends a lot. He likes the old-fashioned way: going slow, romantic and passionate, touching every part of your body, feeling how your insides respond to him, paying attention to your noises, expressions, movements—he hates it when you hide anything from him, he has memorized your body so well that he can predict what you're going to do when you both try something new. But.

Yes, I know I already said that this man is not rough, but let me explain. He's not rough, being intense is different, at least in my language. I mean, if he's already made you come twice, he's still horny and ready for more, his thrusts become deeper, faster, more desperate, he's looking for something even he doesn't know what it is, he goes beyond his release but keeps his feet on the ground wanting to fill you with more of just him.

He likes traditional positions. Having you face down or riding him are his favorites, if he had to choose. On one hand, his chest pressed against your back, one hand on your hip and the other next to your head—he can feel everything, there's something about that heat of sweat and skin on skin that motivates him, makes him feel primitive and active all the time.

On the other hand, when you're on top, it's a slightly different story. He's with his back against the headboard, his head thrown back, his hands lazily on your thighs, sometimes on your waist, and he lets you do everything. They're different contexts. In one, he wants to be in control, to feel that you belong to him and will stay with him. In the other, he lets you remind him of that.

He has a disturbing fixation with blowjobs. There's something about having you kneeling between his legs, with that deer-in-the-headlights look, so submissive and desperate, waiting for a command, your hands on your lap, your shoulders hunched—it always makes him stupidly hard. Honorable mention goes to how it feels in your mouth, hot and wet, saliva running down its length and your chin, or when you let him cum inside, bonus points if you swallow.

It was funny how he didn't know why you were kneeling after a few kisses that left him with a tension in his pants he hadn't felt since he was a teenager, then he understood when your hands, warm and fleeting, were on his thighs. His face of disoriented confusion changed abruptly.

Actually, there's no happy trail. I'm sad too, really, but let me explain. We all know that the short hair in FATWS was because it reminded him of the other guy, that HYDRA kept his hair long so they could manipulate him more easily, that the abuse was more cruel, so don't doubt that as soon as he had the chance, he shaved it off completely. Maybe after a while he stopped doing it so often, it became tiring and time-consuming, but the care was still there.

If you ever mentioned that you liked his happy stubble, or hair in general, he may have genuinely considered leaving it, it would also save him a little time, but it's still clean and short, nothing exaggerated, I dare say a little curly, but nothing that would make him think that generations are changing too much for his liking.

Quickies aren't his favorite, but public restrooms, gyms, parking lots, any empty public place is a potential sex scene if he's horny enough. I already said he's a bit jealous and possessive; he doesn't like being seen with you. For him, your body is too intimate and private to be caught. What he likes isn't the possibility of someone seeing them, it's being able to cover your mouth with his hand to hear your strangled moans in his ear. That's what pushes him over the edge, plus he can be ridiculously fast if he puts his mind to it.

He loves your thighs. I know what I'm talking about. This man doesn't have a favorite season; he doesn't like to sweat, but the cold is worse, the torments of his past actions every time he feels a bitterly cold blizzard hit his face. In my personal opinion, autumn is the quietest season, the one he would feel most comfortable in.

I've strayed from the topic, but he swears he loves summer when he sees you walk into the kitchen for a glass of water—wearing a tank top, your hair slicked back, and oh, those old shorts you once bought at a thrift store. They're old but very comfortable, cool, and practical. They sit about two fingers below your hips, and every time you bend over for something, Bucky is grateful to have lived long enough to be there and just... watch you. Politely. Respectfully. Like a man who has accumulated 70 years of sexual frustration.

He tends to ask you to sit on his face. I'll pick up on the previous point: at first you were unsure or didn't take it seriously, but after he practically gave you a damn slide show on why you should sit on his face, you agreed. You gave him what he wanted. Oh, you did it, you lowered your entire weight, you elicited a guttural moan from him, your thighs around his head, his hands squeezing the flesh, even leaving marks from forgetting the force he exerted with his metal hand. It was a bit selfish of him not to give you pleasure in the conventional sense—he didn't care if you were dressed or naked on top of him, he wanted to feel suffocated by your weight. Once he came like that, he hadn't even touched himself.

He discovered that you like being choked. You told him, you weren't very discreet about it and one day you just decided to tell him naturally. His reaction was... strange. It wasn't fear, but you couldn't read his eyes; he was confused, even angry. He had fought so hard to stop being seen as a weapon, and then out of nowhere you came along and told him you liked that kind of abuse? Yes, it was difficult the first few times. 

