heat under winter lights
pairing: tattoo artist!bucky x reader | 9.4k words
warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), tattoo pain kink, oral sex (f receiving), edging, overstimulation, praise kink, dom!Bucky, munch!Bucky, intimacy kink, power dynamics built on trust, boyfriend!Bucky losing his mind over reader’s innocence, holiday filth, marking kink
summary: bucky has tattooed plenty of people—just never you. but when you come in for your first ink, nervous and trusting and a little sheltered, he knows exactly what design belongs on the most private part of your body: mistletoe. a secret christmas invitation only he gets to claim. and when the pain hits, bucky has a very hands-on method of “distraction” that turns your tattoo session into an hour of filth, praise, edging, and the kind of intimacy only two people wildly in love can survive.
authors note: happy new year, sluts! this is for all the girlies who believe munch!bucky deserves more love. this fic is filthy, unhinged, and everything i stand for! and yes, the logistics of this are mostly questionable. get over it. this was supposed to be posted like 5 days ago but....we know how that went.
----------
Bucky’s hunched over the sketchbook when you walk into the shop, the bell above the door chiming a little too cheerfully for the low thrum of rock coming from the speakers.
It smells like disinfectant and winter outside, the sharp bite of December following you in as you tug your scarf off, fingers clumsy with nerves. You’ve been here a hundred times—perched in that beat-up leather chair in the corner, scrolling your phone or doing homework while Bucky worked on other clients—but today feels different.
Today, you’re here for you.
He looks up as the bell rings, eyes flicking up through his lashes, and that slow, lazy smile spreads across his face when he sees you.
“Hey, sugar,” he murmurs, pushing off the counter. His voice is a warm scrape, sliding right under your skin. “You’re early.”
“I got too nervous sitting at home,” you admit, cheeks already heating. “Figured I’d rather be nervous here.”
His laugh is quiet, fond. He meets you in the middle of the room, his hands sliding around your waist like he can’t help it, like they’re magnetized.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, stealing a soft kiss, then another, until your shoulders drop a little and the tight knot in your chest loosens. “Been thinkin’ about you all day.”
“You saw me this morning,” you mumble against his mouth, fingers curling in the front of his worn black tee. There’s a smudge of ink on the collar. There’s always ink on him somewhere.
“Yeah, and?” He nudges your nose with his. “Doesn’t exactly cure me of you.”
Your heart does that fluttery, stupid thing it always does when he says stuff like that. It’s still wild to you sometimes, that this man—tattoo artist, all black ink and metal and big hands—comes home and spoons you in bed and kisses your forehead like you’re the precious one.
“Is everyone gone?” you ask, glancing around. The front is empty, the neon sign in the window buzzing softly. The snow outside makes everything quiet.
“Closed up a little early.” His thumb rubs slow circles at the small of your back. “Told Steve I had a special client tonight.”
You bite your lip. “Special, huh?”
He leans down so his lips brush the shell of your ear. “My favorite girl, first tattoo? Yeah, that’s special.”
Heat rushes through you, an embarrassed thrill fizzing in your stomach. You’ve always been the sheltered one, the “good girl,” the one who didn’t drink in high school, who never snuck out, whose biggest rebellion was staying up late reading. Dating Bucky had been… a lot. In the best way.
He never pushes. With everything, especially the more intimate things, he’s always careful, always asking, always checking in. Which is exactly why you feel safe saying yes to something like this.
You clear your throat. “So, uh. Consultation… right?”
He grins, pulling back to look at you properly. “Right. C’mon, pretty girl. Let’s talk tattoos.”
He leads you back toward his station, the one you’ve watched him work at a hundred times—black leather chair, the adjustable stool for him, the little wheeled cart with his machines and inks and wipes. He’s wiped everything down already; fresh sheets of paper cover the armrest and the tray.
He sits on the stool and taps the padded chair. “Sit.”
You do, your heart starting to tap-dance in your chest.
“So,” he says, bracing his forearms on his thighs, blue eyes on your face. The overhead light catches on the metal of his dog tags, on the rings on his fingers. “We’ve talked about placement, yeah?”
Your cheeks burn. You can’t quite meet his eyes. “Y-yeah.”
He hums, like he wants you to say it out loud. That’s the thing with Bucky; he likes you to say things. Likes when you use your words.
You swallow. “I want it… um. Low.”
“How low?” He’s teasing, but his voice is soft.
“Like… ‘private’ low,” you say quickly, then groan and cover your face. “You know what I mean.”
He chuckles, reaching to gently tug your hands down. “I do know what you mean. I just like hearin’ you say it, sweetheart.” He tips his head. “You sure? It’s an intimate spot. Hurts a little more. And only me and you—or anyone you let see you naked—will ever know it’s there.”
You fidget with the hem of your sweater. “I trust you,” you say, and it comes out small but sure. You meet his eyes. “And I want my first one to be something that’s just for us.”
His expression goes molten, something fierce and tender all at once carving into his features. He lifts one ink-stained hand and cups your cheek, thumb brushing along your cheekbone.
“You’re killin’ me, doll,” he murmurs. “You know that?”
Butterflies explode in your stomach. You smile anyway. “Sorry?”
He shakes his head, smiling back. “Never be sorry about lettin’ me love you.” Then he leans back, more businesslike, though his eyes are still warm. “Okay. Design. I’ve got a couple ideas.”
He reaches to the counter and scoops up the sketchbook, flipping it open. You lean forward, and your breath catches when you see the page. Delicate little sprigs of mistletoe in different arrangements, some more detailed, some simplified.
“Mistletoe?” you ask, fingers brushing over one sketch.
He nods. “You said you wanted something seasonal. And you know me, I’m a sentimental sap.” He points to one drawing, slightly bigger than the others. A curved sprig of mistletoe, the leaves simple but elegant, three little clusters of berries, arranged in a gentle arc. “Thought about doing it like this, right above your clit. Like a little banner. So every time I kiss you there, it’s like I’m standin’ under it.”
You swallow hard. Your thighs press together instinctively.
“You—” Your voice squeaks. You try again. “You like it?”
He stares at you like you’ve said the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. “Sweetheart, I love it. The idea of my girl walkin’ around with a little secret Christmas invitation right where I like to spend my evenings?” His jaw clenches, his pupils blown just thinking about it. “It’s perfect.”
