#INTERACTION: BUCKY
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fiirstnephalem · 1 year ago
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mlfns asked:
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❝  i just wanted to say thank you -  ❞  he held out the flowers he'd had help choosing.
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SHE HAD NOT expected anything for what she had done, having purely helped him out of the kindness of her heart. The last thing she wanted, was for anyone to ever feel like they were indebted to her for whenever she helped them, especially when it came to the likes of helping through times where trauma haunted the mind.
However, the sight of the flowers between them both, being offered to her, brought a smile to her lips, and with it she graciously accepted the offering, reaching out and taking the flowers from him before pulling them against herself and lifting them enough to smell at them. They were lovely, just like he was, and she found herself admiring them for several seconds before her attention returned to Bucky. " You did not need to thank me... I was more than happy to help. " Truthfully, she'd help him again, if he needed her to. There was just something about him that she felt at ease to be around; it was welcoming, to say the least.
@mlfns random ask starters / always accepting.
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5ummit · 4 months ago
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Thunderbolts* (2025)
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obii-wan · 5 months ago
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THUNDERBOLTS* (2025) DIR. JAKE SCHREIER
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buckyseternaldoll · 1 month ago
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Mirror Me
— Part 1: He Feels Everything
Summary: Waking up sore and still needy, you find yourself back under Bucky, this time in front of a mirror. What follows is six intense rounds of claiming and being claimed, every thrust a promise, every release a mark that you’re his.
Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), Bucky x afab!reader, mirror sex, mutual obsession, marking kink, breeding kink, multiple orgasms, mirror play, cock worship, possessive sex
Author's Note: I'm just horny. Please enjoy ♡♡♡
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Your body ached—in the best way possible.
The morning sun cut across the sheets, casting golden lines over your bruised hips and messy thighs. You reached down between your legs, feeling slickness still leaking from your sore, swollen pussy.
Fuck, he came so deep…
You shifted with a whimper. Your cunt was pulsing again—already needy. Already craving him.
You turned your head and there he was. Bucky. Sitting on the edge of the bed, naked, silently watching you with those steel-blue eyes. He must’ve pulled out while you were passed out.
His vibranium fingers were resting against his thigh, twitching slightly.
“Morning, doll,” he murmured, voice thick and gravelly. “I was wondering when you’d wake up.”
You looked at him with half-lidded eyes, biting your lip.
“I’m sore…”
“Yeah?” he said softly, brushing a finger along your thigh, near the bruises he’d left. “Too sore?”
You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you crawled toward him and knelt between his legs. You kissed the tip of his cock, still semi-hard and already twitching from the touch.
“Need you again.”
His breath caught.
“Doll—”
“Please. I don’t care if it hurts. I want you to wreck me again. Fill me again. Make sure I can’t walk.”
Round 1 started on your knees.
It started slow—but filthy. You knelt before him, messy strands of your dirty blonde hair clinging to your flushed cheeks. Bucky’s eyes, stormy with lust, watched you through dark lashes as you lazily sucked him off, lips stretched around his thick length. Your tongue swirled, teasing the head while your hands caressed the base and his heavy balls.
“That’s it, baby doll. Just like that…” he groaned, hips rocking gently into your mouth.
His fingers tangled deep in your hair, guiding your pace. When you swallowed him whole, he nearly lost it—cursing under his breath as your throat fluttered around him.
“Fuck, sweetheart—gonna come—”
You didn’t stop, letting him spill hot and thick down your throat. You moaned around him like it was the only thing keeping you alive, and it was—your cunt ached, pulsing as you swallowed every drop.
But even before the aftershocks faded, he was already rock hard again.
“Get on the edge of the bed,” he growled, voice husky. “Ass out. Now.”
Round 2 was brutal.
Bucky didn’t wait. He bent you over the mattress, spanking your ass just enough to sting, sending heat blooming across your skin.
“Such a perfect fuckin’ view,” he muttered.
His hands—one cold vibranium, one hot flesh—gripped your waist tight enough to bruise. Each thrust drove you forward, making you cry out, your voice echoing in the room like a sinful hymn. Your slick dripped down your thighs, pooling onto the floor.
“You’re mine,” he growled, slamming deeper.
“I’m yours—fuck—I’m yours, James!” you sobbed, trembling as he bit into your shoulder to muffle his groan.
His warmth flooded you seconds later, and you came with him, shaking violently under the weight of it all.
Round 3 was slow, sensual—visual.
After a warm cloth wiped between your thighs and a few sweet kisses, Bucky pulled you onto his lap.
“You ever tried mirror play, baby?”
Breathless, you shook your head. He grinned and carried you to the full-length mirror in the corner, setting you on the floor between his knees. Both of you were bare—his dark brunette hair damp with sweat, your golden strands messy and glowing in the low light.
“Watch,” he whispered.
He spread your legs wide, the mirror reflecting every exposed inch of your flushed, trembling body. His fingers—metal and flesh—slipped between your thighs, parting your folds and working you open again. You watched your breasts bounce with every breath, your nipples red and sensitive as his free hand fondled and pinched them. His palm overfilled with your softness, groaning at how plush you were.
“Look how greedy your cunt is, baby.”
“Look how pretty you fall apart for me.”
You came on his fingers, one after another, your gaze locked to the mirror. He kissed your neck, nuzzling you like he owned you.
When he finally slid back inside, it was slow, deep, and devastating.
“Watch me fuck you,” he whispered, grinding into your soaked core. “Watch me claim you.”
You screamed his name, your orgasm wrecking you as you stared at the image of your bodies joined—his fat cock buried inside you.
Round 4 started with you climbing on top.
You climbed on top next—your hands splayed over his chest as he lay back with a smug smile. His abs flexed beneath your palms, taut and glistening with sweat.
“Come take what you need, sweetheart,” he murmured.
You lined yourself up, sinking down onto his thick cock with a choked moan. The stretch was divine. You rocked your hips slowly, letting him fill you to the brim. Bucky moaned, grabbing your hips.
“So full of me… fuck, you feel like heaven.”
You bounced harder, your thighs trembling with effort. Bucky couldn’t hold back anymore—he sat up, wrapping his strong arms around you, and thrust up into you hard enough to knock the air from your lungs.
“You were made for me, love,” he whispered. “I want you dripping with me for days.”
He came again, cock pulsing as he painted your insides, kissing you breathless.
Round 5 was against the mirror.
He wasn’t done. He bent you over the mirror now, pressing your hands flat against the cool glass. Your breath fogged it up as he slammed into you from behind. The angle was perfect—every thrust had your eyes rolling back, mouth open in a silent scream.
He had his metal hand gripping your hip, the other wrapped around your throat.
“You’re mine, baby doll. Say it again.”
“Yours, James—only yours—”
“Again,” he growled, snapping his hips.
You came violently, squirting over his cock and down your legs. Your knees buckled, but he held you steady, fucking you through the aftershocks.
“Please,” you sobbed. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can, doll. Just one more.”
Round 6 was the softest—and the filthiest.
He laid you down like something precious, brushing hair from your face. Your body trembled, your cunt swollen and overstimulated—but you wanted more.
“One more time,” you whispered. “Fill me one more time.”
He slid in slow, deep—grinding against your sweet spot with every stroke. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, locking him in.
“Breed me, Bucky,” you moaned, arms clinging to him. “Make me yours.”
His rhythm was steady but intense, dragging the pleasure out with every inch.
“Fuck, doll. I will. I’ll give you everything.”
You came together—your final orgasm drawn out, legs shaking as his warmth flooded you one last time. Bucky collapsed on top of you, breathless, flushed, heart thudding against yours.
You both laid there, tangled in limbs and love, your bodies wrecked but your hearts racing. Sweat clung to your skin, the sheets damp and twisted beneath you. His cock had finally softened, though the way his fingers lazily traced along your curves told you he wasn’t done, not really.
His large palm cupped your breast again, possessive and warm, his thumb flicking lazily over your overstimulated nipple. You whimpered, arching instinctively into his touch.
“Still so sensitive, baby doll,” Bucky murmured with a soft, proud smirk, his voice thick with satisfaction. “My hands can barely hold ‘em. Always spilling out for me, huh?”
You chuckled breathlessly, your voice hoarse from moaning his name. “They’re yours,” you whispered, “just like the rest of me.”
Bucky leaned in, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, then to the curve of your breast, lips lingering like he was memorizing you.
“How many times was that?” you asked, blinking slowly, utterly blissed out.
He nuzzled into your chest, his scruff brushing against your swollen nipple. “Six,” he said with a smug little grin. “And I still haven’t had enough of you, sweetheart.”
His vibranium hand settled low on your belly, gently rubbing where he’d filled you over and over again, marking you from the inside out.
“You’re mine, baby doll. Gonna make sure everyone knows it,” he murmured against your skin, kissing your breast, your neck, the underside of your jaw. “Next time…”
He raised his head, locking his blown pupils onto yours with a devilish smile.
“…we’re trying every room in the tower.”
You bit your lip, eyes fluttering, already soaked again just at the thought.
“Promise?” you teased, voice shaking from the lingering aftershocks.
Bucky kissed your forehead, then your lips—deep and slow, like a seal. “Oh, I never break a promise to my girl.”
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mentalmeles · 3 months ago
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"Let's go show em what a couple of kids from Brooklyn can do!"
I am very excited to finally have a teamup for Steve and Bucky, if you can't already tell. And it's called Stars Aligned?? They truly are star crossed lovers, fr fr
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fiirstnephalem · 2 years ago
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SHE DID NOT USUALLY do this. She did not usually get so close to another that was not her family, but there had been something about him that had screamed at her internally that he needed comfort much like she did, and one thing that Sima was good at, was bringing another comfort when they needed it. She'd had millennia in the way of practice, being her sister's main comfort during her tougher times so, it came naturally to her to do the same as she sat with him.
