:p

26. fic collector, currently obsessed with this man (nat too sometimes bc im a greedy bisexual) main: @babybongwater

[heldbybarnes]

do you understand how feral bucky would be the moment he finds out you’re pregnant??

like it’s not enough that you’ve just told him the biggest, most life-changing news—his brain goes straight caveman. straight into “mine. filled you up. did this to you.” territory.

you barely finish saying the words before he’s on you, eyes blown wide, hands shaking as they grip your hips like he can’t decide if he should fall to his knees and worship you or pin you down and fuck you senseless. spoiler: it’s both.

he keeps muttering it over and over, half-crazed—“my girl’s carryin’ my baby. fuck—look at you, doll. did so good for me. takin’ me so deep every night and now you’re full of me for real.” it’s not even sex at this point, it’s an exorcism. he’s everywhere—kissing your stomach like he’s saying thank you, then dragging you to bed and slamming into you like he’s trying to remind your body who put that baby there.

he’s possessive in a way you’ve never seen before. hand splayed over your stomach like a brand while he pounds into you, growling “gonna keep you like this, doll. always mine. always full.” and you know he’s not gonna last, because he’s too far gone—breeding kink on steroids, the high of knowing his cock just changed your life forever.

the whole thing’s messy, frantic—clothes half-off, sheets kicked down, his teeth sinking into your neck like he has to mark you all over again. he keeps staring at your stomach, pupils blown, like he can see the proof of his obsession blooming there.

and when you finally break, shaking apart under him, he follows instantly—groaning your name like a prayer, hips stuttering as he pushes in deep, like he’s scared you’ll forget how you got here if he doesn’t remind you with every thrust.

after, he doesn’t let you go. not even for a second. he’s still inside you, still trembling, whispering in that wrecked voice, “you’re mine, doll. mine forever. my baby. my family. fuck—love you so much.”

and you’re just lying there, ruined, realizing you’ve unleashed something dangerous because pregnant sex with bucky? yeah. you’re never walking normal again.

@chateaubarnes @blowingbarnes thought you two may have a vested interest in this one🔥👀😂

[heldbybarnes]

bucky who would drop everything if his wife texted him from their room in the compound asking for snuggles.

like he could be mid-conversation, his phone buzzes, and it’s just one word: “snuggles?” and suddenly he’s usian bolt sprinting to get to his wife.

this is 10000% factually accurate. argue with the wall

--------

He’s in the middle of a conversation when it happens.

Mid-sentence, actually—something about mission briefings and supply delays and why Sam thinks the coffee machine is haunted—when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

It’s subtle. A soft vibration against his thigh. Easy to ignore.

Bucky Barnes does not ignore it.

He stops talking like someone hit pause on him.

Sam squints. “—you good, man?”

Bucky’s already pulling his phone out, thumb moving on muscle memory alone. He doesn’t even bother to hide it, doesn’t bother to pretend he isn’t checking it right there in the common room, in front of God and the entire Avengers roster.

One notification.

From you.

One word.

Snuggles?

That’s it. No punctuation. No emoji. Just the question mark hanging there like a trap.

Bucky’s face changes immediately.

It’s subtle if you don’t know him. A softening around the eyes. His jaw unclenches. His shoulders drop like the weight of the world just slid off them.

Then he’s gone.

Literally gone.

One second he’s standing there, phone in hand. The next, he pivots on his heel and takes off at a speed that absolutely should not be possible in a government-funded building.

“Was that—” Sam starts.

A blur barrels past the couch.

Wanda blinks. “Did he just—”

“He did,” Sam says, watching Bucky disappear down the hall. “He absolutely did.”

Clint leans forward, delighted. “Is he running? For love?”

“For snuggles,” Sam mutters.

Bucky does not slow down.

Not for corners. Not for stairs. Not for dignity.

He takes the hallway like a man possessed, boots pounding against polished floors, metal arm swinging in perfect rhythm. Someone yells something behind him—probably about no running in the compound—but he doesn’t even register it.

All he can see is your door.

Your room.

His room.

Your bed.

He skids to a stop outside the door, hand already lifting, then thinks better of it and opens it quietly, because he knows you. Because if you asked for snuggles, you might already be halfway to sleep.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And there you are.

Curled up on the bed, blankets pulled up to your chin, hair messy, eyes heavy. One pillow clutched to your chest like a placeholder.

Your head turns when you hear him.

A smile spreads across your face.

“You came fast,” you murmur.

Bucky exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment his phone buzzed.

“Always,” he says, low and certain.

He toe-kicks his boots off without bothering to line them up, shrugs out of his jacket, and crawls onto the bed with the kind of reverence most people reserve for churches.

The second he’s close enough, you reach for him.

The second he’s close enough, he folds around you.

It’s automatic. Years of muscle memory and instinct and need. His arm slides under your neck. His chest presses to your back. His metal hand settles at your waist, warm despite everything.

You hum, content, melting into him.

“There it is,” you sigh.

He presses his face into your hair, inhales deeply. Shampoo. Laundry soap. You.

His whole body finally relaxes.

“What happened?” he murmurs. “You okay?”

You shrug a little. “Just… one of those days.”

That’s all it takes.

His grip tightens—not possessive, not restrictive. Just there. Solid. A promise.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I got you.”

You wiggle closer, fitting yourself against him like you were made to go there. Like you belong there.

Which you do.

His thumb starts tracing slow, absent patterns against your hip. Circles. Lines. The same motion he does when he’s grounding himself, except now it’s for you. Or maybe it’s still for him. The line between the two has blurred over the years.

You tilt your head back until it rests against his shoulder.

“Did I interrupt something important?” you ask, teasing.

Bucky snorts quietly.

“Sam was talking,” he says. “So no.”

You laugh, soft and sleepy.

He smiles into your hair.

“You texted,” he continues. “That’s important.”

You turn in his arms to face him, eyes warm.

“Even if it’s just snuggles?”

“Especially if it’s just snuggles.”

He kisses your forehead. Your temple. The corner of your mouth.

The world outside your room doesn’t exist anymore.

No missions. No trauma. No ghosts. No expectations.

Just this.

Just you and him tangled together in the quiet, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, his breath warm against your skin.

Down the hall, somewhere far away, Sam is absolutely telling everyone what just happened.

Bucky does not care.

He’s exactly where he needs to be.

And if your phone buzzes again later—snacks? or still here? or don’t move—he’ll answer that call too.

Every time.

Without hesitation.

Without regret.

Because if his wife wants snuggles?

Everything else can wait.

[funkybarnes]

I would say yes sir to any question he has because LOOK AT THOSE FINGERS

[tw1sters]

Cute

Bucky can never stay mad at you for too long.

▸ PROMPT: Jan 21 / They just said get up there and make some trouble of January Jumble Scribbles by @societynsoelsscribbles ▸ PAIRING: Bucky Barnes x Team Member!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: Fluff, slight humor, Bucky curses a lot ▸ WORD COUNT: 300 ▸ A/N: i love writing an angry protective bucky, but especially when he's soft for reader. in this case, the reader is part of the team, flexible on what capacity!

↤ january jumble masterlist | main masterlist

“They just said get up there and make some trouble!”

A muscle in Bucky’s jaw jumps. You see it physically shift. “Who the fuck is they?” 

You’re no tattletale. Clamping your lips shut, you shake your head.

You swear you hear Bucky’s jaw clench. His teeth grind together as he takes a deep breath. It’s taking all of his willpower for him to remain calm. To keep his voice steady because, the moment he raises it, he knows you’re going to hightail out of there. 

“Doll,” he breathes out, “tell me. Who told you to act as bait?”

“It was part of the mission!”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about the mission,” Bucky snaps and you immediately purse your lips. Regret instantly shimmers behind those blue eyes. “Sorry, sorry. I just— you shouldn’t ever have to act as the distraction. You need help, you call me. I don’t care where I am, I’ll come to you.”

Rolling your eyes, you cross your arms. “I’m part of the team, Buck. You can’t be pissed when I’m doing things for the good of the team.”

“I don’t know how else to tell you this, but I give fuck all about the rest of the team if you’re putting yourself in danger.”

“Bucky!”

“I mean it. Can’t lose you, doll. I’ll burn the world down before that happens.”

“If you burn the world down, how do you expect either of us to make it?”

His lips twitch. Ah, you have him now. “Don’t act cute.”

“I am cute.”

“Not when you’re putting your life on the line.”

“I’m cute all the time.”

Another twitch. Almost there.

“Wanna makeout in my room?”

And there it is. Bucky huffs out a laugh and extends his hand. “Just this time.” 

He says that every time. 

[bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky]

do you want the house tour? Just don’t look in the freezer <3

[venigrantrogers]

my auntie doesn't have a boyfriend

pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

warnings: Fluff. grocery store meet cute. flirting. six year old niece called missy. consumption of aerated beverages (lol im so dramatic its just coke). bucky being very charming. mortified reader. written in a fun and light hearted way. No use of y/n.

synopsis: your niece is an angel, and she does the favour of finding you the man of your dreams.

author's notes: i wrote this in one sitting. also im sorry if you didn't like the gradient for this fic, i wanted it to be childish(?) cus a six year old is the diva. pure vibes.

Everyone say thank you to @ornateglass for making these super cute dividers 💗💗💗💗💗💗 clara, i love you so so much🥰

Enjoy 💋

Fate is fun. Fate is cruel.

Fate is what made you run into the most handsome man you've ever laid your eyes upon.

Fate is what your niece has to say about you to that man.

----

It was a fine sunday afternoon. You were babysitting your neice, as a good aunt does, and trying real hard not to daydream about someone holding you close, whispering words in your ear that makes your pulse go wild, and drag their lips across your neck. The way someone might say how much they live you and would bring you the moon–or your favorite cookies– if you asked.

"Can you paint my nails? like yours?" the voice brings you out of dreamland and back to reality, back to the six year old with a tiara on her head and the remnants of chocolate on her cheeks.

Sighing, you put on a smile and usher her close to you, "You sure you want red? Isn't that too grown up for you?"

The little girl takes your hands in hers and inspects your nails, the blood red colour gleaming from the soft lights. She squints her eyes and taps her fingers on her head, thinking hard. You laugh at her theatrics and ruffle her hair, "We'll do the pink one, yeah? It'll match your dress. Then you can show them to your friends."

She looks up at you and makes a show of thinking harder. You raise your eyebrows, waiting for her next move, and she raises her own. She claps her hand and stands up, "okay." and leaves to go get the pink polish.

You smile as she bounces around to your vanity and digs through the numerous bottles there.

"Oh no no no. We don't touch that Missy. That costs more than me."

She slowly sets the bottle of perfume down, "It doesn't even smell good."

You sigh.

It's like having a very judgemental cat, who can also speak. Who's also way too cute for you to get mad at her.

"C'mon, or I'll tell your mama you weren't good." the threat was half hearted– you won't snitch on her, she's not doing anything wrong.

----

"It's on my finger. ewww..." her nose scrunches up in disgust, "mama does it so much better."

"That's because, you keep moving your hand. Not my fault, huh?" you look up at her, her eyes wide in disbelief, fear of how her hands are not, in fact, looking as pretty as you promised.

"Oh come on! it's not that bad. it's so pretty, see? All your friends will say how pretty you look when you go back to school."

"No they won't. They look so bad...."

You can lie to a six year old, lying to a six year old is not hard.

But you won't lie to yourself, those nails are not looking good. and no, that's not because she kept moving her hands. Well, nothing too serious, right?

"How about we go buy some snacks? those cheese things you like." You were confident it'll take her mind off the disaster on her fingers. and you were in desperate need of grocery.

It did not, however, take her mind off the situation.

She still kept looking at her nails, and then you, and the expression she wore on her face was not a friendly one.

You knew you had to pull out the big guns.

Thing about missy, she hates being ignored, even more so when its her favourite person. "Alright then, I'll go finish up some work."

You moved from the bed to grab your laptop and made a show of opening it with the biggest sigh you could muster. "I've got so much work today. I was hoping we could go out, but i understand if you don't wanna."

You could hear the gears turning in her head, torn between her temper and her ego and wanting to spend time with you. She comes up to you, "No, we can still go. I'll put on my shoes."

You look down at her, "you will? oh missy! I'm so happy!" you put on a smile for her, but a secret, more evil one underneath, knowing your plan worked.

----

You strap your seatbelt and look at her, the conflicted emotions clearly visible on her face. She's still unhappy about the nails, but she doesn't want you working when she's here.

You smooth her hair with your hands and tap her nose.

"I'll fix it. don't worry." You will, you can't let anything dim the light inside her heart, the one that lights up her face and everyone's around her. She's an angel. and you love her.

The melody of the latest pop songs floats in the air. The off beat singing from the little girl next to you was as heartwarming as it was earsplitting.

Suddenly, her little fingers, still stained pink, reach over and turns down the volume before turning over to you, eyebrows raised.

"What?" you laugh, not getting the sudden change in demeanor.

"Did you see that? the ad on that board."

"Nope, what was it? Burger king?"

"A girl with her boyfriend... and burger king."

"I'm not taking you there, you didn't even take two full bites, and the burgers aren't even tha-"

"A girl. With. Her. Boyfriend. Where's yours?"

