Werewolfgirl44

Haven’t updated this in forever. Currently there’s nothing but the brain rot that comes from Sebastian Stan anything. My current top 3 fandoms are 911, Marvel, and Friends. (Friends and 911 are like the only things I can focus on that doesn’t have Seb in it.)

[thetruthfiles-backup]

Outside Perspective Project

Objective to see how people with different levels of familiarity with Sebastian Stan interpret the same public interactions from the Cannes Film Festival.

*This isn't a scientific study, and I'm not claiming it represents everyone. It's just a small perception experiment I thought would be interesting.*

Method

10 participants.

Participants ranged from fans to people who had never heard of either person.

Every participant viewed the same three photos and the same three videos in the exact same chronological order.

Material was viewed BEFORE given questionnaire.

No additional context was provided before viewing.

Every participant answered the exact same questions.

Groups

Which category do you consider yourself:

Group 1: Active fans - follows news or social media. 

Group 2: Casual fans - has seen several movies but doesn't follow personal life. 

Group 3: Know who he is but don't follow him - might know the name or might recognize a character. 

Group 4: No idea who either person is. 

Questionnaire

1. If you had to guess, what kind of relationship do you think they have?

2. What are your first impressions of these two?

3. How would you describe their body language?

4. Do they seem comfortable together?

5. What vibe do you get from these interactions?

6. Does anything stand out to you?

7. If you had to describe the overall vibe in one or two words, what would they be?

Materials

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Results

Participant 1 - 80s

Group 4 - No clue who they are

Question 1: If you had to guess, what kind of relationship do you think they have?

“I assume they are together. This seems fake though. Staged. Are there staged relationships in Hollywood? Are they actors? They should find other careers.”

Question 2:  What are your first impressions of these two?

“Staged. Are they supposed to be in love because they clearly aren’t.”

Question 3:  How would you describe their body language?

“Forced. Are they supposed to be a couple? He at times when the cameras are on he smiles. She seems attention seeking. Why is she holding her bump like that? She seems detached.”

Question 4:  Do they seem comfortable together? 

“Not at all. They seem stiff and performative. They look like they can’t stand each other. Why the hell is he dragging her like that? That’s not safe or how you treat a loved one”

Question 5:  What vibe do you get from these interactions?

“They don’t like each other. Why are they together if they hate each other that much?”

Question 6:  Does anything stand out to you? 

“They both seem detached from the whole thing. There’s not an ounce of love between the two. They can’t even take a picture together without looking sick of each other.”

Question 7: If you had to describe the overall vibe in one or two words, what would they be?

“Staged. Very performative”

P2 - 30s

Group 2 - kinda know him 

“I know who he is but without her standing next to him I would not know her.”

Question 1: If you had to guess, what kind of relationship do you think they have?

“Shes a baby momma”

Question 2:  What are your first impressions of these two?

  “Normal looking rich people.” 

Question 3:  How would you describe their body language?

“Tense alittle. like they dont want to be there. dont want to touch each other. like he leans in more and she doesnt care to be in the same bubble as him.”

Question 4:  Do they seem comfortable together?

“Nope. he lightly touches her or leans in like he would for a fan. and shes focused on the perfect look for a photo.”

Question 5:  What vibe do you get from these interactions?

“They dont give a fuck” 

Question 6:  Does anything stand out to you? 

“His lean. is she a fan? shes having his baby show a little love. maybe they fought before the 2nd video.”

Question 7: If you had to describe the overall vibe in one or two words, what would they be?

“For show”

P3 - 20s

Group 3 - Semi recognize his name

Question 1: If you had to guess, what kind of relationship do you think they have?

“Planned or what’s the word… faked. Performative.”

Question 2:  What are your first impressions of these two?

“Why does he look like an egg? Is he trying to LARP as Bruce Willis? I think it’s fake as fuck.”

Question 3:  How would you describe their body language?

“Non existent. Fake.”

Question 4:  Do they seem comfortable together? 

Laughs “ Hell no! Do people think they’re really together?”

Question 5:  What vibe do you get from these interactions?

“Fake. Not real.”

Question 6:  Does anything stand out to you? 

“The video of them taking a picture and jumping away looked like two high schoolers being awkward at a party.”

Question 7: If you had to describe the overall vibe in one or two words, what would they be?

“Fake.”

P4 - 30s

Group 2: Casual fan but don’t follow them

Question 1: If you had to guess, what kind of relationship do you think they have?

“Think it started as PR and then whoopsie there’s a baby and so let’s stay together for baby even though that shit never works out.”

Question 2:  What are your first impressions of these two?

“They greatly dislike each other and have antagonistic attitudes towards each other.” 

Question 3:  How would you describe their body language?

“Extremely standoffish. They lean away from each other and put as much space between each other as they can without raising too many questions. His feet will be far away and he’ll lean in as much as he can to take pics while still maintaining separation.”

Question 4:  Do they seem comfortable together? 

“Absolutely not. She avoids his kiss. He avoids her hold.” 

Question 5:  What vibe do you get from these interactions?

“Extremely uncomfortable and like they’re two toddlers who were fighting but were shoved in the ‘friendship’ tshirt together to try and make them get along.”

Question 6:  Does anything stand out to you? 

“Her faces and how far away he keeps his feet to add space.”

Question 7: If you had to describe the overall vibe in one or two words, what would they be?

“Forced. Performative. Antagonistic.”

P5 - 50s

Group 2 - watched movies but know nothing about him

Question 1: If you had to guess, what kind of relationship do you think they have?

“Noncommittal.”

Question 2:  What are your first impressions of these two?

“Seem very casual and separate.”

Question 3:  How would you describe their body language?

“Forced. They pull apart, keep separate.”

Question 4:  Do they seem comfortable together? 

“No.”

Question 5:  What vibe do you get from these interactions?

“That they are not together by choice.”

Question 6:  Does anything stand out to you? 

“They rarely seem to connect or even focus on each other. Like two separate entities.” 

Question 7: If you had to describe the overall vibe in one or two words, what would they be?

“Awkward and forced.”

P6 - 40s

No idea who either person is. 

Question 1: If you had to guess, what kind of relationship do you think they have?

“Paper relationship. Relationship only exist on paper. Or like co workers posing”

Question 2:  What are your first impressions of these two?

“The first 2 pictures look like he’s posing with a fan. As the videos progress they were pretending to be a couple.”

Question 3:  How would you describe their body language?

“They don’t seem to give shit about each other unless cameras are on them. He tosses his jacket back and poses. She grabs her belly, they take the picture and once the cameras off them they practically run in opposite directions.”

Question 4:  Do they seem comfortable together? 

“Not really. They seem like they don’t give a shit”

Question 5:  What vibe do you get from these interactions?

“The same as someone posing with a guest like at comic con. You paid them money, pose, picture done.”

Question 6:  Does anything stand out to you? 

“He’s dragging her behind him. Why is he sitting across from her in the car?”

Question 7: If you had to describe the overall vibe in one or two words, what would they be?

“Fake”

P7 - 70s

Group 4: No clue who they are

Question 1: If you had to guess, what kind of relationship do you think they have?

“I don’t think they have one.”

Question 2:  What are your first impressions of these two?

“Tolerating each other in public. Do the bare minimum to get by seems to me.”

Question 3:  How would you describe their body language?

“They are not close like that. After seeing that, they don’t have any good body language together. They can’t be a real couple.”

Question 4:  Do they seem comfortable together? 

“No. I think she’s in it for the fame.”

Question 5:  What vibe do you get from these interactions?

“That they are doing this for publicity.”

Question 6:  Does anything stand out to you? 

“Yeah since she’s pregnant she seems more comfortable with more attention. She’s riding the high off the attention and he looks over it. She only puts her hand on her stomach when cameras are looking. That’s her power play and if he does anything she doesnt like she could go public and say he’s mean.”

Question 7: If you had to describe the overall vibe in one or two words, what would they be?

“Tolerate for publicity. Stand offish”

P8 - 60s

Group: 4 - no clue who they are

Question 1: If you had to guess, what kind of relationship do you think they have?

“Are they married? They don’t look happy to be together.”

Question 2:  What are your first impressions of these two?

“They don’t look like a happy couple. Seemed forced.”

Question 3:  How would you describe their body language?

“They looked like they couldn’t break away fast enough”

Question 4:  Do they seem comfortable together? 

“No.”

Question 5:  What vibe do you get from these interactions?

“Not real or genuine”

Question 6:  Does anything stand out to you? 

“Her dress was revealing. They don’t seem to like each other.”

Question 7: If you had to describe the overall vibe in one or two words, what would they be?

“Fake.”

P9  - 60s

Group: 4 - no clue who they are

Question 1: If you had to guess, what kind of relationship do you think they have?

“They are acting in a relationship. Very cold to each other. All for show it looked like.”

Question 2:  What are your first impressions of these two?

“They looked like something was going on between the two. Not in a good way.”

Question 3:  How would you describe their body language?

“They are together for some reason but not a real reason. The body language is very cold.”

Question 4:  Do they seem comfortable together? 

“No.”

Question 5:  What vibe do you get from these interactions?

“They didn’t seem genuine. Like it was all for show.”

Question 6:  Does anything stand out to you? 

“Him dragging her through the crowd.”

Question 7: If you had to describe the overall vibe in one or two words, what would they be?

“Staged.”

P10 - 30s

Group 4: No clue who they are

Question 1: If you had to guess, what kind of relationship do you think they have?

“I would guess at an ex-friendship. Maybe past partners.” 

Question 2:  What are your first impressions of these two?

“first impression is that they dont seem to be very comfortable together.”

Question 3:  How would you describe their body language?

“I would describe their body language as awkward and possibly uncomfortable.”

Question 4:  Do they seem comfortable together? 

“No.”

Question 5:  What vibe do you get from these interactions?

“In the second video it almost seems like they couldn't get away from each other fast enough.”

Question 6:  Does anything stand out to you? 

“Usually when a couple is excited/happy about a pregnancy they can't keep their hand off each other. I do not get that vibe from either of them.”

Question 7: If you had to describe the overall vibe in one or two words, what would they be?

“super uncomfortable.”

Despite having different levels of familiarity with Sebastian and Annabelle, every participant expressed essentially the same overall impression. The language varied, but the themes were consistent.

This project wasn't meant to determine whether their relationship is real or fake. It was simply an exercise in perception. I wanted to see what people observed when they were shown the exact same public material without any fandom context. The consistency of the responses was the part I found most interesting.

[sirenja-and-stag]

Favourite Scenes - Hannibal Season 3

Why are you looking for him after he left you with a smile?

[thetruthfiles-backup]

Did you see this stupid aF sh!t? I may vomit. It’s worse than a 90s 2am infomercial jingle. 🙄😑

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP8pxm7Da/

And to give you a laugh after that gag fest here’s my take on BananaBelly & Coked up Mr. Clean’s new jingle jangle:

New parents, can complain

Poor baby, on the way

New parents, dumb as fu¢k

Poor baby, they should’ve abstained

New parents, cant get paid

Poor baby, has no Luck

And for a Hot Take x2 for NaNaNaBelly & Mr. Conehead I present jingle jangle 2:

New parents, gonna get laid

Poor baby, Oh no wait

New parents, want to be “made”

Poor baby said ‘it’s not fate’

New recycling promo to help her get paid

(Cause really as much plastic as she has inside her she should get a tax write off atp for the filler alone…)

[thetruthfiles-backup]

i think they had different flights - seb coming from london and uknowho from nyc, that’s why they don’t have airport pics together and so she took that selfie to make everyone know she’s still ‘relevant’ lmao

There’s a noticeable pattern where, when something about him drops, something from her tends to follow shortly after.

It’s been consistent over time, and as long as it continues to generate attention, it’s probably not going anywhere.

[werewolf44]

[sirenja-and-stag]

(insp.)

[heldbybarnes]

the littlest barnes

pairing: married!bucky barnes x reader | 5.2k

warnings: pregnancy, pregnancy symptoms (nausea, fatigue), medical/hospital setting, labor & birth, anxiety + self-doubt, nightmares, mentions of bucky’s past / hydra trauma (non-graphic), a few curses, lots of feelings, tooth-rotting dad!bucky fluff

summary: finding out you’re pregnant wasn’t exactly in the plan, but it cracks bucky’s heart wide open anyway. from the first positive test to the delivery room, you spend nine messy, beautiful months gently proving to a terrified super soldier that he’s already everything a good dad should be—until he finally holds your baby and falls in love all over again.

authors note: bucky barnes is 1000%, absolutely, without a doubt, meant to be a father. i will scream it from the rooftops for all of eternity if i must!! this is part of my contribution to pink & isla's galentines event; specifically day 7 "will i be a good parent?" if you haven't joined yet, do so; it's so much fun!

--------

You don’t notice at first.

It’s easy to blame the nausea on late-night takeout and weird mission hours, to write off the bone-deep exhaustion as just… life. You and Bucky have been busy—saving the world, rebuilding your home, stealing quiet moments between briefings and debriefings and making dinner together in the tiny kitchen that still smells like fresh paint.

But when you’re bent over the bathroom sink for the third morning in a row, toothpaste foaming at the corners of your mouth as your stomach lurches, something in you clicks into place.

No way.

You rinse, wipe your mouth, and catch your reflection. There’s nothing different in the mirror. Same face. Same sleepy eyes. Same old t-shirt of Bucky’s hanging off your shoulders.

And yet.

Your heart starts to pound. You dig under the sink for the old box shoved behind cleaning supplies, hands trembling. You bought it months ago during a sale—“just in case,” you’d laughed, flushing, while Bucky wrapped his arms around you from behind in the pharmacy aisle and kissed your neck.

You hadn’t needed it then.

You do now.

You take the test. You set it on the counter. You sit down on the edge of the bathtub because your legs might give out otherwise.

Two minutes feels like a lifetime.

By the time you have to look, you’ve already imagined both outcomes—the rush of relief, the stab of disappointment, the confused blend of emotions that comes with either possibility.

Your breath whooshes out when you see it. One line. Then the second, faint at first, then darkening like it’s making up its mind.

Positive.

For a second, everything goes strangely quiet. The world narrows to the little plastic stick in your hand and the roar of your heartbeat in your ears.

“Oh,” you whisper to no one. “Oh.”

It’s unexpected. Not unwanted.

You feel the difference all the way down to your bones.

You don’t tell him right away.

Part of it is fear—irrational and heavy, the kind that curls in your chest and whispers what if he doesn’t want this? What if this is too much? What if this is the thing that finally proves he was right about himself and you were wrong?

But another part of it is selfish: you want to do this right. Not with a trembling hand in the bathroom, clutching plastic and stammering. Bucky deserves better than a startled, “So, um… surprise?” while he’s still half-asleep and reaching for his coffee.

So you wait.

You hide the test in the back of your underwear drawer, next to the box of photos you keep meaning to frame. You go to your check-up alone, heart in your throat as the nurse confirms it with a blood test and a kind, practiced smile.

“About six weeks,” she says. “Everything looks good so far.”

Six weeks.

You walk home slower than usual, hand resting absently on your still-flat stomach. There’s something there. Someone. A secret just under your heartbeat.

By the time Bucky gets home that night, you’ve decided.

You’re standing at the tiny kitchen table, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in the white onesie you bought on the way home. It says “hi, daddy” in soft black letters. Your hands shake as you lay it on his plate like it’s made of glass.

The door opens. You hear the familiar shuffle of boots, the soft clink of his key in the bowl, the low groan as he rolls his shoulders.

“Sweetheart?” he calls. “Smells good in here. Did you make—”

He stops when he rounds the corner and sees you at the table, sees the onesie, sees the way you’re twisting your fingers together.

For a heartbeat, neither of you speaks.

Then his eyes cut from the little piece of fabric to your face, back again. His jaw slackens.

“Doll,” he says slowly, voice gone rough. “Is that… is that what I think it is?”

Your eyes sting.

“I, um.” You swallow, forcing your voice to work. “The print shop messed it up. It was supposed to say ‘hi, Bucky,’ but they wrote ‘daddy’ instead. Weird, right?”

He stares at you.

You can’t hold the joke any longer. A laugh bubbles out, shaky and wet.

“I’m pregnant,” you say. “We’re… having a baby.”

The world tilts.

Bucky goes very, very still.

You’ve seen him in a lot of dangerous situations. You’ve watched him face down armies, mutants, gods. You’ve seen bullets ricochet off metal ribs and watched him come back from missions bruised and bloody and steady as ever.

You have never seen him look like this.

“Pregnant,” he repeats, like the word is foreign. His eyes drop to your stomach for half a second, like he expects to see proof there. “You… we… a baby?”

You nod, a quick jerky motion.

“I’m about six weeks. I was going to tell you sooner, but I wanted to make sure, and then I thought maybe something cute—” you gesture helplessly at the onesie “—and now I’m just… I’m sorry, I should’ve said it sooner, I just…”

The room is silent except for your own stupid, rambling babbling. Panic flares in your chest. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe this is the part where he backs away. Where the warmth leaves his eyes and the old walls slam back into place.

“Bucky?” you whisper.

He looks up at you.

There’s something raw in his gaze, something cracked wide open. He crosses the space between you in two long strides and cups your face with both hands, rough palms gentle, metal thumb brushing the dampness under your eye that you didn’t even realize was there.

“You’re sure?” he asks. Voice barely above a whisper. “You’re okay? It’s… safe?”

You nod again, tears spilling over now.

“The doctor says everything looks good,” you manage. “I’m okay. We’re okay.”

His breath shudders out of him.

And then, slowly, like he’s stepping out onto thin ice, he drops his hand and lets it drift down, hovering over your stomach. He doesn’t touch—not yet, not fully—but he hovers, metal palm a few inches from the cotton of your shirt.

“Can I?” he asks. “Is it… alright if I…”

You grab his wrist and press his hand flat to your belly.

“Hi,” he murmurs, eyes locked on the place where his fingers splay across your skin. There’s a tremor in his voice. “I’m your, uh—”

He falters on the word. Swallows hard.

Your heart squeezes.

“Say it,” you whisper. “You can.”

His throat bobs. Slowly, his eyes lift to yours.

“I’m your dad,” he says, voice breaking on the last word. “Guess I… guess I’m your dad.”

You smile through your tears, because there’s already love there, you can see it, whether he recognizes it or not.

He pulls you into his arms then, holding you like you’re the most precious thing in the world, like you and the tiny new life between you are made of spun glass and starlight.

“I’m scared,” he admits, voice muffled against your hair. “But I’m so… I’m so happy, doll. I didn’t know I could be this happy.”

You bury your face in his chest, breathing him in. Underneath the fear, the nerves, the chaos, there’s something solid forming—something permanent.

You, him, and the little heartbeat you haven’t heard yet.

The next few weeks are a blur of appointments and nausea and cravings that make no sense at all—pickle juice at three in the morning, toast with peanut butter and sliced banana arranged just right. Bucky pretends not to judge, even as he dutifully pads into the kitchen in his sweatpants to make whatever your stomach insists it needs.

He’s hovering. You know he is. You wake up to water on your nightstand before you even realize you’re thirsty. There are post-its on the fridge with reminders to take your vitamins, to call the doctor if anything feels off.

He walks on the street side of the sidewalk when you go out, glancing at every passing car like it’s a potential threat.

And yet, beneath the careful, attentive routine, there’s a tension in him. A tightness in his shoulders. Some nights you wake to find him already awake, staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched.

“Can’t sleep?” you whisper in the dark, rolling over to press your forehead to his shoulder.

He doesn’t answer right away. You hear the tiny click in his metal hand as he flexes it.

“Just thinking,” he finally says.

“About?”

He hesitates, and in the silence, your mind fills in the blanks.

About you. About the baby. About all the ways this could go wrong.

You lift yourself onto your elbow, peering down at him.

“Talk to me, Buck.”

His eyes meet yours. They’re darker in the dim light, shadows pooling in the blue.

“I keep… seeing things,” he admits. “In my head. All the ways I’ve fucked up, all the… all the things I’ve done. And now there’s this little person coming and I just…” He swallows. “I don’t know if I can be what they deserve. What you deserve.”

Your chest aches.

“You are,” you say simply. “You already are.”

He huffs a humorless laugh.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you insist. You lay your palm against his cheek, feeling the faint scrape of stubble. “You take care of me every single day, James. You’re kind. You’re patient. You try so damn hard, even when your brain is mean to you. You’re already a good husband. That’s half the job.”

He looks like he wants to believe you. Like he’s holding the idea in his hands and turning it over, testing its weight.

Instead of arguing, he leans in and presses a kiss to your palm.

“Go back to sleep, doll,” he murmurs. “Big day tomorrow.”

“Only if you come with me to the appointment,” you counter, even though you already know the answer.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says softly.

The first time you hear the heartbeat, Bucky almost stops breathing.

You’re lying on the exam table, shirt bunched under your bra, the cold gel damp on your belly. The ultrasound tech is chatting, explaining something about measurements while she moves the wand.

And then a sound bursts into the room—fast and steady and unreal. A rapid whoosh-whoosh-whoosh, like tiny drumbeats, like rain on a roof.

“There we go,” the tech says, beaming at the screen. “Strong heartbeat.”

Your eyes blur.

Bucky is standing beside you, his metal hand wrapped around your fingers. You feel his grip tighten abruptly, see his shoulders stiffen from the corner of your eye.

You squeeze his hand back, but he doesn’t respond. He’s locked on the grainy image on the screen. A little blob. A flickering point of light.

“That’s…” His voice cracks. He clears his throat, tries again. “That’s our kid?”

“That’s your baby,” the tech confirms warmly. “Do you want a picture?”

You nod, because you can’t speak around the lump in your throat. Bucky still hasn’t moved.

“Bucky?” you murmur.

He blinks, like he’s coming up for air.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Just… wow.”

The tech leaves you with a few faint printouts. As soon as the door closes, Bucky sinks into the chair beside the table, elbows on his knees, the pictures clutched gingerly in his flesh hand.

He looks like he’s just been punched in the chest.

“Hey,” you say gently, reaching out.

“I heard it,” he says, staring at the image. “I heard their heart.”

You nod, smiling through tears. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t think I’d ever…” He trails off, shakes his head. “That’s… that’s my kid.”

You watch as something shifts in his expression. The fear is still there, but it’s tangled with awe now. With wonder.

“Can I keep one of these?” he asks, holding the photos like they might disintegrate.

“They’re all yours,” you say. “I can get more next time.”

He slips one carefully into his wallet that night, behind the old, frayed photo of himself and Steve in their uniforms. Two lives, side by side.

Past and future.

As your stomach grows, so does Bucky’s anxiety.

Some days, it’s quiet—just a persistent hum in the background, a wary eye on the world. He insists on driving you everywhere. He carries your bag. He scowls at anyone who bumps into you in crowded hallways.

Other days, it spills over.

Like the afternoon you find him in the nursery—formerly the spare room—standing in the middle of the half-painted walls, fists clenched at his sides.

You’d left him in there happily assembling the crib, humming under his breath to some old song on the radio. When you come back with lemonade and find the crib disassembled again, screws and boards scattered on the floor, your heart sinks.

“Hey,” you say carefully. “What happened in here, Picasso?”

He doesn’t answer. His shoulders are up around his ears, jaw tight.

“Bucky?”

He turns, and the look on his face makes your chest tighten. He’s not angry—not at you. He’s… lost. Panicked.

“I can’t even put a damn crib together,” he snaps, a bitter edge in his voice that you know is turned inward. “Stupid instructions, and my hand’s too big for the screws, and I keep… dropping everything. How the hell am I supposed to hold a baby when I can’t even hold a goddamn screwdriver?”

You set the lemonade down and cross the room, careful not to trip over the scattered pieces of future furniture. When you reach him, you take his metal hand in both of yours.

“You’re frustrated,” you say softly. “That’s okay. This is a lot.”

“It shouldn’t be this hard,” he mutters. “Normal guys can do this. Guys who haven’t…” He cuts himself off with a harsh breath. “They don’t have nightmares about snapping people in half with the same hands they’re supposed to use to hold their kids.”

There it is.

