You Know You're My Best Friend, Right?

Elizabeth. i made a couple of famous posts back in 2014, now im just here to simp over bucky barnes

[heldbybarnes]

yayayayay for spring break!! I had an idea!! what about reader who tells (beefy) bucky she can't come during sex with a partner but she still enjoys it and he's all understanding & sweet but then they're having sex and he puts her in a mating press and she comes for the first time ever with someone and he loses it and is all cocky and saying "you just needed it deeper" and then every time after that, she's whiny and desperate to come and he's teasing her saying "you need me to put you in position?" and she begs for it, only coming when he puts her in a mating press

- @buckybsdoll 🫶🏼

mating press mention; hello blue!

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You’d told him on the couch, legs tangled under a blanket, his metal fingers tracing lazy circles on your thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world. Bucky had listened with that soft, patient look he saved just for you—brow furrowed, blue eyes steady.

“I just… I don’t finish with partners,” you’d said, cheeks burning. “I get close, I enjoy it, but it never happens. I still want you. I still want this. I just don’t want you to feel like it’s your job to fix me or whatever.”

He’d cupped your face, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Doll, nothing about you needs fixing. If you wanna feel good with me, we’ll feel good. If you don’t come, we’ll still have fun. I’m not keeping score.” Then he kissed you slow and sweet until you were breathless, and that was that.

Two hours later you’re in his bed, sheets already twisted, his mouth between your legs like he’s got all night. He’s so careful—broad shoulders keeping your thighs open, tongue slow and filthy, two thick fingers curling just right. You’re moaning, hips rolling, pleasure coiling tight and warm in your belly, but you know how this ends. You always know.

“Bucky,” you gasp, fingers in his hair, “you don’t have to—”

He lifts his head, lips shiny, eyes dark. “I want to. Let me take care of you, baby.”

You nod, because how are you supposed to say no to that? He crawls up your body, all that beefy muscle and warm skin, cock heavy against your thigh. When he pushes in—slow, thick, stretching you open—you moan loud enough to echo. He feels incredible. He always does. You rock with him, hands on his back, nails digging in as he fucks you deep and steady, murmuring praise against your throat.

“That’s it, sweetheart. So fucking tight for me. You feel so good.”

You’re lost in it, in the drag of him, the way his dog tags brush your chest, the low rumble of his voice. But the edge stays just out of reach, same as always.

Then Bucky shifts. He hooks his hands behind your knees and folds you clean in half.

Your eyes fly open.

The press is sudden—your thighs pressed to your chest, ankles by your ears, his massive frame pinning you down so completely you can’t even squirm. He sinks in deeper than you thought possible, cock dragging right against that spot that makes your brain short-circuit. The angle is filthy, overwhelming. Every thrust grinds against your clit and punches straight into the place that’s never been touched like this.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

He feels it the second you clench. His hips stutter. “Fuck, doll, you’re squeezin’ me so tight—”

You come like a freight train.

It hits you so hard your vision whites out. Your whole body locks up, thighs shaking against his shoulders, a broken cry ripping out of you as you pulse around him, wet and hot and endless. You’ve never come with anyone before. Never. Not once.

Bucky loses it.

His eyes blow wide, pupils swallowing the blue, mouth dropping open in pure stunned lust. “Holy shit—did you just—?” He drives in again, harder, chasing the way your cunt flutters and gushes around him. “You came. You came on my cock, baby. Fuck, look at you.”

He’s grinning now, cocky and wild, sweat dripping down his temple as he fucks you through it, hips snapping sharp and deep. “You just needed it deeper, huh? That’s all it took? My pretty girl been waiting for me to fold her in half and ruin her little pussy?”

You can’t even answer—just whimper and nod, tears slipping down your temples because it feels too good, too much. He groans, low and wrecked, and comes right after you, buried to the hilt, growling your name like a prayer.

After that, everything changes.

The next night he’s got you bent over the kitchen counter, fucking you slow and lazy while you try to finish the dishes you started. You’re close—whining, pushing back on him—but it’s not enough. You know what you need now. You hate how badly you need it.

“Bucky… please…”

He chuckles, dark and knowing, and slows down even more. “What’s wrong, doll? You sound so desperate. Use your words.”

You shove your face into your arms, mortified and aching. “The position. Please. I need—”

He pulls out, spins you around, and scoops you up like you weigh nothing. In two strides he’s got you on the couch, legs shoved up and back until your knees are by your shoulders. The second he sinks back inside you come again—hard, fast, sobbing his name while he laughs softly against your mouth.

“Greedy little thing,” he murmurs, still moving, still hard. “One taste and now you can’t get off unless I bend you in half like a pretzel, huh?”

It becomes your thing.

Every time after that you turn into a whiny, desperate mess the second he teases you with shallow thrusts. You’ll be riding him, hands braced on his chest, bouncing so pretty, and he’ll just smirk up at you.

“You close, baby?”

You nod frantically, hips grinding faster. “Mhm—Bucky—please—”

He grabs your waist, stilling you. “Nah. Not like this.” His voice drops, filthy and sweet all at once. “You need me to put you in position? Need me to fold those pretty legs up and fuck you so deep you see stars?”

You whine, high and pathetic, cheeks burning. “Yes—yes, please, Bucky, I need it—”

He flips you so fast your head spins. Knees to chest, his massive body looming over you, cock sliding back in with one brutal thrust. You come instantly, screaming, nails raking down his back while he fucks you through it with that smug, adoring grin.

“Every damn time,” he growls, hips snapping. “Only come when I’ve got you pinned and open like this. My perfect girl. Say it.”

“I—fuck—I only come when you put me in the mating press—oh god—”

He kisses you messy and deep, still thrusting, still teasing. “That’s right. And you’re gonna keep begging me for it, aren’t you?”

You nod frantically, already feeling the next one building.

Because now you know the truth: you can come. You just need Bucky Barnes to press you down, fold you up, and give it to you deeper than anyone ever has.

And he’s more than happy to oblige.

[superbassbuck]

glory box; 18+ nsfw (barnes x reader)

warnings; 18+ mdni, full filth and smut. bucky has a bush a 761 word drabble of beefy!bucky who just loves how tiny and helpless his girlfriend looks in his arms while he's fucking her. main masterlist | read more drabbles here.

there was nothing bucky loved more than watching his girlfriend stripped completely bare and pinned against his chest, bouncing helplessly on his lap as mewls and whimpers spilled from her pretty little lips.

“b-buck—” you cried, your neck arched back, allowing your head to press against him as you batted your lashes. “i—i can’t—”

“oh, you can’t?” bucky taunted, one large, rough hand sliding from your waist up to your neck, pinning you in place. “but you’re already doing such a good job for me, sweetheart. can’t stop now.”

his hand tightened slightly around your throat—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp.

bucky always loved hearing you gasp.

every single nerve was on fire as his thick cock slid in and out of you, leaving behind a wet, vulgar squelching noise with each hard thrust. every time you and bucky fucked, he always managed to stretch you out impossibly more. the initial burn of getting split open by him was always intense, but the pleasure afterward was incredible—so great that you were left a mewling, crying mess in his arms. and he loved seeing you like this.

“fuuuck, baby,” he grunted, long strands of dark hair framing his face as he stared at you with blown out, hungry eyes. “so fuckin’ small—so small in my arms, but you can take it. you always do.”

your head was dizzy with desire. the way bucky was looking at you, the way he held you against his big, warm body, it could make you cum right there in his lap. you felt like you were high on drugs. the entire room reeked of sex, sweat, and a masculine scent that was purely him.

“oh my god—!”

bucky gritted his teeth, a snarl escaping him as he felt your walls clench around him. your bouncing was uneven and your legs were shaking. you were close. so fucking close, and bucky could feel every flutter and pulse your tight body had to give him.

“bucky, baby,” you gasped, eyes rolling back, “i’m getting close!”

sweat beaded down bucky’s forehead as his grip tightened on your hips, his face contorting at your admission.

“i know, sweets,” he groaned. “fuck. i know you are. shit—”

bucky started to grumble and groan, a telltale sign that he was nearing his own peak. his hands—already rough and demanding—squeezed and gripped you everywhere. his mechanical left arm whirred with the effort of holding back, trying to be gentle. his hips pounded up to meet yours, letting you feel the thick bulge of his lower stomach and the unkept hair at the base of his cock.

“fuuck, mph, ah—shit, baby.”

he cursed, mumbling incoherently under his breath. the sight of your ass bouncing against him as his thick cock slid in and out was enough to drive any man mad. bucky was glad pregnancy wasn’t a concern, because he couldn’t resist fucking you bare.

“shit, i’m gonna cum, sweets,” he groaned as you felt him twitch and throb inside you.

your moans rose in pitch, arching your back even more as you ground yourself onto his lap. your legs shook as your release finally consumed you. “fuck—i’m cumming, bucky…!”

“good girl,” he soothed approvingly, relishing the way you spasmed and clenched around him as you came undone. you let out a high squeal, crying out his name in a way that sounded like music to his ears.

“gooood fucking girl. squeezing all over me, baby. shit. gonna pump myself deep inside, and you’re gonna take every bit of it.”

his thrusts sped up, making you feel dizzy and overstimulated, and all you could do was mewl helplessly as he used you like a personal sex toy.

“fuck—take every last drop, baby.”

both his hands—one cool and one hot—slid down to your hips, holding you tight against his lap as his hard cock pulsed and throbbed until he finally began to spill out. it was thick and warm, making your lower stomach feel sensitive.

bucky always came so much, and it was his personal duty to make sure you were always full of it. the only time he would pull out was when he finally saw his seed seeping out of you, dampening the dark curls at his pelvis.

he leaned back, taking in the debauched sight of you with a deep exhale. perfect. this was always so perfect.

“christ,” his hand came down, giving your ass a firm squeeze. “look at you. so dirty and all fucking mine.”

[buckysleftbicep]

earned it 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, fingering, mutual desperation, dirty talk, praise kink, dom!bucky,

summary: during a mission, bucky corners you behind a supply shelf and slides his fingers between your thighs, all while your comms stay live.

word count: 900

author's note: hi loves! so this idea popped into my head while listening to earned it by the weeknd, man, i love the weeknd, his songs have inspired many of my fics! love ya and stay safe out there!

i'd empty him, iykyk

The warehouse reeked of oil, sweat, and something burnt, but all you could smell was him.

Bucky.

He smelled like gunmetal and pine, like leather, sweat and smoke, like something dark and electric that clung to your skin and sank deep into your lungs. He had you pinned behind a rusted supply shelf, bodies pressed tight in the shadows, heart pounding in rhythm with yours.

You weren’t sure who moved first, maybe it was him, maybe it's you, but now his gloved hand was curled over your mouth and his metal fingers were buried inside you, fucking you open with a pace that was slow and dangerous.

You gasped against his palm, breath catching, hips jerking. The comms crackled.

“Yelena, anything from the south corridor?” Ava’s voice rang low in your ear, clinical. Detached. Unaware.

“Nothing yet,” came Yelena’s reply. “You two find anything?”

You whimpered before you could stop it.

Bucky’s hand tightened over your mouth, his other buried deep between your thighs, metal knuckles slick with your arousal. He leaned down, mouth brushing your ear.

“Be quiet princess, they can hear you.” The words weren’t just a warning. They were a command. And god, the way he said it, low and breathless, strained like he was hanging by a thread himself made your knees go weak.

“I’ll stop,” he whispered, jaw brushing your cheek. “If you make one more sound, I’ll stop. And you’ll walk back to base dripping for me.” You shook your head, desperate.

He chuckled then, low and dark and dangerous. A sound that buzzed right into your core. His fingers curled inside you again, slow and deliberate, pressing against the spot that made you see stars. You bit back a cry, eyes fluttering, nails digging into the tactical vest stretched across his chest.

You were soaked. You could feel it, could hear it, the quiet, obscene wetness echoing off the metal shelving. And yet, the comm still hummed softly in your ear, alive and vulnerable.

John’s voice suddenly cut through, louder than the others. “We’re moving up. You two stay put, I want eyes on the west exit.”

Bucky’s breath hitched, ragged and sharp. You felt it ghost across your jaw. “You hear that?” he rasped, barely audible. “We’ve got a few more minutes. Stay still. Take what I give you.” He fucked you deeper then, not faster, just deeper, like he wanted to unravel you slowly, like he needed to.

His thumb circled your clit and your thighs trembled. You had nearly lost your footing, but he caught you easily, thigh pressed firm against your body, locking you in place as your head fell back against the cold steel wall behind you.

“Pretty little thing,” he muttered, voice rough and full of need. “You’re soaked. So fuckin’ soft for me. And I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

You made a desperate noise into his hand, teeth pressing into your lip hard enough to sting. He smirked against your temple.

“Careful, baby,” he murmured. “You make another sound and I’ll cum in my pants before I even get to fuck you.” That image, him losing it like that, rutting against you in this dark corner, wrecked by need nearly undid you.

His fingers moved again, a steady thrust and curl, thumb relentless against your clit. Your thighs shook as his chest heaved against yours now, cock hard and trapped against your stomach in the tight space between you. He was falling apart too. You could feel it in every ragged breath, every whispered curse.

“I should’ve waited,” he said, his forehead resting gently against yours. “Should’ve taken you back to the safehouse. Laid you out nice and proper. But fuck, baby, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop picturing you spread open like this, begging me.” You nodded frantically, eyes glassy with need, your body coiling tight.

He grunted low in his throat, fingers working harder now, faster, still trying to keep you both silent while everything inside you shattered.

“I’m gonna make you come right here,” he whispered. “You’re gonna stay quiet. You’re gonna keep those pretty eyes on me while you do. Understood?”

You nodded again, frantic, desperate, on fire.

“Good girl.”

The praise, filthy and tender, like a knife pressed to velvet was your undoing.

You clenched around him, trembling as your climax tore through you in waves, heat spilling down your thighs, head tipped back in silent ecstasy. You moaned, just once, barely muffled by his hand, and he cursed under his breath, shifting like he wanted to fuck you right then and there, right through the shelf, mission be damned.

You collapsed against him, boneless and breathless, the taste of ozone and sweat thick in the air. Slowly, tenderly, he eased his fingers out, slick and glistening.

Just as you were catching your breath, the comm buzzed again.

“You two good?” John asked, his voice casual. “You’re awful quiet.”

Bucky clicked the comm with his clean hand. “Still clear. No movement.”

Then he cut the line and turned to you, thumb smearing your slick across your inner thigh like a mark only he had the right to leave. “Next time?” he gritted out, voice hoarse and low. “You come with my cock inside you.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse still racing in your throat. “Promise?” you whispered.

He smirked, wicked and already half-hard again. “Count on it.”

[buckysleftbicep]

cradles and chaos 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x pregnant!fem!reader

warning: morning sickness, loads of fluff, and team shenanigans

summary: you wanted to surprise bucky with the news—you’re pregnant. the only problem? everyone else on the team found out first. cue the chaos.

word count: 3.5k

author's note: i love writing fics with teeth rotting fluff, genuinely love them so much! i hope you enjoy them, i love ya and stay safe out there!

requests are open! i love, love, love soft!bucky

The day started like any other.

Morning training. Groggy coffee run. Bucky kissing the top of your head before heading off to spar with Alexei and you trying not to gag at the smell of the protein powder he insisted on putting in his smoothie. Just the usual.

Until it hit you.

The wave of nausea crashed into your gut so suddenly that you barely made it to the compound bathroom in time. Knees on the cold tile, you gripped the toilet bowl and dry-heaved like you were trying to launch a demon from your oesophagus.

It was violent. Loud. And, unfortunately for you, not private.

Footsteps approached behind you, followed by a dry, unimpressed voice. “If this is your version of The Exorcist, you forgot the head spin. Come on, at least commit to the bit.”

You groaned. “Yelena, for the love of—”

She stepped inside without hesitation, casually grabbing a hair tie from her wrist and gathering your hair like this was a weekly occurrence. “Let me guess. Either Alexei made you try his ‘secret stamina shake’ again, or…” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re pregnant.”

Your blood ran cold.

“Wait,” she said, pausing mid-sentence. Her expression changed, slowly morphing into that wide-eyed look she got when she spotted a new target. “Wait. Wait.”

“Don’t—”

“YOU’RE PREGNANT.”

“Shhh!” You jumped up and flushed the toilet like it would somehow erase the moment. “Keep it down!”

Yelena’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “You are! Oh my god. I knew it. That explains the pickles and peanut butter at two in the morning. Also, the weird crying over that dog food commercial last week.”

“I was hormonal! That golden retriever had abandonment issues!”

“I’m not judging,” she said, clearly enjoying this too much. “I’m just honoured to be the first to know. Or like, second, I guess?”

You bit your lip. “…He doesn’t know yet, does he?”

She froze. “Wait. You haven’t told Bucky yet?”

You winced. “Not yet. I wanted to surprise him. Big surprise. Sweet. Emotional. Crying, maybe him, not me. I’ve cried enough.”

Yelena blinked twice. Then her hand flew to her chest in dramatic horror. “Oh my God. I am in charge of a secret. I’m responsible for withholding information from Barnes. Do you know what this means?”

“That I trust you?”

“That I’m going to be the best fucking godmother in the world.”

You finally breathed again, until she added, “Though… I am tempted to tell the others."

“Yelena.”

“Relax,” she said with a shrug. “Your secret’s safe. For now. But if you die, I get to raise the kid like a tiny assassin. Deal?”

“…Yelena.”

“Deal?”

“…Fine.”

She grinned, already scheming.

You had taken every precaution.

No more sparring. No caffeine. Your prenatal vitamins were hidden behind a bag of trail mix no one ever touched. You kept your hoodie on at all times, avoided combat drills, smiled through nausea, and faked normalcy like your life depended on it.

But Ava wasn’t the type to be fooled by quiet exits and thicker sweatshirts.

She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t need to. She just watched. The way a blade waits in the dark, calculating without moving. You could feel it—her eyes on you during training, her steps falling in line behind yours a little more often than before.

One morning, you reached for your weighted vest only to find it mysteriously lighter. Five pounds missing. No explanation. She said nothing.

Then one night in the rec room, you were curled up on the couch half-watching some movie you’d already forgotten the plot of, when a packet of ginger chews landed softly in your lap. You looked up, startled.

Ava didn’t turn. She was sitting in the armchair across the room, casually typing something on her tablet like she hadn’t just sniped you with snacks.

“You gagged in the elevator this morning,” she said, still not looking at you. “Second time this week.”

You blinked, fingers tightening around the ginger chews. “I—maybe I’m just coming down with something.”

She didn’t answer. Just gave the softest hum. Like she was humoring you. You waited for her to press, to demand answers, to ask what Bucky somehow hadn’t noticed yet.

But she didn’t.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” you asked after a beat, quieter now.

“I don’t care,” she said, voice flat, eyes on her screen. “Unless you get yourself killed. Then it becomes my problem.”

You exhaled through your nose, smiling despite yourself. “So this is you being… concerned?”

“This is me avoiding paperwork.”

You bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing. Ava didn’t do affection, not in the traditional sense. She did proximity. Action. Silence that somehow felt like reassurance. She didn’t say much, but she never missed anything.

“Don’t carry anything heavy,” she added after a moment, her tone just as even, like she was reading off a grocery list.

Over the next week, you noticed the little things.

A decaf coffee cup on your desk, slid across the surface wordlessly while she passed by. Her cutting her own training short to spot you during stretches, silent and watchful, and you were never more grateful.

Once, you opened your locker and found a small bottle of prenatal vitamins tucked neatly beside your usual supplements. The label had been peeled off. There was no note. But you knew exactly where they came from.

Bucky, meanwhile, remained adorably clueless.

He still kissed your cheek every morning, still asked if you wanted spicy noodles, the ramen kind for dinner, still rubbed your back when you sighed too hard without even realising why you were sighing.

“You’ve seemed kinda tired lately,” he said one night, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You okay?”

And just like that, Bucky let it go.

The next morning, there was a new water bottle waiting on your desk. One of those fancy ones with the hours marked on the side like hydration was a full-time job. You didn’t need to guess who left it there.

Ava just knew. And that was enough.

It was bound to happen.

You were doing your best. Truly. Between Yelena’s feral excitement and Ava’s silent protection, you were managing.

Bucky was still clueless (somehow), not that you were complaining, and the rest of the team had stayed suspiciously uninvolved.

But then came Alexei.

Loud, dramatic, built like a brick wall and absolutely no understanding of what the word subtle meant.

You didn’t mean for him to find out. In fact, you weren’t even in the room when it happened.

It started in the kitchen.

You’d left your tea steeping on the counter—ginger with a splash of lemon, the only thing that didn’t make you want to retch—and stepped out to grab your hoodie from the lounge.

Two minutes. Maybe less.

And that’s when disaster struck.

Alexei strolled in, whistling some vaguely patriotic tune, spotted the mug, and immediately sniffed it like a bloodhound. You weren’t even there to defend yourself.

“Hm,” he muttered to himself. “This tea… I know this tea. My babushka (russian for grandmother) used to make this for woman in village. When they were… what’s word? With child.”

From across the kitchen island, Yelena looked up from her cereal with mild panic in her eyes.

“Do not do this,” she warned, spoon halfway to her mouth.

Alexei didn’t listen.

Instead, he sniffed the tea again, leaned back with both hands on his hips like some kind of Soviet sommelier, and declared, “It is pregnancy tea! Very good for nausea. Calms stomach. Boosts circulation. Ancient remedy.”

Yelena slowly set her spoon down. “Alexei—”

“WAIT.” His eyes widened. “IS SHE WITH CHILD?!”

You walked in just in time to see him throw both hands into the air and look around like he expected confetti to fall from the ceiling. “IS THERE A BABY? ARE WE HAVING BABY?!”

Yelena let her head thunk against the table. “You absolute moron.”

Alexei turned to her with wild-eyed enthusiasm. “YOU KNOW?!”

“Of course I knew, you donkey. Bucky doesn't, yet."

He gasped like someone had stabbed him—but dramatically, like an actor in a very bad stage play. “You betray me! I am her family. I am her protector. I am baby future grandfather!”

“I’m gonna throw up,” Yelena muttered.

And then he saw you.

Alexei’s expression softened, somehow, impossibly, turning from full-volume chaos to absolute, genuine awe. He crossed the room in two heavy strides, grabbed your hands in his like you were made of glass, and stared at you like you were the eighth wonder of the world.

“You,” he said, lowering his voice like it physically hurt him to be gentle, “are miracle.”

“Okay—”

“No, listen. You are tiny, like small baby rabbit, but you carry powerful legacy. You carry strength. Heart. Warrior blood."

Alexei cupped your face—not quite gently, but at least without crushing your skull—and nodded to himself like he was solving a world crisis. “I will protect this child with everything I have. I will teach them discipline. Honour. How to disarm man in six seconds. Also fishing.”

