I think about Buckitty almost more than I'm willing to admit
credit to @/unclelice from this post
Buuut, I do have A Thought about Buckitty that I am willing to share on this fine day:
And said thought is a not safe for work thought but it's also kinda cute-? So, be warned I guess? Anyway-
Imagine:
Bucky with wavy, messy but gorgeous chocolate brown hair curling around his sharp jawline, accentuating his pretty cleft chin, sharp cheekbones, and bright eyes. His hair is matched by the color of his soft, fluffy cat ears as they twitch lazily atop his head and his tail too; the very same color and softness- very fluffy.
His ears are moving, twitching but much more lazier than normal because he's still a lil sensitive and strung-out... meanwhile his tail is relaxed, almost dragging behind him.
Bucky's also all flushed and wobbly legged, stumbling from Steve and his bedroom out to the kitchen. One of his hands trails along the hallway wall, as if he needs the support or needs to be led out of their bedroom. If he weren't walking so slow, the bell on his collar would be jingling loudly with the way he's wobbling on unsteady legs. As is... it's just a soft sound. The bell's jingling barely audible above the sound of his panting breaths. His hair is even more messy than normal today, messed up from his own fingers but also his master's- running through it, tugging on it, tangling it. His eyes - pupils more cat shaped than human but their illustrious color all the same - are glazed and unfocused. His muscles are trembling, smoothed over by skin that's still marked with the bite of teeth, the pads of fingers, bruised in, the rakings of fingernails, and not visible but felt are the plush press of lips too. Kisses previously layered over his skin.
And like this, poor Bucky could not answer a single damn question if asked. Not even the simplest one on planet Earth. So exhausted from a week of sex for what seems like every hour of the day.
His heat.
He's just out of his heat, worked through it- made to sweat it out by his master. Who is proclaimed on his collar, his name engraved on the tag that hangs next to his bell.
Bucky Barnes. If Lost Please Return To Steve Rogers. ###-###-####
But, yes, now at the end of his heat, their apartment is silent in the wake of moans, mewls, groans, yowls, and screams (all out of extensive pleasure) that occupied it earlier, yet Bucky's hyper-sensitive ears still ring. He still trembles. His heart still thunders. His body remembers, so, so wonderfully sore with use.
Bucky is walking on his own two feet, venturing out from Steve's protective, soothing embrace in order to get himself some water (there's none left in any of the reusable bottles stocked in their bedrooms mini fridge) and to allow Steve to have space to do the hard work of cleaning up their mess.
Padding into the kitchen, still floating on sparkling, pink, and gold air, Bucky is wearing Steve's shirt that's more a dress on him than a top. The neck of the faded shirt has been stretched wide, exposing his décolletage while covering his arms from the shoulder to a little ways below his elbow. Fabric covers his torso from under his collarbone all the way down to his mid-thigh, thin and light but reeking of his master's handsome scent after years of wear. The rest of his legs are exposed though. Only in Master's shirt. And leftover slick and milky-white cum run in wet, glistening rivers down his inner thighs from his pink, puffy entrance. Now, his tail is more lively, twitching to get out of the way of the mess of lust still on his skin as it runs but he is still moving through syrup. If Bucky were not satisfied fully - worn down, in fact - by heat, Bucky would crawl back to his master and mewl. Plead. And beg to be taken again. He is so messy and dirty and-
So depraved.
Not that he can help it. It is in his nature when in season. To need, to ache, to mewl and submit his everything over to his master. A pretty toy. Designer. Meant to be used for his master's fantasy. And how lucky is he to be kept, a prized pet, by a master that needs a kitty just as bad as his kitty needs him-? Unbearably lucky. Bucky needs his master to tell him he's good, so good, such a good kitty, and take the hurt away as it burns through him like a deadly fever. He needs it so bad.
Though, if Bucky were not immediately post-heat and consumed with the thought of staying upright so he can carry out his master's orders... he would see how he is temptation personified. He would know and would use it to his advantage. An innocent kitten, yes, but also a cougar. Prowling to make himself even more into lust itself wrapped up in a walking, breathing form with the power to turn any saint to sinner just with the shaky sway of his bruised hips, clumsy after spending the past week off his feet, being filled so thoroughly just like his instincts howl and claw for.
He is wrapped around his master's finger and, yes, his master is wrapped around his finger as well.
But anyway-
He gets himself into the kitchen on two feet, not crawling, and not collapsing. Fueled by his master's gentle but firm words- orders for him to get some water and maybe a snack, if he can. Bucky does get water. Not a snack. And he drinks; filling a glass with water from the tap and then tipping his head back to drink, relishing in how it pulls the well-worn pink leather of his collar. Nearly choking as he shivers, Bucky soaks in how submission still hovers around him, just waiting for the right moment to cling back on and drag him down to the lovely, deep, and pleasurable depths of heat-and-dom-made subspace.
One glass down, Bucky wipes his red, wet lips with the back of his hand. His plush, swollen lips press into his hand and sharp canines at the same time, setting off a strange ache in his mouth. Not a need per-say. He's too exhausted to need to have his oral fixation met but... it'd be good if Master would help. Master... Steve... his fingers maybe, Bucky thinks faintly, swooning. Whimpering despite himself and sliding from his feet down to his tender backside (landing with a precious little gasp) to sip his second glass of water from the floor, back pressed to the kitchen cabinets. The chill of the cabinets is welcome after a week of constant sweating and panting and burning from the inside out, his hunger gnawing on his insides.
Yet, soon enough - before he's even finished the second glass - Steve comes after him.
Master has his leash (also pink leather with rose gold metal hardware, matching his collar) wrapped around his fist loosely. Casually. So casual that he is shirtless with sweats. Just sweats. Gray and thin. Bucky looks, his eyes get stuck, and he inhales sharply on instinct as he viscerally remembers that thing making room for itself inside him, over and over again, just an hour ago or so. Every hour for the past week straight. Maybe more... okay, especially more than just hourly at the beginning of his heat.
Master is smirking at him.
Bucky drags his tongue, then his sharp canines over his lower lip, mouth dry. His ears twitch. The sound of his own head hitting the cabinet behind him surprises him. He's boneless, struck dumb by the feast for his eyes that is his Master.
"Tsk tsk tsk, kitty, don't hurt that pretty head a' yours-" Master drawls, shaking his own head playfully.
Master then crouches in front of him after gathering... something from the fridge and higher cabinets. When he turns around, gathering whatever it is, Bucky spies the claw marks down his back. Red. Lengthy. Made from passion; in the heat of the moment. At one point they would've concerned Bucky, but today, it makes his insides squirm happily, already mush and content to stay that way. Melted down.
Especially content when Master sits on the floor with him. Right in front of him to feed him raspberries and cashews and milk-chocolate chips from his palm. Alternating with the yummy snacks and water. All of it glides down Bucky's throat. He is so happy to eat from Steve's hand that he cannot help but vibrate with warmth. Purring.
Meanwhile, Steve can't help but admire how unbelievably adorable, flushed and wobbly, his kitten is post-orgasm, post-heat just trying to keep it together but not really being able to... he loves how soft and helpless he lets himself be like this. He really, really likes how much Bucky needs him. How much Bucky, his kitten, trusts him.
Steve drags a hand through his wildly messy hair. Chuckling pleasantly at how his kitten presses up into his hand, chewing to replenish some of all the calories he's lost and purring to have an expulsion of all the joy he's feeling since there's too much of it to keep it inside him.