You step closer, until your bump presses against his abdomen. His eyes flick down, then back up.

“James,” you say, voice firm. “Look at me.”

He does. Barely.

“Do you think I would be a good dad?”

The question is so unexpected, so raw, that it knocks the air out of you.

“Do I…” you repeat, blinking. “Bucky Barnes, do you seriously have to ask me that?”

Something flickers in his eyes—hope, maybe, buried under years of self-loathing.

“I need to hear it,” he admits, voice rough. “Because all I can see right now is… is every way this could go wrong. Every bad thing I’ve ever done. Everything HYDRA made me be. And I look at you—” his voice cracks “—and I look at this kid we made, and I just… I don’t want to fuck them up. I don’t want to hurt them. I don’t want to be my father or… or the men who used me. I’m terrified that’s all that’s in me.”

Your heart breaks.

Slowly, deliberately, you lift his metal hand to your lips and press a kiss to the cool vibranium knuckles.

“Listen to me,” you say, eyes locked on his. “You are not the things they made you do. You are not the worst days of your life. You are the man who gets up every morning and makes sure there’s cold water by my side of the bed before I even wake up. You’re the one who remembers what foods make me nauseous and hides them so I don’t have to see them. You’re the man who stops missions to save cats stuck in alleyways and carries them half a mile because you can’t stand to see something scared and alone.”

He huffs, embarrassed. “That was one time.”

“It was three,” you correct. “And I fell in love with you a little more every single time.”

A reluctant smile tugs at his mouth.

“You are gentle,” you continue. “You are patient. You listen when I talk about stupid things like nursery themes and baby names and whether we should get a stroller with four wheels or three. You read those cheesy dad books and pretend you’re not reading them, even though you highlight things and fold the pages.”

He sputters. “I do not—”

“You do,” you insist. “You care, James. So much. You care enough to be scared. That’s what good dads do. They worry. They double-check. They try.”

You squeeze his hand.

“So yes,” you say firmly. “I think you’re going to be a good dad. I think you’re going to be the best dad. Our kid is going to grow up knowing they are loved, and safe, and wanted, because you’re going to show them every single day.”

His eyes glisten. He looks away, blinking hard.

“Even if I screw up?” he murmurs.

“You will,” you say honestly. “We both will. That’s part of it. But you’ll apologize, and you’ll listen, and you’ll keep trying. That’s what matters.”

Silence stretches between you, thick with emotion.

Then, slowly, he reaches up with his flesh hand and cups the back of your neck, pulling you in until your foreheads touch.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers.

“Maybe not,” you murmur with a small smile. “But you’ve got me anyway. And you’ve got them.” You slide his hand down, pressing both of yours over it where it rests on your belly. “We’re a package deal, Barnes.”

He huffs out a weak laugh, breath warm against your skin.

“Guess I better finish that crib,” he says.

“Guess you better,” you reply.

He does. It takes him twice as long as it should, and he swears under his breath the whole time, but when he’s done, he stands back and stares at it like it’s an impossible work of art.

Like it’s proof he can do this.

The third trimester is harder.

Your back hurts. Your ankles swell. Sleep becomes a distant memory. Bucky becomes even more of a mother hen, fussing over pillows and prenatal yoga videos and the exact angle of the fan in the bedroom.

One night, you wake to find the bed empty beside you.

The clock glows 4:37 a.m.

“Bucky?” you call, pushing yourself upright with a groan. “James?”

You find him in the living room, sitting on the couch in the dark, head in his hands. His shirt is damp with sweat. His breath comes too fast.

“Hey,” you say softly, shuffling over. “Nightmare?”

He flinches at the sound of your voice, then relaxes when he sees you.

“Sorry,” he rasps. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you lie, lowering yourself carefully beside him. “Baby did. They’re practicing for the Olympics in there.”

He manages a weak smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Wanna talk about it?” you ask.

He hesitates, then nods.

“I was holding them,” he says, voice barely audible. “Our baby. Smallest thing I’ve ever seen. And then everything went wrong. I—” His metal hand curls into a fist. “I dropped them. Or… or I crushed them. I couldn’t—my hands. I couldn’t control them. I woke up before…” He swallows hard. “Before I saw, but I knew. I knew what I’d done.”

Your stomach twists.

“It was a nightmare,” you say firmly. “Just a nightmare.”

“Felt real,” he mutters. “Too real. Doll, what if—”

“Stop.” You take his face in your hands again, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Bucky. You would rather cut your own arm off than hurt our baby.”

He flinches. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” you insist. “You have never, not once, hurt me with that hand. Not when you’ve been asleep, or triggered, or startled. You always pull back. You always choose control. You think that won’t apply here?”

His eyes shine in the dim light from the window.

“I’m so scared of failing them,” he whispers. “Of failing you.”

“Then you already won’t,” you counter softly. “Because you care enough to be scared.”

You guide his hand—metal, cool, steady—to your stomach again. The baby kicks right under his palm, and something like wonder flashes across his face.

“See?” you say. “They trust you already.”

Bucky lets out a choked laugh.

“Little punk,” he mutters affectionately. “Keeping your old man up at night.”

“Now you know how I feel,” you reply dryly.

He shifts, easing you back so you’re reclining against his chest, his arms wrapping around you. One hand stays on your belly, feeling the occasional twitch and thump. The other rubs soothing circles on your arm.

“Can I talk to them for a bit?” he asks quietly.

“You don’t have to ask,” you say, tipping your head back against his shoulder. “They’re your kid too.”

He leans down, pressing his lips to the place just below your ribs.

“Hey, peanut,” he murmurs against your skin. “It’s your dad. Sorry I’m a mess. Your mom’s the brave one. I’ll catch up eventually.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m gonna do my best,” he continues softly. “I swear it. Might not get everything right, but I’ll be there. I’ll catch you when you fall. I’ll hold you as gently as I can. I’ll… I’ll try to be everything I never had.”

You blink quickly, tears slipping hot and fast.

“And if I screw up,” he adds, voice wobbling, “I hope you’ll forgive me. I hope you’ll know I never meant to hurt you. That everything I do is because I love you. So much already, and you’re not even here yet, you little freeloader.”

You laugh wetly, brushing at your cheek.

The baby kicks again, harder this time, right under his mouth.

“See?” you whisper. “They hear you.”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Guess they do.”

You’re not entirely surprised when your water breaks in the middle of the night. The contractions had started earlier in the evening, low and achy and intermittent. You’d timed them, watched them get closer together.

Bucky had paced.

“Are you sure this is it?” he’d asked for the fifth time, hovering in the doorway while you brushed your teeth.

“No, Bucky, maybe I just swallowed a basketball,” you’d deadpanned, wincing as another contraction washed over you. “Yes, this is it.”

He’d gone into mission mode then, calm and focused. Hospital bag by the door. Phone charged. Car keys in the bowl.

You, on the other hand, are less calm when your water actually breaks all over your side of the bed at two in the morning.

“Bucky,” you gasp, hand flying to your stomach. “James.”

He jerks awake, immediately alert.

“What? What’s wrong? You okay?”

“I just… my water…” You gesture helplessly at the damp sheets. Another contraction grips you, stronger this time, forcing a groan from your throat. “Oh, god. Okay. This is happening.”

His expression shifts—fear, excitement, determination all warring in his eyes.

“Okay,” he says, voice steady in a way that helps anchor you. “Okay, doll. We got this. I’ll grab the bag. We’ll call the doctor on the way.”

He moves around the room with practiced efficiency, but you see the tremor in his hands, the way his chest rises too fast.

In the car, he squeezes your hand at every red light, murmuring reassurances like a mantra.

“You’re doing so good,” he says. “So proud of you. Almost there.”

“Shut up,” you grit out as another contraction wrings you out from the inside. “If you say ‘almost there’ one more time, I’m gonna… I’m gonna un-make this baby.”

He laughs, high and a little wild, but he shuts up.

At the hospital, everything happens in a flurry—nurses, monitors, questions. They hook you up, check the dilation, mutter something about “progressing nicely” and “first babies.”

Then there’s waiting. And pain. And more waiting.

Bucky stays by your side through all of it.

He offers his hand, and you squeeze it so hard you’re certain you could bend vibranium. He doesn’t flinch. When the contractions get more intense, when the epidural only takes the edge off, when you feel like breaking in half, he murmurs in your ear.

“You’re not alone,” he whispers. “I’m right here. Breathe with me, doll. In, out. That’s it. You’re so strong, I’ve got you.”

At one point, during a particularly brutal contraction, you catch him watching you with a stricken expression.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts.

“For what?” you pant, sweat slicking your hair to your forehead.

“For doing this to you,” he says, guilty and earnest. “If I could take the pain, I would, I swear. I didn’t—”

“Bucky,” you snap, glaring through the haze. “Shut up. You did this with me. And I want this. Now hold my damn leg.”

He obeys, cheeks flushing, eyes shining suspiciously.

When the pushing starts, you lose track of time. The world shrinks to you, the nurse counting, the doctor encouraging, Bucky’s voice in your ear.

“You’re so close,” he says hoarsely. “I can see the head, doll. You’re doing amazing. Just one more. One more big push. You can do it.”

You want to tell him you hate him, that you’ll never forgive him for this, that this is all his fault—but then a fierce, primal noise tears out of you and suddenly the pressure changes, the contraction cresting and breaking.

And then.

A thin, sharp wail slices through the air.

For a heartbeat, you can’t breathe.

Then everything rushes back—the sounds, the lights, the nurse laughing, the doctor saying, “There we go. Happy birthday, little one.”

You collapse back against the bed, chest heaving, tears already spilling over your temples into your hair.

“Is—are they—?” you stammer, staring at the ceiling.

“They’re perfect,” the doctor says. “Do you want to see?”

You can’t even answer. You just nod frantically, sob choking out of you.

They place the baby on your chest, slick and warm and real in a way that nothing else ever has been. You stare down at the tiny, scrunched-up face, the shock of hair, the impossibly small fingers curling against your skin.

“Oh,” you sob. “Oh, hi. Hi, baby.”

“Hey there,” the nurse coos, drying the baby off, adjusting the blanket. “Mom and dad have been waiting for you.”

Dad.

You look up, searching for Bucky.

He’s standing a few feet away, frozen.

His eyes are huge, blue washed almost gray with emotion. His hands hang limp at his sides, fingers curled. He looks like he’s been rooted to the spot.

“Buck?” you say softly. “Come here.”

He swallows hard, throat working.

“I don’t… I’m scared to touch them,” he whispers, voice rough and broken. “What if—”

“James,” you cut in, a faint echo of all the times you’ve said his name when his mind spirals. “Come meet your baby.”

The nurse glances between you, then smiles.

“Do you want to cut the cord, Dad?” she asks gently.

His gaze snaps to her like he didn’t realize she meant him.

“Me?” he croaks.

“Well, you did half the work,” she says.

He lets out a strangled laugh that breaks into a sob halfway through.

“O-okay,” he says. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

You watch as he steps closer, hands shaking. The nurse guides him through it—clamp here, cut there—and he obeys, jaw clenched, breath shallow.

Then she cleans the baby up a bit more and wraps them in a fresh blanket.

“Do you want to hold them?” she asks, voice soft.

His eyes flick to yours, wide and frightened. You see the question there, the same one he’s been asking all along: am I allowed? Am I safe?

“Yes,” you say, firm, before he can answer. “He wants to.”

The nurse transfers the tiny bundle into his arms, guiding his hands into position. Flesh hand cradling the head. Metal one supporting the body, gentle and sure.

The baby squawks, a tiny sound of protest, then settles.

For a moment, no one moves.

Bucky just stares.

“Hi,” he whispers, voice barely audible. “Hi, little one.”

You’ve seen Bucky in every state—bloodied, broken, laughing, enraged. You’ve seen him vulnerable in ways you wouldn’t wish on anyone.

You’ve never seen him like this.

It’s like something incandescent has cracked open inside him. His eyes shine, tears slipping free and tracking down his cheeks unchecked. His lips tremble.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “You’re… god, you’re so small. So perfect.”

The baby flails a little, making a soft noise that sounds almost offended. His mouth twitches into a wet, shaky smile.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he murmurs. “It’s bright out here, huh? Lot of noise. But you’re okay. I got you. I promise, I got you.”

He holds them closer, metal hand cupped so carefully around their back that you can see the strain in his arm, the way every muscle is engaged to keep the support steady. He sways a little, instinctively.

“Doll,” he chokes out without taking his eyes off the baby. “Do you see them?”

You laugh weakly, wiping at your own tears.

“I do,” you whisper. “I see them, Buck. You did so good.”

He shakes his head minutely, gaze still glued to your child’s face.

“I’m… I’m in love,” he says, voice cracking wide open. “I thought I knew what love was. With you, I thought—I thought that was it. That was the limit. But this…” He sucks in a shuddering breath. “This is… I didn’t know there was more. I didn’t know I could feel this much.”

Your heart feels too big for your chest.

He looks at you then, finally tearing his gaze away from the baby for half a second. There’s a question in his eyes again, but it’s different now.

Am I doing it right?

You nod, a sob catching in your throat.

“You’re perfect,” you say. “You’re everything they need.”

He exhales, something loosening in his shoulders. He looks back down at the baby, who has gone quiet, eyes blinking slowly up at him like they’re trying to focus.

“Hey there,” he whispers. “It’s me. I’m your dad.”

The word doesn’t shake this time. It settles over the room like a blessing. Like a promise.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits in a soft rush. “But I’m gonna try my damnedest to figure it out. I’ll make mistakes, kiddo. Probably a lot. But I’m never gonna stop loving you. Not for a second. Not ever.”

He bends his head and presses the gentlest kiss you’ve ever seen to the baby’s forehead, flesh lips against soft, damp skin.

You see the moment it happens—the exact second the last of his doubt melts away, replaced by something fierce and bright and immovable.

A father’s love.

You watch the man who never thought he deserved a future hold his whole world in his arms.

And you know, with a certainty that settles deep in your bones, that you were right all along.

He’s going to be a good dad.

He already is.

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 @spdrveil @r1ssa + add yourself here

[thewintermuse]

my favorite way to wake up

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Pairing: Soft & Beefy!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: What starts as slow, sleepy cuddles turns into something deeper, something hotter, as Bucky melts under every kiss you press to his shoulders. He’s all soft groans and gentle hands, touch-starved and hopelessly devoted, trying so hard not to lose control.

Warnings/Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, Dry Humping/Grinding, Fingering, Unprotected (Consensual) Sex, Creampie, Established Relationship, Soft Dom Bucky, Beefy Bucky, Sunshine Reader, Literally Calls Them Sunshine Constantly, Touch Starved Bucky, Soft Aftercare 

Word count: 6.3k

Music: 

Say You Won’t Let Go - James Arthur

Love Me Like You Do - Ellie Goulding

I Put A Spell On You - Annie Lenox

Meddle About - Chase Atlantic

positions - Ariana Grande

Better Together - Jack Johnson

Notes: hi hello!! I feel like I say this with everything I post but I mean it every single time, I absolutely loved writing this. There’s just something about a soft dom beefy Bucky that is just utterly delicious. 🤭

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Bucky’s back was your favorite place in the whole world.

Warm, wide, familiar. A landscape of muscle and scar and soft freckle constellations that you’d quietly memorized like they were your own private star map.

Right now, it was all yours.

He lay on his stomach, sprawled diagonally across the bed like he’d been dropped there, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other flung out to the side, big hand dangling off the edge of the mattress. The sheet was tangled around his hips, leaving the long line of his bare back completely exposed to the cool air and your very greedy gaze.

You curled up behind him, your smaller frame molded along his spine, chest pressed to his shoulder blades. Big spoon, your favorite role.

Your leg hooked carefully over the back of his, keeping close without pinning him, mindful of old instincts. You’d learned the exact balance of weight he loved, enough pressure that he could feel you, not enough to feel trapped.

His breath was slow and steady, face turned into his pillow, hair a dark, messy halo. That little furrow between his brows had finally smoothed out, the one that showed up when the world felt like too much. It was replaced by something soft and peaceful that made your chest ache.

You leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of his spine.

He hummed in his sleep, a deep, content little sound that vibrated under your lips.

“Hi,” you whispered against his skin, even though he was only half-awake at best. “You still pretending to be asleep, big guy?”

His shoulders lifted on a slow inhale. “M’not pretendin’,” he mumbled, voice rough and syrup-thick with sleep. “M’just comfortable.”

You smiled, nose brushing his shoulder as you spoke. “Comfortable, huh?”

“Mmhm.” His hand flexed against the sheet. “Got my girl on my back. Hard to complain.”

Heat curled low in your belly at that, at the easy, unthinking way he said my girl. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like it was a fact, not a miracle.

You shifted a little closer, chest pressing more firmly to him, arm tightening around his waist. Your fingers splayed over his stomach, feeling the firm give of muscle beneath his skin as you held him.

“You’re very warm,” you murmured.

“That’s ‘cause you turned me into a human space heater,” he said drowsily. “Like a big, overgrown weighted blanket. Custom-made, just for you.”

You laughed softly against him. “Mm, my favorite purchase.”

He snorted into the pillow, but his ears flushed pink.

You let your fingertips drift lazily over his ribs, tracing invisible shapes, the curve of old scars softened by time. He shivered once, a tiny, helpless twitch that made you grin.

“Sorry,” you whispered, absolutely not sorry at all. “Am I tickling you, Sergeant?”

“Sunshine,” he warned, voice thick, though there was no real warning in it. “You know what that does to me.”

“Oh, do I?” you asked sweetly, letting your nails drag lightly down the length of his spine.

He groaned then, the sound low and rough, buried into the pillow as his back arched just a fraction into your touch. The reaction shot straight through you, thrilling and tender all at once.

That was the thing about Bucky, about this big, tough, broad shouldered soldier who could pick you up like you weighed nothing and bench press a small car if he really wanted to…

He melted like butter the second you laid a gentle hand on him.

You dipped forward, unable to resist, and pressed another kiss between his shoulder blades. Then another. And another. Slow, careful, reverent kisses following the line of his spine, tasting sleep-warm skin and the faint salt of dried sweat from the night.

His breathing deepened, not quite sleep heavy anymore. More… aware.

“Darlin’…” His voice sounded different now, lower, smoke curling at the edges. “What are you doin’ back there?”

You smiled against his skin. “Admiring the view.”

“Yeah?” He shifted just enough that you could see the side of his face, lashes still lowered but mouth curved in a lazy, pleased grin. “Think it needs improvin’?”

“I think,” you murmured, your lips brushing along the top of his shoulder, “that this is perfect.”

You felt the way his body stilled under you for a heartbeat, like he didn’t quite know what to do with that word: perfect.

So you kept going.

You kissed along the slope of his shoulder, soft, lingering presses of your mouth over old, faded scars and the thick muscle there, your thumb rubbing soothing circles into his side.

“You know,” you said quietly between kisses, “I love your back.”

“Yeah?” His voice was softer now, that rough edge turned inward. “That so?”

“Mhm.” Another kiss, just beneath his neck. “It’s very… dependable.”

He huffed out a surprised little laugh. “Dependable.”

“Mmhm. Big. Warm. Shows up when I’m cold. Great for naps.” You smiled against him. “Top-tier back, Barnes. A ten out of ten, would recommend.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, but his grin had gone shy and his hand started to search for yours.

You slid your palm down his chest until he could tangle your fingers with his. His much larger hand swallowed yours up instantly, holding on tight like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

He never said that out loud, but you knew.

You gave his hand a small squeeze and pressed your mouth to the nape of his neck.

He shuddered at that, a full body ripple that made the mattress tremble. His fingers tightened on yours, knuckles going white.

“Sunshine,” he rasped. “Careful.”

“I’m just kissing you,” you whispered, lips brushing along the fine hairs at his hairline. “My sweet, overcooked weighted blanket.”

“You keep doin’ it like that,” he said, voice hoarse, “and m’gonna stop bein’ a gentleman real fast.”

The words sent a pleasant little spark through you. You shifted closer, letting your chest fit snugly to his back, your leg sliding more firmly over his, cocooning him in your warmth.

“That a promise?” you teased.

He turned his head just enough that one blue eye cracked open, heavy-lidded and molten. “You fishin’ for trouble, doll?”

“Maybe.” Your teeth grazed the curve where his neck met his shoulder, just barely. “Maybe I like my trouble six foot something and way too handsome for his own good.”

He groaned again, burying his face in the crook of his arm like he could hide from the heat crawling up his neck.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mumbled into the pillow. “Big, scary super-soldier, brought down by one tiny menace in fuzzy socks.”

You glanced down at your toes and wiggled them, the little pastel socks rubbing against his calf. “You love my socks.”

“I love you,” he said, so easily it made your breath catch, “the socks are just collateral damage.”

Warmth bloomed in your chest, spreading outward until it filled your entire body.

You leaned in close, pressing your lips right beneath his ear. “Say it again.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Love you,” he murmured, voice so low it vibrated through the bones of his back and straight into your heart. “Love when you hold me like this. Love when you kiss on me. Love wakin’ up with your breath on my skin.”

You closed your eyes, letting the weight of the words settle over you like a second blanket.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not planning on stopping.”

You trailed your mouth down the side of his neck, pressing slow, unhurried kisses along the strong column of his throat, feeling his pulse jump under your lips. His hand squeezed yours again, the grip shifting from sleepy to needy.

“Turn over for me?” you asked softly against his skin.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, old wiring, old habits, then he exhaled and nodded. “Yeah. ‘Course, sunshine.”

He rolled carefully onto his back, shifting his arm so he didn’t accidentally elbow you. You moved with him, nimble and familiar, adjusting your leg until you ended up half draped over his torso, your chest resting against his ribs, one knee hooked over his hip.

The sheet slipped lower, and suddenly you had his entire chest in front of you, broad, solid, dusted with hair, dog tags glinting faintly where they’d fallen to the side on the pillow.

He looked up at you, hair a mess, cheeks faintly flushed, blue eyes soft and open in a way they never were with anyone else.

“Hi,” he said, a little breathless.

“Hi,” you echoed, your fingers spreading over his sternum. His heart beat strong and steady beneath your palm.

“Y’know,” he said, trying for light and almost managing it, “pretty sure it’s my job to worship you in bed, not the other way ‘round.”

“Mmm.” You bent down to kiss the center of his chest, right over his heart. “We can take turns.”

His throat bobbed.

You let your mouth wander, slow and careful, mapping him like you had his back. The curve of his collarbone. The warm, solid swell of his shoulder. The scarred dip near his ribs that always made him twitch.

Every time your lips found a mark he used to hate, you pressed a gentler kiss there, like you could rewrite the memory from the outside in.

His breathing went shallow, hand sliding up from the sheets to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair with aching tenderness.

“You don’t have to do that, y’know,” he murmured. “All the… sweet stuff. You don’t gotta pretend I’m somethin’ pretty.”

You lifted your head, brows knitting. “I’m not pretending anything, James.”

His eyes flicked to yours, something vulnerable and raw in them at the sound of his full name.

“You’re beautiful,” you said simply. No coyness, no teasing. Just truth. “Every inch of you. Outside, inside, all of it. You think I’m kissing you just because you’re conveniently within range?”

He tried for a smirk and only managed a shaky half-smile. “Maybe.”

You leaned down until your forehead touched his, noses brushing. “No. I’m kissing you because I’m obsessed with you. Slight difference.”

His hand tightened in your hair, metal fingers flexing gently against your waist in counterpoint. “You’re gonna make me fall even harder, sunshine.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Fall with me.”

You kissed him then.

It started soft, like it always did, with your lips brushing his once, twice, a warm hello shared on a shared breath. Then his mouth parted on a quiet sigh, and you deepened the kiss, tilting your head to slot against him more fully.

He tasted like sleep and warmth, familiar and addictive. His free hand slid up your side, spanning your ribs, thumb stroking the edge of your shirt like he was memorizing the feel of the fabric over your skin.

He kissed you the way he always did when he finally let a little restraint slip, like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked, yet determined to savor every second you were here. Slow at first. Gentle. Then hungrier, his lips moving with a growing urgency you felt all the way down your spine.

