Okay but bucky tying reader up just so he can go down on her for hours. no penetration, no touching him—just his mouth, a vibrator, and his god-tier stamina. he’s addicted to her
You blink up at him, chest rising and falling fast, wrists already bound above your head to the headboard with soft silk ties. “Wait—what?”
“I said,” Bucky murmurs, climbing between your legs, “I’m not gonna fuck you. You don’t get my cock. Not tonight.”
He kisses the inside of your thigh once. Then twice. Then bites just enough to make you gasp.
“You’re gonna lay there like my pretty little meal,” he says, dark voice rich with sin, “and let me take everything I want from you.”
Your pulse kicks.
“But—what about you—”
“Not about me.” His hands—one flesh, one metal—slide down your thighs, parting you open like you’re a gift he gets to unwrap slowly. “You don’t get to touch me tonight. You don’t get to ride me. You don’t even get to look at me when you come.”
You’re already soaked.
“You’re gonna close your eyes,” he whispers, lips brushing just above your mound, “and take every fucking orgasm I give you.”
He holds up the vibrator — a slim, rose-colored thing he’s already charged, tested, memorized the settings on. His thumb flicks it on. The quiet hum is menacing.
“Hours,” he promises.
You try to push your legs together, but his shoulders are already settling between them.
“Bucky—”
“Ah ah,” he interrupts. “No whining. You asked what it was like when I really let go. When I stop holding back. This is what it looks like, baby.”
He drops the toy beside him and licks a long, slow stripe up your slit.
And then it begins.
At first, it’s slow.
Teasing.
He kisses like he’s got time. Like he’s not in a rush to get anywhere, because he’s already home. His hands keep your thighs spread wide, thumbs rubbing soft circles just to keep you relaxed.
He sucks your clit into his mouth gently, just enough to make you arch. And when you try to chase it, he pulls back and grins.
“You taste unreal, sweetheart.”
Your fingers curl against the ties.
“I could live here,” he breathes against you. “Never leave this pussy. Just eat you for breakfast, lunch, and fuckin’ dessert.”
Then he flicks his tongue fast, just once—sharp—and you squeak.
He hums, satisfied. “There’s that sound.”
After the first orgasm, you’re gasping.
After the second, your legs start to shake.
By the third, you’ve already forgotten your name.
He doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t stop.
“You still with me, doll?” he murmurs, sliding the vibrator between your slick folds.
You whimper, already twitching.
“I know,” he coos. “Sensitive. That’s the point.”
He holds it there, humming low and steady, while his mouth returns to your clit—tongue working in messy circles, slow at first, then faster when he feels you tense.
You break again.
Your thighs tremble. Your eyes squeeze shut. Your mouth drops open but no sound comes out.
And still—still—he doesn’t stop.
At some point, you start begging.
“Please—Bucky, please, I—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.”
“I’m—s’too much—”
“You can take more,” he says calmly, darkly, like he’s in church and you’re the altar. “This pussy was made for my mouth.”
He flattens his tongue. Sucks your clit again. Moves the toy slightly—just enough to drag the vibration against that sweet, aching spot inside you that makes your hips jerk.
“You’re perfect,” he groans, half-drunk on your taste. “So goddamn perfect. Can’t stop. Don’t wanna stop.”
He licks you through another orgasm, and another, and another—until your voice breaks, your thighs quake, your throat aches with his name.
“Say it again,” he murmurs. “Tell me who makes you come like this.”
“You—Bucky, fuck—you do, you—”
He kisses your thigh sweetly. “Good girl.”
You lose track of time.
All you know is the sheets are soaked. Your hair’s stuck to your forehead. Your wrists are burning and your whole body buzzes.
You feel like a live wire.
Like the edge of a scream.
And still—still—he’s going.
His mouth glistens with you.
His beard’s wet.
His fingers trace shapes on your hips while he presses the vibrator deep again, like he’s mapping constellations on your skin.
He murmurs praises like prayers between each wave:
