These Hands that Hold Me — Part 1
Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word Count: 2,915
Warnings: Smutty Fluff — Established relationship, tux kink, soft dom!Bucky, mild possessiveness, aftercare with finger tracing and cuddles, protective Bucky, mutual teasing, metal arm softness, domestic gestures
Summary: At the Avengers gala hosted by Valentina, Bucky looks dangerously good in a tux — and you know it. One whispered comment about ovulating is all it takes to push him to the brink. The tension finally snaps back home, but when things heat up, Bucky still holds back...
A/N: Hello!! I've been wanting to push out a Bucky Barnes fic for y'all and for myself for a while now... and I just recently re-watched Thunderbolts and got this idea, so here it is :3 I hope you beautiful souls enjoy this work of mine!! Thank you for your support!!
The gala’s all polished marble and glittering gowns. Bucky’s pretty sure half the people here have no idea what they’re actually celebrating. Valentina’s making the rounds with her signature smugness, camera flashes go off every five seconds, and all Bucky wants is a damn drink and maybe to get out of this tux.
And then he sees you.
You’re standing near the edge of the ballroom in a gown that clings just right, drink in hand, eyes locked onto him like a secret you’re dying to tell. His breath catches, and he adjusts his sleeves like they’ll do anything to hide how he’s already heating up under the collar.
You walk over, slow and confident like you’ve got all the time in the world.
“You clean up real nice, Sergeant Barnes.”
He snorts, “Don’t start.”
“What? I can’t compliment my man when he looks like sin in a tux?”
Bucky lowers his voice, eyes narrowing just a little, “You’ve been staring at me all night.”
“Maybe I’ve got a reason.”
“And what would that be?”
You lean in, breath grazing the shell of his ear, voice silky and playful, “…I’m ovulating.”
Bucky nearly chokes on air.
You step back, all smug smile and an innocent sip of champagne, “Just figured you should know.”
And god, the way his jaw tightens — the way he runs a hand down his face like it’ll erase the images already flashing in his mind — it’s delicious.
“You keep talking like that,” he murmurs lowly, “and we’re not making it through the rest of this night.”
You smile sweetly, “Then let’s leave early.”
You take another slow sip of your champagne, eyeing him. Then, your fingers curl inward over your lips, hiding a smug little smirk like it’s something sacred. You chuckle softly, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.
He’s already looking at you like a storm barely contained in a tux.
But before he can say something cocky, a congressman you vaguely recognize drifts over.
“Sergeant Barnes,” he says, extending a hand. “Didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
Bucky gives the man a single nod, clears his throat, and without missing a beat, places a firm hand on your lower back, “Excuse me.”
And just like that, he’s steering you away from the crowd, down the carpeted steps of the gala hall, straight to the valet. You don’t say a word, you don’t need to, you can feel the tension simmering just beneath his skin.
The valet pulls up in sleek black, and Bucky catches the keys with one hand, nodding tightly. The other never leaves your back until you’re both inside the car.
He slides into the driver’s seat, starts the engine with a quiet growl, and his right hand settles onto your lap, fingers spreading wide, heavy and possessive.
“Did you have to say it like that?” he mutters, eyes fixed on the road, voice low and gravelly.
You hum innocently as you look at him with doe eyes, “Say what?”
He squeezes your thigh — tight. Not enough to hurt, but enough to warn. “You know exactly what.”
You look at his hand as you gasp softly, and then, you get an idea to rouse him further. Ever so slowly, you take his hand and guide it up your thigh... higher and closer. His knuckles brush the hem of your dress, and his breathing gets louder.
“Jesus...”
You glance over, voice light. “Something wrong?”
Bucky’s jaw clenches. “You’re lucky this isn’t the metal arm.”
You laugh, soft and wicked, and his hand twitches under your touch like it’s already fighting restraint.
He doesn’t say another word the entire drive. Just pulls up quietly to the curb outside your apartment building, throws the car into park, and kills the engine.
The street is hushed under amber city lights, a breeze tousling his hair as he steps out. You follow, heart racing, heels clicking softly on the pavement as his hand finds yours with firm urgency, fingers laced tight.
Not a word. Not until you’re inside.
The front door creaks open as the warm hum of the building swallows you both while you climb up the stairs. He’s two steps ahead, still holding your hand, as if he lets go now, he might lose control right there in the stairwell.
By the time you reach the apartment door, your back is already tingling with anticipation as you lean against the wall and look over at him. He fumbles with the key just a second too long like the heat in his chest is making him reckless.
But then the door swings open, and the second it clicks shut behind you, you’re backed against it.
His hands are on your waist, mouth hovering near your ear, “You drive me insane, you know that?”
You smile, smug and breathless, “Good.”
“Say it again,” he growls, lips ghosting along your jaw. “That thing you said at the gala.”
You blink up at him, feigning innocence, “What thing?”
“The one that made me want to throw you over my shoulder and skip the damn valet.”
You lean up on your toes, whisper hot and sweet against his ear, “I’m ovulating.”