Your fingers slid into his hair at the nape of his neck, tugging just enough to pull a low, helpless sound from his chest. The noise sparked through you, and the breath you exhaled against his mouth came out as a soft, involuntary gasp.

“Sunshine,” he breathed, pulling back an inch, eyes blown wide. “If we keep goin’ like this… I’m not gonna be able to stop.”

You brushed your thumb along the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the rasp of stubble tickle your skin. “Did I say anything about stopping?”

His chest rose a little faster beneath your palm. Muscles jumped under his skin. “I just—” His voice faltered. “I don’t ever wanna push you. You start somethin’, I’m right behind you, but if you tell me to slow down or—”

You silenced him with another kiss, softer this time, your heart squeezing at how earnestly he meant it. At how even now, half undone and clinging to his composure, his first instinct was to check in.

“I know,” you whispered against his lips. “And I trust you. Always.”

That did something to him.

You felt it, the subtle collapse of tension in his shoulders, the way his breath caught like he’d been holding it for years. His hand slid up to cradle your face, thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness so steady it made your eyes sting.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Okay, sweetheart.”

You shifted your weight forward, closer, letting your torso settle fully against his. His reaction was immediate, his breath stuttered, hips nudged up instinctively, fingers tightening at your waist as if to ground himself.

“Breathe,” you teased, your smile brushing his mouth. “You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it,” he said, voice rough but honest. “You’re… you.”

You laughed softly and pressed a quick kiss to the tip of his nose before finding his lips again. This time, the moment your mouth touched his, the kiss deepened on its own, lips parting, breaths mixing, his hand gliding down your back in slow, possessive sweeps that made heat coil low in your belly.

The room felt smaller now, quieter. Just the soft rasp of skin, the creak of the mattress, the intimate little noises you pulled from each other with every shift and sigh.

You rolled your hips closer without thinking, chasing more warmth, more contact, more of him. His breath hitched sharply, and his hand flew to your waist, holding you there as if one more inch might ruin him completely.

“Sunshine,” he groaned, eyes closing for a heartbeat as his control slipped. “You’re killin’ me. I’m tryin’ to take my time, but you keep…”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then down to that soft spot under his ear that always made him unravel. You felt him twitch, felt the way he clutched your hip like you were the only stable thing in the room.

“Who says going slow and making you lose your mind can’t happen at the same time?” you murmured against his skin.

His laugh was breathless, almost pained, turning into a low exhale when your lips lingered there a beat too long.

“You’re trouble,” he whispered, needy, adoring, undone. “My favorite kind.”

You smiled, mouth brushing his ear. “Yours, huh?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Always.”

You pulled back enough to see his face again, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead. He looked at you like you’d handed him the stars and told him they were his.

“You know I’m not letting you go today, right?” he said quietly. “World can knock, yell, explode for all I care. They don’t get you. Not today.”

Warmth bloomed through you, slow and sweet and deep.

“Well,” you murmured, slowly kissing him again. “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

His smile against your mouth was soft and stunned and so full of love it made your chest ache.

“Then c’mere, sunshine,” he whispered, voice dipping low and warm as he gently rolled you beneath him, pulling you deeper into his arms. “Let me hold onto you for a while.”

You went willingly, tangling yourself around him until your bodies fit together perfectly, his weight settling over you just enough to feel safe, wanted, enveloped.

The kiss he gave you then was different, slow, warm, unhurried, but the moment your fingers slipped into his hair again and tugged gently?

Something inside him snapped like overstretched thread.

His breath hitched.

His hips lifted.

And his hand slid down your spine to grip your ass, squeezing with a reverence that made your pulse stumble.

“Sunshine,” he murmured against your mouth, voice already frayed with need, “you keep touchin’ me like that, I’m gonna lose every last bit of control I’ve got.”

You rocked your hips up to meet his, slow and subtle, perfectly aligned.

He groaned, a low, broken sound, and any remaining restraint he’d been fighting didn’t stand a chance.

“Fuck—don’t do that,” he rasped. “I’m tryin’ to be good. I’m tryin’ real hard.”

You kissed along his jaw, your breath ghosting over his skin.

“What if I don’t want you to be good?” you whispered.

His hand paused on your hip. His pupils blew wide. For a second he just… looked at you. Like you’d said something holy.

“Sunshine…” It was half a plea, half a warning.

You kissed down his neck, letting your lips drag, letting your teeth graze, and felt the shiver rip through his big, warm body. He was fully awake now—every muscle in him pulled taut, every breath uneven.

You slid your leg higher over his hip.

He sucked in a sharp breath when your thigh brushed the hard line straining beneath the sheet.

“Jesus,” he whispered, eyes squeezing shut as he clenched the sheets with his metal hand. “You’re so fuckin’ soft. You’re gonna drive me insane.”

You moved again, slow and deliberate, rolling your hips so your body pressed perfectly into his.

This time, his hips pushed up to meet you. Instinct. Need. Pure, uncontrollable desire.

His hand flew to your waist, fingers digging in, not to stop you, god, Bucky never stopped you, but to steady himself.

“You feel that, baby?” you murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Look how hard you are already.”

He whimpered, actually whimpered, and the sound went straight to your core.

“You’re killin’ me,” he said, voice choked and wrecked. “I woke up wantin’ cuddles and kisses and now I—fuck, sunshine, I need you. I need you so bad.”

You dragged your lips down his neck again, slower this time, leaving a wet trail that made him tremble. 

“Then tell me,” you whispered. “Use your words.”

His chest rose fast. His metal hand slid up your back, over your spine, cradling the back of your neck with impossible gentleness.

“I want you,” he breathed, voice cracking. “I want you wrapped around me, your legs around my waist, your body under mine so I can feel you everywhere.”

Heat pooled low in your belly, sharp and sweet.

You shifted your hips again, letting your body press fully into the thick, hard length of him. 

Bucky choked on a moan, hand tightening in your hair.

“Sunshine—please.”

You smiled softly, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Roll your hips for me.”

He did, instinctively lifting his hips into yours, grinding up with a need so raw it punched a sound from your throat.

“Ohhh—god—Bucky—”

That did it. His eyes snapped open, dark with hunger and awe.

“You like that?” he rasped. “Shit, you sound so pretty—do it again, c’mere—”

His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you down against him as he thrust up again, slower this time, deliberate, dragging every inch of him against you through the thin layers between you.

Your head fell forward with a breathless gasp.

“Bucky—”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he growled softly against your mouth. “Say my name like that. Ride me through the fuckin’ sheets—just like that, sunshine, just like that—”

You moved with him, both of you finding a rhythm that was maddeningly slow and unbearably intense. Friction building, heat curling low in your core, your breath stuttering every time his hips rolled just right.

He was breathing hard now, jaw clenched, sweat beginning to bead at his temples.

“I’m gonna lose my damn mind,” he whispered, forehead pressing to yours. “You’re so warm—feel so good—fuck, sunshine, I need to be inside you.”

“Then take me,” you whispered.

His whole body stilled.

Blue eyes locked onto yours, blown wide.

“…say that again,” he said, voice breaking.

You cupped his jaw, kissed him slow and deep.

“Take me,” you murmured against his lips. “I want you inside me.”

A sound tore from his chest, half growl, half prayer, and then his hands were on your hips, guiding, lifting, his control hanging by a single frayed thread.

“Sunshine,” he panted, “I’m gonna make you feel so good—gonna have you comin’ on my cock before the sheets cool—”

“Then don’t make me wait.”

He flipped you gently but urgently onto your back, settling between your thighs with a reverent, starving kind of hunger, his big body caging yours without an ounce of pressure, nothing but warmth and wanting.

His lips were on your throat immediately, kissing, nipping, worshipping down the line of your neck as his hands traced up your sides under your shirt, palms warm and greedy.

“You’re shakin’,” he murmured against your skin.

“So are you,” you breathed.

He laughed softly, wrecked, breathless, already barely composed.

“Yeah,” he admitted, kissing down the center of your chest. “’Cause I’ve been dreamin’ about this my whole life. Wakin’ up to you. Havin’ you under me, soft and needy and mine.”

Your breath caught at the word. Mine.

His eyes flicked up, dark and molten.

“You like that,” he said quietly, knowingly. “You like when I tell you you’re mine.”

You nodded, heat shooting through you so fast it made your toes curl.

He groaned. Groaned.

“Sunshine, I’ll say it all mornin’. You’re mine—mine to touch, mine to kiss, mine to make come—”

His metal hand slid between your thighs.

Your breath shattered.

“And I’m yours,” he whispered, kissing below your ear. “Every fuckin’ inch of me.”

Bucky’s fingers brushed the inside of your thigh, barely a touch, more a question than a demand, and your breath hitched hard enough that he felt it.

His eyes lifted to yours.

“Yeah,” he whispered, thumb stroking the sensitive skin once, slow. “That’s it. Open up for me, sunshine.”

You did, immediately. Instinctively.

Like your body had been waiting for that exact tone from him.

He settled between your thighs, heavy and warm, his hips lowering just enough that you felt the thick press of him against your core even through the last thin layer of clothing. Your back arched involuntarily.

“God, you’re needy,” he murmured, sounding somewhere between awed and undone. “Didn’t even have to touch you yet.”

“Bucky—”

His hand slid up, cupping you through your panties, metal fingers curved perfectly to your heat. The cold vibranium contrasted with warm skin, sending a shocked moan tumbling out of your mouth.

“Ohhh—fuck—”

He smirked, slow and sinful.

“That’s it, baby. I love that sound. Gonna get a lot more of those outta you.”

He pressed just a little harder, enough that you felt his fingertips through the damp fabric.

“You’re soaked,” he breathed, thumb brushing your clit through the cotton in a slow, purposeful circle. “All this for me?”

Your hips jerked. Your breath broke. And Bucky smiled like he’d just been handed a sunrise.

“Tell me,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss along your jaw. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you,” you gasped, your fingers curling in his hair as you pushed helplessly into his touch. “I want all of you—please—”

His breath stuttered.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I love when you beg.”

He hooked one finger in the fabric of your panties and dragged them down, slow and deliberate, his eyes locked on you the entire time.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost reverent. “Pretty little thing, drippin’ for me.”

His finger slid through your slick and your entire body arched. You grabbed at his shoulders, nails sinking in, but he only chuckled softly and kissed your cheek.

“Easy, sunshine. Lemme take care of you.”

He dipped his finger into you just to the first knuckle.

Your breath crumbled.

“Bucky—oh my god—”

“Shhh, I got you,” he murmured, kissing your temple, his voice low and steady even as his hips ground into the mattress for relief. “You’re so tight already… you’re gonna ruin me.”

He pushed deeper, stretching you with a tenderness that contrasted brutally with the way he was panting against your neck.

“Always so fuckin’ tight for me,” he whispered. “Squeezin’ me like you’re already around my cock.”

You moaned, hips rocking helplessly toward him. Your hand found his wrist, not to stop him but to urge him deeper.

He obeyed instantly.

A second finger slid in beside the first, and your back arched so sharply that your chest pressed to his.

“There you go,” he murmured, kissing your throat as his fingers scissored gently. “Open up for me. Let me feel you.”

You could barely breathe.

You could barely think.

All you could do was cling to him as he fucked you slowly with his fingers, deep, curling strokes that hit a spot inside you that made your vision blur at the edges.

His forehead pressed to yours, his breath mingling with yours.

“Sunshine,” he rasped, “look at me.”

You forced your eyes open and what you found nearly undid you.

Bucky was flushed, pupils blown, hair messy from your grip, completely gone for you.

“You look so good when I’m inside you,” he whispered, thumb brushing your clit in a slow stroke that made your hips buck. “So pretty when you take me.”

Your whimper was immediate and broken.

He swallowed it with a kiss, deep and hungry and wet. His tongue brushed yours, lazy and possessive.

His fingers curled inside you.

You cried out into his mouth, thighs trembling.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned against your lips. “Ride my hand—come on, sunshine, fuck yourself on my fingers.”

You did.

Your hips moved on instinct, grinding down into his palm, chasing the pressure and the heat and the delicious burn building low and fast.

“Good girl,” he whispered into your mouth. “My good girl. You’re gettin’ close, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes—oh god—Bucky—”

His thumb circled your clit with devastating precision.

“Come on my fingers,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your trembling mouth. “Come for me, sunshine.”

It hit so fast it stole the air from your lungs.

Your body tightened, shaking, clenching around him in rhythmic waves that dragged a rough, desperate groan out of his chest.

“Ohhh fuck, yeah—that’s it,” he rasped, watching your face like he was memorizing every detail. “That’s my girl. That’s my perfect fuckin’ girl.”

You trembled through the aftershocks, unable to catch your breath. Bucky didn’t pull away, not yet. He kept his fingers inside you, slow and gentle now, grounding you, helping you ride it out.

His free hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking tenderly.

“You with me?” he whispered, kissing your forehead. “You okay, baby?”

You nodded, still shaking. “Y-yes. Just… holy shit.”

He laughed softly, sweet, breathless, affectionate as hell.

“You’re somethin’ else, sunshine.”

He pulled his fingers from you slowly, watching the way you gasped at the sensitivity.

Then he brought his fingers to his mouth… and sucked them clean.

Your entire body jolted.

His eyes locked on yours as he did it, tongue dragging between his fingers, savoring every bit of you.

“Mmm,” he hummed, low and sinful. “Taste even better first thing in the morning.”

“Bucky—”

“Yeah, baby?” he said, settling between your thighs again, his cock heavy and swollen between you now, nudging your slick entrance.

“I need you inside me.”

His eyes darkened to midnight.

Everything in him went soft and wrecked at the same time.

“You got me, sunshine,” he whispered, lowering himself carefully. “You always fuckin’ got me.”

And with one slow, perfect thrust, Bucky sank into you, like he was trying to memorize every millimeter of the way you opened around him. The stretch burned in the best way, a sweet ache blooming deep in your belly as his thick cock pushed past your entrance and filled you inch by devastating inch.

Your breath caught, high and desperate, and your nails dug into his shoulders without conscious thought.

“Oh—God—Bucky—”

He groaned your name into your neck, the sound raw and shaky, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding still. His breath hit your skin in hot, uneven bursts.

“Sunshine,” he panted, voice shredded. “You feel—shit—you feel unreal.”

When he bottomed out, hips flush with yours, your back arched off the bed. The fullness, the heat, the pressure—it was all-consuming. You felt stretched around him, filled to the edge, claimed from the inside out.

He stayed like that for a long moment, buried deep, chest pressed to yours, his pulse rabbiting hard against your skin.

His voice shook when he whispered, “Every damn time… you take me so perfect. So warm. So tight around me… fuck, sunshine, you’re gonna ruin me.”

Your thighs trembled around him, instinctively tightening. The move squeezed around his thick length and a strangled growl tore out of him, muffled against your throat.

“Don’t—” His hand tightened on your hip. “Don’t squeeze like that—baby, I’m beggin’—I’ll come right now.”

“Maybe I want that,” you breathed into his ear, your lips brushing the sensitive shell, your breath hot and deliberate. “Maybe I want you to lose it.”

His hips jerked, helpless, involuntary.

His control frayed to threads.

He lifted his head, eyes blown wide and dark, chest heaving.

“You say shit like that,” he rasped, “and I swear to god, sunshine, I won’t make it five minutes.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, slow and teasing.

“Then don’t last.”

Whatever was holding him together snapped.

He withdrew an inch, just enough that you felt the sudden emptiness, then pushed back into you with one deep, heavy thrust that knocked a sharp cry out of your mouth.

Your hands flew to his back, dragging down the hard lines of muscle, feeling him flex beneath your fingers.

He set a pace that wasn’t fast, but deep. Long strokes that dragged the blunt head of his cock against the softest, most devastating spots inside you. Each thrust pushed a whimper from your lips, each retreat made your body chase him, try to keep him.

His forehead dropped to yours, his hair brushing your cheeks in soft, messy strands.

“Look at me,” he whispered, nudging your nose with his. “Wanna see your face when I fuck you.”

You forced your eyes open and Bucky was staring down at you like the sight of your pleasure was the most beautiful, holy thing he’d ever witnessed.

He kissed you then, slow at first, lips molding to yours, tongue brushing the seam, tasting your gasps. Then deeper, hungrier, like he needed your mouth as much as he needed your body.

His metal hand slid beneath your waist, lifting you into him as he thrust again, deeper this time, angled perfectly to make your vision blur.

“B-Bucky—oh god—right there—”

He groaned against your lips, his breath shuddering.

“There?” he rasped, thrusting again in the same devastating angle. “That the spot, sunshine?”

“Yes—yes—oh fuck—”

His hand on your thigh tightened, pulling you wider open, giving him more space to thrust deeper, harder, until you could feel him pressing into a place inside you that made your toes curl and your lungs stop working.

You clamped around him without meaning to, walls pulsing in rhythm with each slow, bruising thrust.

His head snapped back with a loud, helpless groan.

“Fuck—don’t do that—don’t—oh god, sunshine—”

You dragged your nails down his back again, something wild and needy unraveling inside you.

“Come for me,” you whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I want you to. Fill me.”

He froze mid-thrust, every muscle seizing.

His cock twitched violently inside you.

“You—you can’t say that,” he stuttered, voice dropping into something feral, primal. “Baby—don’t—if you say that—”

You cupped his cheek and whispered it again, slow and pleading.

“Come inside me, Bucky.”

He made a sound you’d never heard before, half moan, half growl, and buried his face in your neck like he couldn’t bear the intensity of it.

“Ohhh fuck—oh fuck—sunshine—fuck—”

His hips began to snap into you, fast and uneven now, instinct taking over, desperation unraveling what was left of his restraint. You felt him losing control, felt the raw hunger in every thrust.

Your body tightened around him again and he swore, deep, shaky, guttural.

“You’re squeezin’ me so hard—oh god—baby, you’re gonna make me—”

His hand found your clit, thumb circling with a perfect, devastating pressure that sent a lightning bolt through your entire body.

“Come for me,” he begged, voice cracking. “Please—please sunshine—need to feel you come before I do—need to feel it—”

Your orgasm hit like a wave breaking over a cliff.

Your back arched so sharply you nearly lifted off the bed, your body clamping tight around him, pulsing in desperate, rhythmic waves as sounds you couldn’t control broke from your throat.

“Yes—yes—oh fuck—Bucky—”

Your orgasm dragged him with you.

He thrust once, twice, then yelled into your neck as he came hard, hips stuttering, cock twitching violently inside you as he spilled deep, hot and thick, filling you in long, pulsing bursts that made you gasp all over again.

His whole body trembled with it, shoulders shaking, breath shattering, hands gripping you like you were the only solid thing in the world.

He stayed inside you, chest pressed to yours, breath slowing against your throat. His hips gave one final, involuntary little pulse that made you both gasp softly.

“Jesus…” he whispered, kissing your jaw with a trembling mouth. “I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard in my damn life.”

You smiled, stroking the back of his neck. “Good.”

He let out a quiet, breathless laugh, nuzzling into your cheek like a sleepy oversized dog who wanted affection and praise at the same time.

“‘Good,’ she says…” He kissed you again, slower this time. “You’re gonna kill me.”

His softening cock slipped a bit, and you let out a tiny sound, half sensitivity, half the warm, messy reality of him still inside you.

His eyes snapped to yours, soft and earnest.

“You okay?”

“More than okay,” you murmured. “Just… full.”

That soft wrecked look he got, the one that said you have me completely, spread across his face.

He kissed you.

Slow.

Lingering.

So tender it made your stomach flip.

“My sunshine,” he whispered against your mouth. “My perfect girl. My everything.”

But then he shifted his hips just slightly, unintentionally, and the warm spill of him inside you shifted with it.

You gasped.

His brows flew together in a mix of concern and sudden hunger.

“Ohhh… sweetheart…” he breathed. “Did you feel that?”

You nodded, cheeks warming.

He dropped another kiss to your lips, then your cheek, then your chin, murmuring between each press.

“Let me take care of you…”

He slid out of you carefully, slow so he wouldn’t hurt you, and the movement drew a soft, broken whimper from both of you. The warm spill of him followed the retreat, and you felt it begin to slip down your thigh.

Bucky saw it.

His breath stuttered.

And then he was gone only for a second, reaching for tissues from the nightstand with frantic tenderness, and was immediately back between your thighs.

“Sunshine,” he whispered, voice low and affectionate. “Look how messy you are…”

You flushed hot, thighs trying to close on instinct.

He gently pushed one hand to the inside of your knee.

“No,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh. “Don’t hide from me. Lemme clean you.”

And he did, dabbing carefully first, then using his warm palm to keep your legs relaxed as he wiped the slow, warm trickle of him from your skin.

His voice stayed low, intimate, soothing.

“Hold still for me, baby… yeah, that’s it… god, you look so pretty like this… all relaxed and fucked-out…”

His words made you melt instead of tense.

He cleaned you with such care, such gentleness, that your chest ached.

When he was done, he pressed the softest kiss to your inner thigh.

Something possessive.

Something worshipful.

Then he crawled up your body, bracing himself carefully so he wouldn’t crush you, and cupped your cheek.

“You feel okay?” he asked, brushing his thumb over your lips. “Anything hurt? Too much?”

“You were perfect,” you whispered, leaning into his touch.

The look on his face, soft, overwhelmed, and so in love to the point of pain, made your heart flip.

He kissed you again, slow and lingering, then nudged your nose with his.

“C’mere,” he murmured. “I wanna hold you.”

Before you could even adjust, he pulled you into his chest and rolled onto his back, bringing you with him so you were draped over his torso.

Your leg fell across his waist.

Your hand spread over the center of his chest, feeling his heartbeat, slow, warm, and steady.

His arms wrapped around you like he was locking you into place.

“Perfect,” he breathed, kissing the top of your head. “Just like this.”

You murmured into his skin, “You’re warm.”

“Mmh.” He smiled into your hair. “Told you, I’m your human space heater.”

You snorted softly, nuzzling closer. “Overgrown weighted blanket.”

“Damn right,” he said, rubbing slow circles into your back. “And I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

He shifted a little beneath you, tugging the blanket over both of you with his metal arm, then burying his nose in your hair with a quiet, content sigh.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“You know… I love this part the most.”

You lifted your head. “Which part?”

His eyes softened, thumb brushing your lower lip, voice low and earnest.

“Holdin’ you after. When you’re all soft and warm and still shakin’ a little… feels like I got the whole world in my arms.”

Your breath caught.

Then you kissed him, slow, deep, with the softness that filth can’t touch, and he melted under you, a big, heavy, happy sigh leaving his chest.

“Bucky?” you murmured, curling deeper into him.

“Yeah, sunshine?”

“Don’t let go yet.”

He tightened his arms instantly, protectively, affection spilling from him like heat.

“Never,” he whispered into your hair. “You’re stayin’ right here.”

And he held you… warm, messy, satisfied, safe as the morning light crept in, kissing your bare skin the same way he would later when he woke you up for round two.

[heldbybarnes]

Just had the filthiest idea for Bucky and fem reader. Bucky is this huge, tough, intimidating super soldier and reader is really sweet and soft. Obviously the sex is mind blowing and Bucky completely looses it every time they do it. But he loses it so much he whines and whimpers high pitched and begs and one day they’re overheard and the person who overheard mistakes/assumes Bucky’s sounds are readers and then later teases them for it, clapping Bucky on the back in a kind of manly congratulations on getting his girl to sound like that and she just sits there smirking while he turns bright red.

whiny bucky🤤

---------

Bucky Barnes is terrifying to everyone but you.

Big, broad, permanently scowling, shoulders so wide they make hallways feel narrow—everyone on the team knows better than to get on his bad side. He’s a super soldier, an ex-assassin, a wall of muscle wrapped in black tactical gear and quiet menace most days.

But you know the truth.

Underneath all that steel and swagger is the man who melts the second you touch him. The man who unravels like cheap thread every time he gets you alone. The man whose big hands shake when they slide over your skin, whose breath catches when you whisper his name, whose eyes go glassy the moment you climb into his lap.

And the man who absolutely loses it the second he’s inside you.