That girl and that audacity.

"i don't have one. what's that got to do with you?" it was a shame really, defending yourself in front of a six year old. Pathetic, even.

"Everyone has one. Is it because you're ugly?"

An incredulous laugh. A death stare.

"No. I'm not ugly. And you should not speak to anyone like that"

If anyone needed any proof, the fact that your last boyfriend was the most handsome, greek god in human form, hunk of a man to ever exist would be more than enough. You still miss Steve sometimes.

----

You finally reach the grocery store. The bright overhead lights making you squint. The buzz of those unnecessarily loud.

"Now you stay with me, alright? We're first gonna get some bread, and then go to the dairy section, and then some fruits, and then..."

The girl you were talking to was already walking over to the chocolates. "Missy! Stay with me, girl!"

You guide her back to the bread. Bread was important. Bread needed your attention.

"Can I go get the chocolates? I promise I won't get lost..." The little voice trails off, already knowing what you'll say.

You look down at her, "No. You stay with me. It's late, and I don't want you to mess with the wrong person." She pouts and huffs, glaring at you, but she knows you're right and reluctantly stays, like the angel she is.

----

You stroll lazily along the aisles, dragging the cart with you. Every few seconds you have to push the cart to the side, the wheels having a mind of their own as they keep moving in the opposite direction.

You look at the selection of cereals displayed, cinnamon, chocolate and cinnamon, sugar and cinnamon, cinnamon and apple; they cant be much different from each other, yet you're confused.

"Should we get cinnamon and apple? I think it'll taste like apple pie." Turning over the box, looking at the illustration of the family of bears eating cereal in a small living room. The father bear wearing glasses and a red shirt reminds you of a certain someone, "look, thats your dad, ha!"

She absolutely hates when you compare her daddy to a bear, but it's a running joke in your family now. Not getting a whiny response telling you to shut up, you look away from the box.

That little... girl. Is missing again.

"Missy!" The frustration evident in the way your hiss travels the air. You'll need to have a nice little chat with your sister about her parenting techniques. That's no way to raise a child. Besides, it's always nice having something to sass your sister about.

You drag your cart around, and leave for the chocolates. Ready to lovingly give her a piece of your mind. Ready to lovingly buy a leash because she. doesn't. stay.

It's empty.

The aisle is empty.

Take a deep, big breath. She's just around somewhere. Don't worry about the weird incident that happened here last month. The place is safe. She's safe.

Now you're speeding around the aisles. Your cart is your race car and you are the... woman driving the race car.

The fresh produce section; empty? Why would a six year old go there?

The cosmetics; not there. At least you don't have a sephora niece.

When you finally see the pink dress and the wild hair near the freezers, you breath a sigh of relief.

The very breath was caught in your chest as you spot the man next to her, smiling down at her as she continued blabbering and making gestures with her hands.

"Missy! I told you to stay with me!" You ran upto her, placing your hands on her shoulder and pulling her close to you.

You finally – finally – looked at the man. He was tall, that was the first thing you noticed. Wearing a shirt that did nothing to hide the way his shoulders stretched the fabric taut. The way his eyes, oh so blue, gleamed from the harsh bright light overhead. The way his smile reached his eyes as he looked down at Missy and then back at you.

You didn't believe in love at first sight, but this was as close to it as it gets, or maybe you're just lonely and the first attractive man you see, you declared him the love of your life.

"You must be auntie, huh?"

Oh.

That did not sound good coming from his mouth. Those perfect, pink, lips. Thos-

"Yes! She is!" She gleams up at both of you, a hint of mischief in her eyes that never meant any good.

"Yes. I am." your voice lacked any enthusiasm, your dismay evident.

"Aren't I a lucky man? Running into an angel at this hour." His voice was smooth, deceptively smooth, to the point where you couldn't tell if he was talking about Missy or... you.

"More like the devil. She never listens to me. Thank you... for keeping an eye on her."

He crouches down to her level, his fluffy hair just begging for you to run your hands in them.

What? That's so perverted.

"I was just telling her how pretty her nails look. She did them herself?" He looks up at you, eyes filled with amusement that told you he already knew the answer.

"I...uh... No. I did them." You couldn't bring yourself to lie, not when he probably already knew the whole story. Another thing about your niece, she loves oversharing, and when she's unhappy with something– she makes sure the whole world knows about it.

"Yeah? You did? Not very good with your hands, I believe."

"I am very good with my hands. It was just..." You regretted the words as soon as they left your mouth. You hope he doesn't take it the other way.

The way he smirks and tilts his head tells you he absolutely gets it. He stands up to his full height then, and takes a step close to you. Far enough to still be respectful, but close enough you have to tilt your head to look into his eyes, and his scent floods your senses. Something smoky, spicy and just a hint of sweetness. Addictive. That's all you can think of.

"I dunno about that, darling. Guess I'll have to take your word for it."

Fuck.

You had no words. You truly were at a loss of speech. All you could do was look into those mesmerizing blue eyes. Your lips parted but no sound came out.

"My auntie doesn't have a boyfriend."

Those six words from a six year old's mouth should not have mattered that much. But right now, they did. And boy, did they matter to him.

He didn't miss a beat. "Is that so?" he asks, clearly amused as his gaze stayed on yours. "Tragic. Tragic indeed."

You could feel your face burning. "Missy! I– It's not– I mean–"

"Well," he smiled even wider, as if he's won something ,"normally I'd buy you a drink....." He pauses, and looks around the aisle, his face brightens up as he looks back at you, "fancy a coke, angel?"

Missy bounces in her spot, overjoyed for god knows what reason. Maybe she enjoys embarassing you, maybe she just likes coke.

"You don't have to–"

"Please. Let me." his voice so soft, you didn't have it in you to refuse, and why would you? Look at him.

----

You head to the checkout. Him holding three bottles of coke and a bag of fruits, you holding your cinnamon-apple cereal and Missy with her cheese and herb chips.

You kept stealing glances at the man. He was...angelic.

His defined jawline shadowed with stubble. His smile as he talked to the boy behind the counter about his final project. The way his arms bulged under his shirt when he picked up the bag of fruits back from the counter.

You figured he knew the boy, maybe he frequented this store often. Why had you never seen him before today? Was today really a lucky day?

"What's your name?" You blurt out before you could think better. It truly was a weird way to ask for a name, but then again, when do you ever know how to talk to people.

He turns to look at you, smirking, brows raised, "Finally. Been dyin' to tell you my name. Call me Bucky."

You echo his name back. It felt good. You smile and give him yours.

"Pretty name for a pretty face." He picked up your stuff as well and pays for it along his own.

"So... you come here often?"

"Mhmm, live a block away. That your car?" He points to your car, the only car in the lot at this hour. You nod as Missy runs away to reach first.

You keep a steady pace along with Bucky, your heart doing flips inside your chest everytime his arm brushes yours.

You catch him staring at you, and your face burns so hot, it feels like it's on fire.

When you reach the car, he places the bag on the hood and leans on it. He hands one bottle to Missy, opening it with steady hands. "Don't spill it, huh, auntie will get mad."

"You don't have to call me that," you begin, your voice suddenly shy, "it's weird."

He laughs then, and it's a voice that warms you, travels through your bones and settles deep inside your heart. You love the sound of his laughter.

"Of course. Sorry, angel." His voice was sincere, yet still holding an air of amusement around it.

"My auntie says she loves men who are strong." The six year old's voice breaks whatever curse his eyes had put you in and you found yourself ducking your head down.

"Is that right? Your auntie needs a strong man to love her? Do you know anyone who's strong?" He ruffles her hair and looks over at you, smiling at the new found information.

"You're strong! How about you be my auntie's boyfriend? My mom says she's all alone and sad and reads stories about men who love her and–"

You slap your hand over her mouth to shut her up. "That's enough. No... "

You couldn't meet his gaze even if you tried. "I don't... I don't always read stuff like that. They're– they're stories from amazing authors, I support them. That's all."

He takes the bottle from your hands and sets it down on the hood next to his. "I could make all your stories come true, if you'll allow me to."

Your breath caught in your chest.

It's a dream.

It's a beautiful dream. The man of your literal dreams telling you he'll fulfill every single dream of yours. Yeah, it's a dream.

But you don't know him. You don't know anything except his name and his smile and his charm. You don't –

As if sensing the whirlwind of your conflicted thoughts, he speaks up, "I'm not forcing you– I just... I'd love to get to know you more... take you out someday. You don't have to say yes... I won't take it to heart, I understand if you don't–"

Seeing him nervous and rambling out words that assure you he isn't a creep made you feel a lot lighter. He's not a man made of dreams and stars and fairy dust. He's as human as you are.

"Bucky... I'd love to go out with you," your voice was shockingly steady despite the way your heart was over working , "I'd love to."

You take out your phone and hand it to him, and as you do, his fingers brush yours and a dizzying, electrifying zap shoots up your spine. The stories are true, they weren't exaggerating the plethora of sensations from something as simple as a brush of fingers.

"You'll call me when you get time?" His voice was hopeful, still not believing your words as you said yes to him.

"Yeah. I will." You smile up at him. Grabbing both the bottles, you hand him his and clink your bottles together. "I will."

He takes a sip of the drink, looking at you as he does so. He smiles once again, thankful, excited.

"I can't wait to see you again, angel. It's getting late, you should get home now."

"Are you my auntie's boyfriend now?"

Both you and Bucky turn to the sound of the little girl standing next to you. He laughs, "Very soon, kiddo."

----

As you and Missy get in the car, he leans down to your window, "I wasn't lying. I really am lucky...to have met you today."

"So am I."

He waits in the lot until your car turns around the corner. You're still smiling wide as you keep replaying his words in your mind. You'll make sure to thank Missy for finding Bucky for you.

"We forgot the bread." Missy's voice brings you back to the present.

Well, bread isn't important. Bread doesn't need your attention. Someone else does.

Ha! Missy is totally inspired by my four year old cousin who i babysat for a day, and she's a cutie, but a very very sassy cutie.

I'm fully open to constructive criticism. If you feel like you don't like it, or if my writing needs improvement, please don't hesitate to do so. Im always open to learning and correcting my mistakes. Please leave any thoughts below. I always love reading your thoughts. Reblogs are more than appreciated. I get zoomies everytime I see someone reblogs my fics, so please do so. It doesn't matter if you don't have any followers or are not a writer, reblogs do matter.

Thanks again for reading my little story. I hope you liked it.💙

[lasereyebucky]

Soft Bucky

Cause who doesn't want a soft Bucky

Soft!Bucky who is always eager to wrap his arms around you. Especially when you come into the room and say, “I need a hug.”

Bucky looks up from the book he was reading as you enter the room. You're standing in the doorway, an oversized hoodie draped over your body, your hands fiddling with the sleeves. "Need something, sweetheart?" "I need a hug." You barely finish speaking when Bucky's arms wrap around you. "Did something happen?" "No, nothing's wrong. I just really needed a hug." "My arms are always open for you, sweetheart."

Soft!Bucky who leaps out of his seat, abandoning everything he’s doing, when you lift a blanket you’re wrapped in and pat the spot in front of you in invitation.

You're on the couch, relaxing underneath a blanket. You were supposed to be watching a movie, but your attention had drifted to the corner of the room where Bucky sat facing away from you, finishing up a mission report. He looked far too tense for your liking, and he hasn't cuddled you yet since he got back. Time to fix that. "Bucky." He hummed to acknowledge he heard you, but didn't turn to look at you. That wouldn't do. "Bucky." "What is it, doll? I'm almost done." Bucky's head turns to look at you, falling into your trap. You lift the blanket with one hand and pat the empty space right in front of you. "Join me?" All thoughts of the mission and reports are gone from Bucky's head as he crosses the room in the blink of an eye, almost diving into the space you had patted. Giggles erupt from you as he wraps his arms around you, leaving you to fix the blanket over both of you. You're squished up against the back of the couch, Bucky is precariously on the edge of the cushions, but neither of you cares. You're both exactly where you want to be.

Soft!Bucky who always asks you about your interests and hobbies. Even if he doesn't necessarily understand, he wants to know about them anyway.

Bucky walks into the room to see you staring at the screen, a look of intense concentration on your face. "Hey doll, how's your new game?" A smile lights up your face as you turn away from the screen to look at him. "It's going great! I'm really enjoying it so far!" "But you've been on this same screen for three hours." You laugh, "Character creation is one of my favorite aspects in a video game! Especially when the customization is so extensive as this game! I like creating the characters that live rent-free in my head. Sometimes it's characters are from existing media, and other times it's original characters. I even like creating backstories for them from time to time." Bucky nods like he understands, he doesn't, but as long as it makes you happy, that's all that matters to him. He sits down next to you and gestures toward the screen. "So, which are you creating here? And do they have a backstory?"

Soft!Bucky who will carefully shift in bed to block the early morning sun peeking through the curtains, just so you can sleep in just a little longer. So he can gaze at your peaceful face just a little longer.

Your quiet groan was what woke Bucky that morning. The sound you always made when you were being dragged from sleep before you wanted to be. He opened his eyes to see your furrowed expression as a beam of sunlight shone directly in your face from a tiny gap in the curtains. Bucky shifted carefully onto his elbow, blocking the light with his body, watching your face gradually relax and listening to your breathing deepen as you slipped back to sleep. His eyes traced your features; there were many expressions and faces of yours he loved, but this one might just be one of his favorites.