“Alexei—”

“Shhh.” He tapped your forehead. “Little Starfish, you are busy now. You grow hero. I will build cradle. I have plans already. And foam. And tools. Maybe missile too.”

You stared at him.

“…Please don’t put missiles near the baby.”

“Decorative.”

Yelena snorted.

Alexei turned back to her. “We need banner. And possibly anthem. Something that plays when child enters room.”

You sighed into your palm. “No one is making an anthem for the baby.”

He placed a hand over his chest. “We see.”

You didn’t mean to drag John into it. Not directly, anyway.

But desperate times called for desperate measures.

You were curled up on the compound couch one afternoon, hoodie pulled over your knees, watching a rerun of Shark Tank and trying your absolute best not to commit murder out of pure hormonal rage when the craving hit, hard, out of nowhere.

You held out for a few minutes—tried breathing, counting backwards, chewing on the inside of your cheek. But by minute five, your resolve crumbled. You pulled out your phone and fired off a text.

you up? can you get me mango gummies. and pickles and vanilla yogurt. not greek. please.

There was a pause. Then:

Walker: you want me to bring you pickles and yogurt?

You: together. in the same container. i'm gonna dip them.

Another pause. Longer.

Walker: that's weird, but I’m on my way.

True to his word, John showed up twenty minutes later, slightly out of breath like he had sprinted through a Costco. He had two grocery bags in hand and a look on his face that said he had seen war—but nothing quite like this.

“Okay,” he said, dropping the bags like they might detonate, “I got four kinds of yogurt because I didn’t know what you meant, three kinds of pickles because apparently there are options, and the mango gummies."

You blinked, mildly overwhelmed. “You're a hero."

He didn’t move. Just stood there, watching as you cracked open the yogurt, dunked a pickle, and took a bite like it was the most normal thing in the world. You let out a blissed-out sigh.

John stared, horrified. “You’re really eating that?"

“Yup.”

“Like... voluntarily?”

“It’s good.”

He sat down beside you slowly, arms crossed like a disappointed gym teacher. “I don’t think that’s how taste buds work.”

You shrugged, popping another pickle. “Maybe not for you.”

There was a long silence. Then John tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling like it held answers. “Okay,” he muttered. “You cried during that dog adoption video last week.”

“So did you,” you pointed out.

“Yeah, but you sobbed. Like, full on ugly cry. For twenty minutes. Over a golden retriever named Meatball.”

“He was alone in the shelter for six years.”

“And then there’s the naps. The weird tea. The fact that Ava’s been hovering. And now you’re eating that.” He gestured vaguely at your snack combo, then narrowed his eyes.

“Wait. You sparred with me the other day and said my voice gave you a headache.”

You didn’t even look up. “Sometimes it does.”

His eyes went wide. “Oh my God. You’re pregnant.”

You froze, mid-bite.

He gasped and stood up so fast the couch groaned. “You’re pregnant, and I gave you a concussion last month!”

“I was already pregnant,” you said flatly. “You just didn’t know it.”

“Oh my God.” He started pacing, one hand on his head. “I told you to lift heavier weights. I told you to jump off that ledge. You had two plates of nachos for breakfast last week and I mocked you.”

“John—”

“I called you a sleepy turtle.”

“John,"

He turned, wild-eyed. “Am I complicit?”

You blinked. “In the pregnancy?”

He looked genuinely uncertain. You let out a long breath. “No, John. You are not.”

There was a pause. A beat of silence. Then he nodded once and walked to the kitchen like a man on a mission. A minute later, he returned with a glass of orange juice and handed it to you like it was a peace offering from a defeated warrior.

After that, he slumped onto the couch beside you with a dramatic sigh, arms flopping out over the cushions.

“I’m gonna be such a bad uncle,” he muttered.

You nudged him gently with your shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

“I brought four kinds of yogurt.”

You smiled. “You’ll be great.”

Bob found out by accident.

You were in the mess hall, quietly sipping ginger tea and trying not to vomit over the smell of John’s overly seasoned reheated chili, when Bob slid into the seat across from you with a smile and a soft, “Hey.”

“Hey,” you managed.

He blinked at the tea. Then at the saltines. Then at the way you were ever-so-subtly glaring at the chili across the room like it had personally wronged you.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said too fast. “Fine. Just a headache.”

Bob’s brows pinched together. He looked concerned. Thoughtful. And then, as if connecting puzzle pieces like the others had in real time, tilted his head. “Wait. Is this… like a headache-headache or a pregnant and trying not to barf from chili fumes headache?”

You froze.

His eyes widened. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Are you—?”

You sighed, smiling sheepishly. “You weren’t supposed to find out yet.”

He immediately looked horrified. “I wasn’t supposed to find out—oh my god—was this a secret? I didn’t mean to—I just—I saw the tea and the crackers and you’re glowing a little and—"

“Bob,” you laughed, “it’s okay.”

He relaxed slightly, cheeks flushed. “Does Bucky know?”

“Not yet.”

Bob pressed his lips together. Then nodded. “I won’t say a word.”

You smiled. “Thanks, Bob.”

He hesitated. Then softly, genuinely, “Congratulations (y/n), you’re gonna be an amazing mum."

And with that, he stood, walked off quietly, and—ten minutes later—came back and wordlessly slid you a chocolate milkshake with a note taped to the cup that read:

“For when the smell finally clears. – Bob”

You stared after him as he walked off, hands in his jacket pockets, head slightly bowed like he hadn’t just completely melted your heart.

Bucky wasn’t supposed to be back yet.

You had counted on at least two more hours, just enough time to hide the half-built, borderline indestructible crib Alexei had wheeled in, distract John before he could bust out his laminated “Uncle Training Schedule,” and maybe, if the stars aligned, finally scrub the yogurt stain off your hoodie.

But the mission ended early. Debrief went faster than expected. And now your husband stood in the doorway of your shared bedroom, still in half his tactical gear, brow furrowed as he took in the scene before him.

There was a crib on the floor, if you could even call it that. John was crouched beside it, cross-legged, a wrench between his knees. Alexei was hammering something loudly and completely unnecessarily.

You were mid-movement, frozen between hiding a pink baby blanket under the bed and whisper-screaming at Alexei to shut up.

Bucky blinked, stepping forward just slightly. “Why is there… furniture in our room?”

“It’s not furniture. It’s a cradle.” Ava replied, almost flatly.

There was a beat. Bucky’s frown deepened. “Why is there a cradle in our room?”

Alexei perked up immediately, beaming, holding up what might’ve once been a baby mobile, now covered in polished throwing stars. “Because you, my friend are going to be papa!”

Silence.

The kind of silence that settled in your bones. Bucky’s eyes scanned the room slowly, the cradle, the weapons-grade mobile, the glittery “CONGRATULATIONS?” banner that Yelena had duct-taped across the headboard. And then, finally, his gaze landed on you.

He looked confused. Careful. Like he couldn’t quite trust what he was seeing.

His voice came soft, hesitant. “You’re… what?”

Your heart was hammering. You took a breath and straightened slowly, hands behind your back, nerves thrumming through your fingertips. “I was going to tell you,” you said gently. “I had a plan. There were cupcakes. A playlist.”

Bucky blinked, still reeling.

John, who had been trying very hard to fade into the wallpaper, raised a hand slightly and said, “Yelena ruined the cupcakes.”

You turned your head slowly. “John.”

“She punched one!” he said quickly.

“It had a baby face on it." Bob quipped.

Yelena’s voice floated in from the hallway. “It was smiling at me wrong!”

Bucky blinked, trying, and failing, to process any of it. His eyes drifted back to you, still full of questions, still locked somewhere between shock and awe.

And then you reached for his hands. Everything softened.

You stepped toward him slowly, reaching for his hands. He let you take them without hesitation, but still stared down at them like they didn’t quite belong to him yet.

“I didn’t want to drop this on you before a mission,” you said softly. “I wanted to wait until it felt like our moment. Something small and quiet. Just us.”

Another beat of silence. And then something shifted.

His shoulders dropped. His hands tightened around yours.

Then he looked up, and everything changed.

You watched it all happen in real time. The realisation, the wonder and the warmth. His features softened, lips parting as his eyes filled with something impossibly tender. Awe bloomed like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

“You’re really having my baby,” he whispered, like the words alone could undo him.

Your throat tightened. “I’m really having your baby.”

He moved before you could say another word. One hand came up to cradle your cheek, the other curling around the small of your back as he kissed you—softly at first, then deeper, slower. Like he wanted to memorise the moment through touch, like he was anchoring himself in you.

When he pulled back, his eyes were glassy. His forehead pressed against yours, breath trembling.

“I didn’t know I could love you more than I already did,” he murmured. “But you proved me wrong.”

You smiled through the tears. “That’s my job.”

His hands slipped to your waist, pulling you against him fully. One palm eased down to rest over your stomach, warm and steady, and stayed there.

You could feel it in the way his thumb moved—small, gentle strokes over the fabric. Like he was already in love with the tiny life growing there.

A shaky laugh escaped him, part joy, part disbelief. “We’re gonna be parents.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “We are.”

He kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your cheek. He couldn’t stop touching you, holding you, grounding himself in every tiny, real part of this.

You let yourself lean into it, into him, feeling more whole than you ever had in your life.

"God, I love you". Bucky said softly.

“Even after I’ve eaten yogurt-dipped pickles?” you teased gently, chin tilted up.

He pulled back just enough to raise an eyebrow. “That was you?”

“Still recovering from that." John mumbled.

Alexei cleared his throat dramatically. “I play anthem now?”

Yelena appeared in the doorway, cupcake in one hand, "Come on guys, let them have their moment.”

Bucky glanced around the room, eyes still soft but amused. “Wait. You all knew?”

Every head nodded.

He let out a slow, incredulous laugh and looked down at you again, full of something so warm it made your knees wobble.

“Well, damn,” he whispered. “Guess I’m the last to know.”

You smiled, eyes shimmering. “Yeah, but you’re the first to feel our baby kick.”

And right then, perfect, almost surreal, you felt it.

A flutter beneath his hand. A tiny, impossible shift.

His breath caught. His gaze snapped to yours. “Was that—?”

You nodded, tears spilling. “Yeah.”

“Oh my god,” he whispered, dropping to his knees in front of you, hand still over your stomach, lips brushing gently against the space just below your navel. “Hi, sweetheart. It’s me. I’m your dad.”

You laughed through your tears, fingers threading through his hair as your team stood quietly in the background, letting the room finally fall into peace.

And in that moment, with his hand on your belly, your heart in his hands, and the promise of forever in the air, Bucky looked up at you like you were his whole future.

Because you were.

[kill3ill]

free use with him — 18+

"we should try something fun."

your husband lifts his gaze slowly from the newspaper he was reading.

"fun?" he indulges you, tilting his head slightly to search your face. you suggested something without a description intentionally to make him ask for an elaboration, meaning what you're about to tell him will either be very intriguing, or the complete opposite. he searches your features in an attempt to determine which it'll be. "what kind of fun?"

you pause to make him squirm in anticipation. "i was thinking," you murmur, tracing your finger along the couch's lines with your fingertip, a sign of nervousness. "we could try… being available to each other. like whenever one of us wants-" your face goes warm, "sex."

the newspaper lowers down to his lap so your husband can stare at you intently, but he doesn't move otherwise. he's seated with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and his legs apart in a lazy manspread, looking way too composed for what you just suggested. your body is so tense right now that you feel the urge to take a cold shower before the conversation continues. why isn't he saying anything?

"available," he echoes your choice of words. "as in free use."

you nod, trying not to squirm in your seat. "mhm."

he hums, tongue running over the inside of his cheek, and his eyes drag over your body as if he's already imagining all the different ways he can catch you off guard and ruin you. just as you suggested.

"sweetheart," he murmurs quietly, folding the paper and setting it aside, "do you even know what you're agreeing to?"

you shrug, a guileless glint in your wide eyes. you couldn't seriously be asking him this. you, who cries within the first ten minutes of him fucking you and tries to crawl away from him when he's pounding into you, wants to be free use for him, constantly? "i trust you. there... shouldn't be any issues."

he leans back in his chair and lets a silence pass once more. he seems to be considering it. the longer he goes without talking the more you squirm. he lays a cheek in his palm, and continues. "and why do you want to be free use for me?"

your eyes widen and your lips press together. you're nervous but trying not to show it. "it's not just me, you know. both of us are available for each other. i just wanted to suggest it because it's been on my mind a while."

"mm. no other reason?"

you hesitate a second too long, and he notices immediately. his eyes narrow ever so slightly. "well," you fidget, toying with a thread on your shirt to break eye contact just long enough so you don't explode. "i just thought it might be exciting."

"exciting... how?"

you puff out a soft breath and try to play it off. "i dunno… like, getting dragged into a public washroom while we're out grocery shopping. or, like… in the car. pulling it over so we can go to the backseat. or while i'm doing laundry."

"so you mean you want me to be so desperate i can't wait and have to have you. right then, right there."

you fidget again, but nod. "mhm."

he laughs once under his breath. "that's cute. so if you're half asleep," he says, "and i want to wake you up with my cock inside you, you won't mind? or if we're on a hike and you're in one of those pairs of leggings i really like, i can put you up against a tree?"

you nod, but look away bashfully. "i said whenever."

he hums and looks away for a moment in an attempt to stay calm while he processes. then he looks back at you, tutting with a pitying look on his face. like you're a lamb up for the slaughter.

"you don't know what you just agreed to," he says affectionately, like he's sorry for you.

you frown, feeling like he's underestimating you. "yes, i do."

he smiles. "you really don't."

-

the first time he tries out your new agreement is when you're brushing your teeth with him the next morning. you're standing at the sink in just one of his old t-shirts, groggy, hair messy, toothbrush hanging from the corner of your mouth as you blink blearily at your own reflection. he's behind you, pretending to brush his teeth too, but he's just looking at you.

your thighs are bare. the shirt rides up when you lean forward to spit into the sink, and he can see the crease where the back of your thighs meet your plush ass. he's entranced by the quiet way you operate when you're still half asleep and unaware of how good you look.

he swishes some water in his mouth and spits, setting his toothbrush back in the holder while watching you. you didn't notice he was ogling until you look up to meet his gaze in the mirror reflection to see him reaching around to pull you flush against his chest, lifting his hands under your shirt from behind to cup your tits. you don't wear a bra around the house, much to his convenience.

"just trying something fun," he murmurs into the curve of your neck, kissing the soft skin there. you tip your head a little, a pleasant feeling washing over your body as his thumbs roll over your perked nipples. he then wraps his hand around your throat to tip your head back. "aren't you so pretty?" he coos, one hand toying with your breast while the other gives your throat a light squeeze. it does nothing for your sanity. your brain might as well be slipping out of your ears.

you try to respond, but all that slips out is a helpless little whimper, the toothbrush still dangling from your lips.

"you're already shaking," he says softly, letting go of your throat only to glide his hand down the front of your shirt, past your navel, and into the waistband of your thin cotton panties. "and it's not even been a minute since i started. why're you acting like some helpless little virgin?"

you slip the toothbrush out of your mouth and drop it in the holder, using both hands to hold his wrist to keep yourself steady. "you're being mean," you breathe, embarrassed by how quickly he's unraveled you.

he hums, slipping his fingers inside your tight pussy to find you warm and wet. your hips jolt, but you don't move away. "i'm doing what you asked of me," he corrects you, his tone patient. "you said 'whenever,' remember?" he begins to lift up your shirt and tosses it onto the counter beside you, and your panties come off right after. then he pushes you forward so you're bent over onto the smooth marble in front of you.

he leans over your back, palm pressing down gently between your shoulder blades to keep you in place. "you know what your problem is," he murmurs, breath hot against your ear, "you get way too ahead of yourself. then you ask for things you're not ready for."

"baby please," you whine, grinding your hips back, only for him to pull away. he's teasing you. you look back at him with frustration, wanting friction against your sopping core, but he's not allowing it.

you feel him hook a hand under your knee to prop your leg up on the edge of the sink for a better angle, and he tuts at how messy your little pussy is so soon. he spreads you as much as you can go, then nudges his clothed bulge against your core, listening to your breath hitch and breathy pants to leave your mouth. "hmmh... that spot... do that again,"

he hushes you patronizingly, tugging his pj pants just low enough for his cock to be free. you're completely bare in contrast. with a hand pinning you down and the blunt press of his cock between your thighs, he slowly, maddeningly starts to slip it inside with a purposeful roll of his hips, and the stretch immediately hits you. you feel so full with just the first few inches of his fat cock in you.

your mouth opens around a silent moan, eyes rolling back. your grip on the counter tightens while he rocks into you steadily, holding you firmly while his gaze flits from your hole sucking him in and the lewd look on your face in the mirror.

"you wanted this. look at yourself. look how pretty you are when you're being used."

you try. you really do. your eyes flutter open just long enough to catch sight of your own flushed, wrecked reflection, your hair a mess, mouth parted, as he slowly fills you up to the brink, tip kissing your womb. his hand gathers a fistful of your hair to tip your head up.

your head spins as he thrusts into you roughly, flesh slapping against flesh making nasty sounds that echo off the bathroom walls. "y-you're... haaa gonna be late f'work," you moan as he fucks into you deep and rough, his thick cock curving just right inside you to keep bumping against your sweet spots.

"shit... y'wanna talk about that now?" he tugs your hair a little to make you squeal, using it to keep you in place like it's a handle. "i'll grab breakfast on the way there," he says into your skin. "this is more important."

you reach behind blindly because you're desperate to feel your husband or hold him, but he pushes you back down, then leans down to push his chest flush against your back, his skin hot against yours. he nudges his cock deeper in you at the new angle, moving a bulky arm to wrap around your neck and fuck you in a chokehold.

he groans against your ear, rutting harder now, his rhythm starting to lose control while your back arches for him, trying to take more even though you're so full. his hips snap forward with more force and he chuckles into your ear when you let out a garbled, " 'm gonna cum..." followed by a loud mewl. he groans, slamming into that one spot that gets you to tighten up around him each time his mushroom tip gives it a kiss.

"hmm, ask nicely, sweetheart," he nips your ear and bottoms out with an obscenely wet squelch. "mmmm.... c-can i... fuck, c-cum? please, 'm gonna..." your eyes screw shut and your pussy gushes around his thick shaft, leaving your thighs slick and shaky.

he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep inside you so his cum can shoot as deep inside you as he can. he doesn't pull out right away. arms wrapped around your middle, nose pressed into your hair like he's anchoring himself.

"god," he mumbles, still pumping you full, and there's now a creamy ring where his cock enters your cunt. "filled your little pussy all up, didn't i? now i'll feel bad leaving you like this."

you're too wrecked to answer, slumped forward against the sink, letting him hold you up. he reaches for a washcloth by the towel rack and dampens it so he can clean you up, giving you little kisses the whole time while you cling onto him. he keeps praising you, too. "did s'good for me, pretty baby."

he leaves you with a soft peck on your cheek. "ill see you later tonight..."

-

it doesn't stop after that morning in the bathroom. that was just his warm up, after all; his first taste of what you gave him. the second the floodgates opened, there was no closing them. poor you.

there's the time in the gym changeroom, right after your shared workout ends. you're both sore and sweaty, and you duck into the locker room so you can grab your stuff and head home with him to shower. however, the second he sees your flushed skin and damp chest through your sports bra, he doesn't hesitate to tug you into one of the showers and sit down on the bench, tearing off your clothes and tugging you into his lap.

he'll stuff your panties in your mouth so your moans are muffled, and fucks up into you hard and fast with no shame, even as he hears people talking and shuffling about behind the flimsy shower curtain. "you're gonna make a mess on me, aren't you?" he murmurs against your ear. "you like knowing someone could walk in right now and see you like this? my sweet girl, cockdrunk in a gym shower?"

he makes you cum on his cock, stuffs you full of his seed and leaves with you once the coast is mostly clear.

next was the hike. you're halfway up the steep trail with him, on a quick break on the grass off the main path. you'd just bent over a little to re-tie your laces since your boots had been far too tight, when he'd come up behind you, grinding against you and palming your ass through your leggings in broad daylight.

"shouldn't bend over in front of me unless you want me to do somethin' to you," he mutters, voice low and warm at your ear as he presses himself closer, fingers kneading into the backs of your thighs.

he doesn't give you a second to argue before he's guiding you face first to a tree and dropping to his knees. he pulls your leggings down just enough to get what he wants, and the air hits your slick folds pleasantly. you whimper, bracing yourself as he spreads your ass to have your pussy fully presented to him.

"gonna be quick," he whispers, "just a little taste." he mumbles, before shoving his face right into your cunt.

you gasp loudly and your hands shoot up to brace against the tree bark right in front of you and dig into the wood. you tremble and let out a shaky breath when he licks a slow, nasty stripe from your pussy up to your clit, shaking his tongue a little so it slobbers over every inch of your drooling pussy lips, occasionally prodding your hole.

his hands are firm on your thighs to spread you open wider, dragging your hips back toward his mouth while he eats you out filthy and sloppy. his nose nudges your clit, tongue flicking in and out of you, then slipping deep inside.

you bite your lip and your eyes, wide and panicked, glance toward the trail. anyone could walk by since you're not that far off the path, hidden, but not well. if someone wandered off long enough, they'd find the two of you.

"god," he moans into you, closing his mouth around your pussy lips and sucking gently, then going back to make out with your pussy. "taste so fuckin' good, babe. made for me." your orgasm hits so fast that you barely have time to warn him, pushing back against him so you cream right into his mouth.

-

you intended to have one wholesome weekend without your man ravaging you on any available surface in the vicinity. a family gathering that your parents are hosting. you enter the countryside house with your husband's hand on the small of your back to guide you inside, smiling politely as your relatives greet you both with warm hugs and laughter. everyone is in a good mood, sipping drinks, chewing on appetizers. there's music playing, and scents drifting from the kitchen.

he lasts about twenty minutes into the evening before he leans down to whisper filth into your ear while everyone else is distracted in the dining room. "you keep looking up at me like that and you're not leaving this place without my cum dripping down your thighs."

you stiffen, body heating up with arousal instantly, even as your face stays composed for the sake of your family standing two feet away. your husband knows exactly what he's doing. he brushes his lips just under your ear again, letting his breath brush over your skin while his palm subtly slides down to squeeze your ass through your dress, making you yelp.

he's all over you most of the evening. hands holding your hips from behind, cupping your ass, arms around your waist, smelling your hair... blatant public displays of affection. he keeps whispering things. "you're dripping through this dress," he murmurs while you're getting drinks in the kitchen. "do you even know what you look like right now?"

you try to push him away, but he's already behind you, brushing your hair over your shoulder as if he's helping, just to kiss the back of your neck. he's all over you right up until you take a break to get away from the party for a bit before dinner. you choose your childhood bedroom as an escape, needing one second away from him before he decides to finger you at the dinner table or fuck you in one of the bathrooms, but he follows you shortly after.

you just entered your old room, not realizing the door didn't click shut behind you. you make it two steps before he grabs you and pins you down onto your back in your old twin bed.

you jolt. "baby! where did you- what are you- "

"shhh," he murmurs, lips already brushing your neck. "just missed you. five minutes."

your body reacts before your brain can catch up. you tip your head to the side for him, breath catching as he kisses behind your ear and tugs the straps of your dress down your shoulders and pushing it under your tits so he can cup your bare mounds. his thumbs brush over your nipples until they stiffen under his touch, and he groans at your soft whines, pinching and rubbing them with his fingers while he kisses down to your chest, laving his tongue over the swollen peaks. he's practically slobbering on them, one bulky hand playing with one while his mouth works on the other, sucking sharply and then releasing with a wet pop.

he drags your panties down and off your ankles, spreading you into a shameful position to get a good look at you.