Tonight is no different. He’s already gone by the time your hips roll down, already biting his lip like he’s trying to keep himself together, already gripping your thighs like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing keeping him above water.

“Sweetheart—fuck, oh God—slow down, please—”

His voice is embarrassingly high, all breathy and desperate, the kind of noise he’d throw himself into oncoming traffic before admitting he makes. His head tips back against the pillow, throat exposed, brow furrowed like he’s in painful bliss, the muscles in his abdomen trembling under your palms.

You’re moving slow, deliberately so. You like watching him come undone. You love it, actually—seeing this massive, intimidating man reduced to pretty little noises because of you.

“Feels good, Buck?” you murmur, leaning in like you’re asking something secret.

He nods frantically. “Feels—feels so good, baby, you’re—oh fuck—please don’t stop—”

And then he whimpers.

A high, cracked, humiliating sound he’ll deny with his dying breath, the kind that hits so sharply he slaps a hand over his mouth like he can shove it back inside.

You pry his hand away, because you like hearing him too much to let him hide. “Let me hear you.”

He shakes his head desperately. “Can’t—sound stupid—”

“You sound perfect,” you whisper against his ear, rolling your hips once—slow, deep, unhurried.

That’s when he truly breaks. His voice jumps an octave as he gasps your name, fingers scrambling for your waist, hips jerking up to meet you like he can’t stand even a second without the friction. He’s whining—actual whining—as he grips at you like you’re the only solid thing in the world.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps in the hallway.

Doesn’t hear the way someone pauses outside the door.

Doesn’t hear anything except your voice telling him he’s doing so good, being so good for you.

By the time he comes, he’s shaking, pupils blown wide, throat raw from the pretty, helpless sounds he tried and failed to swallow down. You kiss him through the aftershocks, slow and soft, feeling the way he clings to you like he’s trying to recover pieces of himself that scattered across the mattress.

He’s still breathing hard when someone knocks once—loudly—then moves down the hall.

You snicker into his neck. “Think they heard you.”

He groans miserably, dragging a pillow over his face. “Don’t—don’t even joke about that—”

But you know better. You know Bucky Barnes, the galaxy-wide reputation and the soft-underbelly truth of him. You know the way he sounds when he comes apart for you, when he begs for you, when the world falls away and all that’s left is the helpless, desperate need he never lets anyone else see. You know the way his cheeks flush to his ears when he’s embarrassed.

You also know the team has a meeting in the morning.

And wow, does the universe deliver.

You’re sitting at the conference table, sipping your coffee, trying not to grin too hard when Sam Wilson strolls in late, drops into the seat beside Bucky, and immediately claps him on the back so hard the metal arm thunks against the chair.

“Barnes!” Sam laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. “My man. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Bucky blinks, confused and wary. “What?”

“That noise last night,” Sam continues, lowering his voice in the world’s least subtle attempt at discretion. “You almost had me knocking on the door to check on her. Thought she was dying or being murdered or something.” He laughs harder, completely oblivious. “Damn, Buck. Good for you, man.”

Bucky goes scarlet instantly.

His ears flush, then his throat, then his entire face. He looks like he wants the metal arm to malfunction just so he has an excuse to launch himself out a window.

You take a slow sip of your coffee, fighting a smirk.

Sam notices your silence and grins wide. “You okay over there, sweetheart? Didn’t mean to embarrass you. Just—those were some sounds. Barnes really put in the work.”

You hum noncommittally. “Yeah,” you say, turning your eyes toward Bucky, who looks like he’s about to spontaneously combust. “He sure did.”

Bucky shoots you a murderous glare over Sam’s shoulder. You raise a brow, daring him to correct the misunderstanding. To admit the truth. To tell Sam that the high-pitched, breathy, desperate noises echoing through the hallway were his, not yours.

He says nothing.

Sam elbows him again. “Barnes, you dog.”

Bucky’s head drops into his hands with a groan. “I hate everything.”

You sweetly pat his thigh under the table. “It’s okay, baby.”

He lifts his head just enough to glare again—this time betrayed, horrified, and pink enough to match Steve’s Fourth of July shirts.

You smile at him like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.

Because only you know the truth.

Only you get to hear what the rest of the world thinks you’re the one making.

And Bucky? He’s never living this down.

[agentinlove]

and for a moment

i saw him again

[the-wandering-wonder]

A Few Upgrades

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 3,210

Rating: E (smut)

Chapter: 1/1

Summary: One night, you notice something different about Bucky’s vibranium arm. The faint glow in the seams. The way his fingers flex like he’s testing something new. When you ask about it, he shrugs it off at first — just a few adjustments, a couple of upgrades. But when you press him, he finally admits the truth. The changes weren’t made for him. They weren’t made for combat. They were made for you.

Tag List: @solemnlywickedwolf @mrscarlislecullen @buckys-girl-blog @quantumbarnes

It starts in the kitchen.

You’re perched on the counter, legs swinging lazily, watching him stir something on the stove. Barefoot, black Henley hugging his frame, hair pushed back behind his ears. Domestic. Distracting.

He lifts the spoon to taste, then turns slightly toward you, and that’s when you see it — his vibranium fingers flex subtly, the seams along the knuckles glowing faintly blue before fading.

“Wait,” you say, squinting. “Did your arm just—glow?”

Bucky glances down like he forgot it might be noticeable. “Mm. Yeah. Had some…adjustments done.”

You blink. “Adjustments?”

A beat passes. He shrugs, casual, like it’s no big deal. “Just a few enhancements. Couple new functions.”

Your brain stutters. You’ve seen that arm in action — shattering concrete, holding back enemies, curling possessively around your waist. But this? New functions?

“Like what?” you ask slowly, curiosity blooming with something hotter underneath.

He stirs the pot again. Doesn’t look at you when he answers.

“Precision grip. Temperature modulation. Controlled vibration.”

Your mouth goes dry.

He turns back toward you now, finally meeting your gaze. Calm. Unbothered.

Deadly.

“Why would you need vibration in your combat arm?” you ask, voice thinning with suspicion.

And he smirks.

“Didn’t say it was for combat.”

Your legs part slightly on instinct.

Not enough to be blatant — just enough for the cool air to kiss the inside of your thighs. Just enough to feel the tension pulse as Bucky goes back to stirring the pot like he didn’t just say something that rewired your entire brain.

You blink.

“Vibration,” you repeat.

He hums noncommittally.

“Temperature control.”

Another hum. “Mmhmm.”

Your voice drops. “Bucky. Why would you need that?”

He finally turns, lifting the spoon to your lips. “Taste this.”

You narrow your eyes at him but lean in anyway. His human hand rests on your knee, steady and warm, as you suck the spoon clean. The sauce is good, but you barely notice.

He notices you licking your lips.

You don’t break eye contact. “So…why the new features?”

The corners of his mouth twitch. He sets the spoon aside.

“Just in case,” he says. Then he steps in closer, between your legs, arms braced on either side of your hips.

You feel the buzz — not the arm. You.

“You know how keyed up you get after missions,” he murmurs. “How you can’t stop shaking sometimes? How you need something just to come down?”

His left hand rises, knuckles ghosting the hem of your shorts. You swear you feel a whisper of warmth radiating from the metal. Just enough to make you gasp.

“Figured I’d make it easier. Faster. Better.”

Your thighs clench.

“Show me,” you breathe.

Bucky leans in, lips brushing your jaw.

“Later.”

You grab his wrist. “Why not now?”

He chuckles, low and dark.

“Because if I touch you with it now, you’re gonna soak through those pretty little shorts before dinner hits the table.”

He pulls back, devil in his grin, and turns off the stove.

“Eat first, doll,” he says over his shoulder. “Then I’ll blow your mind.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The plates are barely scraped clean when you feel his hand on your knee. Warm. Intentional. His thumb traces slow, grounding circles — and then slides up, just under the hem of your shorts, where your skin’s still hypersensitive from earlier teasing.

You still remember the hum of his arm against you.

“Bucky…”

He stands before you say another word. Not rushed — deliberate. Calm in that deadly way.

Then he leans down, presses a slow kiss to your cheek, your jaw, your neck, just beneath your ear.

“Go to the bedroom,” he murmurs.

Your breath stutters. “Now?”

“Now.”

You slip off the stool on trembling legs, your heart a loud thud in your throat as you make your way to the bedroom. You don’t look back, but you feel him watching you walk.

By the time he enters, you’re on the bed, sitting up, anticipation flooding every nerve. He shuts the door behind him and leans against it for a moment, arms folded.

"You been thinking about it?” he asks, flexing his vibranium fingers like he doesn’t already know.

You nod. Whisper, “Yeah.”

He pushes off the door and walks slowly toward you, peeling the Henley up over his head, the soft whir of his arm echoing in the silence. Bare chest. A glint in his eye that’s darker than hunger.

“Good,” he says softly. “Because I’m not just gonna use it.”

He climbs onto the bed, knees bracketing your thighs, and his vibranium hand brushes your jaw.

“I’m gonna ruin you with it.”

He kisses you like he’s trying to brand you. Like the taste of you might rewrite everything in him.

And maybe it already has.

Because when his flesh hand slides under your tank top, it’s not hurried or fumbling. It’s firm. Confident. Fingertips dragging upward like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

You arch into him, aching, but he pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips.

“Let me take my time.”

His thumb brushes your stomach, then dips beneath the waistband of your shorts. He doesn’t push yet. Just teases the sensitive skin there, smiling faintly when your breath hitches.

“You’ve been squirming all through dinner,” he says, voice thick with amusement and something darker. “All worked up, just from thinking about a few upgrades.”

He kisses your jaw. Your neck. Down your collarbone.

“You want me to ruin you with it, baby?” His mouth is against your chest now, just above your heartbeat. “You want me to touch you with fingers that can make you beg?”

You moan softly, and he chuckles, low and smug.

“So eager for me already.”

Then he pulls your tank top over your head, slow and reverent, kissing every new inch of skin he exposes. Down to your bra, which he unclasps like he’s done it a thousand times.

His lips skim lower.

But it’s his flesh hand that trails down your sides, curling around your waist, gripping your thighs. He explores you with it — no tech, no enhancements — just warmth and want and muscle.

“You feel this?” he murmurs as his mouth finds your nipple, teeth grazing gently. “This is just me, sweetheart. Just my hand. And you’re already shaking.”

Your shorts are next. He slides them down slowly, his mouth following every movement, until he’s kneeling between your thighs.

Only your panties left.

He presses a kiss just above the waistband. The vibranium arm finally moves — just the back of one finger, cool and solid, brushing your inner thigh.

You jolt.

And he smirks again.

“Oh yeah,” he growls, looking up at you with that fucking look. “You’re gonna fall apart for me.”

Your panties slide off with the slow reverence of ritual. He doesn’t tear them — he peels them, inch by inch, watching the way your breath catches when the fabric sticks just slightly to your slick heat.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re soaked.”

You shiver. But not from cold.

Not yet.

He shifts lower, between your thighs, and spreads them gently with both hands — flesh on one side, metal on the other. The contrast in temperature already makes you gasp.

“Oh, you like that,” he says softly. “Knew you would.”

And then he leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh.

Just once.

Then again, a little higher.

You feel his breath first — hot, hungry — and then…

Warmth.

His vibranium fingers slide up slowly, two of them just barely brushing over your folds. Not vibrating. Not curling. Just warm.

Radiating heat like sun on skin, slow and soft and thick. Like being touched by a summer day. Like slipping into a bath that knows your exact temperature.

You gasp, hips twitching.

“Easy,” he murmurs, the pads of his fingers gliding up your slit, parting you gently.

You whimper and he tuts at you.

“I just wanna feel you first.”

His fingers coast upward until the heat presses just beneath your clit — but he doesn’t touch it. Not directly. Just close.

“I had Shuri set it to body-safe temp ranges,” he says idly, his other hand gripping your thigh to hold you still. “Not enough to hurt, but enough to drive you crazy…”

You choke on a moan. He grins against your thigh.

“Hold still,” he whispers.

Then—

Cool.

He drops the heat in a second. The same fingers, now dragging lower, are suddenly chilled — not cold, not harsh — but cool enough to shock your overheated body into spasms.

You cry out.

“Fuuuck, Bucky—”

“Oh, I know,” he hums, and you can hear the grin in his voice. “You feel that contrast? Your body’s trying to decide whether to arch into it or run away.”

He brings the warmth back — one stroke, a wave of heated pleasure — and then cools it again, fingertips circling, teasing, never staying at one temperature long enough to let you settle.

Your thighs tremble around his head.

“You gonna come just from this?” he murmurs, watching you with dark, hungry eyes. “From temperature alone?”

You nod, panting.

“Then you’re not ready for what happens when I turn the vibration on.”

You’re already twitching under his touch — hips rolling, back arching, thighs trembling — but Bucky just watches you like it’s the best show he’s ever seen. Calm. Controlled.

His vibranium hand keeps moving slow, stroking you in lazy circles — one pass warm, the next cool, the next something between.

And each shift pulls a different sound from your lips.

“Look at you,” he rasps, voice thick. “So fucking sensitive. All this from a little hot and cold.”

Your hands grip the sheets, knuckles white. He’s not even inside you yet.

“Bucky—”

He hushes you with a kiss to your hipbone, then murmurs against your skin, “Not yet, sweetheart.”

Another pass.

Warmth…swirl…cool…drag…just shy of your clit.

“Please,” you whisper, broken and breathless.

He groans softly, like it costs him something to hold back.

“You want more, don’t you?” His fingers slow. “You want to feel it hum right against this pretty little pussy?”

You nod frantically. “Yes. Yes, Bucky, please…”

And then you feel it.

The hum.

So soft. Barely there.

Just the subtlest vibration at the tips of two fingers — so delicate it almost tickles before it burns.

Your whole body jerks.

“Oh my god—”

Bucky chuckles darkly. “There it is.”

He keeps the motion small. Focused. Gentle circles, just teasing the edge of your clit with that soft, buzzing heat.

Not enough to send you over — but enough to drive you wild.

“You’re gonna fall apart from the lowest setting, baby,” he purrs. “Haven’t even turned it up yet.”

You try to grind into him, to chase the friction, but his flesh hand pins your hip down hard.

“Don’t,” he warns, voice all gravel. “You don’t come yet. You hold it.”

You whimper. Struggle. Shake.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Stay right there. You take what I give you, and nothing more.”

The vibrations stay soft. The temperature stays steady. And Bucky watches every breathless, needy second of it — until your thighs are quaking and your moans are turning into pleas.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

The change is subtle — at first.

A soft click from inside the arm, barely audible, but then you feel it. The vibration deepens, becomes thicker, like it’s burrowing under your skin, resonating straight into your nerves.

And Bucky? He watches every single reaction.

Your gasp. The way your thighs clamp around his shoulders. The way your hips buck, instinct taking over, chasing more — anything — because it’s suddenly everything and not enough, all at the same time.

He grins, all teeth and hunger.

“You feel that, sweetheart?”

You try to answer, but all that comes out is a strangled moan.

“Uh-huh,” he chuckles. “That’s the next setting.”

He kisses your inner thigh again, his breath hot against your dripping folds. Then, without warning, two vibranium fingers slide inside.

You scream.

It’s too much. The vibration doesn’t stop. It hums through your walls, against every sensitive spot, setting your nerves on fire in the most delicious, devastating way.

And then?

Warmth.

The fingers inside you begin to heat, slow and steady, and the contrast nearly rips the orgasm from your core.

Your back arches off the bed.

“Ohhh fuuuuck—Bucky!”

“No,” he growls, pinning you back with his other hand, his mouth pressed tight to your hip. “Not yet. I’m not done. Hold it for me like a good girl…”

He fucks you with his fingers in slow, deliberate thrusts. Precision control, just like he said. The rhythm is maddening, perfect, relentless.

His vibranium thumb finally rises, nudging your clit — just barely brushing it.

You nearly sob.

“I designed this for you, baby,” he says through clenched teeth. “Every setting. Every pulse. Every damn degree calibrated to make you fall apart for me.”

The vibration intensifies again — one level higher.

“Let go for me, right now…”

And you do. You break.

You cry out his name, body clenching tight around his fingers, stars bursting behind your eyes as he finally lets you come — hard and messy and loud.

But he doesn’t stop.

You're still trembling when he leans over you again, mouth hovering just above your parted lips.

“Did you think I was gonna stop at one, doll?” he whispers.

The two fingers inside you are still buzzing — deep and warm and relentless. He hasn't withdrawn, hasn't slowed. If anything, he’s settled in.

You try to twist your hips, but his human hand comes down on your stomach, firm.

“Don’t.”

His thumb slides up — metal, smooth, gleaming — and when it brushes your clit this time, it’s not just warm. It’s vibrating.

Not soft anymore.

Focused. Direct. Intense.

“Fuckfuckfuck—Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he growls, eyes locked on your face. “Let me see it. I want every damn reaction.”

Your thighs slam shut around his arm on instinct, but the metal doesn’t give — it holds you open, the vibrating thumb circling mercilessly over your swollen clit while his fingers curl just right inside you.

He finds your spot. And stays there.

“Oh god—”

You thrash. Whimper. Try to push his hand away, but he catches your wrist and pins it to the bed.

“You said you wanted this,” he murmurs, hot against your ear. “Begged for it. So don’t you dare run from it now.”

You come again — harder this time, your cry ragged and broken.

But he doesn’t let up.

“Still twitching,” he notes with a low chuckle. “Still clenching around me.”

He turns the setting up one more time.

“Let’s see how many times I can make you come before I even fuck you.”

And then he seals his mouth to yours, kissing you deep while his fingers work you into a third, overwhelming orgasm. You sob into his mouth and he swallows it whole.

You don’t know how you’re still breathing.

Your body jerks under him, mouth falling open on a silent cry as the third orgasm tears through you — sharper than the last, white-hot and impossible.

Your walls flutter around his fingers, still buzzing, still warm. Your clit is swollen, trembling, raw under the constant hum of his thumb.

And Bucky watches all of it like a man starved.

“There she is,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth down your neck, teeth scraping lightly. “My perfect fuckin’ girl, all wrecked for me.”

You try to speak — try to beg for mercy or more, you’re not even sure — but all that leaves your throat is a broken whimper.

He kisses your cheek. Your mouth. Your chin.

Then the vibrations stop.

You blink.

And feel him withdraw those slick, glistening fingers with a quiet, wet sound.

You don’t get a moment to recover.

Because he’s shifting, kneeling between your spread thighs, his hand stroking his cock slow — wet from his own leaking arousal and your cum — and lining himself up to your pulsing, overstimulated entrance.

His other hand cups your jaw.

“You still with me, doll?” he murmurs, voice softer now. “You want more?”

You nod helplessly, eyes glassy.

He presses the head of his cock against your slick heat. You’re so wet, so open, it nearly draws him in on the first push.

But he waits.

“God, you feel—” he groans, eyes fluttering. “All that for you, baby. All those upgrades, all that tech…just so I could do this.”

He rocks forward — slowly — sinking in inch by thick, stretching inch.

You cry out. It’s too much. It’s perfect.

He leans in close, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged.

“Let me all the way in.”

Another push. Deeper.

“Let me fuck you exactly how you were meant to take it.”

He bottoms out with a low, devastated moan — and you feel every inch throb inside you.

And when he finally pulls back, it’s only to snap his hips forward with a growl that shakes your bones.

“That's it, baby, take me,” he rasps. “Mine. From the inside out.”

Your head is spinning.

Bucky is buried inside you, thick and deep and stretching you with every measured thrust. He’s not rushing — not yet. No, he’s savouring the way you twitch around him, the way your hands scramble for something — anything — to anchor you while your overstimulated body tries to take him.

His flesh hand grips your thigh, fingers digging in just enough to leave bruises. Holding you open. Holding you still.

You feel the shift when his vibranium arm moves.

The whir is low, quiet — but your body knows the sound now.

And then you feel it.

One warm metal finger slipping between your bodies, sliding over the slick mess where you’re stretched so wide around his cock.

And it finds your clit.

Warm. Buzzing. Direct.

You scream. Your back arches. He fucks you deeper.

“Shhh, baby,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours. “I told you.”

He thrusts again. Deep. Filthy. Perfect.

“I made this arm to wreck you.”

You sob. You’re not sure if you’re crying or laughing or just completely breaking.

Because the heat from that vibrating finger is intense — not enough to burn, but just enough to flood your body, like he’s dragging liquid fire across your nerves. The vibration pulses in sync with his thrusts — every time his cock slams into you, the finger flicks, circles, presses just right.

“Oh fuck—” you cry out.

He groans. “Feel that? Feel how your pussy’s clenching around me?” His lips brush your ear. “So desperate. So wet. So mine.”

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. No warning. No build. Just detonation.

You clamp down around him, shaking violently, body locked in release as your voice shatters on his name.

He keeps going.

Slow. Deep. Possessive.

His cock still pounding. That warm, vibrating finger still teasing your swollen clit.

“You’re gonna come again,” he grits, pace finally faltering, his own release building. “And I’m gonna fill you up while you do.”

And you do.

You come with him.

You feel his body tense, hear his growl deep in his throat as he thrusts one last time and spills into you — hot and heavy and overwhelming.

Your body is shaking, overstimulated, overflowing, completely undone.

And he doesn’t move.

He stays inside you. His arm still buzzing. His voice, low and reverent against your cheek.

“Fucking perfect. My perfect little mess.”

[thewintermuse]

every part of you

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Pairing: Uncircumcised & Insecure!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: A quiet movie night turns into something deeper when Bucky finally admits the insecurity that’s been holding him back from taking the next step with you: that his body isn’t “modern” and he’s terrified of disappointing you. But instead of pulling away, you climb into his lap and show him exactly how wrong he is.

Warnings/Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, P in V Sex, Slight Handjob, Uncircumcised Genitals, Body Image Insecurity/Anxiety, Established Relationship, Soft Bucky, Fluff & Smut, Tender Bucky, First Time (As A Couple)

Word count: 3.9k

Music: 

The Only Exception - Paramore

I Wanna Be Yours - Arctic Monkeys 

Talk - Hozier

Naked - James Arthur

Earned It - The Weeknd

Blue Jeans - Lana Del Ray 

Notes: hi hello!! I don’t know how or why this idea lodged itself into my brain, but it did and I’m glad for it. Hope you all enjoy!

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

He doesn’t tell you at first.

He just… stalls.

It starts with a movie on the couch. His arm around your shoulders, your legs over his lap, the both of you pretending you’re really paying attention. You’ve been dating for a while, long enough that kissing has become familiar but still a little dizzying, long enough that your hands have wandered under clothes but always stopped just shy of that line.

You’re the one who nudges the line tonight.

The credits roll, soft light from the TV washing over the room, and you tilt your head to look up at him. His jaw is shadowed, lips a little parted like he’s been thinking too hard. You reach up, brushing your thumb over the corner of his mouth.

“Hey,” you murmur, half-teasing, half-nervous yourself. “You’ve been in your head all night. That movie’s not that deep.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes flicking down to your lips, then away. “Sorry, doll. Just… thinkin’.”

“About?” you prompt, because you already know where your brain has been… namely, the way his thumb has been drawing circles on your thigh for the last twenty minutes.

He swallows. His metal hand flexes minutely on your hip.

“You,” he admits finally, eyes dropping to where your fingers are twisted in the fabric of his henley. “Us.”

Heat blooms in your chest. “Is that a bad thing?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No. God, no. Just…” His jaw works, and for a guy who’s faced aliens and killer robots, he suddenly looks weirdly… shy.

You shift, climbing more fully into his lap so you’re straddling him. His hands fly to your hips automatically, grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You smooth a palm over his chest, feeling his heart punch against your hand.

“Bucky,” you say softly. “Talk to me.”

He looks everywhere but your face. Over your shoulder. At the TV. At the lamp. Finally, reluctantly, back at you.

“I, uh…” He clears his throat. “You know I’m… old-fashioned.”

You grin. “I’ve seen your music playlist, yeah.”

He huffs again, but there’s no real humor in it. “Not just that. Just… things were different. Back then.”

You nod slowly, not sure where he’s going, but giving him the space to get there.

