Yearning
bucky barnes x reader
summary: you and bucky have been together for a while now, but haven’t had sex yet—he’s insecure, afraid he forgot how. but one night, things finally happen…
word count: 5,6k
WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. fluff to smut, insecure!bucky, established relationship, curse words, age difference, dirty talk, praise, oral (f receiving), PiV, unprotected sex.
Bucky Barnes is a man out of time, and you’re reminded of it every single day.
Sometimes it’s the obvious things—like how he still squints at his phone as if the apps might leap off the screen and bite him, or how he physically recoils every time you say the word “TikTok.” Sometimes it’s subtler—like the way he insists on walking on the outside of the sidewalk, or how he always opens doors for you without thinking, like muscle memory trained from another era.
And then there are the flowers.
Almost every day, without fail, a small, lovingly picked bouquet appears on your kitchen counter. Sometimes they’re store-bought, sometimes hand-picked from wherever he was that day. Always with a little handwritten note tucked beneath the stems. He never says much about it—just a casual “these made me think of you” and a kiss to your temple. But the habit is so consistent it’s become its own kind of love language.
You’re dating Bucky fucking Barnes and that still feels unreal sometimes.
He’s grumpy. He’s anxious. He has whole decades of trauma stacked inside him like old, worn-out newspapers.
But he also loves you. Deeply. Devotedly. You can see it in the smallest things—the way his hand always finds yours under the table, or how he tenses any time someone looks at you the wrong way. He still doesn’t sleep through the night, but when he does sleep, it’s usually best when you’re wrapped around him.
You’ve been together for a while now. Long enough to fall into a rhythm. Long enough to know what makes him tick, what makes him laugh. Long enough to feel the unspoken ache between you both.
Because there’s one thing you haven’t done yet.
Sex.
You’ve talked about it—briefly, carefully—but Bucky always brushes it off. Not with rejection, but hesitation. You know he wants to… you can feel that he does. But he’s scared. Scared he’s forgotten how. Scared he won’t be good at it anymore. Scared of what might surface, or what might go wrong.
You’d never pressure him. Never.
But god, you want him. Not just the sex—though, yeah, definitely that—but him. His body, his trust, his pleasure. You want him to feel good. You want him to feel wanted.
You’ve started to think he’s almost ready.
You don’t say it aloud. You don’t want to spook him. But there’s a shift in him lately—like maybe he’s starting to believe he deserves this. Deserves you.
Still, you remember the last time you two got close.
It was a quiet night, nothing special. The two of you were curled up on the couch, some half-watched movie playing in the background. You’d ended up in his lap, legs straddling his thighs, your fingers twisted into his hair, your mouths tangled in a kiss that had gone from sweet to hungry in seconds.
He was so warm beneath you, so solid. His hands rested on your waist like he didn’t trust himself to move them, like he was afraid of holding on too tightly. You could feel him, hard through his sweats, pressing up against your center—and the way his breath caught every time you shifted your hips only made you want him more.
You kissed him like he was the last good thing in the world. And he kissed you back like he believed it.
But then—just as your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, just as he let out this low, needy sound in the back of his throat—he pulled away.
Not all at once. Slowly. Like it hurt him to stop.
“Babe…” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. His voice was hoarse, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. “I’m… I’m sorry. I can’t. Not yet.”
You didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll your eyes or pull away. You just cupped his cheek and smiled at him—soft and sure and full of love.
“No worries, Bucky,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. “You know I love you, right?”
He nodded, and god, the look in his eyes… like he couldn’t understand how someone like you could be so patient. So kind.
You shifted, slowly climbing off his lap, careful not to make it feel like rejection. Just giving him space. You tucked yourself beside him on the couch, your knee still brushing his, your presence still close. You didn’t say anything right away.
He let out a long sigh and dragged a hand down his face. The other stayed loosely resting on his thigh, still balled into a fist like he was holding something back.
“I just…” he started, voice rough. “I’m scared I’ll fuck this up. Or that I’ll hurt you.”
Your heart cracked a little, but you stayed quiet, letting him speak. He rarely did. Not like this.
