22 ❝I want to be defined by the things that I love, not the things that I hate, or the things that I'm afraid of, the things that haunt me in the middle of the night.❞
Bad Bunny performs at the Super Bowl LX Halftime Show at Levi's Stadium on February 08, 2026 in Santa Clara, California. (Photo by Neilson Barnard/Getty Images)
The inherent political statement of only speaking in spanish. Of introducing himself by his legal name. Of having most, if not all (don't wanna assume) his background dancers be visibly latinos. Of showing glimpses into the latino experience with such love and care and domesticity (we all laughed at the kid sleeping in the chairs lol), and including ALL latino countries. "The only thing stronger than hate is love." I suppose Joy is all a part of the fight, isn't it?
percy thinking that disarming luke the way luke taught him was the end of the fight but luke just continuing to fight using brute strength because percy is fighting to end the fight, but luke is fighting to kill his opponent... percy learning how to fight from luke and therefore luke always having the upper hand on him.... percy, months after luke is gone, admitting that he still hears luke's instructions in his head when he fights.... i think it's very interesting that everyone regards percy as one of the strongest modern demigods, but in his own head - subconsciously or consciously - he's always going to be trying to live up to luke.... whatever idgaf !!!
A/N: I had a dream Sebastian was hitting it from the back and only got hornier as I woke up. I think I'm ovulating. PERPETUALLY.
Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader
Word count: 11.4k
Warnings: established relationship, SMUT!!!! p in v, oral (m&f), fingering, breeding kink, cumplay?, secret relationship, semi-public sex (fingering in a restaurant), overstim mention, free use mention, somnophilia, size kink, drinking mention, mentions of face fucking?, finger sucking, spit kink, so much smut. like... so much. I'm so, so horny.
Summary: Bucky and you have been sneaking around in secret for a while. Not for any particular reason aside from not wanting all of the questions from the team. But now, your schedules haven't been lining up.
After getting drafted, spending 90 years going from fight after fight, and going to therapy, one could say James Barnes was a little uptight. He liked his routine. Some semblance of normalcy in the midst of the whole brainwashed super soldier arc life put on him.
So of course he'd be drawn to you.
Your chaotic personality and dry humor pulled him in like the ocean tide would pull a boat. Almost imperceptible, until you found yourself stranded in the middle of the ocean having sun poisoning-induced hallucinations.
It took him exactly 68 days of maladaptive daydreaming about ruining you in every humanly possible way, and some inhumanly ones, for his restrain to snap like a twig under the sheer strength of your gaze.
That night at the safe house after a particularly gnarly getaway, where you committed 3 traffic felonies and broke a few other trespassing laws, playing some stupid pop song on the radio like you were going to get your ears pierced at Claire's, not evading an actual gang.
When you closed the door behind you at the safe house, you were buzzing. Your pupils were dilated, you were shaking, and you bounced on your feet like Duracell contracted you to be their newest bunny.
"Did you see that, Buck?!" The faint light gleamed off of your eyes, smile so bright it made his chest hurt. "Oh my God, I feel high right now." The little giddiness in your voice made his cock join his heart in its aching for you. "They couldn't even—"
He didn't let you finish.
Well, he did. But not that sentence.
He grabbed your face and kissed you so hard you thought he'd leave fingertip shaped bruises on your cheeks. His tongue exploring the inside of your mouth and hands roaming over you, undressing in hurry and want, relishing in the taste of your moans spilling into his mouth like he'd never have the chance to again.
But he did. About 3 times that night.
You didn't mean for it to stay a secret. It started out that way because neither of you knew exactly what was gonna come out of it, at first it was all sneaking into each other's rooms late at night and leaving in the morning, teasing the hell out of him over the phone when he was away and paying for it when he got back, and defiling every surface of every safe house you stepped foot in.
But a few weeks into it, his heart ached to leave you every morning, and your chest felt hollowed out every time he was away on a mission without you.
“I know we said no labels or whatever, but… I like this.” He gestures between you, the table, this world you only step into once a week. “I like… bein’ here. With you. Not just the hotel. Not just—y’know.”
You know. Oh, you very much know.
“And I hate that I have to wait all goddamn week just to—” He stops, shakes his head. Starts again more carefully. “…Just to sit across from you and watch you steal my fries.”
Your lips part. You didn’t mean for it to hit this deep. You didn’t mean for your chest to ache with it.
“…Buck,” you say quietly.
His eyes flick up to yours, open, vulnerable, still a little scared.
“I just wanted you to know,” he finishes, voice low. “’Cause I think… Thursday’s startin’ to feel like the only time I can breathe.”
Then it stayed a secret because you didn't want prying eyes or nosy questions, you just wanted the weight of his body on top of yours to lull you to sleep every night.
Every Thursday when possible, though, you'd find yourselves in the same sort of situation: a reservation under an alias in an obscure little restaurant that didn't allow pictures, followed by a king-sized bedroom reserved at the nearest fancy hotel.
Your weekly getaway from the madness you liked to call the Avengers compound.
You slid into your usual booth at the back—a deep burgundy semicircle that practically swallows you both into privacy. Candlelight flickered faintly between you, reflecting in Bucky’s eyes as he leaned back, one arm stretched across the back of the booth, watching you like he’s checking in on his favorite sight.
You pretended you didn’t notice how his gaze softened the moment he saw you in something that wasn’t tactical gear. Deep, plunging neckline of your top is accompanied by no sleeves under your coat, a delicate leather belt with gold hardware holding the black miniskirt in place.
“You clean up nice, Sarge.” you murmured, unfolding your napkin over your lap.
He smirked slowly, eyes lingering over you just a second too long. “You say that every Thursday.”
“Yeah, well. I'm pleasantly surprised by the increasing levels of hot every week.”
His lips twitched—and for a moment it’s easy. Familiar. Thursday. It's like you don't have a super security compound to call home, or like aliens weren't the assignment four days ago.
The waiter comes and goes. You order something light. He orders steak, medium rare, because even off-duty he eats like a soldier who might deploy at any moment.
But there was something different that night. Because between bites, he keeps doing it.
Looking at you.
Not in the usual “I’m gonna wreck you the second we leave” way.
In a “I’m thinking about something dangerous” way. Dangerous could mean a lot of things, specially for superheroes. But the softness in his eyes told you that it was dangerous because it was fragile, precious, and way too normal.
You swore the restaurant’s lighting was designed specifically for him—warm and golden, catching on the scruff along his jaw and the silver of his dog tags tucked under an open henley collar. He didn’t even bother with a jacket tonight. Cocky bastard. He knows what he does to you.
Your knee bumped his under the table. Not an accident. Not even close.
The waiter appears just long enough for you to order another whiskey and a glass of red wine, then disappears into the shadows again.
Bucky settled back, one arm along the back of the booth, “New rule,” he said casually.
“Oh? We have rules now?”
“Just one. No teasing me when I’m away on missions unless you’re ready to deal with the consequences when I get back.”
