[buttlesangel]

︎︎masterlist ꨄ

please read with caution as some fics contain smut and darker themes, these will be tagged specifically and you have free will to either read or ignore. If there are any problems with my masterlist please let me know in anon or through pm!

happy reading my angels x

UKYT

alfie buttle

george clarke

angry ginge

arthur frederick

will lenney

harry lewis

chris dixon

a large thank you @oh-austin, who basically found all of my fics and did all my boring masterlist admin for me and saved me hours! I from the bottom of my heart appreciate you and it was one of the kindest things anyone's done for me. Everyone thank her, because without her, this masterlist would not have been updated!

buttlesangel© on all works, please do not steal or copy any content

[buttlesangel]

more george stuff pretty please lizzie fizzie 🥰🥰🤭🤭🙏🙏literally anything i just need more george clarke thank u love u

home sweet home ── george clarke⋆⭒˚.⋆

pairing: george clarke! bimbo reader

summary: bimbo! reader waiting for george to get home from the pub on a day out, she has a little surprise for him

warnings/contents: smut, p in v, dumbification kink

a/n: somebody asked for a george clarke x bimbo! reader drabble and i also received this so i may as well just comine it for you my cheeky grace

Pm me to be on taglist <3

requests are open and i'm happy to write whatever, hope you enjoy xx

You heard the key in the lock long before you saw him. The jangle, a pause, and then the door swinging open with a soft thud that announced he was home. You’d been waiting, curled up on the sofa in your tiniest pink shorts and a matching cami showing off your tits, scrolling through your phone but not really processing it.

George stumbled in, and the whole atmosphere of the flat changed instantly. He smelled of lager and that sharp, outdoorsy smell of the pub on a rainy day. His cheeks were flushed a pink, and his blue eyes, usually so sharp and focused, were soft in his state.

“There’s my girl,” he slurred, a wide grin spreading across his face. He kicked off his trainers, sending one under the coffee table. “We won.”

“You won?” you asked, putting your phone down and giving him your full attention.

“Won pub golf, was fucking great, chris is on the floor” He shrugged off his jacket, letting it drop to the floor in a heap. He was still buzzing with it, that loud energy from the pub clinging to him like he was still there. He flopped down onto the sofa next to you, his weight making you bounce.

“You’re drunk,” you giggled, poking his chest.

“Pissed,” he corrected happily, looping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. His mouth was hot against your ear. “And I’ve been thinkin’ about this tight little top all day.”

You melted into him, your hand resting on his firm thigh. “Yeah? didn't see any hot girls today?”

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through your whole body. “Only one person I was thinkin’ about, pet.” His hand slid down from your shoulder to your waist, his fingers tracing the hem of your shorts. “You’re a right distraction, you know that?”

“Is that a bad thing?” you whispered, tilting your head back to look at him.

His gaze dropped to your lips, and the playful energy in his eyes shifted into something darker, heavier. “No,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “It’s the best thing.”

He kissed you then, and it was all lager and desperation. It wasn’t neat or controlled; it was messy and hungry, his tongue claiming yours like he’d been starving for it. He tasted of victory and you. One of his hands came up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone, while the other tightened on your hip, pulling you closer until you were almost in his lap.

You swung your leg over his waist, straddling him. The move made you gasp, and he took the opportunity to kiss a trail down your neck, his teeth scraping your skin just enough to make you shiver. His hands were everywhere, roaming up your back, under the flimsy top to stroke the skin of your sides.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he groaned, his head falling back against the sofa cushions. He looked up at you, his eyes dark and hazy with lust and alcohol. “Look at you. Sitting here all pretty, waiting for me to get home.”

“I’m always waiting for you,” you breathed, grinding your hips down against the hard ridge in his jeans. He let out a choked moan, his hands flying to your ass to hold you in place.

“Don’t… don’t do that,” he panted, even as he rocked his hips up to meet yours. “‘M trying to be a gentleman.”

“Don’t,” you whined, leaning down to bite his lower lip. “I don’t want you to be a gentleman, Georgie.”

That was all it took. With a growl, he sat up, wrapping his arms around you and standing in one fluid motion. You yelped, your legs automatically locking around his waist. His hands gripped the underside of your thighs, holding you effortlessly as he carried you towards the bedroom, his mouth never leaving yours.

He kicked the bedroom door open and fell onto the bed with you, a tangle of limbs and frantic hands. He fumbled with the button of his jeans, his movements clumsy with urgency. You helped him, tugging the denim down his hips.

“Christ, I need you,” he muttered, his voice thick and desperate. He hooked his fingers into your shorts and knickers, pulling them down in one rough motion. He didn’t even bother taking his own jeans all the way off, just kicking them down to his ankles.

He settled between your thighs, his body heavy and solid and perfect. He looked down at you, his hair a mess, his chest heaving. “You sure?” he asked, a flicker of his usual self breaking through the drunken haze.

You answered by wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him down. “Stop talking and fuck me, georgie.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He thrust into you in one deep, powerful stroke that stole your breath. He set a relentless pace, fueled by adrenaline and alcohol and pure, unadulterated need. The room was filled with the sound of his ragged groans, your breathy moans, and the headboard slapping against the wall.

He buried his face in your neck, his english accent a thick, incomprehensible rumble of praise and curses against your skin. He was everywhere, his hands gripping your hips, his mouth claiming yours, his body driving into yours with an intensity.

It was fast and hard and messy, and when your orgasm hit, it was a cry from your throat. He followed you moments later with a shout of your name, his body shuddering against yours as he emptied himself deep inside.

He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress. For a long time, the only sound was your combined, panting breaths.

“Jesus,” he finally mumbled into your hair. “never change for me baby”

You giggled, stroking his hair. “I won't georgie”

taglist: @ghostwrittenbygrace @dilfslutsstuff @kislnd @lenneyswhore @cigarettesafterbooks @teleskinnd

[buttlesangel]

could you pleaaasseee write an imagine in which Arthurtv or ChrisMD or George clarkey I honestly don’t care which comes home to find reader in lingerie after a long days work but it’s like super cute and a surprise because reader knows that the boy has had a stressful week 🙏🙏🙏🙏 if you do this I will love you forever

Laced up ── George Clarke⋆⭒˚.⋆

pairing: George clarke x bimbo fem!reader

summary: George has had a long and stressful week, editing videos, featuring on others, late nights out, having to record his own so you decided to give him a little surprise

warnings/contents: smut, sexual innuendos, oral (m! receiving), praise kink, pinv, reader is a switch, rough, man-handeling

a/n: i chose george because i lowkey need to start writing about him, guys as always feel free to drop something in the requests

requests are open and i'm happy to write whatever, hope you enjoy xx

GEORGES KEY TURNED IN THE LOCK WITH A WEARY CLICK─ the weight of the week pressing down on his shoulders like a stack of unapproved planning permits. The flat was too quiet, no hum of the telly, no clatter of Y/N in the kitchen burning another “experimental” dinner. Just… silence.

Odd.

He took off his shoes along with his jacket. “Y/N? poppet, I’m home” His voice died in his throat.

Because there, sprawled across their bed like some kind of sinful angel, was you.

Pink. So much pink. Lace clinging to curves he’d worshipped a thousand times, stockings that made his mouth water, heels digging into the duvet like you’d been waiting hours to ruin him. Your hair was in a perfect blowout, he stared a little at your shining lips, mouth agape.

“Hi, baby,” you purred, rolling onto your side to prop your head up on one hand. The movement made your tits threaten to spill free, and George’s cock twitched. “Miss me?”

His brain short circuited. “Y/N, what the fuck”

You pouted, kicking one leg up so the lace rode higher. “Language, baby. You’ve had a long week. Let me take care of you.” Your voice dropped, a little commanding in a way that made his spine tingle. “Strip. Now.”

George blinked. “Strip?” he was never used to you being dominant in the bedroom.

You giggled, biting your lip. “Uh huh. Or do I have to do it for you?” Before he could protest, you were off the bed in a flash, loitering over in those fuck-me heels. Your fingers made quick work of his shirt, taking it off “Such a good boy, working so hard. for all your fans hmm” Your nails scraped down his chest and he shuddered. “But now? You’re mine.”

His cock was painfully hard. “Poppet, I-”

“Shh.” You pressed a finger to his lips, then dropped to your knees in front of him. The sight of you there, all pink and pretty and obedient which was weird because you were the one calling the shots, you had him leaking in his boxers. “You talk too much, George.” Your hands went to his belt, unbuckling it with slow, teasing the poor guy. “Tonight, I wanna take care of you.”

The zip came down. His breath hitched.

“Fuck, look at you,” you murmured, palming him through his briefs. “So hard already. Such a needy boy for me.” You hooked your fingers into the waistband and tugged, freeing his cock with a wet pop of precum. Your tongue darted out, swiping the tip, and George’s knees nearly gave out.

“Darling...”

“Mmm?” You blinked up at him, all false innocence, before wrapping those glossy lips around the head. “You like that, baby? Like when your good girl sucks you off?”

He groaned, tangling his fingers in your hair. “Fuck, yes”

You pulled off with a lewd pop, smirking. “Then shut up and fuck my mouth, George. I know you’ve been dying to all week.”

Permission granted.

George’s control snapped. He gripped your hair, hips jerking forward as you took him deep, gagging around the thickness with a whimper that vibrated straight to his balls. “Fuck, that’s it, such a pretty little slut, aren’t you?” His voice was rough, filthy, but you loved it, moaning around him, hollowing your cheeks, letting spit dribble down your chin.

“Gonna cum down that pretty throat,” he growled, thrusting shallowly. “Gonna use you, love. Make you swallow every drop poppet”

You pulled off with a gasp, eyes watering but grinning. “Do it. Please, George. I want it.” You stroked him, thumb swiping over the slick head. “Want you to ruin my makeup. Want you to fuck me after, too. Hard.” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “Please?”

He could only smirk in return.

The bed hit his back with a thud, you straddling his hips before he could even catch his breath. you took off you bra as you straddled him, your tits bouncing free as you grinded down on his cock, soaking the head with your arousal.

“Fuck,” he hissed, hands flying to your waist. “You’re dripping, love. Been like this all day?”

You whimpered, rolling your hips. “Mmmhmm. Been thinking about you. How stressed you’d be.” Your nails dug into his chest. “How bad you’d need to fuck me.”

George flipped you in one rough motion, pinning your wrists above your head. “Tease,” he snarled, nipping at your collarbone. “You planned this, didn’t you? Little minx.”

You giggled, arching into him. “Maybe. But you like it.” You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into his arse. “Now fuck me, George.

The first thrust split you open, your back bowing off the bed with a cry. “Oh god”

“Mine,” George growled, slamming into you again. The bedframe screeched against the wall. “Such a good fucking girl, taking me like this.” His teeth grazed your nipple, biting just hard enough to make you sob. “You love it when I’m rough, don’t you? Love when I use this pretty cunt”

“Yes!” Your nails raked down his back, drawing blood. “More, George harder”

He obliged.

Every snap of his hips had you screaming, the sound muffled against his shoulder as he pounded into you, skin slapping skin, the room thick with the scent of sex and you. Your legs trembled, your cunt clenching around him

“Gonna cum,” you gasped, tears pricking your eyes. “Please, can I?”

George’s mouth crashed onto yours, swallowing your moan as your orgasm wrecked you, your body seizing around him, milking his cock until he roared, spilling deep with a final, brutal thrust.

For a long moment, there was nothing but ragged breathing.

Then you giggled, pressing a kiss to his sweat slicked chest. “Better, baby?”

George huffed a laugh, rolling onto his back and pulling you against him. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You traced idle patterns on his stomach, smirking. “Worth it?”

He kissed the top of your head, voice rough with affection. “Always, love.”

when you curled into him after, he just stared down at you and thought,

'Best. Fucking. Surprise. Ever.'

[buttlesangel]

George Clarke nsfw alphabet ᥫ᭡

( content warnings : 18+ mdni , sexual content , cum play, praise, george is a soft dom, mischaracterization ok )

( a/n ) : i dont fucking know how to write anyone but big daddy ab so fuck

AFTERCARE, what they're like after sex George is incredibly attentive and tender after sex, his usual energetic humor softening into a gentle, caring demeanor that makes your heart flutter. He'll run his fingers through your hair, pressing soft kisses to your forehead as he murmurs how amazing you were. "You alright there, darling? Need anything?" he'll ask, his blue-green eyes full of concern as he checks in with you. He's surprisingly domestic in these moments, often getting up to fetch you water or a snack, returning with a silly joke that makes you laugh despite your exhaustion. George loves cuddling afterward, pulling you close against his slim but firm chest as you both come down from the intensity, his usual sarcasm replaced by genuine affection and whispered praises about how much you mean to him.

BODY PART, their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner's George is secretly proud of his hands - not because they're particularly muscular, but because of how skilled they are at making you feel good. He loves watching them explore your body, his long fingers tracing patterns on your skin that make you shiver. On you, he's absolutely obsessed with your eyes, he loves watching them change as you get more aroused, the way they darken and lose focus when he's hitting just the right spot. "Look at me, darling. Want to see those pretty eyes when I make you cum," he'll murmur, his voice soft but commanding as he maintains eye contact, his usual humor replaced by intense focus on your pleasure.

CUM, anything to do with cum, basically George has a thing for cumming inside you, he loves the intimacy of it, the feeling of being completely connected as he fills you up. "That's it, darling. Take all of it," he'll groan, his slim hips pumping as he empties himself inside you. He also loves watching it drip out afterward, often pushing it back in with his fingers as he murmurs about how beautiful you look marked with his cum. When he does finish on your body, he prefers your stomach or breasts, leaning down to lick it off afterward with a grin. "i love you" he'll say before kissing you, letting you taste the combination of your fluids on his tongue.

DIRTY SECRET, pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs George secretly loves it when you "steal" his hoodies and wear them around the house especially when you're not wearing anything underneath. The sight of you in his oversized clothing, with nothing on underneath, drives him absolutely wild. He'll often "catch" you and bend you over the nearest surface, taking you from behind without even removing the hoodie. "Wearing my things without asking, are we? Naughty girl," he'll growl, his usual playful tone replaced by something darker and more possessive. What you don't know is that he sometimes leaves his favorite hoodies out specifically for you to "find" and "steal."

EXPERIENCE, how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing? Despite his confident self, George was somewhat inexperienced before you, mostly awkward fumbling in his younger years that never went anywhere serious. But he's a quick study. "Tell me what you like, darling. I want to be brilliant at this for you," he'll say, genuinely wanting to please you. His natural curiosity and willingness to experiment more than make up for his initial lack of experience, and he quickly becomes attuned to your every need and desire.

FAVORITE POSITION, this goes without saying George's favorite position is missionary, he loves being able to look into your eyes, to kiss you deeply as he moves inside you. The intimacy of face-to-face sex, combined with the control it allows him, is the perfect balance for his soft dom nature. "Look at me, darling. Want to see your face when I make you cum," he'll murmur, his eyes locked on yours as he maintains a steady rhythm. His second favorite is having you ride him - he loves the view of your body above him, the way your breasts bounce as you move, but he maintains control by gripping your hips to set the pace. "That's it, darling. Just like that. You're doing so well," he'll encourage.

GOOFY, are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc. George's humor doesn't disappear during sex, it just changes a little. He's still witty and sarcastic, but now his jokes are laced with desire and dominance. He might pause mid thrust to make a self-deprecating comment about his technique, only to follow it with a particularly deep thrust that makes you gasp. "Not bad, eh?" he'll grin, his eyes twinkling with amusement as you struggle to form a coherent response. These moments of humor, even in the most intense moments, show the playful man beneath it all and always leave you feeling connected to him on multiple levels.

HAIR, how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc. George keeps his body hair natural, the light brown to dark blond hair on his chest trails down to a thinner patch at the base of his cock. He's not particularly concerned with grooming, finding it unnecessary and unnatural. "Why mess with perfection?" he'll grin when you ask about it, running your fingers through his chest hair. He loves it when you play with his hair, both on his head and body, finding it incredibly intimate and comforting. The casual, natural look extends to his pubic hair, which he keeps trimmed but not completely bare.

INTIMACY, how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect Despite his dominant nature, George is incredibly romantic during sex, he's always checking in, making sure you're enjoying yourself, expressing how much you mean to him. "You're brilliant, you know that? Absolutely perfect," he'll murmur between kisses, his usual sarcasm replaced by genuine affection. He particularly loves eye contact during sex, finding it incredibly intimate to watch your reactions as he pleasures you. "Look at me, darling. You're so beautiful, especially when i'm inside you, yeah?," he'll say, his voice soft but commanding as he maintains eye contact, his eyes full of emotion as he connects with you on the deepest level.