He leaned his head back against the couch cushion, eyes on the ceiling like he couldn’t bear to look at you. “I used to be such a charmer in the ’40s, y’know? Smooth talker. Confident. I had moves.”
You huffed a tiny laugh, not mocking—just warm. “I believe it.”
He glanced at you then, barely a flicker, and smiled faintly.
“But now?” he said, the smile dropping. “Now I feel like I’ve forgotten how to even… touch someone the right way. Hell, half the time I’m afraid to want anything too much, ‘cause what if I screw it up? What if I mess you up?”
His jaw tensed. You could see the war in his mind, the echo of every cruel thing that’s ever been drilled into him—by Hydra, by time, by the weight of his own past.
You reached over, took his hand, gently pried open his fingers from that tight fist and laced them with yours.
“Bucky,” you said, soft but sure, “you’re not going to hurt me.”
He swallowed hard, eyes still on your joined hands.
“And you’re not gonna mess anything up. Okay? Wanting something doesn’t make you dangerous. It makes you human.”
He didn’t answer right away. You let the silence settle around you both. Not awkward. Just… honest.
“I want to make you feel good,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I want you to feel… Safe. Loved.”
He turned his head toward you. His eyes were glassy, a little overwhelmed, but you could see it—the crack of light breaking through all the fear.
“I do feel loved,” you said quietly. “Every day.”
You squeezed his hand, just once, then let go so you could reach up and cradle his jaw instead—thumb brushing lightly along the edge of his cheekbone.
Then you leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry or needy. It was soft. Steady. Like a quiet promise whispered between two heartbeats. He kissed you back like he was still learning how, but already knew it by heart.
When you pulled back, your foreheads touched, your noses brushing, the air between you thick with unsaid things.
“I love you,” he murmured, like he didn’t even mean to say it aloud. “I don’t think I ever really understood what love felt like until you.”
Your breath caught a little, chest tightening.
He kept going, voice rough and low. “You’ve made my life feel like… a life again. Like I’m not just surviving. I didn’t think I’d get to have this. I didn’t think I deserved to. But then you came along and you just—god, sweetheart, you gave me something I never thought I’d have again.”
You felt yourself melting, your heart a puddle in your chest. His hand came up to rest on your thigh, not to start anything, not to take—it just landed there like he needed to touch you, to feel that you were real.
You leaned your head against his shoulder and sighed dramatically. “Jesus Christ, Barnes. You trying to make me cry?”
A breath of a laugh escaped him.
You tilted your head to grin at him. “You say one more sweet thing and I’m gonna have to marry you and sign up for bridge night at the senior center.”
He huffed a laugh, and that shy little smile of his—god, it destroyed you.
“I mean it,” he said quietly, “even if you joke your way out of it.”
You reached over, cupped his cheek again. “I know you do,” you whispered. “And I love you back, you old fossil.”
He laughed for real that time—head tilted back, the kind of laugh that cracked through all the walls he’d built. And it made you smile so big your cheeks ached.
That memory still sits warm in your chest—etched there like sunlight caught in glass.
You think about it sometimes. The weight of him beneath you, the kiss that lingered on your lips for hours after, the way his voice cracked when he told you what you meant to him. How you called him a fossil to hide the way your heart was splitting open inside your ribcage.
And now?
Now you’re in the kitchen with him, barefoot and sleepy-eyed on a Sunday morning. The radio’s playing something soft and old—something he probably heard first on vinyl. You’re standing at the stove, flipping pancakes while he hovers beside you, clearly pretending not to be watching them like a hawk.
He’s wearing a T-shirt that’s faded to hell and a pair of sweats low on his hips. You’ve got one of his flannels buttoned over your pajamas. The sleeves are way too long. He tried to roll them up for you earlier but got distracted kissing your shoulder halfway through.
Domestic bliss, Barnes-style.
You pass him the next pancake on the stack and bump his hip with yours.
“You’re lucky I love you,” you say. “Because these pancakes are borderline tragic.”
“They’re not tragic,” he replies, grinning as he takes a bite. “They’re… rustic.”
You give him a look.