Soft!Bucky who has an unspoken rule that he can't move if you fall asleep with your head on his lap. He can't move until you wake up and move yourself, no matter what.

Both of you had been making your way through the list of movies Bucky had missed that he needed to catch up on, and you had drifted off with your head in his lap in the middle of the third movie of the day. Bucky gazed down at you with the softest expression, one that always makes your heart squeeze in your chest when he throws it in your direction. This time, you don't see it. He gently runs his fingers through your hair as you sleep. Using his flesh hand so he doesn't accidentally snag any strands in the joints or plates of his metal one. His hand drifts from your hair to your cheek, gently caressing as you dream. Softly spoken words of love and devotion spill from his lips as he trails his hand down your arm to your hand, pressing featherlight kisses to your knuckles, the back of your hand, your palm, and every single fingertip.

[ellebarnesx]

broken arm, broken man

Summary: When Bucky's arm breaks down, his walls go up.

Warnings: during/post-tfatws, established new-ish relationship, insecurities about amputation, a little angsty, pop culture references, mentions of sam and joaquin being chaotic, talkative!gf x grumpy!bf

A/N: hi lovelies! trying to be consistent with writing and posting, especially one shots (i have a tendency to overcommit to writing series). my general tag list is open, and so is my inbox :) feel free to talk to me about anything! also, i know sam doesn't have access to a quinjet in the tfatws era, but he does in this fic x

Playlist: Sweater Weather- The Neighbourhood

Word Count: 2,145

...

The Quinjet hums steadily beneath you, the sound rumbling in your chest in the weirdly comforting way that you've come to associate with long rides back from missions. You'd collapsed into one of the seats opposite Bucky, still catching your breath, boots heavy with dust and grime, hands faintly trembling from the adrenaline refusing get out of your system. He sits across from you, jaw locked, eyes trained on nothing in particular, just that faraway look he sometimes wears when something has gotten under his skin.

At first you thought the faint clicking sound was part of the jet. A loose panel. One of Sam's Starbursts rolling around the cabin again. But then you noticed the sparks, tiny and furious, snapping from the seams of metal plating on Bucky's vibranium arm. It twitches once, vibranium fingers jerking against his thigh. His face barely shifts, just the smallest twitch of his eyebrows.

''Hey,'' you say softly, voice low and careful. ''You okay?''

''I'm fine.'' He flexes his fingers, testing the weight of it, the glow of the Wakandan tech reflecting the low light on the jet. Another stutter, another spark, and the arm slams against the wall beside him with a loud clang. The whole jet seems to echo the sound.

Your eyes widen. ''Bucky—''

''It's fine.'' The words are clipped, as if the sheer force of his denial could override the reality of malfunctioning circuitry. He holds the limb tightly against himself like he can pin it into submission, like it's just a wild animal that needs restraining.

You raise an eyebrow. ''Uh-huh. Because most people's arms throw tantrums like that.''

The corner of his mouth almost twitches, but then another wave of sparks hisses, scattering in the dark like fireflies, and his whole body stiffens. His fingers uncontrollably curl into a fist, not budging even when he uses his flesh hand to pry it open.

''Okay,'' you say slowly, keeping your voice light. ''Are we going to ignore the fact that your arm's auditioning for The Exorcist?''

He shoots you a look that should've been withering but is softened by the desperation hiding behind it. Bucky Barnes, master of stoicism, sitting there like a man betrayed by the one part of his body he trusted not to betray him. He mutters something under his breath, you catch only fragments, the cadence sharp with frustration.

''Don't think Steve would approve that kind of language, Buck.''

Bucky exhales hard through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. For a moment he just sits there, still and rigid, until the next spasm jerks through the arm. He curses, low and bitter, then finally digs into his pocket for the slim Wakandan communicator he carries like a lifeline he never wants to admit he needs.

He stares at it too long, thumb hovering. You lean forward, elbows on your knees. ''If you don't hurry up, that thing is going to become sentient and kill us all. Like M3GAN. By the way, did you know that Sam almost cried watching that? Joaquin told me.''

His glare flicks up, but there's no real bite in it, just staring at you with a defeated fondness before pressing the button, and the holo-screen blinks to life with the golden image of Ayo's face.

''White Wolf,'' she greets. No wasted words, as usual.

Bucky clears his throat. ''The arm's… not working right. Glitching. I think it needs to go back. Is Shuri in?''

Ayo's gaze flicks over him, reading him more than he feels comfortable with. ''She will be shortly. It will have to be brought back to Wakanda for reparations.''

''How long?'' His voice is casual, like asking how long dry cleaning might take.

''Three days.''

He stiffens. Three days. You see it hit him like a punch to the gut. The hesitation, the way his hand curls tighter around the faulty arm like a child might clutch a stuffed animal. Three days without it.

Ayo doesn't wait for his reply. ''We will send someone to collect it. Be ready.'' And then she's gone, the communicator dimming, leaving only the quiet rumbling of the Quinjet again.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. You watch him carefully as he stares at the dark screen, shoulders tense, jaw set so tightly you half-expect to hear his teeth crack.

You try for levity. ''Hey, look on the bright side. That means you get to watch me struggling with every stubborn jar in the house for three whole days. You always say you find that very entertaining.''

It earns you a huff of air that might've been a laugh if it weren't laced with something heavier. He shakes his head, glancing at you, corners of his mouth subtly twitching. ''Not funny.''

''Kinda funny,'' you counter. ''Maybe we can train your left hook while we're at it. Get you ambidextrous. That's a real party trick these days.''

His eyes finally flick to yours, and there it is, that hint of self-consciousness you don't usually get to see, raw and almost boyish. Under the soldier, the retired assassin, the survivor, he's still just a human being terrified of being seen as less than he is.

You want to press. Want to tell him it doesn't matter, that he's not defined by a piece of tech, no matter how sleek and advanced. But instead you sit back, let the hum of the Quinjet fill the silence, let him enjoy the comfort of having his walls up for now.

If there's anything you've learned these past two months of being by his side, both in battle and at home, it's that Bucky always retreats into himself after a mission, a haunted look on his face, like he's struggling to separate the violence he commits for a good cause and his past with ruthless violence for all the wrong reasons.

You cross your arms, let your eyes close against the drone of the engines, and decided to let him have his silence. For now.

...

Bucky doesn't tell you when the Wakandan courier arrives. You only realize because his texts go quiet, and when you call, you can hear the faint static of silence before he mutters that he's busy. You give him a day. Out of respect. Out of love. Then another morning, though it gnaws at you. By the second night, you're pacing your living room like a caged animal, phone heavy in your hand, wondering if he's just sitting alone in the dark pretending the world outside doesn't exist. It wouldn't be the first time you found him in such a state.

Sam's words echo in your head. If he gets stubborn, you've got the spare key. You just hadn't thought you'd ever need it.

The stairwell leading to Bucky's apartment smells faintly of dust and old plaster. His door is closed, the hallway dim except for the sputter of the single overhead bulb.

You knock once, soft. No answer. You knock again, harder. Nothing.

So you fish out the key from your back pocket. The lock clicks too easily, and you realize you could've definitely picked it with a hairpin. Not that it ever had to come to that, of course. You have the key. If Bucky even lets you keep it after barging in like this.

Inside, the air is stale, heavy with stillness. He hasn't turned on the lights, but the faint glow from streetlamps outside spills in from the kitchen window, painting the room in shadows. You spot him on the couch instantly. Back to you. Shoulders hunched. He doesn't startle when you enter, and you know he heard you. He always hears you.

''Breaking and entering,'' he says, attempting humor, his voice rough. ''That's a crime, you know. I'll have to arrest you.''

''Kinky,'' you retort, corners of your mouth tugging upward. You set your bag down by the door, toe off your shoes, trying to sound casual when the atmosphere feels anything but.

His right hand is curled on his knee, his left side angled away from you, the broad curve of his shoulder leading down to the blunt edge of metal where his arm should be attached. The plate gleams a little in the dim light, bare and exposed, and you realize that's why he hasn't texted you back, and why he doesn't look at you now.

You move closer. He shifts slightly, like he's trying to make himself smaller.

''Bucky.'' Your voice is soft, careful.

''Don't.'' It's quick, sharper than he intends, but his body is tight with shame, every muscle wound like a spring. ''Just not right now.''

You crouch beside the couch anyway, grounding yourself on the carpet, so he can't avoid you unless he walks away. ''I was worried about you. You're not answering my texts. You're not answering the door. And now you won't even look at me?''

He still doesn't move. ''It's better this way.''

''Better for who?''

The silence stretches. You study him, the hard line of his jaw, the way his right hand grips his knee like he's holding himself together. And then, gently, you rest your palm against his cheek, coaxing his face toward you. His stormy eyes shift to yours, hesitant.

You let your hand drift lower, thumb grazing along the line of his jaw, tracing the stubble that always grows faster than he bothers to shave. His chest rises and falls unevenly, like the simple act of being seen like this is too much weight to bear.

''Don't look at me like that,'' he mutters, voice breaking at the edges.

''Like what?''

''Like I'm—'' His throat works. The words snag. ''You don't have to pretend like I'm not missing something.''

Your heart aches. He thinks the absence makes him less, when to you it only makes him more human. ''Bucky,'' you whisper. ''You're not broken because your arm is.''

His jaw clenches, looking away, but you don't let him hide. You keep your hand steady, warm against his skin. ''You're not half a man when it's gone. You're not less. You're still you. All of you.''

The silence that follows is heavy, charged. You can almost hear the thoughts spiraling in his head, the doubts, the insecurities he won't admit, the endless ledger of things he thinks he's lost.

So you lean in closer, pressing your forehead to his, grounding him with the simplest touch. ''I don't care about the arm. I care about the man who holds the door open for me, and teases me relentlessly when I cook another terrible dish, but still eats it because it makes me happy. The man who holds me when I've had a nightmare, and stays up to watch over me until I fall asleep again. If all of that hasn't changed just because you don't have the arm, then you haven't changed either. Then you're still the man I—'' You pause, searching his eyes, steady and unflinching. ''The man I love.''

His breath catches like you've yanked it from his lungs. ''I didn't want you to see me like this,'' he says finally, voice raw.

''Too late,'' you murmur, brushing your nose against his.

And then, because the conversation could use some lightheartedness, you let a small smile tug at your lips. ''Besides, I kind of like being the one with all the upper body strength for once, which is, like... as rare as a solar eclipse.''

That earns you a hoarse laugh, his forehead pressing against yours like he's anchoring himself to you, to the sound of your voice.

Your hand drifts lower, across his chest, lingering over the steady thrum of his heart beneath your palm. ''You're still you. All of you. And I wouldn't change a thing.''

He exhales shakily, tugging you a little closer until your knees bump the couch. His lips brush yours, tentative.

You tilt your head, catching his gaze in the low light. ''You don't have to hide from me. I love you like this, too.''

And maybe it's the way you say it, simple and sure, but something eases in him. He leans in, slow and cautious, until his mouth finds yours. The kiss is soft, almost tentative, but it sparks like kindling catching flame, spreading warmth through your chest.

When you pull back, you rest your hand on his shoulder, near the metal plate his vibranium arm would usually be attached. His brows pinch, breath stalling, but he doesn't move away.

''You're still a hundred percent man to me,'' you whisper against his lips, smile curling. ''Maybe even a hundred and ten.''

This time his laugh is real, deep, shaking loose some of the shadows clinging to him. He kisses you again, firmer now, his hand sliding to the small of your back and pulls you onto the couch beside him, holding you closer than he's allowed himself in days.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

...

[minsdesire444]

this got blocked on tiktok for being too sexy so.. hi tumblr

[heldbybarnes]

Never suggested b4 but one where Bucky wants to take reader out for a date spontaneously and he’s already there so he watches her get ready from start to finish for the first time and is MESMERISED and in awe of the effort reader puts for him — hair in the blowout he likes, skincare then makeup, perfume, etc

I trust you with the rest :)

(Also, HUGE fan of the blog — absolutely love your writing )

Bucky hadn’t meant to ambush you.

It just… happened.

He’d been walking past your apartment on his way back from the gym, earbuds in, brain pleasantly empty for once, when a thought hit him out of nowhere: I want to take her out. Now. Not dinner plans or reservations or a schedule penciled in three days from now. Just you. Tonight. Right this second.

So he turned around, climbed the stairs two at a time, and knocked.

You answered the door in socks and one of his old shirts, hair still up, eyes blinking like he’d just shaken you awake from a dream.

“Bucky?” you said, confused, smiling anyway. “What are you—”

“I wanna take you out,” he blurted. No preamble. No overthinking. “Like. Right now.”

You laughed softly. “Right now?”

“Yeah,” he said, already grinning like an idiot. “Spontaneous. No thinking. Just us.”

Your smile turned fond, apologetic. “Okay, but I’m not ready.”

“That’s fine,” he said immediately. “I’ll wait.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said, and meant it. “I’m already here.”

You hesitated, then shrugged. “Alright. Come in.”

