thinking about dilf jake putting you on top. he's worried he might hurt you. because everything about him dwarfs all your features. his cock hardens when you give him those eyes. how could he ever resist them. he gets off on how much smaller in size you are. fuck, he's daydreamed about stuffing you full of his cock, engraving himself within your walls but he knows better than that. he's too big. your poor cunt struggles to take more than a few inches.
so when you straddle him, jake's riddled brain shortcircuits. your warm slicked up heat pressing over the underside of his length. wedging him between your swollen lips. "...baby" he manages to whimper. his huge hands engulfing your bare waist. grip tightening when you grind down harder. throbbing against him. you catch onto the way his pointed ears flatten against his dreads. hips bucking up involuntarily, nearly throwing you off. hot precum coating your folds, his tip sliding to bump deliciously against your aching clit. he's promised to give you the reins, savouring your torturous teasing. "shit. I swear you're gonna make me cum like this..." he moans lowly, using his grip to physically match your pace with his grinding. his gaze fixed on his cock nuzzled lewdly into your wet folds. hungry eyes flickering up to meet your dazed ones, pupils dilating. its amazing to see the marine breakdown. completely drunk on you. "oh. baby...please"
if you like ryan cooglers projects please support iron heart it comes out today and episodes drop every tuesday on disney +. racists are review bombing despite the fact that the show literally isn’t out yet because they’re losers who can’t handle a black woman leading a show. this is the acolyte all over again and i at least hope this time that disney doesn’t bend to these freaks
this is just me yapping, but the posts i’ve been seeing of readers criticizing and genuinely bullying the work of authors on this app are genuinely outrageous.
not everyone is publishing work here to be some highly-esteemed writer, or to appease the masses with their work, some write for themselves to decompress, to compose their creativity in word form, etc. and its posts like those that only discourage people from the art that the love to create. i’ve never seen a long drawn out five paragraph post talking about how everyone’s work is pure shit now and thought, “wow now i need to do better,” if i’m being 100% honest.
what i’m saying is, if you have a genuine critique of an authors writing and the author themself has communicated that they’re open to hearing it, by all means, fire away. but for the individuals on here that consistently publicly state how much they hate the quality of work produced by authors on here, get in the fucking booth 😂😂!
I love every mischaracterized, grammatically incorrect, format absent, non-edited, non-spellchecked piece of writing i find on here.
writing is difficult, but it’s gratifying to those that find the courage to pick up a pen, so stop being assholes and start being encouraging, because i promise you, soft corrections and constructive criticism will work infinitely better than you being a dick on my feed.
Husband! Bucky Barnes can’t take his eyes or his hands off of you. He has to make the biggest effort around the kids, and honestly, it’s all you’ve ever dreamed of.
A/N: Growing up with parents who you've never seen kissing, hugging, or saying "love you" to each other, yeah, it does something to you. I recommend you listen to like real people do while reading.
warnings: domestic fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, bucky being a dream husband, vulnerable talk, parental PDA and kids being grossed out (but funny), so so so wholesome.
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Hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed (and cried) writing this!
You grew up in a house where love was... quiet. If it was there at all, it never spoke.
No kisses over coffee. No lingering glances. No hands held on road trips.
“I love you” was said with the same flat tone as “dinner’s ready.”
It taught you that love was restraint. Conditional. Measured.
No one yelled, but no one kissed.
No one fought, but no one held hands.
“I love you” was something you overheard in movies — not around the dinner table.
You grew up unsure if your parents loved each other, or just… merely existed beside one another. Tolerated each other.
Did they love each other? You still don’t know. Maybe they didn’t, and maybe that’s what scared you the most.
Because it made you wonder if that was all love ever was.
And then you met Bucky Barnes.
And he rewrote everything.
When Bucky Barnes came into your life, it felt like getting hit with sunlight after decades in the dark.
He's unapologetically soft for you. Hands always reaching—brushing your hair back, pulling you close, squeezing your hip as he walks by. Your kids are so over it.
“Do you have to do that now?” your oldest groans as Bucky kisses your cheek in the middle of the grocery store.
“Yes,” he answers simply. “Your mom’s hot.”
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm. Every single time.
It’s the little things Bucky does that undo you.
Like when you're driving the kids to school, and he insists on holding your hand — even when you're the one behind the wheel. His fingers slide between yours easily, resting on your thigh, warm and grounding. His thumb draws lazy circles against your skin as you maneuver turns, one hand on the wheel, one hand in his.
“You know this is wildly impractical,” you tease, eyes flicking over to him.
He grins, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, voice low and smug.
“Don’t care. I gotta hold my girl.”
“Can you not be in love for five minutes?” your son groans.
You and Bucky just laugh. He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles like some old-timey gentleman who also happens to be a menace. And still doesn’t let go.