Her fingers carded themselves through his hair. At first, she had been looking down and watching him as she offered the affection but it had slowly become a second nature movement and her gaze had wandered to look about them. It was as calming for her as it was for him so, it was perhaps no surprise that after a short time, the action began to dwindle and lessen, finding herself with heavy eyes. His comment brought her attention back, however, blinking and glancing down at him with an apologetic smile as she continued once again. " I do not mind if the hair is long or short, it is easy enough to stroke through it with my fingers, no matter what length it is. "
open starter: bucky barnes
Bucky wasn't naturally a vulernable person, but having her sitting there by his side, the feel of her hands in his hair. That was his happy place, the simplest form of touch that calmed him.
"Don't stop." He teased as he felt her soft strokes beginning to stop, looking over at them with a sweet smile. He had never felt this calm. "Is it as good? With the hair being short? I didn't think it would feel the same, but it's -- it's nice."
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purestpup · 1 month ago
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☁️ ⋆˚。 ⋆ cg! bucky barnes ⋆ 。˚⋆ ☁️
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"Sweet pea, are you hiding from me again? Now its not nice to start the game without Papa knowing...oh are those little giggles i hear? Mmmh i didn't know pillows could move that that...boo! Ha, c'mon kid, time for dinner."
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orellazalonia · 13 days ago
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hii!
since i saw that you’re taking request, can i request bucky having sex with reader for the first time since he’s free from hydra
thanks alot💕
Hello there, love. I do appreciate the request. However, I must say I’m not the most comfortable (or experienced) in writing hardcore smut or NSFW scenes like that. Therefore, I tried to fulfill your request within the boundaries of what I am capable of and hope you enjoy it!
I did try searching for stories similar to what you wanted. However honestly, if you look up the tag “Bucky Barnes Smut” you’d find a lot of amazing pieces by many wonderful authors. Happy reading!!!
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Yearning Warmth
Summary: The first time Bucky initiates something more with you. (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Disclaimer: MINORS DNI. Light NSFW, Intimate Scene(s)/Writing. You are responsible for the media you consume.
Word Count: 1.5k+
Main Masterlist
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The apartment was quiet in the way only early mornings could be. Still and heavy with sleep, but alive with the promise of healing. You sat cross-legged on the couch with a steaming mug in your hands, wearing a too-big hoodie that didn’t belong to you.
It was his, worn soft at the sleeves, smelling faintly of laundry detergent and something colder, metallic. But it was his. And he’d let you wear it.
You’d met Bucky Barnes six months ago. Not the Winter Soldier, not Sergeant Barnes, but the man just trying to remember how to breathe again in a world that didn’t flinch every time he blinked. You weren’t an Avenger, not some high-ranking agent assigned to keep tabs on him. You were just… you. A friend of a friend. Someone who’d offered him coffee the first day he showed up to Sam’s VA group meeting in silence. Someone who hadn’t looked at him like a ticking bomb.
You’d become something steady in his life, in a time when the ground beneath him never seemed to stop shifting. At first, he didn’t talk much. He just watched, nodded, and occasionally offered a small smile that always seemed to vanish before you could fully register it. But you saw the effort, the cracks in his armor. And you didn’t try to fix him. You just showed up.
Movie nights. Long walks when the city felt too loud. Dinners shared mostly in quiet until he began to speak. Conversations about the 40s. About Steve and Brooklyn. About nightmares that left him staring at the ceiling, heart pounding like gunfire. You never asked for more than he gave. And maybe that was why he gave you everything. Slowly, uncertainly, like a soldier dismantling a bomb he’d once called his own heart.
Now, six months in, he was staying more nights at your apartment than his own. He left a toothbrush here. A pair of socks. A dog-eared paperback he never admitted he liked.
He hadn’t touched you, not really. Not like that. He held your hand sometimes. His kisses were soft, hesitant, like he was still unsure if he was allowed to want something gentle. Sometimes, he’d touch your cheek and linger, gaze so intense it made your breath catch. But when things got too close, when the air thickened between you, he always pulled away. Apologized with his eyes before words even had a chance.
You understood though. He had ghosts, scars beneath the skin that memory could still tear open.
But something was different lately.
He stood in the hallway now, quietly watching you from the doorway. The way he always did when he didn’t want to wake you but couldn’t help himself. His hair was damp from the shower, curling a little at the ends. He wore a black shirt and gray sweats, both clinging to the strength of a body rebuilt for war, but now searching for peace.
“You always get up before me,” He murmured, voice still thick with sleep.
You looked up at him, gave him that soft smile, the one he once told you made his chest feel “too full.”
“You always need sleep more than me.”
He stepped into the room slowly, like he still half-expected something to snap. But it didn’t. It never did. Not with you.
“You’re warm,” He said, sitting beside you, fingers brushing against yours on the mug. “You always are.”
“Comes with being human,” You teased gently.
But he didn’t laugh. Not really. He just looked at you, deeper than usual, his hand now resting fully on yours.
“I think I’m ready,” He said quietly. His voice trembled just slightly, as if he wasn’t sure he had the right to say it out loud. “I want to… with you. If you still want me.”
Your heart beat a little faster. Not with expectation or pressure, but with the weight of the moment. Of everything he had gone through to get here. Of everything he was still fighting to reclaim.
You set your mug down. Reached for his hand. His real one first. Then the cold one, the metal one he always seemed hesitant to offer.
“Only when you’re ready,” You said, voice warm. “Only if it’s what you want.”
He looked down at your hands wrapped around his, one flesh and one forged.
“I want to remember what it feels like,” He whispered. “To want something. And have it… be good.”
You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. Breathing him in. Grounding him.
“It can be good,” You promised. “We’ll make sure of it.”
His breath shuddered softly against your skin, and for the first time since he came back to himself, Bucky Barnes allowed hope to settle in his chest.
He kissed you like it was the first time he’d ever touched something fragile and wanted to keep it whole.
His lips were tentative against yours, unsure. You could feel the restraint in him, like he was holding back a flood he wasn’t sure you were ready for, but you were. You kissed him back gently, steadily. There was no rush, just the rhythm of shared breath and time-earned trust.
Your hand came up to cup his jaw, feeling the faint stubble under your fingertips. His eyes fluttered shut, and he leaned into your palm like he was starving for human contact. Safe, welcomed contact. You could feel the tension in his shoulders, in the careful way he gripped your waist like he thought he’d hurt you if he pressed too hard.
“You’re not going to break me,” You whispered between kisses.
“I’m not worried about breaking you,” He murmured, voice low and cracked. “I’m worried something in me will break.”
You brushed your nose against his. “Then let me help hold you together.”
That seemed to do something to him. A shift. A crack. A breath of relief through old fear.
He kissed you again, deeper this time. Still slow, but with more confidence, more heat that had been buried for too long. Your fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt, and he let you lift it over his head. The room wasn’t cold, but goosebumps rose across his skin anyway.
His body told a story even his silence couldn’t. Scars, some faded, some newer, moved in patterns across his chest and back like a map of wars he hadn’t wanted to fight. Your fingers traced one near his ribs, soft and reverent, never flinching.
“I’m not ashamed,” He said suddenly, quietly, like a confession he’d never dared speak.
You looked up. “I’m proud of you.”
Something in his throat worked at those words. His hands found the hem of your hoodie—his hoodie, and he paused. Waiting. Asking without asking.
You nodded, helping him lift it off you, letting him see you as you were: unpolished, raw, and trusting.
He kissed you again, but this time, his hands explored slowly. He touched like a man trying to memorize, not conquer. There was no rush. Just quiet understanding. Tenderness in the way his metal fingers grazed your shoulder, the way his flesh hand skimmed your spine like he was grounding himself in every inch of you.
When you moved to the bedroom, it wasn’t frantic. There was no tearing of clothes, no hurried gasps. It was soft. Purposeful. Like the world outside had finally gone quiet for both of you.
He took his time with you, worshiped really. Every kiss he pressed to your skin was a thank-you. For your patience. For your kindness. For being the one who hadn’t given up on him when he couldn’t look in the mirror.
He hovered above you at one point, breath ragged, eyes searching yours like he needed to make sure again.
“Are you sure?”
You nodded, holding his face in your hands. “I’ve never been more sure.”
And when he finally sank into you, it was with a soft gasp that cracked at the edges. He stilled, completely overwhelmed by the moment, by the intimacy, by you. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, holding him to you, whispering soothing things against his ear until he started to move again, slow and unsure, but growing steadier with every breath.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t choreographed. But it was real. Beautiful in the way only hard-won love could be.
He buried his face in your neck at the end, trembling slightly as the world narrowed to the rise and fall of your chests pressed together.
You stayed like that for a while, tangled in limbs and warmth, and your fingers moving gently through his hair.
Eventually, he whispered, “You make me feel human again.”
You kissed his forehead. “You always were. You just forgot for a while.”
His arms tightened around you, like he never wanted to let go again.
And for the first time in what felt like a century, Bucky Barnes fell asleep not as a weapon, not as a ghost, but as a man in love. Safe in the arms of someone who saw him not for what he’d done… but for who he was becoming.
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bobucky · 2 months ago
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soft wintersentry modern au 💌
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fiirstnephalem · 2 years ago
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samhlaiocht asked: "Close your eyes and take my hand. And don't peek, I'll know if you do." {From Bucky for Sima's bday!}
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"Okay...?" HIS INSTRUCTIONS HAD BEEN clear, but that did not stop her from questioning what he was up to in her mind. Nonetheless, Sima followed the instructions that he'd given her, and with the small pressing together of her lips, she closed her eyes and extended out her hand so that she could take his, waiting for what might happen next.