His grip on your hips tightens, metal fingers cool through your shirt. “And I know this is stupid. I know it doesn’t really matter. But every time things start to… get further, I get stuck thinkin’ about it instead of just bein’ with you.”

You soften immediately. “About what?”

He exhales harshly through his nose, cheeks flushing in a way that makes him look younger, more vulnerable.

“About me bein’… different,” he mutters. “You know. Down there.”

Your brows knit. “Different how?”

He gives you a look that’s equal parts exasperated and mortified. “You really gonna make me say it, doll?”

“Yes,” you say, because if he’s brave enough to bring it up, you’re not going to dance around it like it’s shameful.

He opens his mouth, closes it again, then finally forces the words out in a rush. “I’m not circumcised.”

You blink.

“Oh,” you say, because it’s… not shocking. Just information. “Okay.”

He stares at you, like he’s waiting for the flinch. For the awkward laugh. For you to scramble off his lap with some excuse about being tired.

When you don’t move, he swallows. “It was still normal when I was born,” he says quietly. “Nobody thought twice. But now… everything’s different. The magazines, the movies, the way people talk—” He cuts himself off, looking away again like he’s ashamed of even bringing it up. “Last thing I want is for you to get there and be disappointed or… surprised in a bad way. I don’t ever wanna see that look on your face, y’know?”

Something in your chest twists.

You slide your hands up, framing his face so he has no choice but to look at you. His lashes are ridiculously long, his eyes wary and uncertain in a way that guts you.

“Bucky,” you say firmly. “Listen to me. One: there is nothing wrong with your body. Nothing. Two: this?” You lean in, punctuating each word with a soft kiss. “Is. Not. A. Dealbreaker.”

He searches your eyes, like he’s trying to catch the lie.

“You say that now,” he mutters. “But when it’s your first time with someone, you wanna make a good impression, doll. You should get… y’know. Modern.”

You almost laugh, but his insecurity is so real you bite it back.

“Modern is overrated,” you say instead. “I like you. All of you. The parts that are old-fashioned, the parts that have trauma, the parts that don’t match some weird, narrow idea of what’s ‘normal’ now.”

You let your thumb brush over his bottom lip again, your voice softening.

“And for the record? I already thought about it.”

His brows shoot up. “You… what?”

You flush a little but keep your gaze steady. “Call it curiosity. Call it being attracted to you and having a brain. You’re from the ‘40s, Buck. Statistically it made sense. And I promise you, the thought I had was not ‘ew.’ It was more like… ‘okay, that’s kinda hot.’”

His jaw actually drops.

“Kinda—” He breaks off, brow furrowing. “Hot?”

You hum. “Mhm. It’s you. And I already think you’re gorgeous. So however you come is a bonus.”

His cheeks darken a deeper shade of red, eyes flicking to your mouth again like he’s not sure if he should kiss you or hide under a blanket.

“You’re not just sayin’ that to make me feel better?” he asks quietly.

“Boosting your ego is a perk,” you admit, grinning. “But no. I mean it. I like that you’re different. I like that you’re not polished and plastic and ‘magazine perfect.’ You’re real. You’re mine. And I’m very, very excited to see all of you, if you’re okay with that.”

You see it hit him, all at once.

The way his shoulders loosen just a little. The way the tight line of his mouth softens. The way something hungry and hopeful edges into his gaze, pushing the insecurity back.

“You’re somethin’ else, y’know that?” he murmurs.

“So I’ve heard,” you reply, brushing your nose against his. “Let me prove it.”

You roll your hips, just a little, the tiniest test. His breath stutters. You feel him, solid and unmistakably hard beneath you, and the way he groans under his breath sends heat rushing through your veins. 

“Okay, that’s—” He swallows, hands flexing on your hips. “That’s not playin’ fair, doll.”

“Who says I’m trying to play fair?” you murmur. “I’m trying to show you that I want you, exactly how you are.”

He stares at you for another long moment, like he’s memorizing the look on your face, the certainty in your eyes.

Then he nods once, slow but decisive.

“Okay,” he says. “If you’re sure…”

You lean in, kissing him with all the answer he needs.

It starts slow. It always does with him. He kisses like he’s savoring something he never thought he’d get to have, like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. His lips are warm and a little chapped, his stubble scraping your skin in a way that makes you shiver.

You shift closer, pressing your chest to his, fingers slipping into his hair. He makes a sound low in his throat, one hand sliding up your back, the other anchoring you to his lap.

When you break for air, you’re both breathing harder.

“Bedroom?” you whisper, because if you stay on the couch, you’re going to end up half-falling off it and he’ll never forgive himself if you bruise so much as a knee.

His answering smile is crooked and soft. “Yeah, sweetheart. Bedroom.”

He stands with you still in his arms, like you weigh nothing, and you yelp softly, clinging to his shoulders.

“Bucky!”

“What?” he murmurs, amused, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he carries you down the hall. “Gotta show off a little for my girl. Been waitin’ a long time for this, you know.”

Your heart flips at my girl.

He sets you down on the edge of the bed like you’re something precious, something breakable, and for a second you see the nerves creep back in, the way his gaze flicks to the floor, the way his hands hover at the hem of his shirt like he’s not sure if he should go first.

You catch his wrists gently.

“Hey,” you say softly. “Can I tell you a secret?”

He glances up. “Yeah?”

“I’m a little nervous too,” you confess. “Not about you. About… being good. About living up to whatever you’ve imagined in that head of yours.”

He frowns immediately. “Doll, I already told you, you could just look at me and I’d—”

“Exactly,” you interrupt with a grin. “So maybe we stop trying to impress each other and just… be with each other. Yeah?”

Something in him melts at that.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Okay. Yeah.”

You tug his shirt up, and this time he lets you. You take your time, dragging it over his head, fingertips skimming along warm skin and old scars, over metal that gleams in the low light. He shivers under your touch, muscles jumping beneath your hands.

“You’re beautiful,” you murmur, because you can’t not say it.

He rolls his eyes, but his ears go pink. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I mean it,” you insist, leaning in to press your mouth to his chest, right over his racing heart. “All of you. Every part. I want to learn it, okay? What you like. What feels good. What makes you lose that careful control you keep pretending you have.”

He exhales shakily, hand sliding into your hair.

“You do that already,” he says hoarsely. “Just by lookin’ at me like that.”

You smile against his skin, then lean back to look him in the eyes.

“Then let me look,” you say softly. “All of you. And if you ever feel weird or insecure or uncomfortable, we stop. No questions. No pressure.”

He studies you for a long moment, then nods again, more sure this time.

“Okay,” he repeats. “I trust you.”

You squeeze his hand, your own nerves settling into something warm and steady.

“Good,” you murmur. “Because I promise, Bucky… there’s nothing about you I’m not going to love.”

Your reassurance is still lingering in the air like warm breath against his skin when Bucky swallows, the muscles in his throat working tight. His pupils blow wide, slow, dark, and hungry, like he can finally let himself believe you meant every damn word.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, his voice deeper, rougher, almost unsteady.

He drags you into his lap with a kind of desperate reverence, kissing you so fiercely it’s almost clumsy. Like he can’t decide whether to take his time or devour you whole. His hands roam everywhere, your waist, your ribs, the dip of your lower back, thumbs stroking like he’s trying to memorize you through touch alone.

You grind down against him again, deliberately slow, and the noise he makes? God… it’s wrecked.

“Sweetheart…” His breath falters. “Don’t—don’t do that unless you’re ready for me to lose it. I’m hangin’ on by a thread here.”

“I want you to lose it,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “I want you, James. All of you.”

His eyes snap shut for a fraction of a second, and when they open again, they’re molten.

You don’t even get a second to breathe before he’s on his feet again, lifting you once more like you weigh nothing, except this time when he lays you out on the bed, he follows you down immediately, mouth on your throat, kissing, tasting, desperate and careful all at once.

His metal hand stays at your hip like he’s anchoring himself. His flesh hand slides up your inner thigh, trembling just a little as he pushes your legs apart.

“You really… like the way I am?” he asks, voice cracking on the last word, not from insecurity now but from need.

You nod, pulling him down for a kiss. “Show me,” you whisper. “Let me touch you. I want to see all of you.”

He inhales sharply and finally shucks his pants down enough for his cock to spring free. 

And God, he’s beautiful.

Thick. Heavy. Flushed at the tip. That soft, natural roll of skin framing the head, sensitive and warm and so perfectly him.

Your breath catches.

He freezes, his entire body locking. 

“See?” he whispers, his voice threaded with dread. “This is what I was afraid of. You’re surprised, I knew—”

“Bucky,” you interrupt, sitting up so fast he startles.

Your hand wraps around him before he can flinch away.

And his entire body jerks.

“Jesus doll—”

You stroke him slow, deliberate, admiring the weight, the softness of the skin gathered at the tip, the way he pulses in your palm like he’s about to come just from being touched.

“This,” you breathe, leaning in, pressing your lips to his jaw, “is beautiful.”

His mouth falls open.

“This is so fucking hot,” you whisper, stroking him again, tighter this time.

He whimpers.

Actually whimpers.

“Sweetheart please, don’t tease—don’t—oh God—”

“I’m not teasing,” you say, kissing his jaw, his neck, stroking him with smooth, steady pressure. “I’ve been thinking about this since the second I realized how it would be. You’re perfect. You hear me? Perfect.”

He mutters something in 1940s Brooklynese that sounds like a prayer and a curse tangled together.

“Lay back for me,” you breathe.

He drops back immediately, obedience effortless, instinctive.

You climb over him, straddling his thighs, still stroking him, watching the way his head tilts back, exposing his throat. His chest rises and falls like he just sprinted a mile.

The sight of him, this strong, impossible man undone by nothing more than your hand, sends molten heat straight through your belly.

“Tell me what feels good,” you whisper.

His hand finds your wrist, not to stop you, but to hold onto his sanity.

“Like that,” he pants. “God, sweetheart—just like that. You’re gonna make me—”

His voice fractures, the sound torn from somewhere deep. “Haven’t even been inside you and I’m losin’ it.”

Your thighs squeeze around him at that, desire punching through your belly like a spark catching flame.

“Come back to me,” you whisper, leaning over him, kissing him slow even as your hand keeps working him, slow twists, firm strokes, your thumb gliding over the sensitive head. “It’s your first time in this century, Buck. I want you to feel good.”

He grabs your waist suddenly, sitting up, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he breathes against your skin. “You don’t even know.”

“Then let me,” you whisper, moving your hips so the head of his cock nudges against your slick.

His entire body goes rigid.

“Sweetheart, please—I don’t know if I can—”

You guide the head through your folds, slick and slow, just enough to punch a broken groan out of him.

“Baby,” you whisper against his ear, “let me ride you.”

He drags his metal hand up your spine, the coolness making you shiver, the other gripping your hip like he’s the one holding onto reality.

“You’re sure?” he rasps. “You want—me? Like this? All of me?”

You sink down, just the tip, enough to make both of you inhale sharply.

“James,” you whisper, eyes locked on his. “I’ve never wanted anything more.”

Something in him shatters. 

He surges up, kissing you like he’s drowning, kissing you like you’re oxygen. His hands lock on your hips, guiding, grounding, begging.

You ease down onto him inch by inch, slow, deliberate torture, feeling him stretch you open, fill you, claim space inside you that no one’s ever touched.

He watches every second with wide eyes, almost disbelieving as you take him deeper… deeper…

“Sweetheart—oh God—you’re—” His voice breaks on a sound that’s pure, ragged pleasure. “You feel—Jesus—”

When your hips finally meet his, he grabs you like he’s afraid gravity might tear you away from him.

“Look at me,” you whisper.

He does.

“You’re perfect,” you tell him again. “And I love the way you feel.”

He lets out a breathless laugh, wrecked, disbelieving, so full of emotion it twists your heart.

“I’m gonna—doll, I’m not gonna last—”

You roll your hips once, the pressure slow and delicious, and he breaks.

Not by coming.

But by losing every shred of old insecurity, replaced with raw, unfiltered desire.

His grip turns fierce, his voice dropping to something low and desperate.

“Do it again,” he begs. “Ride me, sweetheart. Please. Wanna feel you, wanna see you, wanna remember this for the rest of my damn life.”

You brace your hands on his chest and start to move, slow and deep, and he unravels under you. Soft moans, bitten-off curses, his metal hand guides your hips, steady and firm, while his warm hand cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple until your breath catches.

Every thrust draws sound out of him, rough, needy, drowning-in-you sound.

Every roll of your hips makes his eyes flutter.

“You’re incredible,” you whisper, leaning over him, your lips brushing his ear. “So gorgeous. So perfect. Your body is perfect. Your cock is perfect—”

His head falls back. “Sweetheart, if you keep talkin’ like that—”

“Why?” you tease, shifting your hips just right, watching him shudder. “Is it gonna make you come?”

He growls.

Actually growls.

And in one fluid, desperate motion, faster than you can even gasp, Bucky grips your hips, lifts you, and flips you onto your back.

Your breath punches out of you, not from pain, but from how impossibly smooth it is.

How natural.

How practiced his strength is when it’s finally unleashed.

He never slips out, not even for a second.

You land on the mattress with his weight immediately following, his chest crushing against yours, his thighs spreading yours wide as he pushes deeper, as deep as your body will take him.

The first thrust steals your breath.

The second steals your thoughts.

By the third, you’re gone.

Bucky braces his metal hand beside your head, body caging yours completely, while his flesh hand clamps onto your hip hard enough to brand you.

His voice is hot against your ear, already wrecked.

“I’m makin’ you come first,” he pants, thrusting in a rhythm that feels both punishing and impossibly controlled. Each stroke angled perfectly, too perfectly, like he’s been dreaming about this for decades.

You cry out, fingers flying to his back, digging in without thought.

He thrusts again, harder, deeper, and your nails rake down his shoulder blades, scratching, claiming, marking him with red lines he’ll feel for hours.

“Bucky—” your voice cracks.

He growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.

“Say it again,” he demands, panting against your mouth, his hips slamming forward in a rhythm that’s shockingly steady for how undone he looks. His nose brushes yours, his lips just barely hovering above your own. “Say you like me just how I am.”

His thrusts grow sharper, each one hitting the spot inside you that makes your toes curl, your thighs lock around his waist, your breath break in your throat.

“Say it,” he whispers, voice rough and pleading, but laced with something darker, something that begs for your truth.

You arch up sharply, meeting his thrusts, gasping against his mouth.

“I love it,” you moan. “Bucky I love it so much—”

He groans, raw and shaking.

“I love your cock baby, it’s perfect—so thick, feels so good—God, it feels—feels so good—”

His entire body shudders violently on top of you.

“Sweetheart, fuck—” his voice breaks in the middle, breath hitching as his control cracks. “I’m— I’m right there—don’t stop—don’t stop—”

His thumb drifts between your bodies seeking blindly, frantically, and finds your clit with almost reverent precision.

The moment he touches you, you clench around him.

Hard.

Your body seizes with pleasure, your stomach pulling tight, your vision blurring, your voice breaking into a desperate, breathless cry.

Bucky’s groan rips out of him like something primal.

Like he’s being torn open in the best possible way.

“Sweetheart—oh—God—”

His hips stutter, once, twice, before he slams deep, burying himself to the hilt just as the orgasm tears through you.

The world goes white.

Your back arches violently off the bed.

Your hands claw at his shoulders.

Your thighs shake uncontrollably.

Your body pulses around him, tight, wet, and fluttering, milking him, and he collapses into the pleasure with a guttural groan that seems pulled from the bottom of his soul.

He spills into you with a deep, helpless thrust, then another, then another, messy and hot and overwhelming, your name falling from his lips in a broken whisper like a prayer he’s waited years to say.

His arms give out and he drops onto you, trembling, forehead pressed to your neck, breath ragged.

His hips twitch once more, reflexive and desperate, before he melts completely against your body.

When he finally finds his voice again, it comes out soft and stunned, like he’s speaking through the aftershocks trembling through his body.

“Doll… I felt you fall apart around me.”

His breath stutters and he presses a shaky kiss to your jaw like he needs the contact to ground himself.

“No one’s ever… no one’s ever made me feel like that.”

You brush his damp hair back from his forehead, fingertips gentle, guiding him to look at you. His lashes are still fluttering, his chest still rising too fast. You kiss him, just a small, tender brush of lips meant to soothe.

“That’s because no one’s ever loved all of you like I do.”

He makes a small, broken sound, half-laugh, half-exhale, and leans down to kiss you again. This time the kiss is slow, lingering… like he’s trying to memorize the shape of gratitude.

When he pulls back, his voice dips into something vulnerable and impossibly sincere.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

You blink sleepily, fingers tracing his cheek. “For what?”

“For making me feel… normal,” he says quietly. “For making me feel… good. Wanted.” He swallows hard. “Every part of me.”

Your thumb glides along the line of his jaw, tender and reassuring. “Baby… you’re not just normal.”

Your voice softens even more. “You’re incredible. And I’m very, very proud of myself for being the one who gets you.”

That earns you a low, warm chuckle. He gathers you to him, tugging until your head fits perfectly under his chin and your bodies settle flush, tangled and warm. He kisses your hair, lips lingering there like he’s sealing a promise.

“Pretty sure I’m the lucky one, doll,” he murmurs.

You tighten your arms around his waist, your words muffled against his chest as exhaustion begins to nudge you under.

“Maybe we’re both lucky,” you mumble. “But just so you know… there is nothing about you I’d change. Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

His breath leaves him in a slow, quiet exhale, like the last remnants of an old, heavy fear finally dissolving. His arms tighten around you, holding you as if he’s anchoring himself in the moment.

“Yeah,” he whispers softly. “Okay. I’ll try to remember that.”

“You better,” you warn, already drifting toward sleep. “Because I’m gonna spend a lot more time proving it.”

His chest rumbles with a quiet laugh, his lips brushing your temple.

“Can’t wait, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Really can’t.”

And with your body tucked safely against his, Bucky Barnes finally lets himself believe something he’s never allowed before:

That he is wanted, every part of him.

And that he is yours.

[the-wandering-wonder]

"I'll Make It Fit"

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 2,917

Rating: E (smut)

Chapter: 1/1

Summary: In a cramped Bucharest apartment, Bucky gives you more of him than you thought you could take. It starts with him between your thighs and ends with him asking, in a voice far smaller than he ever lets himself use, if he was too much.

Tag List: @solemnlywickedwolf @mrscarlislecullen @buckys-girl-blog @quantumbarnes

You’re already shaking.

Flat on your back, sheets twisted under your fingers, thighs trembling where they frame his shoulders. Your skin is damp, sticky with sweat and spit. Your pulse is hammering in your throat, in your ears, between your legs where he’s been wrecking you with his mouth for what feels like forever.

He’s still got your taste on his tongue.

You can feel it — the way his breath brushes over your swollen cunt as he pulls back, the way his lips look slick and a little bruised, the way his stubble’s glistening just enough to make you whine.

“Bucky,” you gasp, chest heaving.

He looks up at you from between your thighs, eyes glassy and dark, pupils blown wide. There’s a lazy little smirk on his face, like he’s proud of the mess he’s made.

Your legs spasm when he presses one last kiss to your inner thigh. He chuckles, low and pleased, and starts to push himself up, big hands sliding to your hips as he rises over you.

You watch, dazed, as he braces his metal forearm beside your head and reaches down with the other to shove his sweatpants lower on his hips. The waistband catches on his cock for a second — and then it springs free.

Your eyes widen.

“Oh,” you breathe.

He’s…big. 

Thick and heavy, flushed dark at the tip, veins standing out along his length. There’s a bead of precum glistening there, catching the low light as he gives himself a lazy stroke, thumb smearing it over the head.

Your whole body tightens.

“I—I don’t think it’s gonna—”

You don’t even finish.

His hand snaps up, fingers closing around your jaw, firm but not cruel. He tilts your face up, drags your gaze from his cock to his eyes.

They’re wild. Hungry. Locked on you like there’s not a single thing in this shitty little Bucharest apartment that exists except for you spread out under him.

“Oh, it’s gonna fit, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and wrecked.

Your breath stutters.

His grip on your jaw softens just a fraction, thumb brushing your cheek. He dips his head, mouth hovering over yours, breath warm and beer-and-you scented.

“Don’t worry, baby.” He lowers his mouth to your throat, lips hot and damp against your racing pulse. “I’ll make it fit.”

You shiver — from the promise, from the sheer certainty in his tone.

His hand leaves your jaw and slides down, down, big palm skating down your sternum, between your ribs, over your stomach. His fingers splay, pressing gently against your lower belly like he’s mapping where he’s about to be.

Then he reaches lower, cool metal knuckles grazing your still-slick folds, and you jolt.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ wet already. You’ll take it.”

He lines himself up, head nudging against you, blunt and hot and so much. Your hips twitch, instinctively trying to shy away and press closer all at once.

“Relax for me,” he whispers, voice right in your ear. “Breathe.”

You try.

The first push is slow. He presses forward with careful, relentless pressure, the thick head stretching you open in a way that makes your throat close around his name.

“Bucky—”

“I got you,” he grunts, brows knitting as he watches himself disappear into you. “Just like that. That’s it, baby.”

He pauses, letting you adjust, chest heaving above yours. Every muscle in him is pulled tight, like it’s taking everything he has not to slam in hard.

You feel so full already.

He strokes a hand up your side, over your ribs, thumb brushing under your breast before curling around the back of your neck. His other hand is firm on your hip, anchoring you.

“You okay?” he rasps.

You nod, but your voice cracks when you say, “Feels…big.”

He huffs out something like a laugh, but it’s strained, broken at the edges.

“That’s ’cause I am, sweetheart.” His thumb strokes the side of your throat. “You can take it. You were made for it, look at you—”

He pushes in again. Another inch. Then another.

Slow. Steady. Inescapable.

Your mouth falls open on a strangled sound that isn’t quite a sob and isn’t quite a moan. Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, digging into solid muscle as the stretch builds past what you’re used to, past what you thought you could handle.

“Bucky, I—oh, fuck—”

“Shhh.” He kisses your jaw, your cheek, your temple, all while his hips keep rolling forward. “You’re doin’ so good for me. Taking me so fuckin’ pretty.”

He’s halfway in now, and you already feel split open. Full to the point of dizzy. Your thighs shake around his hips, heels scrabbling against the sheets.

You pant against his mouth, voice shaking. “I don’t know if there’s room for more.”

He groans — a filthy, guttural sound.

“There is,” he growls. “There fuckin’ is.”

His hand leaves your hip and slides under your knee, pushing your leg up, opening you wider around him. The new angle is brutal and perfect. He steals another inch, then another, until your eyes are rolling back.

You feel him everywhere.

“You feel that?” he pants. “That deep stretch? That’s me, baby. That’s all me.”

Tears prick hot at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it — not pain, not really, just too much in the best way, your body struggling to make sense of how wide and deep he goes.

“Bucky—oh my God—”

“That’s it.” His voice drops into something dark and worshipful. “Take me. Fucking take me.”

He bottoms out on the next slow thrust.

You scream.

It’s instinctive, your back arching off the mattress, your nails clawing at his shoulders, your walls clenching hard around him like you’re trying to force him back out and drag him deeper at the same time.

He groans against your neck, shaking with the effort it takes to hold still once he’s fully sheathed.

“Holy shit,” he gasps. “You’re…fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so tight—”

You can’t form words.

All you can do is feel — the massive weight of him inside you, the heavy heat of his body pinning you down, the press of his chest against your nipples, the tremor in his arms where he brackets your head.

He nuzzles against your throat, lips brushing your jaw as you whimper.

“Breathe through it,” he murmurs. “C’mon, sweetheart. You can do it. You’re takin’ all of me. Look at you.”

He eases back a little. Just a few inches.

Then pushes back in.

Slow. Controlled. Devastating.

You gasp with every stroke, the drag of his length along your walls sending sparks up your spine, your toes curling with the sheer stretch of it.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “That’s my girl, my perfect girl.”

His rhythm builds — still careful, still deliberate, but heavier now, deeper, his hips smacking softly against yours with each thrust. The bed frame groans. Your breaths go high and frantic.

