Flesh and Metal | The White Wolf
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (1st Person)
Word Count: 6,062
Summary: Bucky Barnes is everything you ever wanted—soft, thoughtful, devoted. He loves you with a quiet intensity that should make you feel like the luckiest person alive. But after so many months of being together, he still hasn’t touched you. Not like that. When you finally confront him, you realize the truth is so much deeper. He does want you. He just doesn’t know how to ask. And tonight, for the first time—he’s finally ready to give in.
Warnings: 18+ NSFW, Sub!Bucky (lots of begging you guys), Angst, Swearing, Dominance & submission dynamics, Self-doubt & insecurity, Trauma responses & PTSD, Fear of abandonment & rejection, BDSM themes (light control, praise, permission-based dynamics), Overstimulation & begging, Implied past abuse
A/N: hey guys! this is my first ever story here, and i've worked so hard on it, my brain might dissolve through my ears tonight. i hope you'll like it, happy reading 🤍
📍Masterlist
It has been four months. Four months and one day, to be exact, since Bucky Barnes became mine. I’ve never heard so many people congratulate me and warn me in the same breath, but I never cared. Not when he’s been so precious, so thoughtful, so achingly romantic. Not when he’s spent every single day making me feel like the luckiest girl in the world.
I love him more than life itself. And with him—life and death feel closer than they should.
So why does it feel like I’m still not enough?
Four months, and he hasn't touched me. Not once. Not like that.
Every time I try, every time I lean in, every time I press just a little too close, he pulls away. Sometimes subtly, sometimes not. Sometimes it’s a hesitant step back, sometimes it’s a firm grip on my wrist, pushing me away just enough to make it clear.
I tried everything. Cute lingerie. Whispered invitations. I even got my hair done for our anniversary last night. Nothing helped, I couldn't shake his composed demeanor, no matter what I did.
Maybe, he doesn’t want me at all. Why would he?
The Bucky Barnes could have anyone. Someone like Natasha—gorgeous, cool, effortlessly magnetic. The kind of woman who could hold her own against a super soldier, the kind who wouldn’t hesitate. The kind who makes sense with him.
Me on the other hand? What was I thinking, believing I would be enough? Just a simple girl, coming from a boring family, with no interesting backstory, nothing to show, nothing to–
"Baby?" Bucky put his face an inch from mine, which immediately snapped me out of my spiralling thoughts. "You okay? Is your stomach upset?" He pointed to the remaining of mac and cheese he cooked.
He grew to be extremely good at reading my expressions over the past few months. He usually doesn't need to ask; he just knows what's wrong, and eliminates the problem without a word. This time, though, he didn't know. How could he?
"No," I say flatly.
"Sure? Because–"
"I am fine," I snap, louder than anticipated.
I immediately regret my tone when I see Bucky stiffen, the sound of his metal arm clenching into an unbreakable fist. He takes exactly three steps back from me; measured and calculated. His eyes terrified; I can almost see how he is searching for the possible threats or punishments he would receive, now that he senses the change in the mood. He's still as a sculpture, except for the arms; they are shaking from how strongly he is sqeezing his fist.
Oh, I fucked up.
"I'm sorry. It's just been a really hard week on me, I-"
"You're hurt."
It's not a question, it's a fact.
"I'm not hurt–"
"I hurt you."
It's not a fact, it's a crime. At least that's how he says it.
I look down to the tiled floor where I can still spot the signs of Bucky's cooking. I cannot look at him. I would need to lie to his face and that is one thing I was never able to do. Not after what he's been through.
I notice a small movement from him as he takes another step; farther. Way farther away from me. I take a deep breath and force myself to look at him, wishing I didn't as the sight instantly breaks my heart; his eyes are filled with tears, and he's so confused. Scared. Terrified of what is coming. He's gripping onto the side of his shirt, like he always does when he feels unsafe. A lump forms in my throat as I try to open my mouth to speak. I've ruined him.
"I– uh." The sound I made was barely a whisper, but it made him visibly flinch. "Do you... Do you not... want me?"
Bucky's terrified gaze turns into utter confusion in a matter of seconds. He blinks – for the first time in maybe minutes – as he's struggling to understand my question. I collect all my leftover courage and hope to keep talking.
"You push me away," I say, trying to be as soft as possible. "We've been together for months, but never... together."
I feel so stupid for not being able to just straight out say it. I'm hoping he somehow understands what I mean, but judging by his scrunched eyebrows, I'm gonna have to be more specific.