He shrugs, chewing. “I like ‘em a little burnt. Adds character.”
You snort and turn back to the pan.
There’s a pause—quiet but easy—until his voice breaks it again. Low. Soft.
“I wanna marry you one day, you know?”
The spatula freezes in your hand.
You blink, heart skipping, and glance over your shoulder at him.
He’s looking at you like he’s thinking about saying it again, just to make sure you heard him right. His eyes are clear. Calm. No panic. No second-guessing. Just… love. Simple and steady.
“I mean it,” he says. “I don’t know when. I’m not gonna rush it. But I do. I think about it all the time.”
You stare at him for a second, and then your lips stretch into the stupidest, softest smile.
You turn back to the stove and flip the pancake onto the plate.
“Well, good,” you say. “Because if you didn’t marry me, I’d have to haunt you for eternity. Like, aggressively. I’d knock shit off your shelves.”
He chuckles behind you, then steps closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. His lips brush your temple.
“You already haunt me,” he murmurs. “Just… in a really nice way.”
His arms stay wrapped around you for a long moment after he says it—forehead resting against the side of your head, his body warm against your back. The scent of syrup and coffee hangs in the air, but all you can feel is him.
„I think I’m ready, doll.” He continues, firmly and with determination in his voice.
You set the spatula down gently, not because you’re finished cooking but because suddenly—this is more important.
You turn in his arms, hands slipping up his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart under your palms. His eyes meet yours. They’re soft. Honest. A little nervous. But not afraid.
“You know we don’t have to,” you say, voice quiet. “Not today. Not ever, if you’re not ready. I love you exactly like this.”
His hands come up to cradle your face—gentle, almost reverent. His thumb traces your cheek.
“I know,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. That old ache, the one that never quite leaves. But it’s softer now. “But I want to.”
Your breath catches.
“I’ve been scared for a long time,” he admits. “Scared that I’d mess this up, or hurt you, or—hell, that I wouldn’t remember how to be with someone like that. But the truth is… I think I just didn’t believe I deserved that kind of love.”
You swallow, eyes stinging.
“And now?” you whisper.
“Now I do,” he says. “Because of you.”
He leans in and kisses you then—slow, deep, tender. No hesitation. No trembling hands. Just Bucky. All of him.
When he pulls back, you’re already smiling, breathless and dazed.
“God,” you murmur, forehead pressed to his, “you say stuff like that and I get why girls in the 40s were all over you.”
He grins, a little crooked. “Yeah, well… guess I’ve still got it.”
“Barely,” you tease. “You made a grunting noise getting off the couch last night.”
He groans. “Why would you bring that up now?”
“Because I love you,” you say sweetly.
He’s laughing when he kisses you again—and this time, his hands wander a little. One settles at your lower back, pulling you closer. The other slides into your hair, gentle but firm.
The kiss deepens, lazy but loaded, and it starts to hum between you—want. Warm and steady and mutual.
His lips trail to your jaw, barely there kisses—soft, unhurried.
But then he pauses, nose brushing your cheek. His voice is low, warm, still a little breathless from the kiss. “Let me take you out tonight, huh?”
You blink, pulling back slightly to look at him. “Yeah?”
He nods. “Someplace nice. Fancy. White tablecloths, cloth napkins, the whole deal. I’ll put on that stupid tie you like, even if it’s choking me the whole night.”
Your heart squeezes.
“Bucky…”
He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb trailing down your jaw. His gaze is steady now, sure. “I wanna do this right,” he murmurs. “You’re my girl. A lady. You should be treated like one.”
God, you’re melting.
You’re not sure if it’s the way he says it—like it’s the most obvious thing in the world—or the way he’s looking at you, like he’s already undressing you in his mind but still wants to kiss your hand first and open every damn door along the way.
“Okay,” you whisper, your smile blooming full and wide. “Yeah. I’d love that.”
His grin is all boyish charm now—relieved, excited, maybe even a little smug. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say, looping your arms around his neck. “Only if I get to wear something ridiculous and make you all flustered.”
His brows lift, amused. “Doll, you could show up in a trash bag and I’d still forget how to breathe.”