@samhlaiocht SIMAS BIRTHDAY 2023 / ACCEPTING
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ex0rin · 9 months ago
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I killed him because I had to. | TFATWS S01E05: Truth
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lobeliamaximoff · 21 days ago
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Propaganda I'm not falling for:
Bob is a malewife
Wanda knew what she was doing in Westview
Wanda would hate Bob
Bucky doesn't care about Thunderbolts/New Avengers and would easily drop them for Sam's team
Wanda is a monster and doesn't deserve any redemption
Bob and Yelena are the new Bruce and Natasha
Bob needs Yelena as his babysitter in Doomsday
Boblena in general
ScarletVision
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buckyseternaldoll · 29 days ago
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Every Time We Almost
Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x fem!Reader
Summary: Every time you almost had a moment—life got in the way. Night shifts, missions, exhaustion, missed calls and missed chances. But tonight, the universe finally gave you the time. And Bucky? He’s not wasting a second of it.
Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), established relationship, mutual yearning, emotional smut, edging, mutual masturbation, oral (f receiving), deep sex, squirting, use of pet names, no mentions of y/n, tender aftercare
Word Count: 10,443
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You felt like a walking corpse—bones aching, mind foggy, soul stretched too thin. It had been four endless months of night shifts, and each day blurred into the next with brutal monotony. The company you worked for had sunk into a deep pit of understaffing, and you were the one paying the price in blood and sleep. Officially, your hours were supposed to be 10p.m. to 6a.m.—neat on paper, a lie in practice. Most mornings you found yourself still slouched under cold fluorescent lights by 10a.m., eyes raw from screen glare, hunched in your cramped little cubicle that smelled of burnt coffee and recycled despair.
Your life had become a cycle of numb survival: work → home → crash into sleep → shove some microwaveable meals for breakfast-lunch-dinner in a go → drag your ass back to work. Again. Again. Again.
You couldn’t even remember the last time you felt Bucky’s skin on yours.
He’d either be gone before you woke, pulled into another mission, or he’d come home to find you asleep, tangled in sheets soaked with sweat and stress, your face pressed into a pillow with his shirt on and your heart off somewhere else.
And it hurt. God, it hurt. Not just the ache between your thighs, though that was growing unbearable, but the ache behind your ribs. You missed him in every way it was possible to miss someone—physically, mentally, spiritually. Sex wasn’t just a release with Bucky. It was communion. It was coming home.
Only Bucky could touch you like that. Every thrust he gave, every graze of his calloused fingertips down your body, every whispered “you’re mine, sweetheart” like a promise etched into your bones. No man had ever fucked you like he worshipped you—until him. And you? You’d always felt like Bucky Barnes was made not for war, not for the world, but just for you. That metal arm of his was softest when it was wrapped around your throat, when his breath trembled against your ear and he told you how good you made him feel.
But none of that mattered if you never saw each other.
You blinked up at the digital wall clock across the open-plan graveyard of cubicles. 3:43a.m.. Still two hours to go, at least. You rolled your sore shoulders, and your phone buzzed.
Ding.
You glanced down and saw his name. The kind of relief that hit your chest like a shot of morphine. You opened the message.
Room feels so empty without you, doll.
Your lips twitched into a faint smile before it fell again. The image that followed sucker punched you. Bucky, shirtless, laid out across your side of the bed. His metal arm sprawled where your body should’ve been, head tilted slightly, eyes tired. His face wasn’t pouty or playful—it was raw with loneliness.
God, you wanted to climb through the screen and into his arms.
You snapped a quick photo of your cluttered desk, several empty paper cups, scribbled Post-it notes, and your own drained face in the background. Then you typed:
Missed you so much too, baby.
Too fucked with job, instead of being fucked hard by you 🥺
You knew exactly what that would do to him. Maybe it was cruel, maybe it was a little desperate, but at this point? You were crawling with need. Sex had always been more than just physical with Bucky—it was your way of escaping the weight of the world. Of being held, taken, undone. Of existing.
Your phone lit up again—not with a message this time, but a call.
You didn’t even get a chance to say hello before you heard his voice—low, husky, wrecked.
“Love, you can’t do that to me,” he growled, voice tight like he was fighting the urge to unzip and get started with just your voice in his ear.
You laughed under your breath, dragging a palm down your face. “Heyyyy. I’m dying too, just so you know.”
“Leaving late today?” he asked, barely veiled hope in his tone.
“I’ll be home by seven. Maybe sooner if my team doesn’t collapse without me.”
“Good. I’ll fuck you well,” he said, dead serious—not as a tease, but like a man starved. Like a man who had imagined every second of it, over and over in your absence.
Your thighs clenched instinctively.
“We’ll see about that,” you managed to reply, voice a little breathless despite yourself.
You ended the call with exaggerated kissy sounds—the kind he always called ridiculous but secretly adored. You could almost hear the way he smiled on the other end.
Cheesy. Cringe. But who the hell cared? He was yours. You were his. You just needed the universe to give you a damn break so you could finally prove it again.
The commute back home was electric. Despite being crammed into the Metro with the usual morning rush—bleary-eyed office workers, students scrolling through their phones, and half-awake baristas clutching coffee cups—none of it touched you. Not the noise, not the crowd, not even the stale air that always seemed to hang heavy in the train car. None of it mattered.
Not when you were finally on your way back to him.
Your body ached with exhaustion. You’d been up all night again, running on fumes and vending machine coffee. But your skin buzzed beneath your clothes, alive with anticipation. Every jostle and bump only made your thighs press together tighter. You could already feel him—could almost smell that warm mix of cedar and spice he always wore when he was home, the one that clung to the pillows on his side of the bed. You didn’t care how tired you were. You needed him more than rest.
Bucky.
You could see him in your mind—that thick, unruly dark hair, steel-blue eyes locked on you like a man starved. That body was built like a Greek statue, all raw strength wrapped in soft intimacy. The way his arms—one unrelenting and cold, the other warm and callused—always knew how to hold you just right. Not too careful. Never too rough. Always like you were his favorite thing to come home to.
You spotted him before you even reached the corner. There he was—leaning against a streetlamp a few blocks from your apartment, dressed in that faded henley that fit him like a second skin. The soft gold of the rising sun spilled down over the rooftops, casting everything in a glow that turned his metal arm to molten chrome. His eyes caught yours across the street, and his whole body seemed to relax.
Your legs moved without thinking.
You nearly launched into his arms. Bucky caught you effortlessly, spinning you just slightly before anchoring you to his chest. His breath hitched against your hair, face burying into the spot just behind your ear as he inhaled like he was trying to breathe you in completely.
“You smell like coffee and nuts,” he murmured, voice low and thick with affection.
You laughed into his neck. “You smell like sin and bed. Not fair.”
“You’re not getting sleep first,” he said, arms tightening around you. “No way in hell.”
Even the short walk back to your apartment felt too long. The second the door clicked shut behind you, you were on him—grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, dragging his mouth to yours. The kiss hit fast and messy, all teeth and need, mouths crashing together with the desperation of two people on the edge.
Bucky kissed like he hadn’t had oxygen in weeks. His tongue slid against yours, exploring with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how you liked it. His hands—one callused and warm, the other cool and smooth—cradled your face with reverence. You groaned when his palm slid down to your waist, tugging you forward so you could grind against the thick bulge already straining against his jeans.
You yanked his shirt up and over his head, revealing the chest you’d dreamed about every damn night you’d worked overtime. Your hands skimmed down over those perfect pecs, brushing over the faint trail of hair that led below his waistband. Every inch of him radiated heat. And God, did you want to melt into it.
You tore your own shirt off without hesitation. The soft cotton fluttered to the floor, quickly followed by your bra—which Bucky unhooked with practiced ease. He took a step back to look at you, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip, chest rising and falling with something just short of restraint.
“Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he muttered.
You wiggled out of your slacks, kicking them aside until you stood there in just a thin pair of lace panties that left almost nothing to the imagination.
Bucky’s eyes raked over you with the kind of hunger that made your thighs clench. “Come here,” he murmured, voice rough with need as he reached for your hand.
You let him take it, and with one gentle tug, he was guiding you through the soft-lit hallway toward the bedroom—backs brushing walls, lips reconnecting in hot, frantic bursts. The hardwood creaked beneath your steps, sunlight already spilling in through half-open blinds, striping the walls with golden warmth.
By the time you reached the bedroom, your skin was humming. The warm morning light bathed everything in a soft, honeyed glow—the kind that made everything feel slower, thicker, heavier with tension.
You stepped into the sunbeam that fell across the floor, feeling it heat your bare skin as Bucky stopped to admire the view. His gaze devoured you, hungry and reverent all at once. He looked like he might fall to his knees.
Instead, you placed your palms gently on his chest and gave him a soft push. He let himself fall backward onto the bed with a slight bounce, propped up on his elbows, gaze locked on your body like he hadn’t touched you in years—like he’d been dreaming of this exact moment every night since your bodies last met.
You climbed onto his lap, straddling him slowly, the heat of your soaked panties pressing down onto the thick outline of his cock. Bucky groaned low in his throat, hands gripping your hips as you began to move—grinding against him in slow, deliberate circles.
“Shit, baby—” he hissed, voice already thick with lust. “You tryna kill me?”
You leaned down, brushing your lips over his jaw, your breath hot against his skin. “You promised to fuck me well.”
“And I will,” he growled, voice dark and husky, “but you’re the one torturing me right now.”
You pulled back just enough to reach for his jeans. He didn’t even hesitate—unzipping them with one hand and shoving them down just far enough to free himself. His cock sprung out, flushed and heavy, thick with need.
Your mouth went dry.
The fabric of your panties dragged over his length as you rocked down harder. Bucky’s head dropped back with a deep, raw moan that made your toes curl. You grabbed at his chest, needing to anchor yourself as you ground down on him again, letting your clit ride the pressure.
“You feel that?” he rasped, hands clutching your thighs. “That’s what you do to me, sweetheart. Just seeing you walk toward me this morning? I was fucking gone.”
You bent close, lips brushing against his ear. “You gonna let me ride you, Sergeant?”
His eyes met yours—burning, stormy, aching.
“I’m yours, doll,” he whispered. “Take what you need.”
But just as you rocked your hips to sink down on him, his hands gripped your thighs—firm, yet gentle—and stopped your movement.
