#makeout heavy

He hums, distracted at first, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Different how, doll?”

You hesitate just long enough for him to glance down—and when he does, your cheeks are pink, your eyes not quite meeting his. That’s what throws him. You look like you’re about to ask permission to hold his hand, not… this.

“I wanna… take care of you.”

It lands slowly. Then all at once.

Bucky stills.

“…You mean—”

You nod before he can finish, biting your lip.

And God, the way he exhales—half laugh, half disbelief. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your cheek, “you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you cut in, soft but firm.

That’s new, too.

Bucky studies you for a second, searching your face, making sure. And when he finds nothing but quiet determination under all that sweetness, something in him shifts—warms, melts.

“…Yeah,” he says finally, voice lower now. “Okay.”

---

He has no idea.

He realizes very quickly that he has no idea.

It starts slow—hesitant, almost. You ease him back onto the bed like you’re not entirely sure of yourself, hands gentle, movements careful. Bucky props himself up on his elbows, watching you with that soft, affectionate smile he always gets when you’re nervous.

“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching for you. “We can stop anytime, alright?”

You nod.

But you don’t stop.

Because the moment you settle between his thighs, something changes.

It’s subtle at first—just a shift in your confidence, the way your hands steady, the way your focus sharpens. Bucky notices it in pieces, too distracted to put it together right away. He just knows that within minutes, his head is tipped back against the pillows, breath catching in a way it never has before.

“Sweetheart—” he starts, but it breaks off into something rougher.

You hum softly, and the sound alone makes his fingers curl into the sheets.

That’s when it hits him.

You’re not hesitant anymore.

You’re… intentional.

Every movement feels deliberate, like you know exactly what you’re doing—like you’ve been holding this back, tucked neatly behind that shy smile of yours for an entire year.

“Where the hell—” he breathes, voice strained, eyes blown wide as he looks down at you. “Baby, where did you—”

You glance up at him, innocent as ever.

And then you don’t stop.

Bucky swears under his breath, head falling back again, one hand coming up to cover his eyes like that might somehow help him hold it together. It doesn’t. Nothing about this is helping him hold it together.

“You’re—” he tries again, voice breaking into a helpless laugh. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You don’t respond. You just keep going, steady and focused in a way that has his stomach tightening, his chest rising and falling too fast.

And when he finally reaches that edge—

“Wait—” he gasps, hand dropping to find yours. “Honey, I—”

You slow just enough to look up at him again.

Soft. Sweet. Completely unreadable.

“Can I keep going?” you ask, like this isn’t already destroying him.

Bucky stares at you.

“…You’re kidding.”

You shake your head.

And that’s how he ends up gone.

Completely.

The second round hits him harder—his body already sensitive, already on edge, already wrecked. He can’t even pretend to be in control anymore, not when every small movement has him reacting like it’s too much.

“Jesus—baby, please—” he chokes out, hand tangling in your hair, not to guide you but just to hold on to something. “I can’t— I can’t—”

You glance up again, and there’s something new in your expression now—something playful, something almost teasing.

“Oh,” you murmur softly, “you can’t?”

He actually whines.

The sound seems to flip a switch in you, because suddenly you’re not just focused—you’re driving him there, pushing him right up to the edge again with a patience that feels almost cruel.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he breathes, half-laughing, half-pleading, his free hand gripping the sheets so tight his knuckles ache. “I had no idea—no idea you were hiding this—”

You hum again, and he loses it.

By the time you finally let him come down, Bucky is sprawled across the bed like he’s just survived something catastrophic, chest heaving, hair a mess, eyes still unfocused.

“…You’re not real,” he mutters.

You climb back up beside him, tucking yourself into his side like nothing happened, like you didn’t just unravel him piece by piece.

“I am,” you say sweetly.

He turns his head to look at you, still dazed.

“…You’ve been holding out on me.”

You shrug, all soft smiles again. “Maybe.”

Bucky lets out a breath, dragging a hand over his face before pulling you closer, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice still rough, “you’re—”

He stops, searching for the word.

There isn’t one.

So he settles for pulling you into a kiss instead—slow, a little desperate, like he’s trying to ground himself again.

And when you shift in his lap a second later, pressing closer, like you’re not done yet—

He groans.

“…You’re trying to kill me.”

You just smile.

And Bucky realizes, a little too late, that whatever he thought he knew about you?