He finally agreed, as reluctant as he was to use his metal hand, you were very insistent on the subject, and after a couple of pleas (and blowjobs) he decided to do it. He already liked it with his flesh hand; the magic was in feeling your pulse beating under his fingers, how you trembled, and how your throat moved when you swallowed. Trying it with the metal hand was quite a different change. He came to miss feeling under his fingertips all the changes your body made when you trembled in the heat of the moment, but he got used to it because he liked how you looked better than how you felt. 

He has a peculiar taste in praise. In his defense, it wasn't even his fetish to begin with. It started out innocently enough, with him congratulating and praising you after a successful mission. “Good job, doll,” “hey, you did great,” “don't stop, you've got it!” 

Over time, he started to turn a blind eye, as if he didn't notice how your body trembled, how you blushed or looked away, as if you wanted to avoid eye contact; as if that made him read your thoughts. Your poorly acted act fell apart when he accidentally blurted out “good girl/good boy”; nothing sexual, he just wanted to make a silly joke. That's when he stopped pretending not to notice the overly specific way you stifled a moan or became almost even more submissive without having done anything. 

You liked it, and he found out he did too. Seeing how your body melted, how you would do anything to get him to say those two words, even slight humiliations for which he later apologized, although you were not at all sorry, was what made him realize that intimacy was more than just sex, that there were games he could play to feel more alive, more personal. It was a silly secret. 

He was pretty bad at dirty talk. He didn't know what to do, he tried to say what you wanted to hear, but since he didn't feel it as intensely as you did, he felt uncomfortable. He felt bad. You had to comfort him and tell him not to worry because you knew he was doing his best.

Two weeks later, he knew what to do. He took an intensive course visiting dark corners of the internet (and even books) to learn what to do, and he started to do it naturally. With his raspy voice in your ear, when he's out of breath, dizzy but flooded with pleasure, he started to get really good at it. This goes hand in hand with what I mentioned about compliments.

Role-playing games are very weird to him. He's tried them, but he just doesn't get them—you once had a serious conversation with him about what they were and how you could try them, and he laughed. It was an awkward laugh, the kind that comes unexpectedly from how awkward everything was getting, breaking the silence and all the tension. Any hint of excitement that had grown while you were talking died right there.

Sometimes they work, sometimes they don't. He believes that sex shouldn't be complicated, but secretly he likes the idea of acting things out, even if just a little. Nothing too crazy, no mentions of affairs, threesomes, age play, or illegal perversions—he's very strict about his limits, even though your pleasure is still his priority.

He didn't know sex toys existed. In fact, it's quite funny how he found out about them. He was cleaning your room, you weren't home, so he decided to clean your closet because you had a lot of dirty clothes, poorly hung, and messy, which was starting to bother him. It was awkwardly funny to have to explain to him what dildos were and why you had one in a box hidden in your closet.

He insisted so much on having one to feel the same as you that the look of seriousness and determination on his face when they entered the store was ridiculous. He actually liked them, despite himself, perhaps more to use them just thinking about being with you than in bed, but now he also has a box in his closet.

Once he asked you to tie his hands. The last time had been very rough, he admitted that he had left bruises from his hands (especially the metal one) on your skin, and although that awakened a primitive desire he didn't know existed, he still felt bad because he knew he had enough strength to break your bones if he put in the slightest effort. He told himself it was for the greater good, a punishment for mistreating and hurting you the night before, but the punishment became more of a reward when he realized that, in fact, he liked it.

Having his hands above his head, being vulnerable, struggling to try to touch you, drove him crazy. 

A fantasy he would never admit to is fucking while high. He wants to be the one who's intoxicated. It was a sudden desire, wanting to be uninhibited, relaxed, as time passes more slowly, everything more intense; while he's inside you. He didn't even imagine himself moving, just being inside you, whimpering and kissing your shoulder while you took care of him.

Yes, it was a strange fantasy for him, he had never taken drugs in his life and doubted that the effects of any drug would do anything to him because of the serum, but from time to time the memory comes to mind and he has to excuse himself to fix the tent in his pants without knowing why it was so weird. 

Just once you did it without protection, to experiment, and he went crazy. He's clean, more than clear, he jokes that he's immune to any STIs but still gets tested regularly to avoid slip-ups, but something worth mentioning is how stupidly fertile he is. Oh, and let's not even talk about how much semen he can release in a single cumshot; the bastard could start a sperm bank if he wanted to. If you're a woman, you should be a little scared. He discovered that he likes to cum inside you, to see his release come out of your hole, and he won't stop once you let him.

Even if you're a man, you're still not safe. This bastard has set himself the mental goal of getting you pregnant. He doesn't know how, but he knows he will. He says his sperm is different. At least let him try. 

He's not exactly a pervert... that you've seen before. He's different, discreet, to put it one way. Sometimes you can't find your underwear or your hoodie, then your perfumes go missing. The hugs from behind where he sniffs you without you noticing, how he discreetly watches when you change in the same room as him. I already said it, he takes his time discovering you, finding out what you like, researching it thoroughly on dubious websites. Don't check his Gmail. 