Bucky, who hugs you from behind while you’re cooking and whispers in your ear like a menace
"Skip dinner, let’s order in and make out on the couch."
Your daughter and son groan loudly from the couch, “OH MY GOD.”
“I’m gonna pour bleach in my eyes!”
Bucky laughs, holding you tighter with his metal arm snug around your waist, “Love you too, buddy.”
He kisses you while you're folding laundry. He dances with you in the kitchen just because the song is good. Tells you he loves you like it’s as natural as breathing — because for him, it is.
And yeah, sometimes he says dumb things like,
"Bucky, why is the car so hot?"
He throws you a wink. “Cause you got in it.”
A chorus of “Daaaaaad!” erupts from the backseat.
“Oh my god.”
Your son gags. “I’m gonna be ill.”
Bucky glances at them through the mirror, unfazed.
“Good. Builds immunity.”
But under all the dramatics, they smile when they think you’re not looking. They giggle when he slow dances with you in the kitchen, or calls you doll like it’s sacred. They see it. They know it’s real. They know it’s safe.
You didn’t grow up with love like this — but you’re raising them with it. And that matters.
That night, after the kids are asleep and the house is finally quiet, you curl up beside him on the bed, wearing one of his old shirts and nothing else. The air is warm and soft-lit, and you’re sunk so deep into the quiet you almost don’t want to break it.
But you do.
“Can I tell you something kind of dumb?” you murmur.
“Doll, you could talk nonsense for hours and I’d still nod along like it’s gospel.”
You laugh, but it fades. “Sometimes I still wait for it to stop.”
He tilts his head, confused. “Stop?”
You bite your lip. “I grew up thinking love didn't exist or wasn't meant to be shown. That it had to be quiet. Conditional. Measured. So sometimes I still catch myself waiting for the moment it… ends. That you leave. That it all disappears.”
Bucky’s quiet for a moment. Then he reaches out and touches your cheek like he’s holding something fragile and precious. Because he is.
“Doll… whoever taught you that love had to be small, they were so wrong. I need to love you like this. Big. Loud. Always. I need to hold your hand while we’re driving and kiss your neck while you're stirring the pasta.” He swallows hard. “I want to love you in a way you never have to question. Ever.”
Tears prick your eyes, and he pulls you into his lap, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, and your mouth.
You kiss him like you’re trying to press every word you haven’t said yet into his mouth. And he lets you—hands on your waist, grounding you, holding you like he’s scared you might vanish if he lets go.
When you finally pull back, just far enough to breathe, he’s looking at you like you hung the stars in the damn sky.
“I think about it a lot,” he says softly, voice rough, “how lucky I got.”
You blink, heart thudding. “Bucky…”
“No, listen.” He brushes your hair back, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “After everything I’ve seen—everything I’ve done—I didn’t think I’d get this. I thought my story ended in blood and silence. And then there you were. Warm, loud, bossy as hell—loving me without flinching.”
You shake your head, tears building. “You don’t have to thank me—”
“I do.” His voice breaks. “I have to thank you every damn day. For seeing me when I couldn’t. For staying when it was hard. For giving me this life. The kids. You. All of it.”
You don’t say anything at first. You just kiss him again, slow and deep, a promise pressed into skin.
And as his hands slide up your back, pulling you impossibly closer, you think—
Yeah. You got lucky too.
You pull back eventually, breathless, heart full. And then you rise to your feet.
He looks up, dazed. “Where you goin’, sweetheart?”
You smirk, already halfway to the hallway.
“Gotta make sure the door’s locked,” you call over your shoulder. “We don’t want to traumatize them.”
Bucky groans, laughing, throwing himself back against the pillows.
“You’re killin’ me.”
“And I’ll bring you back to life, Barnes.”
You wink, hovering over him, straddling his waist as his hands slide up, thumbs rubbing slow, hiking closer to the hem of your shirt.
You smirk, leaning over him, ready to take your place on top — but before you can, his hands slide around your waist.
In one smooth motion, he flips you over, pinning you gently beneath him.
“Not so fast, doll,” he murmurs, grinning as he settles between your legs. “You always think you’re in charge.”
You arch a brow, breath hitching. “And you love it.”
He laughs under his breath, eyes dark and soft all at once. He leans down, brushing your hair back to kiss your neck — slow and deep, with a bite that makes you shiver.
“Let me take care of you tonight.”
You exhale a laugh, heart skipping. “You always wanna take care of me.”
He smiles against your skin, lips trailing lower, worship in every movement.
“Damn right I do.”
Because loving you isn’t a duty.
It’s instinct.
It’s devotion.
I am a mix of emotions! 🥹💕😫🤧 I really enjoyed writing husband! Bucky and I will definitely do it again!
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