You widen your eyes innocently. “Consequences? Sergeant Barnes, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You shifted and only slightly sat on your side facing him, one bare leg sliding over the other and crossing, your foot sliding the YSL hardware of your heels up and down his calf.
"I was merely being supportive and making sure a very highly estimated Avenger made it home safely."
He leans in, voice a sinful whisper, “You know what’s not supportive?”
“Mhm?” You bite your lower lip, gaze never straying away from his face.
“When you tell me on comms that you’re wearing those lace panties I like.”
“That was once.”
“Twice.”
“Tomato, tomahto.” You waved a hand in dismissal and grabbed your glass, sipping the wine.
He reaches for his whiskey, takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving you. “Let me guess. You’re wearin’ them now?”
You refuse to respond in words. Only humming in denial behind your glass before clicking your tongue behind your teeth. "None, actually."
He stills and the glass pauses halfway to the table. His gaze dropped—just for a split second—to where your legs met, even though your skirt left barely anything to imagination.
He swallows, thumb tapping once against the glass like he’s recalibrating. “Lemme get this straight,” he says slowly, quietly, eyes darkening, “you’ve been sittin’ across from me for—” he checks his watch, “—twenty-three minutes… with nothing on under that skirt?”
You take another sip, crossing your legs again—slowly, letting your knee brush deliberately higher up his thigh. “Technically it’s been longer. I didn’t wear any in the car either.”
“Jesus Christ…” He was leaning forward now, forearm braced on the table, staring at you like you’re the mission and he’s seconds from breaching.
His metal arm stays stretched along the booth behind you like it has been all night—casual, protective—but now his flesh hand slides under the tablecloth, rests on your knee.
“Thought you’d maintain professionalism, Sergeant,” you teased softly, eyes fluttering when his hand squeezes just slightly.
“Honey, I left professionalism back at the compound the second I smelled your perfume tonight.” His fingers drift higher. Inch by slow, agonizing inch.
You try to take another sip of wine, but your hand trembles just slightly. You hoped he wouldn’t notice.
But it's Bucky, he absolutely notices and hums to himself while you bite your lip with that horny look in your eyes that make your eyelids sit heavy like you could eat him alive. And he'd let you.
You feel his smirk against your ear before you hear it in his voice. “Nervous?”
“Hardly.” But it comes out breathier than intended.
He continues upward. Your pulse spikes. His fingertips stop just under the hem of your skirt, brushing the sensitive inside of your thigh. You grip the edge of the table with your free hand.
“You’re trembling,” he whispers, amused.
“There’s an air vent,” you lie. His fingers slip further beneath the hem, in the direction of where you wanted him the most.
“Oh yeah?” he hums. “Think this vent reaches between your thighs too?”
You nearly choke when his fingertips brush the bare, hot skin there. His breath hitches quietly—barely audible. If you didn’t know every sound he made, you might’ve missed it.
“You’re already so warm,” he notes, turning his head slightly so his lips ghost your cheek without touching. His fingers finally slide up and press gently—right there.
Your breath stops.
He smiles against your skin. “There she is.” Your nails dig into the table. “Think I can make you come before the waiter brings dessert?” he whispers silkily. You smile tightly at him through clenched teeth.
“I think you should try.”
He chuckled, low and almost mean, and pushed two fingers inside the wet slick he had been salivating after every time you were apart. James Buchanan Barnes is a loverboy at his core, and a menace who enjoys the process.
It's not like you could get caught and be arrested for public indecency at any second.
His fingers keep tracing delicate, lazy shapes just inside, making sure to keep his palm or any source of friction away from where you need him most until you’re squirming almost imperceptibly.
“Settle,” he murmurs in your ear, a quiet, firm command.
You freeze, thighs trembling slightly as you force yourself still. He rewards you with one slow, deliberate circle of his thumb right over your clit.
Your breath hitched audibly and he smirked. “Good girl.”
You tried not to whine. If you did, you know he’d make it worse. He’d stop. Or go even slower. You don’t know which was worse and you’re not sure which one you wanted more.
Minutes pass. Agonizing minutes.
Each pass of his fingers is maddeningly controlled—never too fast, never too direct. Each stroke tells you he knows your body better than anyone alive. He avoids giving you the rhythm you want, changing speed just before you can catch it.
You’re flushed now, half from the wine and mostly from him. Your thighs are tense, fighting the urge to grind subtly against his hand.
“Relax,” he murmurs, and his vibranium arm shifts behind your shoulders, holding you back into him protectively as if you’re not on the verge of shaking apart.
The waiter appears to bring your entrees and you hold back a whine when Bucky pulls his hand away from the heat between your legs.
You answer his polite “How are the first couple of bites?” with a steady, “Perfect, thank you.” and he walks away to attend to other tables.
Bucky, however, lets his fork rest steady on his plate, and barely lets you recover from the slick mess you're making on the back of your skirt before his fingers find you again. He chuckles into your hair, voice like hot honey. “You’re fuckin’ incredible.”
“You’re fucking evil,” you breathe, barely moving your lips.
“Maybe.” His pace increases—not by much, but enough that the twisting heat in your belly starts coiling faster.
“Buck—” you whisper, desperate.
“I know, baby.” He murmurs soothingly. “Almost there.”
But when your thighs start to tighten in anticipation—he stops. Completely. Your head snaps toward him in disbelief.
He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Keep your legs open.”
You do, because if you don’t, he’ll make you.
He clicks his tongue once in mock disappointment. “Oh, sweetheart,” he hums, withdrawing his hand completely and casually lifting it to his mouth. He sucks one glistening finger clean, eyes locked onto yours with sinful delight. “This is gonna be a long dinner for you.”
Your pulse pounds in your ears. Your body aches, throbbing with every second he refuses to touch you again.
“You’re shaking,” he says under his breath, amused.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
To say you didn't give a fuck about the chocolate lava cake was an understatement. You don’t remember how your back hit the hotel room door—only that Bucky barely got it shut before he had you pinned against it, one hand cupping your jaw and the other sliding under your skirt, shoving it up past your hips like he had something to prove to both of you.
But somewhere between your desperate gasps and his low moans, something shifts.
It happens quietly.
Accidentally.
You moved on top of him, breathless and messy, nails dragging down his chest. The rhythm was hot, frantic—but when he caught your hips and slowed you down, forcing you to roll instead of bounce, the tone shifted.
“Yeah,” he groans, guiding your hips, “ride me nice and slow—like we’ve got nowhere to be tomorrow.”
You blink—because that’s not how this usually goes.
He keeps going.
“Like we’re not being sent on calls at 3 a.m. to save the world,” he breathes, watching your face. “Like it’s a Saturday. Like we sleep in.”
You swallow hard. The thrusts get deeper. Less rushed. More… emotional.
“Maybe we don’t even live in New York,” you whisper, falling into it before you can stop yourself.
His grip tightens.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice softer, needier. “Where we livin’, baby?”