“Not like this,” he murmured, voice low and breathless. “Not when you’re this tired.”
Before you could argue, Bucky flipped you onto your back with one smooth, effortless motion. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, the golden morning light striping across your chest as your body stretched out beneath him. His metal hand slid up your torso with reverence, cool fingertips tracing the curve of your waist, over your ribs, until he cupped one breast in his palm.
You gasped when his lips found your breast, warm and soft as they closed around the sensitive peak. He lavished attention on it first with a languid swirl of his tongue, teasing the stiffening bud in slow, luxurious circles that made your stomach tighten. His stubble scraped faintly against your skin, a delicious contrast to the wet heat of his mouth. Then came the suction—gentle at first, then firmer, drawing more of you into his mouth until you were writhing beneath him, desperate for more. Your back arched into him involuntarily, offering more of yourself, and your fingers clutched at the thick muscle of his shoulders. You could feel the tension there, the restraint he was holding onto by a thread. When his teeth grazed your nipple just enough to sting and soothe all at once, a helpless moan tore from your throat—needy, wrecked, aching for everything he hadn’t been able to give you until now.
And still, he wasn’t done.
While his mouth continued its slow worship, his hand—warm, steady, reverent—slid down the curve of your waist, over your hip, until his fingers found the soaked lace between your thighs. He groaned into your skin at the feeling of how ready you were for him, his metal arm holding you anchored while the other slipped beneath the fabric, finding your slick folds with aching precision.
“Jesus, baby…” he breathed against your breast, voice rough with need and something deeper—a kind of awe. “You’re soaked.”
Two fingers parted you gently, stroking through the heat, slow and exploratory, like he wanted to reacquaint himself with every inch of you. His thumb teased lazy circles over your clit, light and maddening, while his fingers dipped lower, collecting your wetness. Every stroke sent sparks rippling through your core, making your thighs tremble and your hands grip tighter around his shoulders, his hair, anything you could reach. Your hips lifted off the bed in small, greedy motions, chasing friction, aching for release.
But Bucky didn’t speed up.
He watched you with storm-dark eyes, lips slick and parted, like the sight of your body trembling under his touch was the most sacred thing he’d ever seen. Like he’d waited a lifetime for this moment—and would wait a thousand more just to feel you again.
“Fuck, baby,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and ragged with need. “You’re dripping… all for me?”
You whimpered, your breath shallow and uneven, too breathless to form words. Your legs instinctively spread wider, opening yourself to his touch, craving more of that perfect, relentless pressure that only he knew how to give. His fingers moved with deliberate, teasing strokes—each glide and curl sending shivers spiraling through your core, unraveling your thoughts and making your eyes flutter closed as waves of pleasure crashed over you.
Your body writhed beneath him, hips rolling subtly in time with his touch, your senses drowning in the heady mix of heat and longing.
But then…
The moans that had spilled so freely started to soften, growing more ragged and distant, like a fading song. Your fingers loosened their grip on the muscles of his shoulders, no longer clutching, just resting. Your chest rose and fell unevenly as your breath hitched—not from ecstasy, but from the insistent pull of exhaustion wrapping around you like a weighted blanket.
Bucky’s fingers stilled. He lifted his head just enough to look down at you, his gaze darkening with a mixture of concern and something softer, more vulnerable.
Your eyes fluttered open, searching—but already growing heavy again. Lips parted slightly, cheeks flushed with warmth, but your body was giving in, surrendering not to the fiery release he was coaxing, but to the crushing weight of weariness.
“Hey…” he whispered, voice thick with both amusement and tenderness. “Hey, doll…”
You murmured something incoherent—a lazy protest caught somewhere between a moan and a sigh—but you didn’t resist. You couldn’t.
“Shit,” Bucky exhaled, pressing a lingering kiss just below your collarbone, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re really running on empty, huh?”
He didn’t pull away or stop touching you immediately. Instead, his fingers slowed to gentle strokes, softening their pressure like a lullaby played just for you. His metal hand caressed your inner thigh in light, teasing brushes, while the other cradled your breast with the same care and reverence as a sacred treasure—as if making up for every missed moment, every night apart.
Slowly, your breathing deepened, evened out. The tension that had clenched your muscles melted away. Your eyelids fell shut fully, your lips relaxed into a soft pout.
You were asleep.
Right there beneath him. Skin still flushed and glistening with sweat, your hair splayed messily on the pillow, lips still swollen from his kisses, your heart fluttering in a quiet rhythm against his chest.
Bucky’s own chest tightened with an ache—a mix of protectiveness, longing, and pure love.
He pressed one last tender kiss over your heart, then shifted carefully to lie beside you. Pulling the covers up over your cooling skin, his metal arm curved protectively around your waist, the other reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair away from your face.
You stirred slightly, nestling instinctively into the warmth of his embrace.
“Missed you too, sweetheart,” he whispered against your temple, voice thick with emotion. “We’ll finish this… when you’re ready.”
Bucky had always been understanding—deeply, achingly patient—when it came to how demanding your job was. As much as he fought wars and hunted ghosts across continents, he’d be the first to admit he could never survive what you did day in and day out. Stuck in a windowless cubicle for hours on end, chipping away at endless spreadsheets under flickering fluorescent lights, eating rushed meals that barely counted as nourishment. That kind of mental strain? That quiet, relentless burnout? It was a different kind of battlefield—and he had mad respect for you because of it.
Still, no amount of respect could stop the way his heart sank when your body gave out during intimacy. The moment you’d fallen asleep beneath him, all heat and softness and unspoken need, Bucky just… paused. His cock was swollen and aching, twitching between his thighs from the intensity of being so close to you, from the scent of your skin and the little moans you let out before exhaustion stole them away. But instead of frustration, he let the moment melt into tenderness. He let himself soften, gently curled around your body, spooning you like you were something sacred. His arm—warm and solid—wrapped protectively around your waist. Even half-hard, even denied, you were always his priority.
Because you being happy, rested, safe… that was what made him happy.
Besides, there would always be next time.
At least, there should have been.
But the universe seemed hellbent on keeping your bodies—and your souls—apart.
The “next time” never came.
Not when Bucky was yanked out of bed by a middle-of-the-night mission alert and flown straight to Tokyo for an intel recovery op. Not when, after three weeks apart and Bucky finally stepping through the door desperate to get his hands on you, your phone rang with an “urgent” call from your manager, begging you to cover a shift for someone who’d decided to disappear into thin air. You worked through the night, again. Alone. Again.
And just when you thought you’d catch a break—a day both of you had planned to be yours, blocked on calendars, circled in red, a goddamn sacred day of nothing but you and him—Bucky got pulled again. Crisis in D.C. this time. Another world-ending mess. Another emergency caused by what he bitterly referred to as the big three—“Gandalf, E.T., and a couple of robots with superiority complexes,” he’d muttered bitterly into your voicemail, his voice already laced with regret.
It was like the universe had a personal vendetta against letting you and Bucky fuck.
As if it couldn’t bear to witness the kind of heat and love the two of you shared—like it was jealous. Like it was afraid.
And Bucky?
He was hanging on by a thread.
His patience—which had once seemed unshakable—was eroding like cliffs in a storm. He was running on fumes. Every time someone so much as said your name, he twitched. He could get hard from a photo of you. From your shampoo left in the shower. From the echo of your voice in a goddamn voice memo. It wasn’t just lust—it was hunger. The kind that felt bone-deep and unquenchable.
He didn’t just want you.
He needed you.
So that night, just a few hours before your shift, when you were dragging your feet around the kitchen, rubbing at your temples with tired eyes and a half-drunk cup of coffee—Bucky stopped you.
“Call in sick,” he said, voice low but steady.
You blinked at him over your mug. “You know I can’t do that,” you replied, already imagining the fallout—your manager interrogating you with that patronizing tone you hated. “He won’t approve it. He won’t even approve a vacation request if I submit it six months early.”
“He always says the same shit, doesn’t he?” Bucky murmured, stepping closer. “‘You’re the pillar. The team can’t run without you.’ Right?”
You nodded, sighing.
Bucky took your hands in his, gently but firmly. His thumbs brushed across your knuckles, the softest of touches, but they sent heat crawling up your arms. His voice dropped lower, tinged with quiet desperation.
“But doll… I’ve been patient. So fucking patient.”
You glanced at him—and there it was. That pout. That gorgeous, sulking pout that made your thighs clench on instinct. The one he rarely showed unless he was feeling particularly denied. You usually had to bribe that pout out of him—with your mouth, your fingers, your whole damn soul.
“Everyone else on your team calls in sick whenever they want. Why the hell can’t you?”
He wasn’t wrong.
You had been pulling double shifts left and right, covering for coworkers who never got questioned or guilt-tripped. And what did you get in return? A pounding headache and an untouched man standing in front of you looking like he might break if he didn’t get to touch you properly.
“Okay, okay,” you finally sighed, your lips twitching into a small smile. “You win, baby.”
The relief that washed over Bucky’s face was instant. His shoulders dropped. A rare grin split his face—wide, boyish, radiant.
You walked off to the living room, phone in hand, and delivered your best fake cough—even added a raspy throat and a groggy “I think I caught something last night.” After a few minutes of coaxing and the longest sigh you’d ever heard from your manager, the leave was reluctantly granted.
You didn’t wait.
You turned off your phone completely and tossed it onto the coffee table.
No interruptions. Not tonight.
Not when you turned around and saw Bucky standing there shirtless, wearing only a pair of grey boxer briefs—the tent in the fabric thick and unmistakable, straining toward you like it had a mind of its own.
“Oh, doll,” he smirked, taking slow, heavy steps toward you. “You don’t even know how fucked you are.”
Your breath caught. Heart skipping. Pulse pulsing low and deep in your belly.
A shiver rolled through you. “Well,” you whispered, licking your lips as your eyes flicked down to his cock, “I do know I’m gonna be fucked. By you.”