"fuck, look at this mess," he thumbs over your pussy with light pressure, teasing you. "this for me?" you whimper a soft yes, causing him to chuckle softly. he leans over you again, playing with your hole while his other hand wraps around his cock to stroke it slow and firm from tip to base, aligning himself with your hole. he doesn't make it easy for you and put it in straight away, instead tapping his cock against your folds and listening to the nasty little squelches that come from you. he slides it up and down, delaying your pleasure to make you desperate.

you gasp and mewl, thighs already lifting for him as he lines up and starts to press in slowly. your body clutches around him immediately, the stretch making your head spin. "ohhh my- fuck," he groans, pushing in all the way until he bottoms out. "tight as ever. made to be fucked in."

you moan breathlessly and tip your head back, letting him start to plow into you. he doesn't waste any time in putting one leg up over his shoulder and thrusting so deep that his balls squish against the curve of your ass and his shaft forms a faint print in your belly from how huge he is. your head lolls back with each of his deep, grinding strokes.

"look at you," he whispers, eyes trained on your filthy expression. "getting ruined in your childhood room. all the innocent memories, corrupted by this one." he mocks you while fucking into you harder. you moan loudly, hands fisting at the sheets, then clawing his biceps, then running down his torso. you have no idea what to do with yourself right now. he's fucking you into oblivion and now you're completely out of it.

"bet your parents think you're still their good little girl," he pants, rocking into you, stretching you out with his fat shaft with every drag. you can feel every vein and the exact angle in which his cock curves inside you. "they don't know you're upstairs getting your pussy wrecked like this."

"fuck! baby slow down, ahn, we're gonna get caught mmfuck, please!"

"please what?" he taunts, slowing his thrusts to an unbearable pace. "please fuck me harder?" he punctuates the question with a sharp thrust so deep inside you your vision swims. "or please fill me up in my little princess bed?" he coos, grinding his pelvis against yours. your mouth falls open in a silent scream as a particularly deep thrust hits your sweet spot, sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine while your back arches off the bed, pressing your heaving tits more firmly against his chest. you can basically feel his heartbeat against yours, thudding in time with his sloppy thrusts.

" 'm gonna cum inside you," he grits, pounding into you hard, cock scraping against your plushy walls and the head of his cock kissing your cervix with every inward thrust. "goddamn, look at me. want you to -haa- remember this." your nails scrape his back. you're crying out softly, trying to stay quiet, but you're so close. you clamp down on him so hard when it hits that he chokes on a groan, hips stuttering as he starts spilling into you with a harsh jerk of his body.

his cock jerks and pulses as he hilts inside you, the thick head flaring inside you as he releases ropes of hot cum pumps into your greedy cunt, your womb quickly filling to the brim.

within seconds, excess semen is already bubbling out around his shaft, dripping down onto the sheets beneath your ass. your pussy clenches and ripples, desperately trying to milk every last drop of him, and he continues rocking his cock inside you as he cums, fingers moving to play with your clit, and you cum shortly after, gushing around his cock and adding to the mess on the bed.

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[winteryn]

MY WIFE

18+ | MDNI

PAIRING: ceo!bucky barnes x wife!reader SUMMARY: three times in which the new intern tries to impress her hot, grumpy boss, mr. barnes. or, three times in which bucky can’t stop talking about his lovely wife.  WARNINGS: use of third person & second person & pov changes (she/her pronouns for reader); pictures don't reflect reader's appearance; reader wears a dress; original character (I’m so sorry if your name is madison 🥲); ceo!bucky (who is a little mean, tbh); whipped!bucky (he’s pathetically obsessed); pregnancy stuff (trying for a baby); fluff; smut; daddy & mommy kink; one (1) use of ‘slut’; mention of cockwarming; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); breeding kink; office sex (so... kind of public sex?). WORD COUNT: 6k A/N: I had so much fun writing this one-shot at the time and re-reading it put me in such a good mood, ngl. hope you’ll enjoy!

The little ding from an elevator has never felt so ominous. Wanda, Darcy and Carol scurry away like thieves from a crime scene, abandoning their morning gossip by the copier. Scott almost drops his freshly brewed coffee, fatigue instantly melting off his features and shoulders tensing up, while Monica throws her phone in her bag, pretending she’s been working all along on an already strategically open Excel sheet.

Once the elevator doors part, the whole floor falls into a silent distress. Mr. Barnes steps out with the same expression he wears every single morning: lips pressed in a thin line, jaw clenched, and a faint, permanent scowl, as if the world had already disappointed him the moment he woke up. 

His suit is always impeccably ironed, not a single crease on his white, crisp shirt. His cologne—Tom Ford’s Beau de Jour—is never too strong, but it lingers in the air like a constant reminder of his authority. As far as his employees can remember, his left wrist has never been bare: a prized watch, very simple yet tasteful, that can’t strangely be associated with any expensive brand, rests there. He’s very protective of it, and nobody has ever dared to comment on its simplicity, especially after an unpleasant episode involving one of the company's previous clients, Mr. Pierce.

The older man attempted to touch it with a grimace, as a joke, he kept insisting after. Nobody ever believed Mr. Barnes’ blue eyes could turn even icier. His voice was tinted with a subtle growl as he intimated the man to get his filthy hands off his watch. Scott almost fainted when he noticed Mr. Wilson tightly press his lips together to avoid bursting out laughing.

Needless to say, Mr. Pierce’s company lost all its deals with Barnes Investments.

Mr. Barnes walks with purpose, the same black coat gently swaying with every clipped step and tie mathematically aligned. He doesn’t even glance at his visibly fidgety employees, his blue eyes hidden behind a pair of Ami Paris black sunglasses that he only removes once he enters his office, strategically located at the very end of the open space. 

He also doesn’t greet anyone. His presence alone is a daily roll call.

The CEO doesn’t talk much in general—not unless he absolutely has to. But when he does, one either ends up walking away with a quiet pride burning in their chest, or crying and shaking in the restroom. His words are sharp and efficient. A simple “fix this” could ruin an entire afternoon. A “this is unacceptable”, a week.

The worst thing is that he doesn’t even need to raise his voice, because his perpetual glacial calm is enough to make a grown man in his fifties tremble like a fawn taking its first steps. His disappointed silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic tapping of his pen against the sleek desk, could send any adult into an existential crisis.

He doesn’t even need to walk past the desks to know what happens inside his company. Every attempt to impress him is ignored without mercy and humor is met with a slow blink, as if it were a personal insult to his entire bloodline.

Somewhere along the way, the office collectively settled on calling him Mr. Tightass behind his back. Despite that, the CEO puts equal attention in rewarding and commending his employees when credit is due. It still feels like talking with someone who has been constipated for a month, but coming from the strict boss himself, the praise is always very welcomed.

Every morning, he follows the same meticulous routine: he checks his schedule with his trusted assistant, Natasha; retreats into his office to scan the reports left on his desk, flagging all the things he disapproves of, and then closes the door behind him with a resounding bang that feels like an order to not be disturbed.

He is habit wrapped in a suit and polished shoes; an ongoing source of heart palpitations for the entire staff.

This is the environment Madison Carrell, freshly graduated from NYU, walks into two days later, with a smug smile and pink high heels, blissfully unaware of what lies ahead.

Wanda is the one designated to show her the ropes, and Madison’s first day unfolds in a tour of the office—from the rows of desks lining the wooden floor to the large glass-walled meeting room. They pause briefly in the break room, where the analyst takes her time explaining how the kitchenette works. That’s when a dull knock on the open door interrupts their conversation. There, Mr. Barnes slightly leans forward, eyeing Wanda with his usual blank expression.

“I need the volatility report yesterday, Miss Maximoff.” 

“Yes, sir. I apologize. I’ll bring it to your office right now—” He raises a palm, stopping her nervous rambling.

“No need, leave it to Natasha and she’ll bring it to me.” Mr. Barnes has already turned away when she remembers the girl beside her.

“Um s—sir, this is one of the new interns, Madison Carrell.” His head turns enough to marginally eye the girl, giving her a curt nod before he’s returning to his cavern.

“Was that… James Barnes?” Wanda’s eyes flit on the intern, grimacing at her wide, sparkling eyes.

“Yeah, that’s him. A real gentleman, as you can see.” She rolls her eyes, stealing a handful of cereal from the glass jar.

Madison quietly gasps, patting her skirt as if to ensure she looks presentable. “I didn’t think I would meet him today. I’ve been a fan ever since he was invited to speak at a conference at my university two years ago.”

Wanda blinks once, one eyebrow raising skeptically. “A fan?”

“Of course!” The blonde wheezes. “He’s a brilliant, successful man who has built this company with his own blood, sweat and tears from the ground up. You should be grateful he even glances your way.” She stares at the vacant spot previously occupied by the CEO, trying to fruitlessly contain a grin. “And he's very handsome.” 

“You know he’s married, right?” Madison’s head snaps toward the analyst, her smile suddenly replaced by a scowl.

“What?”

It’s impossible. She knows his Wikipedia page by heart and there isn't a single mention of a marriage, nor of his personal life in general.

“Yeah, and also very much in love with his wife.” The older woman nods, quite amused. Now she almost regrets telling her, nothing exciting ever happens in this office, after all.

Madison’s mouth curves up, looking almost sympathetic. “Oh Wanda,” the analyst's eyes narrow on the intern patting her forearm condescendingly. “Everything ends. Even marriages.”

The analyst simply smirks knowingly, already walking to the door. “Mh, if you say so.” She then eyes the blonde, nodding towards the open space. “C’mon, I’ll show you your desk. It’s right next to mine and Darcy’s.”

The break room is unusually quiet for a mid-morning. Madison stands by the kitchenette, pretending to tidy up a stack of colorful mugs while her ear is tuned to the hallway. 

“Move Stark’s call to Wednesday, and if he complains, remind him we received an equally convincing offer from Williams Enterprise.” The moment Mr. Barnes’ deep, commanding voice thunders in the hallway, she straightens, a toothy smile brightening her face as his measured footsteps get louder and louder, until he crosses the threshold of the break room.

He steps inside, heading straight for the coffee machine with his red ceramic cup in hand—it’s his third refill already. He presses the button, then crosses his arms with a rigid posture, his left foot tapping rhythmically. Impatiently.

Madison takes a second to adjust her locks, before she turns toward the man. “Good morning, Mr. Barnes!”  

He gives her a brief glance, nothing more than a flicker of acknowledgement, and a curt nod, before returning his frown to the humming appliance.

She clears her throat, refusing to let his disregard deter her. “I, um… I baked something. Thought I’d bring some in for the team.”

Mr. Barnes looks bored at this point, still not moving his icy eyes from the cup. 

She swallows. “They’re chocolate chip cookies, fresh from this morning. I figured you might like to try one.” As the CEO turns with his steaming coffee in hand, he almost bumps into the extended tray of sweets. He grunts, clearly annoyed at this intern’s insistence, and in that exact moment, his wife’s words echo sweetly through his mind.

“They’re your employees, Jamie. Just… Try to be a little nicer?”

With a sigh, Mr. Barnes places the cup back on the counter, before taking a cookie under Madison’s hopeful eyes. But her enthusiasm is abruptly torn to shreds as she watches him break the tiniest piece off, almost a crumb, then taste it with the air of someone challenged to eat concrete for money.

A low hum escapes him, thoughtful. He eyes the rest of the cookie distracted as he starts mumbling. 

“I wonder if my wife will bake cookies, she already made a pie two days ago.” 

Madison blinks. Why does he need his wife’s cookies? She's literally in front of him right now, with a tray full of them that she specifically baked just for him! Does he know how hard it was to keep the team away from them, then look for a good hiding place in the break room so they would go unnoticed? She had to wait here for hours, pretending to clean and look for random stuff every time a passing co-worker eyed her with suspicion.

Madison forces a chuckle, an idea quickly forming in her mind to not let the conversation die. “What kind of pie?”

His fingers lightly scratch the stubble on his chin, still pensive. “Apple. It’s my favorite.”

Her eyes lit up. “I make a mean apple pie! Next time I can—” 

“It was excellent. The crust was neither too flaky nor too hard. And the flavors were perfectly balanced.” He shakes his head, still impressed. Madison winces as he literally cuts her off, but by the hazy look in his eyes, she doubts he even noticed her talking at all. “She’s a baker, so she knows her deal. Always testing new recipes on me.”

Is he pouting? 

“I finished the whole thing in two days.” 

Madison stands there frozen, the paper tray cradled awkwardly in her hands as she watches Mr. Barnes swiftly set the cookie down on the counter. 

“I need to text her.” He murmurs, not even glancing at his cup as he moves hastily toward the door. “Tell her to make another one for tonight.”

And just like that, he disappears, leaving the untouched tray and Madison’s crushed expectations behind.

It’s not until Scott pokes his head in that her vacant stare finally moves. “Can we eat them now?”

Alright, so the first attempt to impress her boss didn’t go as well as she predicted. That’s okay! Madison wasn’t elected student body president by throwing the towel at the first obstacle.

The next occasion presents itself the following week. Wanda was tasked with drafting a counter proposal to Mr. Stark’s new project, which meant Madison could not only be present during the presentation, but also outline a section of the submission and prove to Mr. Barnes she deserves her place there—someone who belongs in his professional world, beside him, not a lowly baker.

Right now, they are on a small break after four boring hours spent discussing the billionaire’s proposal. From her peripheral vision, Madison catches Mr. Barnes coming back in the room, along with Mr. Wilson, Mr. Rogers and Mr. Stark. Her chest slightly puffs out, finally ready to spring into action.

“So I told him I didn’t give a fuck about fishing, and then he spent all night crying over his ex-wife—”

“Ask me about my lunch.” Monica balks at Madison, tilting her head.

“Excuse me?”

“Ask me about my lunch. Ask me where I bought those nice tomatoes!” She whispers, leaning sideways against the long table. Monica stares at her appalled, until their boss’ booming voice reaches her ears and her eyes roll to the sky. Of course it’s one of the new intern’s weird plans to catch Mr. Barnes’ attention. She can't believe Madison is still at it after ‘The Cookie Failure’, as Scott named it. 

“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” She mutters reluctantly.

“Louder.”

“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” Her yell attracts the attention of the four men and other nearby employees minding their own business.

Madison gives her a little coquettish giggle. “You mean the ones in the salad I had for lunch? Of course I grow them in my garden!”

Last week, Mr. Wilson teased Mr. Barnes about his prettily packed lunch—no, she was not eavesdropping... She just happened to be walking past his office at the exact moment highly confidential conversations have the bad habit of being perfectly audible. At some point, he mentioned that the lettuce came straight from his garden, so she concluded he must have a green thumb. 

Of course she didn't have the time, nor the patience, to grow fucking vegetables. No one would ever be able to tell the difference between store-bought tomatoes and homegrown ones, anyway.

Tomatoes were tomatoes. The internet agreed.

“My wife has a beautiful garden.” 

Madison goes still.

“Does she now?” Mr. Stark amusedly teases him.

She doesn’t blink for a moment, like her brain has briefly stopped accepting information.

“Last year she grew tomatoes so perfect the neighbors thought they were made of wax.” He pats the pocket of his black pants. “Hold on, I have pictures.” And everyone gathers around him. Like bees around a flower. Even Monica! 

“Look at the color! It’s incredible.” A few murmurs of agreement ripple through the room, no doubt praising her and her damn tomatoes.

“And these are her cucumbers. And her lettuce. And—oh, here she is mulching. She didn’t know I was there.” Madison almost has an aneurysm as a faint, unguarded smile appears on his lips. “She’s so lovely.”

Coughing, Madison raises her voice in a pathetic last attempt. “I, uh… planted some basil.”

And without missing a beat, Mr. Barnes destroys her while still swiping through the pictures. 

“My wife grows five varieties of basil.”

Then, he stops short, his finger hovering over the screen as his lips press together to hide a grin. That's when Mr. Rogers clears his throat, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. His head jerks up, blinking as if he just woke up from a dream. 

“Alright.” His frown returns. “Break’s over. Miss Maximoff, it’s your turn.”

“Shit.” Madison whispers, squeezing her eyes shut. She was so focused on looking up gardening tips these past few days that she completely forgot she also had to help Wanda present her counter proposal. Which entails talking in front of an entire board of stakeholders about things she only read in her university books. 

Suddenly, those stupid tomatoes feel like they’re crawling back up her esophagus, and a cold sweat breaks across her skin. She makes it to the massive presentation screen on unsteady legs, her hands shaking so badly she can barely grip the clicker. Behind her, Mr. Barnes stands and starts walking toward them, while the rest of the table settles back into their seats.

“Maximoff, I read the counter proposal last night. Good job. The section about forecasted performance—”

Madison perks up. “I drafted that section—”

“My wife caught five mistakes there. Be careful.” He concludes, not sparing her a single glance as he turns to make his way back to the head of the table. Still, she catches his breathy comment.

“Such a brilliant woman.”

Her fiasco at Mr. Stark’s deal sets Madison back a few steps. Well, did she even move forward at all? After a week of reflection—mostly spent on TikTok tutorials about “what men like in a woman”, a suspicious amount of “CEO mindset” content and questionable productivity hacks she saved at 2 a.m.—the intern decides to take a new approach.

It’s Friday when Madison plans to stay back at the office, knowing Mr. Barnes always finishes late on Fridays. He doesn’t like being bothered over the weekend, so he ensures everything is done before he leaves.

Silence settles heavily over the building once the team leaves, making it easy to catch the rustle of papers and the faint creak of his chair around nine, signaling he’s finally done. Her coat is already on as she stands near her desk, deliberately checking her bag as if making sure she hasn’t forgotten anything. When he finally opens the door, she lets out an exaggerated sigh, lifting her eyes and putting on her best expression of surprise.

“Mr. Barnes! I didn’t think there was anyone left at this hour.” The man stops abruptly in his quick advance toward the elevator, turning to face her. “I had to finish a few things for Wanda and I didn’t notice the time. I’m just so happy to be here time kind of disappears when you get into it. You surely get that, right?”

He stares at her, deadpan. “Who are you, again?”

Her eyes bulge out. “I—” She gapes. “Madison Carrell! The new intern!” She rushes out, bordering on a shriek.

“Right.” He mutters, resuming his steps as she quickly jogs to reach him. “No, I actually don't get that. If it were for me, I would stay at home, or help my wife run her bakery.” After pressing the button to call the elevator, he stares ahead, still looking so put together after twelve hours of work.  

James Buchanan Barnes—one of the richest, most hard-working people in the whole continent, two-time #1 on Forbes’ Top 100 CEO, and major partner at Stark Industries—longs to be a househusband just so he can stay with his wife? And run a fucking bakery?

“She’s always telling me I need to come home earlier.” He sighs, and to her shock, his mouth twists into something akin to a fond smile. “She worries so much about me. She sent me a selfie an hour ago and now I can’t wait to see her.”

Madison simply nods along, face frozen in polite agony while her bag takes the worst of it, her knuckles turning white as she crumples the poor handle. She just wasted four hours of her Friday night doing nothing only to hear the man of her dreams sing praises about a woman she’s never met, yet knows entirely too much about.

The ride in the elevator is excruciating. Mr. Barnes is too busy grinning down at his phone to entertain her, and Madison’s slumped shoulders are a testament of her crushed hopes. Once they’re outside, she notices a couple of people gathered in front of the window of a clothing store right across the street. They look like they are decorating for Christmas, strings of lights already up and various boxes blocking half of the sidewalk. Mr. Barnes shakes his head at the sight, and Madison catches it from her peripheral vision.

Of course a cranky and curt man like Mr. Barnes would be a grinch!

Such a shame she completely missed his soft smile.

“I can’t believe some people are already decorating for Christmas.” She scoffs. “C’mon, it’s still November! Who is the idiot that does that?” Turning her head toward him, her chuckle dies in her throat at his gelid expression. 

“My wife.”

Madison’s heart drops to her stomach. “W–What–”

“My wife is the idiot who decorates for Christmas in November.” His caustic reply sends shivers down her back. Madison's jaw falls to the ground, and for a moment she just stands there, toes curling in shame and cheeks flaming red. Her mouth opens and closes twice, not really knowing what to say or do in front of the man eyeing her with so much vitriol.

Maybe the ground should open right this instant and swallow her whole. It would hurt less.

“I—” 

“Goodnight, Miss Carroll.” 

“What—” She whispers, completely caught off guard. “It’s Carrell!” She shouts, but he’s already halfway to his black Jaguar.

“FUCK!”

Wanda is so engrossed in her conversation with Darcy about the umpteenth date with a loser she met on Tinder that the loud thump on her right makes both women jolt in surprise. 

It's Madison and she is... a mess. 

Her ponytail is barely hanging on, a few blonde hair sticking in the air as if she was just electrocuted. Her makeup only consists of some smudged gloss—a rough contrast to the full face she has been displaying every single morning since she set foot here at Barnes Investments. Darcy and Wanda exchange a look of worry as they spot the big brown stain on her light blue shirt, probably coffee. 

They’ve never seen Madison look so distraught in the two months she’s been here. 

“Honey, are you okay?” Wanda tentatively asks. 

“Okay? Why yeah sure! Why shouldn’t I be okay?” She grits out with a fake, entirely too big smile, while literally throwing her things on her desk. 

“You sure?” Darcy raises an eyebrow.

“Of course! I mean, my crush is happily married to a woman who apparently has a pussy made of gold, because he can’t stop talking about her for one damn second.” Her pencil case almost flies to the ground. The desk shakes under the heavy laptop mindlessly tossed on its surface. 

Her little outburst makes a few heads turn, prompting the two analysts to shoot on their feet.

“Hey, lower your voice!” Wanda whisper shouts. “I understand you’re disappointed, but did you forget said crush is also your boss?”