“Too much?” he asks, even as he drives back into you with a growl.

“Too—too good,” you manage.

He smiles against your neck, feral and fond.

“Good,” he murmurs. “’Cause I’m not stoppin’ ‘til this perfect little body remembers exactly what it was built for.”

His cock drags deep, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur. You cry out, clutching him tighter, and feel him shudder.

“Yeah,” he grits out. “There it is. Feels like you’re tryin’ to milk me already.”

He pulls out slow, almost to the tip.

Pauses.

“Open your eyes,” he orders.

You obey.

He’s staring down at you, sweat on his brow, hair hanging messy around his face, eyes dark and intense.

“You see me?” he pants. “You see what you’re takin’?”

You nod, helpless.

He sinks back in, every thick inch, watching your face contort around the pleasure.

“That’s my girl,” he growls. “Take me. Take all of me.”

And you do. You can’t do anything else.

One shift of his hips, one subtle change in the way he’s braced over you, and suddenly he’s slamming right into that spot that makes your whole body jolt. He finds that angle like he was born to.

Your mouth falls open on a wrecked sound.

“Right there?” he pants.

You nod frantically, fingers digging into his shoulders, your nails scoring lines down his back as he pulls out slow and drives back in, perfectly, deeply, again and again.

“Yeah,” he growls. “I know. I feel it.”

His thrusts get heavier, the wet smack of your bodies meeting punching into the room along with your breathless whimpers. Every backward drag of his cock sets your nerves alight, every forward stroke makes your vision go white at the edges.

You can feel him everywhere.

Thick and hot inside you. Sweat-slick and heavy on top of you. Breath scorching your neck, your cheek, your lips when he steals messy, open-mouthed kisses between thrusts.

“Listen to you,” he hisses in your ear. “Moanin’ so pretty. You hear yourself, baby?”

You hadn’t — not really — until he says it.

You hear it now.

The wet, choked little cries you’re making. The soft gasp every time the head of his cock hits that perfect place inside. The desperate, broken sound of his name in your mouth like a prayer you can’t stop repeating.

“Bucky—Bucky, please—”

“Please what?” His tone goes hoarse and sharp. “Say it. Use your words for me.”

You’re clinging, shaking, the coil inside you tightening so hard it hurts.

“Please don’t stop,” you manage, voice shaking. “Please—oh god, don’t stop—”

His rhythm stutters for half a second. Then he swears, low and filthy, and obeys.

He fucks you like he’s got orders. Like he’s got one goal and it’s your orgasm and nothing else.

His hand slips down between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with obscene ease. The added friction is too much, too sharp, too good. You jolt, a higher, wilder sound ripping from your chest.

“That’s it,” he pants. “C’mon, sweetheart. I got you. Look at me.”

You drag your gaze up to his, barely able to focus.

He’s a mess.

Hair sticking to his forehead. Jaw clenched. Eyes blown wide, locked on your face like he’s memorizing every twitch, every tremor. There’s a muscle in his jaw jumping with the effort it takes not to lose control.

“Wanna see you when you come,” he breathes. “Wanna see you fall apart on my cock.”

The words hit you as hard as the next thrust.

Your body arches, back leaving the mattress as everything snaps tight.

And then breaks.

You shatter around him with a cry, the orgasm ripping through you like a wave you didn’t see coming. Your vision goes white-hot, your legs clamp around his waist, and your nails dig into his skin hard enough to leave half-moon marks.

Your walls clamp down on him, pulsing, squeezing.

He chokes.

“Fuck—oh, fuck, that’s it—”

He doesn’t stop moving. He rides you through it, thrusts turning ragged and desperate as you convulse around him, every clench dragging a guttural sound from his chest.

“Look at you,” he groans. “Grippin’ me so tight—gonna fuckin’ milk me dry, aren’t you?”

You’re gone, babbling, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Every brush of his thumb on your clit sends another aftershock skittering up your spine.

“Bucky—too much—too much—”

He growls, but his hand eases off, shifting back to your hip, fingers digging in like a brand.

“Yeah? Then come with me,” he grits out. “One more for me, baby. You can do it. You’re so good, so fuckin’ good…”

It’s the praise that does it.

You’re still sensitive, still spasming around him, and when he buries his face against your neck and gasps, “My good girl, takin’ all of me, look at you,” your body betrays you.

You break again.

Smaller than the first, but sharper, your whole frame trembling as another wave rolls through you, pulsing around him like you were made to wring him out.

He feels it. And loses it.

“Jesus Christ—” he snarls, hips jerking. “I’m—fuck—I’m not gonna last—”

You cling, pulling him closer, wrapping your arms around his shoulders like you can pin him to you.

“Come inside me,” you whisper, voice wrecked. “Please, Bucky. Wanna feel it.”

He lets out a noise that’s almost a whimper.

“Don’t—don’t say that unless you—” He cuts himself off with a curse, driving in deep, staying there, grinding hard as his whole body goes taut.

“I mean it,” you gasps against his ear. “Please. Fill me up. I want it.”

That’s it.

He buries himself to the hilt, every muscle straining, a broken shout tearing from his throat as he finally comes. You feel it, hot and thick inside you, each pulse making your already-sensitive body twitch.

He shudders through it, whole weight sagging, forehead pressed to yours, breath tearing out of him in rough, uneven bursts.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but breathing.

His. Yours. The creak of the bed as his big body sinks down, careful not to crush you but unable to hold himself up fully.

Then slowly, he starts to move again.

Not out. Just…adjusting. Like he can’t quite believe he’s really there. Really inside you. Really allowed this.

You feel him start to pull back, like he’s about to roll away, about to apologize.

You don’t let him.

You wrap your arms tighter around his neck and your legs around his waist, holding him there, keeping him inside you, keeping that warmth deep where you can feel it.

“Stay,” you whisper.

His breath hitches.

“Yeah?” His voice is small like he doesn’t trust it. “’M not too heavy?”

“You’re perfect.” You press a kiss to his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. “Stay.”

He melts.

You feel it in the way his shoulders unclench, in the way his weight settles a little more onto you, supported by his forearms bracketing your head. In the way his nose nudges at your temple like he’s trying to hide.

“Did I hurt you?” he murmurs after a beat, words muffled against your skin. “I was tryin’ to go slow, I just—once I was in, I—”

You cut him off with a soft kiss.

“Bucky. You were perfect.”

His throat works. He swallows hard.

“’S a lot of me,” he mutters. “Didn’t wanna…overwhelm you.”

You huff a shaky little laugh. “Kind of the point, babe.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes searching your face. You reach up and smooth sweaty strands of hair away from his forehead.

“You made me feel so full,” you say honestly. “So wanted. Safe. I liked it. All of it.”

Something in him cracks at that.

His face softens, mouth trembling just a little. One big hand comes up to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking the skin still heated from earlier.

“You tell me if it’s ever too much,” he says quietly. It’s not a command. It’s a plea. “I’ll stop. I don’t…I don’t ever wanna be someone you have to take instead of want.”

Your chest aches.

You turn your head and press a kiss to his palm.

“I’ll tell you,” you promise. “Right now? I feel…perfect. Fucked stupid, but perfect.”

He snorts — actually snorts — and the sound is so surprised, so boyish, that you feel your heart squeeze.

“Yeah?” he mutters, a shy little grin tugging at his lips. “Kinda like you that way.”

You swat weakly at his shoulder. He catches your hand, kisses your knuckles.

Eventually, he slides out of you with a low groan, both of you wincing at the emptiness that follows. You feel him drip out and start to shift, but he’s already moving — reaching for an old tee on the chair, grabbing it, wiping you up with careful, almost reverent swipes.

“Sorry,” he murmurs when you flinch at the overstimulation. “Sorry, sorry. Almost done.”

You watch him as he works — big hands, gentle touch, brows furrowed in concentration like this is the most important thing he’s done all day.

When he’s satisfied, he tosses the shirt aside and pulls the blanket up over you, then hesitates.

“Do you—uh—want space? A minute? I can sleep on the couch if—”

“Bucky,” you interrupt, reaching for him. “Get in the bed.”

His eyes flick to yours, searching. You tug the blanket up in invitation.

He caves.

Of course he does.

He slides in beside you, big body sinking into the thin mattress, then immediately pulls you into his chest like it’s reflex. One arm under your shoulders, one draped heavy and possessive over your waist.

You tuck your face into the warm, familiar curve where his throat meets his shoulder. His heart is still beating a little fast under your palm.

After a while, when your breathing has evened out and your muscles have stopped twitching, you feel his lips brush your hairline.

“Was it really okay?” he asks quietly.

You smile against his skin.

“It was perfect,” you murmur. “You were perfect. You’re perfect, Buck.”

He lets out a shuddery breath, the last of his tension finally, finally bleeding away.

And as you drift, he holds you like he’s still half afraid you’ll vanish.

He doesn’t fall asleep until your breathing goes soft and steady and you mumble his name one last time against his chest — like a promise you aren’t going anywhere.

[thewintermuse]

between breath and want

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · Pairing: Boob Obsessed!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings/Tags: Titty Fucking, Breast & Nipple Worship, Cum, Penetrative Sex, Praise Kink, Possessive Bucky, Feral Bucky, Established Relationship, Bucky Is A Boob Man, Morning Sex

Word count: 4.3k

Music: 

Mine - Bazzi

Tear You Apart - She Wants Revenge 

Alkaline - Sleep Token

Freak - Doja Cat

Silvertongue - Young the Giant

Beast - Mia Martina 

Notes: hi hello!! Sorry for the hiatus, had a lot going on (both good and bad) plus the holidays, but I’m excited to share more of my work with you all in the new year! Please enjoy! 

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It started like most of their lazy Saturday mornings did: you, wrapped in Bucky’s favorite oversized tee, gray and soft with wear, sleeves loose, hem brushing the tops of your bare thighs. No pants. No bra. Just warm, sleepy skin and that little smirk you always wore when you were feeling playful.

The kitchen still smelled like coffee, the scent trailing behind you as you padded barefoot back into the bedroom. Morning light streamed through the sheer curtains, thick and golden, casting everything in a hazy glow like a painting.

Bucky lay sprawled in bed, one arm thrown behind his head, eyes still heavy-lidded with sleep, chest bare and rising slow beneath the sheets. His hair was a soft, messy halo against the pillow, his jaw dark with scruff. He looked like sin wrapped in comfort.

You climbed in beside him with a quiet hum, curling instinctively against his side, and nuzzling into the crook of his shoulder. He made a soft sound of welcome, groggy and low, the kind of half-grunt that meant I missed you even if he hadn’t been awake long enough to say it out loud.

His arm wrapped around your waist automatically, warm hand slipping beneath the hem of the shirt to rest at the small of your back.

But then he paused.

Because the second you leaned in just slightly, just enough for your chest to press against his arm, he felt it.

No bra.

No barrier.

Just soft warmth and the unmistakable shape of your breasts brushing up against his skin.

He blinked fully awake.

His breathing shifted, slower and heavier now. His lashes fluttered as his hand tensed slightly at your back, pulling you closer by instinct.

You shifted, not meaning anything by it, just settling in, but your knee brushed his thigh, and your nipple grazed his bicep through the threadbare fabric, hard enough for him to feel it.

Bucky exhaled sharp through his nose.

And that was it. That was the moment. That tiny, innocent moment that broke him.

His voice came out hoarse, still sleep-rough and thick as molasses. “Sunshine…”

You glanced up at him, blinking sweetly. “Hmm?”

Completely unaware. Completely fucking lethal.

He looked down at you, at the loose collar slipping off one shoulder, exposing smooth skin and just a hint of cleavage. At the outline of your nipple barely visible through the worn fabric. He could feel the warmth of your breath against his neck, could smell coffee and that sweet citrus shampoo you always used.

He dragged his vibranium hand down the side of your body, achingly slow. Over your ribs, along the dip of your waist, lingering just beneath your breast.

His fingers hovered.

Teasing.

Testing.

His palm finally cupped the swell of you over the shirt, just enough pressure to feel how soft and full you were, how your nipple had tightened even more from the touch. His thumb brushed upward and he felt the way your breath caught.

“You’re doin’ that on purpose.”

Your brows lifted, tone featherlight. “Laying in bed with you?”

“Wearin’ that,” he murmured, voice dark and low, his breath brushing your cheek like a warning. “No bra. Knowin’ I’m obsessed with these pretty tits…”

His hand cupped you fully now, warm and large and reverent, fingers spreading to hold the entire weight of you in his palm. You could feel the heat of his touch even through the thin cotton. His metal arm curled around your back, anchoring you to his chest as he brushed his thumb across the stiffened peak.

A groan rumbled deep in his throat, and he bowed his head slightly, like he was praying to the body beneath him. “You’re killin’ me, sweetheart. Fuckin’ killin’ me…”

Your breath caught hard as his mouth found your neck with open-mouthed, lazy kisses that contrasted sharply with the way his thumb was tormenting your nipple now. He rolled it between his fingers, tugged just enough to make you gasp, to make your back arch with the want that sparked low and hot in your belly.

“Bucky…”

His lips curved against your throat. “Insatiable, huh?”

“You are,” you managed, voice shaky as your hips shifted against his thigh. The friction made your eyes flutter. “You’re obsessed.”

“And you love it.”

He pushed the shirt up with both hands, bunching the fabric beneath your arms, exposing more of you inch by inch until your chest was bare and flushed, nipples peaked from the attention and the cool morning air. He stared.

And stared.

Then his lips parted with a sharp inhale and the look in his eyes turned molten.

“Fuck, baby…”

His thumb circled one aching peak while his gaze remained locked on the other, then he dipped his head and dragged his tongue across it slowly, his mouth hot and wet, lips sealing over the sensitive bud like he was starved for it.

You cried out.

He moaned in response, a filthy sound that vibrated through your chest. “So fuckin’ perfect… God, I could die right here.”

He switched sides with a slow, aching hunger, tongue lapping at your other nipple now. His metal hand never left your body, still kneading and teasing the breast he’d just abandoned, thumb grazing the sensitive peak until it stiffened all over again.

Every motion was deliberate. Controlled. Like he was memorizing you, learning every twitch, every breathy gasp, every way you responded to his mouth.

And you gave it to him willingly, trembling beneath him, your body arching like it couldn’t stand to be untouched for even a second. His lips moved over your skin with worshipful intent, like he could live off the taste of you if only you let him.

“Could stay here all damn day,” he groaned between licks, voice wrecked. “Just… fuck, look at you. These tits, baby… these fuckin’ nipples…”

Every time you arched up for more, he gave it to you, his mouth tugging, licking, suckling like he was trying to drink you in.

Your thighs squeezed together, breath coming in short, shaky bursts, your skin flushed and burning under the worship of his mouth and hands. You couldn’t help the way your hips bucked against his leg, desperate for friction, desperate for him.

Bucky glanced up with a dazed, hungry look, his lips kiss-swollen, pupils blown wide, chest heaving like he’d just run a mile. “What?” he rasped, his voice ragged with disbelief and arousal. “You gonna come just from this?”

He didn’t wait for your answer. Just flattened his tongue and dragged it over your nipple again, slow and hard and hungryuntil your head tipped back, a choked moan spilling from your lips.

“You know I love that, right?” he whispered against your skin, voice molten. “How sensitive you are here… how I barely touch these pretty nipples and you start falling apart.”

Your fingers clawed into his shoulder, searching for something to anchor yourself to as your thighs flexed around his hips. “Bucky…”

“Oh, baby.” He grinned against your chest, low and wrecked and feral. “You’re so fuckin’ sexy when you beg.”

His hand drifted lower without warning, slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers parting you with practiced ease. He groaned when he felt how wet you were, how ready.

“Goddamn. You’re soaked.” His thumb found your clit instantly, circling with maddening, deliberate pressure. “And all I did was kiss your tits. You’re mine, sunshine. You know that, right?”

You whimpered, body arching, breath stuttering. “Yours. God please, do something—”

And that was all it took.

Bucky snapped.

He moved faster now, mouth latching onto your nipple like a man possessed, tongue flicking, lips sucking, hands everywhere. One kneading your breast with reverence and greed, the other stroking between your thighs with cruel precision. You were shaking already, the pleasure curling tight and hot in your belly, your hips rising to meet every pass of his thumb like your life depended on it.

Your cries turned desperate and needy, like you were completely shameless. And Bucky drank it in.

“That’s it, baby,” he growled, kissing your chest between every filthy word. “So fuckin’ responsive. Let me feel it. Let me have it.”

You broke.

The orgasm hit like lightning, ripping through you so fast your whole body bowed off the mattress. Your hands scrambled for him: shoulders, hair, sheets, anything as your mouth fell open on a silent scream as the pleasure took over.

Bucky didn’t stop.

He suckled you through it, whispering praise into your skin, thumb still rubbing gentle circles even as you trembled and gasped for air.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this,” he murmured, dragging his tongue over the mess of your chest, your nipple still twitching against his mouth. “All fucked out, covered in my mouth and fingers… and I still need more.”

By the time he finally kissed his way up your body again, slow and reverent, licking up the valley of your breasts like he couldn’t bear to leave them, your whole body was humming. 

Your lips parted, eyes barely open, breath shallow.

He hovered above you, forehead pressed to yours, and kissed you slowly, deep and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was a gravelly tease. “Still think I’m obsessed?”

You gave a weak, breathless laugh against his lips. “You’re deranged.”

“Yeah?” he smirked. “Tell that to your nipples.”

You didn’t even have time to respond, not really. Because he was already shifting downward again, dragging the covers off your body like a man on a mission, his cock flushed and heavy between them, gliding against your thigh.

He wasn’t done. Not even close.

He knelt between your thighs like a man at an altar, shoulders broad, chest heaving, pupils blown wide as his gaze devoured every inch of you in the soft morning light.

Your shirt was rumpled up under your arms, nipples flushed and peaked from his mouth, from the air, from the sheer needradiating between you. The rest of you was bare. Skin flushed with arousal, thighs parted just slightly, lips swollen from his kisses.

His eyes drank it in.

Your tits.

Your throat.

Your parted lips, already gasping.

And you knew that look… the one that only surfaced when he was teetering on the edge of obsession. When his desire stopped being about want and turned into need, unfiltered and unrelenting.

“Bucky…” you breathed, already aching.

His voice came out thick like gravel. “Lemme do this. Wanna fuck these perfect tits.”

You cursed under your breath, back arching, the raw hunger in his tone sliding straight between your legs.

He wrapped one hand around the thick base of his cock, already flushed dark, the head leaking, twitching slightly as he looked at you. Just looked. Like the sight of you, sprawled and bare and trembling beneath him, was enough to short-circuit every thought in his head.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he rasped, slowly pumping his hand once, twice, like he needed to ease the ache before he exploded. “You lay there like that, tits all soft and begging for it… fuck, sunshine.”

You bit your lip, then reached up and grabbed the hem of the shirt. Pulled it off, slow and teasing, baring yourself completely.

The sound that left Bucky’s throat wasn’t a groan, it was a growl, full-bodied and desperate.

“Sunshine.”

Then he was moving.

Straddling your chest with careful, deliberate intent. His knees bracketed your ribs. His body warm and solid above you. His cock hovered just above your breasts, thick, hard, and already pulsing.

He didn’t move right away, he just looked down at you, his gaze locked to yours as if waiting for permission, even now.

And you gave it wordlessly, cupping your tits in your hands, pressing them together just the way he liked. Just the way he loved. His cock brushed the soft swell of your cleavage and he shuddered.

“Oh, fuck yes,” he hissed. “Just like that. Jesus, baby… just like that.”

His hips gave a shallow thrust. Then another.

And then he was sliding between them, long, thick strokes through the plush valley of your chest, his tip grazing your throat with every pass. His jaw clenched. His hands flew to your breasts, gripping and squeezing them tighter around his cock, like he couldn’t stand being that close without touching you more.

“God,” he gasped, breath catching. “You were made for this. Fuckin’ built for this. Look how good you hold me baby, shit, just look.”

You couldn’t look away. Not from him. Not from the way his cock slid slowly through the soft press of your breasts, the tip gliding up to brush just beneath your throat before retreating again, leaving a trail of slick heat behind. Each thrust was deep and deliberate, his hips meeting your chest with quiet, rhythmic impact that had your nipples bouncing gently beneath his hands.

The contrast was dizzying, his thick cock gliding through the plush valley of your tits, the flushed pink peaks trembling with every motion, your skin glowing in the morning light. He never broke eye contact, not once. His gaze stayed locked on yours, intense and possessive, like he needed to see exactly how much you loved this, how undone he made you without even being inside you yet.

The weight of his stare sent heat curling low in your belly, but you refused to look away. Not when you had this power, not when he looked like he was on the edge of unraveling just from the feel of you. And in that quiet moment, breathless and trembling beneath him, your lips curled into a wicked, knowing smile, eyes bright with mischief.

“You’re really this obsessed with my tits?”

The sound that tore out of him was half a laugh, half a broken groan, breathless and wild, already fraying at the edges. “You’re gonna make fun of me,” he panted, hips stuttering as he tried to keep some semblance of control, “while I’m about to lose my goddamn mind?”

“Little bit,” you teased softly, voice soft yet dangerous.

But then he thrust again, slower and deeper this time, and the head of his cock brushed just under your throat, dragging slick heat across sensitive skin. Whatever cocky edge he’d had dissolved instantly, melting into a hoarse moan that vibrated straight through your chest.

“Fuck—”

His thumb found your nipple, rolling it between his fingers while he fucked your chest with unfiltered hunger. His voice dropped, every word torn from him. “You know I am. Look at you… fuckin’ look at you. These tits were made for me.”

He thrust again, slower now, savoring it, watching every inch of himself slide through the warm press of your breasts. “Can’t even think when they’re out,” he breathed. “Can’t focus. Can’t breathe. My brain just… shuts off.”

You whimpered, thighs squeezing together beneath him, your body reacting to every filthy word, every deliberate movement of his hips.

His rhythm faltered then, not from slowing down, but from being too close. He looked down at you again, pupils blown wide, chest heaving, like the sight of you was too much to take all at once.

“Gonna come just from this again, sunshine?” he asked roughly, almost disbelieving.

You nodded, breath hitching, barely able to speak. “Maybe.”

That did it.

“Jesus Christ, baby…”

He was panting openly now, thrusts growing sloppy, desperate, uncoordinated. His hands clutched at your breasts like lifelines, fingers digging in as he dragged his cock through the valley of your chest again and again and again, not stopping, not slowing, completely lost to the sensation of you.

“So good for me,” he groaned, forehead tipping forward as if the pleasure was too heavy to carry upright. “Always so fuckin’ perfect, sunshine. My sweet girl… my gorgeous girl…”

Your hands trembled as you held your breasts together for him, arms burning, body aching in the best way. “Bucky…”

“I got you,” he murmured, softer now, but no less wrecked. “Always got you.” His thrusts deepened, like he was savoring every second before the end. “Wanna cum all over these perfect tits. Wanna mark you up so good. so fuckin’ pretty, make you mine in every way.”

“Do it,” you begged, voice breaking. “Please.”

A low, feral growl ripped from his chest. He pulled back one last time, body shaking, breath stuttering, and then he lost it completely.

With a strangled moan, he came hard, thick ropes of heat striping across your chest, your collarbone, spilling down into the soft curve of your cleavage. His hips jerked helplessly as wave after wave hit him, his gaze glued to the sight of you beneath him, flushed and shining and utterly his.

You moaned softly at the heat of it, at the weight of his need made visible on your skin, the proof of how deeply and desperately he wanted you.

Bucky braced himself above you on shaking arms, chest heaving, body humming with the aftershocks of release. His cock was still rock hard, still leaking, still hungry. Sweat clung to his temples. His lips were parted, breaths coming fast and uneven as he stared down at you like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth.

His voice was raw when it finally came. “Fuck… you drive me insane, you know that?”

You just smiled up at him, flushed and glowing, your hair a tousled halo against the sheets, and his cum still dripping in warm streaks across your tits and collarbone, sticky and shining in the morning light.

But your eyes were wicked… dangerous. Lit with something that matched the need still burning through him.