I let out a big sigh and close my eyes to make the embarrassment less painful. "Bucky, we never had sex."
As soon as the words leave my mouth, his face drops. I lose him again somewhere very far away from me, and he keeps looking at me like I am about to destroy him completely.
"If you don't want me, that's okay," I assure him, ignoring the bitter taste in my mouth. "I know I'm not the prettiest girl, and you've probably seen better—"
"No!" he snaps, so I lift my head up. He looks horrified, like I've just said something unspeakable. I wait for him to continue, but instead, he keeps staring at me, as if his eyes could tell everything he is unable to.
"No?" I echo. "Then why do you run every time I try to touch you like that?"
He breaks the eye contact by strictly looking at the kitchen counter right in front of him; or at anything that is not me. From all the months I've spent in his presence, I recognize this look too well. He's ashamed.
"Bucky..."
Silence. He grips the fabric of his shirt, twisting it in his hands. A nervous tick, but to him, a grounding mechanism. He's really trying not to lose himself.
"I—, I don't—," he stutters. "I don't know how."
"What?" I blink. “Bucky, you’ve—” I hesitate. “You’ve been with other women before.”
His head jerks up with a flicker of panic and frustration.
“That’s not—that’s different.”
“Different how?”
Bucky is refusing to look at me, so I stand up from my seat to make way towards him. He takes a sharp breath when I'm within his reach, but doesn't move. That's a good sign.
"Look at me, baby," I ask, softly. His eyes snap up instantly, and I see it all there. The fear, the desperation, the battlefield in his head. "Tell me what's wrong."
He tries to do so; he opens his mouth, swallows, exhales, shakes his head, tries again, but he fails, no matter how hard he tries.
"Do you want me?" I ask bluntly.
He nods, still staring at the marble countertop. Okay.
"Are you scared to ask for what you want?"
Another nod.
"Do you trust me?"
This one is instant.
"Yes."
"Then tell me."
He lets out a shaky breath before he swallows. He turns his head to me, face flustered, his chest moving up and down as he tries to regulate himself.
"Please, can you—," his voice dies before he can finish. He clearly is struggling, like he doesn't know how to want things and the fact breaks a small part of my heart permanently.
"Go on, Bucky. What do you need?" I encourage him.
"I—," he stutters, and then shakes his head hard, like the words are physically hurting him inside his head.
His body, however, tells the truth on behalf of him. The way his hands tremble and his chest heaves with each exhale, the way his metal fingers twitch against his thigh—he is fighting himself.
I let the silence stretch, waiting, watching the way his face twists with frustration, with hesitation. With want.
“Baby,” I say softly.
His eyes cracks open, blue burning with something raw, something pleading. He sucks in a breath, and for a moment, I think he finally gives in, but then he shakes his head again, hard, turning his face away.
I click my tongue, grabbing his chin, forcing him to meet my gaze. “You want something. I can see it. I can feel it.”
His chest rises sharply, lips parting, but still, he doesn't speak. I lean in, lips brushing against the shell of his ear.
“Do you need me to guide you?”
His entire body jerks, a sharp inhale ripping from his throat. His fingers are clenching into fists, the tremor rolling through his shoulders like a quake. But he still doesn't answer me.
My grip tightens slightly, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Bucky, if you don’t tell me what you need, I can’t give it to you.”
He exhales shakily, a frustrated, broken sound. His brows knit together, his hands lifting before falling back to his thighs, his whole frame trembling.
“Please,” he whispers.
My heart clenches. “Yes?”
His head dropped forward, breath ragged. “Please… please tell me what to do.”
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
I smile, slow and knowing, letting the moment stretch, letting him feel the weight of what he's just asked for.
“I’ll show you.” I say, and I find my voice firm. Commanding.
His breath stutters, his entire body tensing, every muscle coiled tight with restraint, with hesitation. He’s fighting it, clinging to the instinct to resist—until I lean in, my mouth brushing over the shell of his ear.
“If you'll be a good boy for me.”
The sound he makes—soft, broken, fucking relieved—rips through me like a shockwave. My core tightens, ignites, burns, a volcano threatening to erupt at the sheer power of it.
Bucky Barnes is submissive. For me.
"Follow me," I say, and as if I freed him from an invisible curse, he makes his way after me.
