reader who lovessss buckys soft tummy and is constantly wrapped around him pressing her face into his chest and keeping her hand on his tummy when they’re lying in bed and she asks him one day to lie on top of her and buckys a little self conscious and doesn’t want to hurt her but eventually caves in and it becomes his favourite thing ever💖💖
Bucky always pretends he doesn’t notice it—the way your hand migrates in your sleep.
It starts innocent enough: your arm draped over his waist, cheek pillowed on his chest, legs tangled with his because you always end up on his side of the bed. But sometime during the night, instinctively, without fail, your palm slides down… down… until it settles right over the softest part of him.
His stomach.
And you hug it. Full on, fingers splayed, warm and protective like it’s your favorite thing in the world.
Which, well… it kind of is.
You nuzzle into his chest, eyes half-closed, voice muffled with sleep. “’s mine,” you mumble, squeezing gently.
Bucky swears his heart stops every time.
He should be used to it by now. The way you treat his body with such reverence. The way you kiss every scar like it’s holy. The way you hold him like softness isn’t a flaw—it’s a privilege to touch.
But his brain still clings to old habits. Old voices. Old insecurities.
Big men aren’t supposed to be soft.
Super soldiers definitely aren’t supposed to be soft.
And yet… when your hand cups his tummy, when your cheek presses into his sternum, when you hum in sleepy contentment like he is your comfort?
He thinks softness might be the greatest gift he’s ever been given.
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One slow, lazy Sunday morning, sunlight spills across the sheets. Bucky is already awake beneath you, tracing circles on your back. You’re starfished over him, shirt riding up, one leg thrown over his hip, your hand—where else?—spread warm and possessive over his stomach.
You stretch, kiss the underside of his jaw, then settle your chin on his chest to look up at him.
“Bucky?” you ask, voice rough with sleep.
“Mm?”
“Can you… lie on top of me?”
His whole body tenses.
You blink up at him innocently, fingertips drawing shapes over his stomach like you’re soothing him.
“I’m heavy,” he insists, embarrassed. “Like—actually heavy. I could hurt you.”
You cup his cheeks, soft and serious. “James Buchanan Barnes. Do I look like someone who would ask for something that would hurt me?”
“N-No…”
“And do I look like someone who doesn’t know exactly how much I can take?”
That earns a short huff of a laugh, but there’s still hesitation in his eyes.
You bring his metal hand to your chest, pressing it over your heartbeat. “I want you on top of me. I want all your weight. I want to feel you everywhere.”
He goes still.
Because if there’s one thing Bucky Barnes has never been in his life, it’s someone who is allowed to take up space—physically, emotionally, or otherwise.
But you… you ask him to.
You want him to.
You want all of him.
“C’mere,” you whisper.
He’s careful at first, moving like he’s made of glass instead of solid muscle and warm, pillowy softness. He braces most of his weight on his elbows, hovering above you, cheeks pink.
“Buck.” You slide your hands down his ribs, over the stretch of soft skin at his waist. “Relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
You bury your face in his chest pointedly. “You’re holding yourself up like a goddamn bridge.”
Another huff. But this time you feel it—you feel him slowly sink, gently, cautiously, lowering his weight over you inch by inch until—
“Oh,” he breathes.
Your arms slide around him immediately. Your legs cradle his hips. Your fingers slip under his shirt, palms warm against the curve of his tummy, and you hum like you’ve just found the exact position you were put on this earth to be in.
“See?” you murmur. “Perfect.”
Bucky melts.
Actually melts.
His full body relaxes into yours, heavy and warm and safe. His head drops to your shoulder, nose pressing into your neck. You feel him exhale, long and unguarded, like his whole soul just unclenched.
“You feel so good,” you whisper into his hair. “I love your weight on me.”
His stomach flutters beneath your hand.
“You… really like this?” he asks quietly.
“Bucky, I love this. I love you.” You press a kiss to his temple. “And your tummy is my favorite part.”
He groans—mortified, flattered, overwhelmed. “Don’t say stuff like that.”
“Why not?” You rub gentle circles over the soft skin, your voice playful and sweet. “It’s warm and cozy and perfect. You’re perfect.”
He hides his face in your neck.
You laugh softly. “Is my big, scary super soldier shy because his girlfriend loves his tummy?”
“Doll, please,” he mumbles, voice muffled and hopeless.
But then—then—you feel it.
He rests his full weight on you. Finally trusting you. Finally believing you won’t break.
He sighs like he’s sinking into heaven.
And your hands stay exactly where they always are: wrapped around him, hugging the softness he tries so hard to pretend isn’t there.
“You’re gonna kill me with how good this feels,” he whispers.
You kiss the side of his head. “Good. Stay right here forever.”
And Bucky—sweet, overwhelmed, tummy-loved Bucky—clings to you and murmurs:
“Yeah. I think I will.”
Because it turns out?
Lying on top of you—heavy, safe, adored—is his new favorite thing in the entire world.