And the way Bucky’s jaw clenched, the way his fingers twitched like he was seconds from tearing your clothes off, told you—
You weren’t going to work tonight.
You were going to be wrecked.
Bucky lunged toward you with a hunger that crackled in the air, every movement of his body sharp with intention. You stumbled back in breathless anticipation until your spine met the wall, a gasp slipping from your lips—only to be swallowed whole by his kiss. His mouth claimed yours with a feverish urgency, plush lips moving over yours like he hadn’t tasted you in years. His flesh hand cradled your jaw, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth as if memorizing your shape, while his metal arm slid down your back—each notch of vibranium ridges cool and smooth against your heated skin.
You felt the playful tug at your shoulder as his fingers hooked under the delicate strap of your nightgown, dragging it down slowly, deliberately. The whisper of fabric slipping along your arm sent a fresh wave of goosebumps rising in its wake. You’d gone to sleep without a bra—as usual—so the thin material had already clung to your curves, teasing him with the outline of your breasts. But now, with the straps halfway down your arms and your nipples pebbled tight against the fabric, there was no teasing left. Just need.
Your moans filled the space between you like music, breathy cries of “Bucky—Bucky!” that made his cock twitch in his boxers. His lips left yours and began a trail downward—featherlight kisses pressed to your jaw, then the column of your throat, then your collarbone—until he reached the swell of your breasts. He paused there, kneeling slightly, his breath ghosting over your sensitive skin as his eyes darkened with awe.
“So fucking big,” he groaned, voice thick and rough with arousal as he finally tugged the nightgown down over your chest. The cool air kissed your bare skin, nipples straining as they were fully revealed to him. His hands—one warm and rough, the other impossibly smooth and chilled—cupped your breasts with reverence. Even then, his palms could barely contain them. He squeezed gently, watching your body arch under his touch, and then leaned in, burying his face between them with a groan of pure worship.
You whimpered, your fingers threading through his hair as his hot breath ghosted over your skin. The stubble on his jaw scratched deliciously against your softness, the contrast enough to make your knees tremble. He alternated between trailing his tongue across the sensitive skin and planting hot, wet kisses between the curves, each one leaving a spark that ignited down your spine.
And when his mouth latched around one of your nipples, swirling his tongue in slow, agonizing circles before gently grazing it with his teeth—you cried out, hips bucking instinctively. Your cunt pulsed, already slick and throbbing from nothing but his mouth and the weight of his attention. He groaned around your breast, the vibrations shooting straight to your core.
His metal hand slid lower, cool fingers grazing the outer swell of your thigh, before moving inward—inch by torturous inch. The contrast of temperature sent a full-body shiver through you, your thighs parting on instinct to welcome him in. His touch neared the heat of your center, hovering just above your soaked folds. You felt him smirk against your skin as he realized just how wet you were for him.
“Fuck, sweetheart…” Bucky murmured, voice thick and muffled against your skin as his mouth lingered between the swells of your breasts. His tongue dragged lower, slow and deliberate, each kiss following a path down the center of your stomach like a man savoring every inch of his favorite meal. “You’re dripping already?” he growled, his voice rough with arousal and amusement.
You barely had a chance to answer before his metal hand slipped between your thighs, fingers grazing your inner seam. You jolted with a gasp at the contact—cool vibranium sliding against your flushed, overheated skin—and he chuckled softly, wicked and knowing.
“Oh, fuck—yeah, look at that,” he muttered as he teased the damp fabric clinging to your center. He let his fingers run along your soaked slit through the thin nightgown, slow enough to feel everything but not nearly enough to satisfy. “You hear that, baby?” He emphasized the motion with a long drag up your folds, and the wet, obscene sound of it filled the air. Squelch. Loud. Shameless.
You whimpered, your legs twitching as your hips bucked into his hand. He didn’t give you what you wanted—of course he didn’t. Bucky was always like this when he was this needy. Needy for you, but maddeningly patient. Teasing until you cried.
“Dripping all for me, doll?” he purred, dark lashes flicking up to meet your eyes as he pressed the flat of his vibranium fingers against your cunt. “God, you’re soaked. So fucking wet—just from my mouth on your tits? That’s all it takes?”
Your cheeks flamed, and your thighs tried to close around his wrist, but he was too strong, too solid, holding you open like a plaything. His lips pressed kisses across your lower belly now, right above where you throbbed most, but he still didn’t move the damn nightgown. Still didn’t touch you bare.
“You need it that bad, huh?” he smirked, voice low and sinful. His fingers rubbed a slow, taunting circle over your clothed clit. “Need my cock? Or my tongue first? Or you want both—want me to ruin this little pussy so good you forget your name?”
“Bucky,” you moaned, high and breathless, clinging to his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you standing. Your body trembled with tension, every nerve ending poised right at the edge.
“Shhh,” he cooed, nuzzling against your mound through the fabric. “You’ll get it, love. I’m gonna make a mess of you. Gonna take my time. Taste you, fuck you, love you so good your coworkers won’t know how to look you in the eye tomorrow.”
You whimpered again, the teasing pressure making your thighs quake.
“Fuck, I’ve missed this. Missed how you melt for me. Missed this needy little cunt.” He finally dragged the nightgown upward, slow and torturous, baring the slick, swollen heat of your pussy to the cool air. His eyes darkened as he stared. “Jesus, sweetheart… you’re glistening. It’s like your pussy’s begging.”
Then, slowly—so goddamn slowly—he leaned forward, breath ghosting across your soaked folds as his tongue barely touched your clit. A flick. A taste.
You nearly collapsed.
“Mm,” he groaned, lips wet and glistening. “Yeah. That’s mine.”
And he devoured you after that.
His mouth latched onto you with slow, maddening precision, tongue working soft circles that made your knees buckle. The wall behind you caught your weight, your fingers tangled in his thick hair as Bucky ate like a man chasing salvation. The wet sounds between your legs were obscene, each lick and suck echoing through the room like music only the two of you could understand.
Your thighs trembled around his head, and he held them open with his metal hand, keeping you wide for him—pinned in place with no escape. The coolness of vibranium against the feverish heat of your skin was dizzying. You could feel the pads of his fingers denting into your thighs, grounding you as your pleasure built fast and overwhelming.
“Fuck, sweetheart…” he mumbled against your soaked folds, the rasp of his voice vibrating against your clit, sending a bolt of pleasure straight through your spine. “So fucking wet.”
He paused, licking a slow, deliberate stripe up your slit, tasting you again. His breath hitched like he was addicted.
“All this mess for me?” His mouth curled into a wicked grin, wet lips brushing the inside of your thigh. “Fucking missed my cock that bad, didn’t you?”
You whimpered, head falling back against the wall, hips twitching toward his mouth. But he wasn’t in a rush. No—Bucky Barnes had patience when it came to teasing you, even when his own cock was straining against his boxers like it might tear through the fabric.
“Your cunt’s been left alone too long, huh?” Bucky growled, his breath hot as it rolled against your inner thigh. His nose nudged along your skin, slow, deliberate, savoring the way your muscles jumped under the heat of him. “Dripping like a fucking faucet. Look at this mess, baby.”
The teasing edge in his voice was dark, smug—but it was laced with something else too. Frustration. Hunger. Months of pent-up need straining behind every word.
“I’ve been patient,” he rasped, mouth brushing dangerously close to your soaked folds. “Too fucking patient.”
You whimpered, legs trembling around his shoulders. His metal hand splayed wide across your thigh to keep you still, and his eyes flicked up—dark steel-blue, wild with restraint. “You come home, barely standing… and I watch you crawl into bed like you’re gonna disappear,” he muttered. “Sleeping next to me, but out cold before I can even touch you.”
His voice dropped lower. Rougher. “You think I haven’t noticed how you twitch in your sleep? How your thighs rub together like you’re dreaming about me?”
You gasped, head falling back against the wall, body flushed with heat from shame, want, and the sheer intimacy of his words.
“You think I don’t see how soaked the sheets get?” His tongue finally swiped up your folds, slow and fucking thorough. He groaned deep in his chest. “This sweet pussy’s been crying for it, hasn’t it?”
“Y-Yes—God, yes,” you stammered, your hands fisting in his hair, desperate.
“Say it,” he growled, dragging his tongue back down with maddening slowness. “Tell me how long it’s been. How bad you need it.”
“Too long,” you breathed. “Been so empty, Bucky. I—I miss you. Miss this. I can’t—please—”
“That’s it,” he hummed, mouth curling into a wicked smirk as he kissed the inside of your thigh. “You’re fucking starving for it.”
And then he devoured you.
Tongue hot and relentless, lips sealing around your clit like he’d been dreaming of this. The way he licked—deep, then light, alternating between flicks and long sucks—felt like a rhythm your body remembered better than your own name. Your thighs squeezed around his head and he let them, groaning against your cunt like he wanted to drown in it.
The cold of his vibranium hand contrasted so cruelly with the fire of his mouth, gripping your hip firm while his other hand slid up to press low over your belly—anchoring you, reminding you he owned every inch of your pleasure.
You were spiraling fast, hips twitching, mouth slack as the moans tumbled out.
And then—
He stopped.
“Fuck!” you sobbed, your head hitting the wall as your legs trembled. Your cunt pulsed, empty, begging. “Please—Bucky. Don’t stop—please—”
He rose slowly, lips wet with you, eyes burning.
“Not yet, doll,” he said low, breathless with control. “You’ve been working yourself half to death, haven’t had a second to feel good… I’m not letting you come easy.”
And before you could catch your breath, he grabbed your thighs, hoisted you up like you weighed nothing, and carried you to the bed.
You were panting in his arms, shaking, soaked and swollen with denied pleasure.
He laid you down carefully, reverently, but the heat in his gaze never cooled. He hovered over you, eyes dark with all the times he’d had to turn away, all the moments he’d been tempted to wake you but didn’t.