That’s how he ended up sitting on the edge of your bed, elbows on his knees, while you moved around your room with purpose—pulling drawers open, toeing off socks, humming under your breath. He’d never been here for this part before. Usually, you just appeared. Fully assembled. Effortless. Like you were born already glowing.

Watching the process was… something else entirely.

You started with your hair, letting it down and shaking it loose before plugging in your blow dryer. Bucky leaned back against the headboard as you worked, fingers combing through, sectioning carefully. You glanced at him through the mirror.

“Don’t stare,” you teased.

“Can’t help it,” he said quietly.

You smiled and turned back to the mirror, rolling a brush through your hair, lifting it at the roots just the way you knew he liked. He’d mentioned it once—offhandedly—that he loved when your hair had volume, when it framed your face like that.

You remembered.

The realization hit him hard enough that his chest tightened.

When you finished, you shook it out again, running your fingers through it, checking the mirror from different angles. Then you moved to skincare, lining little bottles up on your dresser like a ritual. Cleanser. Toner. Serum. Moisturizer. Each step slow, intentional.

“What’s that one?” he asked, nodding toward a tiny glass bottle.

“Hydrating serum,” you said. “Makes my skin look less tired.”

“You never look tired,” he murmured.

You snorted. “Liar.”

But your smile softened.

Then came makeup. You perched on the edge of the chair, leg tucked under you, and Bucky watched with open fascination as you blended, brushed, tapped. He’d seen you wear makeup plenty of times. He’d never realized how much care went into it. How steady your hands were. How focused you looked.

You leaned closer to the mirror to do your eyeliner, tongue peeking out between your lips in concentration.

Bucky swallowed.

“You okay over there?” you asked, glancing at him.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Just… wow.”

You laughed again, a little shy this time. “You’re being weird.”

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “Just didn’t know you did all this.”

“For you?” you said, reaching for mascara. “Yeah. Of course I do.”

That did something to him. Something deep and aching.

You stood to pick out clothes next, rifling through your closet. You changed right in front of him without a second thought—comfortable, trusting—slipping out of the shirt and into a dress you knew he loved. Not flashy. Just soft fabric, hugging you in all the right places.

You caught him staring again.

“You like it?” you asked.

“I always like it,” he said. “But yeah. I really like it.”

You finished with perfume, lifting the bottle and spraying lightly at your wrists, your neck. The scent bloomed in the air—warm, familiar. His favorite. He’d told you once it reminded him of home, though he hadn’t known what he meant by that until now.

You turned back to him, finally ready.

“Okay,” you said. “Now we can go.”

Bucky didn’t move.

Instead, he reached for your wrist, gentle but firm, pulling you just close enough that your knees brushed his. He looked up at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

“You did all that,” he said softly. “For me.”

Your expression shifted, something tender passing over your face. “I like doing it,” you said. “I like knowing you notice.”

“I notice,” he said immediately. “I notice everything.”

He stood, hands settling at your waist, forehead pressing lightly to yours. “You’re incredible,” he murmured. “You know that, right?”

You smiled, smaller now. Real. “You’re biased.”

“Yeah,” he said. “And lucky as hell.”

When you finally left the apartment—hand in hand, no plan, nowhere specific to be—Bucky glanced at you again, heart full and stunned.

He’d thought spontaneity was about the lack of preparation.

Turns out, sometimes it was about witnessing the care that went into choosing you, over and over again.

[heldbybarnes]

HII KEN !! Could I request Bucky with a reader who's too shy to admit she's horny, he always catches her masturbating by herself and one day he finally has enough and punishes her :3

yes. absolutely. showstopping. no notes

-------

You always think you’re being quiet.

That’s the funniest part to Bucky.

You tiptoe around your own damn bedroom like he doesn’t hear your heartbeat change pace the second he closes the door behind him. Like he doesn’t know the exact second your thighs press together, or when your breath hitches, or when your fingers go wandering under those pretty little sleep shorts you always pretend you don’t put on to tease him.

He never confronts you. He never embarrasses you. He just smiles—slow, knowing, devastating—and kisses your forehead before bed like he isn’t listening to you fall apart behind the wall ten minutes later.

And maybe it would’ve stayed that way. Maybe he could’ve kept pretending he didn’t hear, didn’t know—

If he hadn’t walked in tonight.

If he hadn’t come home early.

If he hadn’t opened the door to see you sprawled across the sheets, knees bent, hand between your legs, your shirt bunched under your chin. Whimpering his name like a prayer you were scared God would hear.

You freeze. He doesn’t.

Bucky just fills the doorway with his broad, unbothered silhouette and sighs, low and disappointed.

“Doll,” he murmurs, shutting the door behind him with a click that makes you sit up straight. “What did I tell you about this?”

You can’t breathe. “B—Bucky, I didn’t—I was just—”

“Oh, I know what you were doing.” He’s already at the bed. Already peeling your hand away from your soaked underwear. Already dragging his thumb through the slick on your inner thigh like it offends him.

“This is the third time this week,” he says, voice quiet, almost gentle. Too gentle. “You wait until I’m gone and then you make yourself cum thinking about me, all while pretending you’re too shy to ask for what you want.”

Your face burns. “I—I wasn’t—I didn’t want to bother you.”

He actually laughs. Not cruel. Just… unbelieving.

“Bother me?” He leans in until his breath hits your cheek. “Sweetheart, I live to touch you.”

His metal hand cups your jaw, keeping your gaze on him even as your eyes try to dart away.

“But you keep hiding,” he murmurs. “Keep being a little coward about it. Keep touching yourself like I won’t know.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Oh, you will be.”

Your breath stutters.

Bucky pulls you across his lap with effortless ease, settling you face-down over his thick thigh, hands braced on the sheets. The position alone makes your stomach flip—your hips raised, your ass presented, your panties damp and humiliatingly visible to him.

“Bucky—”

“Hush.” His flesh hand drags slowly down the curve of your spine. “You wanna act shy? Fine. But you don’t get to hide from me when you’re dripping all over your sheets thinking about my cock.”

He hooks a finger in your panties and slides them down, slow enough to make you shiver.

“Tell me why I’m punishing you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Because… because I touched myself.”

“That’s not the part that upset me.” His palm settles warm and heavy on your ass. “Try again.”

Your voice is barely there. “Because I didn’t ask you.”

“There she is.” His tone softens—not forgiving, but approving. And then his hand lifts.

The first smack lands sharp and perfect.

You jolt, a gasp breaking out of you as heat blooms across your skin.

Bucky hums. “Color?”

You swallow. “…Green.”

Another smack. Harder. Your knees press together instinctively, but his metal hand catches your hips, holding you spread.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So shy until I get you like this. Now you’re soaked, aren’t you, doll?”

You are. Embarrassingly so. Humiliatingly so. But his voice—his voice—makes you nod.

“That’s right.” His thumb ghosts over your clit, just once, just enough to make your hips jerk. “If you want this, you ask. You use your words. You don’t hide from me.”

“I’m sorry,” you breathe again.

“You’re forgiven when I say so.”

His hand comes down again—slow, rhythmic, punishing without being cruel. He never hits harder than you can take. Never gives you more than he knows you like.

By the fifth smack, you’re trembling.

By the seventh, you’re whimpering into the sheets.

By the ninth, you’re dripping down his thigh.

“That’s enough,” he murmurs, soothing the sting with his cool metal palm. “You took that so well, sweetheart. You always do.”

Your body melts when he flips you onto your back, settling between your legs. The shift is instant—he goes from strict to breathtakingly soft, thumbs brushing your flushed cheeks.

“You don’t ever have to be embarrassed with me,” he says. “If you’re horny, you come tell me. If you want my cock, you come sit in my lap and say so. Can you do that for me?”

You nod too quickly. “Yes. Yes, Bucky.”

“Good girl.”

He drags the head of his cock through your slick, and you whimper like you’ve been starved for him.

“You want it?”

“…Yes.”

“You gonna ask for it from now on?”

“Yes, Bucky—please—”

That’s all he needs.

He pushes in slow—not teasing, just savoring the way your eyes roll back. You clutch his shoulders instantly, thighs trembling around his hips.

“There she is,” he whispers, kissing your jaw as he bottoms out. “My shy girl who gets so fuckin’ needy she can’t keep her hands off her pussy.”

“Bucky—”

“You gonna cum for me?” His pace is steady but deep, each thrust pushing a needy little sound from your throat. “Gonna make up for all those times you hid from me?”

You’re already close. Too close. Embarrassingly close.

“Please—please—Bucky—”

“Oh, now she wants to talk.” His thumb finds your clit. “Go on then. Cum. Give it to me.”

You fall apart so hard your vision blurs. Your body arches, nails digging into his back, a broken moan spilling out before you can stop it.

Bucky holds you through it, kissing you, whispering you did so good, you’re so sweet for me, I’ve got you, sweetheart.

He cums with a groan against your neck, pulling you close like he wants to sink into your skin.

And when it’s quiet—when you’re tucked under his arm, floaty and warm—he tilts your chin up and smiles.

“Next time you get horny,” he murmurs, “you come sit in my lap. Understood?”

You hide your face in his chest.

He laughs.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

[heldbybarnes]

Ok so hear me out!! Bucky sewing reader in modern lingerie for the first time. Like how would he react to the different from how lingerie was back in the 40s?!

omg this man short circuits for sure!

----------

Bucky expected a lot of adjustments when he came back into the world.

Phones that don’t have cords. Cars with cameras in them. Coffee that comes in cardboard cups instead of ceramic mugs that sit on diner counters. Dating, which he still isn’t convinced he understands.

But nothing—nothing—prepares him for you stepping out of the bathroom wrapped in nothing but a thin little robe, cheeks warm, fingers hesitating at the tie.

He looks up from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, already smiling, already soft just because it’s you.

And then you tug the robe loose.

The first thing he does is stop breathing.

Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just—stops. Like someone hit the off-switch.

Your body curves softly into the straps, the cutouts, the lace that sits higher on your hips than anything he ever saw in the 40s. The bra isn’t really a bra—more like a whisper of fabric, a suggestion, a tease. And the panties? The way they sit, the way they shape you? Bucky swears his vision pulses.

He blinks. Slowly. Entire soul buffering.

“Doll…” His voice comes out low, hoarse, reverent. “…what in the heavenly hell are you wearing?”

You try not to laugh. “Lingerie?”

“That is not lingerie.” His hand lifts, gesturing helplessly at you. “Lingerie is… stockings up to the knees, garters, slips, corsets—layers, sweetheart. You’re tellin’ me the whole thing is basically… two strings and a prayer?”

You grin, heat creeping up your chest. “Do you like it?”

His jaw flexes. His metal hand closes into a fist on his thigh like he’s physically restraining himself.

“Like it,” he repeats, as if you’ve told him the sky is green. “Honey, that’s not a word big enough for what’s happening in my brain.”

You step closer, the sheer robe brushing over your thighs. Bucky follows the movement like a starving man follows the scent of food.

“Back in my day,” he tries again, clearing his throat and failing, “if a dame wore something silky, it was still… y’know… there. Covered things. Didn’t—didn’t frame ‘em like this.”

“Is this too much?” you tease, hooking a finger under the lace of the bra. “Too little?”

His breath stutters.

“Come here,” he says quietly.

You do, stopping between his knees. Buck’s hands hover—not touching, too afraid he’ll break the spell. His eyes roam like he’s studying a work of art he’ll only get to see once.

His voice is rough silk when he speaks again.

“You’re tellin’ me women just… wear this now?”

“Not to the grocery store, Bucky.”

“I meant…” He swallows. “You can just go into a store and buy this? And they sell it openly? And men don’t drop dead in the street?”

You giggle and run your fingers through his hair. He leans into your touch instantly, as if grounding himself.

“Maybe men today have better stamina,” you tease.

He snaps his gaze up to you—dark, hungry, challenged.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, hands finally rising to your hips, fingers slipping under the lace to feel just how little of it there is. “I’ll show you stamina.”

Your legs wobble. His touch is barely there, but the heat of him is overwhelming, like the look in his eyes could melt plastic.

“Turn around,” he murmurs.

You do, slowly, and you hear his breath catch again—quieter this time, but deeper. He brushes a hand over the dip of your back, the swell of your hip, the strap that crosses just below your spine.

“In the 40s,” he says softly, running a finger down the lace, “this much skin was illegal.”

“It was not.”

“It should’ve been.”

He grips your waist—carefully, reverently—and pulls you back until you’re standing between his open knees again. You can feel the heat of him now, even through his jeans.

“You walked out here looking like that,” he says into your hip, “and expected me to stay sane?”

You’re breathless when you laugh. “You’re handling it pretty well.”

“I’m about five seconds from begging to bite the straps off you.”

Your pulse kicks. “Bucky—”

“S’not my fault,” he interrupts, kissing your hipbone through the lace. “This wasn’t around when I was young. You put me in front of something brand new, something that makes your body look like a damn miracle, and you expect me to remember my own name?”

His hands slide up your thighs, slow, warm, reverent.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks in a whisper that sinks straight into your spine. “Look? Touch? Worship? Because I’ll do all three, doll. Just gotta tell me which one first.”