You laugh, full and bright, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. He catches you before you pull away, stealing another kiss—this one slower, deeper. Like he’s already thinking about later. About what this night could be.
You pull back just enough to whisper, “You’re gonna spoil me, Bucky Barnes.”
His lips curve as he presses his forehead to yours.
“That’s the plan, sweetheart.”
———
The restaurant is dimly lit and elegant, all low murmurs and soft clinks of silverware. Candlelight dances on the white tablecloth between you, casting gold on Bucky’s jaw—strong, clean-shaven, way too handsome for a man who claims he “doesn’t clean up well.”
He does. He really, really does.
That tie he promised to wear? Yeah, it’s perfectly knotted, navy blue to match his eyes. And the sleeves of his button-up? Rolled just enough to show a hint of his forearms.
And Bucky?
Bucky’s a goner.
He’s been staring at you since you walked into the room. Like, actually speechless. The moment you stepped out of the bedroom tonight in your dress—tight in all the right places, maybe a little backless, maybe with a slit high enough to kill a man—he made a sound. A tiny, quiet, reverent “fuck” that he probably didn’t mean to say out loud.
You’d just smiled and said, “Told you I’d make you flustered.”
Now, over an hour into dinner, he still hasn’t recovered.
“You cold, doll?” he asks, already sliding his hand across the table toward yours.
You shake your head. “Nope. Perfectly warm.”
He nods, but his hand doesn’t go back to his wine glass. It lingers, then slowly drifts down… under the table.
And then you feel it—his palm resting gently on your bare thigh. Not groping. Not demanding. Just there. Warm. Intentional.
Your eyes flick to him, and he’s sipping his drink like he didn’t just set your entire bloodstream on fire.
“You know,” you murmur, leaning slightly over your plate, “this is a very respectable restaurant, Sergeant Barnes.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just gives you a slow, easy smile. Then leans in slightly, voice a notch lower now—just for you.
„I told you, I used to be a charmer.” He shrugs.
His thumb strokes slow circles against your skin, just above your knee now. It’s not obscene. Not yet. But it’s loaded. And the heat in his eyes tells you everything—he’s ready.
Maybe not to take you home and rip your clothes off (well… maybe that too), but to have you. Finally. Properly. To show you how much he wants you in every possible way.
And god, you’ve never felt so desired. Or so fucking loved.
———
The ride home is quiet.
Not tense. Not awkward. Just… charged. The kind of silence that hums under your skin, thick with everything that didn’t need to be said at dinner. Your hand rests on his thigh, his knuckles grazing your knee as he drives, and the whole way back you can feel his gaze flicking to you at every red light.
When he parks in front of your building, he kills the engine and just sits there a second. One hand on the steering wheel. The other finding yours.
He doesn’t say anything—he just looks at you.
And you nod.
Yeah. You’re ready, too.
Inside, everything is soft.
You kick off your shoes. He hangs up his coat. His tie is already loosened, and there’s a flush to his cheeks that’s not from the wine—it’s from you.
He steps toward you slowly, like he’s afraid if he rushes, you’ll vanish.
But you don’t. You stay right there.
And when his hands come up to rest gently on your waist, you melt into him without hesitation.
His voice is low, quiet. “You sure?”
You nod again, reaching up to cup his face. “I’m sure.”
He exhales, almost like relief. Like he’s been holding his breath for months and finally—finally—he can let go.
Then he kisses you.
God, it’s different now. It’s not frantic or messy. It’s not lust without thought.
It’s slow. Deep. He kisses you like he’s mapping your mouth, relearning how to love someone through touch. His hands stay respectful, still at your waist, not drifting, not rushing. Just there.
You kiss him back, soft and patient, running your fingers through his hair. He shudders when you tug gently—just enough to pull a little sound from him, something low in his chest that makes your knees wobble.
He pulls back, barely, and rests his forehead against yours.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmurs.
“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”
His hands finally move then—one gliding up your back, the other brushing along your jaw. His metal fingers are warm from your skin, and when they graze your cheek, you lean into them like instinct.