“Some small apartment in Chicago,” you gasp, leaning forward so your foreheads touch. “Or maybe a townhouse in Portland.”
He nodded slowly, grinding up into you. “Yeah. I like that. We don’t save the world. I work construction or some shit. Come home covered in sawdust.”
His hands on your hips tighten just a bit more tenderly, like he’s anchoring himself. Your fingers brush his chest and linger too long.
And then in the middle of your hips slapping down against his, his head falls back and he breathes, brokenly, “Fuck—I’d come home to you like this every night if I could.”
So you lean down, lips brushing his for a second before you bit his chin and let it go with a graze of your teeth, breath shaky. “Yeah? You’d come home dirty and throw me on the bed like this?”
He groaned—deep, guttural, hands squeezing your waist as you kept moving, feeling him get even harder inside of you if that was even possible.
His voice gets rougher. “Wouldn’t even make it to the bed. I’d fuck you on the kitchen counter while dinner burns on the stove.”
He thrusts up suddenly, hard. “Fuck—Bucky!”
He grips your jaw and makes you look at him. “You’d leave me little notes on the fridge before you go on early runs. Tellin’ me to eat breakfast. Like a fuckin’ wife.”
Your breath stutters, something sharp and warm in your chest. You whimper, hips stuttering for a second at the idea of wearing a ring that signifies his last name.
He doesn’t miss it.
“Oh, you like that?” he whispers darkly, sitting up so your chests press together, still inside you. “You wanna wear my ring, honey? Want the whole damn world to know you’re mine?”
You shudder, nails clawing his back. “Yes…”
He thrusts up hard. “Say it clearer.”
“I want it,” you breathe, trembling. “Want your ring.”
He kisses you like it hurts. Like he’s drowning and you're the only breath of oxygen his lungs would ever recognize while fully submerged.
Maybe that’s why he suddenly grips your waist and flips you onto your back with a rough, almost desperate exhale—like he needs to bury himself deeper in this illusion before it slips away.
He settles between your legs, pushing back in with a guttural groan, forehead pressed to yours.
“And maybe…” his voice drops further, wrecked and reverent, “…maybe one night I wouldn’t pull out.”
Your breath stutters—eyes fluttering open to meet his. The air crackles. He watches your reaction like a predator watching prey tremble.
“Maybe I’d just stay inside you,” he murmurs against your lips, thrusts deep enough to make the headboard creak softly. “Fill you up… right there in our shitty little apartment.”
A weak sound escapes you.
“You’d yell at me in the morning,” he murmurs, kissing you slow and deep, “say we weren’t trying. That we weren’t ready. But I’d look at you in one of my old shirts, barefoot in the kitchen makin’ pancakes… and I’d want it all over again.”
Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him down as you arch into him.
He groans into your neck. “Wouldn’t let you outta bed that weekend. I’d keep fuckin’ you full of me… hopin’ it’d take. Hopin’ I get to walk by you in the mirror and see your belly round with my kid.”
You gasp his name like wishing on a star.
He thrusts deeper—slower—like he’s savoring the image burned into his mind.
“Imagine it,” he whispers, voice shaking with how bad he wants it—even if he pretends it’s still just talk. “You, pregnant with my baby. Nothin’ else in the world but us. No Hydra. No missions. Just… you carryin’ something I gave you. Somethin’ ours.”
You nearly sob at how intensely it hits you.
His forehead presses to yours as his voice falls to a wrecked whisper. “Tell me you’d want it.”
“I’d want it,” you breathe, almost crying. “Bucky, I want it so bad.”
He groans—filthy, tortured, adoring—as he thrusts harder now, chasing something that feels far bigger than pleasure. And that’s how you fall apart beneath him—his whispered fantasies of a quiet life, a warm bed, and a round belly turning into the dirtiest, most intimate thing anyone has ever given you.
Life, however, doesn’t care about what happened in that hotel bed.
It throws missions at both of you like grenades.
First, he gets deployed with Sam to Europe for weeks, chasing arms dealers who won’t stay in one place. You get stuck in Southeast Asia with Nat and Wanda for a hostage op that turns into a two-week storm of adrenaline and zero sleep.
Time differences ruined your ability to talk. Sometimes you'd send a three-word text. Sometimes he likes it six hours later. Sometimes he sends a picture of a shitty cup of coffee with a single: miss yours.
Back on base, you miss him in hallways by hours. He leaves briefing rooms five minutes before you enter them. If you're off, he's not, and vice versa.
A racy picture here, a breathless phone call there, and neither of you being left alone for the same 10 minutes to do anything about it.
Until it marks almost two months since the night at the hotel.
Your body was sore, all you wanted was to wash your hair, get a face mark on, and sleep in your fuzzy robe until about 11pm when he'd sneak into your room. But as you walked through the compound, your phone pinged.
From: Buck
📍 43.7126° N, 110.6751° W
Your stomach lurched in your tummy, and you felt a surge of warmth spread over you as you bit your lip, grinning at the screen. Your footsteps got quicker on the way to your room, an everything shower and barely any packing in your mind.
Seconds later, your phone buzzes again.
From: Buck
I need you.
On the other side of the compound, Bucky tightens the straps on his duffel slung across his back. There is not a sleeping bag, tent, hiking boot, or single piece of wilderness survival gear in sight. He was wearing jeans and a henley he fucks in—not fishes in.
“Where you off to, Tin Man?” He didn't have to turn around to know it was Sam, accompanied by Steve, approaching his bike.
“Camping. Out of state. Off-grid a couple days.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you camp?”
Bucky smirks. “Since now.”
Steve blinked slowly, knowing there’s more to this but being too emotionally mature or exhausted to pry. “You got gear?”
Bucky slides on his helmet like the question doesn’t exist. “I’ve survived worse without a tent.”
He revs the engine and leaves before anyone can point out that two shirts and a half-empty Dopp kit don’t equal “camping.”
Your hair is styled. You’re moisturizing. Your bag is small enough to pass as a purse. Inside? A toothbrush, skincare, three pairs of lingerie, and zero hoodies, shirt, thermal leggings, hiking socks, or flannel.
You were walking down the hall to the elevator, an SUV with seat warmers waiting for you in the garage when you heard Nat's voice from behind you. "I'd ask you what's all that but its... not much."
"Heading out for the weekend.”
“Where?”
You keep your tone fluffy. “Camping. In Wyoming. With… college friends.”
Nat blinks. Once. Twice.
Her gaze slides from your perfectly blow-dried hair… to your freshly glossed lips… to the very much not outdoorsy clothes you’re wearing and the perfume that would definitely attract bears.
"Camping?"
“Yeah. Gonna… sit by a lake. Look at trees. Bond with nature. Be one with dirt.”
She’s silent for a full ten seconds. Then… she smiles. She lets you go with no fuss, immediately marching towards the kitchen like she's mid op.
“They’re going camping.”