“No, Wanda. You don’t understand.” She growls out, looking like a feral dog. “Two days ago I had to bribe his assistant with a fucking thirty-five-dollar chocolate bar just to find out his coffee order! Do you know where Mr. Barnes buys his coffee from every. Single. Morning?” Wanda shakes her head, mildly scared as Madison leans forward, her right eye twitching. “From a fucking coffee shop on the other side of New York. It took me fifty minutes just to get there, only for him to tell me he doesn’t drink that shit anymore because that stupid wife of his says it makes him too jittery.” She mocks with a pout and a whiny voice.

“He switched to herbal tea, or something. Last week!”

“Stand back, she’s gonna blow.” Darcy whispers horrified. 

“It’s been two months and I know more about this alleged wife of his than about the fucking company! He describes her as she is some sort of goddess who knows everything! And who the fuck keeps two hundred pictures of vegetables in their phone?” 

At this point, Madison is having a genuine outburst, screaming and slamming her bag on the desk under her co-workers’ bewildered gaze.

“For God’s sake, is she even real?”

As if by magic, the ding of the elevator suspends the room in silence. Everything seems to freeze as the doors slide open, revealing a woman Madison has never seen before, cautiously stepping forward. Her A-line mini dress has a soft plaid pattern, the sleeves sheer and flowy. The skirt flares out with a gentle silhouette, half hidden under a long black coat.

The entire floor gapes, taken aback by the romantic, almost ethereal vision. There’s only one person who doesn’t seem fazed at all, and that’s Mr. Barnes, who abruptly opens the door of his office as soon as the elevator door shuts. 

“Sweetheart.”

Your eyes immediately find Bucky's as he quickly makes his way to you at the end of the room. 

“Jamie.” His own lips twist into a grin when he finally reaches you, circling your waist with his muscular arms. 

“What are you doing here, doll? It’s your day off.” He mumbles, leaving a small kiss on your forehead. His blue eyes carefully take you in, poorly concealing his appreciation for your cute outfit, until they land on your bare legs. 

“Where are your tights?” He frowns, gently tugging you forward. “C'mere, let's sit in my office so you can warm up.”

“I wanted to see you.” You hum, keeping your feet firmly planted on the ground as your fingers pull at his suit jacket, so you can drag his face closer to yours. Once your lips are brushing against his ear, you whisper as quietly as you can, hoping only your husband will catch your words. 

“They're not the only thing I’m not wearing right now.” 

Bucky’s eyes widen, before his saliva goes down the wrong pipe, sending him into a coughing fit under your amused gaze. His employees try to not stare at the scene, but it’s so endearingly rare witnessing their stern boss turn into this blushing, pliant mess in front of a pretty girl. 

“Shit.” He swallows, awkwardly clearing his throat as he quickly recomposes himself. “Let’s go, sweetheart.” 

Everyone knows that at his core, Mr. Barnes is just a man pathetically in love with his wife, still, curious eyes follow you as he hastily guides you to his office with a hand on your back, his gaze not steering away once from your face as giggles unusually fill the open space.

“Thank God she came by.” Scott leans in, addressing the three women. “He’s always more lenient after her visits.” He elaborates, mainly for a flustered Madison, who releases her expensive bag, letting it fall on the floor with a dull thud, before storming off to the restroom. Wanda sighs, slightly shaking her head in exhaustion.

The man just stares at the two analysts with knitted eyebrows, completely confused. “What?”

“My pretty little slut, coming to Daddy’s office without wearing any panties.” Bucky grunts against the skin of your bare chest, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs to keep you nice and still on his desk.

It’s been six months since you and Bucky have agreed to try for a baby. Six months of pure, unhinged, hot sex in his office. It just so happens that your husband has been at work during your fertile window for the past few months, meaning that he could use that as an excuse to have you bare and whimpering in his office for a few days a month. 

Never in his career has Bucky dreamt of actually having sex here, of all places. Sure, he fantasized about your warmth by his side during those hard nights spent here amongst mountains of documents—he, Steve and Sam worked overtime almost every day at the beginning; his company was too small and new to afford the luxury of going home at a decent time. 

And you supported him through it all, his perfect darling. 

So imagine his face when you showed up at his workplace one day, locking the door behind you before literally throwing yourself at him, your breath warm against his ear as you gasped out how badly you needed him to fuck you until you couldn’t remember your own name.

Honestly, it wasn’t his proudest moment. He ended up coming before you after only a minute top, too aroused as he stared at you eagerly riding him on his chair, a hand on your mouth to prevent any loud noise from spilling out as his employees kept working, not having the faintest idea about what was happening inside their boss’ office.

From that moment on, your little visits meant only one thing. 

“Fuck, Daddy you’re so big.” You whine, clinging onto his shoulders. 

He lets out an animalistic groan as he squeezes your hips bruisingly. “Say it again.” He growls, grinding his hips harder against you. “You know I love it when you call me that, baby.” 

“Daddy please.” He slams his lips against yours, moaning as his tongue invades your mouth. When he pulls away, he goes straight for your chest, sucking on your nipple. Bucky loves to play with your breasts, you always get so responsive when his fingers tug and flicker your pretty nipples. Sometimes he just palms them for comfort during particularly frustrating calls he gets on the weekends from bratty assholes who refuse to go through his assistant first. Or out of boredom, while watching a movie. Until you get all worked up and end up cockwarming him throughout the rest of the movie.

“Can’t wait for these to swell up, gonna take such good care of you when they get too heavy and sensitive.” His head moves, the tip of his tongue already out to give some attention to the other nipple. “Wanna taste your milk so bad, baby. Will you let me? Bet it's just as sweet as your pussy.”

“Bucky!” Your head falls back as his teeth gently graze your erect nub, pulling a little pathetic whimper out of you that echoes loudly in the room.

“Shh-shh.” Your husband soothes, his voice back at your ear, his breath tickling your damp skin. “Been thinking about your pretty pussy all day.”

Bucky sounds a little dazed, his voice hoarse with something primal as one of his hands travels from your hip to your abdomen. “You’ll look so beautiful with your belly all big and round and full. All because of me.” 

“Please.” You cry out, trembling as tears threaten to spill from the corner of your eyes. It’s too much. Everything is too much. Your hot skin rubbing against his soft clothes, his filthy words, the way his blue eyes look at you with barely concealed hunger... His big cock stretching you open for him to move as he pleases. 

“You’re so fucking wet, baby.” Bucky marvels, staring in awe as his length disappears inside you, the loud, squelching sounds heating your cheeks up in embarrassment. You’ve done this so many times, yet that sense of danger, of possibly being caught doing something so debauched in such a professional environment, never fails to make your stomach flip and your core throb.

“Everyone will know how good I fuck you, how good I am for my beautiful wife.” He growls out against your lips. “My gorgeous Mommy.”

Your whole body shudder as your tongues dance, your pussy clenching at the sensation of his thick cock plunging deep inside you. It makes your head spin, leaving you completely speechless as Bucky's hips speed up. 

“Fuck, Daddy!” A whimper involuntarily falls from your parted lips, and your eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck, too big—” You gasp out the last word, his hips giving a particular brutal thrust that allows him to reach impossibly deeper.

“Yeah? I know, baby. I know. So big you can’t even talk properly.” He smirks. “Still, you take it so good, such a good girl.”

He covers your cheeks with sweet kisses, tracing a slow path down to the slope of your neck, where he makes sure to bite hard enough to elicit a surprised squeal from you.

“‘M gonna make you a mommy.” He pants harshly into your skin, his orgasm gradually approaching when you clench again. “The prettiest.” Thrust. “Sweetest.” Thrust. “Mommy.”

“Yes yes yes Daddy please!”  

Bucky’s low grunts and moans get louder as his fingers gently rub your clit, making your eyes roll back at the blinding pleasure. Your nails almost tear through the fabric of his half-open shirt.

“You’re so tight. Shit, I can feel you coming baby.” He moans, watching you nod quickly, and his voice drops a little. “Yeah? You finally gonna milk Daddy’s cock, pretty girl?” 

Your palm slaps on your parted mouth to stifle your lewd sounds. Your legs wrap tighter around his hips, and as he keeps thrusting faster and faster, your vision goes blurry and the knot in your belly finally snaps. 

“Daddy.” You whimper behind your hand, toes curling at the overwhelming bliss quickly hitting you. “Oh my God, I'm coming!” Your body wraps around him tightly as your hole clenches down, squeezing him so hard he almost chokes on his own spit. His fingers are cruel on your throbbing nub, toying with it until your hips jerk in overstimulation. You feel that hot pleasure everywhere—the base of your spine, deep in your gut, in your walls keeping him nice and warm. It’s always this intense with your husband: he knows what to say and where to put his hands so your orgasm hits you like a freight train, leaving your body exhausted yet quivering for more. 

“Fuck fuck—Daddy’s coming too.” He grits out, his thrusts messy and frantic, before his cock twitches, spilling deep inside you. “Shit—that’s it. Take it all, beautiful.”

Your chest is still heaving when you flop against him, forehead falling on his shoulder as your trembling fingers stay anchored to his shirt. His hands move to your asscheeks, thumbs leisurely stroking small circles into your skin as he tries to regain his breath as well. Yet, smugness drip off his voice. 

“Gave it to you so good you can’t even sit up straight, mh?”

You don’t have the energy to clap back, mewling with oversensitivity as he continues to gently thrust his softening dick lightly in and out of you, the mix of your juices trickling down and soiling the inner part of your thighs. Your lips part anyway to say something, but everything dissolves into an incoherent squeak when he gives your ass a light spank.

Bucky chuckles, proud of himself, his arms moving around your waist, hugging your body closer to his. “So gorgeous.” He coos, his eyelids fluttering close as the tip of his nose nuzzles your neck, breathing in your perfume, by now impeccably mixed with the scent of your favorite body cream. 

“So good for me. Fuck baby, I love you. I love you so much.” His hands gently cradle your cheeks, tenderly coaxing you out of your hiding spot as the strong urge to kiss you takes over his whole body. “Gonna have my baby and be the best mommy in the world.” He utters between sweet kisses. 

“Love you too, Jamie.” Bucky's lips curve softly at the way your eyelids barely stay open, letting you cuddle against his chest. His heartbeat never fails to speed up when those three magic words fall from your lips. 

“Think we did it this time?” You yawn tiredly, trying to keep your voice neutral. Still, your husband knows you too well after all these years by your side, instantly recognizing that hint of fragile hope in your question, and the faint change in your body, gone a little rigid.

His arms squeeze your waist once, before he drops a kiss on the top of your head, hoping it conveyed all his tenderness for your small family. That gesture, although little, instantly warms your heart, melting the tension off of your limbs as you squeeze his torso once.

“I have a hunch we did, my love.”

She just wanted to gather more information about your marriage from Natasha in a last, desperate attempt to convince herself she still had a chance. She is Mr. Barnes’ personal assistant, the only one who gets more than a single austere sentence out of him; the only one he calls by her first name. She must know something about his personal life. 

But Natasha was not at her desk. As a matter of fact, the small hallway was completely deserted, she noticed with a frown. 

And unfortunately, she had to find out the reason the hard way.

It's impossible to not notice the intern's pale face as she makes her way back to her cubicle, slow and stiff as her eyes stay fixed on nothing in particular. 

With a gentle voice, Wanda tries to strike up a conversation. “Hey, are you okay?”

Madison simply retrieves her bag, then turns away, Wanda barely catching her mumbled words as she starts walking toward the elevator. 

“I’m resigning.”

END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💛

[iwritestuffk]

paper rings | bucky barnes x reader

AO3 | Word Count: 1.3k

“I like shiny things, but I’d marry you with paper rings…”

Tags: Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Married Couple, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Slice of Life, Idiots in Love, Healthy Relationships, Flirting, Married Life, Thunderbolts!Bucky

You go to bed plotting.

Your first anniversary. 365 spent in marital bliss with the man you could have only dreamed of. 365 sunrises with him pressed against your side and 365 sunsets with him sprawled across your torso. It was only natural that you were going to want to prepare something special for such a momentous occasion.

Unfortunately, Bucky has other plans.

And by other plans, you mean the exact same plans, but before you.

Curse him and his self-discipline and his early-rising ability, because before you do much as open your eyes, you can hear the sizzling of bacon from the other room and the range hood whirring to muffle the sound. Your palm grazes over the dip in the mattress beside you and finds it empty and growing cold.

That little…

You can’t help but yawn as you glance at the clock and peel back the covers, shivering at the sudden chill. You slip your housecoat from the hook on the bathroom door, wrapping it around your mismatched, rumpled pyjamas and tying the belt in a haphazard bow before padding down the hall in slipper-clad feet.

Sound travels easily under the vaulted ceilings of your New York apartment, the melting snow outside nor the exposed beams and industrial pipes no match for the coziness you’ve both built beneath it. You follow the off-pitch melody of his humming to the open kitchen and pause for a moment, leaning against the edge of the kitchen island just to watch from afar.

Bucky is a marvel. Six feet of corded muscle and toned flesh softened by morning light, sweatpants slung loose and low on his hips, his shoulders and back open to the elements. His hair is a sight, sticking up in all directions in the lax kind of way that just made you want to run your fingers through it, whether it smoothed or not. He is deliciously domestic when his walls come down like this, unguarded and unafraid to make noise or take up space.

“What’cha up to, Buck?” you close the distance, fingers ghosting a pass over his shoulder blade. The transfer of cold sets off a shiver that ripples up his neck and makes the hairs stand on edge.

He turns under your grasp, wearing that ridiculous “Kiss The Cook” apron Alexei got him as a wedding gift as part of his curated “grilling essentials” bundle, and his whole being brightens when he sets his sights on you.

“Mornin’, sunshine…” He hasn’t been up for long, his voice still gravelly. Bucky discards his spatula in favour of drawing you into his arms and against his lips, tasting like dark roast. “Sleep well?”

“Very. Do you…happen to know what happened to my alarm?”

He turns his head, but the flush on the shell of his ear gives him away. “I don’t know nothin’ about that…”

“James Buchanan Barnes! I was going to make breakfast for you!”

“Come on now, sweetheart. I couldn’ bear to let you do all that just for me when you were sleepin’ so soundly. You’re already working yourself to the bone, and sleepin’ terribly as it is.”

How were you supposed to say no to that, when he looks down at you with such affection and tenderness? His skin is warm when you pout into his collarbone. “Would’ve done it anyway…”

Bucky cards through your hair just as you had wanted to, fixing your bedhead with practised ease. “I know you would, and I love you for it, but it’s my turn. That alright?”

“It’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. Smells amazing. What did you make?”

“Full spread. All your favourites.”

“It’s your anniversary too, y’know. You don’t just have to cater to me.”

“Wanted to, doll. Besides, my favourite is watching you eat your favourites.”

“…and turkey bacon.”

“Yes, and turkey bacon.”

“Can I help with anything?”

He shakes his head. “It’s all handled. You just sit your pretty self down,” he switches off the burner and takes you by the shoulders, herding you into the breakfast nook, “before it gets cold.”

And it is a spread.

Strawberries cut into rosettes, his knife skills repurposed and certainly not going to waste. Heart-shaped pancakes stacked a mile high, golden brown with crispy edges. Eggs and toast, fruits and potato hash, pastries and preserves, all plated on your fanciest dishware and set on a vintage lace tablecloth. Next to them, the pile of turkey bacon that has become Bucky’s one modern obsession. A bouquet of spring blooms so big the vase is overflowing blocks out the sun from the window to cast wispy shadows over the table.

Your heart swells. “Buck! You’re unreal! How long have you been up doing all of this?”

“Irrelevant.”

“This is too much…”

“S’the perfect amount, I think. Makin’ up for all the late nights and long missions you’ve put up with,”he noses your hairline and kisses where it meets the curve of your ear. Bucky reaches around your form and pulls out the chair with the handsewn seat cushion, motioning for you to claim it before settling into the banquette across from you himself.

“And where did these flowers come from? How did you manage to sneak these in here?”

“Met the delivery guy downstairs while you were still dreaming,” he reaches across to snatch your plate and fill it with all the things he knows you love, down to the pancake toppings, before repeating the process for himself.

You can’t help the groan that slips out as the first bite touches your tongue.

“Good?”

“I’th delithith,” you mumble, mouth full.

“…Translation?”

You swallow, washing the lump down with a swig of orange juice. “It’s delicious, I said. Did you get an email from the restaurant for tonight?”

“Our reservation is confirmed and I pressed my suit.”

“The pinstripe one that makes me want to eat you alive?”

“That’s the one,” he winks over the lip of his coffee mug.

“Man, do I love that suit…” you muse, driving your fork into one of the berries before setting the utensil down entirely and circling back. “I still can’t believe this you pulled all this off under my nose! I mean, I had everything planned out, bought the ingredients and everything.”

“That explains why there was a Costco-sized pack of bacon in the fridge,” he shovels a generous helping of it onto his plate. “And why the pantry was so well-stocked.”

“You love that stuff. You’re such a carnivore, you’re like a…I don’t know, a T-Rex.”

“Old as one, too,” Bucky quips.

Your poorly-timed sip of juice spews as you snort in laughter, pulling the liquid up into your nasal cavity. “Ack! It burns!” you sputter and hiss as your eyes start to water. You continue to cough and hack and choke as Bucky all but lunges over the table with a napkin, howling in his own laughter with such intensity he turns red as the strawberries.

“Are you okay?!”

“I can taste my thoughts…”

He gazes at you with as much concern as adoration. “I love you.”

“…Even when I shoot orange juice out of my nostril?”

“Especially then. And when you drool all over my shirt in your sleep and when you put on your clothes backwards or inside out. I love it all.”

The burning subsides, leaving your vision in a sort of dreamy haze perfectly suited to the occasion.

“I love you, too. Even when I find your arm in the dishwasher or trip over your massive boots in the entryway or when I wash your stinky, marinated mission laundry. And I am going to get to surprise you one of these days! Just you watch!”

Bucky just beams. “Can’t wait. Happy anniversary to us,” he toasts.

“Happy anniversary, love.”

[slutdier]

Heyyyy making a request for breeding kink w/Bucky… just being held down and being told to take it and him fucking his cum back into you over and over… and then him just cockwarming you as a plug… hnnngghh gonna go die now byeeee. I’ll read whatever you write. 💞Tyy

 . ୨୧ ݁ ꒰  𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄 𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐏   ⊹ . beefy!bucky x fem!reader. minors are prohibited from interacting.

warnings 18+ : rough sex, breeding kink, possessive/claiming dirty talk, no condoms or pull-out, creampie, overstimulation, multiple rounds, size difference, light restraint (wrist pinning), no use of y/n, primal behavior, come play/keeping it inside, pleading, taunting

author’s note : I loooved this request!!! our favorite beefy man was literally perfect for this

The room was dim, just the low glow of the bedside lamp catching on the sweat already slicking Bucky’s shoulders. You were flat on your back, wrists pinned above your head in his metal hand, the other braced beside your ear so he could loom over you, chest heaving, eyes dark and hungry.

“Stay,” he rasped, voice low and rough like he’d been holding it in for hours. “Right there. Don’t fuckin’ move.”

You tried to arch anyway, instinct, need, whatever you wanted to call it and his grip tightened just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Uh-uh.” He dipped his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re gonna take it, doll. Every drop. You hear me?”

A whimper slipped out before you could stop it. He was already buried deep, hadn’t pulled out since the last time he came, just kept rocking slow and filthy, stirring his own release inside you until you were shaking.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost sweet except for the edge in it. “So full already… and still clenching around me like you’re begging for more.” He rolled his hips once, dragging a broken sound out of your throat. “That’s it. That’s my good girl.”

“Bucky-” Your voice cracked. Legs trembling where they were hooked over his hips, thighs slick and sore. “I can’t-”

“You can.” He cut you off, soft but firm. The hand not pinning your wrists slid down to grip your jaw, thumb pressing just under your lip so you had to look at him. “You’re gonna. For me.”

He pulled out slow, agonizingly slow, until just the head was still inside, letting you feel the thick slide of his cum trying to leak out. Your body clenched on nothing and he groaned, low and pleased.

“See that?” He tilted his head, watching the way your cunt fluttered, trying to keep him. “Look how much you’re wasting. You don’t wanna make me sad, do you baby?”

Your cheeks burned. “That’s not-”

“Shhh.” He pushed back in, one long, unrelenting stroke that had your back bowing off the mattress. “C’mon. Don’t be selfish. You know how good it feels when I’m deep, when I’m painting you again. You love it. You love being my little breeding slut.”

The words hit like a slap and a caress at once. You moaned, helpless, hips jerking up to meet him even as your brain screamed you were already so full it hurt in the best way.

“One more,” he coaxed, voice dropping to that velvet guilt-trip tone he knew wrecked you. “Just one more load, sweetheart. Don’t you wanna make your Bucky feel good? Don’t you wanna be the reason I come so hard I can’t see straight?”

He rocked deeper, grinding against your cervix until your eyes rolled. “C’mon, baby… do it for me. Let me fill you up again. Let me keep you plugged so nice and warm.”

You were crying now, quiet, overwhelmed tears slipping into your hair and he kissed them away like they were precious.

“That’s it,” he whispered against your cheek. “Cry for it. Cry while I breed you. Fuck, you’re so pretty when you’re this desperate.”

He picked up the pace then, no more teasing, just hard, purposeful thrusts that punched the air out of your lungs. The wet, obscene sound of him fucking his own cum back into you filled the room, louder than your gasps, louder than the creak of the bedframe.

“Gonna- gonna come again,” he growled, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked on yours like he wanted to watch every second of your surrender. “Gonna give it all to you. Gonna make sure it takes. You want that, don’t you? Want my baby so bad you’re shaking for it?”

You couldn’t answer with words, just a broken, pleading sob but your body answered for you, spasming hard around him, milking him like it was trying to pull him deeper.

He came with a guttural sound, hips stuttering, flooding you again until you could feel the hot rush of it, the way it forced more of his earlier load to spill out around his cock despite how tightly you were gripping him.

He didn’t pull out.

Instead he sank down on top of you, heavy and warm, pinning you to the mattress with his full weight. His cock stayed buried, softening only slightly, keeping everything right where he wanted it.

“Stay still,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple. “Gonna keep you plugged just like this. Let it settle. Let it stay.” His flesh hand slid down to cup your lower belly, possessive. “Feel that? That’s me. All of me. Right where I belong.”

You shivered, oversensitive and wrecked, and he just held you tighter.

“Shhh. You did so good for me.” A soft, taunting kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Think you can handle one more later? When you’ve had a little rest?”

You whined, exhausted, boneless.

He chuckled, dark and fond. “That’s my girl. Always so greedy for it.”

And he stayed right there, until your breathing evened out and the only thing left was the slow, steady throb of him still inside you, promising he wasn’t done yet. Not even close.