Your heart hammers at the words “my girl” and “my evenings” like you haven’t heard them a hundred times. But the idea of the tattoo hits you somewhere deep. Permanent. Intimate. A secret only he’ll know about.
You nod, fingers twisting together. “Okay. I… I want that one.”
He searches your face. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah.” You take a breath. “I’m sure, Buck.”
His grin is slow and pleased, pride and something darker glinting in his eyes. “That’s my brave girl.”
The praise makes your stomach flip. You look at the drawing again. “Will it… hurt a lot?”
He’s honest, like always. “It’s not, like, the worst spot I’ve ever done, but it’s sensitive. Lotta nerve endings.” His tone softens. “We go slow. I’ll talk you through it. You tell me if you need a break, or if you wanna stop, and we stop. Okay?”
You nod. His hand slides to your knee, squeezing gently.
“And,” he adds, voice dropping into something low and sinful, “I might have a few ways to… distract you from the sting.”
Your face feels like it’s on fire. Still, there’s a pull low in your belly at the promise in his tone. “Bucky…”
He smirks. “What? I’m serious. Pain management is a crucial part of my client care, baby.”
“Uh-huh,” you say, deadpan, but your pulse is racing.
He chuckles and stands, stretching to his full height, joints cracking. You watch the way his shirt pulls over his chest, the ink on his arms flexing—black and grey roses, a compass, a wolf, his own thighs thick in his black jeans. He moves around the station with easy competence, pulling on black nitrile gloves, laying out little ink caps, pouring in the dark green, a tiny bottle of white, prepping the stencil.
“Go ahead and take your pants off for me, sugar,” he says casually, like he’s asking you to take off your shoes. “Panties too. Leave your sweater on, I wanna keep you warm.”
Your breath stutters. You’ve been naked in front of him so many times, in so many positions, but somehow this feels different. He’s seen you in this room before, bent over his lap on that same chair, his hand warm on your ass. But there’s something about the clinical setup—gloves, machine, ink—that makes you suddenly shy.
He sees it, of course he does. His gaze softens.
“Hey,” he says gently. “You good?”
“Yeah,” you say quickly. Then, more honestly, “Just… nervous.”
He nods, steps closer, his gloved fingers curling under your chin. “We stop if you want. You know that, right? I don’t care if the stencil’s on, if I’ve done one line, if we’re halfway through. You say stop, we stop.”
You breathe out, some of the anxiety loosening. “I know.”
“Say it for me,” he coaxes. “Say you can stop anytime.”
“I can stop anytime,” you repeat softly.
“That’s right.” He kisses your forehead, the gesture so tender it makes your eyes burn. “Now, lemme see that perfect pussy I’m about to make even prettier.”
You snort, embarrassment and arousal tangling together, then push off the chair. Your hands shake a little as you unbutton your jeans and shimmy them down, stepping out. Your underwear follows, and then you’re climbing carefully back onto the chair, the leather cool under the backs of your thighs.
Bucky’s eyes darken as he takes you in. He doesn’t leer. He just looks—hungry and reverent all at once.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “How is it you get prettier every time I see you?”
You roll your eyes, but your heart is cartwheeling. “You see me every day.”
“Exactly.” His gaze dips, slow, along the line of your body, taking in the sweater bunched around your hips, the bare expanse of your tummy, the trimmed hair between your legs, the way your thighs press together. “Open up for me, doll.”
Heat floods you. You bite your lip and let your knees fall apart, baring yourself to him. The air feels cool and a little embarrassing on your slick skin, but his low, rough inhale makes something in you melt.
“There we go,” he croons, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Good girl. That’s perfect.”
The praise makes your stomach swoop. Your nipples tighten under your sweater.
He adjusts the overhead light, then wheels his stool between your knees, so close you can feel the heat of his body. He’s all focus now, the same concentration you’ve watched him turn on a client’s arm or back. Only this time, it’s you.
He cleans the area gently, explaining each step like he always does for first-timers: the cool antiseptic wipe, the little bit of razor along your pubic mound to make sure the stencil will stick. You flush as the razor glides just above your clit, but his touch is clinical, practiced. Respectful.
“You okay, sweetheart?” he murmurs, tossing the razor away and cleaning the skin again.
“Yes,” you say, voice a little breathy. “Just… feels weird.”
“First time is always the weirdest.” He smiles, then reaches for the stencil. The thin paper is printed with the mistletoe design, shrunk to fit. “Gonna place this now. Need you to stay still for me, yeah?”
You grip the sides of the chair, nodding.
He leans in, the paper in his gloved fingers. You feel the press of it above your clit, the firm, careful pressure as he smooths it down, then pulls away. He dabs with a paper towel, then peels the backing off.
“Okay…” He sits back, eyes on his work, then hums, satisfied. “Take a look, sugar.”
He passes you a handheld mirror. Your hands tremble as you angle it between your legs.
The stencil sits perfectly above your clit, curved delicately along the soft mound. The little leaves and berries are crisp, the arc subtle but unmistakable. Your face goes hot at the sight of it; it’s obscene and beautiful and intimate all at once.
“So?” Bucky asks, watching you carefully. “You like it?”
“It’s…” You swallow. “It’s beautiful, Buck.”
His shoulders relax, like he’d been holding tension there. “Yeah?” His grin is quick and boyish. “That’s my girl.”
Your heart trips at the possessive little praise. “Yeah.”
“Okay.” He claps his gloved hands softly together. “Now the fun part.”
You laugh nervously. “Fun?”
He winks. “Depends on your definition, I guess.”
He sets up his machine, doing his usual spiel even though you already know it by heart from sitting in on his sessions: new needle, fresh ink, single-use caps. He pours the dark green and a little white for highlights, then adds a tiny cap of black for linework.
“Last check-in,” he says, eyes on yours. “Still want this, pretty? Still okay with the design, the placement, everything?”
You take a breath and feel the weight of the moment, the permanence of it… but also his steady presence, the way he’s never once made you feel silly or rushed.
“I still want it,” you say. “I want you to do it.”
His gaze softens. “Okay.”
He dips the needle in the ink, presses his foot to the pedal, and the machine buzzes to life—familiar, but completely different when you know it’s for you. Your stomach flutters.
“First line’s always the worst,” he says, raising his voice slightly over the buzz. “It’ll just feel like a scratch, okay? I’ll do a tiny bit, then pull back so you can tell me how it feels.”