Your breath shakes. “Touch.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

His palms glide over your hips, up your waist, over the curve of your breasts through delicate lace. He touches you like he’s memorizing—mapping—like he’s terrified he’ll forget.

“You look like something out of a dream,” he murmurs. “They didn’t make stuff like this back then. They didn’t make bodies like this, either.”

You cup his chin, tilt his face up. The look he gives you is raw, undone, almost boyish in its awe.

“Hey,” you whisper, “it’s still just me.”

“Not ‘just’ anything.” He shakes his head. “Honey, you walked out here and I forgot English.”

You straddle his lap before he even finishes the sentence, and he groans—hands flying to your ass, gripping like instinct.

“Jesus,” he whispers into your shoulder. “And this little thing… it stretches. Who invented this? I need to send ‘em a fruit basket.”

You laugh, forehead pressed to his. “You really like it.”

“Doll, I’m tryin’ not to propose.”

Your heart thuds. His eyes flicker with something soft, warmer than heat.

“Bucky.”

He kisses you—slow at first, deep and grateful, like the lingerie is irrelevant, like you could be in sweats and he’d still unravel. Then the kiss changes—hungry now, strained.

You pull back just enough to breathe. “Still think lingerie was better in the 40s?”

“Not even a little.” His hands slide up your spine, pulling you tight against him. “This is dangerous, sweetheart. You wear this out in the world, and I’ll have to fight people.”

“I’m not wearing it for anyone but you.”

He freezes.

Then he smiles—slow, crooked, wicked.

“Well,” he murmurs, “now I gotta see every piece you bought.”

You laugh into his mouth, and he lifts you easily, laying you on the bed with a reverence that makes your cheeks burn.

And as he crawls over you, eyes dark and full of awe, he whispers—

“Modern world finally did somethin’ right.”

[heldbybarnes]

I see your mating press imagine and I one up you with a trio ——— Bucky and his ridiculously high breeding kink, fucking the reader in a mating press WHILE she’s ovulating. Good lord 🤤🤭🙈

dream date for real....i mean what?

---------

You don’t tell him you’re ovulating.

You try. You swear you try. You even open your mouth once—right before his hands cup your hips in the kitchen and he rumbles something sinful about how warm you feel through your shorts. But then his thumbs press into the dimples of your lower back and your brain goes soft and fizzy and, well… the moment passes.

But Bucky knows.

Of course he fucking knows.

He’s been able to smell it all day—your scent sharper, sweeter, practically clinging to him every time you get too close. When you brushed past him on the couch earlier, murmuring something about laundry, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. When you stood on your toes to grab a mug from the top shelf, his vision went white around the edges.

And now?

Now he’s hovering over you on the bed like a man seconds from snapping.

“Babydoll,” he rasps, metal fingers sliding under your thighs, “you sure you wanna keep starin’ at me like that? ’Cause I’m real close to losin’ whatever restraint I had left.”

You swallow. Your thighs press together. And Bucky—oh, he laughs. Low. Dark. Knowing.

“You smell fuckin’ fertile,” he growls, leaning down to drag the flat of his tongue up the side of your throat. “Sweet little thing’s ovulatin’, hm?”

You jolt.

He smiles against your skin.

“So that’s a yes.”

Before you can protest, he’s picking you up—effortless, like your body belongs exactly where he’s putting it—and laying you across the bed. Your knees bend instinctively, legs opening just enough to make his pupils blow wide.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “Look at you. I haven’t even touched you and you’re already wet enough to drip.”

He runs two fingers along your slit, and the slick sound is obscene. His cock twitches visibly against his stomach.

And then?

Bucky Barnes gives you the filthiest, dirtiest, most reverent look a man has ever given a woman.

“Get ready for me, honey,” he murmurs. “Daddy’s gonna put you in position.”

You don’t even get time to process the “Daddy.”

His hands slide under your knees—warm palm, cold vibranium—and he folds you in half like you weigh nothing. Ankles hit the mattress above your head, thighs pressed tight against your chest, hips tilted into the perfect angle for him to ruin you.

A full, perfect mating press.

You gasp, curled open, exposed, vulnerable—but fuck, fuck, so wanting.

“Bucky—”

“Shhh,” he coos, lining his cock up with your dripping entrance. “Gonna give you exactly what your cute little body is beggin’ for.”

He pushes in slow, almost teasing, until he sees your eyes roll back.

Then he bottoms out in one deep, heavy thrust.

Your scream is swallowed by his mouth as he kisses you through it, hips already pistoning in short, brutal strokes that hit your cervix with perfect precision.

“Fuck—fuck, Bucky— slow—”

“Can’t,” he pants into your shoulder, voice shredded with need. “You feel too fuckin’ good. Warm. Tight. Grippin’ me like you’re tryin’ to milk me.”

Your body jerks with every thrust, the angle so intense you feel him in places you didn’t know existed.

He braces all his weight into the press—your knees pinned nearly to your shoulders, his chest flush to your thighs, cock spearing into you again and again and again.

“Meant to tell you,” he chokes, thrusts faltering for a second, “but I—I been thinkin’ about this all week. ’Bout you ovulatin’. ’Bout fuckin’ you like this. ’Bout fillin’ you till you can’t hold it in.”

Your whole body shudders.

And he feels it.

“Ohhh,” he groans, eyes rolling back. “There she is. My pretty girl gettin’ all dumb ’cause her body wants mine so bad.”

He thrusts harder.

The bed hits the wall.

Your breath comes out in broken, high-pitched whimpers.

“That’s it,” he praises, fucking you through every twitch. “Take it, babydoll. Take daddy’s cock while he stuffs you full.”

You swear you feel him in your ribs.

Your back arches so sharply his arm immediately slips under to hold you up, his dog tags swinging against your throat with every movement.

“Bucky—please—please, I’m gonna—”

“I know. Let it happen.” His voice drops to a growl. “Wanna feel you gush on me. Wanna feel you squeeze me 'til I can’t pull out.”

Your orgasm hits violently—sharp, shaking, soaking his abs, your moan almost voiceless.

And Bucky breaks.

“Fuck— sweetheart—sweetheart, you’re— oh fuck—”

His hips slam forward once, twice—

Then he buries his cock impossibly deep and stays there, jaw dropped, breath stuttering.

You feel the first hot rush of him fill you.

Then another.

Then another.

Thick and heavy and endless.

He groans—almost pained—his forehead falling to yours as he pulses inside you.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasps, shaking. “You’re takin’ every drop. Good girl—such a good fuckin’ girl—”

You’re still trembling when he lifts his head.

Still pinned in the press.

Still full.

And Bucky?

He’s staring at where your bodies are joined like a man watching a miracle happen.

“…It’s not enough.”

Your eyes widen. “Bucky—”

“No, honey, shhh.” He brushes your hair back, voice soft but wrecked. “I’m not done. You’re ovulating. Your body wants more. I can feel it."

He pulls out just an inch—just enough for a bead of his cum to leak down your ass—

He watches it.

He growls.

And slams back in.

You scream his name.

He catches your wrists, pinning them above your head, and fucks you slow and deep, each thrust designed to keep his cum right where he wants it.

“I’m gonna put so much in you,” he whispers, kissing your cheek. “Gonna make you feel so full you can’t walk. Gonna fuck you until your body gives out from tryin’ to take me.”

You’re crying now—pleasure, sensitivity, the overwhelming heat of him.

He kisses every tear.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, voice soft enough to melt your bones. “Tell me you want it.”

“I—want it—god, Bucky, please—”

His smile is sinful.

“Good girl.”

He rolls his hips just right—deep, grinding, devastating—

And you fall apart a second time.

Your walls clamp so tight around him he curses loudly, rutting into you in broken, desperate thrusts.

“Gonna—fuck— I’m gonna fill you again—”

Your orgasm drags his out of him, hot and heavy and more than before, spilling so deep you swear you can feel it hit your womb.

He collapses over you, still inside, still caging you beneath him, still holding you in the mating press like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go.

For a long moment, all you hear is his ragged breathing.

Then he presses the softest kiss to your forehead.

“…round three in a minute,” he whispers against your skin, smirking. “You’re not done. I can feel it.”

You don’t know whether to cry, laugh, or beg for mercy.

But the truth is?

Your hips roll up into his on instinct.

And Bucky chuckles, eyes darkening all over again.

“Yeah,” he says, kissing you slow and devastating. “My perfect little breeding toy. Daddy’s gonna fuck you all night.”

[heldbybarnes]

Omg just read the blurb about shy reader asking to ride Bucky and i 🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠

Can i request smth similar where a super shy reader is afraid to ask Bucky to experiment in bed? Like maybe he catches on when there's a kinky steamy scene in a movie that they're watching, and (super soldier hearing) he hears her heart rate pick up. So he confronts her about it later and she's all shy and red from shame but bucky reassures her that she can ask for anything, encouraging her to talk about kinks she'd want to try, and slowly but surely, reader starts to stammer & stutter her way into talking about her fantasies 😫🫠

i want to ask bucky to experiment in bed

---------

Movie nights with Bucky were supposed to be safe.

Warm. Comforting. Predictable.

Not… this.

You were curled beside him on the couch, his arm around your shoulders, your socked feet tucked under his thigh, the lights low, popcorn bowl balanced between you. Everything felt normal—soft—until the movie cut to a scene you absolutely weren’t prepared for.

Steamy. Heated. Hands-on-the-wall, breathy little gasps, a man whispering in a woman’s ear while he pinned her wrists above her head—

Your heart leapt. An embarrassing, desperate little jump you hoped he wouldn’t notice.

He did.

Of course he did.

His arm tightened ever so slightly. A subtle shift of his head, like he was… listening.

You kept your eyes trained hard on the TV, pretending you weren’t about to spontaneously combust. The scene faded. You breathed again. You prayed he’d forget.

He didn’t forget.

Not even a little.

---

Later, when the credits rolled and you stood to take the empty bowls to the kitchen, Bucky followed you like he hadn’t already made up his mind about something. He set the bowls in the sink, turned off the faucet, and leaned back against the counter—arms crossed, eyes warm but knowing.

“Doll?”

Your stomach dropped. “Y-yeah?”

He tilted his head. “You okay?”

“Mhm.” Your voice cracked. You tried again. “Yeah. Fine.”

That smile—slow and coaxing—spread across his face. “Your heart was racing earlier.”

The shame hit instantly. Hot. You looked at the floor. “I—I didn’t—It wasn’t—”

“I know what I heard.” He stepped closer, fingertips brushing your hip. “And I know what part of the movie it happened in.”

Your whole face burned.

He tipped your chin up, gentle, so gentle. “Talk to me.”

You shook your head so fast he huffed a soft laugh. “Sweetheart, being shy is cute. But hiding from me? That’s not something you ever have to do.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” you whisper.

Bucky arches a brow. “Then what do you call turning red every time a guy touches a girl’s wrists on screen?”

His teasing wasn’t mocking—it was warm, safe. But that didn’t stop your brain from short-circuiting.

“I didn’t know how to—how to say anything,” you admit quietly.

He runs his thumb along your jaw, slow. “Say what?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

Bucky leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me what you wanted.”

You practically whine, hands flying up to cover your face. He gently pulls them down.

“Hey.” He kisses your knuckles. “You can ask me for anything. There’s not a single version of you I’d ever turn away.”

Your voice is tiny. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Not to me.”

Your heart thunders again—he hears it. His eyes darken.

“Start small,” he murmurs. “Use your words. What about that scene got you so worked up?”

Your knees wobble. “I… I don’t know. Just… the… the pinning.”

“Her wrists?”

You nod fast.

He hums thoughtfully. “You want me to hold your wrists like that, baby?”

The groan that escapes you is mortifying.

Bucky’s smile sharpens—hungry, but soft around the edges. “That’s a yes.”

You cling to his shirt, burying your face in his chest. “I didn’t want you to think I was weird.”

“Doll”—his metal hand slides around your waist, anchor-solid—“I survived a century of Hydra, I’ve met aliens, gods, and a talking raccoon. You wanting to get pinned is not going to shock me.”

You squeak a laugh against him, shaking.

“Anything else?” he asks, voice dipping low. “Anything you’ve been too shy to say?”

Your mouth is dry. “I… maybe… um… like… when you… when you’re a little… rough.”

He pulls back just enough to search your face. “Rough how?”

The world tilts. “Just… holding me down. Maybe letting me feel like I’m not in control.”

“Mm.” His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip. “You want pressure on your throat or just restraint?”

You almost choke. “Bucky—!”

“Sweetheart,” he laughs softly, kissing your forehead, “you’re doing so good. Keep going.”

Your voice is shaky. “Just… just your hand around my throat. Not tight. Just… there.”

He exhales like you just handed him the moon. “I can do that.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily. He notices.

“That all?”

You shake your head slowly.

His fingers trail down your spine. “Tell me the rest.”

You whisper it, hardly audible. “I… sometimes think about you… um… not letting me finish. Like in the movie.”

Bucky’s breath catches—the only sign he’s even remotely affected.

“That’s edging, baby,” he murmurs. “You want me to make you wait for it?”

Your face is on fire. “Sometimes.”

He tips your chin up again, eyes all warmth and wicked promise. “Thank you for telling me.”

You swallow hard. “You’re not… mad?”