All at once, every doubt I ever had—about myself, about us—disintegrates. How did I not see this before? How could I have been so blind? He doesn’t need distance. He doesn’t need time. He just needs me. Me in control. Me guiding him. Me telling him exactly what to do.
And fuck, if that isn’t the most intoxicating realization of all, I don't know what is.
I may not be the most experienced woman alive, but that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that he needs me to be present. He needs me to take this. Own this. There’s no room for doubt, no room to shy away, when he trusts me to take care of him.
I release him just to check his expression, searching for even the slightest hint of hesitation, but to my surprise, I find none. Not a single trace. His eyes track my every movement, locked onto me like a soldier awaiting an order.
And it shouldn't turn me on the way it does.
"Do you want me right now?" My voice is steady, even as I close the space between us, just by one step.
His gaze sweeps over me, dragging from my lips, to my throat, to my body before he gives a sharp, assured nod.
"Then take off my dress."
He moves instantly, without hesitation—like he’s been waiting for this since the moment he met me. His fingers find the hem of my dress; his touch cautious, reverent, like he’s afraid I might pull away at any second. Like he can’t quite believe this is happening.
The contrast of his warm, flesh hand on one thigh, and his ice-cold vibranium fingers on the other, sends a shiver tearing down my spine. Slowly, deliberately, he lifts the fabric over my head, the brush of his knuckles against my skin leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
Once I’m bare before him, he takes a small step back—just to look. His lips part slightly, his breathing uneven, chest rising and falling faster, deeper. His eyes—piercing, devastating—roam every inch of me, burning me from the inside out.
And then, he moves.
He throws the dress across the room without looking, never once taking his eyes off of me. His entire body is vibrating, like he’s barely holding himself together, barely restraining the need thrumming beneath his skin.
The sight of him is stealing every breath I have left.
“Can I take your shirt off?” I break the silence, my own voice softer now.
“Please,” he begs.
I waste no time. I step in, close enough for his ragged breath to ghost over my skin, and strip him bare. It’s a summer night, so he’s only wearing a thin, black V-neck, already clinging to the sweat on his chest–or at least, he was. With one fluid motion, I pull it over his head and let it drop to the floor.
I take a moment, just a few seconds, to admire him.
His body is all strength, broad shoulders and sculpted muscle carved by battle and time. Scars litter his skin, testaments to wars fought and survived, and yet, under the soft glow of the moonlight, he looks like something untouchable. Ethereal. Unreal.
I swallow hard, licking my lips as my gaze travels downward, over his defined abs, the way they tense under my attention, down to the dark trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his boxers. I feel it then—the heat pooling low, the unbearable pulse between my thighs. And he’s just standing there, watching me, eyes so dark they’re nearly black.
I’m already so wet for him, it’s almost embarrassing.
"Undress me," I whisper.
His breath catches, eyes flash with hunger, the way they always do when he wants but won’t take. But this time, he moves.
With careful fingers, he reaches behind me for the clasp of my bra, hesitant yet desperate. This is as far as we’ve ever gone. Four months of waiting, of skirting the edge, of Bucky refusing to let himself see me without clothes. Back then, I thought it was because he didn’t want me, because I wasn’t enough.
But now? Now I know the truth. He wouldn’t have known what to do. He was afraid to ruin this. Afraid to ruin me.
I snap out of my thoughts as I feel the cold air of the AC dance on my bare torso. My nipples instantly harden as a result, and Bucky notices it just as quickly. His lips are apart, and he's staring at them like an animal on his prey. The way he wants me fills me with every ounce of confidence I’ve ever needed.
"You can touch them," I whisper, not sure he even heard me, but then he takes two steps towards, putting his flesh hand on my waist.
I gasp, the breath catching in my throat as his warm, steady touch trails up my skin. His movements are slow—painfully, torturously slow—like he’s memorizing me with his hands, drinking me in through touch alone. He reaches my left breast and he cups it, his thumb immediately finding my hard nipple. His breath shudders, sharp and heavy, his chest rising with a strained inhale as he circles my achingly hard peak with his thumb, teasing, testing, learning me.
I struggle to hold in my moan, my teeth sinking into my lip as he pinches it, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure straight between my legs. And fuck, he’s watching. His vibranium arm remains stiff at his side, fingers curled into a tight, trembling fist, his jaw slightly slack, his lips parted as he watches himself touch me.
He’s fascinated. Hypnotized. Like this is the first time he’s ever allowed himself to truly want something.