Sam looks up. “Who is?” Nat folds her hands on the table. Smiles like the cat that ate the canary.
“Your favorite brooding senior citizen and our little chaos gremlin.”
“Barnes does not strike me as a s’mores guy unless s’mores is a sex position.” Joaquin piped up from a mouthful of Nerd Clusters.
Steve exhales. “They have been… weird lately.”
Sam leans back, dramatic gasp loading. “They’re sneakin’ off to a love shack.”
“In the woods. They will return pregnant or emotionally damaged.” Yelena seems more excited about the first one.
Joaquin chuckled. “Or both.”
Snow crunched under your tires as you pulled onto the secluded dirt road. Pines rise on either side like silent sentries. The sun is dipping low, staining the Wyoming sky a molten gold that glows against the frost. Your stomach tightens as the cabin comes into view—secluded, quiet, the lake beyond it frozen still as glass.
And then there’s him.
Bucky Barnes stands outside like he’s been waiting forever—leaning casually against his bike parked near the porch, breath fogging the air in slow, steady clouds. His henley stretches obscenely over his chest and arms, leather jacket hanging open like he’s daring the cold to challenge him. His jeans hug his thighs in a way that should be illegal.
He looks like 225 pounds of pure, coiled heat.
You step out of the car, shoes meeting the crunchy top layer of snow. The cold air bites your cheeks, makes your breath visible. He straightens from the bike, eyes fixed on you—calm, certain, but dark with something that’s been starving for weeks.
Every step toward one another is soaked in tension. You meet about halfway.
You drop your bag dramatically at his feet. It’s small. Embarrassingly small. More purse than luggage, really.
His gaze flicks to it, then to you—brow arching, equal parts question and disbelief. “That’s it?” he asks quietly, voice deep and scratchy with restrained amusement.
You meet his eyes head-on and smirk. “That’s all I packed.”
A slow grin curves along his mouth. He nods once—like he’s both amused and dangerously pleased.
Then, before you can blink, he grabs the bag with one hand and hooks the other behind your knees, hauling you clean over his shoulder in one effortless motion.
You squeal his name, half laughing, half breathless.
Your view was upside-down: him holding your bag in his metal hand, your ass supported easily by his other arm, boots swinging as he walks toward the cabin door with confidence that says he already knows exactly what’s about to happen once you’re inside.
The cold air bites at your thighs through the hem of your dress, but his grip is hot enough to make up for it.
Bucky walks into the cabin and your lungs fill with the scent of wood burning, wine, and that amber resin that only comes from blankets that have been stored for a while.
He sets you down with the utmost care in the world, and you take in the effort he put into this weekend already. The fireplace was lit, throw blankets on the fur rug like a love-nest, and next to it, a wooden coffee table with two wine glasses already resting on it.
You raise a brow slowly, smirking. “Wow. This some kind of plan, Bucky? Get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?”
Bucky just snorts, stepping forward with that lazy swagger that says he’s already got you right where he wants you.
“Take advantage of you?” he echoes, amused. “Sweetheart, you climb me like a tree when you’re sober. When you’re drunk, you’re like a damn jaguar in heat.”
You gape, offended and amused at the same time.
He nods once, dead serious. “A horny jaguar that thinks humping me is a personality trait.”
“Excuse me?” you sputter, crossing your arms even as heat crawls up your neck.
His lips twitch. “You know how many times I’ve woken up on a mission night to you half-asleep grinding on my thigh like you were tryin’ to assert dominance?”
You refuse to confirm or deny, rolling your eyes as you mutter, “Maybe you shouldn’t sleep so close.”
He tilted his head in that same infuriating way whenever he was right. “Maybe you shouldn’t sleep so needy.”
“Maybe you should—”
You don’t finish the sentence, because he’s already ducking his head to pepper slow, teasing kisses along the side of your neck. He lingers at that spot just under your ear, humming with satisfaction when your breath hitches.
“C’mere,” he says, voice dropping an octave as he steps backward toward the rug by the fire and lowers himself down, back pressed against the couch. He tugs you gently forward until you’re standing between his legs.
He guides you onto his lap effortlessly, hands sliding to your hips as you straddle him, your knees sinking into the thick fur while your body settles against his chest like it remembers the place.
Bucky pushed a strand of hair behind your ear and held your face in both hands, looking into your eyes like he was deciphering the hieroglyphs needed to read your soul.
Like he hadn't unraveled every secret you had and kept them in a drawer in his room, tucked with changes of underwear and a pair of soft shorts, along with a shirt you definitely stole from him.
He kisses you like you’re a memory he’s been clinging to for eight goddamn weeks—urgent, deep, almost grateful. His hands grip your thighs, anchoring you, as your fingers tangle in his hair and tug.
You press into him instinctively, your hips rolling once out of sheer muscle memory.
He groans into your mouth. “There she is,” he mutters, breath rough, lips brushing yours. “My little jaguar.”
You gasp a breathless laugh, "Shut up." That turns into a quiet moan into his mouth as his hands press your hips forward again, encouraging the friction you didn’t even realize you were fully chasing until now.
The friction starts slow, guided by his grip and your desperation. You’re both still half-dressed, clothes scraping together, breaths getting messier as the pressure builds and the world narrows to heat, motion, and the soft crackle of the fire.
Your hands move slowly to the hem of his shirt, fingers tracing his skin first—softly—before pushing it up. His hands leave your body just long enough to let you pull the fabric over his head, exposing his torso. Warm and taut, all muscle and some scarring, the hair on his chest tickling under your fingertips.
When he pulls your sweater and dress over your head in one motion, he does it carefully— like he’s unwrapping something he missed holding.
You watch him watching you, that intensity making your stomach twist in ways entirely unrelated to the heat between your thighs. You don’t feel bared — you feel seen.
His eyes linger over your white lace lingerie — one of the three you packed just for him. “…You wore this for me?”
You smirk, though your hum comes out softer than planned. Nodding and biting your lip, already leaning in for another kiss. When his hands grip your ass, yours fumble with the button and zipper of his jeans, pushing your hand past the hem of his underwear and stroking his cock inside of his jeans.
“See?” he rasps, voice cracked with need. “Didn’t even take a full minute before you went straight for it.”
You grind down against him deliberately. “You complaining?”
You stroke him again, slow, teasing, just to hear that sound again. His eyes flutter half-lidded as he exhales like he’s been waiting two months just to feel your hand on him again.
“Fuck,” he mutters, jaw tight. “You have any idea how bad I’ve needed this?”
Your pulse kicks at that. “Oh yeah?”
He nods slowly, gaze fixed on your lips. “Been thinkin’ about you touchin’ me like this every damn night. Hands under my clothes, whisperin’ in my ear while you use me how you want.”
You swallow, heat flaring hot in your chest.
You’re stroking him just enough to make him need more, watching his jaw clench like he’s trying not to lose it too fast. His grip on your hips turns almost bruising.