JACK OFF, masturbation headcanon George masturbates fairly regularly when you're not around, often to the thought of you. He's particularly into edging himself, bringing himself to the brink repeatedly before finally allowing release. "Thinking of you. Always thinking of you," he'll groan as he strokes himself. He often records these sessions, planning to show you later as a surprise.

KINK, one or more of their kinks George has a serious praise kink, he loves telling you how good you're doing, how beautiful you are, how much he loves the way you respond to him. It's not just about your pleasure, it's about his ego, knowing he's the one making you feel this good. "You're doing so well, darling. Taking me so beautifully," he'll murmur, his voice thick with emotion as he watches you respond to his touch. He's also into light bondage - not anything too intense, but loves restraining your hands with his hoodies or t-shirts, loving the way you look at him with complete trust as he takes control. "Trust me. I'll take care of you," he'll promise, his usual sarcasm replaced by genuine tenderness.

LOCATION, favorite places to do the do George's favorite place is definitely your bed, He's not the type to go out and fuck you in public I feel. It'd be too much and honestly a bit worrying, with the amount of fans he's got watching and all. But he is no stranger to heavy petting in public, I reckon he gets a kick out of you two teasing eachother when out with friends.

MOTIVATION, what turns them on, gets them going Nothing turns George on faster than you challenging him, even playfully. If you tease him about his frame or make a sarcastic comment about his technique, his eyes darken and his jaw sets. "Think you're funny, don't you, sweetheart? We'll see who's laughing when I'm making you beg," he'll growl, already hard at the thought of proving you wrong.

NO, something they wouldn't do, turn offs George has a hard line against anything that truly degrades you, like alfie, I think he's less dominating then alfie so he's a bit more senstive, he's more about praising anyway. So seeing you cry in sex is just something he couldn't do, he sees you as his fragile little angel!

ORAL, preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc. George absolutely adores giving oral, he could spend hours between your legs, exploring every inch of you with his tongue and fingers. He loves the way you taste, the sounds you make when he hits just the right spot, the way your body trembles as he brings you to orgasm again and again. "That's it. Let me hear you. Want to know how good I'm making you feel," he'll murmur against your clit, his eyes looking up at you with intense focus. He's equally enthusiastic about receiving oral, but he maintains control by gripping your hair or holding your head, setting the pace as he fucks your mouth. "Just like that. You're brilliant at this," he'll groan, his slim hips pumping as he watches you take him deeper.

PACE, are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc. George typically favors a steady, deliberate pace, not too fast, not too slow, but perfectly controlled to maximize your pleasure. He loves watching your reactions as he varies his rhythm, speeding up when you're close to orgasm, then slowing down to prolong the pleasure. "Not yet. Want to enjoy this a bit longer," he'll murmur with a wicked grin when you try to speed up the pace. That said, when he's particularly worked up or feeling possessive, he'll shift to a faster, rougher rhythm. "You're so beautiful, hm?" he'll growl, his body moving with surprising power and precision as he drives you both toward release.

QUICKIE, their opinions on quickies, how often, etc. George doesn't mind quickies when necessary - he's practical enough to recognize that sometimes you both need release but don't have time for an extended session. "Quick one? Don't mind if I do," he'll grin, already hardening at the thought. He's particularly fond of morning quickies, waking you up with his fingers or mouth, bringing you to a quick orgasm before he has to start his day. "Just a taste to get me through the day, darling. Promise I'll make it up to you tonight," he'll murmur, pressing a quick kiss to your lips as he rushes out the door. That said, he much prefers longer sessions where he can take his time exploring your body and drawing out the pleasure for both of you.

RISK, are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc. George is always down to experiment, especially if it involves trying new things that might enhance your pleasure. He loves researching new techniques or positions. "Read about this new thing. Think we should try it? Could be good," he'll say, already excited at the prospect of exploring something new with you. He's particularly interested in sensory play, blindfolds, temperature play, different textures, loving the way it heightens your other senses and makes you more responsive to his touch. "Trust me. I'll take care of you," he'll promise, his usual sarcasm replaced by genuine excitement as he introduces you to new sensations.

STAMINA, how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last? Despite his build, George has impressive stamina, he can easily go multiple rounds with only short breaks in between. He particularly loves marathon sessions where you can explore each other's bodies for hours, trying different positions and techniques until you're both completely spent. "Think you can go again? I know I can," he'll grin with a wink, already ready for round two or three. He's particularly good at pacing himself, holding back his own orgasm until you've had yours, often multiple times. "Ladies first, darling. Always," he'll say with mock chivalry, his blue-green eyes twinkling with amusement as he focuses on your pleasure before his own.

TOYS, do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves? George has a modest but growing collection of toys that he loves using on you - vibrators, dildos, butt plugs, you name it. He gets a thrill from introducing new toys to you, watching as you experience new sensations under his careful guidance. "Think you can handle this, sweetheart? It's supposed to be brilliant," he'll say, already hard at the thought of using the newest addition to his collection on you. He doesn't use toys on himself often, preferring to focus on your pleasure, but he's not opposed to it if you express interest, i don't think he'd like it but i just think he's an open guy - especially if it involves you taking charge for once, which he finds unexpectedly hot despite his dominant tendencies. "Your turn to be in charge? Could be fun," he'll say with a nervous grin.

UNFAIR, how much they like to tease George's teasing is a psychological game, a slow burn that's all about the build-up in his mind long before he ever touches you. He'll plant the seed hours in advance, sending you a single, cryptic text while you're at work: "Thinking about last night. Specifically, the sounds you make." He won't reply to your frantic follow-up questions, leaving you to stew in a mixture of arousal and anticipation all day. By the time he gets home, you're already a mess for him. He won't rush to touch you either. He'll just watch you for a moment, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips as he takes in your flushed cheeks and the way you can't quite meet his gaze. "Eager, are we?" he'll ask, his tone light and conversational, as if he's commenting on the weather. He enjoys the power of knowing he's completely unraveled you with just a few words and the promise of what's to come. For George, the teasing isn't just a prelude to sex; it's the main event, a delicious torment that he savors almost more than the act itself.

VOLUME, how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc. George is surprisingly loud during sex, he's not one to hold back, groaning and murmuring praise with each thrust, he's particularly vocal when he's close to cumming, his usual conversational tone becoming more guttural as he loses himself in pleasure. "Fuck, darling. So good. Gonna cum," he'll groan, his slim body tensing as he pounds into you. He loves hearing you be loud too, encouraging you to scream his name as he fucks you. "Let me hear you, darling." he'll demand,.

WILD CARD, a random headcanon for the character Despite his dominant persona, George has a secret soft spot for post-sex baths - he loves drawing you a warm bath with bubbles and candles, washing your hair and massaging your shoulders as you both relax in the warm water. "Just taking care of my darling," he'll say simply when you ask about this unusually romantic gesture, his green eyes soft with emotion as he tends to you. These moments of tender care are rare but precious, showing the loving man beneath the dominant exterior. He particularly loves it when you return the favor, washing his body with gentle hands, your touch conveying the same care and affection he shows you.

X-RAY, let's see what's going on under those clothes not overly large, but perfectly shaped to hit all the right spots inside you. He's uncut, with a sensitive foreskin that he loves having you play with during foreplay. His balls are average size, tightening against his body as he gets closer to orgasm.he'll grin when he catches you staring, already hardening under your gaze. He's not particularly boastful about his size, finding it crass, but he's quietly confident in his ability to please you with what he has. "It's not the size, darling. It's how you use it. And I intend to use it very, very well," he'll say with a wink.

YEARNING, how high is their sex drive?

George's desire for you is less about a constant physical readiness and more about a deep, consuming preoccupation. His sex drive isn't a raging fire but a slow, deliberate burn that's always present in the back of his mind. He doesn't get hard at random moments thinking about you; instead, he finds himself mentally replaying your encounters, analyzing them with an almost academic intensity. He'll be in the middle of a conversation and suddenly zone out, a faint smile on his lips as he remembers the exact way you gasped when he did that thing with his tongue last night. It's not about immediate gratification for George; it's about the anticipation, the slow build of desire throughout the day. He's more likely to send you a text like, "I've been thinking about you all morning" than a crude demand. When he does initiate sex, it's rarely spontaneous in a frantic way. It's a calculated decision, the culmination of hours of mental foreplay. He'll corner you in the kitchen, not with a desperate kiss, but by simply standing too close, his presence a palpable thing until you're the one who breaks, turning to him with a look that says, "Now."

Zzz, how quickly they fall asleep afterwards George typically falls asleep fairly quickly after sex, but not before making sure you're comfortable and satisfied. He'll clean you up gently, get you water if you need it, then pull you close against his slim chest. "Sleep now, darling. Need you rested for whatever we get up to tomorrow," he'll murmur, his eyes already heavy with sleep as he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. He's a light sleeper though, often waking up during the night to check on you, adjusting the blankets or pulling you closer if you've drifted apart. He particularly loves waking up before you, watching you sleep for a few minutes before starting his day, sometimes unable to resist waking you with soft kisses or gentle touches that lead to morning sex.

[smzyyx]

A Day At The Seaside

Arthur Frederick x reader - fluff

a/n - Got me giggling to myself and shit (exams in a week btw, im fucked)

also I'd say that Anjali is like 3 in this, I hope I captured the way that 3 year olds talk

masterlist

more Dad!Arthur

c/w - children?? idrk😭 it is hella fluffy tho

Anjali had been asking about the beach since six forty-five in the morning, which was when she'd appeared at your bedroom door in her pyjamas, holding a plastic spade and announced, "we go beach today!"

Arthur had tried to reason with her about how it was too early but she somehow climbed onto the bed and walked on top of both of you without acknowledging a single word he'd said.

She sat between your heads and repeated herself, and honestly it was too early to use energy and convince her and you both had been wanting do do a day trip anyway.

You were in the car by half eight with a couple bags in the boot and Anjali in the back seat giving her stuffed sea turtle Biscuit, that Arthur bought for her from the Natural History Museum, a full briefing on what to expect, her little voice going the entire journey while you and Arthur sat in the front in a comfortable, warm, slightly-sleep-deprived way.

His hand finding yours in the center without either of you thinking about it.

—

The beach was surprisingly very pleasent. Warm and golden and not too busy, with good sand and the sea glittering in the distance.

The moment Anjali's feet touched the sand she was off, running towards the beach with everything she had, which frankly was not a lot considering that she was tiny.

Her spade was swinging wildly, her yellow sun hat was slightly askew, and she giggled and looked back to see if anyone was following her.

Arthur was after her immediately because she had absolutely no sense of safety and the water was freezing. He caught her around the middle, scooped her up, and she laughed very loudly, kicked her legs against the air and went: "Daddy put me down!"

He explained as best as he could why she couldn't go in the water yet, and then there was a pause, a real considering pause.

"Then what we play daddy?" She asked looking up at him with her big dark eyes, her arm somehow covered in sand.

Arthur smiled and took her spade out of her hand, "Well we could make a sandcastle, so the crabs can live in it!"

She paused again and considered this, "Big one?"

Arthur tried to hold back a laugh, "A Massive one, with lots of pretty shells!"

Anjali giggled at the way his hands spread out to emulate how big the sandcastle would be and turned around to face you, who was now setting out the blanket, "Mummy make sandcastle please?"

You smiled at this, "Let me set up the bags, then I will come and help you and daddy okay baby?"

She was extraordinary at sandcastles for a three-year-old, which was a biased opinion, but you stood by it.

She had very clear opinions about the number of towers — four, and then when Arthur had carefully helped to construct four she walked around it and assessed it, holding a bucket full of shells which you helped to collect.

She placed a few shells on each tower with a surprisingly careful manner, humming to herself, which was very adorable to watch until one of the towers accidentally collapsed — there was a very harrowing pause.

She turned around, two more shells left in her buckets and had an exaggerated frown on her face, "Mummy, daddy is bad at sandcastles.

Arthur's face screwed into outrage at this comment causing Anjali to just giggle and grab his nose.

She decided to rebuild the tower by herself this time because "Daddy is silly" and filled the bucket herself, tongue out with concentration, and upturned it with such cadence that when it held its shape she gasped like it was a miracle she hadn't seen coming.

"MUMMY LOOK, DADDY LOOK," she said, with equal urgency each time, pointing at it to make sure you were seeing the right thing.

You both looked and said it was brilliant every time and meant it every time because watching her face was genuinely brilliant.

Arthur pressed shells into the sides of the towers and told her that's what they did in castles a long time ago, used whatever they found nearby.

So Anjali picked up a piece of seaweed and looked at it very seriously and tried to put that in too, he helped her find a spot for it and the castle was honestly the best one you'd ever seen.

The sea, when you finally got there, was cold and not clear blue in a very British way.

As Anjali stepped into the edge of the water she screamed at the temperature but then waded further in immediately because she was completely fearless about things that probably should have given her pause.

Arthur got her under the arms and lifted before he got in any deeper.

He held her over an incoming wave and the noise she made was so purely delighted that a couple further down the beach looked over and smiled.

He kept lifting her, again and again, arms not complaining once, and she kept demanding it again and again the moment she landed.

Then at one point he spun her — picked her up and spun her with her arms out and her head thrown back, she laughed so hard she could barely breathe. You waded in beside them and she pointed at you with immediate authority, and then it was all three of you.

Anjali began throwing handfuls of water at both of you with no particular aim, and you splashed her back which she found outrageous for exactly half a second before she launched the biggest two-handed splash she could manage back at you.

She then turned and did the same to Arthur.

Arthur put on the most exaggerated, annoyed face ever and then splashed her back.

A bit later on, Arthur, because he could never fully switch off the part of his brain that found everything interesting, started telling her things while you stood in the shallows. About how the waves worked, how the wind out at sea pushed the water and it travelled all the way to the beach, how the tide came in and out because of the moon pulling on the water.

Anjali listened with her brow furrowed like she was doing serious buisness, standing in the water with her hand in his, looking out at the horizon like she was trying to see where the waves started.

"The moon pulls it?" she said. "Like magnets?"

"Yes, actually exactly like a magnet, brilliant Anj", the pride on his face when she said that was something you had to look away from slightly because it was too sweet.

As they got out of the water, Anjali spotted a jellyfish.

She found it on the wet sand at the water's edge, stranded there, translucent and still, and she went over to look at it with the fearless curiosity she brought to everything.

She then immediately turned and came back to you both at speed, which wasn't something she did often. "Mummy, daddy," she said, very serious, taking your hands and pulling, "there is a creature." You let her lead you and Arthur over and there it was.

A small moon jellyfish, pale and luminous on the sand, very much out of the water it needed to be in.

"That's a jellyfish Anju," Arthur said, crouching down to her level.

Anjali looked slighlty offended, "I know a jellyfish."

She looked at it again with her brow furrowed. "It lives with fishies," she said.

"Yeah," Arthur replied, trying not to combust at hoe adorable and intelligent his daughter was.

"Why it not in the sea daddy?" she asked, looking up at him with a very intense concentration.

Arthur explained that sometimes they got washed up on the beach by the waves and got stranded,

Anjali looked at the jellyfish for a long moment and then looked up at Arthur with an expression of absolute resolution. "We must help it," she said. "It needs to go home."

Arthur looked at you. You looked at Arthur. "Rescue mission," you said, and he nodded like this was a perfectly normal thing to be doing, which with Anjali it was.

He found a big flat shell from further up the beach and explained to Anjali that they couldn't touch it with their hands because jellyfish could sting even when they weren't in the water.

Anjali listened very carefully and held her hands behind her back the whole time to be safe, which was the most responsible she'd ever been about anything.

Very gently, Arthur scooped the jellyfish onto the shell and Anjali stood close watching every move, saying "careful, careful, careful" under her breath, and you all walked together to where the waves were coming in and he lowered the shell to the water and let the jellyfish float off.

It drifted back into the sea returning to where it was supposed to be.

Anjali watched until she couldn't see it anymore, shielding her eyes against the sun. "Bye jellyfish," she said, very softly. Then she looked up at you both, satisfied. "It home now."

—

Fish and chips was always the plan and Anjali had known this since before you'd left the house, which meant the entire walk up from the beach she was vibrating slightly, holding both your hands and swinging between you and counting "one, two, free, one, two, FREE".

She ate her first chip with enormous seriousness, "yummy chips!"

You were all sitting on the blanket with the sea glittering at the bottom of the hill, everything smelt of salt and vinegar.

Everything was good until a seagull landed a foot from Anjali's tray that was placed next to her, and locked eyes with her.

Before you could say anything it had taken a chip and was back in the air.