“I wanna take my time,” he says, voice hoarse now. “Wanna make you feel good. Wanna make sure you know how much I—how much you mean to me.”
Your heart stutters.
“You do,” you whisper. “You already do.”
But you let him show you anyway.
He leans down, kisses your neck—slow and reverent—and then he starts walking you backward, one step at a time, toward the bedroom.
Your back hits the edge of the bed and Bucky pauses there, standing in front of you, breathing a little harder than he should be for someone who’s only kissed you.
But it’s not nerves anymore. Not fear. It’s want.
“C’mere,” you whisper, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt.
He steps in closer. Between your knees now. His hands find your thighs again, thumbs brushing along the fabric of your dress as if he’s still memorizing the shape of you.
He eases you back onto the bed like you’re made of glass—slow, steady, never breaking eye contact. His body follows, covering yours without pressing you down, one arm braced beside your head, the other tracing the line of your hip with reverence.
He kisses you again, slower than before. Softer. Less lips, more mouths—open and warm and lingering. You part your legs to cradle him, and the sigh that falls from his lips ghosts across your cheek like a prayer.
His skin is hot against yours. Muscle and scar and heat. You run your hands down his back, memorizing every dip, every edge. He shivers at your touch, exhales into your mouth like he’s trying not to fall apart just from being this close.
His fingers reach up to your shoulder, brushing the strap of your dress aside, and he looks at you like he’s asking for permission without even saying a word.
You nod once.
So he slips the strap down. Then the other. His touch is featherlight—almost hesitant—but his hands don’t tremble this time.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice barely more than a breath.
Your chest rises with the compliment. It’s not the first time he’s said it—but something about this moment… the way his eyes are locked on you, the way he swallows hard like he’s overwhelmed just seeing you… it hits different.
He tugs your dress down slowly, letting it fall to your waist, then lower, until you’re sitting there in nothing but your bra and panties. The air between you shifts—warmer now, heavier.
His hands brush your arms, your waist, your hips—everywhere but the places you want them most. But you let him go at his pace. You want him to feel in control.
“Can I…” he starts, fingers ghosting over your bra strap, “…take this off?”
You nod again. “Yeah. Please.”
So he does. Gently. Carefully. Like he’s unwrapping something precious.
When your bra falls away, his breath catches.
“Jesus,” he whispers, eyes roaming your chest like he’s never seen anything so perfect.
When he undresses you fully, he does it slowly, dragging fabric down your legs with both hands, his metal fingers brushing over your skin with a tenderness that almost makes you ache.
You lift your hands to the hem of his shirt. “Your turn, Sergeant.”
He huffs a breath, a little grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”
You pull his shirt over his head, revealing the planes of his chest, the lines of scars, the metal arm, the years carved into him. You trace your fingers over the dog tags that still hang around his neck.
His skin is hot against yours. Muscle and scar and heat. You run your hands down his back, memorizing every dip, every edge. He shivers at your touch, exhales into your mouth like he’s trying not to fall apart just from being this close. His dog tags clink as they fall between you, cold against your bare skin.
He kisses you again, and this time when he settles between your thighs, you feel him fully—heavy and hard, pressing against you.
He settles there like he belongs there—shoulders broad between your thighs, hands gentle on your hips as he lowers himself, eyes never leaving yours.
Then he speaks—low, reverent.
“Let me taste you first, sweetheart. Make you feel good.”
And god, you don’t even have the breath to respond. You just nod, breath hitching, thighs already trembling beneath his touch.
He kisses the inside of your knee first. Then the other. Trails his lips upward, slow, soft, maddening. You can feel the warmth of his breath long before his mouth finds you—feel it ghost over your skin, spreading goosebumps down your spine.
His hands stay firm on your thighs, holding you open, holding you still. But his touch is tender, steady. There’s nothing rushed in the way he moves. Like he’s unwrapping something sacred.
And when his mouth finally finds you—lips parting, tongue tasting—
You gasp.
Quiet, breathy, uncontrollable. Your fingers twist in the sheets, one hand reaching instinctively for him. He groans against you when you thread your fingers into his hair, and the sound of it vibrates straight through you.