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

masterlist

[slutdier]

 . ୨୧ ݁ ꒰  𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐒   ⊹ . bucky x fem!reader. minors are prohibited from interacting.

warnings 18+ : face-sitting, no use of y/n, oral sex (f receiving), cnc elements (overriding pleas to slow down), teasing, buck coming untouched, bodily fluids, strong language, established relationship

author’s note : based on this lovely comment <33 ‘Awesome but... What about the opposite? Reader ovulating and Bucky's just trying to be helpful in any way he can but then he ends up under her and absolutely under her control.’

The bedroom is warm, the late-afternoon light slanting gold through half-closed blinds, and Bucky is trying, really desperately trying to be good.

He’d clocked the signs hours ago: the restless shifting of your thighs on the couch, the tiny, involuntary whimpers when his arm brushed yours, the way your scent had gone thick and syrupy, wrapping around him until every breath felt like drowning in want. He knows what ovulation does to you. Knows it strips away patience and turns you into something raw, single-minded, unstoppable.

So when you’d grabbed his wrist and pulled him down the hall with that glassy, predatory glaze in your eyes, he hadn’t fought it. Just let you shove him onto the bed, let you strip down to nothing but his faded Henley, the hem barely covering the tops of your thighs as you climbed over him.

Now he’s pinned beneath you, your knees caging his shoulders, your slick heat hovering just above his mouth. His hands rest lightly on the backs of your thighs, gentle, soothing circles with his thumbs even though his pulse is hammering in his ears and his cock is straining painfully against his boxers.

He’s been at it for a long time already. Long, dragging licks. Slow, open-mouthed kisses. Sucking your clit softly until your hips buck, then easing off before starting again. He’s trying to pace you, trying to stretch it out so you don’t crash too hard too fast.

But you’re not interested in pacing.

You’re feral.

Your fingers twist tight in his hair, yanking his head exactly where you want it. Every time he tries to pull back, even half an inch to drag in a proper breath, you haul him right back with a broken, needy sound.

“Baby,” he rasps against your folds, voice thick and wrecked, lips swollen and glistening. “Baby- fuck- my jaw’s killing me. Just- give me a second, yeah? Please.”

You make a sound that’s half sob, half snarl. Your thighs clamp harder around his ears.

“No,” you gasp. “No, Buck, I need more. I’m so close- please-”

He groans, the vibration rolling straight through your clit. His hands flex on your thighs, torn between holding you steady and trying to ease you off just enough to breathe.

“Doll,” he tries again, words muffled and slurred. “Sweetheart, I’m tryin’- I swear I’m tryin’- but I can’t- can’t keep goin’ like this forever. My tongue’s numb, my jaw’s locked up-”

You lean forward, one hand braced on the headboard, the other still fisted in his hair. Your hips roll in a slow, deliberate grind, dragging your slick over his lips, his chin.

“I know,” you whisper, voice shaking with want. “I know it hurts. But I need you to let me fuck myself on your tongue, Bucky. Just- open your mouth and let me ride it. Hard. Please. I need to come like that. I need it so bad.”

His eyes flutter shut for a second. A low, helpless sound rumbles out of his chest.

“Baby… Christ.” His voice cracks. “I want to- fuck, you know I want to- but I’m already hangin’ on by a thread here. If you start ridin’ my face like that, I’m not gonna last. I’m gonna- shit- I’m gonna come in my pants like some fuckin’ teenager if you keep goin’.”

You whimper at the confession, thighs trembling harder.

“That’s okay,” you breathe, rocking just enough to tease the tip of his tongue against your entrance. “I want that. I want you to lose it. Please, Buck. Open up. Let me take it. Let me use you.”

He’s panting now, hot little bursts of air against your soaked skin. His fingers dig into your thighs, not to stop you but like he’s bracing himself.

“Fuck- doll, you’re gonna ruin me,” he chokes out. “I’m beggin’ you. Just- slow down. Give me a minute. I can’t- I can’t hold it-”

But you’re already moving.

You sink down, slow at first, letting his tongue slide inside you. Then faster. Harder. Fucking yourself on it in short, greedy thrusts while his muffled groans vibrate through you.

His hands scramble up to grip your hips, not to control, just to hold on. His whole body is shaking under you now, muscles locked tight, breath coming in ragged, desperate bursts against your cunt.

“Baby- please-” he manages between thrusts, voice wrecked and pleading. “Slow- fuck- slow down or I’m gonna- gonna come- can’t stop it-”

You don’t slow down.

You grind harder, chasing the angle that makes stars burst behind your eyes, using his tongue like it’s the only thing that matters. His pleas turn into broken, garbled sounds- half curses, half whimpers- muffled against your heat.

And then you feel it.

His hips jerk upward, helpless, once, twice and a low, guttural groan tears out of him as he comes untouched, soaking through his boxers, body shuddering beneath you while you keep riding his face.

The sight, the sound, the feel of him losing it completely sends you over.

Your thighs lock around his head, a sharp cry ripping from your throat as you clench hard around his tongue, pulsing, shaking, drenching his face all over again. He keeps his mouth open, keeps his tongue flat and steady even as he’s trembling through the aftershocks of his own release.

When it finally eases, you collapse forward, forehead pressed to the headboard, chest heaving. Only then do you loosen your grip on his hair.

He sucks in his first real breath in forever, face a wrecked, shiny mess, lips puffy, chin dripping, eyes glassy and dazed. But he’s smiling, soft and stupid and so fucking in love.

You slide down his body until you’re sprawled across his chest. His arms wrap around you instantly, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back, the other cradling your neck.

“Thought you said you couldn’t hold it,” you murmur, voice hoarse.

He huffs a wrecked laugh, voice raw. “Yeah, well… I tried warnin’ you.”

You nuzzle into his throat, already going boneless. “Worth it.”

He presses a shaky kiss to your hairline, still catching his breath.

“Yeah,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple. “Worth every goddamn second.”

He’s still catching his breath underneath you, arms tight like he never wants to let go. And you know he’ll be right back down there the second you ask again.

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

masterlist | bucky version

taglist : @angel-bugz @sheriff-bodecker @arsenalofproblems @imanidiotsimpforhotmen @spdrveil @shackoflove @buckybunni @fancypeacepersona @noirecherie @babygirlxos @vickynguyennn @avgdestitute @silveredpenumbrashark @latenightmatilda @thegirlfatherr @nonotwithoutu @sebastians-love @doelikedollz @wintersgirllost @ryswritingrecord @biggestfangirl @swansonnetts @herejustforbuckybarnes @avatarobsessedgirly @gilwm @bb-laufeyson @gibbsgirl7 @hnnhbananananana @metal-armed-muse @mollyherondale @sambuckystony @globetrotter28 @amidnightwish21 @mathcat345 @dilfsbaby @trashr0mance @buckysdecaflove @sunshineflowersandkisses @cryingb4by @emilyswortwellen @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @starspangledspanks

[danysdaughter]

bucky seeing p0rn for the first time after the dating apps don’t work out👀

I'm deadddd, this was so vague so I just ran with it

The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 6.3k words

summary | when dating apps fail him and thirst traps become his downfall, bucky barnes finds himself spiraling down the internet’s most unholy rabbit hole—pornhub.

what starts as horrified research turns into full-blown obsession... especially when you, his sharp-tongued best friend, catch him red-handed and make very sure he lives out every filthy fantasy he’s been hiding.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, face sitting, breeding kink dirty talk, roleplay mentions, overstimulation, sexual humor, porn discovery, reader catches bucky watching porn, friends to very horny lovers, reader is a menace, teasing, flustered bucky, dom!bucky, subtle power play, consent is sexy, reader rides his face, doggy style, missionary? i hardly know her, mutual pining (solved by porn), no use of y/n, reader is a problem and bucky loves it, aftercare.

a/n | yeah, I definitely went overboard with this. I hope you freaks enjoy this

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

ɴᴇxᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

You sipped your drink slowly, already biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing as Bucky glared into his beer like it had personally betrayed him.

“So,” Sam started, barely hiding his smirk. “How was the date with... what was her name again? Velvet? Vixen?”

“Vesper,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “And she asked if I’d be into choking her with my vibranium arm before we even finished our drinks.”

You snorted into your glass.

Sam leaned forward, grinning. “I mean... was she wrong?”

“Sam.” Bucky’s glare was instant, but mostly performative. “I just met her.”

You glanced at him over your glass, amused. “What app did you find this one on?”

He groaned. “The same one you said was ‘normal.’”

“No one said it was normal,” you said, raising a brow. “I said it was better than Tinder. That’s not a high bar.”

Bucky leaned back with a sigh, looking thoroughly done with the entire 21st century. “I miss when people met at soda shops and asked each other about their families instead of sending... pictures of their genitals.”

Sam barked a laugh. “Aw, poor Grandpa’s overwhelmed by the sex-positive future.”

“You know what’s not positive?” Bucky muttered. “The fact that I Googled ‘how to get back out of the dating app’ and it sent me to a subreddit with people just as confused as I am.”

You exchanged a look with Sam, both of you clearly enjoying this way too much.

“Have you... considered other ways to meet people?” you asked, trying not to grin. “Like not being a digital hermit?”

Bucky looked between the two of you, deadpan. “I’m this close to living in the jungle again.”

Sam raised his glass. “To Bucky Barnes, the only man who can bench-press a car but can’t survive Hinge.”

Bucky slammed his glass down—not hard, but with enough force to earn a side-eye from the bartender.

“I just don’t get it,” he muttered. “I’m trying to talk to these women like a normal person. I say, ‘Hi, how was your day?’ and one of them responds with—” he fumbled with his phone, squinting at the screen, “‘Send me a pic of the arm, baby, I wanna see what’s gonna rearrange my insides.’”

You choked.

Sam full-on cackled, grabbing his chest. “Wait—rearrange her insides? Yo, that’s poetry.”

“She sent a GIF after that,” Bucky went on, staring at the phone like it might explode. “A GIF. Of a hydraulic press crushing a watermelon. What does that mean?”

“I’m gonna die,” you wheezed, nearly spilling your drink. “She wants you to hydraulically press her coochie, Barnes. Come on.”

“I thought she was making a smoothie metaphor!” Bucky snapped. “And then another one asked if I was into CNC. I said I didn’t know what that meant, and she said ‘perfect.’”

Sam wiped a tear from his eye. “Oh my god—Bucky, you’re gonna end up in someone’s kink diary.”

“She sent me a TikTok about edging,” Bucky added, horror slowly overtaking his face. “I thought it was about gardening.”

You completely lost it, head in your arms on the table. “Please stop, I can’t breathe.”

Bucky scowled. “I’m serious! She said she wanted to edge me for hours, and I said that sounded peaceful, like a nice walk—and she sent back forty-seven emojis.”

Sam gasped between wheezes. “You’re getting sexted in hieroglyphics and you think it’s a hike, I’m begging you to never leave the house again.”

Bucky looked between you both, betrayal written across his face. “I survived Hydra. I survived seventy years of brainwashing. But I will not survive being called ‘daddy’ by a woman who lists her job as ‘freelance foot model and energy witch.’”

“Wait—did she have the crystals?” you asked, barely able to form the words.

He nodded grimly. “She said my aura was ‘screaming trauma kink.’”

Sam actually slid off the stool, wheezing on the floor.

He shut the door behind him with a dull thunk, then stood there for a moment in the silence. The kind that pressed in around the edges when no one else was around. Just him, the creak of the old radiator, and the words “rearrange my insides” still echoing in his head like a ghost.

Bucky sighed, tossed his jacket onto the back of a chair, and walked into the kitchen, opening the fridge as if disappointment wouldn’t be waiting there too. One beer left. Great.

He grabbed it, popped the cap off with his metal hand, and made his way over to his laptop.

It sat there on the table like a challenge.

He opened it. The familiar whir kicked on. A sigh slipped through his teeth.

“I fought in two wars,” he muttered to himself. “Survived Hydra. Took down a helicarrier. But this? This is the real enemy.”

He hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Then he typed:

"What does CNC mean?"

Enter.

He leaned forward slowly, reading the top search result. Then the second.

His eyebrows pulled together. His mouth fell open just slightly.

"...Consensual non-consent?"

He clicked the link. Read further.

He leaned back in his chair like he’d just been shot.

“Why—why would anyone want that?” he muttered, scandalized. “That’s just... that’s just assault with permission.”

Still, he didn’t close the tab.

He opened a new one instead.

"Edging meaning (not gardening)"

More links. More acronyms. More trauma.

His face contorted in quiet horror as he scanned descriptions, diagrams, tips and techniques.

His beer sat forgotten on the table.

Eventually, he clicked a link that just said “beginner’s guide to porn kinks.” It was a blog. Fairly clinical. Until it wasn’t.

Then he clicked another.

And another.

Until eventually he wound up on a site with thumbnails—little videos with previews. Titles he didn’t fully understand.

He stared at one.

A girl, on her knees, mouth open, eyes wide.

Title: “Training My Pretty Submissive Brat”

He blinked. Then hovered. Clicked.

The video loaded.

He sat still, very still, as it started playing.

And then...

“What the hell—” he whispered.

The guy was talking. Dirty. Commanding.

The girl was moaning like someone had just whispered state secrets in her ear. She was calling him sir. Begging. Crying out when he—

Bucky slammed the spacebar to pause the video, hand clenched on the table.

He stood. Paced.

‘I shouldn’t be watching this,’ he thought, running his hand through his hair. ‘This is wrong. This is not—that’s not—’

He looked back at the screen.

Unpaused.

A few seconds passed.

He sat again.

Watched. Silent. Rigid.

His jaw clenched. His eyes darted across the screen like he was scanning enemy movement.

Then his hand—his metal hand—tapped the edge of the keyboard.

Paused again.

His chest rose and fell.

“I mean… he’s not hurting her,” he thought. “She’s asking for it. She likes it.”

Beat.

“And she’s loud.”

He sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the paused screen like it had insulted him personally.

Then he muttered, “Is that what people want now?”

He reopened the search bar.

"How to talk dirty in bed"

The search results hit him like a grenade.

By the third article, his ears were red. His fingers hovered over the trackpad like they didn’t know whether to scroll or just snap the whole laptop in half.

He clicked another video.

This one was slower. More intimate.

The woman straddled the guy’s lap, whispering in his ear. He growled something back, then pushed her down on the bed—

Bucky’s breath caught.

He didn’t even notice his hand moving under the table at first.

Didn’t notice the low groan that slipped from his throat when the man on screen said, “Good girl—just like that.”

He froze. Eyes wide. Mouth dry.

He swallowed hard.

“…I need another beer.”

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t stop watching.

Because something in him had been starved for this. For contact. For control. For someone wanting him, even in fantasy.

The next video autoplayed before he could stop it.

Another couple. This time, softer lighting. Moaning, whispered praise. Her back arched under his touch as he moved slow, deliberate, like every second was sacred.

Bucky swallowed hard.

He sat motionless for a full minute.

Then his hand drifted down.

Hesitant. Awkward.

He undid the button of his jeans, fingers brushing over the bulge in his briefs. The contact was enough to make his breath stutter.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

He shifted in his seat, pushed his jeans down just enough, and curled his hand around himself. Warm skin against cool air. His metal hand clenched uselessly on the table as the other moved slowly, uncertain.

The sounds from the video—soft, rhythmic, intimate—filled the room.

And Bucky gave in.

His eyes didn’t close. He watched—studied—the way the man touched her, held her, spoke to her like she was something precious and filthy all at once.

“Such a good girl,” the man murmured. “Taking all of me. Just like that.”

Bucky bit down on a groan, his hand moving faster now, hips twitching in his seat.

He imagined saying those words.

And then—

He imagined you.

Your voice, sharp and sarcastic, going breathy and soft when he touched you. Your legs around his waist. Your fingers in his hair. Your mouth whispering his name like it meant something.

And that thought—you, under him, with him—wrecked him.

He jerked harder, gritting his teeth, chest rising fast.

A low moan slipped out. Sharp. Uncontrolled.

His head fell back, eyes clenched shut as heat coiled in his gut. His body trembled.

One more stroke—

And he came.

Hard.

He let out a strangled noise, hips lifting off the couch, body seizing as white-hot pleasure shot through him. His hand slowed, milked every last pulse, until the aftershocks faded and all that was left was—

Silence. Reality. Shame.

His breath was harsh in his ears.

The screen was still playing.

The woman moaned, laughing, pulling the man closer.

Bucky stared. Then looked down.

At himself. At the mess.

At the way his hand was still wrapped around his cock, softening now, shame creeping in like a slow burn.

He let go like he’d been scalded.

The aftershocks hadn’t even faded before the guilt hit—cold and immediate.

Not from what he’d watched.

Not even from what he’d done.

But from who he’d seen in his mind while he did it.

You.

You, laughing beside him at the bar. You, rolling your eyes at his brooding. You, calling him “grandpa” and meaning it with affection.

You—beneath him, moaning, touching, giving yourself to him in the fantasy that had just ripped through his body.

His stomach twisted.

He yanked his pants back up, hands clumsy, face burning not with arousal now—but with shame.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pacing, one hand raking through his hair, the other clenching into a fist. “Fuck—what the hell’s wrong with me?”

You were his friend.

You were real.

And he’d just used the idea of you like… like some porn star on a screen.

His jaw tightened. He couldn’t look at the laptop. Couldn’t look at himself. He felt dirty—not because he’d touched himself, but because it felt like a betrayal. A violation of something pure.

He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

That hadn’t been just need.

That had been you.

And now he didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to look you in the eye again.

A Few Weeks Later

There was a knock at the door.

Three knocks, then a pause.

Then two more.

“Come on, Barnes,” your voice called through the door. “I brought sacrificial offerings.”

Bucky hesitated.

He sat in the dark, boots still on, bruised knuckles resting against his knees. His hoodie clung to him, sweat-damp and rumpled, his mind still halfway in the mission, halfway in the same loop it had been stuck in for weeks.

But it was you.

He got up slowly and opened the door.

You stood there with a paper bag in one hand, a six-pack in the other, grinning like you had zero intention of leaving whether he wanted you to or not.

“You gonna let me in or should I start monologuing like a Bond villain?”

He stepped aside without a word.

You strolled in like you owned the place, already heading to the kitchen with practiced ease.

“Brought dumplings, noodles, and enough alcohol to bleach the taste of both from your soul,” you said, setting things down. “You looked like someone clubbed you with your own metal arm last mission, so—figured I’d play nurse. A sexy, underqualified nurse with boundary issues.”

Bucky closed the door quietly behind you.

“You’re not a nurse,” he muttered.

“Not with that attitude.”

You popped the beers open, handed him one, then flopped onto his couch like you lived there. Legs kicked up, food containers opened without ceremony, your usual grin in place.

He stood a few feet away, beer untouched in his hand.

He hadn’t seen you in weeks—not really. He’d ducked every casual run-in, bailed on team movie nights, even ghosted your texts under the excuse of "needing space." He figured you noticed.

You just hadn’t said anything.

Until now.

You eyed him, casually, between bites. “You gonna sit down or do I need to pull you onto the couch like a Victorian housewife?”

He sat. Slowly. Farther away than usual.

You noticed. Of course you did. But you didn’t call him on it.

Not yet.

Instead, you nudged a container toward him and said, “Eat, soldier. You look like a sad, haunted lumberjack.”

And still—he didn’t say a word.

Because all he could think about, sitting beside you again after a month of silence, was the way your mouth had looked in that fantasy.

The way your voice had sounded moaning his name.

The way he’d used the memory of your real, friendly, teasing self to—

He swallowed thickly.

You kept eating, casual, sharp, familiar.

Exactly how he remembered. Exactly what made it so much worse.

You wiped your fingers on a napkin, leaned back, and gave him a look.

“Alright. You look like you’re two seconds from overthinking yourself into an early grave. Movie time. Something with violence or explosions—your love language.”

Before he could protest, you were already standing and heading toward his desk.

“Wait—” he said, starting to rise, but too slow.

You flipped open his laptop. “Let’s see what Grandpa Barnes has in his—”

“Ah—ahh—yes, please—!”

The moaning hit like a tactical nuke.

You froze.

So did he.

Both of you staring wide-eyed at the screen as the speakers screamed filth into the otherwise silent apartment.

Bucky moved fast.

Too fast.

He lunged over the couch, hand outstretched like he was taking enemy fire.

You dodged.

Smooth, practiced. Years of training paying off.

“No—” he barked, face already crimson, “Please—don’t—!”

“Oh my god—” you laughed, holding the laptop just out of reach. “Is this—is this Pornhub? Are you seriously—you are! You’ve been watching porn, you absolute degenerate.”

He groaned, dragging his hand down his face, mortified.

“Please give me the laptop,” he said, voice low, wounded, like you were holding a hostage.

But you were already clicking the spacebar, pausing the video mid-thrust.

“Oooh,” you said, squinting at the tab title. “‘Brat tamer destroys needy sub’? This is what you’re into?” You looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Bucky.”

“Stop,” he muttered, pacing now, hands on his hips. “I was—researching.”

“Researching what? The anatomy of a throatfuck?” you said, howling with laughter. “Brat tamer—are you even on Tumblr, old man?”

He looked like he wanted the floor to open and consume him.

“Do you know how much I regret every decision that led to this moment?”

You hugged the laptop to your chest dramatically. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this. The secrets. The shame. The kinks.”

“Give. It. Back.”

“Nope. Not until we find out if you’ve got a whole ‘rough dom Bucky’ fantasy folder stashed somewhere. You into praise? Degradation? Impact play? Knife play?”

He growled.

Actually growled.

And for half a second, it stopped being funny.

Because the way his eyes locked on you?

That wasn’t embarrassment anymore.

That was heat. Low. Dangerous.

You grinned, too drunk on the chaos to stop.

“Come on, Barnes,” you said, laptop still clutched like a prize. “Own it. You like a little bratty backtalk? You want someone to whimper please while you tell her she’s being a bad girl?”

He was still pacing, but slower now. Controlled. Coiled.

You didn’t notice.

You were too busy poking the bear.

“Is that what you’re into?” you teased, stepping back. “All that repressed soldier shit finally coming out in dirty little commands and throat grips?”

His eyes met yours. Still embarrassed, sure. But behind it? Something sharper. Something hungry.

“Y’know,” you added, tone light, teasing, “I always pegged you as more of a soft dom. Gentle hands. Lots of praise. But this? This is dark. Kinda filthy. Kinda hot.”

That did it. He moved.

Fast.

Faster than he should’ve.

One second, you were smirking with the laptop; the next, it was out of your hands, clattering to the couch. You were against the wall, chest rising, his body a breath away from yours.

His hand planted next to your head.

His voice low. Controlled.

“Enough.”

You stared at him. The air was suddenly thick. Your heart thudded once, hard.

“You think this is a joke?” he asked, eyes burning into you.

Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“You think I don’t know you’ve been toying with me since the moment you walked in?”

That teasing smile faltered—just a little.