The look on Anjali's face passed through shock, comprehension, and pure outrage in about two seconds, and then she blew the most extended, raspberry directly at the retreating seagull, pointing up at it with one finger, cheeks puffed out with the effort of it.

"He TOOK my chip," she said, turning to you, deadly serious. You told her that was very rude of him. She agreed it was very rude, and then turned back to blow another raspberry at the sky as a final statement on the matter.

Arthur had tears running down his face from the effort of not laughing, and you weren't doing much better, Anjali ate the rest of her chips with one eye on the sky for the rest of the meal.

You changed her on the beach afterwards into a dry, clean frock, her hair curling at the ends from the salt water, cheeks pink, and she looked so perfectly herself that it was almost hard to look at directly.

She decided she wanted to jump over the waves at the water's edge while you and Arthur sat back on the blanket together, his arm around you, watching her. Every wash of shallow water that came in she'd track carefully, wait for her moment, and jump with both feet, landing with a splat and immediately spinning around to check your scores.

Arthur called out nine and you called ten and she looked between you and decided you were both right and turned back to wait for the next one.

She sang while she waited — a song of her own invention, tuneless and completely confident, about chips and the jellyfish going home and Biscuit the whale and seagull who was rude.

The sun was getting low and a golden sheen coated the air.

Arthur pressed a kiss to your temple and you leaned into him, neither of you said anything because there wasn't really anything that needed to be said.

Anjali jumped a particularly good wave, landed it, spun around with her arms out. "DID YOU SEE," she shouted.

"Ten out of ten," Arthur called back, without hesitation.

She pointed at you. "Very amazing! Ten," you confirmed.

She turned back to the sea, planted her feet, absolutely delighted with herself, the hem of her dress dripping, her hair wild and the whole beach golden around her.

a/n - like and comments and reblogs are very appreciated <3 lmk if u wanna be on the taglist

taglist: @whisperturnedecho @forchencookie @willnees @pretendyoucantseeme @tyna-19 @canyouseethesainz @roc-haze @wherethezoes-at @cheekytv @beauty-nd-the-geek @dopeysunflowers @formulaal @pookietv @happyclifford @sapphiccaa @rubi-radio @madsclarkey @sturnl0ve @norrizzandpia @thankyoulovely @williamlenneys @ghostlyracoon @lostdeerinthemist @majknn @aanyam123 @ghostedindigo @wroetofinchy @finchytv @fayenotwebster @narcejars

[agentinlove]

"even when i had nothing i had bucky"

and when bucky had nothing he had steve

──　﹒ on a completely unrelated note happy pride ! ❤︎₊ ⊹

[softcillian]

﹙Ꮺ࣭۪﹚ | FOOKIN' BABY — thomas shelby

you knew something was wrong when tommy shelby refused a cigarette.

he just sat there at the kitchen table, sleeves rolled up, forearms tense, jaw ticking like a bomb mid-countdown. sunlight slanted through the curtains all soft and gold and holy, but your husband looked like war. looked like 1914 come back to haunt the breakfast dishes. looked like he was seconds from setting something on fire just to feel warmth.

you set the kettle down. hard.

“what?” you say, sharp like the edge of his razors, voice still sticky with sleep. “what is it now, thomas?”

he doesn’t answer. just stares straight ahead at absolutely fucking nothing, like the ghost of a thought has him by the throat. which, fine. you’re married to a man whose favorite pastime is brooding, right next to murder and tax evasion.

but then he says it. and it’s so goddamn unexpected, you forget how to breathe for a second.

“i want a baby.”

you blink.

“you—what.”

his blue eyes meet yours. stormclouds. cigarette smoke. something ancient and aching. “a child. ours. i want one.”

you laugh. because it’s easier than screaming.

“jesus christ, tommy. is this another one of your near-death existential spirals? do we need to call polly again?”

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t blink. just says, deadly serious, “you’d be a good mother.”

and it hits you in the chest like a fucking freight train.

because here’s the thing about tommy shelby: when he loves, it’s not flowers and poetry. it’s knives. it’s promises soaked in blood. it’s protection so feral you almost choke on it. and when he looks at you like that—like the world is a house on fire and you’re the only thing worth saving—you believe him. against your better judgment. against every ounce of self-preservation.

you sit down. slow. because your knees aren’t working properly anymore.

“you’ve got three siblings with kids. and a fucking horse. why do you need this?” you ask, weak.

“because none of those are you. and none of them are mine.”

and there it is. raw and selfish and soaked in possession. tommy shelby in one fucking sentence.

you run a hand through your hair. “this is so unhinged. you can’t just—just decide you want a kid out of nowhere.”

he arches an eyebrow, infuriatingly calm. “i’ve wanted one since the wedding.”

you gape. “then why didn’t you say anything?”

“because the war never ended, love. just changed shape.”

you’re gonna cry. and you hate crying. especially in front of him, because he gets all tender and tragic and you end up in bed for three days trying to fuck the pain out of each other like that ever works.

you reach across the table. lace your fingers through his. and he lets you. because when you touch him like this, it’s the only time he doesn’t flinch.

“it’s not that i don’t want one,” you whisper. “it’s just … what if you get killed, tommy? what if i’m left raising a baby on my own, telling stories about a ghost who smelled like gunpowder and good whiskey?”

he squeezes your hand.

“then name him after me.”

you laugh through a choked sob. “you arrogant bastard.”

“takes one to love one.”

and then he’s pulling you into his lap like he’s starved for you. like he needs to feel your heartbeat just to keep his own steady. he kisses you like it’s a vow, like he’s swearing something to your bones. and you kiss him back because of course you do. because you love him in spite of everything. because of everything.

his mouth trails down your neck. “let me show you,” he murmurs against your skin. “how much i want this. how much i want you.”

you bite your lip, trying to stay rational, but the way he touches you should be illegal in at least seventeen countries. and when he says, “wanna see you round, carrying my baby. mine. all mine.” you’re done. you’re just done.

somewhere between the second orgasm and the wreckage of your dignity, you realize he’s serious. he holds you like he’s memorizing the shape of your future. palms flat against your belly like he’s trying to will life into it. and for the first time, you’re not scared. not really.

because if there’s anyone who can stare down the apocalypse and still plan for tomorrow—it’s thomas shelby.

and maybe, just maybe … you’ll give him one.

but not before you punch him in the arm and mutter, “next time, lead with flowers. not fucking baby fever.”

he smirks. “thought you liked me feral.”

“unfortunately, i do.”

and he kisses you again, this time soft. like the war has ended, if only for now.

[smzyyx]

Pregnancy with Arthur Frederick

Arthur Frederick x reader - fluff, angst

a/n - a collection of drabbles/senarios about pregnancy that have accumulated in my mind, layed out in chronilogical order ofc.

also idk if u guys can tell but I WILL be naming my potential future daughter anjali lol, such a sweet name

masterlist

c/w - pregnancy, established relationship, insecurity, gestational diabetes, labour description

I. two pink lines

The thing was, you'd been trying not to think about it.

Four days late wasn't unusual. Your cycle had been off before — stress, a bad week of sleep, that one month you ate nothing but pasta for a fortnight and your body just decided to protest. Four days was nothing. Four days was barely a blip.

But then it was eight days, and you told yourself it was just a longer cycle.

And then it was twelve, and you started sleeping weird.

And now it was fourteen days, and you were standing in the middle of Boots on a while Arthur was filming the podcast.

You were holding two different pregnancy tests, comparing their little diagrams on the back of the boxes with probably more focus than you'd ever given anything in your entire academic career.

You bought both.

You did them in the Boots bathroom because you genuinely could not wait until you got home. The little tiled room smelled like hand soap and there was a motivational quote on the wall about blooming where you're planted that felt deeply appropriate.

You sat on the closed lid of the toilet, tests balanced on the edge of the sink, and waited.

Three minutes had never felt so long in your life.

When you looked, both of them showed the same thing.

Pregnant.

You just stared at it.

Your hand came up to your mouth without you really deciding to move it.

Your eyes went blurry.

Pregnant.

You'd been trying for a few months. You knew it was possible. You wanted this, both of you had.

You had the conversation and bought the folic acid and everything, but somehow knowing it was possible and then actually seeing it were two completely different things.

Also you were absolutely crying in a Boots toilet on a Wednesday.

You pressed the backs of your hands to your cheeks. Took a breath.

Then you smiled so hard your face hurt.

II. reveal

You didn't tell Arthur.

Not that day, not the next. You meant to — you planned to, lying in bed that night while he scrolled on his phone beside you, his shoulder warm against yours.

The words sat right at the back of your throat.

'Arthur, I'm pregnant. Arthur, we're having a baby. Arthur, those tests I did in a Boots toilet this afternoon both said yes.'

But every time you opened your mouth, something stopped you.

Not fear, exactly.

More like — you wanted to sit with it for a second. Hold it for yourself, just briefly. This enormous, quietly extraordinary thing that was just yours for a little while.

So you kept it.

For a week, you kept it.

What you didn't know was that Arthur already knew.

Or strongly suspected, anyway — which to Arthur was basically the same thing.

It had started with the belly thing. You kept touching your stomach. Not in any obvious way, just absently, the flat of your palm pressed there when you were watching telly, or your fingers curling around your waist when you stood in the kitchen. He noticed.

Then there was the nausea. You'd gone a bit green one morning and quietly said you weren't hungry and disappeared back upstairs.

He stood in the kitchen holding the plate of noodles he made you and thought about it for a long time.

And then — and this was the one that had really done it — you hadn't mentioned needing more pads.

He wasn't trying to track that. It wasn't weird, it had just become something he was aware of, the same way he was aware of when you were running low on your shampoo or when you'd had a hard week and needed a takeaway instead of cooking.

He paid attention to you. That was all. And the absence of that particular addition to the shopping list was quite strange.

He hadn't said anything. He was waiting for you to be ready.

It was a Sunday evening when you finally said it.

You'd made dinner — pasta, because it was the only thing your stomach was reliably okay with lately — and you sat across from each other at the kitchen table.

Arthur had been talking about something Isaac said on the podcast and then trailed off because you'd gone quiet.

"You alright?" he asked.

"Yeah." You pushed a piece of pasta around your plate. "Actually — no. I mean, yes. I'm fine. I just need to tell you something."

He put his fork down.

"Okay," he said, and his voice was very calm. The careful kind of calm that meant he was paying close attention.

You looked up at him. Your heart was going absolutely stupid fast. "So, um." You laughed a little, which wasn't what you'd planned. "I've sort of known for a week, which I know, I'm sorry, I just needed a minute—"

"You're pregnant," Arthur said.

You blinked. "I— what?"

"You're pregnant?" He said it the same way. Steady. Like he'd been sitting with it too.

"How did you—" You pointed at him, slightly outraged. "Arthur. How."

"The belly thing." He gestured vaguely at where your hand had just been, resting on your stomach without you noticing. "And you were nauseous last week. And you didn't ask me to by pads."

"You noticed that?"

"I notice everything." He shrugged, but his eyes were very bright. "I wasn't going to say anything. I was waiting for you."

You stared at him. Your vision had gone blurry again.

"So," he said softly. "Are you?"

"Yeah," you whispered. "I am."

The smile that broke across his face then was the kind you didn't see all the time — wide and unguarded and a little bit overwhelmed, the kind he couldn't have controlled if he'd tried.

He was out of his chair before you'd finished the word, and then his arms were around you and his face was in your hair and he was just holding you tight. You pressed your face into his shoulder and finally let yourself cry properly.

"I knew it," he murmured into your hair. His voice wasn't entirely steady. "I knew it, I knew it."

"You could've said something," you said, half-laughing, half-crying.

"I was being respectful."

"You were being smug."

"I was being both." He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands cradling your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. His eyes were glassy.

III. appointments

The first appointment was a lot of information delivered by a very nice GP who clearly gave this talk multiple times a day.

You sat side by side on the little chairs in her office while she walked you through what came next — blood tests, booking appointments with the midwife, the dating scan, what to expect, what to avoid, the list of foods that were suddenly banned which meant no pub crawls.

Arthur had brought a notepad and he was writing things down.

The GP had glanced at it with a small approving smile and said that's very thorough and you'd had to look at the ceiling to compose yourself because you loved him so much it was actually ridiculous.

"Do you have any questions?" she asked at the end.

Arthur looked at his notepad. He had many bullet points.

You did not have a notepad. You had one question, which was whether the no soft cheese rule was truly non-negotiable or more of a guideline.

(It was non-negotiable. You were devastated.)

The twelve-week scan was a different thing entirely.

You were nervous in a way you hadn't quite expected — not about anything being wrong — just about the reality of it suddenly becoming very, very real.

Arthur held your hand in the waiting room. His thumb was moving back and forth against your knuckles, steady as a metronome, and you weren't sure if he was doing it for you or for him or both.

"You're going to cry," you told him.

"I'm not going to cry."

"Arthur."

"I might cry a little."

"This is mental isn't it?" you said with a huge grin.

Arthur laughed at how strange you were being, "Yes it is."

The sonographer was warm and professional, she put the cold gel on your stomach and then started the actual process of scanning.

There it was — this small, unmistakable shape on the screen, the flutter of a heartbeat, a whole tiny person (although it was hard to make the shape out) already stubbornly in existence.

You heard Arthur exhale very slowly.

"There's the heartbeat," the sonographer said, and she angled the screen slightly so you could both see. "Looking good."

Arthur was gripping your hand hard enough that you could feel every individual finger. "That's—" He stopped. Cleared his throat. "That's the baby."

"That is indeed the baby," the sonographer confirmed, professionally.

You looked at him. His jaw was clenching very hard like he was trying to stay composed, and his eyes were absolutely glistening.

"You're crying," you said.

"I have something in my eye."

"Arthur, we're in a hospital."

"They have dust here too, you know."

You laughed, even with your own eyes watering, and turned back to the screen, and for a moment neither of you said anything — just looked at this small, extraordinary, impossible thing you'd somehow made together.

"That's really mental," Arthur said, quietly. Not embarrassed by it. Just honest.

"Yeah," you agreed.

The sonographer smiled, "I see you're both very happy."

You replied trying not to laugh hysterically at just how amazing this predicament was, "Maybe a bit."

III. baby bump

By five months, you were unmistakably, beautifully (especially in Arthur's eyes) showing.

You'd gone through a phase of not quite believing it when you looked in the mirror — the bump was there but your brain kept lagging behind the physical reality.

But now it was there. Round and present and impossible to ignore, and Arthur treated it like it was the most precious thing he'd ever seen, which, in hindsight, was adorable but also occasionally infuriating because it meant he wouldn't let you do anything.

"I'm getting a glass of water," you said.

"Sit down, I'll get it."

"Arthur, it is a glass of water."

"Don't worry, I've got it." He chirped walking to the kitchen.

"I am five months pregnant, not made of glass—"

"I don't want you to strain yourself baby."

You rolled your eyes whilst trying to prevent a smile from breaking through and sat down. He got you the water with crushed ice in it because he knew you liked to chew it. You took it with the most exasperated expression you could manage but deep down the gesture, along with all the other ones, made you melt.

The nights were quite different though.

In the mornings Arthur was attentive in an occasionally slightly overbearing way, and during the day he was always hovering at a slight distance, and that was all sweet and honestly quite funny.

But in the nights, with the lamp off and the room dark and warm, he was so incredibly soft..

He had this thing he did.

When he thought you were asleep, he'd shift down a little, and he'd press a kiss to the curve of your bump, quiet and gentle, and he'd talk to the baby in this low murmur that you could only half make out — telling them about his day, or asking them questions they obviously couldn't answer, or just saying I can't wait to meet you.

You'd never told him you were often still awake for this.

You figured it was his thing, and you didn't want to make him self-conscious about it. So you lay there with your eyes closed and listened to him tell your unborn baby about the football, or about something funny Isaac had said.

It made you feel so full of warm.

One night he was mid-sentence about a game of chess he played when you couldn't help it.

"Arthur," you said.

His head stuck up immediately to look at you, he had a very embarrassed expression on himself. "Oh um — I thought you were asleep."

"I know."

He paused trying hide his bashful smile and shock. "How long have you been awake for these?"

"A while," you admitted.

He was quiet for a second. Then he just kissed your bump again, unbothered, and said to your stomach, "your mum's been eavesdropping on us".

There was one afternoon, though, that was harder.

You had been looking at photos from before — not intentionally, you were just scrolling back through your camera roll to find something else and ended up staring at yourself from six months ago, which felt like a different lifetime. Your body was different now. Bigger, slower, rounder, covered in tiger stretch mark.

You knew it was for a reason and that it would happen. You knew that. But it didn't always stop the small mean voice that crept in sometimes.