“Mad?” He laughs, scooping you up and setting you on the counter so you’re eye-level. “Sweetheart, you just trusted me with fantasies you’ve been too scared to say out loud. That’s the opposite of something I’d ever be mad about.”

Your breath trembles. “So you… like them?”

His hands bracket your thighs. “I love them. And I love that you want them with me.”

Your lashes flutter. “Really?”

He leans in, lips brushing yours. “Really. And doll?”

“Mm?”

“Next time your heart starts racing during a scene like that… you don’t have to pretend.” His mouth curves against yours. “You can just climb in my lap and tell me what part you want me to reenact.”

You go dizzy.

He kisses you—slow, deep, claiming—and whispers against your lips:

“Tonight, we’ll start with the wrists.”

And your pulse spikes again.

He hears it.

He grins.

[heldbybarnes]

hey! Could we get a fic where both Bucky and reader are big into degradation? Not in a negative way but Bucky just loves putting reader in her place in bed and reader loves to be called names in bed!!

I don't know how to not make this sound weird; I'm sorry!

this was so delicious. i saw the vision!!

-------

You start it.

You always start it.

A look across the room, a little curl of your mouth, a soft roll of your hips when you know he’s watching. Bucky clocks it instantly — that bratty glint, that challenge, that sweet little try me simmering under your skin.

He doesn’t bite right away. He lets you think you’re getting away with it.

That’s part of the game.

But the second the bedroom door shuts, his hand is in your hair, and your back is against the wall so fast you gasp.

“There she is,” Bucky murmurs, mouth at your ear, voice low and thrilled like he’s been waiting all damn day. “My needy little slut.”

Heat punches between your legs so sharply your knees wobble. “Bucky—”

He tilts your chin up with two fingers, smirking. “What? You act surprised every time you get exactly what you want.”

“I’m not—”

His brow lifts. A warning. A promise.

You swallow. “I’m not surprised,” you breathe. “Just… impatient.”

That gets him.

His grip tightens in your hair. His other hand slides down your front and cups your pussy right through your panties, pressing until you feel the outline of each thick finger.

“You’re impatient?” he repeats, mocking, slow, wicked. “Baby, your pussy’s dripping. Don’t pretend it’s not.” He taps you once with two fingers. “You’re already acting like a pathetic little whore.”

Your breath stutters. “Bucky…”

“No,” he says, leaning in until his nose grazes your cheek. “You wanted this. You invited this. So tell me what you are.”

Your brain fuzzes. Your thighs squeeze around nothing, already needy.

“I’m… yours,” you whisper.

His laugh is soft, disbelieving. Cruel in the way you love. “You think I asked who you belong to?”

You bite your lip.

“Try again.”

Your heart thumps hard — the drop you crave, the place only he can take you. The room feels smaller, his body feels bigger, and suddenly every inch of you is vibrating.

“I’m your slut,” you whisper.

His breath catches — approval, hunger, satisfaction. “Louder.”

“I’m your slut.”

“Louder.”

“I’m your fucking slut, Bucky.”

He grins like you’ve given him oxygen. “That’s right.”

His hand leaves your hair only long enough to shove your panties aside and drag the pads of two fingers through your soaked slit. When he sees how wet you are — how ready you’ve been — his pupils blow wide.

“God, you’re pathetic,” he sighs happily. “Look at you. So wet it’s running down your thighs. All because I called you a slut.”

Your hips jerk against his hand involuntarily.

“Yeah,” he whispers at your reaction. “You like that, don’t you? You like being talked to like you’re nothing but a hole for me to use.”

A whimper escapes you — sharp, involuntary, humiliating in the sweetest, safest way.

His mouth curls. “There she is. My perfect little mess.”

Before you can recover, he spins you around and bends you over the bed. Your cheek hits the sheets, your ass in the air, and he doesn’t wait — your panties are on the floor, his belt is unbuckled, his cock heavy and already leaking against your ass.

“Spread,” he orders.

You do — fast, eager, shameless.

He drags his cock through your folds and groans at how slick the sound is. “This pussy was made for getting ruined.”

You’re panting now, the tension coiled tight in your belly.

Then he pushes in.

Hard.

One long, thick stroke that sinks all the way inside until your breath is gone and your vision flashes white.

“Fuck—” you gasp.

Bucky groans against your spine, gripping your hips so hard you’ll feel him tomorrow. “Every time,” he growls. “Every fucking time, you act like you can take it. And every time you fall apart like a little whore.”

Your nails clutch the sheets. “Please—”

“Please what? Use your words, sweetheart. Whores talk so pretty when they’re begging.”

“I want— I want you to fuck me—”

“Already doing that,” he teases, snapping his hips once so deep you choke on a moan. “Try harder.”

You shudder. “Use me.”

His cock twitches inside you.

“Again.”

“I want you to use me,” you whimper. “Please, Bucky, I want you to fuck me like I’m nothing.”

He lets out a low, vicious sound that sends electricity down your spine. One hand plants on the small of your back, pinning you. The other grabs your throat from behind, tipping your head back into his shoulder just enough to hear him growl:

“Then take it.”

He fucks you.

Slow at first. Purposeful. Cruel. Each thrust is a shove, an instruction, a claim.

“You’re mine,” he breathes into your ear. “My dumb little toy. My dirty girl. My fucking favorite thing.”

Your whole body trembles.

“And you love it,” he continues, thrusts deepening, pace sharp. “You love it when I talk to you like this. When I treat you exactly how you beg to be treated. Don’t you?”

You can barely think, barely exist, barely breathe — but you manage a strangled, “Yes—!”

He smiles. You can feel it against your cheek. “Good. Because I’m not done with you.”

His hand slides down your stomach, between your legs, fingers finding your clit with practiced precision.

You jolt, crying out.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Make those noises. Let everyone know what you really are.”

“Bucky— I’m— I’m close—”

“I know, baby. You always are when you get talked to like a filthy little toy.”

His pace turns ruthless.

“You’re gonna come for me. You’re gonna come all over my cock like the needy fucking slut you are.”

You break.

Your orgasm hits fast, violent, — your whole body melting as your muscles clamp around him. You hear yourself whine, sob, gasp, all of it raw and uninhibited.

Bucky fucks you through it relentlessly, chasing his release, using your shaking body until he’s panting into your shoulder.

“God— you make me crazy,” he groans. “Gonna fill you up. Make you remember who you belong to.”

You’re still pulsing around him when he thrusts deep, burying himself inside you and spilling hot and heavy while he groans your name like a prayer.

His hand slides from your throat to your waist, steadying you, grounding you.

You collapse onto the bed together in a tangled, breathless heap.

For a long moment, the room is quiet except for your panting.

Then Bucky presses a kiss to your bare shoulder — soft, sweet, the gentlest contrast to how he just fucked you.

“You okay, doll?” he murmurs, voice warm now. Concern tucked under lust, the way it always is.

You nod into the sheets. “Better than okay.”

He smiles against your skin. “Good. Because you know I’d never say any of that unless you wanted it.”

“I know,” you breathe, smiling. “That’s why it’s so hot.”

He laughs, low and delighted. “Yeah? You like your soldier mean?”

“Very,” you say. “But only in bed.”

His hand runs down your spine. “Then get some water in you,” he says, playfully smacking your ass. “Because once you recover? I’m putting you right back in your place.”

Your stomach flips.

“Promise?” you tease.

“Oh,” Bucky says, dark and hungry all over again, “I promise.”

[brunchable]

𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘗𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘜𝘱 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘊𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴

 ݈݇— pairings: Ex-BF!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader  ݈݇— themes: Porn with plot and feelings, Exes-to-Lovers, mild angst with happy ending. no use of y/n. soft!dom, pet names: baby, dirty girl. couch sex, make-up sex, emotional sex, gentle to rough, foreplay, dry humping, nipple play, oral (m receiving), ball play, swallowing, bodyworship, dick slaps, multiple orgasms, breeding talks, unprotected p i v, mating press, creampie, dirty talk, size difference, aftercare, accidental exhibitionsism.  ݈݇— summary: Bucky texted you and he needs you to come pick up your clothes from his house. You haven't seen or talked to him in a month, so why are you nervous? A/N: Based on the song, Folded By Kehlani. Listen to it on repeat while reading, up to you. BUT GOD I AM OBSESSED WITH THIS SONG. DO NOT READ IF YOU"RE UNDER 18.

Your knock sounded sharp, insistent, echoing in the quiet Brooklyn brownstone on this frigid New Year’s morning. Exactly one month since you walked out of this very door, telling yourself it was for good.

There’s a pause. Footsteps. The soft thud of movement inside. And then—his voice, muffled through the door.

“Yeah—hang on.”

Your stomach flips. Stupid. It’s been a month. You should be over this.

The door swings open, and there he is.

He looks… different. The scruff along his jaw is trimmed now, like he finally bothered to care for it. His hair’s a little longer, tucked behind his ears, a few strands escaping around his face. 

The black compression shirt he’s wearing stretches tight across his chest and shoulders, the kind of bulk that says he’s spent the last thirty days punishing himself in the gym instead of texting you. 

You hate how your brain immediately supplies: He’s been working out to forget me. Or getting ready for someone else. The thought stings more than the January air.

And now you have to force your eyes back to his face while his blue eyes flick over you once, quick, then linger.

“Hey,” he says, voice softer than you remember.

“Hey.” You manage a smile that feels brittle. “Happy New Year.”

“Yeah. You too.” He steps back, holding the door wider. “Come in. It’s freezing out there.”

You stay planted on the threshold.

“It’s fine,” you say with your best casual voice. “I’ll wait here.”

Bucky’s brows pull together for half a second. He wets his lips and tilts his head—and lets out a quiet, almost sheepish breath.

“Oh. Uh…” He glances over his shoulder at the box, then back at you. “I was thinking… maybe you’d wanna come in and look around? Just in case I missed something.”

His tone is careful, like he’s testing thin ice.

“Sure, whatever. I can do that.” 

You take off your scarf, and hang it on the coathanger as he closes the door behind you with a quiet click.

He clears his throat, hands shoving into the pockets of his sweatpants. “I, uh… got everything together. Put it in a box. Figured that’d be easier.”

You stand there in the living room, the familiar scent of his cologne in the air. Your fingers linger on the edge of the box as you peer inside—everything folded with that precise, military neatness he always had. Your favorite mug is wrapped carefully in newspaper. Your toothbrush in its little travel case. The books you’d left on the nightstand, spines aligned perfectly.

Behind you, his voice is low, careful. “I put the stuff I bought for you in there too. Intimates, jewelry—all of it. It’s yours. Do whatever you want with it… throw it out, sell it, burn it, your choice.”

The words hit like a slap you didn’t see coming. You swallow hard, throat raw. “I thought you already did.”

A long, heavy silence. Then the scrape of his hand over his face, a sound so tired it makes your chest ache.

“You know I didn’t mean that,” he says, voice cracking on the last word.

You shrug, gripping the box flap until the cardboard bites into your fingers. “Didn’t sound like it at the time.”

Another beat of silence—thick, suffocating.

“You said you were leaving,” he says, quieter now, closer. “You said you were done with me. And then you were gone. I sat in this apartment for weeks staring at your side of the bed like a fucking idiot, waiting for a text that never came. I was angry. I was hurt. So yeah—I said shit to hurt you back. And I’ve hated myself for it every single day since.”

Your eyes burn. You’ve pictured him moving on a thousand times—new girl, new life, your stuff in the trash without a second thought. Hearing he didn’t… hearing he’s been suffering too… it doesn’t fix anything. It just makes the ache sharper.

He keeps going, voice barely above a whisper. “I saw your posts. You looked… happy. Smiling in every photo. And I kept thinking—good. Good, she’s better off. She’s free of me. Because I know what I am. I know I’m difficult. I know I shut down when the work gets bad. I know I’m not easy to love.” A ragged breath. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to walk on eggshells. I’m sorry I ever made you feel small. I just… I miss you so much it’s hard to breathe sometimes. And it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

Your vision blurs. You turn to face him slowly.

He’s standing a few feet away, shoulders curled inward like he’s bracing for a blow, eyes red-rimmed, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping. His hand is still half-raised from scrubbing over his face, like he forgot what to do with it.

The words hang between you, ugly and honest. You want to scream at him. You want to hit him. You want to disappear.

Instead you whisper, “It doesn’t matter now.”

You bend, haul the box up—heavier than your heart—and head for the door.

“Oh come on.” His voice cracks fully this time. Footsteps quick and panicked. “I’m trying here. I’m sorry. I mean it.”

Heavy footsteps follow you to the door.

“I didn’t ask you to come get your clothes today because I wanted you gone,” he says, raw. “I asked because it was an excuse to see you again. One more time. Even if it hurt.”

You’re almost at the entryway when he steps in front of you, blocking the narrow hall. 

Gently, firmly, he lifts the box from your arms and sets it down.

His hands settle on your shoulders, trembling.

His eyes are glassy and pleading. “If you’re really done… if you don’t love me anymore… say it. Say it to my face, and I’ll let you walk out that door and I’ll never bother you again. I swear.”

You stare up at him. Those blue eyes—stormy, wrecked, more open than you’ve ever seen them. A month of distance collapses into this single moment, and it hurts so much you can barely breathe.