“You’re not done,” you whispered.

His brows flicked together. “Baby, I just—”

“You haven’t fucked me yet,” you interrupted, voice velvety smooth as your fingers dipped into the mess on your chest. You dragged two fingers through the thick, warm spend and rubbed it slowly across the curves of your breasts, over one nipple, then the other, smirking when his pupils dilated like you’d slapped him.

“And I need you to.”

Bucky groaned like it hurt him. His jaw clenched. His hands fisted in the sheets for half a second before he moved, fast and rough.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathed, voice breaking apart at the edges. “You better fuckin’ hold on.”

He grabbed your thighs and dragged you down the bed in one smooth, ruthless pull, your body sliding against the sheets until your ass hit the edge of the mattress with a jolt. You yelped, a startled, breathless laugh catching in your throat, but the heat in your belly surged as he knelt between your legs, his hands already spreading you open.

You were flat on your back now, tits still slick with his release, nipples flushed and swollen, still aching for more. Your cunt throbbed between your thighs.

Bucky’s hand wrapped around the base of his cock again, thick, flushed, and still wet from fucking your tits. He stroked once, slow and deliberate, dragging his palm over the slick head, groaning low in his throat.

“Spread your legs,” he ordered, voice gone gravel and sin.

You obeyed instantly, without hesitation. Heels digging into the mattress, knees falling open, thighs glistening with need. You felt yourself pulse under his gaze, wet and swollen and aching.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice tight. “Always so ready for me. Look at this. Look how wet you are.”

He lined himself up, not rushing, letting the weight of his cock press against your entrance, just enough to feel the warm slick of your arousal, the desperate flutter of your cunt begging to be filled.

He swirled his hips once, dragging his tip through your folds, teasing your clit with the head of his cock, watching your body jolt in response.

“You feel that?” he rasped. “That’s how bad you want me. Can’t even touch you without you fucking melting.”

You whimpered, hips lifting. “Bucky—please—”

That was it.

That was all he needed.

He thrust into you in one brutal, perfect motion. No warning, no hesitation, just the thick, overwhelming stretch of him burying himself to the hilt with a growl that tore straight from the base of his throat.

Your cry punched through the room like a crack of thunder, loud, helpless, and wrecked. Your back arched high off the bed, hands flying to his shoulders for something, anything, to hold onto. Your breasts bounced violently with the force of the impact, still slick with his release, shining in the sun that poured through the windows like molten gold.

“Oh—fuck—” Bucky choked, voice shredded, trembling as his cock pulsed inside you.

But he didn’t move.

Not at first.

He stayed there, pressed so deep inside you it felt like he was in your chest, forehead dropping to your shoulder, both arms trembling as he tried to breathe. To think.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, panting against your skin. “You feel too fuckin’ good. Too warm, too tight, fuck, sunshine, you were made for me.”

Then he snapped.

He reared back and slammed into you again, harder this time.

Then again.

And again.

Each thrust was brutal, relentless, devastating. The bed slammed against the wall with every punishing stroke, your body jolting beneath him like a live wire. Your tits bounced in time with his hips, the messy streaks of his earlier release painting your skin like something divine yet filthy. 

His eyes were locked there, mouth parted, breath ragged. “Look at you,” he groaned, completely undone. “Fuck—look how they move when I fuck you like this.”

He shifted slightly, bracing one hand under your thigh, the other sliding up to your chest, grabbing your tits roughly, kneading, pressing, thumbing over your swollen, overstimulated nipples as his cock pistoned into you with the kind of force that stole every ounce of breath from your lungs.

The bedframe creaked, the headboard knocked. Your moans were tangled with his, wrecked and wild.

“You’re so fuckin’ obscene,” he panted, eyes glassy, voice thick with awe and desperation. “My cock buried in you, my cum all over these tits, fuck, baby… you’re gonna ruin me.”

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, nails raking into the thick muscle as you clung to him, body rocking with every punishing thrust. He was so deep, so relentless, you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, stars bursting behind your eyes each time his hips slammed into yours.

“Bucky, oh my god, don’t stop—”

He didn’t.

Couldn’t.

His next thrust was rougher, sharper, his voice a snarl through clenched teeth as he slammed into you again. “You feel that? How hard I am for you?”

You gasped, head falling back against the pillow, mouth open on a broken cry as he drove into you again, harder and deeper.

“That’s all you, sunshine,” Bucky growled, voice thick with possession, each word punctuated by the sharp snap of his hips, his rhythm turned feral. 

Your moan caught in your throat as your nails raked down his back, digging into the thick muscle like you were trying to anchor yourself. His cock filled you over and over, perfectly brutal, hitting so deep it stole the breath from your lungs, the world narrowing to the wet sound of your bodies colliding and the heat building low and fast in your belly.

“All this—” he growled, pulling his chest up just enough to look down at you. One hand released your thigh only long enough to slap your tit, not hard, but firm and filthy, just enough to make the soft flesh bounce, slick with sweat and his earlier release. “—is mine.”

That did it.

You shattered.

Your cry broke free, high-pitched and desperate, body convulsing beneath him as the orgasm hit with a violent force. Your walls clamped down around him, pulsing hard around his cock, your spine bowing off the mattress as your tits bounced from the sheer force of your own release.

Bucky lost it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He didn’t stop moving, not even as your body spasmed under him. He fucked you through it, like he was chasing you straight into the abyss, his thrusts turning sloppy, brutal, as the heat spiraled in his gut and ripped through him like lightning.

“You feel so good, so fucking tight—gonna—fuck, I’m gonna—”

He slammed into you once more, all the way to the hilt, and froze, his cock buried deep, his body locked, trembling as his orgasm tore through him. He groaned deep from his chest, the sound low and primal and wrecked, spilling into your neck as he pressed his face there like he couldn’t bear to be anywhere else.

Hot pulses filled you, thick, heavy, and endless, his hips twitching with every wave of it, arms trembling from the strain, his voice a shattered rasp of your name against your skin.

You held him through it, wrapping your arms around his shaking shoulders, your legs still spread and open for him, taking every last drop as your heart pounded out of rhythm beneath him.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Just the sound of your breath. The weight of his body, slick and warm against yours. The feeling of his cock still buried inside you, softening slowly. His cum leaking from where you were joined.

He finally shifted with a soft groan, lifting his head enough to look at you, his cheeks flushed, hair damp with sweat, eyes heavy and reverent as they dropped to your chest again.

Your breasts were still rising and falling beneath him, sticky with sweat and his cum, nipples swollen, your skin shining with arousal and afterglow.

He reached down, gently this time, and cupped one with care, thumb brushing across your nipple with the kind of touch that made you shiver. Not out of need, but something more vulnerable. Adoration.

“…Still think I’m obsessed?” he murmured, voice hoarse and low, like it cost him everything just to say it.

You let out a breathless laugh, your smile lazy and dazed, your eyes fluttering half-closed.

“Hopelessly.”

His lips curved against your skin, soft and dangerous, like a promise.

“Good.”

[the-wandering-wonder]

So Good For Me

Thanks to Danni for the idea! We love some needy, soft Beefy Bucky. <3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 1,171

Rating: E (angst, smut)

Chapter: 1/1

Summary: Bucky doesn’t know how to take a compliment. Not from you. Not when you're in his lap, calling him good, sweet, strong. Not when it’s your voice that finally makes him fall apart.

Tag List: @solemnlywickedwolf @mrscarlislecullen @buckys-girl-blog @quantumbarnes

The apartment is dim, quiet in that tense, almost sacred way that happens after sundown in cities like this. Somewhere below, a dog barks. A tram rolls past on old tracks. But up here, on the third floor of this forgotten building with its peeling paint and water-damaged ceiling, everything holds still.

The only light comes from a crooked streetlamp outside, the glow seeping in through slits in the curtains. It cuts the room into slices — strips of gold across the floorboards, across the coffee table, across the heavy hunch of Bucky’s shoulders where he sits on the sagging couch like he’s holding the world in his back.

He’s quiet.

He’s always quiet. But tonight, he looks like a man moments away from folding in on himself. Like gravity's working harder on him than it does on anyone else.

You step barefoot across the cold floor, slow, deliberate — not out of fear, but care. His eyes lift before you speak. They find you in the dark like they always do.

Blue. Haunted. Braced for impact.

“Hey,” you whisper.

“Hey,” he murmurs back, voice gravel-low. “I’m not…good company right now. You don’t have to sit with me.”

You ignore him. Because yes, you don't have to. But you want to.

You climb into his lap — slow, gentle, no sudden movements — and he freezes.

You can feel the way every muscle locks up beneath you. The thick weight of his thighs between your knees, the corded tension of his stomach when you settle against his hips. Sweatpants soft beneath you, but the body beneath them is carved of stone.

He inhales sharply. Like you’ve hurt him. Like your touch shocks him into remembering he has a body at all.

“Easy,” you murmur, fingers brushing his jaw, thumb stroking the stubble there. “It’s just me.”

He nods, barely. His throat bobs.

His hands hover at your hips — shaking faintly, ghosting there like he’s not sure he deserves to make contact, but he wants to. Needs to.

You reach for them. Wrap them in yours. Guide them to your waist. Settle them there like anchors.

“There,” you say softly. “That’s better.”

He exhales like it’s the first breath he’s taken all night.

And you feel it — the slow shift, the melt beneath the steel — as he lets himself touch you. You press closer. Straddle him fully, chest brushing his, breath warming his cheek. His hands don’t tighten, they cling.

You bury your fingers in his hair — that dark, shoulder-length mess he never has the energy to cut, still damp from his earlier shower, curling slightly at the ends — and stroke gently. Over and over. Each pass pulling him deeper into stillness. Into you.

“Bucky…” you whisper.

His eyes flutter shut. Just his name — from your lips — is enough to make his jaw tremble.

You cradle his face in your hands like he’s something precious. Your thumbs trace the curve of his cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw.

“You’ve been so good today.”

His breath stutters.

“What…?” he rasps, blinking up at you, pupils swallowing blue.

“You heard me.” You brush your fingers back into his hair, slow and tender. “You’re good. You’re trying. You’re taking care of yourself. I’m proud of you.”

The change is immediate.

His hands twitch against your waist. His whole body arches up — involuntary — like your words hit something raw in him and cracked it open. A broken sound slips past his lips. Choked. Half-moan, half-denial.

“Don’t—” he tries, shaking his head. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

“I always mean it.” Your fingers trail down the side of his neck. “You’re good...”

He groans. Low and wrecked.

His hips buck — desperate, uncontrollable — and you feel it. The hard, hot press of him between your thighs, twitching against your body, leaking through his sweats like your praise pulled it from him without effort. His breath is coming out ragged, lips parted like he can’t get air, like your praise is knocking it out of him.

“Baby…” he rasps, already ruined, already shivering. “Don’t—I can’t—”

“Can’t what?” You mouth it against his ear, breath warm and teasing. “Can’t handle being told you’re good?”

His moan this time is shameless. His thighs flex under you, iron-hard, shaking. You rake your fingers through his hair again — slow and loving — nails grazing his scalp just right. He arches into it, shuddering.

Not from fear. From want.

“You’re my strong boy,” you murmur, each word a kiss to his dignity. "My sweet boy. My good boy.”

He whimpers.

His grip on your hips goes bruising. His breathing’s ragged now — mouth open, head tipped back, a vein pulsing at his neck.

“Please,” he begs. Quiet. Like a prayer. “Just…please…”

“What do you need, Bucky?”

“You.” His voice cracks. “Your voice. Just—say somethin’ else. Please.”

Your heart aches for him. You take his face in your hands again. You see him — trembling and hard and helpless in your lap — and you love him all the more.

“You’re safe. You’re doing so good. And I am so, so proud of you, baby.”

His hips lift into you in a desperate, helpless thrust — once, twice — and you feel the heat of it, the way he’s so hard it borders on painful.

“—fuck—” he gasps.

Your fingers slip down into the hair at the nape of his neck and tug gently.

“Make a mess for me,” you whisper against his lips. “You don’t have to hold anything back. Keep being good for me, just like this..."

That’s it. That’s what breaks him.

He thrusts up again — sharp, needy, a growl in his chest — and you feel the moment it hits.

The heat. The pulse. The desperate, ruined sound he makes as he comes hard in his sweats, body twitching under yours, face buried in your shoulder like he can’t bear for you to see the way he falls apart for you.

He shakes. Clings. Gasps your name like it’s the only thing left anchoring him.

And you hold him.

You run your fingers through his hair. Down his spine. Across his cheeks, still burning with shame.

“That’s it, baby,” you whisper. “You’re perfect.”

He whimpers again. Whimpers.

When it’s over, he’s shaking, breathing hard, gripping you like you’re the only real thing in the world. He can’t speak. Can’t look up. His cheeks still burn hot against your skin.

“’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice ruined. “Didn’t—didn’t mean to—”

You take his face in your hands again and make him look at you.

“Bucky,” you whisper softly, “I wanted it. Wanted you.”

He swallows hard. Then nods — tiny, fragile, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too much.

“You can come for me anytime you need,” you tell him. “Just from my touch. Just from my voice.”

His breath shakes. He bites his lip, eyes wide and glassy.

“You’ll say it again?” he asks, small and hopeful.

You lean your forehead to his.

“As many times as you want, sweetheart.”

And gods…he melts.

[thewintermuse]

try it on for me

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Pairing: Feral!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (18+), Oral Sex (F Receiving), Unprotected Sex, Overstimulation, Pillow Princess Worship, Praise Kink, Possessive Behavior, Feral Bucky Barnes, Lingerie Kink, Filthy Talk, Mild Degradation (playful), Manhandling, Breathplay (hand around throat, light, not restrictive), Creampie, No Plot, Just Lingerie and Bucky Losing His Mind, Ten Lingerie Sets, One Very Desperate Man. 

Word count: 4.3k

Music:

Dangerous - Sleep Token

MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT - Elley Duhé

I WANNA BE YOUR SLAVE - Måneskin

Infinity - Jaymes Young

Closer - Nine Inch Nails

Cheekbones - Arrows in Action

Notes: Hi hello!! This is part two, you can find part one here! Please enjoy! 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You barely had time to breathe before Bucky was already reaching into the box again with the frantic determination of a man who had no self-control left whatsoever. His hand searched blindly, fingers brushing lace and satin and mesh, until he gripped something light, pulling it out like he’d won a prize (which he kind of did). 

Set #2: The lilac mesh with embroidered daisies.

It dangled from his fingers like the world’s most sinful doily. He held it up to eye level, squinting, as though checking if it was even real.

Then… he dropped his head back and groaned like he had been shot through the chest in slow-motion.

“Sunshine. Sunshine. This one’s illegal.”

You gasped, mock-offended. “It’s cute!”

“Cute?” he repeated, like you’d told him the sky was green. “Cute?”

He pinched the mesh bra between two fingers, staring in disbelief at the tiny white daisy embroidery barely covering anything.

“This is see-through mesh,” he choked, “with daisies on your nipples. That’s not cute, doll. That’s—” he scrubbed his hand through his hair like a man at the brink, “that’s psychological warfare.”

You giggled, bright and sun-warm, and snatched it from his hand before he could combust.

Bucky collapsed back in the armchair like a soldier preparing for a noble, beautiful death at the hands of the world’s prettiest assassin. His legs splayed open, head falling back, arms hanging over the sides as he muttered something that sounded like, “Please, God, let me survive this.”

But the second you stepped out of the bathroom in the lilac set once again…

He didn’t survive shit.

He sat up so violently the armchair skidded a few inches and nearly tipped forward. His jaw dropped like a man watching the gates of heaven swing open, like he’d hadn’t already seen you in this set not even twenty minutes ago. 

“Sunshine.”

Your heart fluttered as you turned slowly, hands folded in front of your stomach.

The mesh hugged your body like a whisper. Soft lilac that made your skin glow, tiny white daisies embroidered so delicately over your chest they might as well have been placed there by angels. The bottom was just a thin lilac band of mesh around your hips, fluttery and fragile.

“That one’s delicate,” you whispered.

Bucky shot to his feet.

“Not for long.”

Before you could squeak a protest, his hands were on you, one under each thigh, lifting you clean off the ground like you weighed nothing. You gasped, your arms flinging around his shoulders as he pressed your back against the wall.

His mouth was on yours in an instant. Not soft. Not gentle.

A hungry, breath stealing, full body, I-need-you-or-I-will-die kind of kiss.

His mouth slanted over yours again and again, each kiss deeper, more desperate, his tongue sliding against yours like he was tasting sin and salvation all at once.

“You’re killin’ me,” he growled against your mouth, trailing hot kisses down your throat. “You’re killing me with this.”

“Bucky—”

He didn’t let you finish. His hand slipped between your bodies, sliding over the lilac mesh covering your heat.

You gasped, your head thudding back against the wall.

“Still so fuckin’ wet,” he murmured, the words brushing your ear like a spark. “You like me losin’ my mind, huh?”

You whimpered, soft and helpless, while he grinned like the wickedest man alive.

“Yeah,” he breathed, “I know.”

Still holding you, he carried you to the bed in three long strides, dropped you onto the mattress gently but urgently, and crawled over you. 

Then he hooked one finger in the mesh bottom, tugging it aside delicately, reverently, like he was peeling open the petals of the world’s most fragile flower.

“Don’t rip this one,” you breathed.

His eyes lifted to yours, his gaze dark, molten, and hungry.

“Baby,” he whispered, lowering himself between your thighs like a worshipper at an altar, “I’m not even takin’ it off.”

And then, his mouth was on you again.

Hot, slow, wet kisses through the mesh, the fabric dampening against your skin. The sensation of his tongue through the delicate material, teasing, licking, tracing patterns, made your thighs tremble uncontrollably.

Your fingers twisted in the sheets as you sobbed his name, your hips arching helplessly.

When you came, loudly moaning and your toes curling, Bucky groaned into you like your pleasure was his favorite drug.

He kissed your thigh, panting. “Two down,” he murmured, lips still wet. “Next.”

Set #3: black lace with velvet straps.

He didn’t even pretend to be calm this time.

He picked it up like it was a live grenade and he was seconds from pulling the pin.

“This one next,” he rasped, already breathless again.

“I need a minute to—”

“No, you don’t.”

You laughed breathlessly, clutching the black lace in trembling fingers as you slipped back into the bathroom.

When you stepped out again, Bucky forgot how to breathe.

The black lace was intricate, sinful, delicate but dark, hugging every curve with velvet straps that framed your hips and waist like hands.

He walked toward you slowly, too slowly, like a man approaching a dangerous wild animal.

“Turn around,” he said, voice so low you felt it in your spine.

You did.

He made a sound.

A sound no human man should make.

“Ohhhh my God,” he whispered. “Baby, I’m losin’ my religion.”

You bit your lip, cheeks flushed.

He didn’t think, he just sank to his knees behind you. 

Not to pray.

To devour.

His hands grabbed your hips, fingers tracing every velvet strap with reverence. His mouth kissed down the curve of your backside, open mouthed and hungry, his tongue teasing where lace met warm skin.

He slid the bottom aside and lowered his mouth again, slower this time, deeper, almost gentle in how worshipful he moved.

You came trembling around his tongue, hands braced on the bed frame, head thrown back.

He kissed your thigh softly.

“Three.”

Set #4: the white, barely-there one.

Even you knew this set was unhinged.

When you stepped out, Bucky was mid-sip of a water bottle… and dropped it.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

It hit the carpet with a thud.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice cracking.

“Yes?” you whispered back.

It wasn’t lingerie.

It was the idea of lingerie.

Thin white straps, a tiny triangle of lace that hid nothing, mesh so delicate it made you look like a sinful little angel, all sweetness and temptation.

He walked toward you with the slow, reverent dread of a man approaching a portal to heaven.

“You look like I died,” he murmured, fingers twitching at his sides, “and this is what’s waitin’ for me at the gates.”

“Is that good?” you asked, flushed.

“Baby,” he said without hesitation, “I’d kill myself twice.”

He scooped you up, carried you to the bed, laid you down like you were something holy, and kissed your ankle, your knee, your inner thigh.

Then he dragged your hips to the edge of the bed and spread you open over his shoulders.

“This one?” he murmured, lips ghosting over your skin. “I am rippin’ it.”

You gasped. “Bucky!”

He grinned.

And then he ripped… with his fucking teeth.

The sound tore through the quiet room as your breath punched right out of you. 

He tossed the ruined scraps aside and dove in, devouring, licking, moaning against you until your legs clamped around his head and you broke again, crying his name like prayer and sin.

He pulled back, mouth slick and eyes wild.

“Four.”

Set #5: the baby-blue satin.

You’d barely stumbled out of the bathroom before he lost his mind.

Soft blue satin hugging your chest, tiny matching panties, your hair a little mussed and your skin warm from the earlier… activities. 

He stalked forward like a predator, hands already reaching for you. 

“My girl,” he breathed, sliding one hand under the satin over your stomach, “you look sweet in this one.”

“It’s softer,” you whispered.

“And I’m gonna make you loud in it.”

He lifted you again, pressing your back against the bathroom door, kissing you so deeply your toes curled. Then he carried you to the bed once again and gently laid you down, like you were made of glass. 

This set made him slow, made him savor.

Every kiss was deliberate, every touch was soft but precise. He kissed down your chest, nuzzled into the satin, sucked gently on your nipple through the fabric, worshipping with an intensity that made you shiver before continuing his delicate path of destruction. 

When you climaxed again, hips grinding into his mouth, fingers twisted in his hair, he groaned into you, drinking it in greedily. Like he hadn’t already had you countless times at this point. 

“Five.”

Set #6: the navy strappy bondage-style one.

You hesitated before coming out.

“It’s… a lot,” you called softly.

Bucky blinked. Then blinked again.

Then dropped back onto the bed like you’d physically knocked the air out of him.

“Doll.”

You stepped out fully. 

“Yes?”

He didn’t look human anymore.

“Come. Here.”

You did as you were told. 

He dragged you onto his lap, fingers tracing every strap: up your waist, over your stomach, between your breasts. His pupils were blown wide, his jaw clenched, his breathing uneven.

“This is the one I’m dying in,” he whispered.

You shifted in his lap… and felt exactly how wrecked he was.

“Bucky…”

He didn’t answer.

Just kissed you, filthy and desperate, then laid you back and slid between your thighs.

This one wasn’t gentle.

It was need.

His tongue moved fast, deep, and relentless, fingers curled perfectly, thrusting hard and fast, knuckles grazing your slick heat with every plunge, fingers crooking with ruthless precision like he needed to feel you clench and fall apart all over them.

You sobbed his name as you came again, the sound wrecked and breathless, your body already wrung out from the last five times he’d dragged you over the edge. Every nerve felt raw and sensitive. 

Your thighs shook uncontrollably, trembling so violently he had to press his palms down to hold you still, anchoring you to the bed while his mouth kept working through every last wave of your orgasm, relentless, like he hadn’t already ruined you half a dozen times.

Then, without a word, he lifted his head and kissed the inside of your knee, soft and sweet, so at odds from mere seconds earlier. 

“Six.”

Set #7: the emerald green one.

He begged.

For the first time.

“Please,” he rasped, barely audible, the word scraping out of his throat like it cost him something. “Please come here.”

You stepped out slowly and everything in him went still.

Emerald green lace hugged every curve like it had been stitched onto your skin by sin itself. Delicate golden clasps trailed over your hips and shoulders, catching the light with every shift of your body, glinting like temptation, glowing like something sacred and dangerous all at once.

Bucky’s mouth parted, but nothing came out. Just a breath, a soundless groan. His chest rose and fell like he’d taken a punch.

He pressed a hand to his heart like he needed to physically hold it in place.

“You look like a forest nymph sent to ruin my fuckin’ life.”

Then he flipped you onto your stomach without a word, his hands firm yet still gentle as he guided you down, letting your hips arch up just enough. He kissed down your spine, slow and deliberate, each press of his lips sending a fresh wave of heat spiraling through your already wrecked nerves.

By the time he reached the small of your back, you were trembling… again.

And then he dragged your hips back onto his mouth like a man starving, like he was trying to carve his name into your body with every lick. 