You nod, bracing your hands on your thighs.
“Deep breath for me,” he coaxes. “In… and out…”
You breathe with him, in and out, and then his gloved hand is on your lower belly, gently stretching the skin above your clit. The touch is intimate and oddly comforting. His other hand brings the buzzing needle close.
“Here we go,” he murmurs. “You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you.”
The needle touches down.
It’s sharp, a concentrated sting that bursts outward in a hot prickle. You suck in a breath, every muscle tensing. It feels like a cat scratch dragged deliberately across your most sensitive skin.
“Okay,” he murmurs, doing a tiny line, then lifting the needle. The buzzing stops. “That’s it. How’s that feel?”
You blink, heart racing. “It… hurts. But not like… unbearable.”
He nods. “That’s what I figured. You’re doin’ so good, pretty. Proud of you already.” His thumb rubs a slow circle on your tummy. “We’ll do tiny sections, yeah? I’ll go, then I’ll give you a second to breathe, maybe distract you a little.” His mouth quirks. “Sound good?”
Your skin prickles with anticipation at the way he says distract. “O-okay.”
He smiles, presses the pedal again, and the buzzing fills the air. He leans in, focused, and starts another line. The sting is sharp but brief; he knows what he’s doing, his hand steady, his strokes sure. Still, your fingers curl against the leather, your body wanting to flinch.
“Breathe, doll,” he reminds you softly. “In… and out… There we go. That’s my good girl.”
The words wash over you, soothing the instinct to jerk away. You focus on his voice, on the warmth of his hand on your skin, and let the pain be something you move through instead of fight.
He does a few more small lines, then stops, wiping gently with a damp cloth. The wipe stings, but less than you expected.
“That’s the outline started,” he says, sitting back. “You okay?”
You nod, a little breathless. “Yeah. It’s just… a lot.”
“Sensitive spot,” he says. “You’re doin’ amazing.” Then his eyes flick down, and you watch his pupils dilate a little. “You wanna try one of my distractions?”
Your pulse jumps. “What kind of distraction?”
He smirks, sliding his stool even closer between your knees. “The kind only I get to give you.”
His gloved hands slide to your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, and he leans in. The chair, the light, the machine—all of it falls away as his breath ghosts over your inner thigh, closer and closer to where you’re already throbbing from more than just the needle.
“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice half warning, half plea.
He glances up at you from under his lashes, expression all sinful affection. “What, baby? You don’t want me to kiss it better?”
Your face burns. “You can’t… we’re in the shop.”
“We’re closed,” he reminds you, like he’s commenting on the weather. “Doors are locked. Security cameras in here are already pointed up and off. I triple-checked.” He presses a tiny kiss to the inside of your thigh. “You trusted me with your first tattoo, sugar. You can trust me with this too.”
Your breath stutters, that vulnerability opening up in your chest again. He’s right. If there’s anyone you trust with… well, everything, it’s him.
“Okay,” you whisper.
His smile turns soft, almost relieved, like that was the answer he hoped for but never assumed. “Good girl,” he murmurs. “Lemme take care of you, yeah?”
He moves carefully, mindful of the fresh lines above your clit. He doesn’t go near the stencil; he keeps his mouth lower at first, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to the crease of your thigh, the soft flesh further down, letting you adjust to the intimacy in this new setting.
You’ve had his face between your legs more times than you can count. At home on the couch, half-off the bed, in the shower. Bucky Barnes is, by his own proud admission, a munch. He loves tasting you, loves coaxing sounds out of you with his tongue.
But something about him doing it here, in his shop, with your legs spread on the tattoo chair and gloves on his hands, makes everything feel brighter, sharper.
“You’re so wet, baby,” he groans softly, breath warm against your slick folds. “Fuck, you get off on pain a little, don’t you?”
You squeak, scandalized. “I do not—”
“Uh-huh,” he hums, sounding smug. One finger glides along your slit, carefully avoiding the fresh ink. Even through the glove, the touch makes you jolt. “All clenched up and drippin’ from a few little lines? You’re my brave girl and my needy girl, hm?”
Your embarrassment sparks into arousal. “Bucky…”
He lifts his head enough to look you in the eye. “Color?”
“Green,” you say immediately, the word drilling through the haze. It’s your little system; green for good, yellow for “slow down,” red for stop.
He nods once, satisfied. “Good girl.”
Then he finally leans in and licks one long, slow stripe from your entrance to just below the tattoo, careful not to disturb the stencil. Your head drops back with a breathy moan.
“Oh—oh my God—”
“There we go,” he croons, tongue flicking teasingly around your clit without directly touching it. “That’s my sweet girl. Y’like that, huh?”
“Y-yes,” you stammer, hands scrambling for purchase. You end up tangled in the hem of your sweater, fingers clutching it tight.
He chuckles, low and pleased, and settles in like a man with all the time in the world. His tongue is familiar, sure, tracing patterns against you that have you squirming in seconds. He alternates between long, slow licks that drag heat through your whole body and shorter, focused flicks that make your thighs quiver.
“You taste like Christmas came early,” he groans against you, voice reverent. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever had.”
You whine, hips jerking.
“Easy, baby,” he murmurs, one hand pinning your hips gently. “Gotta keep you steady, remember? Don’t want you messin’ up my artwork.”
The reminder that this is just a break in the tattoo process has your mind spinning. He’s eating you out as a pain distraction. Only Bucky.
He circles your clit slowly with the tip of his tongue, finally giving it the attention you crave. The sensation spears through you, overriding the dull ache of the fresh tattooed lines. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps.
“Buck—oh—”
He hums, the vibration right where you’re most sensitive. “God, I love when you get loud for me,” he says between licks. “Little quiet thing everywhere else, and then I get you like this and you can’t shut up, huh?”
You moan, mortified and turned on in equal measure.
He pulls back just enough to speak clearly, eyes never leaving your face. “You like that? Like bein’ my pretty little mess in my chair?”
Your answer is a choked sound that might be his name.
He grins, wicked and fond. “Yeah, you do.”
He seals his lips around your clit, sucking gently, and your vision whites out at the edges. His tongue flicks against the swollen bundle of nerves, relentless but perfectly controlled. Every twist of his mouth is aimed at unraveling you.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to tease, then immediately going back in. “There we go. You’re doin’ so good. My good girl. My brave girl. Got you, sweetheart.”