A broken laugh escapes you. “You’re cruel,” you whisper, voice shaking. “You know I can’t.”

Tears spill hot down your cheeks. You try to turn away, but his hand cups your face, thumb brushing the tears like he’s afraid you’ll shatter.

“Look at me,” he whispers again, closer now, forehead almost touching yours. “Tell me you’re done. Tell me you don’t love me. And I’ll let you go. Even if it fucking kills me.”

You crumble.

“How can I—” The words rip out of you, raw and ragged. “I love you. God, Bucky, I love you, you’re so—”

His lips crash onto yours like he’s been starving for this—for you—in the last thirty days. His tongue sliding against yours, claiming every inch of your mouth like he’s trying to erase the distance, the fight, the silence. 

His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tears tracking down your cheeks, but he doesn’t gentle the kiss—if anything, he deepens it, stealing the air from your lungs until your head spins harder and black spots dance at the edges of your vision.

You melt into him, helpless. Your hands fist in the front of his compression shirt, pulling him closer even as your knees threaten to buckle. 

A soft, desperate sound escapes your throat and he swallows it, pressing you back until your shoulders meet the nearby wall.

A low sound rumbles in his throat as the contact ignites—chest to chest, hips to hips—and you feel the shudder that rolls through him.

One of his thighs slides between yours, pinning you there, and the solid weight of him is overwhelming—broad chest, corded arms, the new muscle he’s built like armor against the world without you. 

His hands leave your face, skating down your neck, over your coat, until he’s gripping your waist and lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrap around his hips on instinct, the box forgotten on the floor.

He murmurs something wordless against your lips before he nips gently at your bottom one, teasing, testing. The bite is soft, then sharper, a sweet sting that he immediately soothes with a slow, languid kiss. Again and again—bite, kiss, savor—until your lips are swollen and tingling and you’re arching into him without meaning to.

You open for him without hesitation, and his tongue slips inside again, tangling with yours in a slow, sensual dance until you’re breathless.

It emboldens him; you feel it in the way his grip tightens.

He tenses, every muscle coiling as he presses forward, the kiss turning firmer, more insistent. His mouth moves over yours—angling, retreating, claiming, wringing pleasure from you in gasps you can’t hold back.

His body hardens against yours, arousal throbbing hot and demanding between your legs. Another low moan escapes him as he rocks subtly into you, the friction sending white-hot sparks racing up your spine.

The need builds too fast, too fierce, until you both rip apart at the same moment—lips parting with a suction that echoes in the charged silence. You're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, eyes locked in a haze of raw want.

"Can we..." you gasp, voice husky, barely recognizable, "do this somewhere more comfortable?"

A rough chuckle rumbles from his chest, vibrating against you. "God, yes."

He doesn't let go. His mouth crashes back to yours in a searing kiss, hungry and laughing all at once, as his hands start working. 

Fingers tug at your coat, shoving it off your shoulders; it hits the floor with a soft thud. You stumble backward together, lips barely separating, toward the couch, his hands peeling away layers like he's unwrapping a late christmas present. Your jeans go next—his vibranium fingers cool and precise on the button, flesh hand dragging the denim down your thighs until you kick them free.

By the time you tumble onto the couch, you're straddling him, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. Your shirt clings to you, the only barrier left, and his sweatpants do nothing to hide the thick, rigid length of him pressing up against your core.

His tongue tangles with yours again, deep and possessive, as the fingers of his right hand trail up the side of your body—mapping every curve. He stops at the swell of your breast, palm cupping it gently, feeling the weight in his hand. A low, guttural groan vibrates against your mouth, and you feel him swell even harder beneath you, his cock straining against the fabric separating you.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice wrecked, before slipping his hand under your shirt and bra. 

Warm flesh meets bare skin as he cups you fully, squeezing with just the right pressure—caressing, kneading—until another groan tears from him, deeper this time, his hips bucking up involuntarily.

His thumb circles your nipple, slow and teasing, and the spark of pleasure shoots straight through you. You gasp into his mouth, arching hard against him, the sudden sting of it making your thighs clench around his.

With a rough tug, he pushes your shirt and bra up, exposing your breast to the cool air—your nipple tight and aching, begging. His eyes darken, devouring the sight.

“Fuck. You are so beautiful—you missed me didn’t you?” he whispers, before lowering his head. His lips brush the sensitive peak in a soft kiss, tongue flicking out to taste you, savoring like you're the sweetest thing he's ever had.

The wet heat of his mouth closes over you fully then—tongue swirling languidly around your nipple, sucking softly, teeth grazing just enough to make you cry out. Pleasure floods you in waves, intense and overwhelming, pooling hot and liquid between your legs. 

Every brush of his lips, every pull of his mouth, every gentle scrape of teeth—it's torture, exquisite and unrelenting, building that tight coil inside you until you're trembling, on the edge already from this alone.

His free hand—the vibranium one—slides to your ass, gripping firmly, urging you to move. You grind down on him instinctively, rolling your hips against the hard ridge of his trapped cock. The friction is maddening, and his fingers slip lower behind, stroking you through the thin, soaked fabric of your underwear—teasing your clit in firm circles that match the rhythm of his mouth on your breast.

You moan louder, head falling on the crook of his neck, as he tilts his head to take you deeper—sucking harder, tongue lashing your nipple until it's swollen and throbbing. The dual assault—his mouth devouring your breast, his fingers working you relentlessly while you grind on his thick length—has you shattering toward release, every nerve alight, body slick and desperate for more of him.

Your hips buck harder, desperate and shameless, chasing the pressure of his thigh and of his cock straining against the soft fabric of his sweatpants. Every roll drags the seam over your aching clit, amplified by the circles of his vibranium fingers—cool metal warmed by your heat, slick with how drenched you are.

Bucky pulls off your breast with a wet pop, lips shiny, eyes dark and feral as he watches you unravel. His breath fans hot over the sensitive, swollen peak he just abandoned.

“You gonna come?” he rasps, voice low and wrecked, thumb pressing firmer against your clit in a ruthless rhythm that matches the grind of your hips. “Come on me, baby. Let me feel you soak through everything. I want it fucking dripping down my thigh.”

The words hit like a spark to gasoline. Your body locks up—back arching, nails digging into his shoulders—as the orgasm slams into you, sharp and blinding. A broken cry tears from your throat, hips jerking helplessly against him while you pulse and clench around nothing. 

He doesn’t let up, fingers working you through it, drawing it out until you’re trembling, oversensitive, gasping his name.

“Yeah, baby—say my name just like that,” Bucky groans, voice thick and ragged as your cries echo his name again and again through the aftershocks. His vibranium hand slides up your thigh, fingers tracing the slick mess you’ve made. He glances down, eyes darkening at the dark wet patch spreading across his gray sweatpants. “Fuck, look at my pants. Jesus Christ, you soaked right through ‘em.”

He lets out a low, wrecked laugh, forehead pressed to yours for a beat before he pulls back just enough to growl, “Let me just—”

He reaches behind his head and yanks the compression shirt off, tossing it aimlessly. His hair falls messier across his forehead, chest rising and falling hard, every new ridge of muscle on display from the last month of brutal workouts. You’re already helping him, hands greedy at the waistband of his sweatpants, shoving them down caught in the frenzy until they pool at his ankles. He steps out of them, kicking them aside.

You drop lower, mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down his neck, across the broad plane of his chest, tongue flicking over a nipple just to hear him hiss. Then lower, over the cut lines of his abs, tasting salt and warm skin. Your tongue darts out again, tracing the between the V that disappears below, and he drags a hand over his face with a muffled, “God, you’re so fucking sexy doing it like that.”

He looks back down, blue eyes blown wide and hungry.

You chuckle low, the sound vibrating against his skin as your hand slips under the last scrap of fabric—his boxers—palming the heavy length of him. He tenses, abs flexing under your lips, a sharp inhale whistling through his teeth. You tug the waistband down slow enough to tease, and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, curving up toward his stomach with a bead of precum already glistening at the tip.

You lean in, lips parting, and take just the head into your mouth—slow, luxuriant, tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge. 

He twitches hard against your tongue, a guttural “Ohh baby—” ripping out of him as his hips jerk forward involuntarily. You feel him swell even fuller in the wet heat of your mouth, hardening impossibly in seconds like his body’s been waiting a month for this exact moment.

You work lower, taking more of his shaft inch by inch until your lips meet your fingers wrapped around the base, then slide back up, hollowing your cheeks, tongue lavishing the head again with greedy circles. You pull off just long enough to look up at him through your lashes, lips shiny and swollen, a wicked little smile curving your mouth.

The look on his face—brows pinched tight, jaw clenched like he’s in pain, eyes dark and desperate—tells you everything. It’s definitely been a while.

Your free hand cups his balls, heavy and drawn up tight, rolling them gently, tugging just enough to make him throw his head back with a broken curse, vibranium fingers tangling in your hair.

“Shit—I’m so sensitive,” he rasps, voice cracking, looking down again with that wild, pleading edge. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

You pull off him with a lewd, wet pop. His cock—glistening thick and slick from your mouth—bobs heavily in front of your face, flushed dark and veined, a string of saliva still connecting your bottom lip to the swollen tip.

You let out a low, throaty giggle, eyes locked on his as you tilt your head and stick your tongue out flat. Then you guide his length with your hand, slapping the heavy weight of it against your tongue once, twice, three times—hard enough to make wet, filthy smacks, precum and spit smearing across your taste buds and chin in shiny streaks.

Bucky’s breath punches out of him in a shocked laugh as he stares down at the sight, vibranium fingers tightening in your hair.

“Holy shit,” he rasps, voice wrecked and incredulous, a dazed grin pulling at his mouth. “You dirty fucking girl.”

You hum, pleased and wicked, letting the head rest heavy on your outstretched tongue again, giving it a slow, lick from base to tip while you look up at him through wet lashes.

His thighs flex hard, abs clenching, and a low, desperate groan rumbles out of his chest.

“Baby,” he warns, hips shifting forward just an inch—like he’s already fighting not to thrust. “You keep playing like that and I’m not gonna last.”

You pull back just enough, lips brushing the sensitive underside as you murmur, voice husky and teasing, “Good. You can come in my mouth.”

The words hit him like a punch—his eyes flare wide, dark blue gone almost black, a ragged “Fuck—” punching out of him as his cock jerks hard against your lips. You don’t wait for more; you sink down again, taking him deep in one smooth glide until he hits the back of your throat. Your hand works the base in tight, twisting strokes while the other keeps teasing his balls, rolling them gently, feeling how tight and full they are.

He’s unraveling fast—head falling back, throat working on a swallow, a string of broken curses spilling out as his hips start to rock in shallow thrusts he can’t quite control.

“God, your mouth—feels so fucking good,” he pants, looking down again with that pinched, wrecked expression, like pleasure’s bordering on pain. “Not gonna… fuck, baby, I’m close—”

You hear the warning in his voice, feel it in the way his cock throbs heavier against your tongue, but it only spurs you on. 

You double down—suction tightening, cheeks hollowing as you bob faster, hand twisting in that perfect corkscrew motion guys swear by, the one that strokes him root to tip in sync with your mouth. Your tongue presses flat against the sensitive frenulum on every upstroke, flicking quick, while your other hand never stops its worship of his balls—rolling them gently, then tugging downward just enough to heighten the pull.

You pull off for a breath, dropping lower to take one ball into your mouth, sucking soft but firm, tongue swirling as your fist pumps his slick shaft in twisting pulls. 

His thighs quake harder, a strangled “Fuck—yes—” ripping out as you switch back to his cock, taking him deep again, throat relaxing to swallow around the head while your fingers keep that gentle downward tension on his balls.

His hips stutter, vibranium hand leaving your hair to grip the edge of the couch—his whole body goes rigid, abs clenching visibly as the orgasm barrels through him.

“Shit, I’m gonna come—I’m coming, I’m coming—” he chokes out, and then he’s pulsing hard against your tongue, thick ropes of cum flooding your mouth in hot, heavy spurts. You swallow greedily, milking him with your lips and hand, drawing it out until he’s shuddering violently, a low, broken groan dragging from his chest.

When it finally ebbs, he slumps against the couch, chest heaving, cock slipping from your lips with a wet sound. You sit back on your heels, licking the corner of your mouth, watching him come down with a satisfied little smile.

Bucky drags a shaky hand through his messy hair, letting out a breathless, incredulous laugh—the classic post-nut clarity hitting hard, loose and dazed.

“Where the fuck did you learn that?” he pants, voice hoarse, blue eyes wide and still a little glazed as he stares down at you. Another huff of laughter escapes him, fond and wrecked. “Jesus, baby. You trying to ruin me for good?”

He reaches down, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip, smearing the gloss there like he can’t help himself.

You lick your lips slowly, tasting him still, and meet his glazed eyes with a soft, teasing smile.

“Just my way of saying sorry to you. . .” you murmur, voice husky from everything you just did to him.

Bucky’s breathless laugh turns darker and hungrier. He sinks fully onto the couch now, legs spread, chest still heaving as he reaches for you with both hands, pulling you up from your knees.

“Come here,” he says, low and rough, patting his thigh. “Sit on me. I’m not done with you yet.”