His eyes flutter shut for a moment like he's trying to collect the last shred of his self-control.
But when they open, god, he looks hungry, “Bedroom. Now.”
“No.”
His brows lift, just barely, but the fire in his eyes flares, “No?”
Your smile is slow and dangerous, “Make me.”
You watch the tension ripple through his jaw, his nostrils flaring. He’s seconds from snapping but you want him to. You want him raw and undone; You want him to lose that precious control he holds like armour.
So you just stand there, smirking, and the air between you practically crackles.
Finally, he breaks.
His voice is a growl, guttural and ragged, barely human. “Did you want me to fuck you against the counter? Is that it? Hmm?” His hands are on your hips, guiding and commanding you backwards. “Or maybe you wanted me to take you right there at the gala? In front of everyone?” He leans in, nose brushing yours. “In front of that congressman who couldn’t stop staring at you?”
You gasp as the backs of your thighs bump the kitchen counter. He cages you in tighter, hands now gripping your waist like he needs to remind himself you're real.
“You wanted that, didn’t you? To be ruined where everyone could see?”
You don’t answer. You just lift yourself up onto the counter with practised ease, arms around his neck, legs around his waist, pulling him in, and then you flip the game.
Fingers sliding into his hair, voice sharp and dominant, “Bedroom. Now, Sergeant Barnes.”
That title hits him like a command straight from mission control. His lips part, breath shaky, pupils blown, “…Yes, ma’am.”
And then his hands are under your thighs, hoisting you up, carrying you through the apartment like you weigh nothing.
He kicks open the bedroom door, lays you out on the sheets like a damn offering, and the second you’re down, his mouth crashes onto yours—hungry and worshipful.
His mouth meets yours with heat and hunger, but there’s a tremble beneath it. A hesitation. Even as his body presses to yours, even as his hands explore your curves like he’s memorizing them again for the hundredth time—he’s still holding back.
You feel it.
His touch, while firm, never pushes. His kisses are deep, but short, like he’s catching himself just before he loses control. His hands slide under your dress but pause at your thighs. He’s yearning, but he’s afraid.
You break the kiss first, gently cupping his face, “Bucky.”
His breath hitches, “Yeah?”
Your voice is soft, like a thread between you, “You’re holding back.”
He’s hovering above you, one hand braced beside your head, the other caressing your waist like he’s grounding himself. His jaw is tight. His eyes are wild. But his touch is soft, too soft for what he’s feeling.
He swallows thickly, gaze dropping to where his metal fingers now rest on the bedspread, “I—I want you so bad, doll, but I… I don’t want to hurt you.”
You tilt your head, heart full, “You won’t.”
“I could. You don’t know how hard it is… holding back around you. You get me all wound up and then—" He stops, breath hitching, like even saying it is too much.
You cup his cheek, thumb brushing along his stubble. “Bucky.”
He closes his eyes and leans into your touch like he’s starved for it.
“You don’t need to hold back," he opens his eyes again, and you smile, soft and sure, “I trust you.”
His eyes flick up to yours and something breaks open in them. Like a dam that’s been straining for years. He doesn’t speak, just nods almost reverently.
Then his lips find yours again but this time, freely. There’s no leash now, no walls. Just Bucky. Warm, trembling and utterly devoted.
He kisses you like he’s been dying of thirst. His hands — flesh and metal — both run along your waist, your thighs, under your dress, feeling, learning and worshipping. His breath is hot against your neck as he presses kisses there, trailing down to your collarbone, murmuring things.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, forehead resting against yours as he undresses you like a prayer.
You reach for his tie, tugging it loose, then work open the buttons of his shirt as he helps you out of your dress slowly and reverently, like he’s unwrapping something fragile and precious.
Once you’re bare before him, he just looks at you. No jokes; no teasing. Just awe.
“God,” he whispers, voice shaking, “You’re… everything.”
You tug him down, pressing your forehead to his. “Hey...You're my everything too, okay?”
He grins wide and real and nods as he finally lets himself feel.
He kisses you again slower now, but deeper. His hands caress every inch of you like he’s making sure you’re still here, still real, and still his.
You guide him gently down with you until he’s hovering above, framed by moonlight through the window, shirt discarded somewhere on the floor. His dog tags glint against his chest, swinging slightly as he leans in.
You brush your fingers through his hair before stroking his cheek with your thumb. “You’re allowed to want, Bucky,” you whisper, “You’re allowed to have.”
That undoes him.
He breathes your name like a confession as he moves his face closer to your heat.
You spread your thighs for him, welcoming, no fear. His fingers slide between them, testing, teasing — and when he finds you already wet, already aching for him, his breath catches in his throat.
“You—” he exhales, jaw trembling. “You’re so ready for me…”
You nod, stroking his head and playing with his hair more as you look down at him, “Always am.”
He comes back up, licking his fingers as his dog tags swing close to your face. You wrap your arms around his neck to pull him closer as he grinds down slowly, letting you feel just how much he wants you, how long he’s needed this. The tension in his body is thick — years of guilt, control, and restraint all knotted in muscle and memory.