“You think this is torture now, sweetheart?” he whispered, leaning in to brush his nose against yours. “You haven’t seen what I’ll do to make up for lost time.”
Your hands gripped his broad, powerful shoulders, steady and commanding as you flipped him over, sending him to lie beneath you on the bed. Bucky’s blue eyes widened with surprise, but the spark of pleasure lighting in them made you grin.
“Oh, Bucky, honey,” you whispered low and slow, your lips brushing against his ear, the soft bite on his earlobe sending a shiver through him. “You underestimated my thirst.”
Your hand moved deliberately, curling over the heavy bulge straining against his boxer briefs. You squeezed—once, twice—with expert precision, alternating between a feather-light touch and a crushing grip. The subtle hiss that escaped his throat was music to your ears. You were pulling him closer to the edge, but never letting him fall over. Not yet.
His hips twitched, desperate for friction, wanting to grind against you, to bury himself inside your wet heat. But you held him back, your fingers moving slowly, torturously slow along his cock. The gentle pressure of your hand, the soft glide of your palm, the maddening friction of fabric rubbing against skin—it was teasing him mercilessly. The slow rhythm was nothing like the frantic hunger you both felt inside, but the sight of you hovering over him—breathless, flushed, breasts heaving—was everything.
“Fuck, doll,” Bucky whimpered, hips lifting, begging for contact. You tightened your grip in response, slowing your strokes even more, like you were painting every inch of his cock with your touch. The frustration was thick in the room, almost tangible.
“Want me?” you purred, sliding your hips down just enough that the wet heat of your cunt nearly grazed his aching length. The slick, needy wetness left a slick trail on his boxers. His breath hitched, low and ragged.
“Yes, doll,” he groaned, eyes dark and shimmering with raw lust. “Fucking want it.”
You pulled away every time he tried to bridge the gap, leaving him wanting, craving. His blue eyes traced your curves, glowing with desire and something deeper—need, frustration, love. You saw how his hands squeezed your breasts possessively, the way he wanted to claim every inch of you. But you weren’t done playing.
Your lips left a path of fire as you trailed kisses from his cheeks down his jawline, imprinting faint hickeys that bloomed like whispered promises. You flicked your tongue along his stubbled skin, delighting in his low growls of pleasure. His chest rose and fell under your touch—broad, sculpted, a perfect canvas for your nails that left delicate, demanding scratches. Marks that said you were his. Forever.
Your hand slipped to the waistband of his boxers, fingers curling as you slowly slid the fabric down just enough to free the thick, swollen length inside. The sudden rush of cold air made him shudder, his cock twitching with desperate anticipation.
You kissed a slow, teasing path down his toned stomach, deliberately avoiding his erection, dragging the tension tighter. You breathed warm air across his inner thighs, the heat contrasting deliciously with the cool skin, making him shiver. His cock twitched again at the sensation.
Then, with deliberate slowness, you flicked your tongue up along the smooth curve of his heavy balls, tasting the salty sweetness, the faint musk that was uniquely his. His hips jerked involuntarily, a groan vibrating deep in his chest as you circled the swollen head of his cock with your tongue.
“Goddamn, baby,” Bucky gasped, fingers tangling in your hair as he tried to pull you closer.
You smiled against him, voice sultry, teasing. “Gotta be patient, Daddy,” you murmured, your tongue flicking over the sensitive tip again. “Want my mouth? My pussy?” You paused, the edge of a playful smirk curling your lips. “Gotta use your words, Daddy.”
His gaze locked on yours—dark, desperate, burning with need. The tension between you was thick, a slow-burning fire. Every nerve ending was alive, every breath a ragged whisper of want. And yet, with that maddening patience, you held him back—teasing, tempting, making him beg.
His hands tightened in your hair, pulling you closer as his hips shifted, aching for more. You felt the full weight of his need beneath you—the heat radiating off his skin, the pulse of his cock so close to your lips. The taste of him already lingered sweet and sharp on your tongue, a promise of what was to come.
You lowered your mouth, trailing slow, lingering kisses down the length of his shaft, your breath hot and heavy as your lips brushed against the sensitive skin. The rough texture of his stubble grazed your cheek as you nestled your face deeper, your tongue flicking lightly over the swollen tip. A low groan escaped from deep in his chest, vibrating through you like a current of fire.
Your hands slid to his hips, fingers tracing the hard planes of muscle beneath warm skin, steadying yourself as you took him further. The thickness of him filled your mouth, the slick wetness a delicious contrast against the roughness of his skin and the softness of your lips. You swirled your tongue around him, slow and deliberate, savoring every inch.
Bucky’s breath hitched, ragged and uneven, his fingers tangling in your hair with urgent, desperate need. You could feel the tension building in his body, every muscle coiled tight like a spring ready to snap. But you stayed steady, controlling the pace, pushing him closer to the edge and then pulling back just enough to keep him teetering on the brink—denying him that sweet release.
Your eyes met his, dark with hunger and worship, and you smiled softly around him. The wet sounds of your mouth—slick, sucking, humming with pleasure—filled the room, mingling with his low, guttural groans.
“You taste so good, baby,” you whispered against him, your tongue flicking over the sensitive underside of his cock. “So fucking perfect.”
His hips jerked involuntarily, pressing harder into your mouth as if to drown out the torture of restraint. You tightened your lips just enough to drive him wild, letting the friction build slowly, deliciously. The taste of him—salted and sweet—flooded your senses, igniting a fierce, aching hunger deep inside you.
Your hands roamed his body, tracing the hard planes of his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingers. The rise and fall of his breath was a rhythm you could lose yourself in, the raw need in his eyes a tether pulling you closer, deeper.
But just as he teetered on the edge—the sharp inhale, the tightening muscles—you pulled back, lips glistening, eyes full of promise and power.
“Not yet, Bucky,” you whispered, voice thick with control and desire. “Not until I say.”
He groaned, a mix of frustration and desperate need, but obediently let himself be denied, burning with want for what was still to come.
You stood, sliding your hands along his trembling body, the delicious tension crackling between you like a live wire.
The night was far from over.
Bucky’s eyes followed your every move—hooded, reverent, dark with unspent need. He looked wrecked already, sweat-slicked and breathless, his cock flushed and leaking against his abdomen, twitching with each pulse of frustration you left him in. The sight alone made your thighs clench.
You climbed over him again, slow and deliberate, every shift of your body a promise. His breath hitched when your bare thighs straddled his hips and your cunt brushed against the underside of his cock, spreading your slick across his skin like a seal of possession.
“Fuck,” he hissed, every muscle in his stomach tightening under you. His hands flew to your hips, fingers digging into your flesh. “Don’t play with me, baby. You’re gonna kill me.”
“Oh, no,” you breathed against his lips, grinding your hips just enough to feel his cock slide through your wetness again. “I’m just bringing you back to life.”
Your mouths met in a kiss that was more heat than oxygen—deep, consuming, desperate. You moaned into his mouth as his tongue found yours, tasting the wreckage of your teasing, the hunger barely reined in. Your hands tangled in his hair, nails scraping lightly along his scalp, while your hips rolled forward in slow, heavy circles. You rocked against him, his cock trapped between your folds, drenched in your slick and dragging right against your clit with every grind.
Bucky groaned, the sound broken and hoarse. “Jesus fucking Christ, sweetheart—”
“I missed you,” you whispered into the kiss. “So much.”
He groaned again, forehead falling against yours, jaw tight as he fought for control. But he didn’t stop you. He let you ride the length of him like that, grinding your wet heat against his cock, using him. His metal hand cupped the back of your head, the other splayed across your lower back, pressing you closer like he needed you fused to him.
Then he pulled back, just slightly, enough to look down and watch the way your slick coated his cock. “Look at this mess,” he rasped. “You’re so fucking wet—so fucking hungry for me.”
“And you?” you asked breathlessly, slowing your grind until his cock twitched in frustration. “Still holding on?”
Bucky smirked through the flush in his cheeks. “Barely.”
You reached between you both, your hand curling around his length. He shuddered under your touch. “Then let me help.”
His hands dropped to your thighs as you lifted your hips and scooted back slightly, resting between his legs. You began stroking him with slow, deliberate movements, your thumb swiping over the slick head, gathering the precum to lube your strokes. His groan shook the mattress.
But you didn’t stop there.
You slid your free hand between your own thighs, fingertips finding your aching clit. You moaned softly as your hips rocked into your hand, matching the rhythm of your strokes on him.
Bucky watched, completely transfixed, jaw slack, eyes wide with raw, primal awe.
“Jesus,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You’re touching yourself… while you’re touching me…”
You leaned forward, brushing your nose along his jaw, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. “Wanna come like this?” you purred. “Watching each other fall apart?”
“Fuck—fuck yes.”
Your hand tightened around him slightly as you picked up the pace, and Bucky’s hips stuttered up into your palm. His hand joined yours on your clit, guiding your fingers, pressing you harder where he knew you liked it best.
“Right there, baby,” he breathed. “You feel that? Let me see you come. Let me see that pretty face when you fall apart.”
The fire built fast—too fast. The teasing, the denial, the weeks of longing—it all surged together like a tidal wave. Your breath came in shallow pants as your body curled forward, thighs shaking, your hand faltering on his cock as your climax started to take over.
But Bucky—
Bucky stopped you.
His hands gripped your waist and held you steady as he slid out from under you in a flash of strength and sheer willpower. You gasped, dazed and twitching, your orgasm teetering right at the edge, ripped away with the precision of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
“No,” he rasped, kissing the inside of your thigh. “You don’t get to come yet.”
“Bucky—!”
“I told you,” he said, voice low, hot with warning. “You’ve waited months. You can wait a little longer.”
Then he kissed you, deep and possessive, as if he could pour every aching second of his need straight into your mouth.
And when he finally laid you back against the sheets again, your body still trembling with unsatisfied need, you knew—he was going to make you earn every last second of release.