He discovers new things about himself when he starts experimenting on his own, when he starts trying things he'd only seen in magazines or circulating on the Internet, things that would have made him the weirdo of Brooklyn before. For a few days, he has trouble holding your gaze, embarrassed that you can see right through him and know what he's thinking about you at that moment. 

His gaze always speaks for him. When you wear such a spectacular outfit that staring at you isn't enough? He'll tear his skin off and it still won't be enough. The blue of his darkest eyes; his dilated pupils, his slightly heavy breathing, his restless hands, the way he doesn't take his eyes off you makes you think he's trying to kill you, but in reality you're killing him.

That change in his gaze, from how he goes from being a blank, expressionless, dead, boring canvas that says nothing about himself, to someone who devours you with his eyes. He bites his lip, looks you up and down, moistens his lips, clears his throat. He's fighting not to take you right there, he doesn't care if you're in public.

He tried to be submissive, and he was surprisingly good at it. He tried it out of curiosity, giving you control and letting you give him orders... and he had never ejaculated so hard or so loudly as he did that time. It was embarrassing—that's what turned him on. It was strange, even he didn't understand why following orders now made him feel good, then he realized that it was actually because it was you.

He kept it as his secret, he didn't want anyone else to know, not only out of embarrassment but also out of shyness. How could a man like him enjoy being bossed around, pampered, and spoiled while he was deep inside you? Every now and then you try it again, when he's too tired to move or he's being too much of a jerk in front of others.

He is the best at aftercare. When you catch your breath, he stands up, leans over to kiss you on the forehead, and heads to the kitchen. He prepares food and drink for you, hot and cold compresses, returns to the room, gives you a shower, dresses you, applies creams and oils, massages you, and then gives you everything he prepared in the kitchen. He is not satisfied until you fall asleep on his chest.

He falls asleep only after making sure you are at peace, then closes his eyes, lulled by your heartbeat and breathing, falling asleep with you in his arms—his right arm over your shoulders, his left arm lazily around your waist, gently, carefully, protectively, and sleeps until noon, when exhaustion seeps into his bones.

it was trivial this time, he’d gotten blood on your nice cream carpets, and by ‘gotten’, you meant a couple of spots that you’d already paid to get cleaned up. but you were dramatic and stubborn and never one to back down from an opportunity to wind your husband up.

“james! jamie. are you even listening to me?! hey.” you snapped your fingers, searching his face for any kind of recognition that he was actually listening— all you found was that cocky little smirk that told you he was enjoying this a little too much. “blood! all over my new carpets.”

“i’m listening, babydoll. no more blood on the carpets, don’t worry. next time, i’ll bleed to death in my office instead.” he chuckled, obviously taking this anything other than seriously. "and i seem to remember being the one who paid for those carpets, by the way."

he knew the game. he did something insignificant, you came to push his buttons, just to prove that you could and get away with it too, unlike multiple people that ended up in the bottom of the river the last time they tried.

“okay, mr dramatic. you weren’t even close to bleeding out! it was like, mild paper cut level of bleeding at best.”

“my ribs were broken.”

“mildy.” you shrugged as you folded your arms over your chest.

“right. mildly, sure.” he huffed as he mirrored you, crossing his arms across his chest just enough for the fabric to pull tight enough across his biceps for your breath to hitch, the bastard.

“stop distracting me with your body.” you rolled your eyes as you leant forward, resting your hands on his desk to steady yourself. you closed the gap between the two of you until your noses were practically brushing together as you stole every inch of his personal space. "i'm supposed to be mad at you."

but he knew better, you didn't have a single angry bone in your body when it came to him— and he loved it. no one else would dare to chastise him the way that you did, not even the closest people in his circle. but he found himself enjoying it, over the years, because he secretly enjoyed having someone who wasn't afraid to call him out— whether or not it was over something irrelevant. "right sure. mad at me. like you know what that is."

meanwhile, the couple of the boys had started to gather outside the office door. a couple were taking bets on how long it would take until you dropped the act— best odds were on fifteen minutes so far.

“reckon we should step in?” tony asked, eyebrow raised as he leant against the office door, eyes flickering between the two of you like he was watching a tennis match instead of an argument between husband and wife.

“step in? please, don’t be stupid. this is like foreplay to them, and trust me, it gets worse from here. she pushes his buttons, he flaunts around his muscles, boom. office door locked, clothes on the floor, you get the drill. trust me, he's exactly where he wants to be. he's a sucker for it." steve chuckled, clapping a hand on tony's shoulder before he pushed off the door. "he's whipped for her. mildly bleeding, majorly whipped."