The praise piles on top of the sensation, your nerves frayed from the earlier pain. It doesn’t take long before the familiar coil starts tightening low in your belly, heat building, your thighs twitching.
“Buck,” you gasp. “I—I’m close—”
He immediately eases off, softening his suction, switching to gentle, broad licks that cool rather than ignite.
You whine, high and desperate. “Bucky…”
He chuckles, breath hot. “Told you. Pain management. Edgin’ you a little will make your body flood with all those nice endorphins.” He presses a kiss to your inner thigh. “Plus, I just like seein’ how needy I can get you.”
“You’re evil,” you complain weakly, chest heaving.
He grins, not even bothering to deny it. “Green?”
You pout. “Green.”
“Atta girl.” He gives your clit one last soft lick, just enough to keep you simmering, then pulls back completely, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. He looks wrecked already, hair mussed, lips shiny, pupils blown. You clench around nothing at the sight.
“Okay.” He reaches for another wipe, disinfecting his gloves, mind clicking back to business without losing the heat in his eyes. “Let’s get a few more lines in while you’re floatin’ on all those happy chemicals, yeah?”
You blink at him. “You’re really gonna go back to tattooing right now?”
He smirks. “Baby, I could eat you out for hours. But we gotta finish the outline before I get too distracted to hold a needle steady.” He winks. “Don’t worry. I’m plannin’ on spendin’ a lot more time between your thighs after we’re done.”
The promise sends a fresh wave of heat through you. “Okay,” you breathe.
He settles back on his stool, presses the pedal, and the machine buzzes again. He studies his work, then leans in, hand spreading your lower belly like before. The needle touches your skin.
It hurts—but less. Or maybe your brain is too fuzzy from almost coming on his tongue to register it as sharply. The pain and the leftover pleasure tangle together into something hot and overwhelming.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You’re doin’ so well. Little more here…”
He works in small bursts, pausing often, talking you through every line. Whenever your breath gets too shallow or your thighs start to tremble for the wrong reason, he stops, rubs your tummy, kisses the inside of your knee.
“There we go,” he says every time. “That’s it, baby. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
At one point, the sting flares a little too sharp and your hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist. He freezes instantly, the machine buzzing in his hand but not touching your skin.
“Stop?” he asks, voice low, eyes serious.
“J-just… give me a second,” you manage.
He lifts his foot, silencing the machine, and his free hand comes up to cover yours on his wrist.
“Breathe,” he says softly. “In… out… you’re okay, sweetheart. You’re safe.”
You focus on his voice, his steady presence, the warmth of his skin under the glove. The panic ebbs.
He strokes his thumb over your knuckles. “Color?”
You swallow. “Still green. Just… spike.”
He nods. “Thank you for tellin’ me. I’m almost done with the outline, okay? We can take a longer break after this part if you want.”
You nod, letting go of his wrist. “Okay. I trust you.”
His eyes flash at that. “Yeah?” His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Say it again.”
“I trust you, Bucky.”
He exhales slowly, like the words hit him somewhere deep. “You have no idea what that does to me,” he mutters, almost to himself. Then he smiles at you, gentle again. “I’ll take care of you. Promise.”
He finishes the outline in a few more careful passes, each pause filled with praise and encouragement. By the time he sets the machine down, your whole lower body feels buzzy and overstimulated, but you’re buzzing with something like pride too.
“Outline’s done,” he announces, wiping gently. “You wanna see?”
You nod, and he passes you the mirror again. Your breath catches.
“It’s…” You trail off, at a loss.
“Say it,” he coaxes.
“It’s perfect,” you whisper. “You’re… you’re amazing, Bucky.”
His smile is a little crooked, a little shy despite the cockiness you know he’s capable of. “Yeah?” he says softly.
“Yeah.” You look at him. “Thank you.”
He clears his throat, looks away, like he’s a little overwhelmed. Then he rallies, smirk sliding back into place. “We’re not done yet, sugar. Gotta shade the leaves, add a little white to the berries. Make your mistletoe pop.”
You laugh weakly. “I don’t know if I can handle more needle right now.”
His expression goes considering. “We can break it up,” he says. “Do the color in stages. But if you wanna get it all done tonight, I can help you through it.” His gaze dips to your slick folds again, then back up. “You let me make you come, your body’ll relax. Makes pain easier to handle. Still your call.”
Your cheeks flame. “You’re… seriously suggesting I orgasm as, like, a medical intervention?”
He grins, unrepentant. “Baby, I’m always down for science.”
You huff out a laugh, but he’s not wrong, and your body is still hovering on the edge from earlier. The idea of him dragging you over the brink and then taking care of you through the rest of the tattoo makes something warm unfurl in your chest.
“Okay,” you say quietly. “I want to finish it tonight. And I… want you.”
His eyes darken, heat flaring. “Yeah?” He slides his hands up your thighs again. “You want my mouth?”
“Please,” you whisper, surprising yourself with how needy it sounds.
His groan is filthy. “God, I love you.”
The words land heavy and sweet, even though you’ve heard them a hundred times. Somehow they feel different here, with his gloves on and your legs spread and this permanent thing he’s giving you.
“I love you too,” you say back, breathless and sure.
His smile turns soft and bright. “Yeah?” His voice is rough around the edges. “Say it again.”
“I love you, Bucky.” Your throat tightens, emotion bubbling up alongside the arousal. “Thank you for… for doing this for me. For making it feel safe.”
His jaw clenches like he’s holding something back. “Always,” he rasps. “Always gonna make it safe for you, pretty girl.”
Then he leans in and, this time, there’s no teasing.
He licks into you like a man starving, mouth open and greedy. His tongue slides through your folds, savoring, mapping, pressing, his stubble scraping just enough to remind you he’s real. You gasp, your hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands.
He groans, the sound vibrating against you. “That’s it,” he murmurs, voice muffled. “Hold me there. Use me, baby. Take what you need.”
You whimper, hips stuttering. “Bucky—”
He sucks your clit into his mouth and you choke on your own breath.
He works you with single-minded focus, all of that artist’s attention turned toward the way your body responds. He learns and re-learns you every time he’s down here, cataloguing the way your breath hitches when he swirls his tongue just so, the way your thighs jump when he adds a little more pressure.