He’s slow at first. Careful. Testing. Tasting.
Learning you.
But he’s good at learning.
He watches you, listens to your breath, the way your body reacts—what makes your hips jerk, what makes your thighs tighten around his shoulders. His tongue strokes long and slow, then soft flicks, and when he hears the change in your breathing—there, that’s what makes your voice break—he stays right there.
He moans again, deeper this time, and the way he grips your hips tightens just slightly. Like he can’t take it. Like he’s the one unraveling just from the way you taste, the way you sound.
The dog tags still hang from his neck, cool against your skin. His hair’s messy from your fingers, jaw flexing as he works, as he buries his face deeper into you like a man starved.
And all you can do is feel.
The rise of pleasure. The way it blooms low and hot and thick in your belly. The burn of it, the ache. Every stroke of his tongue makes it worse. Makes it better.
Your thighs begin to tremble. Your back arches.
And still, he doesn’t stop.
He devours you.
Not greedily. Worshipfully.
Like he’s not just tasting you—he’s loving you with his mouth. Showing you just how deeply he means it.
And when you finally come—soft and shaking, moaning into your hand, thighs trembling around his head—he stays with you. Rides it out. Holds you through it.
He only pulls away when your body begins to relax beneath him, when your hand goes soft in his hair, when your breath evens out in his ears.
Then he rises slowly, kisses your inner thigh once more, then your stomach, your ribs, your chest.
He kisses you like he’s grounding you.
And when he finally reaches your lips again, he just hovers there, noses brushing.
You smile.
He smiles back—soft, flushed, eyes dark with affection and want.
And then, finally, finally, he settles between your legs again—not to taste you this time, but to be with you. To love you. Completely.
His mouth brushes yours—soft, almost shy. But the hand that cups your face? That’s steady. Grounded. He strokes your cheek with his thumb like he’s feeling it all through his fingertips.
Your legs wrap around his hips without thinking.
And when his hips settle against yours, when you feel the hard press of him, your breath hitches all over again.
He groans quietly—deep in his throat. The sound of it is raw. Barely controlled.
You reach between you, fingertips ghosting over his length. He shudders—actually shudders—and buries his face in your neck like he’s ashamed of how badly he wants this. Wants you.
You guide him to you.
And he pauses. Just for a second.
His forehead presses to yours and his voice, when it finally breaks the silence, is low and hoarse.
“…You okay?”
You nod. Whisper, “Yes.”
When Bucky sinks into you, it’s slow—but the depth? It knocks the air from your lungs.
He presses in all the way, until you feel him everywhere, and he stays there for a second—deep, thick, pulsing inside you while his breath stutters against your mouth.
Your mouth parts. His name catches in your throat. The stretch is deep and full and perfect, and for a moment, all either of you can do is feel.
He stills at the bottom, buried inside you completely. His eyes flutter shut, jaw clenched, like he’s trying not to lose it already.
Then he pulls back just a a little.
You moan into his shoulder. Fingers gripping the sheets. He groans, too—but it’s quiet, choked, like it costs him to keep this slow.
You’re soaked. Warm and clenching around him. And he groans when you tighten, like the feel of you is almost too much.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice shaking. “You feel… baby, you feel so good.”
His hips roll—smooth and deliberate—and you arch beneath him with a soft moan. He starts to move then, slow but filthy, every thrust long and deep, like he wants to stay inside you as long as he can.
His hand grips your thigh, pulling it higher around his waist. The shift makes his next thrust hit deeper—you gasp, and Bucky curses low into your neck.
“Shit, that’s it,” he groans. “That’s my girl. Just like that.”
The sounds between you are quiet but thick—breath and skin and need. The soft slap of his hips against yours. The low whimper you didn’t mean to let out when he hits that spot just right.
Your nails scrape his back, your heels press into him, needing more—more of his heat, his weight, the drag of him pulling out and sliding right back in, making you stretch and flutter and lose your rhythm
He makes you feel it—every thrust, every stroke, every trembling inhale.
You wrap your legs tighter around him, tilt your hips up, chasing the friction, and his rhythm stutters.