“Fuck—” he mutters, eyes squeezing shut for one second as your thumb drags along his waistband, tempting. “You really think I’m just gonna let you sit here and torture me?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re handling it just fine.”
His eyes snap open—dark, glassy, amused.
“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low and ruined, “I’ve been handling it for eight goddamn weeks.”
And before you can get another word out, he moves.
His hands lock under your thighs, and in one fast, fluid motion, he shifts up onto his knees and throws you back onto the thick fur rug beneath you with a soft thud and a breathless squeal from your lips.
You blink up at him, caught between laughing and panting.
He hovers over you now, hair falling slightly into his face, breathing heavy, jeans still half open, your dress gone, lace soft against the rug.
His metal hand braced beside your head. His flesh one sliding slowly up your bare thigh, deliberate. He’s looking at you like something he’s been hunting and cherishing in equal measure.
His lips ghost your jaw.
“I pictured your face,” he goes on, slow, steady, voice a hot whisper. “Right when you’re about to get loud. When you’re trying so hard to hold it in for me but you just… can’t.”
You clutch at his henley, pulling him closer.
“You think I didn’t go crazy picturing this lace?” he teases hungrily, gaze dropping to what you’re wearing. “Knew it’d look good stretched over you while you beg me to touch you.”
Your back arches involuntarily.
“I missed you talking like this,” you whisper quickly—too honest, too needy.
He grins against your skin, breathing hard now. You whimper quietly as his fingers trace closer—waiting, teasing.
“And I missed watching you fall apart,” he breathes. “I missed making your eyes roll back. I missed you diggin’ your nails into my shoulders. I missed fuckin’ you so good you forget your own name until all you remember is mine.”
His mouth drags heat along your collarbone, your chest, lower still, as his hands coax your thighs further apart with gentle but unyielding pressure.
He looks up once, taking in your face right before he drives you up the wall, and then he lowers himself fully between your thighs, settling there like he plans to stay until he pulls every remembered sound from your throat—slow, steady, incredibly focused. Lace long forgotten in a pile of clothing that wouldn’t touch your body for 48 hours at least.
Your back arches at the first real contact, breath hitching as your grip in his hair tightens when he licks a strip up your slit and circles your clit with his tongue.
"F-fuck, baby..."
He hummed in quiet satisfaction against you, like he was tasting something he’d been dying without, and nuzzled his face further into you, lapping your juices up and down while his nose bumped your clit.
He breathes out a quiet, low laugh — pleased, intimate. “There we go. Look at you… can’t stay still, can you?” His voice is low, not mocking — proud.
“Bucky—” your voice catches when his tongue finds rhythm again, slow and focused.
“Say my name again,” he murmurs, eyes darting up to catch your expression. His voice is steady, coaxing. “C’mon, doll. Let me hear how bad you missed me.”
And you do. Because there's no nosy super spies listening in the vents, and no training sessions, briefings, or meetings to pull this thirsty man away from the oasis between your legs.
“There you go…” he whispers, closing his eyes for a second like he feels it as deeply as you do. “God, I missed how pretty you sound.”
“Please don’t stop,” you gasp, chest rising and falling faster. “Don’t stop—I’ve needed you so bad.”
His tongue roughens against you, responding to your voice as much as your body.
“You always know exactly how to—” Your breath breaks on a wavering sound when he thrusts his tongue in. “God, Bucky… you’re the only one who knows how to make it feel like this.”
His tongue works faster and his lips wrap around your clit, sucking the nerves and sending you into orbit. Your hips raised off the rug while your legs clamped around his head, big hands holding you down through your orgasm, working you through it.
You’re still shaking slightly, body flushed and oversensitized, yet aching in a new, overwhelming way that has nothing to do with just physical need.
So you reach for him.
You cup his face with both hands and pull him down into a kiss that’s not frantic — but full. Deep. His hand finds your hip, thumb stroking gently as if grounding himself in the reality of you.
When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his, breathing unevenly. “Bucky…” you whisper, voice soft but trembling with urgency.
He hums in response, thumb sweeping slowly along your cheekbone, waiting for whatever you need to say next.
“I need you,” you breathe — and the tone in your voice leaves nothing to interpretation. It comes out broken and wanting. “I need you inside me. Right now.”
Your hand gripped the length of him and lined him up with your pussy, neither of you breaking eye contact as he pushed the thick head in, not rushing but not giving you time to adjust either.
“Holy shit…” he mutters, eyes screwed shut for one second as he breathes through it. “I swear… you get tighter every time I’m away.”
Your lips part on a broken sound, heat flooding your chest. You roll your hips impatiently, needing more. “Bucky—”
“You feel that?” he murmurs against your cheek, voice thick and filthy. “That’s how tight you're choking me right now and I’m not even all the way in. You gonna let me all the way, baby? Gonna take all of me?”
“Y-yes,” you whisper, breath shaking. “Please.”
He laughs low — smug and a little breathless. “Begging already? Didn’t even give you the good part yet.”
“You’re such an ass—”
“Yeah, but you still want it,” he interrupts, kissing you hard — messy, teeth and tongue and desperation — before pulling back just enough to watch your face as he sinks in deeper, slow and deliberate. You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.
He groans loud, head tipping back as he mutters, “Fuck. That’s it. Take me… just like that. Wanted this so bad it hurt.”
Your fingers scramble at his back, trying to hold onto something solid as your rhythm falls apart under him. “Harder,” you whisper — it sounds more like a plea than a demand.
He exhales sharply through his nose, satisfied. “Fuck, I love when you beg.”
“I’m not—” you try, but the protest cuts off when he does exactly what you asked. Your head tilts back, lips parted as an uncontrolled sound tears free.
“Mhm,” he hums, smug. “Yeah, you are.” He leans in close again, breath hot against your jaw. “Look at me,” he murmurs, voice wrecked.
You force your eyes open — and the second your glazed eyes lock with his, something shifts. You see how undone he is too — chest heaving, jaw slack, pupils blown wide with hunger and love tangled up together.
You feel a tremor ripple through you, and he sees it instantly. “There it is,” he rasps, grin gone now, replaced by raw intensity. “Feel it hittin’ you? Feel how good I’m making you feel?”
You nod, whimpering, fingers clawing at his shoulders.
“That’s right,” he whispers, voice gravel. “Only me. Nobody else gets to pull those sounds out of you.”
“Bucky—” his name leaves you like a prayer and a warning and something close to worship.
He kissed you hard, swallowing your breath. “I got you. Let go.”
His hand finds yours, fingers interlacing against the rug as you move together, breathless, desperate, claimed.
He finds a rhythm that's nothing like before—harder, faster, wrecked—and suddenly you’re not thinking in words or even sounds, just reactions.
“Fuck—”
“Yeah?” he pants, voice nearly a growl now, hips moving rougher, chasing something even he can’t hide from anymore. “Say my name—say it—”
“Bucky—oh God—”
“Louder,” he breathes, losing all rhythm for a second as you clench around him. “Let me fucking hear you—”
“I can’t—I—I—”
“Yes, you can,” he insists, voice wrecked, raw. His hand slides to your jaw, holding your face toward him. His eyes are wild now.