“There we go,” he coos when you let out a broken moan. “There she is. You like that, huh?”
“Yes,” you sob.
“Yeah, you do.” He flicks his tongue against your clit, relentless. “Look at you. My pretty girl takin’ it so good. All spread out for me in my chair.” He groans. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect.”
The filth and the praise wrap around each other, spiraling you higher. You tug on his hair helplessly, your hips rolling against his mouth. He just tightens his grip on your thighs, holding you steady while he devours you.
He pulls back just enough to talk, lips still brushing your clit with every word. “Gonna make you come so hard, you’re not gonna remember your own name, doll.”
“J-just—yours,” you whimper.
His breath stutters. “Fuck,” he growls, something rough and possessive threading through his tone. “That’s right. Only name you gotta remember.”
He sinks one thick finger into you, slow but sure, and the stretch makes your back arch. He pumps it carefully, mindful of keeping it away from the fresh ink, curling just right to brush that spot inside that makes your toes curl.
“Bucky, I—oh my God—”
“That’s it,” he pants. “Take it, baby. There we go. You’re doin’ so well. So fuckin’ tight around me. You gonna come on my tongue?”
“Y-yes,” you gasp, right on the edge.
His finger curls and his mouth closes around your clit again, sucking with just enough force to tip you over.
It hits like fireworks in a snowstorm, hot and bright and overwhelming. You cry out, the sound echoing off the shop walls, your thighs shaking around his head. Your hands clutch at his hair, your whole body bowing off the chair as wave after wave crashes through you.
He doesn’t let up, tongue working you through it, finger still moving gently inside you. His free hand strokes your hip, grounding you as you fall apart.
“That’s it, that’s it,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble under the roar in your ears. “There we go. That’s my girl. Look at you. So fuckin’ pretty when you come for me.”
You shudder, the pleasure melting into oversensitivity. “S-stop,” you gasp, breathless, tapping weakly at his shoulder.
He pulls back instantly, finger slipping free, his mouth moving to press soft kisses to your inner thigh, your hip, anywhere but the overstimulated bundle of nerves.
“Good?” he asks, chest heaving, lips swollen and shiny with you.
You can’t speak yet, so you just nod, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the intensity.
His expression softens, the cocky edge easing into concern. “Hey,” he murmurs, sliding his hands up to your waist. “You okay, sweetheart?”
“Yeah,” you croak after a minute. “Just… wow.”
He laughs softly. “Yeah? Good wow?”
You manage a shaky laugh. “Very good wow.”
He leans up and kisses you, slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. It’s filthy and intimate, and you sigh into it, letting the last of the tension drain from your body.
When he pulls back, his eyes are warm and fond again. “You still wanna finish?”
You blink. “The tattoo?”
“Yeah.” He brushes a strand of hair from your forehead. “We can stop here. Outline’s cute as hell on its own. I can always add color another day.”
You think about it. You’re relaxed and pliant now, your muscles loose instead of braced. The idea of leaving it half-done bothers you almost as much as the thought of more pain. But you also know you’ll be proud of yourself if you get through the whole thing.
“I… I wanna finish,” you say quietly. “If you think I can handle it.”
His smile is pure pride. “You can handle anything,” he says simply. “But we’re gonna go slow, okay? Soon as it’s too much, you say the word.”
“Okay,” you breathe.
He gives you a few more minutes to come down fully—getting you some water, letting you stretch your legs a bit, squeezing your hand every time your eyes meet. Then he’s back on his stool, machine in hand, focus sliding back into place.
“Last stretch, pretty,” he murmurs as the buzz starts up again. “We’re just doin’ soft shading in the leaves and a little highlight on the berries. You already survived the outline. This’ll be a breeze.”
You snort. “You say that now.”
He grins, then leans in, starting the shading. The sensation is different—less sharp, more of a concentrated scratching that fills in the spaces between the lines. It still hurts, especially when he gets closer to the center, but the edges of the pain are blurred by the endorphins and the leftover afterglow.
Every time you flinch, he murmurs to you.
“There we go…”
“Breathe for me, baby…”
“You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good…”
“You like that? My brave girl lettin’ me put my art on her most sensitive spot…”
It’s ridiculous how much the praise helps. You focus on the rhythm of his voice and the brush of his gloved fingers on your skin, and somehow the time stretches and collapses all at once.
At one point, he pauses to wipe away excess ink, and you feel the hot sting of tears at the corners of your eyes. He notices immediately, lifting his foot off the pedal, the machine going silent.
“Hey,” he says softly, leaning closer. “Talk to me. That pain, or just a lot?”
You sniff, embarrassed. “Just… a lot. I’m okay.”
His thumb traces your cheek, even though he’s still gloved, like he can’t not touch you. “You’re allowed to feel a lot, you know. This is your first tattoo and it’s not exactly on your ankle.” His smile is gentle. “You’re doin’ incredibly. I’m so proud of you.”
The sincerity in his voice makes your throat tighten. “How much more?”
“Like… ten minutes tops, I promise,” he says. “We’re doin’ a little white dot on each berry now. That hurts for a sec ‘cause it’s goin’ over what we already did, but then we’re done.”
You breathe in, then out. “Okay. I can do ten minutes.”
He nods once, like a general acknowledging a brave soldier. “That’s my girl.”
The last stretch is rough, the white highlights feeling like someone poking at an already irritated bruise. You grit your teeth a few times, hiss out breaths, your fingers digging into the chair. Every time, Bucky’s voice anchors you.
“You’re okay.”
“I’ve got you.”
“There we go…”
“You’re almost there, pretty. Just a little more for me…”
You hang onto his words like a lifeline, and then, at last, he lifts the needle and doesn’t put it back down.
“Okay,” he says, voice warm with quiet satisfaction. “You did it. We’re done, sugar.”
Your shoulders sag with relief. “R-really?”
“Really.” He kills the machine, sets it aside, and reaches for a fresh wipe, cleaning the area carefully. The sting is sharp, but you know it means you’re on the other side.
“Gimme one more minute,” he murmurs. “Then you can see.”
He pats the area dry, then applies a thin layer of ointment, his touch gentle. Finally, he peels off his gloves and tosses them away.
“Okay,” he says, reaching for the mirror. “Ready?”
Your stomach flips, but you nod. “Ready.”