He’s panting now, buried in your chest, hips moving in slow, punishing strokes that leave you trembling.
Every sound you make—every whimper, gasp, broken moan—he drinks it in like it’s what keeps him going.
His hand finds yours above your head. He laces your fingers together. Holds you there.
Grounds himself in you.
“You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice all grit and heat, “so tight around me, fuck—feels like I’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.”
You can’t even speak.
Just nod. Moan. Cling to him.
Your body is burning, slick and hot and aching for release again, and he knows. He feels the way you tighten, the way you start chasing his thrusts, hips rolling up against him.
His pace stutters. Picks up. Just a little. Just enough.
“Gonna cum for me?” he pants, his lips at your jaw, his hand slipping between your bodies to rub tight, messy circles over your clit. “Yeah? Gonna fall apart on my cock, baby?”
You cry out—soft and desperate—and he loves it. Groans low, grinding into you just right, fucking you through it as your walls flutter and clench, dragging him toward the edge with you.
“You’re so perfect,” he rasps, right against your ear, hips snapping a little harder now. “So fuckin’ perfect, holy shit—”
You’re spiraling again, thighs shaking, breath hitching—
And then you break.
Your whole body arches off the bed as you cum around him, gasping his name, your nails digging into his back.
He chokes on a moan and buries himself deep.
And follows you with a shudder that rocks through him—his hips stalling, cock twitching inside you as he spills with a low, broken growl.
“Fuck—oh my god, baby—”
He holds you tight through it. Hand in your hair. Face in your neck. Heart pounding against yours.
You’re still tangled up in each other, the sheets barely covering you, your head tucked beneath Bucky’s chin as you catch your breath.
Everything’s warm. His skin, his breath, the way his arms hold you like you’re something he earned.
You shift a little, snuggle closer. “Seriously, James?” you mutter, voice muffled against his chest. “You’re so fucking good. I can’t believe you were actually insecure you forgot how to have sex.”
He lets out a groan—somewhere between bashful and bashful-aggressive.
“Doll…”
“No, like—seriously.” You sit up just enough to look at him, eyes wide and dramatic now. “That was insane. Like, are you sure you haven’t been practicing with a pillow or something while I wasn’t around?”
“Absolutely not,” he mutters, one hand dragging over his face. His ears are pink. “Jesus Christ.”
You grin. He’s blushing. This gorgeous, 110-year-old supersoldier with arms the size of your thighs and a tongue that just rewired your soul is blushing.
“I mean, the way you—” You gesture vaguely at your lower half. “You knew exactly what to do.”
He looks like he might implode.
“Maybe it’s muscle memory,” he mumbles, avoiding your eyes. “Maybe I just got lucky.”
“Oh, baby,” you say, all fond and exasperated. You crawl back on top of him, straddling his stomach, hands on his flushed chest. “That wasn’t luck. That was talent.”
He groans again, letting his head fall back on the pillow—but his hands settle instinctively on your hips, keeping you there like he doesn’t actually want you to stop.
“Don’t do this to me,” he pleads, but you can see the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m genuinely impressed, Bucky,” you say, mock-serious now. “Like, maybe you should’ve been cocky about it.”
He shoots you a look. “I can’t tell If this is your way of mocking me or you really mean it.”
You giggle—hard. Collapse onto his chest and wrap your arms around his middle while he sighs dramatically.
But he’s smiling.
You nuzzle your face into his neck and soften, voice low now, honest.
“You were amazing,” you whisper. “Like… beyond. You didn’t just make me feel good, Buck. You made me feel loved.”
That gets him quiet.
One hand slips up your back. His metal one curls protectively around your waist. He kisses your temple like he can’t help it.
“Only ever wanted to make you feel that,” he murmurs.
And now you’re blushing.
You both lie there a while—grinning, tangled, all warm limbs and wandering fingers.
“…So, round two?” you say sweetly.
He barks a laugh, grabs you around the waist, and rolls you beneath him.
“Bet.”
⋆⁺₊✧ MASTERLIST
tags: @iamthatonefangirl @thatsbucknasty @buckytakethewheel @buckybarneswife125