His cock rests heavy against his stomach, semi-soft and glistening from your mouth, twitching faintly like it’s already eager for round two. You don’t hesitate—clothes half-shed, you strip off what’s left.

You know exactly what he loves, what gets him hard again. 

Lowering yourself slowly, you drag your bare, soaked pussy along his length—just slick skin on skin. The head of his cock nudges your clit on the first pass, and you both groan at the contact. You rock forward again, grinding slow and languid, coating him in your wetness, feeling him thicken and harden beneath you with every slide.

Bucky’s head falls back against the couch for a second, eyes hooded, before he snaps his gaze down to watch—transfixed by the sight of your folds parting around his shaft, gliding up and down, your arousal making everything shiny and messy.

“Oh my God,” he hisses through clenched teeth, hips lifting just slightly to chase the friction. “That’s it… just like that.”

You guide his hands up to your breasts, pressing them into his palms, and he doesn’t need more invitation. His flesh hand cups one, thumb circling the nipple before pinching while the vibranium one mirrors the motion on the other, cool metal warming fast against your skin. He tugs and rolls your nipples between his fingers, twisting just hard enough to make you gasp and grind down firmer, your clit dragging along his now fully hard length.

Every rock of your hips pulls a low rumble from his chest, his cock throbbing hot and rigid between your folds, precum mixing with your slickness until you’re both dripping.

“God, look at you,” he breathes, voice gravel-rough, eyes dark as he watches himself disappear and reappear between your lips with every roll. “Using that pretty pussy to get me hard again…”

You nod slowly, breath hitching as you grind down one last time, feeling him throb fully hard and ready between your slick folds.

“How do you want me?” you ask, voice soft and needy, eyes locked on his.

Bucky’s lips curve into a wolfish smile.

“How do I want you?” he echoes, voice low and rough, vibranium hand sliding down to grip your hip possessively. “I want you under me, baby. Ankles right beside your ears.” His eyes darken further, thumb stroking your skin. “How do you want to take it? Rough? Slow?”

You lean in, pecking his lips quick and teasing, a breathless laugh escaping you. “That’s up to you.”

His brows lift, surprise flickering before that hungry edge sharpens again. “You really trusting me to leave it up to me?” He swallows hard, throat working, gaze searching yours for a beat—like he’s making sure. Then he exhales, soft and resolute. “Alright. We can take it slow.”

He shifts, strong arms lifting you effortlessly as he moves you both to the chaise end of the sectional, laying you back against the soft leather. The cool surface contrasts with the heat of your skin, and he settles between your thighs, nudging them wider with his knees.

“Get in position for me,” he murmurs, voice deep and commanding, sending a shiver straight through you. “Ankles up by your ears. And spread that pretty pussy—use your fingers on both sides of your lips. Show it to me.”

You obey without hesitation, legs folding back until your ankles frame your face, knees splayed wide. Your hands slide down, fingers parting your slick, swollen folds, baring yourself completely—glistening, aching, dripping for him.

Bucky groans low and guttural, eyes locked on you like he’s starving. “Fuck, look at that… I just wanna eat that pussy, but next time—right now, I need to fuck you.”

He leans over you, one hand bracing beside your head, the other guiding his thick cock. He slaps it against you once, twice—wet, heavy thuds that make you gasp and clench around nothing. Then the broad head teases you—rubbing slow circles over your clit, then dragging down to nudge your entrance. 

He presses in just barely, stretching you open an inch before pulling back. Again—deeper, teasing—until he surges forward in one controlled thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

The stretch is overwhelming, his thick length splitting you wide as your walls flutter and grip him. A muffled moan tears from your throat; his rumbles deep in his chest, ragged and desperate.

“Oh fuck—” he murmurs, forehead dropping to yours. 

He stills, hips flush, letting you feel every pulsing inch—impossibly deep in this folded position, the head kissing your cervix until your toes curl beside your ears.

Then he pulls back slow, dragging every ridge along your walls, before slamming home again. Each thrust jolts through you, wet slaps echoing, your slick coating him, dripping where you’re joined. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you pinned open, helpless to his rhythm.

“Look at you,” he rasps between thrusts, voice wrecked, eyes flicking from your face to where he disappears into you. “Taking me so deep… feel how full you are, baby?”

His control frays—breaths rougher, hips snapping harder as you gasp, “Fuck me like that.” Sweat beads on his skin, vibranium hand tightening on your thigh.

He locks eyes with you. “Look down,” he orders, gravel-rough. “Watch me fuck this pretty pussy. Watch how you take every inch.”

You obey, gaze dropping to where your folds stretch tight around his glistening shaft, swallowing him whole on every sink.

“That’s it,” he growls, pace turning heavier, more possessive. He slams deep, grinds slow circles against that spot that sparks stars behind your eyes. “You feel me? Feel how deep I am? I’m not letting you go this time—never again.”

He rasps against your ear, thrusting faster—balls-deep slams marking you inside out. “Gonna fuck a hole inside you only I can fill.”

“Oh God—yes,” you choke out, voice breaking on every word as tears prick your eyes from the intensity.

“Yeah?” His eyes lock on yours, wild and undone, but soft at the edges with everything he hasn’t said in a month. “You want me to give you everything? Want me to knock you up so you never forget who you belong to—who you love?”

You nod frantically, nails raking down his back. “Yes—God, yes—don’t stop—”

“That’s my girl,” he breathes, vibranium hand sliding to your lower belly, pressing just enough for you to feel him moving inside you. “Gonna give you all of me. Gonna love you so fucking deep you’ll feel me for days—every time you move, you’ll know you’re mine.”

His forehead drops to yours, sweat-slick skin sliding, thrusts frantic now—hips snapping, chaise rocking.

“Look at me,” he rasps, cupping your jaw. His blue eyes lock wild and intense. “I love you too—fuck, I love you.”

“I love—”

His mouth crashes onto yours, devouring, tongue thrusting in time with his cock as he ruts like he’s possessed—pouring a month of longing into every slam. His vibranium arm hooks your knee tighter, folding you impossibly deeper.

“Bucky—I’m gonna come—”

He grunts into the kiss, nipping your lip. “Then come. I want that pretty pussy squeezing me first.”

His thumb finds your clit, circling hard in sync with his relentless thrusts—and you shatter.

“Yes—yes—” you cry, walls clenching vise-tight, pulsing around him as pleasure whites out everything. Your nails dig bloody trails down his back; he hisses, thrusts erratic, chasing your climax.

His hips stutter, losing all rhythm as the pressure coils unbearably tight at the base of his spine.

“Fuck—oh fuck—” The words fracture against your neck, muffled and raw. His cock jerks again and again, thick ropes of semen flooding deep in hot, endless surges while he grinds slow circles. Each spasm drags helpless whine from him, hips grinding instinctively, dragging every last shuddering drop as far into you as he can get.

Finally spent, his body sags heavily on top of you—warm, sweat-slick weight pressing you into the chaise cushions, chest heaving with ragged pants against your throat. 

You unfold slowly, legs trembling as you lower them, ankles sliding down his sides until your thighs bracket his hips. The shift draws a soft groan from him—cock still buried deep, softening but reluctant to leave, letting gravity ease him out with a warm trickle of your mixed release leaking onto the leather.

Bucky lifts his head just enough to find your mouth, kissing you sweetly—slow, tender presses of his lips, gentle brushes of tongue, no hunger now, only devotion. He trails soft kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the tip of your nose.

He stays close, forehead resting against yours, the faint sheen of sweat cooling between you in the dim glow of the lamps. Those blue eyes, heavy-lidded and unguarded, trace your face like he’s memorizing you all over again.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with leftover want, thumb stroking slow along your cheekbone. “So fucking much.”

You lean up just enough to brush a soft peck against his lips, lingering there a second before pulling back. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, guilt threading through the words. “I’ll be more mindful when you’re stressed. I didn’t mean to push.”

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, the sound warm and forgiving as he nuzzles closer, lips grazing yours again. “It’s okay, baby. Honestly? Best kind of stress relief I’ve had in weeks.” The corner of his mouth quirks—that familiar teasing glint flickering back into his eyes. “Might start picking fights on purpose if this is how we make up.”

He steals one more slow, sweet kiss before easing his weight off you. The cool air of the room rushes between your thighs, sticky and sensitive, and he notices the way you shift. “C’mon, let me clean you up.”

Before you can protest, he’s sliding his arms beneath you and lifting you effortlessly against his chest in a bridal carry. You tuck your face into the crook of his neck, legs dangling, still boneless and floating as he pads barefoot across the living room toward the bathroom.

That’s when you glance over his shoulder—and freeze.

The tall brownstone windows are thrown wide open, sheer curtains pushed aside, and directly across the narrow street, in the window of the opposite brownstone, Mrs. Kowalski—the sweet little old lady who always bakes too many cookies and leaves them on Bucky’s stoop—is standing there in her robe, sipping coffee.

She’s holding up both hands, fingers splayed: a perfect 10.

Then she gives an enthusiastic thumbs-up, mouths “Happy New Year!” and adds a cheeky little golf clap.

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, mortified heat flooding your face as you duck your head into Bucky’s neck.

Bucky slows, brow furrowing at the sudden tension in your body. “What?”

“Don’t—don’t turn around,” you hiss, burying your face deeper into his neck. “You’ll flash the entire block.”

Bucky freezes mid-step, confusion flickering before realization hits him like a truck. He’s stark naked, dick out in the breeze, carrying you the same way. His eyes widen, a rare flush creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears—the Winter Soldier actually blushing.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, shifting his hold on you instinctively to angle his hips away from the window, using your body like a very strategic human shield. He risks one quick, awkward sideways glance—just enough to spot Mrs. K’s scorecard performance—then snaps his gaze forward again, jaw tight and cringing from motification.

Mrs. Kowalski winks, points at you both like a proud matchmaker, and shuffles off—probably to speed dial her bridge club with the gossip of the century.

Bucky exhales a choked laugh, dropping his forehead to your shoulder as his whole body vibrates with it. “Well… at least we got a perfect score?” he manages, voice strained between amusement and genuine mortification. “Fuck, I’m never living this down. She’s gonna tell the whole block I’ve still got it.”

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[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Again hi ☺️👋, Can I please request something where the reader and Bucky have a lazy morning (they have been together for a few months). He wakes her up with lazy, featherlight kisses on her neck/shoulder. He is just very cuddly 🫂❤️

Lazy Morning » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: You and Bucky have a lazy morning.

Warnings: Fluff, language, kissing, pet names

A/N: @jackys-stuff-blog thank you for the beautiful request🩵

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by my friend🩵 / divider made by me

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator

Usually, you always wake up before Bucky and make a pot of coffee and breakfast, but you didn’t this morning. You decided to sleep in. Bucky woke up before you this morning. He stretches and rubs his eyes before looking at you, smiling when he saw you still next to him sound asleep. It’s rare for you and Bucky to have the same days off.

Bucky turns over so he was facing you. He moves closer to you, putting his arm around your waist. He moves your hair off of your shoulder and then leans down, placing soft and featherlight kisses along your shoulders. You smiled and hummed softly. You also giggled when you felt his beard scratching your skin. It tickles too.

“Your beard is tickling me, baby.” You say softly, your voice raspy from sleeping.

“You’ve never complained about it before.” Bucky says, grinning against your shoulder.

You giggled again and turned over so you were facing him. Your hands gently caressed his cheeks as you gazed into his beautiful blue eyes.

“Good morning.” You say softly so that it was almost a whisper.

“Good morning.” Bucky says just as softly as you did.

The morning kiss that Bucky gave you was so soft and sweet that you didn’t want it to end and neither did he. The kiss turned into a few soft pecks before he gazes down at you, admiring your beauty.

“You’re gorgeous. You know that?” Bucky compliments softly.

“Even when I have messy hair?” You giggled.

“You look gorgeous no matter what.” He smiles.

“You’re a romantic. You know that?” You say softly.

“You may have said that a few times.” He smiles.

Bucky kisses you again. There was so much sweetness and passion in this kiss that it melted yours and Bucky’s hearts. Then you two repositioned yourselves on the bed. Bucky was laying on his back and you cuddled yourself against his side and laid your head on his chest, your fingers playing with his Army dog tags.

“Both of us have the day off today. That’s rare.” You say.

“I know right.” Bucky says.

“What should we do today? I’m up for anything.” You say.

“Me too, but I would much rather spend the day being lazy with my drop dead gorgeous girlfriend.” He says softly.

“That sounds like a plan to me.” You say.

That’s how you and Bucky exactly started the day. You two spent time cuddling for a while before getting out of bed to make coffee and breakfast. You giggled when Bucky wraps his arms around your waist from behind and kisses your cheek while you were cooking breakfast, his beard tickling your skin again.

“Bucky, your beard is tickling me again.” You giggled.

“Like I said earlier, sweet cheeks, you’ve never complained about it before.” Bucky says, grinning like he did earlier.

You giggled and turned your head to give him a kiss and then went back to making breakfast. After you two ate breakfast, you two cuddled on the couch and watched movies all day.

“I love you and when you’re all cuddly.” You say.

“I love you too, doll.” Bucky says softly.

-Bucky’s Doll