He hands you the mirror and you angle it into place. This time, the breath you suck in is more of a gasp.
The mistletoe is fully formed now, dark green leaves shaded delicately so they look almost soft, tiny white highlights on the berries making them seem to glow. The curve of the sprig cradles your clit perfectly, like a little wreath framing your most sensitive spot.
Your skin is still red and a little swollen, but you can already tell it’s going to look incredible once it heals.
“Oh my God,” you whisper. “Bucky…”
He shifts his weight, suddenly a little nervous. “Good-oh my God, or bad-oh my God?”
You look up at him, eyes shining. “Good. It’s… it’s perfect.” Your voice wobbles. “I love it.”
His whole face relaxes, then lights up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You swallow. “Thank you.”
He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for the last hour. “You’re welcome, sugar.” He reaches out, thumb brushing just above your knee. “You were amazing. Seriously. I know that spot hurts. You handled it like a fuckin’ champ.”
You blush, warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the tattoo. “Only because you… helped. A lot.”
His smile turns wicked. “Well, I aim to please.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too. “I can tell.”
He stands and stretches again, joints popping. You can’t help your eyes dropping to the front of his jeans. Sure enough, there’s a noticeable bulge, the denim strained.
Your cheeks heat. “You, uh… seem a little… uncomfortable.”
He snorts. “Baby, I’ve had my face between your thighs while you moaned my name in my shop for the last hour. I’m more than a little uncomfortable.”
You bite your lip, suddenly hyper-aware of how exposed you still are, your sweater bunched up, your pussy on display with the fresh ink. “We should… um. Put something over it, right? Bandage?”
“Yeah.” His voice goes a shade rougher. “We’ll bandage it up. Talk aftercare. Then I’m takin’ you home and absolutely ruin—” He cuts himself off with a cough. “Taking very good care of you.”
You snicker. “You were gonna say ruin me.”
He gives you a look. “You’re my girlfriend with a brand-new mistletoe tattoo above her clit. I’m only human.”
You flush, a shiver running through you at the word ruin.
He cleans and bandages the tattoo with practiced efficiency, explaining again what you’ll need to do over the next few days: keep it clean, gentle washes, no soaking, no scratching. No tight underwear for a bit. Definitely no sex on it until it’s healed.
You pout at that. “No sex?”
He chuckles, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “No friction directly on the tattoo,” he corrects. “We can still do plenty of things that don’t irritate it, sweetheart. I’m creative.”
You swallow. “I know.”
He helps you ease your underwear and jeans back on carefully, making sure the fabric doesn’t rub too much. The tenderness of the gesture claws at your chest in the best way.
Once you’re dressed, he helps you off the chair, steadying you when your legs wobble a little. You lean into him, the exhaustion and the high hitting you all at once.
“You okay?” he murmurs, arm snug around your waist.
“Yeah.” You smile up at him, a little loopy. “Just feel like I ran a marathon.”
He chuckles. “Told you, that spot’s no joke.” He brushes a kiss to your temple. “You did so good for me.”
The praise makes something warm and soft bloom in your chest. “You did good for me,” you counter. “Thank you for… all of it.”
He shrugs, but his ears are tinged pink. “You know I’d do anything for you, doll.”
“I know,” you say, and you do. Deep in your bones, you know it.
He finishes cleaning up the station quickly, then grabs your coat and scarf, bundling you up with gentle hands. The whole time, his gaze keeps dropping to your lower belly, something like awe in his eyes.
“What?” you ask, caught between self-conscious and curious.
He shakes his head, smiling softly. “Just… can’t believe you let me put my art there. That you trust me that much. It’s…” He trails off, clearing his throat. “It means a lot. That’s all.”
You step into his space, resting your hand over his chest where his heart thuds under ink and muscle. “Of course I trust you,” you say simply. “It’s my body. I wouldn’t let anyone else near it like that.”
His jaw flexes. “You’re gonna make me cry in my own shop,” he mutters.
You grin. “I’ve seen you cry watching Christmas movies.”
“Hey,” he protests weakly. “It’s not my fault those dogs reunite with their owners in the snow. That’s emotional terrorism.”
You giggle, some of the intensity lifting, and he smiles, relief in his eyes that you can still laugh after everything.
“C’mon, sugar,” he says, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “Let’s get you home. Get you fed, get you cozy.”
“And then?” you ask, voice small but hopeful.
His grin turns downright sinful. “And then I’m gonna get you naked, lay you out under our Christmas lights, and spend a very long time properly testin’ the new mistletoe.”
Heat floods you at the image. “You said no sex yet.”
“I said no friction on the tattoo.” He winks. “Lucky for you, I got a mouth and tongue perfectly capable of avoidin’ it and still wreckin’ you.”
Your knees almost buckle. “Your confidence is disgusting.”
He laughs, steering you toward the door. “Not confidence, sweetheart. Experience.”
The walk home is slow, the snow crunching under your boots, his gloved hand wrapped around yours. You lean into his side, the cold air biting your cheeks, the bandaged area above your clit throbbing dully.
By the time you reach your apartment, the chill has seeped into your bones, and the thought of being naked again seems ridiculous. But as soon as the door closes behind you, Bucky is in motion, flipping on the Christmas tree lights, tossing his keys in the bowl, and turning to you with that look in his eyes.
The one that says you’re the only thing he wants.
“Bathroom,” he orders gently. “Pee, wash your hands. Last thing we need is a UTI on top of a fresh tattoo.”
You gape at him. “Only you could make that sound vaguely hot.”
He shrugs, smirking. “Safety’s sexy.”
You roll your eyes but obey, your heart ridiculously full at the way he looks out for you even in the small things. When you come back out, he’s dimmed the lights, leaving only the glow of the tree and a couple of candles on the coffee table.
He’s shed his shirt, leaving him in low-slung jeans and his dog tags, the ink on his chest and arms stark in the soft light. Your mouth goes dry.
He holds out a hand to you. “C’mere, doll.”
You go, slipping your fingers into his. He pulls you into the living room, stopping by the couch. His hands slide under the hem of your sweater, pushing it up slowly.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low. “Not too sore? We can just cuddle if you’re not feelin’ up to more.”
You swallow, searching yourself. The tattoo throbs, but it’s not unbearable. The rest of your body is buzzing with anticipation.
“I’m okay,” you say. “I… I want more. Just… careful.”