You didn’t realize you were trembling until Bucky cupped your face again, grounding you with the rough warmth of his palm—one flesh, one metal, both equally tender.
“You okay?” he whispered, even now—especially now—checking in. His voice was hoarse, almost ragged with restraint, but his eyes… his eyes were steady. Blue like deep ocean storms, filled with everything he hadn’t yet said and everything you already knew.
“Yeah,” you whispered back, breath catching, your forehead resting against his. “More than okay. I just…”
“I know,” he murmured, brushing a soft kiss to the edge of your lips like sealing a promise. His other hand curled beneath your thigh, lifting it gently, reverently, and then the other followed until both legs rested over his strong shoulders.
The shift was slow, intimate. His broad frame hovered above you, bracing his weight on his forearms as he stared down like he was seeing you for the first time. Like you were something sacred.
“Been thinking about this for months,” Bucky breathed, his nose brushing along your cheek, lips at your jaw. “Not just the sex, doll. You. The way you sound when I’m inside you. The way you feel. The way your body fucking welcomes me home.”
Your breath hitched—sharp, broken—because God, it felt like that. Like being filled by him was the only way to feel whole again.
Your body was already trembling, aching open for him, so soaked and sensitive that just the heavy weight of his cock dragging along your folds had you gasping. He groaned low, eyes fluttering shut as he felt the wet glide, his tip nudging against your clit just enough to make your hips jerk.
“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth. “Still so fucking wet, baby. Look at this—this mess for me. You were fucking made for me, weren’t you?”
Your thighs tensed over his shoulders, muscles flexing as your whole body answered for you. “I missed you,” you choked out, voice shaking, hands clinging to his arms like lifelines. “I missed you so much, Bucky. It hurt.”
His hand slid between you, steady and sure, guiding himself to your entrance with aching precision. And then—slowly, achingly—he began to push in.
You both gasped.
The stretch was everything. Too much. Just right. Every thick inch of him split you open like the first time, your body arching off the mattress, legs quivering, head tilting back as a raw moan escaped your lips.
“Jesus, sweetheart…” he growled, the sound pure gravel in his throat. “You feel like fucking heaven. Warm. Tight. Mine.”
He didn’t rush. He moved like he was learning you again—every ridge, every pulse, every wet clench of your walls trying to keep him in. It was more than pleasure. It was possession. Worship.
When he finally bottomed out, hips flush against yours, you both stilled—just breathing each other in, hearts pounding in sync, the air thick with everything that had built up between you.
He lowered his forehead to yours again, eyes fluttering shut, and whispered, “I thought about this every day. Every goddamn day I wasn’t home. You weren't home.”
“I felt it,” you murmured, tears slipping sideways from the corners of your eyes as your hands tangled in his hair. “I felt you missing me. I felt it in my bones.”
He kissed you again—deeper now, wetter, full of tongue and breath and everything he couldn’t say. And then he rolled his hips.
Slow.
Deep.
A grind more than a thrust, his cock dragging along every soaked inch of you, hitting a spot inside that made your breath hitch and your back arch helplessly.
You gasped his name—Bucky—like a prayer, like a plea. He swallowed it with a groan and moved again, the next thrust just as slow, just as deliberate.
Your legs trembled over his shoulders. Your cunt pulsed around him, soaked and desperate, like your body was trying to memorize this stretch, this pressure, this perfect fit. He kissed the inside of your calf, still holding your thighs wide.
No late calls, no missions, no fucking excuses,” he whispered, his lips brushing your calf. “Just you and me tonight, doll. Been waiting too long for this.”
You cupped his jaw with both hands, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, grounding yourself in the look on his face—raw, reverent, vulnerable.
“I love you,” you breathed, eyes locking with his.
He froze for half a second—just a blink—but the emotion that slammed into his expression made your chest ache.
His mouth found yours again, and the kiss that followed was slow, messy, consuming.
“I love you too,” he whispered against your lips. “So fuckin’ much. You feel that?” He rolled his hips again, deeper, harder, and the pleasure cracked like lightning through your spine. “That’s how much.”
Now he began to move with more purpose. Still not fast—but steady. Deep. Thorough. Like he wasn’t just fucking you. He was pouring himself into you, filling every void he’d left behind, every ache, every inch of loneliness you’d both felt while apart.
You moaned with every drag of him, your body fluttering around his length, more wet sounds echoing from the rhythm of your hips meeting his. Your walls clung to him, sucked him in, like you were afraid he’d vanish again.
He pressed harder. “I’m here, baby,” he groaned. “Right here. I’m not leaving. You’ve got me.”
And for the first time in months, your body truly believed it.
He began to move again—still slow, still deep—but with more purpose now. More reverence. His strokes hit just right, the drag and pressure delicious, every thrust pressing pleasure and comfort into your deepest ache.
You weren’t just being fucked.
You were being loved.
And every sound he pulled from you—the gasps, the sobbed whimpers of his name—only fed the fire building behind his eyes. His hands never stopped roaming—one anchoring beneath your thigh, the other stroking up your waist, brushing under your breast before fanning out over your ribs like he needed to feel your heart pounding.
“God, baby…” he whispered like it hurt, the words catching in his throat as he bottomed out again, lingering in the heat of you. “You’re everything. Fuck, I didn’t know how much I needed this. Needed you.”
His voice cracked and your eyes flew open to find him already staring at you—blue irises shining, brows drawn tight, like he was afraid he’d fall apart if you looked away.
“You got me through it,” he murmured, his hips still rolling slow and deep, drawing every inch from your trembling body. “All the long nights, the silence, the damn empty bed. You were the only thing I held onto.”
You cupped his face with both hands, barely able to breathe past the emotion sitting heavy in your chest. “I never stopped waiting,” you whispered, your voice breaking with it. “Didn’t matter how tired I was—how much I missed you—I just kept telling myself we’d find our way back.”
Bucky groaned, forehead dropping to yours as he thrust deeper, as if to make that promise physical. “We’re here,” he said, lips brushing yours, voice wrecked. “I’m here, doll. I’ve got you now.”
Your fingers threaded into his hair, pulling him into a kiss so deep it felt like you were breathing him in. His rhythm stuttered—just for a second—like the emotion finally overwhelmed him too. You felt his body shake, his chest trembling against yours with the weight of it all.
“I can feel you,” you choked out, tears slipping free. “Everywhere. Inside me… all around me. It’s too much.”
“It’s not enough,” he countered, burying himself to the hilt with a desperate groan. “I want all of it. All of you. You understand me, sweetheart? I need you like I need air.”
Your walls fluttered around him, so sensitive, so close. The pressure had been building all night, every kiss, every tease, every whispered need between bodies that had gone too long without each other. And now it swelled between you like a tide, rising with every thrust.
Your moans turned to cries, breath hitching as your nails clawed at his back, as your thighs flexed around his shoulders. Your whole body was pulling him deeper, tighter—yours in every way.
Bucky was unraveling. You could see it in his clenched jaw, the sweat glistening on his neck, the way his hands trembled as they held you steady. But still, he held on. For you. With you.
Your climax crept up like a firestorm, slow then all at once. Your whole body went taut beneath him, your cries raw and desperate. “Bucky—I’m—!”
“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he panted, locking his gaze with yours. “Let go for me.”
And you did. Your body shattered around him, muscles tightening, cunt fluttering in tight, greedy pulses as you came with a sob of his name. Bucky groaned deep in his chest, his own hips stuttering as he followed—spilling inside you with a shudder, burying himself to the hilt as he came hard, breathing ragged against your mouth.
But it didn’t stop there.
He didn’t pull out.
Didn’t leave you empty.
He just held you.
Still inside. Still hard.
Still wanting more.
Your body trembled, oversensitive and spent, but when he pulled back to look at you—sweat-slicked hair clinging to his brow, chest heaving, eyes still dark and wild—you knew it wasn’t over. Not yet.
“Again,” he growled, and before you could catch your breath, he flipped you gently, dragging your hips up until your back arched and your ass pressed into his thighs. You moaned when you felt his cock still thick, still hard, nudging your entrance again—still leaking inside you, but ready.
“Bucky—fuck, I can’t—” you whimpered, breathless, but your body was already grinding back against him, eager, slick, greedy for more.
“Yes, you can,” he whispered, his hand sliding beneath your belly, pressing you back onto him as he slid in again. “You’re taking me so good, baby. Can feel you clenching around me—fuck, you’re still so wet.”
This time, the pace changed—deeper, harder, more desperate. You rocked together, bodies soaked with sweat, your whimpers turning into cries. Bucky grabbed your hair, kissed your spine, and whispered broken praises into your skin.
And when he angled just right—grinding into that spot that made your vision white out—you screamed. Your second climax ripped through you like a tidal wave, and this time, you squirted. Your body convulsed, gushing around him, soaking both of you in a hot, messy flood of release.
Bucky groaned like a man possessed. “Jesus, doll—fucking squirting for me—look at you—fuck!”
He pulled out only to flip you onto your back again, panting like a beast. His cock was glistening, flushed and twitching, and he grabbed it with one hand, stroking it slow and steady as he hovered over you, looking drunk on the sight of you—shaking, spent, soaked, eyes glassy with pleasure.
“One more,” he rasped. “Just one more, baby. I wanna see you fall apart again.”
You nodded, lips trembling, unable to form words. And Bucky pushed into you again, groaning as he filled you once more.
The third round was slower—no less intense, but reverent. Like a final hymn. Your body responded instantly, gripping him like a vice, cunt fluttering uncontrollably from the overstimulation.
Tears slid from your eyes, overwhelmed, trembling, unraveling with each deep thrust. Bucky kissed them away, whispering again, his voice raw, cracking.
“I missed you so fucking much, doll. Been dreaming of this… You feel like fucking home.”
When you came that third time, your body jerked violently, cunt pulsing and squirting again with a broken cry. You clenched so tight around him that Bucky came right after—moaning your name like a prayer, emptying inside you with a ragged breath and a soft curse.