You meet his gaze—and the look on his face destroys you. His jaw is clenched, sweat dampening his temple, lips parted as he gives in to instinct. He looks desperate. Gone. Like if you asked him to die for you right now, he’d say yes.
“I’m close,” you admit in a broken whisper. “Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—” You choke on a sobbing moan. “Harder—please—”
That word unravels him.
“Fuck—oh my God—you’re killing me,” he curses, slamming his forehead against yours, movements turning almost frantic, chasing the edge with you. “Come on, baby—give it to me—give it—come with me—”
"Bucky— oh God, please, please, please cum in me."
He cums first—just a moment, a hitched breath, a curse hissed against your neck that sounds like your name torn in half—and the heat of him spilling inside of you is all it takes for your world to snap, heat flooding through you like freefall.
He stays inside you. He doesn’t move away. He just breathes there, face buried in your neck as you both try to remember how lungs are supposed to work.
You made it to bed after a couple glasses of wine, a grilled cheese, and teasing him some more, falling asleep on your stomach with him draped over you like the worlds warmest — and oldest — weighted blanket.
Whatever dream you were having, Bucky woke up to your ass rubbing against him like you were short on rent. He was still a little sensitive from the road you just had right before bed, and the clock on the nightstand on your side showed something along the lines of 2:43am.
He felt himself get hard and your body rubbed harder against him if that was even possible. He groaned quietly, and his hand went under the covers to find your bare pussy drooling, absolutely crying for him.
"Bucky..." The little breathless whimper you let out told him you were crying for him too.
He bit his lip and didn't have much ceremony. You were so wet anyway he'd probably slide right in. He pushed his boxers down, and up sprang his leaking cock.
He turned on his side, almost draped all the way over you, aligned himself, and pushed in.
The first thing you become aware of is the weight.
Heavy, solid, familiar — draped over your back like he promised he always would be. Bucky sleeps like a furnace, arm slung around your waist, leg hooked lazily over yours like he’s making sure you can’t vanish in the night.
You were dreaming something warm… fuzzy… something with his voice in your ear.
You breathed his name again, groggy and fluttering, barely louder than when you were fully asleep. “Bucky…?”
His breath catches like a snapped wire, hips momentarily freezing against you. For a second you think he’s going to stop. Then his forehead presses into your shoulder and he lets out a groan that sounds like a confession.
“Fuck—sorry—’m trying—trying to be good,” he mutters, voice thick, wrecked from sleep and need. “Woke up with you grinding against me—couldn’t stop thinking about…” His breath stutters as his hips twitch again helplessly. “...about how wet you get when I wake you like this.”
A memory echoes in your mind—your voice from weeks ago, breathless, whispering in the dark with saliva and cum dripping down your chin after he thoroughly bruised the back of your throat.
If you ever wake up like that again… you don’t have to wait for me to wake up.
“Bucky,” you murmur, fully awake now, voice softer but lower. You shift back into him, deliberately this time. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”
There's a soft schlick schlick schlick of his body driving itself into you that drives you crazy. It's muffled by the comforter like its dirty, naughty, something you shouldn't be doing.
Something hushed and feral and needy that is required to happen, otherwise you feel like you're gonna explode.
“Don’t hold back,” you whisper, voice trembling with something hungry. “Please.”
A low sound escapes him — half relief, half feral praise. “Yeah?” he breathes, moving again, more certain now. “You want it this bad, huh? Needed me even in your sleep?”
You bite back a soft whimper as your body reacts, your thighs pressing together instinctively even though his hand is between them. Every roll of his hips sends heat curling up your spine.
He hears the broken sound you make when you try to steady your breathing.
And that’s it. His restraint snaps.
His mouth crashes against your shoulder, open, desperate, needy, teeth scraping lightly as he moans into your skin.
“That’s it… fuck, that’s it. Push back on me, c’mon,” he urges, tone filthy, forehead pressing to your neck as his rhythm builds. “Grind on me, baby, just like you were when you were out.”
You follow instinct, rocking your hips back into him, dizzy with how much you suddenly need this, need him. The friction is rough and perfect and not nearly enough — but his voice makes it feel like everything.
“That’s my girl,” he growls. “Rubbin’ that perfect little ass on me like you’re starving for it. You tryin’ to make me lose my mind first thing in the morning?”
You gasp into the pillow, fingers gripping the sheet. “I—God—I missed you,” you breathe, shaky. “Missed how you make me feel—needed this—”
“That’s right,” he whispers, voice thick, rhythm steady and possessive, every grind punctuated by a breathy curse.
You’re nearly sobbing now, hips moving helplessly in sync with his. “Bucky… I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” he pants. “Do it for me—come on, pretty girl, let me feel it.”
You break.
The pleasure comes in waves that steal your breath, your sound, everything but his name. You’re trembling, clutching the sheets like they’re the only thing anchoring you. His arm wraps around you, holding you firmly against him as you shake, riding it out. He breathes through a deep groan into your shoulder, almost like your release drags him to the edge too, but he doesn’t let go—he just clings harder.
“Well damn,” he whispers after a few long, quiet seconds, still pressed tight against you. You're pliant and hazy, boneless against him. “That’s my good girl.”
Your breath is still uneven, but your eyes are heavy again. He kisses a slow, almost apologetic line along your shoulder blade.
“You okay?” he asks softly. You hum something that sounds like yes, still catching your breath.
He shifts just enough to pull the blanket up over both of you, but not an inch further. His hold doesn’t loosen, his arm tightens around your waist, like he’s anchoring himself there.
“Gonna stay here,” he mutters into your hair, voice thick and low. “Don’t want to leave you. Not even to move.”
You’re too tired to fully answer, but you thread your fingers through his where his hand rests on your stomach, lacing them together. He lets out a shaky, content exhale.
One last soft kiss to the back of your shoulder.
“Go back to sleep, baby. I’ll be right here.”
And he was.
Pressed close, breathing warm and steady against your neck, wrapped around you like a shield. You fell asleep again with a weak smile and his weight still holding you down in the safest way you’ve ever known.
A few hours later, you woke up sore. The sky was still a deep indigo outside, the sort of dark that doesn't feel terrifying, just comforting. Like the world was standing still just for a few moments, just for you.
You turned, whining at the loss of him, just to be met with the most beautiful sleeping face you've ever seen.
He always sleeps deeper after he’s completely spent. You know that. You also know he fades into that soft, vulnerable state only you get to see—jaw unclenched, lips parted, lashes dark against his cheeks, chest rising steady and warm under your ear.
And you love him so much in this quiet, unguarded moment… you almost want to cry.
Bucky's breaths came out in soft puffs out of his mouth, his conscience somewhere in a dream land far away. Your gaze dropped to his neck, a couple marks on there left by your teeth, but they'd fade before any questioning eyes back at the compound could ask any questions.