His eyes soften. “We’ll be careful.” He leans down, kissing you slow and deep, his hands warm on your waist. “You say stop, we stop. Got it?”
“Got it,” you whisper against his lips.
He peels your sweater off, leaving you in your bra. The cool air pebbles your nipples and his gaze drops, heat flaring. He unhooks your bra with easy fingers, letting it fall away, and groans softly.
“Never gonna get over you,” he mutters, cupping your breasts with gentle hands. He thumbs your nipples, teasing them until you arch into his touch with a whimper.
“Buck…”
“There we go,” he murmurs. “You like that, huh?”
“Yes,” you breathe.
He kisses you again, then sinks to his knees in front of you, hands finding the waistband of your jeans.
“Lemme see her,” he says, voice reverent. “Wanna see my pretty mistletoe.”
You shiver, letting him undo your jeans. He eases them down carefully, mindful of the bandage, helping you step out. Your panties—soft cotton, nothing special—follow, and then you’re naked from the waist down under the soft blaze of the Christmas tree.
He sits back on his heels and just looks for a second.
“Christ,” he whispers. “You’re a fuckin’ masterpiece.”
Your face burns. “You did the tattoo, so…”
“Not the tattoo,” he says, eyes flicking up to yours. “Well, yeah, the tattoo too. But you, sweetheart. All of you.”
Your throat tightens. You look away, overwhelmed, and he seems to sense it, his hands coming up to rest lightly on your hips.
“Climb on the couch for me,” he says gently. “On your back. Pillows under your head. I’ll get a blanket for your legs so you don’t get cold.”
It feels oddly clinical and deeply intimate all at once, the way he positions you, making sure your lower back is supported, tucking a soft throw around your calves and feet. You feel cherished, not exposed.
He settles between your thighs again, this time without gloves, his hands warm on your skin.
“We’ll keep the bandage on,” he says, fingers skimming the edges of the medical tape. “I’ll stay clear of this area. That okay?”
You nod, heart racing. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He leans in, kissing the skin just below the bandaged tattoo. “Soon as it’s healed, I’m gonna worship this mark ‘til you can’t see straight. Gonna spend a whole day kissin’ every line I put on you.” His breath fans hot against you. “But for now…”
He trails lower, lips brushing that familiar path along your inner thigh. You’re already wet again, unbelievably, your body apparently having decided Bucky’s mouth is its favorite thing.
He nuzzles at your entrance, inhaling deeply. “Fuck,” he mutters. “You ever gonna stop bein’ the best thing I’ve ever tasted?”
You whine, hips twitching. “Please…”
“Please what?” he prompts, teasing even as he slides his tongue up through your folds.
“Please—eat me out,” you manage, mortified and turned on. “Bucky, please…”
He groans, like the plea hits him as hard as it hits you. “That’s my girl,” he says, and then he’s on you.
If before in the shop he was a mix of practical and indulgent, now he’s pure devotion. He devours you like he’s been starving for years, like this is his first and last meal.
His tongue plunges into you, fucking you slow and deep, then pulls out to circle your clit, drawing tight patterns that have your legs trembling. His hands hold your thighs open, thumbs stroking soothingly whenever you tense.
He alternates between torment and relief, pulling back to blow cool air on your slick heat, then diving in again, groaning like he’s the one getting fed.
“There we go,” he murmurs when you moan. “That’s it. You like that, huh, baby?”
“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes…”
“You’re drippin’ all over my face, pretty girl,” he groans, voice wrecked. “You gonna make me come in my jeans just from listenin’ to you.”
You whimper, clenching around nothing. “You can take them off…”
He laughs breathlessly against your clit. “Trust me, I plan to. But right now I’m busy.”
He sucks your clit into his mouth and you keen, fingers grabbing for anything—pillows, the back of the couch, his hair. He doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, the rougher you tug, the more intense his tongue gets.
“Bucky, I—oh my God—”
“Yeah?” he pants between assaults. “You gonna come again for me? Gonna let me have it? Gimme another one, baby. I want it. Need it.”
You’re helpless under the onslaught, the pleasure building fast, aided by the lingering adrenaline and the warmth of the room and the way the Christmas lights paint him in red and gold and green.
You tumble over the edge with a broken cry, back arching, thighs clamping around his head. He groans and keeps going, milking every last tremor from you until you collapse back against the cushions, boneless and gasping.
“Color?” he asks after a moment, kissing your thigh.
“Green,” you say faintly. “Very, very green. Just… overwhelmed.”
He chuckles softly, climbing up over you, bracing himself on his forearms so he doesn’t press his weight onto your lower belly. His jeans are open now, you realize belatedly, his cock hard and thick against his stomach.
You swallow, eyes going wide. “Oh.”
He smirks, noticing where you’re looking. “Yeah,” he says dryly. “Been like that since you walked into the shop, if we’re bein’ honest.”
Your cheeks heat. “You didn’t—like—need to take care of yourself there, did you?”
He snorts. “Baby, I am not jacking off in my place of business. I do have some standards.”
You giggle, the sound a little dazed. “Even when your girlfriend is spread out and moaning in your chair?”
His eyes darken. “You sayin’ that to turn me on more? ‘Cause it’s workin’.”
You bite your lip, then reach down carefully between you, fingers wrapping around his length. He hisses, eyes fluttering.
“Easy,” he warns gently. “Don’t wanna jostle your tattoo.”
You nod, stroking him slowly, testing the weight and heat of him in your hand. You love him like this—vulnerable in a different way, all that cocky control stripped back to need.
“Want you inside me,” you whisper, emboldened by the way his breath stutters. “Can we… do it without…?”
He thinks for a second, always, always prioritizing your safety over his own desire. “If I keep my hips high and don’t grind into your pelvis,” he muses, half to himself, “we should be okay. You tell me if you feel any pull or pressure on the bandage and we stop. Deal?”
“Deal,” you say, already dizzy at the idea.
He kisses you, slow and deep and sweet. “Condom,” he murmurs against your lips.
You nod, letting go of him so he can reach for the little box in the drawer by the couch. He rolls a condom on with practiced ease, then shifts back between your thighs, one hand braced by your head, the other guiding himself to your entrance.
“You sure?” he asks one last time, voice rough. “We can just stop here. I’m more than happy just eatin’ you out all night.”