Arthur found you in the bathroom, leaning on the sink, not crying exactly but not not-crying either.

He didn't ask what was wrong immediately. He just came up behind you, put his hands on your shoulders, and looked at you in the mirror.

"Hey pwincess," he said with a discord mod voice.

"I'm fine." you said with a slight giggle. He knew how to crack you (in more ways than one)

"Pwincess pwease —."

"I just—" You exhaled. "I don't look like me anymore."

Arthur's hands moved from your shoulders to your waist, arms wrapping around you from behind.

"You look like you," he said simply. "You look like you, and you look like someone who's growing a baby, and I think you look incredible." He said it without inflection, like it was just a fact he was reporting. "And I know that's not always enough to shut the voice up. But it's what I actually think."

You leaned back into him.

"The voice is annoying," you said.

"Tell it to get out of your bathroom," he said. "This is a nice bathroom."

You laughed despite yourself, and he kissed the top of your head, and you stayed there for a while until it passed.

V. twenty-four weeks

The gestational diabetes diagnosis came on a Tuesday afternoon, after what was supposed to be a routine appointment.

The consultant explained everything sweetly and calmly, how pregnancy hormones could make your body less responsive to insulin, how it wasn’t your fault, how common it was, how most people managed it through diet, exercise, and monitoring, and how some people needed medication later depending on their numbers. She talked about fasting glucose, post-meal readings, carbohydrate distribution, portion sizes, protein and fibre, extra scans, and the possibility of induction if the baby grew too large.

You sat there nodding which was easier than admitting your brain had stopped fully processing words around minute three.

—

On the drive home, Arthur kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding your hand.

At a red light, he squeezed your hand once.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “We’re okay.”

You nodded without looking at him. “I know, it's just — I, I don't know.”

—

The first week was the hardest.

Not because anything dramatic happened — your blood sugar wasn’t wildly uncontrolled, nobody was rushing you to hospital, the baby was fine — but because the diagnosis was always on your mind.

You found yourself standing in supermarket aisles reading nutrition labels with concentration. Bread that had never mattered before suddenly mattered. Rice mattered. Fruit mattered. Portion sizes mattered.

At home, a small glucose monitor kit took up permanent residence on the kitchen counter. Four times a day you had to wash your hands, prick your finger, squeeze out a drop of blood, feed it to the strip, and wait for a number that seemed capable of dictating your mood for the next hour.

Some readings were fine. Some were frustratingly high for reasons you couldn’t always identify. Those were the worst ones — the meals that seemed reasonable, the walk you’d taken afterwards, the number that still came back above target.

One evening after dinner, you sat at the kitchen table staring at the monitor for so long that the screen timed out twice. Arthur openedthe front door after a whole day of filming with the sidemen, carrying a bag of shopping.

“You haven’t tested yet,” he said softly.

You exhaled sharply. “I know.”

He set the bag down and pulled out the chair beside you. “Bad day?”

“I’m tired of thinking about it.” You rubbed at your eyes. “It’s like my brain never gets a break., I just want to eat some bloody pudding”

Arthur was quiet for a moment, then said, “You’re allowed to hate it.”

You looked at him. “It feels dramatic to hate finger pricks.”

“I don’t think it’s the finger pricks,” he said. “I think it’s the constantness.”

“Yes,” you said, your voice louder than you intended. “Exactly.”

Arthur reached for your hand. “You’re carrying our baby and managing a medical condition at the same time. I know how horrible things are right now, I', here whenever you need me okay?"

You laughed weakly. “You sound like AI.”

“Bloody hell.”

That earned a real smile.

Eventually he took the monitor from your hand and set it gently on the table. “Want me to sit with you while you do it?”

“You always sit with me.”

“I know.”

You pulled back enough to look at him. “You don’t have to.”

“I know that too.”

—

A week later, a package arrived. You opened it and stared at the contents in disbelief.

“Arthur.”

He looked up from the sofa. “Hmm?”

“What is this?”

“A case.”

“For what?”

“For your monitor kit.”

The depressing beige NHS pouch had been replaced with a really cute, embroidered bag. It had compartments for strips and lancets and alcohol wipes. It was very whimsical.

You laughed helplessly. “This is ridiculous.”

“You hated the old one.”

“It was functional.”

“You described it as shit coloured”

—

The walks started after the midwife mentioned that gentle movement after meals could help with blood sugar control. Arthur latched onto the suggestion immediately.

The first time he proposed an evening walk, you stared at him in disbelief.

“It’s seven-thirty.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s raining.”

“It’s only drizzling.”

“I’m pregnant.”

“Wait who is the father...”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

You rolled your eyes jokingly as you stood up. “Such a bastard.”

He laughed, grabbed your coat from the hook, and held it open for you. “Come on. Twenty minutes. Then we can come home and complain about the weather together.”

Somehow, it became one of the best part of your days.

Dinner, then coats, then the two of you moving slowly through quiet streets while the sky darkened around you. Sometimes you talked about names or nursery furniture or what colour the baby’s eyes might be. Sometimes you complained about glucose readings or swollen ankles or strangers who insisted on giving pregnancy advice in supermarkets. Sometimes you walked in comfortable silence while Arthur kept one hand at your waist.

VI. eight months

The beach was Arthur's idea.

He'd been planning it for about two weeks.

He checked the forecast, found a stretch of coast that wouldn't be too busy, and packed a couple bags with meticulous thoroughness.

"It's just a beach trip," you'd said, as you sat on the bed and watched his shirtless frame move around the room like a madman looking for another bottle of sunscreen.

"It's very important," he said.

"Would have prefered a trip to skeggy butlins mate." You said deadpan.

Arthur laughed at that, but then he went back into robot mode again: "You need snacks that won't spike your levels, you need somewhere to sit that isn't on the ground because you said your hips have been bad, there's a foam mat in the bag, there are two types of sunscreen, I just need to find the other one—"

"Arthur."

"Two types," he repeated, and folded a towel.

It was a good day.

The light was low and golden and the beach wasn't empty but wasn't crowded either. You sat on the mat with your feet in the sand, bump settled and present in front of you, sunglasses on.

Arthur sat beside you occasionally handing you things from the bag.

"Stop fussing Arthur, I'm more relaxed than you are," you said, grinning at his sweetness.

"I'm not fussing. Do you want the crackers?"

"I just had crackers."

"Different crackers."

"Arthur—" But you were laughing, and he was grinning, and you took the different crackers.

After splashing about in the sea and making stupid sandcastles you returned to the spot with your belongings.

He lay down on his side, head propped on one hand, and very naturally placed his other hand against the side of your bump. Just resting there.

The baby moved.

You both felt it — the unmistakable roll of a small person adjusting position. It still made your breath hitch.

"There she is," Arthur said softly, without thinking, and then caught himself. You were keeping the gender a surprise. "Or he. There they are."

"Nice recovery," you said.

"I don't know why I said that, I genuinely don't know what we're having."

"Sure."

"I don't." He looked slightly panicked. "Do you know? Did you sneak a look at the results and not tell me—"

"I don't know!" You held your hands up. "I swear!"

"Okay. Good. We don't know. We're in agreement."

"We're in agreement."

He settled back down, hand still against your bump. "Come on then," he said, to your stomach. "Move again. Let's see it."

The baby obliged, and Arthur's whole face went soft again.

You took a photo of him like that. Lying on his side, one hand on your bump, looking at you with the sea behind him.

Later, walking back to the car at a pace that was entirely dictated by your comfort, which Arthur matched without comment, he had one arm looped through yours and was talking about something, some anecdote from filming, and midway through it he stopped and said, "You're happy, right?"

You looked at him. "What?"

"Right now. Today. You're — it's been good?"

"Arthur, it's been genuinely lovely."

He nodded, absorbing this. "Good."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah." He said it simply. "I just — I want it to be good for you. I know the last couple months have been a lot."

You stopped walking. He stopped with you, automatically.

You reached up and put your hand on his face, and he leaned into it slightly, and you said, "You've made it good."

He covered your hand with his for a second. Then he kissed your palm, and started walking again, you went with him.

VII. early

Just a week left till the birth.

That was the thing you kept thinking about lately, as you sat on the floor of the hallway with your back against the wall and your phone in your hand and your other hand pressed to your stomach.

Then some horrid cramps hit.

You were supposed to have another week. It was too early. This was probably nothing. This was almost certainly Braxton Hicks, which you'd had before and which were uncomfortable but manageable.

You'd been fine all morning. Arthur had left at half ten to film a football challenge for Chris — with Bach and George and Arthur Hill, a full day thing.

He kissed you goodbye and told you to call him if you needed anything so you said "I'm pregnant, not helpless"

He said "noted, call me if you need anything okay?" — you pushed him out the door.

The first contraction had come at about half twelve.

You'd timed it.

The second came twenty minutes later.

Still probably Braxton Hicks. Your body had been practising. That was a thing.

By the third, an hour in, you were on the floor of the hallway because it had hit you mid-walk and you'd just sat down.

You timed the next three.

Regular. Getting closer.

It was happening.

You got your shoes — though it took an embarrassingly long time, bending that far wasn't really an option anymore, you had to sort of approach the problem from the side.

You got your hospital bag from the bottom of the stairs where it had been sitting for three weeks, and you got the car keys and called Arthur.

He picked up on the second ring.

"Hey—"

"So," you said, and you were going for casual but your voice was giving it away. "I think this might be it."

Three seconds of silence.

"What."

"I think I'm in labour." You paused as another contraction started building, and you breathed through it, and in the background you could hear something — voices, the echo of a large space. "I'm timing the contractions, they're regular, I've got the bag—"

"Stay there." His voice had gone very focused. "I'm coming to drive you. Stay there, don't move, I'll be there in twenty—"

"Arthur, I was literally about to drive myself, it's fine, I can probably get through—"

"No. No, absolutely not. Stay there."

In the background you heard someone — Bach, you thought — say "Arthur what's happening?"

"She's in labour," Arthur said, clearly not to you.

And then there was a lot of noise from the background, all at once, a chorus of overlapping male voices that you could only partially make out — "oh my god, is she alright?", "Arthur go", "mate get out of here—"

"I'm coming," Arthur said, back to you. "Are you okay? How far apart?"

"About eight minutes—"

"Eight minutes?—"

"That's still time, it's fine—"

"You sound like you're in pain."

"I'm in labour, Arthur, that is generally the thing that—" You stopped. Another one. Coming faster than eight minutes.

You pressed your hand flat against the wall and worked through it, and you heard Arthur on the other end go very quiet, just listening.

When it passed, you exhaled slowly.

"Okay," Arthur said, and his voice was very careful. "That sounded close together."

"It's fine," you said, less convincingly than before. "I was going to drive—"

"You are not driving yourself to the hospital, please, I am begging you—"

"Arthur—"

"Please. I will be there so fast, just sit by the door—"

From the background: "Arthur for the love of god, GO, we're not filming anything!"

And then Arthur Hill's voice, very clearly: "Arthur, we love you both, get in the car!"

And George: "Good luck reader!! Arthur MOVE—"

"I have to go," Arthur said. "I will be there in twenty minutes. Sit by the door. Please."

"Okay," you said. "Okay, I'll—okay."

You ended up sitting exactly where you'd been before, back against the wall, bag beside you, slightly wet-eyed from the last contraction and also possibly from just the weight of the fact that this was actually happening.

Arthur was coming. You were going to the hospital. There was a whole human being on the way out of you.

You heard the car before you saw the lights through the glass panel of the front door.

Arthur was through the door in approximately four seconds, crouching down in front of you before you'd even fully registered he was there, both hands on your face, eyes doing a rapid check of you from top to bottom.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," you said, slightly tearfully.

"Can you walk to the car?"

"Yeah—"

"Okay, arm around me. We're going."

He got you up and out and into the passenger seat, and the hospital bag went in the back, and he got in and drove, one hand on the wheel and one hand firmly in yours, and you did not let go of it once.

VIII. Anjali

There was no way to make it not long. You knew that going in.

But there was a difference between knowing it and living it.

knowing this will be intense and lying in a hospital bed with Arthur's hand in yours, crushing it with a grip that he took completely without comment, and saying at least three times that you wanted it to be over.

"I know," he said, every time. "You're doing so well."

"Stop saying I'm doing well—"

"You are."

"It doesn't feel like—" You broke off through another contraction screaming in pain.

The pain was searing, tears rolling down your strained face again and again as your cried through it.

And then she was born.

One moment she wasn't there, and then she was crying

"It's a girl," the midwife said.

You looked at Arthur, your face red and tear stained, his face also tear stained.

He was looking at her, being placed on your chest — this small, red-faced, aggressive little person.

Tears were running without him making any move to stop them, jaw working slightly.

"Hi," he said. His voice broke on it. Just that one syllable.

She made a small sound against your chest.

You pressed your lips to the top of her head and kept them there for a long time.

"Anjali," you said softly. You'd both known the name since about week twenty but you'd never said it out loud with her actually there, and now it was real.

Arthur reached out and touched her hand — her impossibly small hand, fingers already fisted — and she wrapped them around his finger with crazy grip.

His whole face crumpled, just briefly.

"Hi, Anjali," he said. "We've been waiting for you."

You looked at him, and at her, and at the two of them together — his finger in her fist, her face against your chest.

"She's got your nose," you said.

Arthur laughed through his tears. "She does not."

"She absolutely does."

"She's been alive for four minutes, you cannot tell whose nose—"

"Arthur." You looked at him. "She has your nose."

He looked at Anjali. He looked at you.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Maybe a bit."

a/n - EEEEEK guys this shit made me giddy

like and comments and reblogs are very appreciated <3 lmk if u wanna be on the taglist

taglist: @whisperturnedecho @forchencookie @willnees @pretendyoucantseeme @tyna-19 @canyouseethesainz @roc-haze @wherethezoes-at @cheekytv @beauty-nd-the-geek @dopeysunflowers @formulaal @pookietv @happyclifford @sapphiccaa @rubi-radio @madsclarkey @sturnl0ve @norrizzandpia @thankyoulovely @williamlenneys @ghostlyracoon @ghostlyracoon @lostdeerinthemist @majknn @aanyam123@ghostedindigo @wroetofinchy @finchytv @fayenotwebster

[belleeebelleee]

Bucky Barnes (Marvel) x fem!reader

Bucky learns that the best way to help you calm down when you're spiralling in a pit of anxiety is to lie on you like a weighted blanket. Which would be fine, if he wasn't so damn in love with you.

The first time it happens, it’s an accident.

Not a cute accident. Not one of those romantic comedy accidents where someone trips and lands in another person’s lap while soft music plays in the background.

No.

It happens because you are halfway to a panic attack in the kitchen of the compound at two in the morning, shaking so hard you drop a mug hard enough to shatter it across the tile floor.

And because Bucky Barnes has spent the better part of a century reacting to danger before thinking, he moves before his brain catches up.

The mug breaks.

You gasp.

And then suddenly you’re crouched on the floor with your hands clamped over your ears like the sound physically hurt you.

“Hey,” Bucky says immediately.

Too sharp.

Too fast.

Your shoulders jerk violently.

His stomach drops.

“Sorry,” he says, softer now. “Sorry, doll. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

You don’t answer.

That’s what scares him.

You always answer.

Even anxious, even exhausted, even spiralling—you answer.

Usually with a joke. Usually with something self-deprecating and wry and designed to make everyone else comfortable while you quietly unravel inside your own skin.

But now you’re breathing too fast.

Your eyes are fixed on the floor.

And Bucky realizes with cold certainty:

Oh.

Oh, this is bad.

He’s seen panic attacks before. Hell, he’s had enough of them himself. But yours always look different than his. Quieter. Like you’re trying to contain the catastrophe internally so it doesn’t inconvenience anyone else.

“Can you look at me?” he asks carefully.

Nothing.

He crouches slowly several feet away, metal hand deliberately visible, movements gentle.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “That’s okay.”

Broken ceramic litters the floor between you both.

You whisper something he can’t hear.

“What was that?”

Your voice cracks.

“Everything feels wrong.”

Jesus Christ.

That sentence nearly tears him in half.

Because he knows that feeling.

The horrible skin-tight sensation of existing incorrectly. Like your bones are full of bees. Like every thought in your head is moving too fast and too loud and none of them can be stopped.

Bucky swallows hard.

“What do you need?”

“I don’t know.”

You sound ashamed of it.

Like not knowing is somehow a personal failure.

His chest aches.

“Okay,” he says again. “That’s alright too.”

Your breathing gets worse.

Shorter.

Faster.

Your fingers dig into your sleeves hard enough he worries you’ll bruise.

Bucky looks around the kitchen helplessly.