"Both hands, please." My voice is barely a whisper, barely a sound, just a needy, broken plea. His head snaps up, and for the first time in what feels like forever, his eyes meet mine.
His metal hand, still clenched in restraint, relaxes. With slow, careful hesitation, he brings it up, inch by inch, his fingertips skimming my ribs before finally—finally—he touches me. A shiver rips through me, my body instinctively arching into the icy contrast of metal against my heated skin. I don’t pull away; if anything, I lean into him, chasing the sensation, craving more.
"You're being so good for me," I praise, my voice low.
Bucky fucking breaks.
His entire body stutters, trembles; his breath hitching, his knees nearly buckling beneath him as a wrecked, desperate whimper falls from his lips.
Fuck. That has to be the sexiest sound in the world.
“Can I—” His voice cracks, his fingers flexing against my skin. “Can I please kiss you?”
He is pleading, over and over, his voice shaky, utterly undone.
“Please, I need it. Please.”
His words shoot straight to my core, the need in his voice a direct pulse between my legs. I want him so much, I might sublime from the heat he ignites inside me.
I don’t hesitate. I grab his arm, pulling him against me, forcing his bare chest to crash into mine. He melts against me, his body burning, muscles taut, already trembling with restraint. And then, I kiss him. Or maybe he kisses me. Either way, the moment our lips meet, Bucky loses himself.
He kisses me like he’s starving, like he’s drowning and I’m his only air. His mouth is hungry, relentless, desperate, lips crashing into mine as he’s trying to devour me whole.
And fuck, his hands.
They roam everywhere, one gripping the small of my back, the other skimming just beneath my panties, teasing, taunting me, and just when I think it couldn't get any better, his metal hand clamps around my ass, gripping tight, keeping me steady. Feeling the cool vibranium pressing into my heated skin, I moan straight into his mouth, my body shuddering in his hold.
“Put me on the bed. Now.”
The words leave me in a command, and Bucky moves before I can even take another breath. With one arm, just one, he lifts me with ease, like I weigh nothing to him. He lays me down, gentle but firm, already moving to cover me with his body—but I stop him.
“Not yet.”
I shake my head, and he immediately halts, his breathing labored, controlled. He looks wrecked, like he's using every bit of self control to keep himself away from me. Still kneeling between my legs, still so fucking obedient, and yet—his eyes. His fucking eyes, they’re eating me alive.
“Take it off,” I order, nodding toward his jeans.
Bucky keeps his eyes locked on mine, hands trailing down, slow and deliberate as he reaches for the button of his jeans. With a quick flick of his fingers, they’re undone. His piercing gaze never leaves me, his eyes dragging over every inch of my body, devouring, worshipping.
I don't have much time before he stands up and slowly pushes his jeans down. I gasp when I see the thin, black material of his boxers that do nothing to hide him. The thick, heavy outline of him, pressing against the fabric, takes my breath away.
I’ve never seen him like this before. Not even close. I’ve felt him—hard, pressing against me on nights where he’d let himself have just a little. But then he would stop and shut it down. I couldn't understand why, not until now, and I don't have one second to think about it, because he pushes his boxers down. His cock is finally bared to me in full, and Jesus fucking Christ.
He is huge. How is that gonna fit?
“Please,” I hear a small plea towards him, and I shot my eyes back to his face.
His breath is wild, erratic, chest heaving like he can’t get enough air, like he’s on the edge of breaking. His flesh hand is poised, ready to touch himself, to relieve even an ounce of the pressure, but he doesn't. Not without my word. I bite my lip, reveling in the power of it, in the way his entire body trembles under restraint.
“Take this off, too,” I instruct, gesturing to the lace panties that I’d bought months ago—back when I thought he’d see them then. Back when I thought we’d be here so much sooner.
But I don’t have a single complaint left in my body, because when Bucky finally moves—he rips them off. The thin fabric tears from me in one sharp pull, and for a split second, I wonder if he just ripped them in half.
His eyes drag over me, drinking in every inch of bare skin, mapping the places he’s never let himself truly look at before. I feel just how wet I am, now that there’s nothing to soak up the slick. I can feel it all pooling between my thighs, proof of just how badly I want him.
A flicker of shyness grips me—how did I get this lucky? How did I end up with him, undone and starving, in front of me? But I don’t let myself hide; instead, I sit up slowly, deliberately, my movements calculated, letting myself kneel on the soft mattress.