You flush, heart swelling at the offer. “I’m sure,” you say. “I want you.”
His eyes go soft and intense all at once. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Deep breath for me, pretty.”
You breathe in, and on the exhale, he pushes in.
The stretch is delicious, a sweet ache that has you gasping. He goes slow, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time, stopping whenever your breath catches. You feel every ridge, every vein, the heat of him filling you up.
“Fuck,” he groans when he’s finally seated fully, hips hovering above yours so there’s no pressure on your lower belly. “You’re so fuckin’ tight. Every time, baby. Every single time.”
You whimper, hands clutching at his shoulders. “You’re… big.”
He chuckles weakly. “You say the nicest things.”
He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust, kissing your jaw, your cheeks, your nose. “You good?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Move.”
He pulls out almost all the way, then thrusts back in, careful and controlled. The angle is different, his hips held higher, but he still finds a way to drag along that spot inside that makes you see stars.
“Jesus,” he groans. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”
You cling to him, your breasts pressed to his chest, the scrape of his dog tags against your skin grounding you. Every thrust is a jolt of pleasure, building steadily on top of everything else you’ve felt tonight.
“You like that?” he pants. “There we go. That’s it. Take me, sweetheart. You’re doin’ so good.”
“You feel so good,” you babble, overwhelmed. “So big, Buck—”
His eyes squeeze shut, the words clearly wrecking him. “Yeah?” he rasps. “You love havin’ me inside you?”
“Yes,” you gasp. “Love it, love you—”
He chokes out a curse. “Fuck, baby, don’t—” He swallows hard. “I’m not gonna last if you keep sayin’ shit like that.”
You giggle breathlessly, then moan as he bumps that sweet spot again. “Bucky—”
He shifts his angle, testing, until your gasp pitches higher. “There?” he asks, even though he clearly knows.
“Y-yes—”
“Good.” He starts a slow, deep rhythm, hitting that spot every time. “There we go. Let me give it to you. Let me take care of you. You’ve been so fuckin’ brave for me tonight.”
His words wash over you, every praise another thread tugging you closer to the edge. The room is a blur of soft light and heat and the sound of skin on skin, the faint scent of pine from the tree mixing with the sweat dampening your skin.
You feel your climax build, this one slower, deeper, born of the intimacy and the trust and the sheer amount of sensation you’ve let yourself feel today.
“Gonna come,” you gasp. “Buck, I—”
“Fuck yeah, you are,” he groans. “Give it to me, pretty girl. Come on my cock. Lemme feel you.”
His hips stutter, thrusts growing a little rougher despite his best efforts. You’re both right on the edge. His face is inches from yours, eyes blown, jaw clenched, and you realize with a dizzy rush that he’s holding back, keeping himself from slamming into you like he clearly wants to for the sake of your tattoo.
The thought—him restraining himself for you—tips you over.
You shatter around him with a strangled cry, your whole body tightening, then releasing in waves. Your nails bite into his shoulders, your legs clamping around his waist. He groans, a broken, desperate sound, and thrusts once, twice more before he’s following you over, spilling into the condom with a hoarse moan.
He collapses forward, catching himself just in time so he doesn’t crash into you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. You’re both panting, bodies slick with sweat, hearts racing.
For a long moment, you just lie there—his weight warm and reassuring above you, his cock softening inside you, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his back.
“You okay?” he mumbles eventually, his mouth against your neck.
You nod, too wrung out to speak, and he snorts softly.
“Use your words, doll,” he teases gently.
“Okay,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “More than okay.”
He smiles against your skin, pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat. “Good.”
He eases out of you carefully, making sure not to jostle your lower belly, and disappears briefly to dispose of the condom and grab a warm washcloth. He cleans you up with almost comical gentleness, wiping away the mess between your thighs, checking the bandage.
“Looks good,” he says, satisfied. “No blood, no shifting. My girl’s tough as nails.”
You smile sleepily. “Your girl?”
He freezes, then looks up, suddenly unsure. “Yeah. Unless… you don’t like when I say that.”
Your heart squeezes. “I love when you say that,” you say softly. “I like being your girl.”
Relief washes over his features, followed by a soft, adoring look that makes your chest ache. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I don’t plan on shuttin’ up about it any time soon.”
He tosses the cloth aside and helps you into one of his soft tees, then coaxes you to lie down on the couch. He tucks a blanket around you, then climbs in behind you, pulling you back against his chest, his arm banding around your waist carefully above the tattoo.
You snuggle into him, listening to the steady beat of his heart, the quiet crackle of a candle wick, the distant hum of the world outside.
After a while, you murmur into the quiet, “Bucky?”
“Yeah, sugar?”
“When the tattoo heals…”
“Mm?”
“Are you really going to kiss every line you put on me?”
He chuckles, low and warm, his lips pressing to the back of your head. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says, voice thick with promise. “I’m gonna do a whole lot more than kiss.”
A shiver runs through you, and you smile in the dim light, fingers brushing your lower belly where the fresh ink throbs—a little ache that feels like a secret.
Your secret. His art. Your trust.
Under the soft glow of the Christmas tree, with your tattooed mistletoe hidden safely beneath layers of cotton and blankets and his arm, you close your eyes and let yourself drift, knowing that every time the sting flares over the next few days, you’ll remember the way his voice sounded when he said, That’s my brave girl.
And the way his mouth felt when he showed you exactly what mistletoe means.
tags: @firingstars @iamthatonefangirl @its-in-the-woods @houseofhyde @superbassbuck @chateaubarnes @earthsmightiestbenders @barnesonly @54nboo @winterdecember18 @unificsation @wildflowersandvibranium @juniebjonesin @blowingbarnes @grumpysunnybarnes @missvelvetsstuff @daisynotquake @colettebarnes @lokirogersgirl @sapphire882 @buckyfmd @justadaydreamingfangirl @quantumbarnes @overwintering-soldier @buckyboudoir @domitaylorsversion @multiversefanfics @avgdestitute @meowrz1a @barnes-babydoll @globetrotter28 @mariamorales1998 @okaytrashpanda @icantfindanamenottakenn @happygooberpastel @pinksplace @cautiouscas17 @infinitewithenvy @herejustforbuckybarnes @yexbarnes @sassandscribbles @ozwriterchick @barnesknt @spdrveil @r1ssa + add yourself here