“You keep pushing,” he murmured, leaning in, breath brushing your jaw. “You laugh, you flirt, you play. But you don’t realize... I’ve thought about you. In ways I shouldn’t.”

You swallowed.

Hard.

“I know what I watched,” he went on, voice rough, low, dangerous. “I know who I imagined.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

Then back up.

And when he spoke again, it wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

“You want to see what I’m into?”

You blinked up at him—cornered, caged—but not afraid.

Not even close. Your smile crept back, slower this time. Calculated.

“Oh,” you murmured, tone shifting. “You imagined me?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

His silence said everything.

You pushed your palms slowly against his chest, feeling the way his body tensed under your touch. Solid. Barely held together.

You leaned in, lips brushing just beneath his ear.

“So tell me,” you whispered, voice low and coaxing. “If you’ve already pictured it, Barnes... what did I look like?”

He exhaled harshly through his nose.

You didn’t stop.

“What was I doing?” you went on, dragging your fingers down the curve of his chest. “Was I on my knees? Bent over? Did I ride you while you begged for it?”

A choked sound left him—more breath than voice.

You smiled against his neck. “Or do you want to tell me what you were doing to me?”

His hands twitched at his sides.

You could feel it—the war inside him. Guilt, hunger, restraint. And under all of it, the ache.

“Go on, James,” you whispered, using his real name like a secret. “Tell me. What do you like?”

His head dropped forward, forehead nearly touching yours.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—

“I want you on top,” he breathed, voice ragged. “I want you to sit on my face and ride it until your legs give out.”

Your eyes fluttered closed for half a second.

That was not the answer you expected first.

His voice deepened, like now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop.

“I want you on your knees, begging. I want to fuck you from behind so deep you forget your own name. I want to feel you come around me and not stop. I want to stay inside you.”

His breath hitched. His hands were fisting at his sides.

“And when I’m done, when you can’t even move anymore—I want to come in you and keep coming until you’re full of me. Until it’s dripping out of you.”

Your thighs clenched instinctively.

Your nails curled tighter into his chest.

And your voice, still low, still teasing—but now breathy, just slightly—said:

“Damn, Barnes. That’s a whole lot of filth for someone who didn’t even know what edging was last month.”

Your last teasing whisper hadn’t even left your lips before Bucky moved.

One second you were pinned between him and the wall, and the next, his hands were on your hips, gripping tight. Then the ground disappeared beneath your feet.

You gasped as he lifted you—easily, effortlessly—hauling you against his chest like you weighed nothing.

“Jesus, Barnes—” you started, but his mouth was already on yours.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim.

Hot, rough, needy—his lips crashed into yours with the force of every filthy thought, every sleepless night, every moment he’d spent imagining your mouth, your body, your sound. His teeth scraped your bottom lip. His tongue pushed past yours. There was no hesitation. Just heat.

You moaned into it, hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer even as he carried you down the hall.

Your back hit the wall once, then the doorframe, and then—

The bed.

He dropped you onto it like a man starved for touch. The mattress creaked beneath you, sheets rumpled and cool against your skin as you propped yourself up on your elbows, breathless and grinning.

Bucky stood at the edge of the bed, looking at you like you were his undoing.

You tilted your head, voice low and mocking.

“Is this the part where you get all commanding, Sergeant? Or are you gonna make me do the work?”

His jaw clenched. He stepped forward. Then dropped his weight onto the bed, climbing over you, hands already at your thighs, dragging you down the sheets toward him.

“I told you not to push,” he growled.

You smiled, voice syrup-sweet.

“And I told you I liked pushing.”

His hands slipped under your shirt, yanking it over your head in one smooth motion. Your bra was next, tossed aside without ceremony. He ducked down immediately, mouth hot against your collarbone, then lower—kissing, biting, devouring.

You gasped, head falling back as his mouth found your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he sucked it between his lips, hard.

And still—you teased.

“Careful, Barnes. Gonna make a mess before you even get inside me.”

He looked up at you.

Eyes wild, hungry, dark.

And then he dragged your jeans down—fast, rough, like he didn’t have the patience for anything else—and crawled up between your legs, pressing his body to yours until there was nothing between you anymore.

“Then shut up,” he growled, grinding against you, his cock thick and hard through his jeans.

“Make me,” you whispered, pulling him down by the collar.

And he did.

His mouth was everywhere—jaw, neck, breasts, stomach—kissing, biting, groaning like he couldn’t get enough, like he didn’t know where to start because he wanted all of you.

Then he pulled back, breathing hard, eyes raking over your body like a man finally allowed to look.

“Get up,” he rasped, voice dark and thick with want.

You blinked up at him, dazed and grinning. “What?”

He sat back on his heels, hands gripping your thighs.

“I said get up,” he repeated. “I want you on my face.”

Your breath caught.

Dead serious.

You didn’t question it. Didn’t tease.

Instead, your lips curved into a slow smile as you shifted, sitting up, climbing over him with fluid, easy confidence.

“As you wish, Sergeant.”

That name hit him like a punch to the chest.

His hands guided you—firm, reverent, needy—until your knees were braced on either side of his head, your body hovering just above his lips.

He looked up at you like a man who’d prayed for this moment.

And then?

He pulled you down.

No hesitation.

Just mouth.

Hot, wet, desperate—he groaned the second he tasted you, tongue already lapping through your folds, lips sealing around your clit like he was starving.

Your head tipped back with a sharp gasp, fingers flying into his hair as your hips bucked against his mouth.

“Fuck—Bucky—”

He growled in response, hands gripping your ass, holding you down, keeping you there.

You rocked against him instinctively, gasping as his tongue flicked and circled, licked and sucked. He was moaning into you, mumbling things you couldn’t even make out—except for one word that hit clear, over and over:

“Mine.”

You looked down at him, eyes wild, mouth open.

His eyes met yours.

Dark. Glazed. Possessed.

You could see the man he used to be—the soldier, the weapon—but right now?

Right now he was just yours.

And you were his.

You couldn’t stop moving.

Couldn’t stop grinding against his mouth, against his tongue, the pleasure slamming through you in waves, harder and sharper with every flick, every suck.

Bucky moaned beneath you, the sound filthy, shameless, needy—like your taste was saving him from something dark and deep and buried.

His hands held you tighter, guiding your hips as you rocked against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head.

“Fuck—fuck—” you gasped, one hand gripping the headboard, the other buried in his thick, messy hair. “Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

He didn’t.

If anything, he doubled down—lips sealing tighter, tongue working you harder, sloppier, his groans vibrating against your clit like a live wire.

He wanted this.

He wanted to suffocate on you, drown in you.

And you gave it to him.

Because when you looked down, saw those glassy, desperate blue eyes staring up at you, pleading for more, there was no holding back.

The coil snapped.

Your whole body locked as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and searing, your hips jerking uncontrollably against his mouth.

“Bucky—” you cried, voice cracking, thighs clamping around his head as you came—hard.

He didn’t let go.

He held you there, arms wrapped around your thighs, mouth still working you through it, licking and sucking every shudder, every twitch, like it was a gift.

You collapsed forward, one hand braced on the headboard behind his head, the other still clutching his hair, your body wrecked, shaking, soaked.

And when you finally opened your eyes—chest heaving, heart pounding—you looked down at him.

His lips were wet, chin glistening, eyes blown wide with hunger.

He looked like he could live there. Like he’d happily die there.

And all he said, voice hoarse and full of worship:

“You taste like heaven.”

You were still trembling when he sat up behind you, hands stroking your thighs, your hips, slow and reverent like he needed to remember the feel of you.

“You good?” he rasped, voice wrecked from moaning into you.

You nodded, barely catching your breath, lips curving into a slow smile.

“Still waiting for that doggystyle fantasy to come true, Sergeant.”

That was all it took.

He growled low in his throat, grabbing your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your stomach. Before you could even laugh, his hands slid under your body and lifted your hips high, chest pressed down into the mattress.

You moaned, the stretch in your spine perfect, delicious.

He leaned over you, his breath hot at your ear.

“This how you want it?”

You arched your back, ass pushing against him. “This is how you want it.”

He growled again—low, deep, possessive.

“Exactly how I want it.”

Then you felt him—his cock, thick and hot, dragging through your soaked folds, the head catching on your entrance.

He didn’t push in yet.

Just rubbed, slow, deliberate, teasing.

You whimpered, tried to push back.

He gripped your hips tighter.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “You’re gonna feel all of it.”

Then—he pushed in.

Slow at first, but deep, the stretch burning in the best way as he filled you, inch by thick, pulsing inch.

“Fuck—” you moaned, hands clutching the sheets as he bottomed out.

He held still once he was fully inside.

Like he was savoring it.

Like this—being buried in you, your body wrapped tight around his—was what he’d been starving for.

Then he moved.

Pulled out halfway.

And slammed back in.

You cried out, the sound muffled by the sheets as he started thrusting, each snap of his hips harder, deeper, rougher than the last.

His hands gripped your waist like you were his anchor.

His rhythm brutal, relentless.

He fucked you like he meant it—like he’d dreamed of this for weeks, like every fantasy had led to this.

You were gasping, moaning, clawing at the bed.

“Look at you,” he panted behind you. “So fucking tight—taking me so good.”

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

And when his hand snaked around to rub your clit, you screamed his name.

He didn’t let up.

Just pounded into you harder, faster, until the sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, filthy and loud and perfect.

He was so deep in you.

Deeper than anyone had ever been—physically, yes, but also fully. Like this was where he belonged. Like this was where you belonged.

His hips rolled, the angle perfect, his cock dragging against that sweet spot inside you with every rough, claiming thrust.

And his voice—low, wrecked, filthy—poured right into your ear.

“You like that, sweetheart?” he growled. “You like being on your knees for me?”

You whimpered, nodding, voice breathless.

“Yes, Bucky—fuck—so much.”

He leaned over you, chest flush to your back, still moving inside you—slow now, torturously deep, like he wanted to feel every pulse of you clenching around him.

“Yeah, you do,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “My good girl. So fuckin’ wet for me. You were dripping on my face—you know that?”

You moaned, your body shaking, ass pushing back into him.

“I saw you,” he said, his rhythm stuttering just to drag the next thrust out longer. “When I told you to sit on my face? You didn’t even hesitate. You just gave it to me.”

You gasped as his hand slid down your back, curving over your ass, squeezing.

“And now you’re letting me fuck you like this,” he went on. “Taking every inch like a good little cocksleeve. You want me to fill you up, don’t you?”

You shuddered, squeezing around him so tight he groaned.

“Yes,” you panted, shameless. “Fuck, Bucky—fill me up—please—I want it.”

He slammed into you harder, rhythm picking up again, fast and unforgiving.

“That’s it,” he growled. “That’s what I like. You begging. You dripping. You mine.”

You cried out, bracing yourself against the mattress as he drove into you faster now, hand slipping beneath to rub your clit again.

“Say it,” he hissed. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” you choked. “You, Bucky—I’m yours.”

He groaned deep in his throat, thrusts faltering for a beat like the words knocked something loose in him.

Then he grabbed your hair, gently but firm, pulling you up just enough to kiss your neck—bite it—then whisper:

“When I come, I’m gonna stay inside you. Gonna keep you full for hours. Walk around dripping with me.”

You whined, thighs shaking, the pressure building again—faster, sharper.

“Bucky—please—”

His voice was a growl, low and thick with promise.

“Come for me.”

And you did.

Hard.

Your whole body clenched around him, your scream muffled by the sheets as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and messy, your walls fluttering around his cock.

Your moan was still echoing when he grabbed your waist, pulling you back—up, off the bed, into his lap.

You barely had time to gasp before you were straddling him, his chest pressed flush to your back, his mouth at your neck, and his cock still inside you.

“Not done,” he growled, arms locking around your waist. “Not until I come in you.”

Then he thrust up into you—hard, deep, devastating.

You cried out, your body already overstimulated, every thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you all over again. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, spreading your thighs wider, keeping you open for him as he pounded up from beneath you with bruising rhythm.

“Fuck—Bucky—” you whimpered, hands flying back to clutch at his hair, his shoulder, anything.

He was relentless.

Grunting with each thrust, hips snapping up into you, his breath ragged against your ear.

“Feel that?” he rasped. “How deep I am? How you’re still so fuckin’ tight?”

You nodded, moaning, body jerking with every thrust.

“You’re gonna take it,” he hissed. “Every drop. I’m not pullin’ out—you hear me? I’m comin’ inside you.”

“Yes,” you gasped, barely able to speak. “Please—Bucky—fill me up—”

He groaned, deeper than before, thrusts losing rhythm, his grip bruising on your hips as his body started to shake.

“Fuckfuckfuck—gonna come—”

One last thrust—brutal, final—and he buried himself in you, arms tightening, head thrown back as he came hard, deep inside you.

You felt it.

Hot.

Thick.

Flooding you as he groaned your name, holding you tight in his lap, still pulsing inside you.

And he didn’t let go.

Didn’t move.

Just stayed there—buried—chest rising against your back, his breath warm at your neck, whispering,

“You’re mine.”

You collapsed forward onto the bed, body still twitching with aftershocks, breath ragged and uneven. Bucky followed, slow and heavy, staying close, still inside you for a moment longer like he couldn’t stand to let you go just yet.

Eventually, he pulled out with a soft groan.

You whimpered at the loss, hips squirming on instinct.

He stayed behind you for a second, hovering—eyes locked on the way his release slowly dripped out of you, sliding between your thighs and onto the sheets.

You could feel him watching.

You tilted your head back with a lazy grin. “If you’re gonna stare like that, at least have the decency to offer a towel.”

He huffed a rough laugh—half-exhausted, half-stunned. “Sorry. Just... didn’t wanna forget what that looks like.”

You stretched like a cat, all smug satisfaction and afterglow. “Yeah, well. Take a picture next time, Barnes.”

He leaned down, kissed your shoulder—soft, slow, grateful—then flopped beside you, dragging the sheet up over your tangled bodies.

His arm wrapped around your waist, warm and heavy.

Neither of you spoke for a minute.

Just the sound of your breathing slowing. Your bodies cooling.

Then he murmured, voice quiet against your skin, “You’re in my head now.”

You smiled, eyes drifting shut.

“Good,” you whispered. “Took you long enough.”

You lay there, tangled together in the warm quiet, your body still thrumming, skin slick and flushed. Bucky’s arm was wrapped around your waist, his breath slow against the back of your neck, lips occasionally brushing your shoulder like he wasn’t even conscious of doing it.

You grinned.

Couldn’t help it.

“So…” you said, voice casual. “How long you been jerking off to me, Barnes?”

He froze.

You felt the heat bloom off him before he even said a word.

“Don’t.”

Your grin widened. “What? It’s a fair question. Based on how fast you devoured me, I’m guessing… at least a month?”

He groaned into your shoulder. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m right,” you countered. “Don’t think I didn’t catch the way you almost cried when I said ‘as you wish, Sergeant.’ You’ve been unwell.”

He muttered something unintelligible and buried his face in your neck.

You rolled to face him, propped on one elbow, smirking as you traced a line down his chest.

“So, tell me,” you purred. “Now that you’ve got a taste... what do you want to do to me next time?”

His throat bobbed.

You waited.

“I dunno,” he mumbled.

“Oh, you know.” Your nails lightly scratched his ribs. “Come on, be brave. Tell me.”

He grumbled. “You’re gonna use it against me.”

“Correct,” you said sweetly. “Now spill.”

He exhaled slowly, then muttered:

“...Sixty-nine.”

You grinned. “Classic. What else?”

He covered his eyes with one hand. “Breeding.”

Your eyebrows lifted, delight flashing in your eyes. “Oh? Really leaned into the ‘stuff me full, Sarge’ angle, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“I won’t, actually,” you laughed, leaning closer, lips brushing his ear. “Anything else you wanna act out, Barnes? Any other dirty little fantasies you been keeping locked up?”

He hesitated.

Longer this time.

Then—reluctantly, quietly:

“...Roleplay.”

You blinked.

Then broke into a slow, wicked grin. “Okay, now this I need to hear.”

“Nope,” he said immediately, trying to roll away. “That’s enough honesty for one night—”

You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, pinning him down with a devilish smile. “Tell me if I need to show up next time in a pencil skirt and glasses, or if I should wear that SHIELD catsuit and call you ‘Sir.’”

His eyes snapped open.

And you knew.

You gasped. “Oh my god. You have a thing for the whole ‘secret agent mission gone sideways’ scenario, don’t you?”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.”

“You want me to cuff you to a chair and interrogate you,” you went on gleefully. “Or, wait—no—you want to interrogate me.”

“I’m begging.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “You want me in red lipstick and a wiretap, don’t you?”

“I’m never telling you anything again.”

You leaned down, lips brushing his.

“I’m gonna make all your little roleplay dreams come true,” you whispered.

“Kill me now,” he muttered.

“Nope. Gotta save your energy. You’re not done with me yet.”

You grinned, smug and sated, curling down against his chest, eyes closing as his arm wrapped around you again.

And beneath your cheek, you felt him smile.

[buckyboudoir]

having some thoughts about needy!bucky…

“fuck,” he breathes against your neck.

this is how it always goes for him. jesus, he can’t even act normal about a simple kiss? you’re both lying in bed, his warm palm sliding up your stomach, bunching your shirt up. his fingers twitch against your ribs, nervous, even after dozens of times together.

you fist the hair by his nape, making him groan against your mouth. he slants his lips against yours, tongues gently sliding against each other. a light noise escapes your mouth, and he freezes.

“baby…”

god he’s so fucking hard. you feel it against your thigh, his sweatpants stretching across his hips, the fabric damp near his tip.

“wow, buck. didn’t know it was this easy.” you taunt. he groans and buries his head into the crook of your neck, a blush spreading across his cheeks. his hips involuntarily rut against you, “don’t tease…” he mutters, sucking a mark onto your neck.

you moan, and slide your body completely under his, rolling your hips up to meet his. bucky shivers, and squeezes his eyes shut.

“fuck doll, don’t do that.”

you smirk. this is gonna be fun. you set an even pace of grinding up against him as he falters, resting on his elbows above you. you notice the damp spot getting darker, spreading.

suddenly a hand flies to your waist, ceasing your movements abruptly. god, what a sight. his eyes are completely black and frantic, looking down between the two of you, sighing heavily. you giggle, knowing how sensitive your boyfriend is, you could easily make him cum from this and he knows it, too.

then, a whisper against your cheek.

“please.”

[miraclediviner]

ᯓ★ Thinking about Sugar Daddy! Bucky

Sugar Daddy! Bucky who meets you on a begrudged night out at a friend's club. You're working nights as a cocktail waitress to cover rent, and you end up serving his table, completely oblivious to who he is. You give the table your best, as you always did, and you leave a lasting impression. Bucky ends the night with a call to the club owner (Sam) on the way home, where he asks about you.

Sugar Daddy! Bucky who becomes your only regular. He asks Sam to put his name on the spacious back booth every Saturday. He comes in, bee-lining straight for his table and politely declining the service of the other cocktail girls. Your coworkers start calling him Mr. Morebucks, letting out small giggles as you straighten your apron and check your hair before hitting the club floor to greet Bucky with that award-winning smile.

Sugar Daddy! Bucky who asks you to sit with him. Who has you to tell him about your day, the way one of your tables pissed you off an hour ago, or how Ms.Craig's cat slipped into your bedroom window last week.

Sugar Daddy! Bucky who leaves you with stacks of 100s that would make the dancers blush. With every evening he visits, you leave the club with at least two months' rent stuffed into your purse, the envelope almost bursting at the seams.

Sugar Daddy! Bucky who pitches the arrangement to you on a rainy Tuesday evening, the club being almost desolate. You're shocked to see him, obviously, but he greets you with his usual warm disposition. You both sit in your normal section, and he lays everything out for you, telling you, " Course, if you think I'm some pervy bastard and you never want to see me again, I can make that happen." You laugh, swiftly signing the paperwork he brought with him for 'Tax purposes'

Sugar Daddy! Bucky who has six simple rules

1) You call, he comes, no matter the circumstances, and he expects you to do the same.

2) Never spend your own money. If you need something, use the allocated expenses card he gave you.

3) Check in throughout your day! He wants to hear from you, even if it's silly. How is your day? What did you eat for breakfast? How is the little wiener dog that lives in Apt 4A? He wants to know!

4) Be willing to clear your schedule; he deals with impromptu events, and you're his arm candy.

5) Nothing past light touching is required. He just wants your time and attention, nothing more.

6) The arrangement is always on your terms; any and everything is worth negotiating.

Sugar Daddy! Bucky who values consistency. At first, when your arrangement begins, you see him every Saturday at the club. He has you sit with him at the back corner booth for three hours. Causal conversation and nice liquor are always involved, but he doesn't ask for anything more than your attention. This turns into Saturday at the club and Sundays at a nice restaurant.

He says, "Only Michelin stars from here on out doll face." and truly means it.

This morphs into 'casual' lunches on the weekdays during his two-hour breaks, coffee in between his meetings, and shopping on his days off. Any free time he has becomes dedicated to you, his baby doll.

Sugar Daddy! Bucky who pampers you like a princess. After signing that contract, your life seemed to turn upside down. The days of stressing about the light bill or groceries were far behind you. Your hair and nails stay done, each appointment scheduled for you by his personal assistant Yelena. You only get the best of the best with Bucky around. The best stylists, colorists, and tailors. Weekly massages and brunch dates dot your calendar where your day shifts used to reside. You become Bucky Barnes' personal Barbie doll, wearing the best pieces money can buy.

Sugar Daddy! Bucky who moves you into a penthouse of your own on the Upper East Side, months into your arrangement. He tells you it's to keep car rides shorter, visits easier, but in reality, it's because he worries. It started with an impromptu pop-up at your shabby one-bedroom apartment. After seeing the jimmy-rigged lock and leaky faucet, he was already convinced that it was time to move you out of there. You insisted that everything was fine! You liked your quaint little home. That was until you both sat in your living room, your tiny TV on the highest volume playing Interstellar, and your neighbors who lived below you started fucking. The animalistic noises filling your apartment, volume reaching levels so high you could barely hear the TV any longer. Bucky calls his real estate agent the next morning.

Sugar Daddy! Bucky who keeps up his end of the bargain, depositing ridiculous amounts of money into your bank account every week.

Sugar Daddy! Bucky who has his personal driver pick you up and drop you off anywhere you have to go. With the swipe of your finger, that black Escalade is outside your door, Alexi in the driver's seat, prepared to take you around the world.

Sugar Daddy! Bucky who kisses the ground you walk on. He is always more than willing to drop everything to come to your aid. His friends quickly realize who wears the pants in your 'relationship'. The night that he skipped out on drinks with the guys in favor of your couch-bound movie night, they knew he was a goner. That was until he elected to bring you on the group trip to Fiji. Bucky is in rare form, all smiles and soft laughter. One morning on the beach, Sam confronts him, asking when he was going to fess up to catching real feelings for you.