I look up at him, like I could devour him with a single breath. The six-foot-tall ex-assassin is towering over me, radiating pure heat, his entire body coiled tight like a predator barely holding back.
And then, soft as a prayer, I say, “I want you.”
As if I’ve broken a curse, Bucky snaps. His fingers clamp around my throat, his mouth slamming into mine, the sheer force of it knocking me back onto the bed. He pins me down, all of his weight pressing into me, heavy, suffocating, absolutely fucking perfect. The way he kisses me makes me crazy; he's hungry, possessive, and so filthy, I can only moan as a response.
His cock, thick and heavy, sliding between my soaking slit, his length gliding right over my clit with each slow, torturous grind.
“Fuck—” I moan straight into his mouth, my hips instinctively tilting up, chasing every ounce of friction he gives me.
I lose every bit of control I had left. Overcome with greed, I grab at him, pull at him, take as much as I can. My fingers tangle in his long hair, keeping him locked to me, refusing to let him break the kiss for even a second.
I let my other hand wander; I trace the sharp lines of his back, trailing lower, until my palm finds his ass. I squeeze, hard, forcing him to rock against me even harder, dragging his cock rougher, deeper through my slick folds. My breathing is a wreck, my body moving instinctively, clinging to him, needing more, more, more.
I want him. All over me. Inside me. Taking me apart.
“Can I—” His voice shatters, breathless. He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, his eyes wrecked with need.
“Can I please put it in?”
And fuck, he looks at me like a puppy, wide-eyed, begging.
“Please, I’ll make you feel so good,” he purrs against my neck, teeth grazing my skin, lips pressing open-mouthed kisses.
“God, yes,” I groan.
Bucky grabs himself, his fingers shaking with need as he positions his cock right at my entrance. He could thrust in immediately, take what we both want without hesitation, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pauses; his eyes flick back up to mine, searching, waiting, needing something more.
And I know exactly what he wants.
“Be a good boy and fuck me, Bucky.”
I'm way past hesitation or shame. All I want is him taking over me, claiming me, pressing me into himself. The words shatter something inside him; his mouth parts, his pupils blown wide, and then—without ever breaking eye contact—he slides inside.
A broken moan leaves my lips as my spine arches, my body opening for him, stretching around him, and fuck, he fills me.
Completely. Entirely. Devastatingly.
I’ve been aching for this moment for months. I’ve fantasized about him taking me, and now he’s finally inside me. A deep pressure builds low in my belly, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes as he pushes deeper and deeper, until I feel the blunt tip of his cock press against my cervix.
He’s so fucking hard. I can feel him throbbing inside me, feel the pulse of his cock against my walls, and it drives me insane. I wait for him to finally move, but after a few seconds of stillness, I open my eyes.
Bucky is watching me so carefully, his eyes flicking over my face, searching for even the slightest sign of discomfort. His arms shake violently, his knuckles white from gripping the sheets beside my head. He’s breathing fast, erratic, his small, shaky breaths cold against my ear. And he’s moving too slowly, like he’s terrified of losing control.
“Relax, baby. You can let go.”
I lift my hand, gently stroking his beautiful face, my voice barely a whisper. His eyes soften, then immediately darken.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he rasps, his voice hoarse, ruined.
“You can’t,” I assure him. “I can take it. I want to take it.”
The sound that escapes him—a helpless whimper, like he’s been waiting his entire life to hear those words. His body trembles, his control hanging by a thread, his cock twitching inside me at the sheer relief of it.
He might be above me, but he is completely at my mercy.
“You’re doing so good,” I murmur, just inches from his lips, my breath fanning over his skin. “Don’t stop.”
The second I say it, he melts.
Raw, desperate need unleashes from him so suddenly, it knocks the breath from my lungs. I wheeze in surprise, barely able to keep up before he grabs the bedframe above my head with his vibranium arm and picks up the pace—hard. The deep, wrecked moan that rips from his throat sets me on fire; a wildfire raging low and uncontrollable, consuming every last of my coherent thoughts. All I know is him—the way he moves, the way he fills me, the way every precise thrust hits where I need him most.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer, and he collapses into me, his mouth claiming mine in a sloppy, desperate kiss. His thrusts are relentless, shaking the entire goddamn bed, and I have to grip his vibranium arm for dear life just to keep myself in place.
Somewhere in his haze, even now, he thinks to protect me—his flesh hand cradling the top of my head, shielding me from the bedframe. My chest tightens at the gesture, and I let my lips trail down his sweat-slicked neck in silent gratitude, my teeth grazing over his skin.