But under your hands, under your love, he softens.
He lines himself up, eyes locked on yours — checking, always checking as you nod again, gently stroking his cheek. “It’s okay.”
And when he pushes in slowly, carefully, and intimately, you both exhale in unison, like you’ve been waiting your whole lives to feel this.
Bucky groans, forehead pressed to yours, eyes fluttering shut, “You feel like heaven, doll…”
You hold him tighter, lips brushing his temple, “So do you.”
He moves in you with reverence. No roughness, just rhythm. Every thrust is a promise, every kiss a prayer. He doesn’t speak much now, just quiet gasps, low moans, and your name on repeat like it’s the only word he knows.
And when your hips rise to meet his, your breath catches and you whisper, “Bucky, I’m close.”
He wraps his arms around you tightly, grounding you to him.
“I’ve got you, Doll,” he whispers, voice hoarse and full of love, “Let go. I’m right here.”
And when you fall apart beneath him, trembling, he follows just after, burying his face in your neck as he breaks with a ragged cry, holding you like a lifeline.
.
.
.
After a while, the room is quiet now — Just the soft tick of the clock, the hush of city lights bleeding through the curtains, and the way your fingers gently stroke along Bucky’s cheek.
He leans into your touch without thinking.
“You’re not theirs anymore,” you murmur, thumb brushing just beneath his eye, “You’re not Hydra. You’re not anyone’s puppet. You’re you… and you’re mine, if you want to be.”
Bucky’s breath stutters as his eyes close. You feel him exhale like the weight of entire decades is slipping off his chest. When he opens his eyes again, they’re glassy, full of something deeper than just lust or even love. It’s peace.
He lifts your hands, one at a time, and kisses your palms with aching tenderness.
“I’m grateful,” he whispers against your skin, “that I got to long for these hands. That I get to feel safe in them.”
Your chest tightens, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. But you smile. Then, slowly and cautiously, he raises his metal arm to your face. His knuckles graze your jaw, cold but gentle, unsure.
You don’t flinch. You nod. A small, solid affirmation. You’re safe. He’s safe, and this is okay. He just breathes you in like he needs this moment tattooed into his soul.
But then, his face twists slightly, reality creeping back in, “Shit.”
You tilt your head slightly, “What?”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair.
“It's about Valentina. I—I gotta find the others. Something felt off earlier... Gotta make sure this wasn’t more than a PR stunt. ”
He presses a quick, apologetic kiss to your temple, already reaching for his pants.
“I’m sorry to cut this short, baby. I’ll make it up to you, okay? Call Sam, check if he’s okay staying close tonight. I’ll feel better knowing someone’s watching out for you.”
You sit up, blanket draped over your chest, giving him the look.
“Bucky. I can handle myself just fine. I don’t need Captain America to babysit me.”
He freezes mid-shirt-button, then laughs — that warm, rare laugh that curls your toes.
“Yeah,” he chuckles, stepping closer to brush a strand of hair from your face, “Yeah, you’re right. You’d probably babysit him.”
You both smile, and for a moment, he doesn’t move. He just watches you — the soft light across your skin, the way your lashes flutter as you look at him like he’s home. And his heart squeezes in his chest.
'I should go,' he thinks.
But he stays because 'you never know what might happen next'. He hesitates for just a second longer… then sighs softly and moves back into bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he slides under the sheets again.
You tilt your head, surprised, “I thought you were heading out.”
“I will,” he murmurs, voice low, already curling an arm around you, “In a minute. Just… not yet.”
He opens his arm, and you waste no time sliding into it, cheek resting over his chest, fingers lightly tracing along his ribs. He kisses the top of your head, slow and lingering, then lets his chin rest there.
The silence is warm. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear.
“You always do that,” you mumble sleepily.
“Do what?”
“Say you’re leaving… then stay longer.”
His fingers trail up and down your back, “Can’t help it. You make it hard to go.”
You hum in response, already sinking into that space between sleep and dreaming, his scent and warmth wrapped all around you. He waits until your breathing slows, until your hand goes still over his chest, and only then does he gently shift out from under you.
Careful not to wake you, he places a soft kiss on your temple, then gets up and pads around the room silently as he buttons his shirt fully.
He fills a glass of water in the kitchen, places a lid on top like you always prefer, and sets it on your bedside with a sticky note, written in his rough, neat handwriting.
Didn’t want to wake you. Text me when you get this. I love you.❤️ —B
He stands there for a moment, just watching you sleep as the feeling in his heart grows. Then, before he leaves, he pulls out his phone and types a message.
Hey, Doll. I’m probably out already when you see this, but I wanted you to know I’m okay. I’ll check in as soon as I can. Drink water, stay safe. I’ll be thinking about you nonstop. — Your Bucky ❤️
He schedules it to send a few hours later, just around the time he knows you’d start missing him.
And then he’s gone.
But the room still holds the warmth of him — a glass of water, a scribbled note, and a soft imprint on the pillow beside you. He always comes back. But even when he’s not there—he makes sure you never feel alone.