"How long are you gonna keep up this act Buck? It is real clear that you are head over heels for this girl."

“Sam, I give er' a monthly allowance so that she tolerates me. I highly doubt that shot in the dark is gonna land."

"You don't see the way she looks at you man. Even back when you would come see her at the club, it's like you lit up the night sky for her every time you came around."

"Lighting up the night sky and setting an envelope with 2k on the table are two very different things buddy."

"Trust me Buck, that girl is in love with you. You'd better do something fast, girls like that don't just drop out of the sky."

Sugar Daddy! Bucky who decided to ask you to be his girlfriend during a candlelit dinner on the beach that night. He holds your hands across the table. The warm, salty air whips around you, causing your focus to fall right into the look of pure devotion on Bucky's face.

Sugar Daddy! Bucky who kisses you like a man starved after you give him an ecstatic yes, his soft pink lips melding into yours, the taste of red wine still on his tongue.

Sugar Daddy! Bucky who takes you back to your shared bungalow that night and fucks you into the mattress, all of his pent-up feelings falling from his lips as he makes love to you.

Sugar Daddy! Bucky who wakes you up the next morning with breakfast in bed and a promise ring.

Rich Boyfriend! Bucky who holds your hand the whole first class flight home, excited to see what the future holds for the two of you.

Mecca’s Notes- Mind u I wrote this in a sleepless delusion so if it was ass- WE DGAF WE DIE LIKE MEN!!!! Hope u enjoyed! leave a like and comment if you please :}

Mecca’s Taglist - @sunday-bug @gremlin-girly @wherewinterblooms @wint3rbarnes @angclone @stanmarvelous @barnes-babydoll @wintersoldiersgfie @galactict3a @buckytakethewheel @overwintering-soldier @hyunjinvoid

miraclediviner 25 all rights reserved

[hungermakesmonsters]

I’m on my knees begging for cockwarming with congressman Bucky and his secretary!!!!!

Yessss... thank you so much for sending this one in. I'm really loving the fact that we've all just collectively decided that congressman Bucky is just always horny for his secretary 😅 but, also, I just love the idea of Bucky being able to have nice things/a nice relationship with someone. So, all of these congressman Bucky requests have been really fun to write.

Working Hard (Or Hardly Working)

Pairing : Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Secretary!Reader

Story Rating : M 

Warnings : [This is 18+ only, minors DNI] Cockwarming and smut

When you and Bucky had first started sleeping together, you'd thought that he was the insatiable one, and that you'd be able to maintain a degree of professionalism. After all, it had been years since Bucky had last gotten laid, so he was bound to have some pent up feelings that he needed to fuck away. But, less than two months into your relationship, you were starting to realise that you were the one that couldn't get enough.

Every kiss, every touch — hell, even just the way he'd look at you was enough to get you wet, to have you desperate for his cock. There was just something about him, about the way he fucked you and the way he made you feel, that made you want him. Constantly.

And, that was how you'd ended up on his lap, skirt bunched about your waist, your legs spread wide over his thighs, panties pulled to the side, and his cock buried deep in your cunt. The phone continued to ring and the pair of you continued to work, both of you ignoring how good it felt when he was inside you.

"Congressman Barnes' office, how can I help you?" You asked, your voice breathy as you forced the words. "No, the congressman isn't taking calls right now. Okay — yes, senator, I understand — I'll let him know."

As you put the phone down, you felt his vibranium arm tighten around your waist, holding you in place and making sure you didn't move too much. His eyes were still fixed on his laptop, reading through documents and files relating to the Valentina de Fontaine and the current investigation into her, and — fuck, you didn't know. You couldn't focus enough to even try to understand it. All you could think about was his cock inside you.

You had kissed him and climbed onto his lap, distracting him from his work.

"Doll, I'm busy," he'd muttered against your lips, his cock already twitching with need in his pants.

"We can be quick," you'd offered, wanting nothing more than for him to bend you over his desk and fuck your brains out.

"I don't want to be quick, I want to take my time with you."

That had just made things worse — how had he expected you to not get wet after hearing that?

You had kissed him again, tangling your fingers in his hair.

"I could sit on it?" You'd said in the most sultry voice you could manage. "You could keep working while I keep your cock warm..."

It hadn't taken much to convince him, just another deep kiss and a few shifts of your hips against him. You'd though you were being clever, that once he was inside of you, his resolve would crack and he'd fuck you like you wanted.

But he didn't.

You turned around on his lap, hiked up your skirt, and let him help you sink down onto his cock. It felt good. So good. It was no wonder you were so obsessed with him when he felt so good inside you.

For the first few minutes you had been content to sit still, thinking that he'd be the first to break, that being buried in the wet heat of your cunt would be too much for him to bear. But Bucky was completely still beneath you.

And when you dared to start rocking your hips, Bucky wrapped his vibranium arm around you and held you still.

The phone started to ring, and you took call after call. With every passing minute it got harder to concentrate, harder to think about anything but how big Bucky was and the delicious ache he was causing between your thighs. You didn't waste time daring to hope that he'd go soft inside you — you'd spent enough time with him now to know that, whatever the super soldier serum had done to him, he could stay hard for hours.

The phone rang, just as you were trying not to think about how wet you'd gotten.

"Congressman Barnes' office..." you trailed off, not realising you'd fallen silent until the man on the other end of the call cleared his throat. "H-how can I help you?"

Bucky shuddered behind you.

Laughing. He was laughing at you as you struggled to act professionally.

"I'll check his schedule and email your assistant..." you managed to say, and hastily hung up the phone. Your attention then turned to Bucky. "It's not funny."

You barely managed to keep yourself from pouting.

"I don't know, doll... I think it's pretty —"

He was cut off by the phone ringing again.

"Congressman Barnes' —" you jolted at the feeling of a cold, vibranium finger teasingly pressing against your clit. "— office, how can I... help you?"

Again, Bucky shuddered as he quietly laughed.

His finger stayed where it was, tracing maddening circles onto your sensitive clit. But the movement of his hand also meant you were finally free to rock your hips and try to seek some relief.

"No, I'm sorry," you said, trying to keep a professional tone as you writhed on his lap, "the congressman isn't... available right now. If you want me to take a message..."

You hated yourself for offering the moment the angry woman started to speak again, dictating a list of her grievances. You scrabbled for a pen and your notepad, desperately trying to scrawl down her length complaint, while Bucky continued to tease you.

"Uh-huh," you practically moaned down the phone as she went on and on. "Yes... yes... mhmm."

She kept going, and you finally felt yourself getting close. After almost thirty minutes on his cock, you were so eager to come. You kept rocking your hips and kept trying to write.

"Yes... I... oh... yes. I — I'll make sure to let him... know," you continued, glad that she barely seemed to notice anything you were saying. "Yes! Thank you for your call, I'll be sure to let him know."

The moment you heard the first syllable of goodbye, you slammed the phone down and let out the moan you'd been trying to hold back.

"Who was that?" Bucky asked, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke, sending a shiver down your spine.

"It was, uh —" you glanced at the notepad, to the illegible scrawl you'd left across the paper. You couldn't read a single word until about half way page where you'd started to write the word fuck.

Bucky reached for the notepad and lifted it, tsking when he saw what you had written — or, rather, what you hadn't written.

"I thought you said you could multitask?" He said, his finger stilling on your clit.

You could practically hear the grin on his lips.

"I can, but you were distracting me," you said.

"I better stop distracting you then," he said. A moment later, his arm was around your waist again, stopping your writhing.

"What? No — no, Bucky, please..." you begged as you felt your mounting pleasure start to plateau. "No, please, I was so close..."

"You've still got twenty minutes left on the clock, doll. And I need you to concentrate."

"You can't be serious," you protested, struggling in vain against  his grip. "Bucky, please, I need —"

The phone rang again, cutting off your pleas, and the whole process started over again. You went back to trying to ignore him, trying to pretend you were sitting at your own desk and that he wasn't deep inside of you, filling you so perfectly. But it was impossible. The more you tried to ignore it, the more you thought about it.

Twenty minutes later, you were so wet that you were pretty sure you'd left a damp patch on his pants. (Though you weren't inclined to care about his comfort in the slightest at that moment.)

At 6 on the dot, you folded your arms on the desk and put your head down.

"Have you finished reading your reports yet?" You asked, not caring that your voice came out as a low, needy whine.

Bucky's whole body shook as he laughed again. "I finished forty minutes ago."

"What?"

His arm tightened around you as you tried to pull away from him. It was probably a good thing because you had serious doubts that you'd be able to stand after so long sitting on his cock.

"I can't fucking believe you," you said, not bothering to hold back your annoyance.

Bucky continued to laugh, and you continued to complain and protest until he stood and finally gave you what you'd been craving.

He bent you over the desk and started to fuck you with slow, deep thrusts.

"Don't... think that... I'm not..." you tried to carry on, tried to keep some of your anger, but he'd left you feeling so needy, so desperate, that it all quickly melted away.

"Fuck, doll, you always feel so good," Bucky groaned. "You always get so wet for me..."

You came embarrassingly fast, too sensitive to take much more than a few perfect thrusts. But Bucky wasn't done. He'd been hard for almost an hour, and you could tell he wanted to finally deal with it.

As you came, trembling and babbling beneath him, Bucky pulled out and rolled you onto your back, spreading you open on his desk. Finally, you could see the frustration on his face, and you realised that he needed this just as much as you did. And, fuck, it had to be the hottest thing you'd ever seen.

You moaned his name as he sank inside of you again, and set a faster, rougher pace. The desk creaked and shifted on the carpeted floor, but neither of you cared. His hands gripped your hips, pulling your body into every thrust.

You lost count of how many times you came sometime after your third orgasm, and by the time Bucky was done, you were nothing more than a trembling, whimpering mess spread across his desk. You moaned as he came inside you, wrapping your legs around his waist, holding him there, wanting to keep him just a little while longer.

"Fuck, doll," he groaned, reaching down to brush your sweat-damp hair away from your eyes. "You're gonna have to work from my office more often..."

[heldbybarnes]

Hi Kennedy, thank you for doing such a knockout job w/ my requests!! I have another one, if it tickles your fancy:

Thinkin’ you and Bucky being sent back in time for some mission, and stumbling upon him in the middle of an assassination as the WS. I feel like it could go one of two ways:

1. Bucky has to talk us down from attempting to help WS!Bucky escape Hydra (maybe bc he’s fearful of WS!Bucky hurting us like he did Steve in ‘14?)

or

2. They all end up in bed together bc we’re that determined that WS!Bucky has one positive memory tied to being touched; selfishly, our Bucky agrees, even if they both know Hydra will wipe the Soldier’s memories soon

A combination of the two scenarios could be pretty interesting, ngl, but I’ll be happy w/ whatever you cook up

oh my god. i had so much fun with this. this was such a complex idea as well. you're so big brain for thinking of that!

----------

The moment the portal collapses behind you, the air feels too thin. Moscow, 1984. Snow catches on your lashes, glittering like static. Beside you, Bucky is all tension and breath. His hand flexes once—metal whirring softly—before curling into a fist.

You see him before Bucky does.

A figure across the street, framed by the orange glow of sodium lights. Leather, harness, the glint of a muzzle flash still smoking. He’s so precise it’s almost mechanical, like someone built him out of vengeance and winter. The Winter Soldier.

Your mouth goes dry. Your Bucky freezes like he’s seeing a ghost in the mirror.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “That’s—he’s me.”

The Winter Soldier reloads, pivots, and stalks toward the alley. Mission complete. Target down. You know this look—you’ve seen old Hydra footage. You’ve watched this Bucky tear down entire fortresses without blinking. But none of that prepares you for seeing the haunted body in motion.

You take one step forward. Bucky grabs your arm. “Don’t,” he says, voice tight. “He doesn’t know you. He’s not me. Not yet.”

“But we could—” You can’t help it. “We could help him. Pull him out.”

Bucky’s jaw ticks. “You think I haven’t thought about that every goddamn day since I remembered who I was? If we touch this timeline, they’ll kill him sooner. Or worse, they’ll find you.” He looks at the figure moving through the snow, his face twisted in pain. “You don’t want to be on the other end of his orders, doll. He’ll snap your neck before you can say his name.”

The mission’s comm crackles dead. You’re stranded—temporal coordinates scrambled, extraction hours away. Hydra’s ghosts walking these streets.

And him.

You don’t listen. (You never really do, not when it comes to saving people.) You follow the Winter Soldier when he disappears into the warehouse.

Inside, the air smells like iron and oil. He’s cleaning his gun at a metal table, movements surgical. You freeze when his head tilts, when his eyes—icy, vacant—lock on yours.

He moves faster than gravity. One second you’re breathing; the next your back’s against a wall, metal fingers around your throat. His expression doesn’t change. You could be a target. A witness. He doesn’t even seem curious.

“Asset,” a voice snaps from a hidden comm unit—Hydra handler, sharp and cold. “Return to base.”

He hesitates. That’s the only crack you see.

“Stop!” Bucky’s voice echoes through the warehouse. He emerges from the shadows, gun lowered, palms up. “Hey—easy. Easy, pal.”

The Soldier’s head jerks between you and Bucky. His grip on your throat falters, confusion flickering over his otherwise blank face. Same eyes. Same scars. One alive, one emptied.

“Let her go,” Bucky says softly. “She’s not a threat.”

“Who are you,” the Soldier rasps, the voice like static dragged across metal.

“I’m you,” Bucky answers. “From a time when they don’t own you anymore.”

It’s too much. You can see the conflict, the electric twitch beneath his jaw. Then the hand drops. You stumble forward, coughing. He watches you like he’s cataloguing a reaction he doesn’t recognize.

You should be terrified. You aren’t. You’re wrecked by the ache of it—this man who never got a kind touch that wasn’t followed by pain. The thought wedges deep, dangerous.

“He’s scared of himself,” you whisper to Bucky when the Soldier steps back into the dark.

Bucky’s eyes shutter. “Yeah. He should be.”

But you shake your head. “No, he’s scared because he doesn’t understand gentle anymore.”

He stares at you like you’ve said something blasphemous. “You don’t fix that by touching him.”

“Maybe you do.”

He should stop you. He doesn’t.

When you cross the room again, the Winter Soldier doesn’t reach for his weapon. He stands still, watching the way your hand hovers near his metal arm. The plating gleams faintly in the low light.

“Can I?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t move away either. You lay your palm against the seam of cold steel. He shivers—actually shivers—as if the contact overloads his circuitry.

“That,” you whisper, “is real. You’re real.”

Something fractures. His breath quickens. And then, impossibly, he leans into it.

Bucky’s footsteps sound behind you. “What are you doing?” he murmurs, but it’s too late—he knows exactly what you’re doing. He can feel it, because he remembers that first time someone looked at him like he wasn’t a weapon.

The Soldier’s fingers twitch, uncertain. Your hand catches his wrist before he can pull away.

“It’s okay,” you tell him. “You can touch me.”

He obeys like it’s an order, his palm landing on your hip, tentative. Then firmer. The human hand—flesh, not metal—trembles.

Bucky exhales behind you, a sound equal parts jealousy and grief. He’s seeing his own ghost crumble.

You meet his gaze over the Soldier’s shoulder. “One good memory,” you murmur. “Just one. Please.”

There’s a long silence. Then Bucky nods once.

You don’t know how it starts—only that it’s desperate and quiet. The Soldier doesn’t know softness, so he mimics yours. Every move is measured, cautious, like he’s learning what it means to feel. Bucky stays close, guiding with low words, gentle pressure—“Slow down, pal. Breathe with her.”

When the Soldier’s lips brush your neck, it’s not hunger—it’s disbelief. When his hand fists in your shirt, it’s to anchor himself to the moment, terrified it will vanish like everything else. You guide him, murmuring his name—his real name—against his throat.

Bucky’s voice breaks somewhere in the dark. “They’ll take this from him. You know they will.”

“I know,” you whisper. “Then let’s make it something worth remembering.”

Between you both, the Soldier stills. For one suspended heartbeat, he’s not a ghost or a gun. He’s a man caught between lives—held steady by the two people who understand him best.

When he finally comes apart, it’s silent, like the exhale of a prayer.

Dawn smears grey across the windows. The Soldier sleeps, head pillowed against your thigh, unguarded for once. You smooth his hair back, fingers gentle.

Bucky crouches beside you, voice raw. “You gave him peace for a night,” he says. “You didn’t have to do that.”

You look at the sleeping version of him—the one who never got out. “I think I did.”

Bucky’s hand covers yours, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “You realize when he wakes up, they’ll wipe this. Every second.”

“Maybe not all of it,” you say softly. “Maybe he’ll dream of warmth once in a while and not know why.”

Bucky studies his own sleeping face for a long time. Then, almost reverently, he bends and presses a kiss to the Soldier’s temple. “Hang in there, pal,” he murmurs. “We made it. You’ll get there.”

The extraction beacon hums to life. Light floods the room.

You hold on to the warmth of both of them until the world folds, until the snow and silence dissolve.

When you land back in the present, Bucky’s hand is still wrapped around yours, trembling. “Did it happen?” you ask.

He swallows. “Maybe. I had a dream once—years ago. Thought it was a memory I made up. Someone’s voice saying, you’re real.”

You smile through the ache. “Guess it wasn’t a dream after all.”

He kisses your forehead, the words rough against your skin. “Thank you for giving him that.”

You look past him, at the dawn creeping over the compound. “You gave him that too.”

He shakes his head. “We both did.”

And somewhere, far back in a time no one remembers, a soldier wakes up with a trace of warmth pressed into the cold place where Hydra once lived—something human that refuses to fade.

[ros3sgarden-deactivated20251231]

☆- Do I Wanna Know?

Chapter 2: Kiss The Chef

Series

Paring: Bucky Barnes x single mother!reader Tags: Anxious Bucky, socially awkward Bucky, Bucky missing social queues, Bucky in an apron, domestic Bucky, domestic fluff, Bucky being a simp, awkward use of profanity (Imo.) Word Count: 2.9k

It’s been two weeks since your bizarre meeting with the infamous super soldier, who also happened to share a mutual friend with you. 

You knew at one point Sam would entangle you in his Avenging business, you did meet Steve at one point, that was before he miraculously disappeared off the face of the earth. 

Though Sam did tell you the truth a couple weeks after it all happened, which trampled any theory in your mind. The whole story was rather endearing in a way, although bittersweet. 

A man encased in ice for about 70 years. Then he was thrown into the modern world as an Avenger, and after several years he gave that up just to be with the love of his life.

They truly don’t make men like they used to anymore.

So when you had heard your good friend Sam had taken up his mantle. You knew it wouldn’t be long before stars and stripe’s best friend would come to the limelight, and he did.

But what you didn’t expect is after all the flag smashers stuff was officially over and your best friend is now the Captain America. Was for his new buddy the Winter Solider, a man your daughter recently became a fan of, to be standing in Sam’s living room.

So as you’re working your cafe job, vigorously wiping tables while sweat clings to your forehead. Your mind wanders back to the moment, a small smile unknowingly plasters on your face.

You felt odd admitting it in your head but the guy was strikingly handsome. Like he should seriously consider modeling, though with his reputation maybe it’s best not to.

Your smile grows as the image of your daughter's face flashes in your mind, she looked so happy meeting him you thought she would combust. A small laugh escapes you as you replay the memory, a warm feeling lingering in your chest.

Then the store bells jingle, announcing a person’s arrival. You give your usual forced customer service voice.

“I’ll be right with you!” 

But as you lift your head up from your activities and see who’s standing at the front you jump a little. Which sends the cleaning solution you had open off the table, a bunch of the contents spilling onto your apron.

You really should have used the spray bottle today.

“Sorry, didn't mean to scare you.” Sam says with a sheepish apologetic look, and beside him is his tall brunette quiet friend you met at the party. He gives you a nod and what resembles a smile, at least by his standards.

You let out a sigh, but you give Sam what you hope is a reassuring look. You shrug off your drenched apron and throw it on the table.

“It’s fine, I was closing up anyway.” You say as you head over and flip the sign to signal that the shop was closed.

Sam gives a fake pout, putting his hands on his hips.

“Awe you mean we can’t try one of your frozen drinks with absurd titles like ‘Unicorn glitter shit?’”

You give a dramatic eyeroll at the name, matching Sam’s stance. You gather your cleaning supplies from one of the tables and walk behind the counter. While fixing up you talk over your shoulder.

“I can whip up something simple, what do you guys want?” 

Sam asks for a medium roast coffee with cream and sugar, you're met with silence from the other man though. After putting everything away you turn to face Bucky from over the counter, waiting for his order.

He stares at you for a moment, keeping quiet. You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms. Does he always stare like that?

Sam nudges his arm which pulls Bucky out of his weird trance. He clears his throat and looks at the ground.

“A black coffee sounds good…” He mutters.

Black coffee? For some reason that makes perfect sense and you try to hold back laughter. You start making their drinks and Sam speaks up.

“Actually we did come here for something….” And there it is, Sam was probably asking for another favor, and given the fact Bucky is beside him, nerves settle in your stomach as you think over what his next statement could entail. 

He’s asked you before with help on missions, nothing too dangerous. You were a tech wiz in highschool, honestly if Sam had met Steve before he would have probably begged you to join S.H.I.E.L.D. Although considering the result of the company and their downfall, maybe it’s best he didn’t.

So he sometimes asked you for help with getting information, sometimes it wasn’t in the safest way. But you knew he would always protect you.

You remain silent while making their drinks, waiting for Sam to continue. Although your movements stiffen as you feel piercing blue eyes on the back of your head. Sam clears his throat.

“Me and Sarah are throwing a cookout tonight, I was going to invite you sooner but we’ve been…..busy.” Sam rubs the back of his neck, exchanging a quick glance with Bucky as he speaks.

It wasn’t unusual for Sam to invite you to one of his cookouts, he practically did one every week. But it’s been a while since he was caught up in tracking down the flag smashers.

What caught you by surprise is the fact that Bucky is there, so that must mean he’s attending too. Are those two just a package deal now?

You ponder it for a moment while finishing up their drinks. It isn't a school night so Emma doesn’t have to go to bed early, and gosh you could really eat.

You hand the two their drinks, pursing your lips as Sam waits for your response.

“Sure,” you say finally.

Sam fist pumps the air with a smile while Bucky’s expression remains neutral. Your eyes drift to him, you had to ask.

“So I assume you’re coming too?” You ask him directly.

Bucky shifts in his stance, one hand in his pocket as he’s in the middle of sipping his drink. His head lifts up to look at you and his eyes make your confidence waver a little. He nods.

“Uh yeah,” this time he gives you a more discernible smile. It’s small and doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s there. You smirk, leaning against the counter and crossing your arms.

“Guess I’ll have to bring your biggest fan then.” With that his smile grows a little bigger and he nods again. You have a celebratory moment in your mind.