His chest was uncovered by the thick blanket, the quilt only covering up to his waist, and the unmistakable tent under it grabbing your attention immediately.
It would be so mean of you to not give him a hand... or a mouth.
Your fingers slide slowly down his stomach, barely brushing along defined muscle. He shifts slightly in his sleep, a soft breath escaping him. The kind that sounds like the beginning of a moan. So you slip under the blankets. Settle between his thighs. And lower your mouth to him.
He stiffens almost immediately, hips twitching subconsciously, a groan rumbling low in his chest as his hand spasms against the sheet. You keep going, slow and controlled, every motion soaked in a mix of reverence and filth.
“Jesus…” His voice is sleep-rough when it finally breaks out of him. His hips jerk once, a shocked gasp leaving him as his hand drops into your hair on instinct. “Oh my—baby—fuck, are you—”
You hummed around him in response, not stopping.
“Holy—shit—” His head falls back on the pillow, voice cracking, breath stuttering as consciousness snaps fully into place. “You—you waking me up like this?”
You squeeze his thigh gently in affirmation.
He lets out a helpless, needy groan, chest heaving as he pushes up on his elbows to watch you under the blanket.
“Look at you,” he pants, voice completely wrecked already. “So hungry you couldn’t even wait for me to wake up properly.”
You don’t stop. You can’t stop. The sounds he’s making are addicting—sharp intakes of air, shaky groans, words turning to curses. He drops one hand over his face like he can’t take it, then moves it to your hair again, fingers curling as his breathing gets frantic.
“Shit—slow down or I’m—I’m not gonna last,” he warns, but his hips are already moving, rolling unconsciously into your rhythm.
You grip his hip to steady him—not to stop him.
He gets the message. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice dropping dangerously low. “You wanna make me lose it in your mouth, huh?”
You hum again, hot and breathy.
He laughs once, broken and disbelieving. “God, I’m so fucked for you.”
His breathing turns ragged. His grip in your hair tightens. His voice goes soft and frantic. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—please, don’t stop—”
You don’t.
He swears louder, hips snapping once as he loses the battle for control entirely. “That’s it—oh God, baby—fuck—“
And then he comes apart with a groan so raw it shoots straight through you, his head tossing back, chest arching, thighs trembling as he curses your name like it breaks him.
You stay with him through it, easing him down gently with soft breath and steady hands until he collapses back onto the mattress, breathing like he ran miles.
“Holy shit,” he exhales shakily, dragging a hand over his face. He sounds totally, helplessly gone.
You crawl up his body, settling on laying completely on top of him with your hands under your chin and on his chest, still warm with aftershocks. He wraps his arms around you immediately, dragging you in and holding you there like you belong pressed against his heart.
When he catches your mouth in a kiss, he groans softly into it.
When you pull away, both of you were smiling like this was it. Like being tangled in a blanket in the middle of nowhere was what you were put on this earth to do.
You got up to make breakfast, or whatever you could call waffles and fruit and a snack here and there. And when Bucky found himself leaning on the doorway, looking at you humming the same tune from that first night he wondered if this was always where he was supposed to be.
If he was meant to fall from that train to do more than assassinations and intel, if he was meant to do more than keep Steve alive long enough to save the world a couple of times.
If he was meant to be tortured and picked apart for 70 years just to find himself wrapped in a sheet watching you steal chocolate chips from the brownie recipe you were making, moving around the kitchen enough that he saw when you winced the slightest bit when you leaned down.
He could accept that, if it meant he could have you.
“Okay, they look like bad cubism work, but i tried to make smiley faces with the chocolate chips and i think it could’ve been way worse.” Yeah, he was never letting you go.
The rest of the day unfolds like time has been loosened around the edges.
It starts with what was supposed to be breakfast dishes. You’re laughing while rinsing out a bowl when Bucky crowds you against the counter, kisses turning needy fast. One moment you’re teasing him for burning waffles, the next you’re bent over the counter with his breath hot against your ear and his hands firm around your hips, both of you too lost in each other to care about anything else.
A couple of hours later, you both manage to put on clothes long enough to walk into the nearby woods. The air is crisp, pine-scented, grounding. Your fingers stay laced with his the entire time. He doesn’t talk much — just keeps looking at you like the sunlight was invented specifically to bounce off your smile.
The shower afterward is meant to be recovery. It isn’t. He pins you lightly against the tiles, kissing the water from your lips and laughing when you nearly melt into the stream just from his hands on your waist.
After dinner, a very nice marry-me chicken recipe Bucky had to watch multiple TikToks of to master, you found yourself in the bedroom, with tear stained cheeks, sticky, marked thighs hanging spread off the bed, with a super soldier standing naked in between them.
The lights were all off aside from the gleaming firelight coming from the living room, barely making through the ajar door, moonlight catching on the wet tears on your cheek and the spit gleaming on your lips from having him in your mouth not too long ago.
Not many people would call Bucky a sap, but if they knew how his heart cracked open every time you looked at him like this, they might.
His hand came to cradle your face, and you nuzzled into it, looking at him with such sheer and unadulterated adoration in your eyes, it felt like you wanted him to pull you apart thread by thread just so he could be the one to stitch you back together.
A thumb traced the wetness on your lips and you engulfed it in between the plush flesh, earning a groan from deep inside of his chest. When you hummed around his digit, the vibration went straight to his cock, twitching in muscle memory.
“M’girl looks like she was made to be fucked open for me.” He moved his hand and grabbed your jaw, still sticky with saliva, a silent demand for you to open your mouth, which you gladly complied, sticking out your tongue.
The hot, wet feeling of his spit landing on your tastebuds came not long after, and you swallowed with a smirk.
Bucky pushed you down the bed with his body, tongue demanding against yours, while his hands gripped your thighs to scoot you up. He ground his hips against yours, coating him in more of your slick, before pushing in.
You gasped against his mouth, and he leaned down just slightly to get his arms under your legs and throw it over his shoulders, leaning in to press your knees out and as close to your chest as physically possible.
"Oh, God, Bucky..." Your eyes rolled back. "Fuck. You’re… you’re so big,” you breathe, voice shaky as your thighs tense reflexively, body already bracing around him even before anything more happens. “Always feels… like too much.”
He gives a quiet, devastatingly confident hum, like your overwhelmed confession is the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.
“Yeah?” His voice is low, warm, full of pride. “That right, baby?” His thumb strokes the inside of your leg in a slow, grounding sweep. “Thought you liked me being too much.”
Your breath catches when he presses his weight down just enough to make you feel it everywhere, the pressure firm and consuming. You whimper and nod, head tipping back against the pillow as your fingers curl around his arm.
“I do,” you whisper, nearly gasping, your voice cracking under the strain of how full his presence makes you feel. “Feels like you’re—stretching me out… every time.”