Something inside me snaps as I feel his salty skin on my tounge. My nails rake down his back, digging into the hard muscle, desperate to leave my mark. My teeth sink into his shoulder, biting, scratching, taking him. We’re sliding against each other, slick with sweat, the heat of the summer night making everything feel even filthier, more raw, more real.
And Bucky is falling apart.
He’s moaning, breaking, unraveling against me, the sounds deep and ragged, each one rougher than the last. If I didn’t know better—if I didn’t know how utterly overwhelmed with pleasure he is—I’d think he was in pure agony from the helpless little cries slipping from his lips.
“Tell me I’m good for you,” he whispers, almost afraid to ask, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear.
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
“You’re such a good boy for me, Bucky.”
The words fall from my lips like a promise, and fuck, the sharp, broken gasp he lets out shreds me to pieces. It’s high and desperate, so fucking needy, and it goes straight to my core.
He kisses me, hard and possessive.
“I’ve been waiting…” His voice is unraveling, barely understandable.
”… for so fucking long.”
Then suddenly—
Thrust.
“And you—”
Thrust.
“Feel—”
Thrust.
“So—”
Thrust.
“Good.”
His voice rasps in pure, guttural pleasure. I’m nothing but a puddle beneath him, completely ruined, and somehow, he’s not finished.
His rhythm snaps, his thrusts turning harder, rougher, deeper, more possessive.
“Mine,” he snarls, his voice low, primal. He slams into me, hard, forcing me to take it.
“Mine, you understand?”
I can’t speak. Can’t think. There’s no rational thought left, no words, just pure, consuming pleasure. So instead, I match his pace, my hips rolling up to meet every devastating thrust. The way his words set me on fire, I let the flames consume me. My orgasm builds dangerously fast, and I’m hanging by a fucking thread, barely holding on under the brutal precision of his movements.
“Bucky—God—”
His name falls from my lips like a prayer, breathless and desperate.
“I’m—”
Judging by his increased pace, he knows exactly what I'm trying to say. He lifts himself, just enough to look me in the eyes, and I’m trying so hard not to let my eyes roll back, not to completely lose myself in him.
“Please.”
His voice shatters, breaking apart in my ear, pleading.
“Please cum on my cock. Please, baby, please—”
This is all I need to spiral. The coil inside me snaps violently, my entire body arching, shattering as a scream tears from my throat. I crash into pleasure, drowning in it, my walls clenching tight around him, milking him, pulling him deeper.
“Oh, fuck—” Bucky’s voice breaks, his hips stuttering, his rhythm completely unraveling as he feels me fall apart around him.
“That’s it—fuck—that’s my girl.”
His praise sends a violent aftershock through me, my body trembling, shaking, completely spent. I gasp for air, trying to regulate myself after the most devastating orgasm of my life, but I don't stand a chance. Bucky's not finished, not yet.
“I—I can’t—”
Bucky’s voice isn’t even human anymore. It’s a shattered, breathless little whimper, choked between desperate gasps, his body trembling like he’s about to break. His hips falter, his cock twitching so agressively inside me I swear I can feel it in my throat.
But he won’t let go. Not yet.
Not without permission.
“Please—”
The word falls apart in his throat, barely even understandable.
“Please, baby, please—please let me cum, I need it, I need you, I can’t hold it, I can’t—”
He’s whining, his breath is gone, his voice is gone, his body is gone; he is completely, utterly mine.
“Release it, baby.” My fingers tighten in his hair, dragging him deeper inside me. “Be a good boy and give it to me.”
And that’s it; he doesn’t just fall apart—he disintegrates.
His hips slam forward, burying himself so fucking deep inside me, holding us together, his muscles locking up, convulsing. And if this wasn't enough, he whimpers.
“Ohhh—fuck, fuck, fuck—”
His cock twitches and throbs uncontrollably, and I feel everything. The first violent, overwhelming pulse. The hot, thick flood of him spilling deep inside me. His hips keep jerking, his muscles keep locking up, his whimpers keep breaking apart into desperate, breathless sobs.
“Baby, baby—please, please, oh my God, I—I can’t—”
His hands claw at my waist, face burrowed into my neck, his breath a gasping mess. His voice cracks, completely breaking apart, and then a single, desperate sob escapes from him.
He cries. Bucky Barnes cries when he cums.