Then, finally… stillness.
His body collapsed against yours, not crushing—just full of heat and strength and satisfaction. You both breathed like you’d just come back from war.
He didn’t pull out. Not yet.
You laid like that for a while—intertwined, sweaty, wrecked and safe.
Eventually, Bucky shifted, gently withdrawing with a soft kiss to your temple. You whimpered at the emptiness.
“I know, baby,” he murmured. “I know.”
He stood briefly, grabbing a warm towel, and cleaned you up with gentle, reverent touches. Every kiss was soft now. Every word’s a balm.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, settling beside you again, pulling you into his arms.
You nodded, eyes heavy, still trembling.
“Yeah. Just… full. In every way.”
Bucky smiled against your hair, holding you tighter.
“Good,” Bucky murmured, voice warm and rough against your temple. “’Cause I’m not letting you go again. Not after that.”
You gave a soft little laugh, lazy and warm, curling into his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek, strong and grounding, each beat a lullaby in your ear.
“I wouldn’t let you,” you whispered, voice thick with sleep, fingers brushing faintly along the curve of his ribs. “Not even if I tried.”
The room was quiet, save for the slowing pace of your joined breaths and the distant hum of city noise through the cracked window. But within these four walls, it was just the two of you. No night shifts. No missions. No missed moments.
Just him. Just you. Finally.
Bucky exhaled slowly, still brushing his fingers gently through your hair, and shifted just enough to draw the blankets over both of you. His other arm remained snug around your waist, metal fingertips trailing light circles against your spine—soothing, grounding, loving.
“You were amazing, sweetheart,” he murmured, kissing the crown of your head, the edge of your forehead, the corner of your temple. “Fucking blew my mind. But more than that… I missed you. So damn much.”
Your lips curled in a smile against his chest, but you didn’t answer. Your breathing had slowed, long and even now, body soft and pliant in his arms. You’d slipped under, wrapped in the warmth of his voice and the safety of his embrace.
Bucky smiled against your hair, holding you even closer.
He knew how hard you’d been working. How you’d dragged yourself through those long night shifts, stretched your days past the point of exhaustion, trying to be everything to everyone. He knew how many intimate moments you’d both had to forfeit in the name of duty and responsibility.
But tonight? Tonight, he got you back.
He’d felt every tear, every tremble, every shiver of release as something sacred. He’d read the fatigue in your eyes, and the love burning through it. He knew it wasn’t just your body that needed him—it was your soul. And you had his, utterly.
“You’re calling out tomorrow,” he mumbled sleepily against your hair, tightening his arms around you as if that would seal the decision. “Tell them you’ve been taken hostage by your overprotective boyfriend.”
You made a tiny, sleepy noise against his chest, halfway between a laugh and a hum, already halfway into dreams. Your leg hooked over his hip, one hand pressed to his sternum as if to keep him there, even in sleep.
“I’ll make you breakfast,” Bucky added, lips brushing your temple. “Then we’re staying in bed. All day. You need rest. And I need… you.”
You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.
He felt the way your body melted into his—safe, sated, loved. Your breathing deepened again, warm and soft against his skin.
Bucky stayed awake a while longer, just watching you sleep.
And as your chest rose and fell against him, as your fingers twitched with dreams and your face relaxed into the most peaceful expression he’d seen in weeks, he whispered, more to himself than anything:
“Not letting a single day go by like that again, doll. Not when I get to love you like this.”
Then, finally, he let his eyes close too—his arms never leaving you.
Wrapped in warmth. Wrapped in love.
And this time, nothing was missing.
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little-saw · 2 months ago
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🪶 tickle me pink ! steve rogers x bucky barnes tickle ficlet !
uhmmm.. totally not self-indulgent between me and my boyfriend. Ahem,, stucky tword fic cause Steve deserves to be wrecked by the one he missed so dearly, and Bucky deserves to touch someone in a way that isn't meant to harm them.
Warnings : mentions of trauma , unhealed bucky barnes , ALOT of yearning , tickle fic obviously.
Word count : 1025 words
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Spring arrived in a beautiful burst, tiny buds on tree branches opened into young green leaves, adding color to the city.
Flowers bloomed from the melted soil, their pinks and purples warming Steve's heart. Many of the Avengers no longer appreciated the small things, not the way he did.
Stark Tower was quiet, Tony and Nat had taken the day to themselves and went for coffee, Thor was finishing up buisness with his father on Asgard, Clint was visiting his family, and Bruce was still in the labs, still working on a way to reverse the Hulk's effects.
Leaving Steve and Bucky alone in the far too modern skyscraper. To make it less unnerving, Steve spent a considerable amount of time refurnishing his room.
He covered the walls in a sage green wallpaper and added an old-fashioned armchair into the corner of his room. Countless shelves held knickknacks and collectibles: cans, bottles, vinyls, you name it, Steve had it.
Paintings and drawings littered the walls and floor, Steve was never good at organizing, Bucky was the one that did that for him. Without him over these years, his room fell into a cluttered mess.
But nothing felt like home until Bucky was back. His other piece, his Bucky, was home... that was the missing piece. Not an armchair or a blanket, but Buck.
That's why, in moments like these, since the war to get his favorite person back, Steve felt the safest.
A spring breeze blew through the propped open window, and the greenery below made Steve smile. But he smiled wider at Bucky in the corner of his room, reading The Hobbit. Steve had suggested it, hoping it would help Bucky's memory return.
Bucky's dark hair framed his face, and his blue eyes darted back and forth as he read. Steve sat back on the bed, returning to his sketching. He drew Bucky's relaxed position loosely, taking far too many glances for an average friend.
"What are you doing?" Bucky asked, looking up from his book to Steve.
"Why do you keep staring?" He added on.
Steve chuckled, shaking his head slightly.
"Sketching," Steve replied, then changed the subject. "How's the book?"
Bucky's eyes squinted suspiciously, and he raised an eyebrow. "Good..."
He sat up, and Steve felt like that scrawny kid in Brooklyn again, embarrassed as he closed his notebook. He'd drawn Bucky, and Bucky wanted to see it, starting a battle Bucky always won all those years ago.
"Let me see." Bucky demanded, and Steve shook his head, heart pounding and face warming.
"No- HEY!" Before Steve could process, Bucky leaped on him. He squirmed, but it was no use; he was pinned.
Steve looked at Bucky, glancing at his clawed metal fingers. He tried freeing his wrists, pinned beneath Bucky's flesh hand, but they didn't budge.
"Cmon buddy.." Steve whined. "This is ridiculous." Bucky didn't respond.
He watched as Bucky's hand reached for the notebook. His metal fingers brushed Steve's side, earning a small squeak. Bucky glanced back, and Steve's face involuntarily turned red. He giggled nervously, and Bucky poked him again. The same noise fell from Steve's mouth.
"Quit it..." Steve grumbled, watching Bucky's face curl into a smile. He pathetically tried to fight, though it was a somewhat faux attempt. He had craved any form of physical touch from Bucky since the last time they held hands a couple of weeks ago. But obviously, this was much more than he anticipated.
He tried to push Bucky off with his leg but failed miserably. His eyes darted back up at him, and the fingers that were ever so slowly approaching in meticulous wiggling motions. This was bad.
He shrunk in on himself, curling his neck in and scrunching up his nose. He couldn't help but giggle already. Phantom tingles fell over his body.
"Wow, Steve," Bucky said, a smile across his face. Steve missed that smile so much. "I'm not even touching you." His fingers continued to hover over his belly, and before Steve could come up with some retort, Bucky pounced.
His metal fingers dug into his belly, and Steve immediately caved in on himself. Bubbling laughter erupted from his throat, and he kicked his feet like a child.
"Buhucky- wahaIT-" His voice got much higher as Bucky switched to squeezing his sides, gentle little motions that had him squealing and shaking his head.
"Does it tickle?" Bucky asked, a shit-eating grin across his face while he spidered his cool metal hand over his sides. Steve's laughter fell silent for a moment before he wheezed and tried to speak between cackles.
"YehHES- IHIHit TihiCKles- BuhUCK!-" Bucky continued his assault, poking his belly all over, one poke near the top, one poke near his hip, one poke on his side, and finally... one in his belly button.
"WAHAHait-! WAHAIT! PLEHEase-!!" Tears of laughter prickled Steve's eyes; he couldn't think. His mind was spinning in a soup of GET AWAY!! and GET CLOSER!!
Bucky smiled. "Tickle tickle Stevie~" he teased, his own cheeks warming. This did Steve in.
He gave up, laughing frantically and shaking his head. "NOHOHO- OhOokay! OKAHAY! I cAHAHNT! I TAHAP OhohOUT! Lohook at ihit.." Bucky's hand smoothed, and he gently patted his belly.
Bucky got off Steve and smiled as Steve tried to catch his breath in small pants and whines. He took up the notebook and opened it, finding the messy sketch; his heart swelled.
"Me?" he asked and turned back to Steve; he chuckled and fixed his hair for him. Steve nodded. His brain still mush after nearly being tickled to death.
"Yeah- I drew you alohot.." He said, small giggles still bubbling out of his throat. "Back in the day.."
Bucky stared at him, craving to know what "back in the day" looked like, felt like. He watched Steve breathe, and his heart ached.
"It's nice," he said, referencing the drawing. And then slowly shuffled off the bed. "Would you.." He hesitated. "Tell me what 'back in the day' was like?"
He was unsure, but Steve's eyes lit up, as if his world was complete.
"Yes." He said, nodding quickly and sitting up. "Yes, I would love to."
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ribs02 · 1 month ago
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yeah sorry ill go now
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writer-in-wonder · 3 months ago
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GUYS
GUYS HELP
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I CAN’T
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I CAN’T
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full version bc this is sending meeeee
I need bucky to do his staring thing just once. I need him to just look at Ian and Sam’s just like “Dude you’re doing the staring thing.”
“It’s just…he looks familiar.”
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