He knows combat. Extraction. Interrogation. Trauma. Survival.

But this?

You falling apart in front of him while he desperately tries to figure out how to help?

It scares him more than most things.

“Can you stand?” he asks.

You shake your head immediately.

“No? Okay. Okay.”

Think.

Think.

Usually when you’re anxious, you like warmth. Blankets. Hoodies. Pressure against your chest.

Pressure.

His eyes flick downward thoughtfully.

“Can I try something?”

You laugh once.

It sounds awful.

“Depends how weird it is.”

His mouth twitches despite everything.

“Probably pretty weird.”

You finally look at him then, eyes glassy and overwhelmed.

“Fine.”

He moves carefully around the broken ceramic before lowering himself to sit beside you against the cabinets.

For a second he hesitates.

This could go horribly.

But then he remembers the way you curl under every blanket in the compound during storms. The way you once admitted sleeping better when Alpine sprawled over your ribs like a furry paperweight.

So Bucky exhales once and says:

“C’mere.”

You blink at him.

“What?”

“Just trust me.”

Which you do.

That’s the dangerous thing.

You always do.

You shift toward him uncertainly, and before he can overthink it, Bucky pulls you gently sideways until your back rests against his chest.

Then he wraps one arm around your middle.

And slowly—carefully—leans enough weight against you that you’re partially pinned beneath him.

Not crushing.

Just heavy.

Solid.

Warm.

The effect is immediate.

Your breathing stutters.

Then slows.

Bucky freezes.

You go still beneath him.

“…oh,” you whisper.

His heartbeat trips.

“Too much?”

“No.”

Another breath.

Slower this time.

“No, that’s—”

Your shoulders finally unclench for the first time since he walked into the kitchen.

“Oh my god.”

Bucky stares at the side of your face.

“You okay?”

“You’re heavy.”

“I’m aware.”

“No,” you say weakly. “I mean—good heavy.”

Something inside him softens so violently it nearly hurts.

Carefully, cautiously, he shifts a little more weight against you.

Your eyes flutter shut.

And then—

Then you melt.

There’s no other word for it.

The tension leaves you in visible increments, your body gradually surrendering under the pressure of his weight and warmth. Your breathing evens out. Your death grip on your sleeves loosens.

Bucky can practically feel your nervous system recalibrating beneath him.

“What kind of sorcery is this?” you murmur.

He huffs a quiet laugh.

“Dunno. Maybe you’re broken.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“You’re calmer.”

“…unfortunately true.”

Bucky smiles before he can stop himself.

And because you can’t see his face pressed near your hair, you miss the terrifying realization blooming in his chest.

He likes taking care of you.

Too much.

In ways that feel dangerous.

Because this—holding you down gently against his chest at two in the morning while your breathing evens out—feels more intimate than half the things he’s done with actual girlfriends.

That should concern him more than it does.

Instead, he tightens his arm around you slightly and says softly:

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“Don’t move.”

His heart does something deeply embarrassing.

“Wasn’t planning to.”

After that, it becomes a thing.

Not intentionally at first.

Neither of you discuss it.

But a week later, after a disastrous mission briefing leaves you overwhelmed and shaky, Bucky finds you curled miserably into the corner of the common room couch.

He takes one look at you.

“You spiralling?”

“Maybe.”

“Move over.”

You snort tiredly.

“There is literally no room.”

“I’ll make room.”

And somehow he does.

The others walk in to discover you pinned beneath the bulk of the Winter Soldier like a hostage being gently comforted.

Sam stops dead.

“…what the hell am I looking at?”

Without opening your eyes, you answer:

“Medical treatment.”

Bucky feels you relax further when he settles more weight across you.

Sam stares.

“You’re using Barnes as an emotional support sandbag?”

“Yes.”

“…and this works?”

“Yes.”

There’s a beat.

Then Sam points accusingly at Bucky.

“You look way too pleased about this.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Bucky ignores him.

Mostly because Sam’s right.

The horrifying truth is that Bucky likes this arrangement so much it’s becoming a problem.

He likes when you seek him out now.

Likes the sleepy, “Buck?” you murmur from doorways when your anxiety gets bad.

Likes how trusting you are with him.

Likes the way you immediately soften once he presses close.

And he especially likes the fact you never seem afraid of him.

Not of his metal arm.

Not of his size.

Not of the sheer physical reality of him.

You just curl beneath him willingly like he’s safety instead of danger.

It ruins him slowly.

The worst part is how domestic it becomes.

You’re both pathetic enough not to notice immediately.

It starts with movies.

You’re anxious after a rough therapy session, so Bucky sprawls partially on top of you on the couch while some terrible reality baking show plays in the background.

Then it becomes routine.

You reading while he rests against you.

You napping underneath him.

Your legs tangled together while Alpine sleeps smugly on Bucky’s back like she approves of the arrangement.

One night Natasha walks into the living room, sees the position you’re both in, and physically backs out again.

“Nope,” she says immediately.

You blink sleepily from beneath Bucky’s chest.

“What?”

“I’m giving you both privacy to deal with…” she gestures vaguely, “…whatever this is.”

Bucky frowns.

“We’re watching TV.”

Natasha stares at him.

“You’re lying on top of her.”

“To help her anxiety.”

“Mhm.”

“That’s literally all this is.”

Natasha looks directly at you.

“Are you aware he’s in love with you?”

Bucky nearly chokes to death.

You burst into startled laughter.

“What?”

Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Men are exhausting.”

Then she leaves before either of you can recover.

The silence afterward is catastrophic.

Bucky can feel heat crawling up his neck.

You clear your throat awkwardly beneath him.

“Well.”

“Nat talks too much.”

“Yeah.”

Another silence.

Then quietly:

“You’re not in love with me, right?”

And there it is.

The moment.

The opening.

The place where honesty could exist.

Bucky should tell you.

He should.

Instead he says, “You’d know if I was.”

It’s a lie.

A terrible one.

Because he is so violently in love with you it feels like organ failure sometimes.

He loves your laugh.

Your stubbornness.

The way you ramble when tired.

The way you pretend your anxiety makes you difficult to love while offering everyone else endless patience and gentleness.

He loves how you trust him with your softest parts.

He loves you so much it scares him.

But you relax at his answer.

And somehow that feels worse.

“Oh good,” you murmur.

His chest aches.

“Yeah.”

You smile faintly beneath him.

“Because that would make this complicated.”

Bucky stares at the ceiling all night afterward unable to breathe properly.

Things get worse after the nightmare.

Not his.

Yours.

Bucky wakes around three in the morning because someone is pounding on his door hard enough to shake the frame.

He’s moving before he’s fully awake.

When he opens it, you’re standing there shaking.

Not crying.

Which is somehow worse.

Your face looks pale and distant and terrified in a way that spikes immediate panic through him.

“Hey,” he says sharply. “Hey, what happened?”

“I can’t calm down.”

Your voice trembles violently.

“I tried—I tried everything and I can’t—”

“C’mere.”

You practically fall into him.

Bucky catches you automatically, metal arm bracing your back while your fingers clutch desperately at his shirt.

Your heartbeat is terrifying.

Way too fast.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “I got you.”

You bury your face against his chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I woke you up.”

“I don’t care.”

And he means it.

He’d wake up for you every night for the rest of his life if it helped.

The realization lands hard enough to nearly stagger him.

Before he can think too deeply about that deeply alarming truth, he guides you toward the bed.

“Lay down.”

You obey immediately, exhausted and overwhelmed.

Bucky climbs in beside you without hesitation.

Then carefully—carefully—he settles partially over you, broad chest against yours, one heavy thigh between yours, arms caging you safely beneath him.

The second his weight settles, you exhale shakily.

“There you are,” he whispers.

Your eyes close.

“There you are.”

The room goes quiet except for your breathing gradually slowing beneath him.

Bucky should move once you calm down.

Instead he stays.

Because you’re warm beneath him.

Because your fingers are curled loosely in his shirt.

Because every instinct in his body screams protect protect protect.

And because he’s hopelessly, catastrophically gone for you.

You fall asleep first.

Bucky knows because your grip loosens and your face softens against his shoulder.

He should leave then.

Instead he remains exactly where he is for nearly an hour staring into the dark.

He brushes hair away from your face carefully.

God.

He loves you.

He loves you so much.

And he’s completely fucked.

You realize the truth accidentally.

Which feels fitting.

It happens during a mission debrief after a rough extraction goes sideways.

Nothing catastrophic.

But enough to leave everyone frayed.

You’re wound tight all evening afterward, anxiety clawing under your skin while the team argues over tactical mistakes.

Eventually you stand abruptly.

“I need five minutes.”

Bucky’s up instantly.

“I’ll come with you.”

You don’t even question it anymore.

That should probably concern both of you.

The hallway outside the conference room is quiet.

You lean heavily against the wall, pressing your palms into your eyes.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“For what?”

“I’m being annoying.”

Bucky’s expression hardens immediately.

“You’re not.”

“I’m literally one inconvenience away from imploding.”

“So?”

You laugh weakly.

“So normal people don’t require human compression therapy to function.”

His face softens.

“Hey.”

You look at him.

And Bucky says very carefully:

“There is nothing wrong with needing comfort.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly undoes you.

Your throat tightens unexpectedly.

“You always know how to help.”

The words hit him hard.

Too hard.

Because he does.

He knows your breathing patterns now. Your tells. The difference between stress and genuine panic. He knows exactly how much pressure helps. Exactly where to hold you.

Like your bodies learned each other instinctively.

Your eyes drift across his face.

And suddenly—

Suddenly you see it.

Not all at once.

But enough.

Enough to notice the unbearable tenderness in his expression.

Enough to notice how carefully he handles you.

Enough to realize no one looks at someone they don’t love like that.

Your breath catches.

Oh.

Oh.

Bucky notices immediately.

“What?”

You stare at him.

“You are.”

His entire body stills.

“What?”

“You’re in love with me.”

The silence that follows feels enormous.

Bucky looks almost cornered.

Like you’ve found something he desperately wanted hidden.

Finally, rough and quiet:

“Yeah.”

Your heart stumbles violently.

“Oh.”

“I didn’t want you to know.”

“Why?”

A humorless laugh escapes him.

“Because this arrangement only works if you feel safe.”

“I do feel safe.”

“You know what I mean.”

He steps back slightly then, expression tight.

“If I made this weird, I’m sorry. I can stop. I should’ve stopped earlier.”

The thought hits you like physical pain.

“No.”

Bucky goes still.

You swallow hard.

“Don’t stop.”

His eyes search your face carefully.

“Doll…”

“I mean it.”

Your pulse pounds.

Because suddenly everything makes sense.

The gentleness.

The devotion.

The way he always comes when you need him.

And maybe—maybe you’ve been avoiding the truth too.

Because loving Bucky feels terrifyingly inevitable.

“I think,” you say slowly, “I think maybe I’m in love with you too.”

Bucky looks stunned.

Actually stunned.

Like the words physically knocked the air from him.

“You don’t gotta say that because—”

“I’m not.”

You step closer carefully.

His expression turns painfully vulnerable.

“You make me feel safe,” you whisper. “You make my head quiet.”

Something in him breaks open then.

His hand comes up slowly, brushing against your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You have any idea what you do to me?” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

“No.”

“You ask for me when you’re hurting.”

His forehead rests against yours.

“You trust me.”

“I do trust you.”

Bucky closes his eyes briefly like that means everything.

Because it does.

When he kisses you, it’s careful at first.

Gentle.

Almost hesitant.

Then you kiss him back and suddenly he’s holding your face like something precious, kissing you deep and aching and relieved.

Years of longing pour into it.

You clutch his shirt instinctively.

Bucky makes a soft wrecked sound against your mouth.

And then—

Because apparently neither of you can be normal people—

He murmurs against your lips:

“You anxious right now?”

You burst into startled laughter.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh my god.”

“You want me to lay on you or not?”

You laugh harder, bright and helpless and happy enough it nearly kills him.

“Only if you kiss me again after.”

Bucky smiles then.

Real and warm and breathtaking.

“Deal.”

And later, tangled together in his bed with most of his weight draped over you while your fingers trace lazy patterns against his spine, you realize something quietly extraordinary:

For the first time in a very long time, your mind is calm.

And wrapped around you like armor, like warmth, like home itself—

is Bucky Barnes.

[tilltheendwilliwrite]

Both of You, Forever*

Both of You, Forever: A Steve Rogers X Reader X Bucky Barnes fanfic

Word Count: 4536 Pairing: Steve Rogers X Reader X Bucky Barnes Warnings: Smut, pure smut 18+ on this one lovelies! (MMF threesome. Oral, vaginal, anal sex)

Synopsis: It was nothing more than an innocent little comment. You weren’t mad; you weren’t even really disappointed. How were you to know Steve, your boyfriend, would take it that way? What happens next might just get you everything you’ve ever wanted.

This one’s for you @unicorns-and-fairy-dust

Keep reading

[the-iceni-bitch]

Bent Over It

Kinktober Day 13: Stockings Kink

Pairing: innocent!Steve Rogers x fem!reader

Words: ~2.2k

Summary: Steve can’t control himself when you’re dressed like that.

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content (public arousal, fingering, anal play, unprotected anal sex, brief f receiving oral sex, hyperspermia, anal cream pie, felching) slightly subby Steve, kinda public sex, sex at work, SMUT!!! 18+ ONLY!!

A/N: Oh, to be the one to teach innocent Steve all the filthy things he’s been missing…

I am no longer doing taglists so if you want to stay up to date on all the latest filth, follow my sideblog @the-iceni-library and turn on notifications!!

Steve had been thinking about you all day.

Ever since he saw you making your breakfast this morning, it had been like an obsession. He didn’t have to think about what had caused it, he already knew.

It was those damn stockings.

Seeing you bent over the counter as you grabbed your toast, in that tight little pencil skirt and those seams running up the backs of your legs? You’d had to beat him off you with the newspaper when he tried to fuck you right there in the kitchen, laughing incredulously at his pouting when you scolded him for trying to make you late for work.

What was even worse was that he was stuck in meetings with you all day. Pepper and Tony were pushing a big PR initiative for a charity tour and that meant the two of you were going to be working closely for the next two weeks. He felt like such a damn pervert when every time you walked by he had to fight the urge to yank your skirt up and pull at the straps of your garters with his teeth. It didn’t help that Bucky was giving him a knowing grin each time he squirmed in his seat and tried to hide his growing erection.

“You doing ok there, punk?” Bucky was smirking at him after he swallowed another groan when he watched you stretch over the conference table to distribute the appearance schedules, the line of your legs even more enticing with that perfect seam running right up the back of them.

“Uh huh.” He just wanted to fuck you while he bent you over the conference table, it wasn’t a big deal.

“Sure.” Bucky just grinned at him, turning to Sam as he continued teasing Steve. “Y/N looks pretty good today, huh Wilson?”

“What?” Sam gave him a confused look before seeing the strain on Steve’s face and rolling his eyes with a bemused expression . “Yeah, she looks fantastic. Those heels are really working for her.”

“And the stockings?” Steve was going to kill Bucky, that man was such an ass sometimes. “I mean, her gams always look fantastic but those are really making it hard to focus.”

“Gams? Christ, you’re old.” Sam shook his head at the ridiculous slang. Fortunately the meeting was released at that point and Steve was able to escape the stupid commentary from those two idiots as they started arguing about appropriate names for women’s body parts.

“Hi Steve!” You gave him one of those heartbreaking smiles when he walked up behind you while you were talking with Maria, his breath fanning over your neck while he tried to wordlessly beg you to break off your conversation and follow him to your office. “Did you wanna do lunch, honey? I just need to discuss a couple things with Maria first.”

“But I need you, now.” He ducked close and ran his nose over your cheek, giving Maria a sheepish smile when she cleared her throat. “Um, tour business.”

“Sure. I’ll talk to you later, Y/N.” Maria rolled her eyes as she wandered away from you, shaking her head and laughing softly as Steve just turned to you with that adorable grin.

“You’re not gonna let me get anything done until we do something about this, huh?” You bit your lip and smiled softly when he just shook his head at you, winding your arm through his and starting to lead him towards your office. “I’m sure I’ll have to listen to another lecture from Tony about this. He thinks I’ve ruined you.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” He was a little sullen thinking about other people talking about your sex life, but then you shut the door behind the two of you and he stopped caring,

“Oh, I dunno.” You sighed when he wrapped his arms around your waist and cupped one of your breasts gently, his lips tracing over the curve of your neck as he walked you towards your desk. “You’re turning into a little bit of a freak, couldn’t even make it through a whole meeting without getting a hard on.”