Sam’s eyes dart between you two, watching the exchange with a grin. He clears his throat.

“Anyway….it’s tonight at 6, my nephews will be there so bring Emma.” You snort.

“I don’t think I can go anywhere without that girl these days. It took forever to find a baby sitter and I think her current one is about to quit.” You frown at the ground with your hands on your hips.

“What, is she a trouble maker?” Bucky asks, which shocks you a little. Sam gives him a wide eye glare, you wave him off. 

“No nothing like that, she really is a sweet kid. We’re just barely getting by. With the fees to keep the shop running, and the construction guys from taking it down the moment I pay a bill too late. It’s hard to pay a babysitter's worth ....” 

Ever since your ex left, it’s been hard to pay for everything, to stay comfortable. He used to pay for a lot, which you were grateful for. But he was still a prick nonetheless, so as soon as he left basically everything that belonged to him left with him.

You look back up at Bucky and catch the frown on his face. You heave a great sigh, feeling the atmosphere dim.

“Anyway, I’ll head to my apartment to get ready and pick up Emma then I’ll be there. Thanks for inviting me Sam.” You say with what you hope is a convincing smile as you try straightening your posture.

Sam gives a small smile in return, even he can’t bring the mood back up. 

“No problem.” And with that the two exit the cafe and you finish closing up.

Sam and Bucky walk side by side in an uncomfortable silence. Bucky surprisingly is the first one to break it.

“She seems to be going through a lot,” Bucky says, staring at his coffee as he walks. His lips are pulled in a tight line. Sam nods, trying to work up a response in his mind. 

“She has been through a lot of shit, one of the strongest people I know though. She puts on a smile for her daughter every day, I think without Emma she would have stopped fighting a long time ago.”

Bucky frowns at the thoughts, while your selfless behavior brings admiration within him. He can’t help but feel bad, you have no one to take care of You . No one looks after you like you do for Emma. Sam gives his friend a curious look.

“What’s going on through that head of yours?” He asks. Bucky takes a deep breath, not sure what he should say. No one has really been on his mind this often as of recently as you have, both you and your daughter.

Since meeting he’s been replaying the interaction in his head, the image of you popping in his mind at the most unexpected moments. The way your hair falls around your face, the curve of your lips, the way your hips moved when you walked with insane confidence…

“cky- Bucky?” Sam’s voice slices through Bucky’s wandering thoughts, he blinks a couple of times.

“Yeah?” He finally answers. Sam stares at Bucky with a raised eyebrow, his coffee already finished. Bucky stares down at his half empty cup.

“I was calling your name for a good fifteen seconds..” 

“My bad I was just…thinking.” Bucky tries to shove down the heat of his embarrassment, was he really thinking about you like that right now?

“About a certain single mother I presume?” Sam says with a shit eating grin. Bucky scoffs and glares at him, but the rose color creeps up a little more to his neck.

“You know she’s a good fit for you, you both have that shared trauma thing going on.” Sam continues, waving his hands to gesture all over, the brunette gives him a weird look. Bucky swallows, trying to formulate a response.

“Dating is just…hard, now especially, and for someone like me? I don’t know Sam….”

“Look Buck if you’re about to give me that whole ‘I’m not worthy because of my path speech’ save it. She’s not a stranger to people with a past like yours, in fact she’s lived in a few of her shared broken memories. But as her best friend, she needs someone just as much as you do right now.”

Bucky lets out a noise adjacent to a grumble.

“I don’t need anyone…..” Sam gives him a look, crossing his arms, Bucky huffs.

“I’ll..think on it.” He says with hesitance.

“Damn right you will,” Sam answers back with a smirk.

You take longer than usual getting ready for the cookout, and it most certainly doesn’t have to do anything with a certain super soldier who just so happens to be going.

“Mommy? Are you ready yet? I’m hungrryy.” You hear your daughter whine from the other room  as you sit in front of your mirror, applying generous amounts of mascara to accentuate your eyelashes.

You let out a sigh, closing the mascara tube and doing one final check on your look in the mirror. Good enough.

You walk towards the front of Sam’s house with your daughter holding your hand. Before knocking you take a moment to kneel down with Emma and mention something.

“Just so you know Bucky is going to be there,” you say with a small smile and her eyes light up.

“Winter Soldier!!!” She says with too much enthusiasm for a 7 year old talking about an ex-assassin.

You pull your lips into a tight line.

“Mm maybe call him something else,” you say.

“Mr.Bucky?” You try not to smile at the new name.

“Sure,” you answer, then stand to your full height to knock on the door.

Sam answers the door and as he sees you he puts on a big grin. 

“Hey!!” He pulls you into a hug, then he kneels down a bit for Emma and ruffles her hair.

“Everyone’s outside,” he says and you begin to follow him through the house and out to the backyard.

Immediately the smell of grilled patties hits your nose and your stomach growls in response, so does Emma’s. Sam gives a hearty laugh.

“Looks like you two are hungry, Bucky’s just about finished grilling the burgers.” Bucky? You look around and catch Bucky at the grill flipping burgers.

And tied to his torso is an apron that reads kiss the chef. You give Sam a look and he gives you the biggest grin ever. You walk over to Bucky with Sam to greet him, trying not to smile so much at the sight of him in the apron.

His face looks concentrated as he focuses on flipping the patties, his eyebrows knit together. One hand grips the spatula while the other is on his hip. 

You can’t help but think of how domesticated he looks right now, like a dad. You shake the thought out of your mind immediately and speak up.

“Hey,” you say with a small wave.

Bucky looks over at you and turns off the grill, he looks down and remembers what he’s wearing. Heat creeps up to his neck in embarrassment.

“Uh…Sam made me wear this, said it was necessary, which is utter bullshit.” Bucky explains as he gives Sam a glare. Sam puts his hand on his hips and pouts.

“Bucky there are children around,” he says and Bucky looks down to meet Emma’s eyes as she’s smiling.

“Woops,” he says with a shrug and you can’t help but smirk.

“Anyway, here let me serve you first.” Bucky says as he grabs a paper plate and starts asking what condiments you want. Sam raises an eyebrow.

“She’s like- super late how come she gets it first?” Sam says with a knowing look towards the brunette, he shifts uncomfortably in his stance.

“Cause she isn’t a butthead like you,” Bucky shoots back, but the replacement of his usual potty mouth makes the insult fall short and you snort.

“Whatever man just hurry up, we got a lot of hungry people to feed.”

The night carries on, the sounds of friendly chatter and kids playing around flow through the crisp air. Later as everyone piles out, you, Sam, and Bucky reside on the lounge chairs outside. Beers in hand as Emma and Sam’s nephews play around the backyard.

The kids are playing some sort of tug of war game, Emma on her own side, but she’s managing to win every time.

“Wow she’s kicking their asses,” Bucky mutters and you smile.

“I should really take the kids to the gym,” Sam says with a disappointed look and you and Bucky laugh.

“She’s a good kid,” Bucky says to you in a soft voice and it makes your heart melt. Any praise for your daughter is appreciated but coming from him? Something about it stirs in your chest.

“I tried my best,” you say humbly with a smile.

“Well your best is pretty fucking good,” he counters and you smile big, an awkward giddy laugh coming out at the sudden praise towards you. 

Sam watches your interaction with a grin and a raised eyebrow. He puts his hand on his knees and hoists himself up from the chair.

“I’m gonna go grab another one,” he says and shakes his empty beer bottle. He slides the door open and retreats to the kitchen inside.

A silence falls on the two of you, you’ve never once had a conversation without Sam there. Then a thought crosses your mind.

“Emma turns 8 next week,” you say, trying to keep a casual tone in your voice.

“8 huh? Pretty big number” Bucky says as he takes a swig of his beer, you smile and nod. You seemed to be smiling a lot around him.

“Yeah, I couldn’t be prouder,” you say with genuine fondness in your voice as you look towards your little girl. She wins another game of tug of war. You purse your lips and look down at your lap, mustering up the courage to ask him your question.

“Would you wanna come? It’s gonna be held here in Sam’s backyard…naturally.” 

Bucky’s eyes fall on you, an unreadable expression on his face.

“You want me to come?” He asks.

“She would love it if you were there,” you answer back. I would love it if you were there, but you don’t say that. He looks like he’s thinking it over for a moment, his eyes falling back on where Emma is roughhousing with the boys, he smiles.

“Sure,” he finally answers, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Good….good,” you say as you take a sip of your beer. 

The Winter Soldier and Captain America are coming to your daughter's 8th birthday party, you try not to smile too hard at the thought.

[ros3sgarden-deactivated20251231]

☆- Do I Wanna Know?

Chapter 1: An Interesting Duo

Series

Paring: Bucky Barnes x single mother!reader Tags: Anxious Bucky, socially awkward Bucky, Sam's bestfriend!reader, domestic fluff, Autistic coded kid, old fashioned Bucky, Sarah my beloved<3 Word Count: 1.5k

Bucky doesn’t like parties, Sam’s invited him to a few of his neighborhood ones but he rejects every single time. However, this time was different, Sam practically begged Bucky to come, he said he wanted him to meet someone. Although he still wasn’t fond of the idea he reluctantly agreed.

So that’s what led to today, the two were approaching Sam’s house now, chatting away as Bucky had his hands in his pockets, his stance rigid. Sam notices his tense demeanor and speaks up.

“What’s up?”

“I’m…just not sure about this Sam, your neighbors are friendly and all but these parties still aren’t my thing.” He says with a shrug, keeping his hands inside his pockets still.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to talk to anyone the whole way through if you just let me introduce you to this one person.”

Bucky wasn’t exactly scared about the party anymore, his nerves run a little deeper as he wonders why Sam is so adamant on him meeting this mystery person.

“And what exactly makes this person so special?” He asks as they stop right in front of the house.

“You’ll see,” Sam says with a smirk that makes Bucky’s stomach uneasy with curiosity.

As Sam drags Bucky throughout the house a couple people greet him, he responds back with his usual friendly voice. Meanwhile Bucky just gives everyone a nod, he didn’t know a single person here.

“Ah there you are!” Sam says as he lets go of Bucky and approaches a lady who seems to be in her 20’s, probably no older than 29.

“I want you to meet my friend,” though you stop dead in your tracks when you look at Bucky like he’s a familiar face.

Bucky’s stance goes rigid as he probably knows the reason, not many people recognize him as the winter soldier anymore because of his haircut and gloved hand. However you seem to recognize him right away, Bucky tenses as he anticipates your response.

Then a little girl comes running up, probably no older than 7, and she clings to you as she gleams at Bucky with excitement. Bucky raises an eyebrow at Sam, what is going on?

“Mommy it’s the Winter Soldier!!” The little girl says as she tugs on your arm. Mommy? This woman was a mom? Bucky’s thoughts swirl as he watches you two, just why did Sam want him to meet you?

Sam leans in and whispers into Bucky’s ear.

“Her daughter is a big fan of yours.” Sam says as he waits for Bucky’s reaction. So you’re her mom, and your daughter….was a fan….of him?

What sort of kid would be a fan of an ex-assassin?

Bucky stands there with his hands on his hips, trying to make sense of the situation.

“I wasn’t aware I had fans…”

The little girl smiles and her eyes sparkle when she looks at him. Then she pulls at her mothers arm.

“Can he sign my backpack?” She looks up at you with pleading eyes and well, how could you say no to that face?

You crouch down, a little hesitant to speak up, you purse your lips in thought.

“Oh- I don’t know the man is very busy,” you try to make up an excuse so as to not overwhelm the super soldier. You look up at him from where you’re crouched and Bucky’s words get caught in his throat at the sight, maybe he was feeling a little under the weather or something.

He swallows roughly before speaking.

“I could- sign it ... .if you’d like.”

He says as he scratches the back of his neck, you let out a small sigh of relief.

“Alright, go get it.”

You say as you nod in the direction of where the kid’s bag is. The girl jumps with excitement as she runs off to another room to go retrieve it. You stand up and cross your arms, smiling warmly as you speak.

“Her name's Emma,” you begin to explain.

“She’s been a fan of yours since everyone from the blip came back. She loves your redemption story.” You mention with a little hesitation.

It’s been a couple months since the legend Iron Man sacrificed himself and half the population came back to earth. Also since Steve left…..

Bucky nods with a small smile, he pushes down the thoughts of mourning his old friend.

“I never expected to have a fan, much less someone that young,” he says. Shifting his gaze to where Emma had run off to. You give him a shrug as your eyes follow the direction of his gaze, your hand on your hips.

“Yeah she’s 7 now, she’s always been a- unique kid…but I love her to death.”

“I can tell,” Bucky says quietly, before getting a good look at you now. For a single mom you definitely looked put together, and Bucky felt silly for admitting it but in his head he thought you were attractive. Whatever man was with you was certainly lucky.

You hum in response at Bucky’s remark, then Emma comes back in running. She places her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath for a moment. You bend down to her level again.

“You didn’t have to run y’know, he’s not going anywhere.” You say with a smirk as you ruffle her hair.

The design of the backpack catches Bucky’s eye, a silver bag with a giant red star in the middle. The same design he had on his old arm. You notice Bucky’s look.

“She saw it online and begged me to buy it for her,” you say as you bite back a smile.

“I didn’t even know they made them like these….” He says with a huff, a surprised look on his face.

“There’s a couple pieces of Winter Soldier merch out there,” Sam says. Bucky gives him a curious look and he explains himself.

“Okay look I was originally looking for merch of myself and I stumbled upon it,” Sam admits as he raises his hands in defense and you snort into your hand.

“Merch?” Bucky questions.

“Short for merchandise,” You answer.

“You people abbreviate everything these days,” he mumbles and you can’t help but find it endearing. Emma speaks up.

“Mom?” She waves her bag around with an impatient look on her face. Bucky chuckles at the kid’s persistence. He takes the bag from her hands, trying to conceal emotions which conflicted inside of him. Emma was adorable and Bucky couldn’t help but feel prideful that she has such admiration for him. He looks back up at you.

“Do you have a- marker or anything?”

Sarah pops in, having overheard the conversation. She grabs a sharpie from the counter and tosses it to you.

“Could you give that to him then come help me for a moment? The pies are ready.” Sarah says as she tries to hide the amused look on her face.

You click your tongue and hand Bucky the pen, your fingers grazing over his as you do so. You follow Sarah out of the living room and into the kitchen. Bucky tries to shove down the feeling the sudden contact sends through him. This is a married woman for Christ’s sake.

Bucky’s eyes follow you as you exit the room, he mentally shakes his head, snapping out of his thoughts as he looks down at the bag he’s holding. Emma grins excitedly, her eyes wide with anticipation.

Bucky smiles softly before uncapping the sharpie with his mouth, he looks at the design on the bag again for a moment. He smiles before he gently signs the fabric with his autograph.

Emma grabs the bag excitedly thanking him, he bends down to her level and smiles at her. Then without warning she pulls him into a hug, her small arms wrapping around his neck. Her attention quickly disperses as she goes to show Sam’s nephews her autographed bag.

Bucky lets out a quiet huff of surprise, twirling the sharpie in his hand. He wasn’t expecting the hug but it brings a small smile to his face as she leaves. Sam looks down at Bucky with a grin while he’s still crouched.

Bucky raises an eyebrow at his friend’s expression.

“What?” He says, crossing his arms.

“I told you so,” referring to the fact that Bucky would enjoy the meeting with the ‘special person’ Sam’s been talking about. Bucky huffs and grumbles, looking towards the direction Emma went off to, then his eyes trail to the direction you went….

“She’s cute right?” Sam asks as he moves closer to Bucky.

“Sure, but she’s with someone,” Bucky says, trying to keep his voice from changing octaves out of nerves.

“She isn’t,” Sam counters with a smug expression.

“What?” Bucky mutters as he turns to his friend

“Not the traditional kind of family you’re used to I know, but the dad is long gone out of the picture. I can’t say much cause that’s hers to tell but….” Sam’s eyes land back onto where you were in the other room.

“All you should know is that she’s single,” Sam says with another shit-eating grin, Bucky scoffs at his remark.

But his eyes follow in the same direction, a puzzled expression on his face. You and your daughter were certainly an interesting duo.

[softlybarnes]

midnight motions

congressman!barnes x girlfriend!reader summary: in D.C's restless midnight glow, congressman Bucky Barnes battles bills and burdens—luckily for him, you’re right there to help him.. focus. (1.3k words) warnings: 18+ mdni. smut, cockwarming, light praise kink, unprotected sex, bucky being huge, p in v, creampie. a/n: first time writing, lil nervous, but couldn't get the thought out of my head. wishing congressman!barnes was real </3

The hum of D.C. never really stops—not even at 1 a.m., when the city lights bleed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Bucky’s office like distant stars mocking your insomnia. You’re curled on the leather couch in the corner, legs tucked under you, a forgotten mug of chamomile tea cooling on the side table. It’s one of those nights where the weight of the world—his world—presses down, and all you can do is watch him unravel thread by thread.

Bucky Barnes, Congressman from New York, silver-tongued charmer by day, is a storm contained in a crisp white button-down tonight. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing the faint scars on his right arm that you trace like Braille when he’s not looking. His hair’s a mess from running his flesh hand through it, vibranium fingers flipping pages of those endless government packets—thick stacks of proposed bills, amendments, classified memos that make your eyes glaze over just glancing at them. He’s been at it for hours, jaw set, blue eyes narrowing at some fiscal clause that’s got him muttering under his breath.

He catches you staring now, head tilting up from the desk. A slow smile tugs at his lips, softening the furrow in his brow. “C’mere,” he says, voice low and rough, like he’s been swallowing smoke. “You’re too far away.”

Your cheeks heat, a familiar flush creeping up your neck. You unfold yourself from the couch, padding across the Persian rug in socked feet, the hem of your oversized sweater—his sweater—brushing your thighs, your cotton panties hidden underneath, well, because sometimes you feel bold in the quiet hours, even if your tongue ties itself in knots when he looks at you like that.

He doesn’t look away as you approach, eyes darkening like ink in water. The chair creaks when he leans back, patting his thigh with that metal hand—cool, unyielding, a promise. “Sit” he murmurs, and it’s not a command, but God, it feels like one wrapped in velvet.

You hesitate, fingers twisting in the sweater’s hem. “Bucky… your work—”

“Work can wait two seconds.” His hand catches yours, tugging gently until you’re straddling his lap, knees sinking into the plush leather on either side of his hips. He’s already half-hard beneath his slacks, the evidence of how you affect him pressing insistent against your clothed core as you settle. Barely any barriers—just the thin fabric of his trousers and your underwear, and the heat building between you like a fever.

A soft whimper escapes you, unbidden, and you bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of his cologne mingled with ink and stress-sweat. Shy, always so shy, but he loves it—loves how you tremble like a leaf in his palm, how you give yourself over inch by inch.

“Shh, easy, sweetheart” he breathes, free hand sliding up your thigh, bunching the sweater higher. His vibranium fingers are precise, deft, tracing the seam where thigh meets hip before dipping lower. Pushing your panties aside, he finds you slick already, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he circles your clit once, twice, just enough to make your hips buck involuntarily. “Fuck, you’re soaked for me. Been thinkin’ about this all night?”

You nod against his skin, too flustered to speak, teeth grazing his collarbone. He chuckles, the sound vibrating through you, and then he’s undoing his belt with practiced ease—one-handed, because of course he is. The zipper rasps, and cool air kisses your skin before he’s freeing himself, thick and heavy, the flushed head of his cock nudging at your entrance.

“Want you close” he says, softer now, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Just like this. Keep me warm while I finish this damn section, yeah?”

It’s filthy, the way he says it—casual, like he’s asking you to pass the salt—but there’s that undercurrent, the tension coiling tight in his voice, in the way his grip tightens on your hip. You lift just enough, guiding him to your folds, and sink down slow, inch by torturous inch. He’s big, always stretching you in that perfect, aching way, filling you until you’re seated fully, flush against him, his cock buried to the hilt inside your fluttering walls.

“Oh—Bucky” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders, head falling back. The fullness is overwhelming, every ridge and vein of him pulsing hot against your most sensitive spots. You clench around him instinctively, and he hisses, head thunking back against the chair.

“Jesus, doll… that’s it. Just—fuck—just hold still.” His hand spans your back, holding you steady, while the other… the other picks up the packet again, vibranium fingers turning the page with mechanical precision. But you feel it—the tremor in his thighs, the way his cock twitches deep inside you, leaking precome that mixes with your arousal, slicking the join where you’re connected.

You try to obey, try to be good, but it’s impossible. Every shift of your hips sends sparks skittering up your spine, your clit grinding against the coarse hair at his base. You rock once, just a tiny roll, and he growls, low and warning, free hand coming down to still you with a firm press. “Ah-ah. Not yet. Let me read.”

But his eyes aren’t on the paper anymore. They’re on you—dark, hooded, drinking in the way your lips part on silent pleas, the flush painting your chest above the sweater’s neckline. The packet crinkles in his grip, forgotten mid-sentence as he sets it aside, both hands now claiming you. Metal and flesh, cool and warm, sliding under the sweater to cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they’re peaked and aching.

“You’re killin’ me here” he mutters, voice wrecked, hips canting up just enough to nudge that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “So tight, so wet… squeezin’ me like you can’t get enough. My pretty girl, takin’ me so deep.”

The praise undoes you, a whine spilling from your throat as you clench around him again, harder this time. Filthy words from that soft mouth—it’s the contrast that gets you every time, the congressman who quotes policy by day, whispering depravity like scripture in the dark. You hide your face again, mortified by how loud your breaths are coming, how your body’s betraying you with every quiver.

He tips your chin up with his flesh hand, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Look at me” he says, and when you do, his gaze is molten. “You’re beautiful like this. My perfect girl. Gonna make you come just like this—sittin’ pretty on my cock, takin’ what you need.”

He doesn’t move, not really—just those shallow rolls of his hips, grinding you down onto him, the friction building like a storm front. Your hands fist in his shirt, the fabric straining over his chest as you ride the edge, tension winding tighter and tighter. It’s soft, in a way—the way he murmurs endearments against your skin, kisses feather-light along your jaw—but filthy too, the wet sounds of your bodies joined, the obscene stretch of him claiming every inch of you.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he coaxes, vibranium fingers slipping between you to rub tight circles over your clit. “Give it to me. Let me feel you fall apart.”

You do—shattering with a cry that’s half-sob, half-prayer, walls pulsing around him in waves that drag a guttural moan from his throat. He follows seconds later, spilling hot and thick inside you, hips jerking as he holds you down, grinding deep to chase every last pulse.

The packets scatter to the floor when he finally pulls you closer, wrapping you in his arms—metal and flesh, safe and sure. “Good girl” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead. “Knew you’d help me focus.”

You laugh, breathless and boneless, nuzzling into him. The city’s still humming outside, but in here, it’s just you—shy, sated, and utterly his.