Your legs tremble in his grasp, but he holds them steady, firm but careful, folding you deeper into the bed, a breathy cry slips out when the pressure increases, not painful—just intense. Deep. Inescapable.
“Bucky—” it spills out in a shaken whisper, your chest rising in quick, unsteady pulls of air. “Feels like you’re… everywhere. I can’t—I can’t breathe when you’re this deep.”
His head dips, eyes locked on yours as his breathing grows heavier. “Yes, you can.” he says gently, firmly, "You love feeling this full. Admit it.”
You’re stuttering, already arching into him even as overwhelmed tears prick at your eyes. “I do,” you gasp. “God, I do—it’s so much—”
And he makes it be even more with a thumb on your clit as he drives into you like he wants the only thing inside of your veins to be him. He feels you clench so tight around him you swear your insides are embossed with the veins of his cock.
You come gasping his name with your bottom lip between his teeth, his cum leaking out of your thoroughly spent cunt.
"Mmm, I love you." It's said in a haze, with the room spinning around your lightheadedness, but he knows it doesn't make it any less true.
You woke up with his arm is still wrapped around your waist, hand spread low over your stomach like a claim he made in his sleep. His chest was pressed against your back, slow breaths brushing the nape of your neck. He didn’t move far — if he moved at all. It’s like even in dreams, he held on.
You shifted slightly and realized your body was sore in a way that felt like remembering. He was already hard against you, silent and steady, like his body woke up wanting before his mind did.
He made a quiet sound in his sleep when you curled back into him instinctively. When you rolled your hips just a little — not even on purpose — his breath stuttered.
“Don’t start somethin’ y'can’t finish,” he murmured, voice deep, rough with sleep.
“I’m not starting anything,” you whispered, but your voice gives you away.
His hand tightened on your waist. “Uh-huh.” Silence stretches — soft, warm, waiting.
“I don't wanna leave today,” you said eventually, voice quiet.
He exhaled slowly into your shoulder, like the thought physically ached. “I know. Let's not move. Not yet.”
He shifted behind you, pressing in closer, and you felt it — the way he wanted you, slow and unhurried, like he had all morning to remind you your body is his favorite place to be in.
When he moved inside of you, it was gentle at first — lazy, testing, his lips brushing your shoulder. You breathed out shakily, already melting, already arching back into him.
“Still sore?” he asked quietly against your skin, smug in a way that only an utterly in love James Barnes could be.
“Yeah,” you breathed. “Still want you.”
He groaned low, like that undoes something in him. He kept you on your side, drawn tight against his chest, his hand guiding your thigh to hook over his. The movement was slow, intimate — more about closeness than urgency. His breathing deepened behind you; you could feel each exhale between your shoulder and your neck.
There wasn't rush, no frantic pace this time. Just heavy warmth, quiet praise, his lips brushing your ear while your fingers clutch at his forearm and soft sounds slip from your throat.
It’s a claiming that feels less like breaking and more like sealing something in place. By the time you both went still again, breath uneven, bodies pressed close under the covers, neither of you spoke. Not right away.
He stays inside the circle of your body like he belongs there — not rushing to pull away, not shifting to leave. Like maybe, just maybe, if he doesn’t move, morning won’t happen.
Eventually, in a low voice that sounded almost reluctant, he murmured, “We should start getting ready in a few.”
You hummed, not agreeing. He pressed one last kiss to your shoulder, lingering there before adding, “Five more minutes.”
You don’t tell him you’re giving him ten.
You don’t make it very far once you’re out of the bedroom.
He had you on the couch next — laughter dissolving into breathy moans as he pulls you onto all fours and sinks into a rhythm that leaves you pressed against worn cushions, his voice low and praising in your ear as the old cabin furniture creaks beneath you, feeling him etch his name in every corner of your soul so good that you had to bite down on the couch cushions to not be too loud, a feat you were much too accustomed to in the confined of both of your rooms.
The drive back was colder than the drive to. Maybe because the heat of anticipation wasn't there anymore, and you were getting back to sneaking around and your sacred Thursdays.
You took a longer route, to pretend you had to wait at the airport. By the time you reached the garage, you saw his bike parked right next to your spot.
The common room was occupied by Nat, Steve, Yelena, and the redhead's eyes traced an invisible string between you and Bucky.
"So.. How was camping?"
"Good." Neither of you meant to respond at the same time.
"Too cold?"
"Warm in the morning, cold at ni-" You glared at him like he was solely to blame for you two absolutely getting caught red handed and sore right then and there.
Natasha smirked. "Welcome back, not-so-stelthy super spies."
At first, no one wants to assume anything when the noise starts. It’s 3:24 A.M. Maybe someone’s just doing an aggressive nighttime workout. Pushing a dresser around. Wrestling a demon. Practicing taekwondo on the wall.
But then the bedframe starts slamming rhythmically against the wall like it’s trying to communicate in Morse code.
And someone gasps way too high-pitched and breathless for this to be cardio-related.
Sam wakes up and pads down to the kitchen to find that he's been the last one to be pulled from his REM sleep by a horny centenarian and his insatiable, inappropriately young girlfriend.
Steve has his head in his hands like he's trying to muffle his ears, forehead resting on the cool table.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
They could hear Bucky's low "Sweetheart, fuck— keep—" followed by a grunt. And what sounded like some hard object dropping to the floor.
Yelena looked at the ceiling in horror when they heard your muffled whines, "Bucky—oh God!" pleading him not to stop.
Sam climbed on a countertop and got his mouth close to the vents. “WE KNOW IT’S BUCKY, WE KNOW, PLEASE.”
And in the symphony of your moans and his grunts, Natasha just piped up from behind her coffee mug. "Does anyone miss when they were sneaking around?"
Every single person in that room raised their hands.
a/n: this was fun to write, can you tell I went home last night and cracked my husband like a woman possessed?
“And I know you don't believe in wishing on shooting stars, and I know they're just crap burning up in the atmosphere but wishes can come true. The wish just reminds you of whats important, makes you think of what you need to do to get there. Maybe they're not magic in themselves but they can be. It's like an airplane, there's nothing magic about it at first but if the right idiot in a field looks at it the right way then it's a shooting star” - Ch 39, Airplanes by Captainmintyfresh
I am a book and fan fic connoisseur so I made this cover for my kindle (bc airplanes lives on my kindles, and phone but with a boring basic cover) using a Canva birthday instagram template and some Pinterest pictures ( you can use this website to add any cover to the epub file) this book meant so much to me when I read it when I was in highschool and It still means so much eight years later
eh, screw it *releases my fucked up vampire au from the confines of my mind*
anyway I decided my blog is for me and I can draw and post all the weird silly concepts of my dreams and nobody can stop me. I actually have a lot of potential comic ideas ping-ponging in my head for this AU — not a linear story or anything (beyond what's on this post), just some good fun and shenanigans.
titsay
theartofmadeline
tangentwithtanner
blakekathryn
annaxmalina
areudirty
2087