“Bucky—!” you gasped, your voice breaking apart as your fingers twisted in the sheets.

“I need you,” he growled, words muffled between long, greedy licks that made your knees buckle. “Need you so bad, sunshine.”

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even think. Your body gave out first, shaking uncontrollably, back arching, another orgasm crashing over you like a wave too big to escape. It tore the air from your lungs and left you gasping. Barely breathing.

He groaned against you like you were the only thing that had ever tasted right. And when you collapsed onto the mattress, boneless and trembling, he didn’t move far, just followed you up, trailing kisses up the curve of your back, lips soft and worshipful over sweat-slick skin.

“Seven.”

Set #8: the sheer pink babydoll.

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. 

The words simply died in his throat the moment you stepped into view, framed in the soft glow of the bedroom light like a dream come to life.

You twirled, just once, shy and teasing, the sheer pink fabric fluttering around your thighs like gossamer wings. It was delicate, barely-there, the lace catching on the curve of your hips, the hem whispering against your skin. 

Bucky just sat there, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, breathing like he’d run five miles. His gaze dragged over you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“Do you… like it?” You asked, voice small, a little uncertain.

He nodded, slow and silent. 

Then lunged.

One second you were smiling, the next you were in his lap, the babydoll bunched in his fists as he shoved it up and out of his way, mouth sealing over your nipple with a growl. You gasped, arching into him on instinct, practically melting at his touch. His tongue was greedy and relentless, lips wrapped tight as he sucked like he needed it, like it soothed something primal in him.

His hand slid between your thighs without ceremony, fingers finding you still warm and wanting. He didn’t search for a rhythm. Didn’t tease, didn’t play. His touch was all rough, filthy purpose, fingers sinking deep as he worked you open like he owned every trembling inch of you, which… he did. 

You came moaning into his mouth, fingers twisting in his hair, your whole body breaking apart in his hands like he’d set your entire soul on fire.

“Eight.”

Set #9: the maroon velvet. 

He broke.

Something inside him just… snapped.

The velvet was dark, rich, and sinful. The color of crushed berries and bloodlust, clinging to you like a second skin. The fabric was soft and decadent, hugging every curve, framing your body in jewel-toned temptation. The way the light kissed the maroon fabric made you glow, made you look untouchable. Divine. Dangerous.

His knees hit the floor.

He groaned as he wrapped his arms around your waist and buried his face in your chest, lips trailing open-mouthed kisses across every place the velvet touched, like he was desperate to taste both the fabric and the skin beneath it.

“Baby,” he panted, voice wrecked and shaking, “I’m losin’ it.”

Your fingers slid into his hair, nails lightly scraping his scalp. “Then take it off.”

He exhaled sharply, half-laugh, half-growl, as if the words alone undid the last of his restraint.

“Oh, I’m gonna eat this one.”

And he did.

With worship. With hunger. With no intention of letting you breathe until you were trembling again.

He peeled the velvet down slowly, kissing every new inch of revealed skin as though it were treasure. Then he spread your thighs and buried himself between them, long, deep strokes of his tongue, relentless and hungry, dragging over every sensitive spot like he owned them. His arms hooked under your thighs, holding you open, locking you to him as he licked and groaned and lost himself completely in the taste of you. 

You trembled from the overstimulation, whimpering and clawing at the sheets like you were unraveling one thread at a time.

And when you finally shattered, your body arching and your voice hoarse from crying his name like it was the only word you remembered, he didn’t move far. Just turned his head and pressed a kiss to your trembling thigh once again, his own breath shaky now, completely undone.

“Nine.”

Set #10: the final one.

The one that should’ve come with a warning label.

Black.

Strappy.

Barely there.

Open in places that felt illegal, like it was designed by sin itself.

You stepped into the room slowly, silent and dangerous.

And Bucky stopped breathing.

Fully stopped. His lungs forgot how to work. His heart stuttered once, then pounded like it was trying to break out of his chest.

His eyes dragged over you in one slow, reverent pass, from the delicate black straps clinging to your hips, to the flashes of skin peeking through every impossible gap, to the heat in your eyes that threatened to set the whole damn room on fire.

“Get on the bed,” he whispered, voice ragged, broken like glass underfoot.

You obeyed, climbing onto the mattress with a visible shiver, every nerve lit up in anticipation, breath caught somewhere between thrill and surrender.

He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t tease you. Didn’t say another word.

He just grabbed your hips, yanked you to the edge, and dropped to his knees like a man possessed.

And then he devoured you. 

No buildup. No mercy. No chance to even think before his mouth was on you, tongue dragging through your folds like he needed to taste you or die. His grip was bruising, holding your thighs apart, locking you in place as he worked you over. 

You choked on a sob, one hand flying to your mouth like you could trap the sounds inside, but it was no use. Your cries punched free from your chest, high and sharp, shaking through you as your body bowed off the bed in broken surrender.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow down.

Didn’t even breathe.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as your voice cracked on his name. “Buck—please—please—”

He pulled back just long enough to gasp for air, face glistening, pupils blown wide with hunger.

“Ten,” he growled.

Then he was moving, climbing over you like a storm, bracing his weight on trembling arms as his mouth crashed down on yours, kissing you like he was claiming your soul. Like the past hour of worship hadn’t come close to satisfying the ache in his chest.

And when he finally pulled back, lips barely grazing yours, breath mingling hot and ragged, he whispered: 

“And now it’s my turn.”

And that was the last warning you got before he surged forward again, kissing you with a heat so intense it felt like it might set your skin on fire. 

There was nothing gentle in it, just teeth, tongue, and animalistic hunger. His body was tense with restraint he’d been holding back for ten straight sets of satin and lace. His mouth devoured you like you’d done something unforgivable by being this perfect, this smug, this breathtakingly hot for ten full rounds without letting him so much as fuck you properly.

His voice was already breaking when he growled, “You’ve been teasing me all fuckin’ night. You think I’m gonna be sweet now, baby?”

You whimpered beneath him, your legs already wrapped around his waist, dragging him in closer, like you wanted to be the target of his destruction. “No,” you whispered, and that single word shattered the last thread of control he had.

He shoved down his sweatpants just enough to free himself, his cock sliding through your soaked folds a second later, the tip brushing your entrance as he hissed between clenched teeth. “You’re soaked. Jesus, you liked makin’ me suffer.”

“I liked watching you lose it.”

He looked down at you then, your face flushed, hair a mess, mouth red from kissing, and he’s never seen you look so beautiful or so far gone. “Oh yeah?” he rasped. “Then open up, sunshine. You’re about to see what losin’ it really looks like.”

He slammed into you in one deep, brutal thrust that made you cry out, back arching off the bed as he filled you to the hilt. He didn’t pause, didn’t let you adjust, he just dragged back and slammed in again, the sound of skin on skin already echoing through the room.

“Fuck—fuck, so goddamn tight,” he choked, every muscle in his body flexing as he fought not to blow his load then and there. “Ten goddamn sets, my mouth all over you, and this pussy’s still this tight?”

Your were gasping now, clutching at his back, your nails leaving crescent shaped marks. “Bucky, oh my God—”

He grinned, feral and flushed, sweat on his brow, hair stuck to his forehead. “That’s right, baby. Say my name. You wanted to break me? You did. You fuckin’ broke me.”

He shifted, bracing his weight on one arm and lifting your leg with his metal hand, pressing it up towards your chest, opening you wider as he drove deeper into you. The new angle knocked the breath from your lungs as you let out a strangled cry that only made him fuck you harder.

“Ohhh, sunshine,” he groaned, snapping his hips, the slap of his thighs against yours filthy and relentless. “You feel that? That’s your punishment. For strutting around in lace and bows and fuckin’ daisies on your tits and thinking I was gonna stay in that fuckin’ chair forever.”

Your mouth fell open, eyes rolling. “I—Bucky—I’m gonna—”

“Yeah, you are,” he growled. “You’re gonna come for me, sunshine. Gonna come on this cock you’ve been teasin’ all damn night.”

You clenched around him so tight he lost his rhythm.

“Oh fuck, just like that. Jesus—”

He sat up, still inside you, one hand gripping your hips while the other slid down your stomach to your clit. He rubbed slow, tight circles over the swollen bud, watching you unravel as your legs shook and your hands scrambled to grip the sheets.

“Look at you,” he muttered, jaw tight. “So fuckin’ pretty when you fall apart.”

You came hard, screaming his name, your whole body trembling, soaking his cock as you clenched around him, crying out like you couldn’t take it anymore.

And still he didn’t stop.

His pace only stuttered for a moment before he was thrusting again, groaning brokenly as you milked him with every aftershock.

“You think I’m done?” he panted, his voice barely holding together. “Baby, I’m not even close.”

You tried to respond, tried to say something, but he was already flipping you onto your stomach, dragging your hips back with both hands. Your cheek hit the pillow, your body limp and overstimulated and completely pliant for him.

Then, he slammed into you from behind, deep and dirty, his hands gripping your ass hard as he drove into you with a force that made the bedframe creak.

“Look at this perfect fuckin’ ass,” he hissed, giving it a slap that made you gasp. “You were walkin’ around the room in velvet and strappy little nothin’s, knowin’ exactly what you were doin’ to me. You’re so fuckin’ mean, sunshine.”

You sobbed into the pillow, helpless as he pounded into you from behind, his rhythm punishing and raw.

“And I love you for it,” he growled, leaning over you, biting your shoulder. “I fuckin’ love you for it.”

You came again, a strangled cry muffled in the pillow, your body shaking with another release as he chased his own.

Bucky’s thrusts turned savage, beyond desperate. His breath hitched and his hand slid around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, anchoring, owning.

“I’m gonna cum,” he warned, voice shaking, “and I’m not pullin’ out. You hear me? I’m fillin’ you up. Every drop. Every fuckin’ drop.”

You arched back into him, begging him without words.

He slammed deep and hard, one last time, and came with a shout, thick ropes of cum spilling into you as he gripped you tight, his whole body convulsing with the force of it.

He stayed buried there for several long seconds, breathing hard against the back of your neck, sweat dripping down his spine.

Both of you were trembling. 

Your legs had fully given out. Your face was buried in the pillow, cheeks flushed, and your hair an absolute mess. Bucky was still inside you, panting like he’d just run through hell, and the only thing he could think to say was:

“Holy fuck.”

You made a broken little sound that might’ve been a laugh or a sob.

He gently pulled out of you, earning another whimper, and immediately flipped you over, gathering you into his arms like you might vanish if he let go.

“You okay?” he asked hoarsely, brushing sweaty hair from your temple.

You blinked up at him, completely fucking wrecked. “I can’t feel my legs.”

He grinned. “That’s a good sign.”

“Your final round broke me.”

Bucky huffed out a broken laugh, still catching his breath, chest rising and falling against yours. His forehead pressed gently to yours, his hand cupping your jaw like you were something delicate again, like he hadn’t just spent the last hour absolutely destroying you one set of lingerie at a time.

“No, baby,” he whispered, brushing his lips over your cheek. “You broke me.”

His voice was lower now. Hoarse, yet full of affection.

“Ten fuckin’ outfits. Ten. And you—” his eyes flicked down, drinking in your flushed, wrecked face, “—you smiled through every single one like you didn’t know you were wreckin’ my whole goddamn life.”

You smiled, dazed and glowing, your limbs heavy and warm. “I did know.”

He made a strangled sound. “You’re evil.”

You laughed, soft and spent, then curled into him as he pulled the blankets up over the both of you, still fully naked, still buried in the heat of each other.

He kissed you again, soft and slow. Nothing filthy about it except how loved it felt.

For a long moment, the two of you just laid there: legs tangled, breath steadying, sweat cooling between you. 

And then, in a whisper just for you, he murmured:

“Marry me.”

You blinked up at him, lips parting, but before you could answer, he smirked against your shoulder and added:

“…After I order my own $218 worth of lingerie for you. Fair’s fair.”

[thewintermuse]

try it on for me

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Pairing: Feral!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (18+), Oral Sex (F Receiving), Pillow Princess Worship, Praise Kink, Possessive Behavior, Feral Bucky Barnes, Lingerie Kink, Filthy Talk, Mild Degradation (playful), Manhandling, No Plot, Just Lingerie and Bucky Losing His Mind, Ten Lingerie Sets, One Very Desperate Man. 

Word count: 2.1k

Music:

Dangerous - Sleep Token

MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT - Elley Duhé

I WANNA BE YOUR SLAVE - Måneskin

Infinity - Jaymes Young

Closer - Nine Inch Nails

Cheekbones - Arrows in Action

Notes: This is part one, find part two here! First time posting to tumblr so I’m still learning. Hope you all enjoy!

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It started three days ago, when you opened your lingerie drawer and found, well… nothing.

A few sad scraps of lace, one single strap from a bralette that looked like it had been mauled by a wild animal (a six foot tall, blue eyed, super soldier shaped wild animal…), and a pair of panties with one side torn clean through. And the rest?

Thrown out.

The ones that had gotten too small.

The ones you bought on impulse at 2 a.m. but never wore.

And all the ones Bucky had… destroyed. With enthusiasm.

So you simply shrugged, grabbed your laptop, and told yourself: I’ll just get a few new things.

Except “a few” had somehow turned into twenty four items.

And the total had somehow become… $218.43.

Give or take.

(Definitely do not let Bucky know that part.)

By the time you pulled into the garage after a long day at the compound, you’d nearly forgotten about the reckless shopping spree. You toed your shoes off neatly by the door, hung your keys on the hook, and called out softly:

“Buck? I’m home!”

Footsteps padded down the stairs, heavy stride, familiar rhythm, and before you could take another breath, Bucky’s warm presence filled the doorway. He leaned in immediately, kissing your temple like he couldn’t help himself.

“Hey doll,” he murmured, brushing a stray curl behind your ear. “You, uh… got a package upstairs.”

“A package?” You echoed, distracted as you started unbuttoning your coat.

“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “Pretty sure it’s yours. Big box. Like… giant.”

You froze halfway through the second button, blinking up at Bucky as though he’d just announced the second coming of Christ.

“A… a giant box?” You echoed, voice going a touch too high-pitched.

Bucky’s brow lifted instantly. Suspicious, amused, and definitely interested now. 

“Yeah,” he said slowly, like he was watching live footage of your brain buffering. “Big one. Brown cardboard. Has your name on it. We talkin’ shoes? More candle shit? Don’t tell me you bought another weighted blanket—”

“Nope!” You blurted too fast. Way too fast.

Bucky narrowed his eyes.

“Sweetheart.”

“…yes?” you squeaked.

“What’d you order?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Lie. Lie. Lie, you begged your own brain

“Just… stuff.”

“Uh-huh,” he murmured, his metal fingers trailing up your arm like a man who definitely knew you were hiding something. “Stuff that needs a box bigger than you?”

Your stomach sank.

He was going to see the total if he opened it. He was going to find out you spent the price of a small utility bill on lace, mesh, silk, and bows.

He’d combust… and not in a normal way.

“Don’t… open it,” you said quickly, poking his chest.

His grin went slow and wolfish.

“Oh, absolutely opening it now.”

“James Buchanan Barnes, don’t you dare—”

He was already halfway up the stairs.

“BUCKY!”

He reached the bedroom door before you did, grabbed the giant box like it weighed nothing, and set it on the foot of the bed. When you burst in behind him, breathless and ready to throw yourself between him and the cardboard like you were preventing a bomb detonation, he gave you the smuggest grin you’d ever seen on his stupid handsome face.

“You know,” he said mildly, hooking his thumb under the tape, “I could smell something on it. Perfume or somethin’. You orderin’ new lotion?”

You lunged.

He sliced the tape open.

Lingerie of all colors, fabrics, lace, silk, and ribbons spilled open like a treasure chest from the world’s sexiest pirate ship.

Bucky went silent.

He stared down at the pile.

Then at you. 

Then back at the pile.

Then at you again, slower this time, eyes darkening like storm clouds rolling in.

“You… did… not…”

You backed up until your calves hit the dresser.

“It was on sale.”

He raised one eyebrow.

“All of it?”

“Some of it.”

“How much did you spend?”

You pressed your lips together.

“Doll.”

“…two hundred-ish?”

He moved.

Not fast, not slow.

Just… predatory.

“That’s not a number.”

“Two—” she winced, “—eighteen.”

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Then dragged a hand over his face like he was seconds from falling to his knees in prayer.

“Two hundred and eighteen dollars…” he hissed. “On lingerie.”

You nodded.

“For you.”

He looked like you’d just personally handed him the keys to heaven.

“Baby,” he said hoarsely, “you tryin’ to kill me?”

“Not intentionally.”

He stepped closer until your back hit the dresser next and bracketed you in with his hands, caging you without touching.

“Show me.”

Your breath caught. “What?”

Bucky dipped his head so his lips brushed your ear.

“Show. Me.” Each word a growl. “Every. Fuckin’. Piece.”

Your damn knees almost gave out.

“Oh,” you shakily whispered. “Okay.”

He stepped back from where he had you pinned and lowered himself into the armchair across from the bed, spread his thighs, and settled in like a man ready to witness something holy.

“Sunshine.”

“Yes?” you whispered, already reaching into the box.

“I’m not touchin’ you until you’ve shown me all of it.”

Your inhale was sharp.

“That’s… Bucky, that’s like ten sets—”

“Then you better start,” he murmured, voice dark honey. “Slow.”

You swallowed hard and pulled out the first set, a pale lilac mesh with tiny embroidered daisies, and disappeared into the bathroom. You changed fast, heart hammering, hands shaking.

And when you stepped out…

Bucky’s jaw dropped open.

“Fuck…”

You flushed bright pink. “Do you… like it?”

He didn’t answer, he stood so suddenly the chair scraped. He walked toward you in two long steps, cupped your face, kissed you like he was starving, then ripped himself away with a growl.

“No. No, I said I’m not touching you. I sit. You model. Don’t tempt me.”

“You kissed me!”

“That was a reflex!” he half–shouted, pacing away from you like a feral animal. “You can’t just come out lookin’ like… like that! I need a second—Jesus—okay, keep goin’.”

The second piece was black lace with velvet straps.

He choked on air the second you stepped out. 

The third was white and barely there.

He swore under his breath the entire time you modeled it.

By the sixth piece, he was gripping the arms of the chair hard enough to bend steel.

By the ninth, sweat had broken along his forehead.

When you stepped out in the tenth, a red satin ribbon set that literally tied at your hips, Bucky made a sound that wasn’t human.

“Sunshine,” he said weakly, “if you don’t get on this bed right now, I’m gonna pass out.”

“You said all of them.”

“I lied.”

“But you said—”

“I liiiiied,” he practically whimpered, dragging himself up.

“But you said—”

“Baby,” he said through gritted teeth, “I’m beggin’ you. Come here.”

You sauntered—sauntered—toward him, all tease and sunshine and sin in red ribbon.

“Say the magic word.”

His head tipped back.

“Please,” he whined, his voice soft, wrecked, and utterly desperate.

And when you climbed into his lap, he grabbed you so hungrily you gasped, finally letting days of pent-up need pour out of him.

“You bought all this lingerie,” he panted against your throat, “and you modeled damn near every piece knowing what you were doin’ to me.”

“I wanted to look pretty.”

He laughed, breathless and disbelieving.

“Pretty? Doll, you look like a fuckin’ fantasy. You look like every dream I’ve ever had, sittin’ in my lap in ribbons. I’m gonna ruin every single one of these sets. Every one.”

You shivered. “You already ruined the last batch.”

“Exactly,” he said, pushing you back onto the bed with a growl. “Now be a good girl and let me ruin this one too.”

You laughed breathlessly as you hit the mattress, your hair spilling around you like a halo of sunshine dipped in sin. The red ribbon lingerie sat perfectly against your skin, thin strips of satin crossing your chest, a bow above your sternum, two long ties at your hips framing soft, warm skin Bucky had dreamed about all damn day.

He just stood there for a moment, staring at you like he legitimately didn’t know if he should get on the bed, get on his knees, or climb onto the ceiling like some feral creature.

“You’re starin’,” you teased, propping yourself up on your elbows.

He blinked hard.

“You’re sittin’ on my bed,” he rasped, “wearing somethin’ that’s barely cloth and expectin’ me to act normal.”

“It’s just lingerie—”

“No,” he cut in, voice low and hot, “it’s you in lingerie.”

He crawled onto the bed and over you like a man possessed. His metal hand traced the red satin at your hip, fingertip brushing the bow.

“This…” he murmured, “…this is what broke me.”

“You haven’t even touched it yet.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, leaning in until his breath warmed your neck, “I don’t need to. You walkin’ outta that bathroom wearing this? That did it.”

His mouth found your jaw, your throat, dragging open-mouthed kisses down to the top of your chest. His vibranium fingers teased the bow at your sternum, pulling at one ribbon slowly, deliberately, just to watch you gasp.

“You spent two hundred dollars on lingerie?” he breathed against your skin. “You know what that tells me?”

“That I have terrible self-control with online shopping?”

He laughed into your neck. “No, doll. It tells me you bought all this because you knew I’d lose my mind the second I saw you in it.”

His flesh hand cupped your breast, thumb brushing the satin edge.

“And you were right.”

You arched up into him, nudging your knee between his thighs, feeling how hard he already was for you. He hissed.

“Sweetheart,” he warned.

“What?” You asked sweetly, feigning innocence you absolutely didn’t have.

“Stop temptin’ me.”

“You literally just said that was the point.”

He groaned like you were murdering him with sunshine.

Then he kissed you, deep and needy, all tongue and heat and pent-up hunger, like he’d been waiting for this since the moment he opened that damn box. You grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him closer, and that was all it took.

He snapped.

One second he was kissing you, the next his fingers hooked into the red bows at your hips, pulling them loose in one forceful tug. The satin slipped apart like it was made to be undone by him.

“You’re gonna ruin it,” you whispered, breathless.

“Yeah,” he murmured darkly, kisses trailing down your stomach, “I am.”

He moved lower. Lower. Until his face hovered right between your thighs, eyes staring up at you like you were dessert.

“You look at me like that,” he said, voice a growl, “in red ribbons… and expect the set to survive?”

Your hand slid into his hair, tugging gently.

“Buck—”

He didn’t give you time to finish.

His mouth was on you, hot, greedy, and reverent, licking into you like he’d been starved for days. You gasped, hips jerking, thighs squeezing around his head, and he made a sound that vibrated through you. 

His grip tightened on your thighs, pulling you closer, holding you exactly where he wanted you. His metal hand flattened against your stomach, keeping you pinned while his tongue worked deeper, slower, then faster, then slower again because he wanted you begging.

“Oh my God,” you choked out, fingers gripping his hair so tightly he groaned into you. “Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he panted between long, messy strokes, “say my name in that voice. The one you only use when you’re wearin’ stuff I bought you—”

“I bought this!”

“And now it’s mine.”

He sucked at you like he wanted to claim every inch. You were trembling, your thighs shaking around his head, your breath uneven and broken as you tried to hold on…

But he wasn’t having it.

Two fingers slid inside you, deep and slow, curling perfectly, and your back arched so sharply your shoulders lifted off the sheets.

“Buck—!”

“Good girl,” he growled, dragging his mouth up to your clit again, lips sealing around it. “Come on, sunshine. Give it to me. Let me taste what two hundred dollars bought.”

That was it.

You shattered, crying out his name, your whole body shaking with the force of it. He held you through it, groaning into you as he worked you through the waves, drinking down every sound you made.

When you finally collapsed back onto the bed, chest heaving, Bucky kissed the inside of your thigh, leaving a wet mark straight on your skin. 

“Okay,” he said hoarsely, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “One set down.”

Your eyes fluttered halfway open.

“One… set?”

“You modeled ten,” he said, crawling up your hovered over you again, his voice a sinful promise. “I’m gonna ruin all of ‘em.”

You stared up at him, cheeks flushed, hair a halo on the pillow.

“You’re insane.”

He smirked, digging his knee between your thighs again.

“Insane about you.”

And then he reached for the next lingerie piece in the box.

[thetorontokid]

this is my favorite genre of sebastian stan