“Oh, umm, you noticed that?” He only paused his movements for a second before he started sucking on your neck again, not nearly as embarrassed as he would’ve been a few months ago at the thought of people noticing the effect you had on him.

“Of course I noticed.” You turned your head so you could catch his lips with yours, moaning when you bumped into your desk as he ground into your ass. “That big cock of yours is all I can think about.”

“Yeah? Fuck.” He whined when he dragged your skirt up over your hips and got a good look at the set you had on, the pretty lace thong disappearing between your cheeks and the garter belt keeping those gorgeous stockings in place, he was in heaven. “You’re gonna end up killing me, doll.”

You laughed lightly when he knelt behind you, kissing softly over the curve of your ass as he hummed to himself before running his teeth over the lines of your garters. He growled when he plucked at the suspenders with his teeth, the snap of them against your skin making his cock twitch in his slacks as you gave him those lovely, soft mewls that made him want to do nothing but please you. Maybe you had ruined him.

But he couldn’t bring himself to care about that. Not when he could smell the sweet, musky scent of your arousal so close to his face. He dove between your legs with a whimper as he dragged his tongue over the soaked lace of your panties, the heady taste of you overtaking his senses until all he could think about was burying himself in your wet heat.

“Steve, c’mere baby.” You moaned when he kissed his way up your back until he was leaning his whole body into yours, winding your fingers through his when he wrapped his arms around you again. “If would’ve known some stockings would get you this worked up, I would’ve done it sooner. You wanna try something new?”

“Yes, whatever you want.” He loved everything you introduced him to, he still couldn’t get over the first time he’d let you tie him up, he’d let you do anything to him.

“Oh, you’re so whipped, baby.” You reached over your shoulder to pat his cheek as he panted into your neck, his fingers digging into your hips as he whined needily. “Put a finger in my ass Steve.”

“What?!” Steve felt his knees almost buckle at your proposition, his eyes shooting open as his thoughts started racing a mile a minute. He’d heard of this, he knew it was a thing that apparently gals were into now, but wasn’t sure he could handle it if this was really what you were asking of him.

“Sshhh, baby, it’s ok.” Apparently he had been babbling like an idiot, finally calming down a little when you ran your fingers through his hair. “So nervous, don’t worry, I’m gonna talk you through it. Just slip your fingers in my pussy first, Stevie, get them nice and wet. That’s it, good boy. See? I’m already so wet just thinking about you splitting my ass open with that fat cock. Want you so bad.”

Your mouth was going to literally be the death of him. He didn’t know who taught you to talk like that, but he wanted to send them a goddamn fruit basket. Feeling your soft walls sucking on and leaking your slick all over his fingers was making him faint, his lips brushing over your neck as he whined into your skin and followed your instructions closely. He really would do anything for you.

“You’re doing so good for me, Stevie, so perfect. Now just drag them back, and slide one in my ass.” You turned your head to press your lips to his cheek as he did what you asked, purring when his index finger slid past the tight ring of muscle and he blew out a deep breath into your neck. “Oh, yes.”

Steve could’ve collapsed right then. He thought your pussy was tight, but compared to this? And so fucking hot and silky and pulling on his finger like nothing he’d ever felt before. He didn’t think he was going to be able to handle sticking his cock in that tight little hole, but he’d do anything you asked of him.

“Steve, put another one in. Oh god.” You’d trained this boy good, he followed instructions like a champ. “Stretch me, honey.”

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good, baby.” He was grinding desperately against your ass as he worked you open, his breath hot as it fanned over your neck while he panted desperately. “Another one?”

“No, want you to fuck me.” You grinned when he let out a choked whine, reaching back and grabbing his growing bulge when he took a little longer than you would have liked. “C’mon, Stevie, I wanna feel you for days.”

You didn’t need to ask him twice. Steve got his fly open as a rush as he sucked on your neck, whimpering as he slapped his cock between your legs to lube himself up before teasing his tip against the tight ring of muscle. As soon as he slid inside you his knees buckled, catching himself on the desk and groaning at the feel of the unbelievably snug warmth of you wrapped around him. He was going to buy you something sparkly for this, maybe some earrings.

“Steve, fuck, that’s it.” You rolled your ass back into him as he started slamming into you, his hips slapping lewdly against the backs of your thighs as he grunted into your hair with each deep thrust. “Oh god, I love that fucking cock. Turn my ass out, Steve, fuck it good.”

“Jesus Christ.” He curled his body over yours as he lost all semblance of rhythm, groaning into your neck as both of you collapsed on top of your desk. He could barely take it when you got so filthy, those breathy moans and the way your ass was clenching around him already bringing him right to the edge. “Baby, I’m so fucking close.”

“I know, me too. Play with my clit, Stevie, I fucking need it.” You whined when he immediately obeyed, spreading your legs as he slid a hand around your front and started circling your swollen bud with the tips of his fingers. “Good, that’s so good, my good boy.”

He whimpered when you called him that, grinding into you and muttering nonsense when you somehow started squeezing him even tighter. Even when you were ordering him around, your body still bent to his ministrations like a fine tuned instrument. You arched your back when he hit you real deep and drove his fingers into your clit, biting back a scream as you came apart. Steve hissed between his teeth when you clamped down on him, unable to move as he shot his load into you with a low growl. Both of you moaned together as he filled you up, his hips jerking against your ass while he pumped you full of a ridiculous amount of cum until it was leaking out around him.

“Mm, I love you so fucking much.” He panted into your hair as he came down, rubbing his hands over your hips and thighs as you breathed deeply underneath him.

“Love you too, Stevie.” You turned your head and grinned at him over your shoulder, groaning when he stood up and pulled out of you. “You gonna be able to focus the rest of today?”

“Maybe.” His hands were still resting on your ass cheeks, holding them apart and biting his lip as he watched his cum leaking out of your abused hole. It was making him feel some kind of way. “Wanna take care of something first.”

“What? Oh, shit!” You were not prepared for him to kneel behind you and start to lap up the cum that was dribbling out of you, pressing wet kisses all over your swollen skin as he cleaned you up. “Fuck, baby, I really did ruin you, huh? My perfect fucking boy, didn’t even need to tell you what to do.”

Steve just hummed his agreement, tonguing softly at the tight ring of muscle before wrapping his lips around it and sucking as he pulled you open with his fingers. His eyes fluttered shut as he felt his own cum flowing into his mouth, drinking it down greedily until you were completely cleaned up.

“Get back up here, I wanna taste.” You turned around and grabbed his hair when he rose to his feet, pulling his face to yours and purring when he opened up and let you slowly lick into his mouth. “God, you know, you’re ruining me a little too, Stevie. You fucking spoil me.”

“Good.” He grinned against your lips as he gazed into your eyes, pulling your skirt back down over your hips and smoothing the fabric with his warm hands as he let you trace his jaw with your fingers. “What d’you say this weekend, we can try this new thing I found out about called face sitting.”

[cake-writes]

Earn It

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Warnings: filthy smut, ANAL (yes reader is 100% that bitch), kinda-sorta dubcon due to alcohol, praise kink, pain kink (yes reader is also 100% that bitch), safe word mention (not used), subtle D/s undertones, begging, degradation, count down, squirting, 18+

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: so you can blame my darlings @mandalorianspace​ and @buckybarnesplumwhore​​ for this one. THANKS A LOT. 💀 also I could not be fucked with the ending so lmao sorry but the smut is just more important here, okay???

“Tell me how bad you want it.”

You’re on your hands and knees in front of your boyfriend of two years, side of your face pressed into the sheets – and although you can’t see him, you can hear the roughness in his voice, feel his callused fingertips dig into the flesh of your ass as he spreads your cheeks apart. 

Despite how long you’ve been together, though, it’s unfamiliar.

“Bucky,” you gasp as his vibranium thumb smooths over your puckered hole. “Please fuck my ass, please—”

The tip of his thumb slides in, and you shiver.

Keep reading

[mushies-stories]

Bucky: Daddy's gift and then some

SMUT 18+!

Stepdad Bucky X F!Reader

summary: your home for spring break and moms away. Bucky has a toy and a new idea. its smut, like that's it really. porn and a drop of plot.

Warnings: smut, anal sex, toys, double penetration. pet names, creampie.

word count: 2910

Smut bellow

His sweet girl was home for spring break and thankfully his wife, her mother, was called away on a business trip and would be gone for over half of it, only being home for the first few days before she was off, and he would have the rest of his time to spend with you. His sweet stepdaughter who just loved to make him happy. 

“Have a safe trip dear.” Bucky kissed your mother on the cheek before closing the cab door. You waved from the sidewalk with a smile, wishing her luck before the cab pulled off and she was gone. You headed inside and in an instant Bucky’s hands were on your hips. Pulling your back to his chest. “Bucky, she just left.” you giggles, hearing bucky kick the door shut. 

He leaned down and spoke low and in your ear. “Bucky? That’s who I am now huh? College turned you into a big girl, did it?” he teased, gripping your hips tighter and pulling you even closer. 

He always did this, teased you until you gave in and were a moaning mess for him in minutes. Not today, you wanted to make him work for it. “Well I am getting older, I don't think an adult should call their step dad, daddy.” you stated matter-of-factly. 

A hand slowly traveled up and slipped into the thin fabric of your tank top, sliding it up as his hand made its way to cup your breast. “Oh is that so? Well I guess if you're such a big girl you wouldn't want daddy's little gift.” he teased, now sliding your tank over your head as he towers behind you. 

Your breath hitched as the air hit your stomach, now in only your lacy baby pink bra and your much too short jean shorts. “What gift?” you asked, looking back at him with doe eyes, an innocent look that always made Bucky’s cock twitch. 

A smirk played at his lips as he looked down at you, attempting to distract him. “Sorry, it’s only for daddy’s good girl. But if you remember who i am then i'll gladly give it to me sweet girl.” he said, undoing your bra and watching it fall to the ground at your feet. He brought his hands up to squeeze your breasts before focusing on your nipples, pinching and twisting softly. He loved watching your nipples harden at his touch. He noticed your head fall back onto his chest and your thighs began to rub together. With no response however he pulled away completely and took a step back, away from you. 

You turned and glared at him. He chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. He rolled his eyes and closed the space between you, looking down at your pouting face. “Sweet girl, do you want me to fuck you, fill you up and make you feel good? Have you a dripping moaning mess on my cock?” he asked, raising one brow. 

You almost choked on a moan at his words. Your face felt like it was on fire, your panties soaked already. You looked up at him through thick lashes and nodded your head softly.  

Shaking his head he brought a hand up to softly grip your chin, thumb running along your bottom lip. “Words sweetheart, tell me who you want to fuck you, who you need to make you feel good.” he commanded. 

You felt your legs weaken at his dominance, looking into his steel eyes made you want to completely give yourself over. “Yes, please…daddy I want the gift.” he spoke softly, face covered in a deep blush. He always broke you, his dirty words and burning touch. 

With a smirk he nodded to your bedroom. “Look in your nightstand, small black box.” he said before releasing his grip on your chin. “I'll be there in a minute.” he instructed, heading to the bedroom he shared with your mom. 

You made it to the nightstand and found a small black box. Instead of what could have been a sparkling bracelet was a small bullet shaped device. You looked at it and weren't sure what exactly it was but new it was some kind of toy. You sat on your bed inspecting the device until Bucky was entering the room with a small bottle of lube and a small remote. 

“What's that for?” you asked, heading tilting in confusion, you never needed lube before. He set them down near the edge of the bed. 

He gave you a gentle smile. “I'm going to make you feel good, Babygirl. Now, I want your ass up so come here and bed over the bed please.” he gave you another instruction that you willingly followed. Leaving the small box with the device on the bed you came to bend over the end of the bed, shorts and panties the only thing left on your body. You watched him from over your shoulder as he slowly slid your shorts and panties over your ass and down your thighs, you kicked them to the side and. He smiled to himself when he saw just how wet you were for him. Crouching to one knee he slid his tongue through your folds, tasting you briefly before standing back up and walking to the side of the bed for the device. Enjoying the small sound of a whimper escapes you at his action. 

“Buck- Daddy, I mean…” you said shyly, not wanting to get in trouble just yet. You had a few days to play with your stepdad after all. “What is that?”

He smiled at you before returning to stand behind your now naked body. He grabbed the small remote and clicked a button and a faint buzz came from the small device. Your brows raised in surprised delight. He brought it to your clit and chuckled as your hips jerked forward, not ready for the intense feeling. “We're going to have a lot of fun with this little toy but for today I want to keep it… simple.” he gave you a small smirk as he brought a hand down to hold your hips in place so he could bring the toy back to your clit, teasing the sensitive nub. “Do you want me to make you feel good, sweet girl?”

You shook your head and begged him with pleading eyes to do something. He shook his head and continued to draw small light circles, barely touching you but enough to send shock of need through you. “Words babygirl.” he commanded.

“Please, daddy put it in.” you asked so breathlessly sweet, cheeks rosy and eyes half lidded. He knew how to make you squirm. 

Nodding in approval he slowly slid the toy through your folds and pushed it slowly into your tight pussy until the base plugged you up. You moaned as it entered you, back arching into nothing as your pussy fluttered at the new feeling. “Like that baby? Is my girl enjoying her toy?” he asked, watching as you struggled to keep your eyes from closing.

You nodded and a small smile graced your lips. “Yes, yes daddy it feels so good.” you confessed. Your pussy was throbbing and slowly starting to tighten as the vibrating continued. “So good, gunna..” you trailed off as an intense wave hit you, but before you could completely come undone the toy shut off and your legs almost gave out from the loss of the sensation. 

“Daddy why?” you asked, looking back at Bucky who was holding the little remote with a wide smirk on his face.

He leaned over your naked body, hard clothed cock pressed against your soaked pussy. “That's not all the fun I have planned, baby, but I need you to feel nice and ready for me okay?” he spoke as he kissed your shoulder. Taking another step back he shed himself of his shirt, tossing it with your shirts. He kneels behind you, face lined with your dripping core. “Now be a good girl and stay still for me.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh and trailed up to your right asscheek, biting it softly. He brought both hands to your ass and spread your cheeks, you gasped and wiggled your hips. His tongue came out to lick around your puckered hole, teasing it with soft flicks of his tongue before poking his tongue in and out a few times. “Daddy… that's my butt.” you said, fully embarrassed about him giving that part of your body attention. You hid your face in your shoulder as he continued to lick and probe your tight hole with his skilled tongue. You pussy fluttered around the toy that was waiting in your core. 

He pulled away and hummed. Standing he grabbed the bottle of lube and opened the cap “do you want to feel my cum Babygirl? You know I can't risk cumming in your sweet pussy but your ass can take me, I can watch myself leaking out of your little hole.” he spoke low, voice filled with lust as he tipped the bottle and drizzled the lube on your ass. He watched it run down to your little hole before he began rubbing it around, messaging you and slowly inching one finger into you.

You let out a sharp gasp, trying to relax into his touch. His words make you hot, the thought of being filled with his cum made your mind go blank as he added another finger, stretching you even more. When you let out a noise of discomfort he turned the little bullet on a low setting.

You began moaning as his fingers worked inside of you, scissoring and pumping into you, stretching you out.

A third finger had you gasping and whimpering while the bullet set shocking waves of pleasure to the discomfort you were feeling from behind. Your breathing became labored and your knees began to shake, on the brink of orgasim. “Daddy, fuck.” you breathed out. Then simultaneously his fingers slipped out of your puckered hole and the vibrating stopped. You gasped and a choked moan died in your throat. “Whyy, daddyy.” you whined, looking back to see bucky was looking at your dripping pussy and ass with dark lust filled eyes. 

His eyes flickered to you and he smiled softly. “On the bed Babygirl, legs open.” he ordered. You obeyed and crawled onto the bed and layed down, knees up and legs sprawled wide open. Undoing his belt and pants he let them fall to the ground before coming to crawl over you. Grabbing the bottle again he drizzled more lube onto his cock. Discarding the bottle he lathered it around as he fisted himself a few times. Looking at your body as you lay waiting for him. “Ready princess? Daddys going to make you feel so full, okay?” he asked but not really, knowing his girl so well you’ll do it just for him. 

You nodded and raised your hips a little, allowing him to hoist your thighs onto his a little so he had better access to your ass. Holding onto your hips to keep you still he pressed the tip to your hole and pushed in slowly. Your brows knitted together as he only managed to get past the tip before you let out a gasp and a sound of pain. “Oww, daddy it hurts.” you told him, holding into the sheet beside you. 

“I know baby, you can do it. Relax for me.” Bucky attempted to sooth you as he continued to sink into you at an agonizing slow pace. He was struggling to not ram his cock into your tight ass, it was gripping him too hard he could almost bust right there.