His body shakes uncontrollably, his hips rocking forward on their own, like he’s trying to push it even deeper, like he’s chasing something he’ll never be able to reach.
“Baby, baby—please hold me, please—fuck, I love you, I love you so much—”
His voice is cracking, completely gone, and I gasp as I feel another orgasm building inside me. Another slow, rolling wave, ignited by his moans, his desperate little whimpers, the way he’s still trembling inside me.
“Bucky—oh, fuck—”
The second he realizes what’s happening, it destroys him all over again.
“Baby, you’re gonna— Fuck, fuck, fuck—please, baby, please—”
His hips snap forward as a last burst of desperate energy, his hands gripping my waist so tightly I feel the bruises forming.
“Oh, baby—please, please cum on my cock again, I wanna feel it—please, baby, please, please—”
The filth of it, the raw need in his voice immedately shatters me. I scream his name, my body convulsing around him, my walls tightening, pulsing, taking him deeper, squeezing him so hard he sobs.
“Oh—oh fuck, baby, I’m still cumming—”
His cock throbs again, another weak, helpless little spill, and he whimpers so high and wrecked he sounds like he’s dying.
“I can’t stop—baby, I can’t stop, I can’t stop—”
His breath is gone, tears spilling onto my skin, his voice a trembling, begging mess, pleading for the final release. Not a moment later, he collapses.
His body slumps into mine; arms useless, his breathing erratic and broken. His tears still fall, his entire body shivering, overstimulated, still whimpering, still sobbing.
He’s still inside me, throbbing. Utterly gone from this world.
His hands stay locked firmly around me, fingers clutching, shaking, gripping, like he’ll die if I let go. And on top of that, he just won't stop crying. Soft, helpless little sobs hide into my skin, as he's holding onto me for dear life.
“Baby,” he whispers, his voice so broken and small.
“Baby, please don’t let go—please don’t go.”
My heart shatters to a million pieces in a matter of seconds. It becomes evidently clear that he's not here right now. He’s somewhere else, somewhere dark, somewhere cold, somewhere where he had nothing and no one. I feel it in the way he clings to me and his hands shake as they grip my waist. The way his face tucks into my throat, burrowing, searching, nuzzling like he’s trying to disappear into me; like he’s afraid this isn’t real.
"Shhh, Bucky,” I murmur, kissing his damp temple. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Even though I wanted my words to soothe him, he breaks even more instead. His breath catches on a sob, his entire body curling into me, fingers fisting in the sheets, in my hair, in anything he can hold onto.
“You’re so good to me,” he gasps, his voice shaking. “So perfect, so soft, I—fuck, I don’t deserve this—”
His lips quiver against my skin, hands tightening around me, pulling me closer. The realization that he’s not just crying from overstimulation, hits me like a brick. He’s crying because he’s never felt this before.
Never felt this safe. Never felt this loved. Never felt this cherished, taken care of.
“Bucky,” I whisper, cupping his tear-streaked face, making him look at me.
His blue eyes are glassy and vulnerable, still wet with tears. God, he looks so much younger like this. Like a little boy, back in the ‘40s, nineteen years old, held too many responsibilities, never got held in return.
I immediately want to fix every bad thing that's ever happened to him.
“You deserve all of this, my sweet boy,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his forehead. “You deserve every single second of love. You deserve to be taken care of.”
He lets out a tiny little sob that slits my heart in half, like a butcher knife.
“But I—” His voice cracks, his fingers digging into my waist. “I don’t—I don’t know how to do this. I don’t—”
His breath hitches, his chest rising, falling too fast. I know him enough to realize he’s panicking, his brain is fighting him, pushing against the comfort, trying to tell him he doesn’t deserve this.
I also know how to shut it down. I pull him into me, wrap my arms so tightly around him that he has no choice but to believe that this is real. I'm real.
“It’s okay, baby,” I say gently, stroking his hair, feeling his body relax against mine. “You don’t have to know how. Just let me love you.”
He immediately eases into me, his breath slowing, his shaking finally dying down. He doesn't know, but he's holding my own broken pieces together too, since I've never felt a love so consuming before.
“If I fall asleep,” he whispers, as if he is about to say something unthinkable, “will you be here when I wake up?”
My dear God.
"Of course, Bucky. I'll be right here, always," I promise, my voice firm, not leaving any space for doubts in his broken mind.
He buries his face into my neck as an answer, and with that, Bucky Barnes is fast asleep in my arms.