You whimpered and gasped. “Too big, daddy it won't fit.” you continued to whine. 

He pushed in another inch and brought hand up to caress your cheek. “Do you want your toy baby? Need some help?” he asked. You looked at him with pleading eyes and shook your head. He smiled and nodded his head, grabbing the small remote from the bed and hitting the low setting before returning to hold your hips. Instantly your hips jerked in his hold and a soft moan felt from your lips. “Better?” he asked, sinking in another inch. Bucky’s cock twitched, becoming more sensitive with adding the vibrator. 

You nodded again with a small smile. “Better.” you agreed. Satisfied Bucky pushed the rest of his fat cock into your tiny hole, watching as even with the bullet helping, you still lost your breath and a strangled moan escaped you. He waited, with a firm grip on your hips for you to calm down. Once your breathing was calmer and you looked at him with clearer eyes he slowly began to pull back out only to sink back in. He repeated the motion. back and forth slowly until your face turned into one of pure pleasure. His pace sped up and his hips snapped into you a little rougher.

With the weight of his cock and the bullet nuzzled in your cunt you were falling apart fast. Finally you were asking for more. You needed him to fuck into you, move more and harder. ‘Please daddy more!’ you begged through needy whines. 

Giving you what you need he slams his cock into you as he holds back an almost primal growl. “Fuck baby, look at you, taking me so well.” he grounded, looking down at his cock and how messy your pussy was making the base of his cock with your slick. 

He was pounding into you, holding you still as his cock filled your ass and you cried into him that it was getting to be too much. “Daaady! My ass Aah-aa too full!” you cried. 

Bucky pressed the next setting on the remote that laid on the bed next to your bodies. Choked on a filthy moan, back arching and allowing him to sink just a little further in. He groaned, looking down and his cock that was being squeezed by your tight hole. “Fuck baby, so fucking tight.” he spoke between harsh trusts. “Such a perfect ass, so tight and good for me.” you whimpered at his praises, hands gripping the sheets next to you as his cock hits deep and the vibration makes your cunt pulse. “Gunna fuck my cum into you, fill your ass with it.” Bucky was slowly losing all train of thought, focused on your sweet sounds and your excruciatingly tight ass.

Tears were pricking the corners of your eyes, your pussy leaking as your orgasim aproches. “Daddy-daddy please!” you managed to get out before your breath was stolen by Bucky bringing a hand to rub circling on your clit, thumb rough and fast. 

“Cum for me princess, you can do it.” he grounded, hips never faltering as his hungry eyes took everything about you in. your glistening pussy to your lewd ass that was greedily sucking his cock back in with every thrust. Your legs shook and your eyes were screwed shut, orgasim approching. 

You were a wheemping mess under him as your core flushed around the toy, ass tightening around his thick girth. ‘Daddy’ being the only word you could manage through choked moans While he groaned sweet words of praise.

Bucky was right behind you, ball tightening and cock twitching. He sank down to his elbow around you, your legs hanging over his sides. His cock was buried deep as he unloaded inside of you. His groans hit your eyes as he rutted against your ass, making sure to give you everything he had. 

You could barely catch your breath, feeling over-stimulated and completely stuffed. Your eyes could barely stay open as you looked up Bucky. He leaned in to give a soft kiss to your parted lips. “So good baby, you did so well.” he cooed, hand coming up to stroke your hair. As he reached and turned the bullet off before sliding it out, leaving you with only his cock that was still deep in your ass. “Can you relax for me baby.” he asked, starting to pull his cock out but your little hole clenched and it stopped him with a hiss. “Baby please relax.” he asked, kissing your forehead. 

You nodded and took a breath, letting him slip his soft dick out of you with a string of fluid and lube. “You came so much daddy.” you said dreamily, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you feel is seed slowly leak out of your gaped hole. “I'm so full, it feels so good.”

Bucky chuckled softly. You were cock drunk from having your ass rammed and filled with cum. “I'll make sure to keep filling your perfect little ass then, the next few days your mine.” he said between feather light kisses to your jaw before leaning down and trailing them to the side of your neck. “Would you like that sweet girl? Want me to ruin you, Make you cum over and over?” he asked, nipping your neck. 

You soon realized he wasn't going to let you rest just yet. Finally having you all to himself. You weren't any different, wanting to feel all of him as much as possible, cum on his cock and tongue, suck him till he shoots his load down your throat. You wanted all of it and you were ready.

[smutsonian]

imagine bucky and his girl trying anal for the first time and they’re both just moaning so loud cause it’s so good

drabble about bucky bonking that cake

bucky barnes x reader

warnings: pure filth, pure smut smut and smut, an*l smut, awkward smut because that’s how I felt the whole time I’m writing this shit, brief mentions of toy/s, for some reason i hate saying the word butthole and i found myself looking for a bunch of synonyms which failed, not proofread, cringy smut tyvm, my friend told me that she had a hard time imagining the positions so gluck with that :’)

word count: 1k (yikes for a drabble) 

an: im sorry in advance

masterlist

You’re on your knees and your hands when Bucky runs his flesh hand across the slope of your behind, smoothly massaging it and giving it a comforting squeeze before slowly reaching for the plug situated in your rear. “You look so fucking hot right now but I’m going to take this out, alright?” he gives your ass a small slap before squeezing it one more time. After seeing you nod, he grasps the plug again before pulling it slowly and earning a lewd moan from you when you felt the toy being pulled out of your tight hole. 

You felt his hot fingers dancing around your tight hole as if he’s exploring the slightly gaping hole, pulsing around nothing. The satisfying feeling of being full attacked you once more when he slipped a finger in, adding another while he spilled oil into your ass and his fingers. Your back arches in pleasure as he continued playing with your tight hole, enjoying the sounds coming out of your mouth and straight to his hardening cock. He retreats his hand away from you and bends down to place a kiss on the right cheek before laying down on the bed and guiding you as you straddled him.

“You ready?” He asks as he looks up at you with an excited glint in his eyes. You chuckled before nodding at him and tilting your head to the side. “Yeah… Are you?” You smirk at him before pulling his pants off and positioning yourself above him. You stroked his cock a few times, biting your lip at how hard he is before rubbing it against your lubed and wet butthole. He held your hips as you continued rubbing him against yourself, moaning in desperation as he gets even harder against your hold. “Fuck me, doll…” He groans before hissing as you pushed his tip into you, groaning in a mix of bliss and slight pain at how big his tip felt inside of you. “So fucking tight” He mumbles before retracting his hands from your hips and forcing them behind his head. “I wouldn’t be able to control myself when you’re looking like that, doll.” He bites his lip, biceps bulging out as he does his best to stop himself from slamming your body down his cock.

You took a deep breath before sitting yourself down and taking all of Bucky’s length in your small hole, mewling loudly at the fullness you felt with him inside you. Bucky let out a loud cry of pleasure when he felt you suffocating his cock with your tightness and biting his lip as he watches you slowly starting to bounce on his length. “Fuck” His eyes were shut tightly as his head tilted back in satisfaction. He opened his eyes as he watched you, reaching for your hips and pressing you down against his cock until you’re sat still around his solid cock. He reaches for your shoulders to pull your chest against his, locking you in a tight embrace. “So fucking warm and tight” He groans against your hair as his cock twitches inside of you making you shudder and whine in pleasure. 

“Move.” You whine against his hold while squirming against him and moaning with him when you clenched your ass around his cock. His breath hitches before he rolls to his side, bringing you with him until he was the one straddling you, cock still twitching deep inside your hole. He takes a hold of your ankles and pushes it until your knees were pressed against your chest. He presses a kiss on the side of your ankle before pulling his length out until the tip was just pressed teasingly against your hole and plunging deep inside you with a loud growl, his skin slapping against yours mixes with the loud mewl that came out of you. “Yes, yes, yes.” You chant as he continued to pound into you from behind, slapping and squeezing your cheeks as he grunts with every thrust. “Fuuu-” He cries before pulling out and sliding his arms under you before turning the both of you around until he was under you again while your back is pressed against his chest. He guides his cock into your hole before rammed into you again, holding a rapid pace as he slammed up into you. Loud moans and cries from both of you bounced around the walls of the room along with the slapping noises of your skins. His moans started to turn into loud grunt and whines while yours turned into desperate cries of pleasure when his fingers found their way to your clit, rubbing it at an inhuman pace. He ignored the grip you had on his arm as he rubbed your sensitive bud and used his metal hand to grope your breasts while his hips continued to slam against your back.

You start to feel the powerful rush in your abdomen building from both Bucky’s cock and fingers playing your body making your eyes tear up in excitement and pleasure. “Cum on my fingers,” Bucky whispers into your hair as plunges two fingers into you while he continues to rub your clit with his thumb. Your body shakes in delight as your orgasm hits you like a truck making you scream out loud from the strong pleasure that overtook your body. Your cunt clenches around Bucky’s fingers while your other hole clenches around Bucky’s cock tightly. Bucky howls loudly as he thrusts deep into your hole, staying inside as he came, spurting hot liquids deep inside of you. 

After a few minutes of heavy breathing, Bucky slowly pulls out and helps you lay onto his side before smiling exhaustively at you. “Best decision of my life…” You joke, voice out of breath. Bucky chuckled before nodding in approval. You smile at him before leaning closer to his face, heart beating excitedly when he started leaning closer as well when a loud banging from the wall against the headboard broke the two of you apart. 

“As much as I enjoy hearing how great you both make each other feel, Captain’s trousers are going to fall apart if you don’t keep it down.” Sam’s voice comes through the walls, making the hairs on your back stand in embarrassment while Bucky just smirks at you and the thought of his best friend getting a hard-on from the both of you. He leans towards you before pressing a wet kiss on your lips, snickering against it when he hears Steve’s voice berating Sam from the other room.

“Shut the fuck up, Sam.”

[metal-armed-muse]

heyyyy hope you’re good

hear me out, face sitting with Bucky and shy reader

ohh, this is delicious. he’s gonna be all commanding and you’re gonna be completely at his mercy.

face sitting

mdni, 18+.

he is gonna be so impatient as you hesitate. thighs quivering just above his face. he’s sprawled out on your bed, hair all mussed like he’s been aching for this moment his whole life.

those hands of his? not gentle, not even close. rough palms grip your thighs, fingers digging in, yanking you down until your knees are caging his head, pinning him down exactly where he wants to be.

“you think i told you to fucking hover?” his voice makes your whole body buzz. “i said sit.”

you let out this choked little sound, cheeks already burning. fuck, you’re so exposed. “bucky—”

“not hover,” he cuts you off, “sit.” his hand cracks a sharp smack on the outside of your thigh, just enough to sting and remind you who’s in charge.

your hips twitch at the contact, a pathetic whimper slipping out. he smirks up at you, that smug bastard, blue eyes pinning you like he’s drinking in every bit of your unraveling. he loves seeing you squirm.

“be a good girl for me,” he murmurs. another smack lands. on your other thigh this time. “plant that pretty pussy right here. don’t make me say it again.”

you lower yourself slowly. still shy, still holding back. he clocks it instantly

“still fucking hovering,” he growls, thumbs pressing hard into the crease of your hips, forcing you down until your slick heat brushes his mouth. you feel him smiling, his mouth curving at your core. “that’s better.”

then his tongue drags through you. one long, slow, devastating stroke. your knees nearly buckle, shaking against his jaw.

“fuck,” he mutters right against you, breath hot, voice vibrating through your core. “want you dripping all over my face, doll. make a fucking mess for me.”

your fingers claw into his hair, desperate for something to hold onto. your hips stutter as he dives in, lips and tongue working you with this feral hunger. he groans like your taste alone could break him. every time you try to lift away—too shy, too fucking overwhelmed—his hands clamp down, dragging you back to his mouth.

“nuh-uh. stay right fucking there,” he says between messy, greedy licks, words dripping with filth. “sweetest pussy i’ve ever tasted. you’re not going anywhere.”

you whimper, thighs shivering against his stubble. he latches onto your clit, sucking with this obscene focus. and the pressure’s too much, too good.

“come on, baby. give it to me,” he says, tongue flicking fast. “wanna taste you falling apart. so fucking shy, but this pussy’s begging, isn’t it?”

you break with a raw cry, orgasm slamming through you like a damn train. your body trembles hard, gasping his name as he groans into you. like he’s feasting on the best thing he’s ever had. he doesn’t stop, sucking you through every shudder until you’re a shaking mess.

when you collapse forward, panting, he catches you. he pulls back just enough to look at you. lips glistening, chin wet, grin pure sin. “that’s my good girl. shaking so pretty for me.”

your eyes catch the thick bulge straining his sweats, impossible to miss. he follows your gaze, chuckling.

“yeah, you see that?” he grabs your hand, drags it down to press against him, hissing when your fingers brush the fabric. “see what you do to me? just eating that sweet pussy’s got me so fucking hard.”

your cheeks burn. and he tightens his grip, letting you feel every thick inch of him.

“now you know, baby doll,” he rasps, eyes locked on yours. “i get this worked up just tasting you. and i’m not even close to done.”

he smirks, all hunger and heat. “so, what’s it gonna be? you gonna be a good girl and take care of me now?”

dividers by @cursed-carmine— thank you!

[metal-armed-muse]

this bucky making us ride him and being all mean and condescending...but aftercare being sweet 😈😈

first of, i love how we both had the exact same thought to this pic.. and i’ve tried my best😭 i wanted it to be short, but i went back and edited it, so that’s how we ended up with this 2k word thingy, really shouldn’t call it a drabble anymore..

THIS PIC IS DOING THINGS TO ME GUYS😭

tags : this one’s for the goons, i love you guys sm @opheliabbarnes @houseofhyde @sheriff-bodecker @colettebarnes @kiatjuddae @buckyfmd @fucky-barnes82 @mrgrungusthefrog @umbreoni

cw : age gap, smut, mdni

his thighs are spread wide on the edge of the bed, jeans shoved low enough that his cock is hard in his fist. his hair’s grown out, silver laced through dark strands, and his beard—fuck, that beard—is peppered white, coarse enough that it’ll burn your skin when he drags it over you.

“c’mon, baby,” his voice is low, torn up by years, by cigarettes once upon a time, by war and whiskey. his tone’s not patient. “you wanted it, didn’t you? all that squirming and whining? show me how bad you want it. get up here and ride me.”

your knees dig into the mattress as you climb into his lap, thighs bracketing his hips. he just sits, eyes dragging down your body, leaning back on one hand while the other strokes lazy up and down on his cock. that smug little curl at the corner of his mouth tilts something inside you.

you hover over him, your slick already making a mess of his tip, and a whimper leaves you when the head of him nudges against your entrance. but bucky doesn’t move. no, he shakes his head, clicks his tongue. tsks at you. “look at you, so desperate you can’t even wait. but you’re not just gonna sit pretty and let me do the work, sweetheart. you wanted this cock? gotta earn it. sink down.”

you brace yourself, putting your hands on his shoulders, and slowly lower. he’s thick, stretching you in that way that makes your breath catch, makes your eyes roll. the burn is deliciousand sharp. your walls flutter as you take him inch by inch.

god, he’s so thick. how the fuck are you even supposed to breathe with him inside you like this?

there’s always that one impossible second where you swear this time you won’t fit him, that this is the moment you split in half. but then your body betrays you, greedy in its own dumb way, pulling him deeper like you’ve never learned a lesson in your life.

“atta girl,” he rasps, watching you with hungry eyes. why does praise from him make your cunt ache harder than anything else? pathetic. you’re pathetic for it.

“fuckin’ knew you could take it. look at that sweet cunt swallowing me whole.”

your nails bite into his shoulders, but you don’t dare stop until you’re seated fully, until his cock is buried deep. you’re shaking, your thighs are trembling already, but he just grins up at you like he’s got all the time in the world.

“s'full,” you breathe, lips parting on a moan. funny how the thought that comes to mind now, while you’re melting around his cock is that you should really have done more squats.

“course you are. i’m the biggest you’ve ever had, ain't i?” he tilts his head, beard brushing your jaw when he leans close enough to murmur it into your ear. “bet none of those boys you fucked before could stretch you like this. bet they couldn’t even keep you satisfied.”

heat floods your cheeks from the truth of it. you try to move, to rock your hips, but his hands snap up, metal fingers locking around your waist. he holds you still, cock twitching deep inside you, and you bite your lip to keep from sobbing.

your brain is a static hiss. like all you can think is that you're stuffed. every nerve is screaming move, but you can’t. he owns the rhythm. he owns you.

“uh-uh,” he scolds, almost gentle but not quite. “you move when i tell you. and not a second sooner.”

it should be studied, how your body argues with itself—your cunt begging for more, your brain screaming at you to behave, and somewhere in between, the humiliating realization that you’d let him keep you like this for hours if he wanted. you'd probably encourage him to keep you like this. 

you whimper, squirming in his grip, your pussy clenching around him like your body’s asking for more. you notice how small you sound and how honest that smallness is, and it makes you want to please him harder.

“jesus, you’re tight. squeezin’ me like you’re already about to cum.” 

you want to snap back, tell him he’s not that special, just for show at the very least. but your cunt betrays you, fluttering like it’s agreeing with his every word.

his hand moves, flesh palm sliding up your chest until he pinches your nipple, rolling it hard enough to make you gasp. “all i did was sit you on my cock and you’re losin’ your mind. pathetic little thing.”

you whine, eyes squeezing shut, but bucky growls, “open ‘em. look at me — look me in the eyes while you ride me.”

fuck, you do, and it ruins you, because how are you supposed to hold his stare when you’re already unraveling? you feel like you should apologize for being this weak, this easy, but the apology just melts on your tongue as another moan instead.

when you obeyed, his grip loosens, and he nods. “go on then. show me how good you can fuck yourself on me.”

you start slow, lifting yourself on shaky thighs and sinking back down with a moan. his cock drags against every nerve inside you, so thick it’s almost too much. you do it again, a little faster, and his beard splits with a wide grin. you just can’t help but think that he looks gorgeous like this.

“there you go. fuck, look at you. tits bouncin’, mouth hangin’ open.. you look like a slut made just for this cock.”

you whimper at his words, your rhythm slipping when the burn in your thighs builds. 

“tired already?” he mocks, leaning forward, chest brushing your tits. “what’s the matter, sweetheart? can’t keep it up? you begged for this.” you did beg for this. pictures of it flash into your mind. 

you shake your head now, trying to keep moving even as tears prick your eyes, even when you feel your knees almost giving out. “n-no, i can—”

“you can what? show me.” his hand snaps to your ass, big palm landing with a sharp smack. the sting makes you yelp, makes you clamp down around him. he groans. “oh, she likes that, huh? dirty fuckin' girl.”

you feel like a work of art being vandalized, but that just makes your cunt ache harder.

you bounce harder, driven by his taunts, the sound of your skin slapping against his filling the room. every thrust sends sparks shooting through your belly, every grind of your clit against his pubic hair has you trembling closer to the edge.

bucky’s hands roam everywhere now—one squeezing your tits, the other fisting in your hair, dragging your head back so he can mouth at your throat as he pleases. his beard scrapes your skin raw in the best way, his teeth leaving marks just to prove you’re his.

one of your hand slips up without thinking, fingers curling into that thick salt-and-pepper beard. it’s coarse, scratchy against your palm, you don't mean to, but you tug at it, and he groans. it sends another shiver racing down your spine like you just unlocked a cheat code you didn’t know existed. you can only whimper, because god, he’s older, rougher, and he knows it.

he pulls back, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as his cock grinds deep inside you. “yeah? you like this, baby?” he drags his beard over the soft skin of your chest, down to your nipple, scraping until you whine louder. “like an older man takin’ you apart with his cock? you like feelin’ that beard burn on your skin while i use you?”

his words are mocking, sure, but it feels suspiciously close to holy—like confession pressed out of you by the drag of his cock and the scrape of his beard.

you can’t answer. just a broken little sound escapes you, that makes him chuckle against your breast. the scrape of his beard leaves you aching in a way that feels obscene, and you clutch at him tighter, whimpering into his hair.

“that’s what i thought,” he licks over the sore spot he’s just claimed. “all those pretty boys never had this. never had you moaning just from a beard against your tits. you’re mine now, sweetheart.”

“now, show me. ride me like you're mine,” he growls against your ear. “take it. take every fuckin’ inch and don’t you dare stop ‘til you cum.”

you sob, hips slamming down, chasing the heat building fast. “bucky—”

“what’s that? can’t even talk?” he chuckles as his cock drives deeper into you. “fuck, you sound so good when you’re stupid on my dick.”

the degradation in his tone, and the meanness of it all makes you all the more wetter, makes your orgasm crawl up so fast. 

he feels it too. you know it when his hand slips between your thighs, thumb circling your clit with a ruthless precision. “yeah, that’s it. cum for me, baby. make a mess all over my cock. show me how bad you need it.”

you’re babbling nonsense in your head—thank you, fuck, please, don’t stop—but none of it makes it to your mouth.

it’s too much. the words, the pressure, the beard, the way his cock splits you open—it all crashes over you, making your vision go white. and you understand this is what folks mean when they say they can ‘see god'. and you cry out, clenching hard around him, thighs shaking as your release soaks him.

you don’t even sound like yourself anymore. you're just some broken, fucked-out thing he pulled apart with his cock.

“fuckin’ knew it,” he snaps his hips up into you as you ride out your high. “knew you’d be such a good slut for me.”

he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up even as you shudder. his rhythm grows rougher until his head tips back.

“where do you want it, baby? huh? inside? you want me fillin’ you up like the greedy little thing you are?”

you nod frantically, words already gone, voice already gone.

he growls and thrusts hard. the heat of him spills inside you, as he holds you down on his lap, groaning your name as he empties.

his release fills you to the brim, and leaks out, making you clench harder to hold it back in. now, the room’s just ragged breaths and the sound of your heartbeats.

then, like someone flipped a switch, bucky’s hands stroke down your back, soothing you. he kisses your temple, beard scratching the skin tenderly.

“easy, sweetheart. you did so good for me.” his voice is gentle now, so soft and warm for you. “such a good girl.” the praise is a contrast to the filth that came out of his mouth mere minutes ago.

you collapse against him, cheek pressed to his chest, and he rubs slow circles into your spine.

“hurts?” he asks, and when you shake your head, he kisses your hair anyway. “gonna get you some water in a minute. but for now.. just stay. let me hold you.” there is always a soft afterwith him; the same man who says the mean things tucks you like nothing ever happened.

his cock softens inside you, and he just rocks you slow, fingertips tracing patterns all over your skin.

“love you, baby,” he whispers into your hair. he voices it so you know it, even if he fucks you like he hates you. 

and you know it is true. because no matter how filthy, how degrading his words get when he’s buried inside you, he’ll always be the man who holds you after like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever known.

divider by @cursed-carmine — thank you!

[metal-armed-muse]

જ⁀➴°⋆ shy and lace don’t mix?

you almost lose your nerve twice on the way from the bathroom to the bedroom. mostly because you’ve never done this before.

the pads of your feet stop right in front of the room and you’re wrapped in an oversized robe, fingers gripping the tie so tight you’re pretty sure you might cut off circulation.

the traitorous heart inside you is thudding loud enough that you think it might echo off the walls.

honestly, you don’t know why you’re this jittery. it’s bucky. your bucky. the same man who kisses your forehead before missions and warms your hands in his pockets when it’s cold.

yet here you are, heart in your throat, dressed in lace that barely covers anything, trying not to pass out at the idea of your long-term boyfriend seeing you.

you peek through the cracked door. he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone.

the sweats he’s wearing tells you he’s relaxed. relaxed and completely unaware. totally unprepared for what you look like under this robe.

you inhale once, just to build up a courage that you definitely don’t need to be overthinking about, and step in.

the soft click of the door makes him look up. his brows lift a little, in a curious kind of way.

“hey, sweetheart. everything okay?” his voice is soft in the way it always is with you.

your throat works. you think it works. but instead of answering, you walk closer to where he is. he watches you, and you can observe his confusion turning to interest in real time, as he notices your body language.

the phone on his hand drops to the bed like a second thought and his eyes narrow just a little, like he is studying you.

when you stop in front of him, you tug the knot loose and let the robe fall open. you don’t notice your hands trembling, and you have a feeling he’s way past looking at your hands to notice that too.

the lace on you is simple. black. thin straps. a cut that dips low. it’s pretty, sure. maybe even sexy.

but right now, you just feel exposed. it feels like too much skin. even though his eyes and hands have mapped every inch of you in more ways than one, this feels like you’re asking for his attention.

your arms wrap around your body on its own accord, like a shield you definitely won’t be needing, but raised nonetheless.

bucky just stares at you, which doesn’t do much for your confidence, to say the least.

but when you raise your eyes to meet his, you understand the weight of his stare. he’s not staring at you in a blank way.

he’s staring at you — for the lack of better words — in a hit by a truck way. truly, that’s the only way to put it.

he’s staring like you just ripped the world out from under him.

his breath stops, like breathing is totally unnecessary for his survival, and only you are enough. the look on his eyes, is something close to reverence and admiration, like you’re something he never thought he’d get to have.

his voice is rough when it finally drags out of him. “sweetheart…”

you freeze. “you don’t like—”

“don’t finish that sentence,” he’s now standing. “ever.”

his hand reaches for your arms, gently pulling them away from your body so he can take you in. his eyes are hungry, yes, but there’s also something deeper underneath. maybe it’s awe. or disbelief. but there’s definitely heat simmering under tenderness.

his flesh arm cups your cheek, thumb stroking your skin in gentle circles. “you’re shaking.”

“i just…” you breathe out. “i’ve never worn something like this. i feel stupid.”

he steps closer, crowding into your space, like he needs to be close to you when he says it and when you hear it. “there’s nothing stupid about you showing yourself to me. look at me.”

the thumb drawing circles on your skin moves to hook your chin, in an attempt to make you look at him.

you do. because what else can you do? how can you deny this man of the action that he seeks?

his eyes are dark now, his irises eclipsed by his pupils, the steel blue vanishing in its entirety taken over by the stark blackness of it all.

and his jaw is tense in a way that self control is a myth, that he’s somehow managed to hang in by a simple weak thread, that’s threatening to give away any second now.

“you’re beautiful,” his voice is firm, like he’s stating a fact. “and if you think i’m ever gonna see you like this and feel anything other than lucky, you’re out of your mind.”

heat pools in your stomach, and blood rushes to your your face.

he leans down and presses his lips to yours. it’s the slow kind of kiss that’s meant to convey his thoughts to you without ever needing words.

when he does pull back, his lips are swollen and red.

“can i touch you?” he whispers. he knows he doesn’t need to ask, since your oh so perfect lace is meant to adorn the floor of your bedroom rather than your skin.

but he still asks. and you nod.

his hands trail down your sides, fingers brushing over lace and skin. your breath stutters. he traces the cups of the lingerie like he’s memorizing the design with his palms.

open mouthed kisses decorate your neck, leaving heat in his wake as his beard grazes your throat.

your head tilts back on instinct.

he hums against your skin. “that’s it. let me see you.”

his hands slide behind your thighs.

“up,” he murmurs.

you climb onto the bed with him, letting him guide you until you’re on your back and he’s hovering above, braced on his forearms.

he presses a kiss between your breasts, then another, much slower than the one before. his thumbs stroke along your ribs.

“you wore this for me?” he asks, even though he knows the answer very well, even though it is as obvious as a sun on a hot day.

maybe he just likes to see you squirm. or maybe he just likes to keep you on your toes. or maybe he enjoys the way you tremble under his touch and his breath.

“yes.”

a quiet curse falls from him. something about the word yes breaks whatever restraint he was still holding onto. he kisses down your stomach, beard scratching lightly. you feel the scrape and gasp, a whine leaving your lips.

he smiles against your skin. “like that?”

you nod again, and you feel your skin warm up.

he hooks a finger under the band of your panties, tugging and teasing as much as he can, waiting to see if you’ll shy away. you don’t.

“lift your hips.” his command is soft on his mouth.

when you do, he pulls the fabric down your legs slowly, like he’s unwrapping something he intends to savor.

he sits back on his knees for a moment, palms sliding up your calves, then your thighs. his thumbs stroke the inside of your thighs, as he spreads you for him.

his breath goes ragged. “jesus. look at you.” there is an astonishment in his words you never grow tired of hearing.

he bends down and kisses the inside of your thigh, then higher, then higher, until his mouth meets your mound.

he places a soft kiss over your outer folds, before parting them gently with his thumb and forefinger, baring you to his eyes.

the cool air hits your wet folds, arching your back from the bed. the metal arm on your thigh, now lands on the soft underside of your stomach, holding you down for him, as he still holds you open for himself with his other hand.

his name leaves your mouth as a moan, and curiosity gets the better of you as you lift your head up to look at him.

instinct urges him to pry his eyes from your wet cunt to your face, and his eyes find yours, clouded with the utmost blackness, pupils blown.

“you look so pretty for me, baby,” his tongue comes out to wet his lower lip, before it is rendered a prisoner in the confines of his pearly whites.

your cunt is still held within his fingers, and you understand that he intends to keep it as such, when you see him diving head first into your wetness.

the first slow drag of his tongue sends a shock up your spine, the way it extends from your opening to your clit.

when his tongue meets your clit, he stops, then gives you a few kitten licks, sucking your soul out of your body in process.

your fingers twist in the sheets. he hums, the vibration travelling to your core.

he takes his sweet time.

slow licks. soft sucks. pauses where he just breathes against you, mouth hovering over your slick heat, letting anticipation drive you insane.

your hips move before you realize it, chasing him, chasing your release, but he just holds you steady.

“don’t hide from me. let me have it.” he says it like there was a part of you unseen to him. there’s not.

your thighs start to shake when he focuses on your clit, tongue circling in practiced strokes, mouth warm and insistent. your breath breaks. your back arches.

his mouth is warm in contrast to the cold air, and he is so damn persistent in his movements.

if breathing requires conscious effort, you wouldn’t be doing it. for all your thoughts circle around one thing and one thing only. that is, his tongue on your clit.

it delves inside your crevices, ones that even you didn’t know you had, and plays with the wetness of your cunt, in the most obscene way.

he keeps you open, keeps you steady, keeps you right there until the pleasure crests and spills over hard.

you cannot do anything but pant and melt into the mattress as one. bucky kisses his way up your body, until he’s over you again. he tilts your face to hold his gaze, but your glassy eyes struggle to find focus. “still nervous?”

“no.”

he doesn’t really reply with words, so much as a soft kiss to your lips, letting his tongue intrude your mouth, letting you taste yourself on his.

he slides his sweatpants down just enough to free his cock and settles between your thighs. it slaps against his lower abdomen, staining pre-cum.

when he leans forward, the heat of him presses against you, and your breath catches again. his hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone.

“tell me if it’s too much. i’ll stop.”

thing is you don’t want to stop. if anything, you want to stay like this forever.

“i need you, bucky.. please.”

that softens him and ruins him at the same time. he kisses you again, slow but undeniably hungry. and pushes inside you inch by inch, watching your face contort in pleasure, the entire time. your lips part, your fingers clutch his shoulders, your eyes flutter.

he groans into your mouth. “you’re perfect. you hear me? just perfect.”

pulling back enough that his cockhead nudges your entrance again, he pushes inside you with the same fervour. he kisses you through every gasp, every roll of your hips, every shocked sound that slips from your throat. his hand slides down to lace fingers with yours, grounding you beneath him.

“look at me,” he whispers.

when you do, he just smiles, one that doesn’t belong to the way he’s moving inside you, but belongs to him anyway. breathless, and in love in the rawest way. “that’s my girl. my prettiest girl.”

that pulls a mewl out from your throat, and you cannot help but pull him closer, nails biting half-moons over his shoulders. it doesn’t seem to faze him though, because his thrust doesn’t falter, even if his breath does.

you move with him now, meeting each thrust, heat building again, much faster this time.

“bucky—”

“i’ve got you,” he murmurs into your neck, adoring you with open mouthed kisses, and a few sucks, you’re sure will turn into marks soon. “come with me. c’mon, sweetheart. i’ve got you.”

helplessly you fall first and hard, and he follows with a groan against your throat, holding you tight, like letting go of you would kill him.

heat of him spills inside you, the warmth bringing in a comfort, that feels new, no matter the many times it’s happened.

he just stays on top of you, chest to chest, catching his breath. he presses small wet kisses to your cheek, your jaw, your lips.

“for the record, any time you want to wear something like that again, i’ll cancel every plan we have.” his voice is warm and sweet, that makes you clench around him uncontrollably, pulling a groan from him. his cock twitches inside of you, like it’s reminding you that it’s still sensitive, and in no way ready for a round two so soon.

you laugh, hiding your face in his neck. he smiles into your hair and wraps you closer, much closer. if that’s even possible.

“and sweetheart?” he adds, lifting your chin so you have to meet his eyes. “just so we’re clear — you never have to hide from me. not your body. not your nerves. not anything.”

words get stuck in your throat, but you manage to get the message across with a kiss to his lips.

maybe you will always feel a little shy, a part of your personality, if you will. but he will always find reasons to make you not want to. whatever more could you ask for?

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