buckgasms

[buckgasms]

🤌🏼

Sebastian Stan and Shailene Woodley in Endings, Beginnings (2019)

[buckgasms]

I'd like to order one Bucky please.... 🌟

heavy in your arms

Summary: Bucky has big arms. And you've been dreaming about losing yourself in them since you saw him for the first time. Inspo: beefy!bucky wrapping his bicep around your neck to pull you flush to his chest while he pounds into you deliciously Pairing: beefy!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Warnings/tags: smut; porn without plot; breath play (kinda); arm kink; chocking kink; silent play; p in v; unprotected sex; praise kink (reader); no use of Y/N Word count: 2.6k Notes: quick drabble i wrote in like two hours because i couldn't stop thinking about this post by @fckmebarnes

You’re not entirely sure how you got to tonight’s events.

You met Bucky Barnes a few months ago in a local market. He seemed lost. Like buying tomatoes and plums from a sweet vendor on the street was the hardest chore someone could do in a lifetime. You approached. He looked uneasy, pulled away. You spoke, soft and tender. He barely answered. American. 

But you saw each other again. And again. And again, on the same market. At some point, you wondered if he would come just to see you. One day, you invited him to your home. You didn’t think he would say yes, but he did.

You know his name. He’s hiding something dark, deep, and he’s got a shiny metal arm instead of a left human arm. All the rest of him is… normal. He’s quiet, quieter than should be comfortable, but you’re okay with it. And his presence in your home comes like a balm. Becomes a routine. He comes over once a week, you make him his favorite soup. He always looks tired.

Then, tonight, something shifted. You made a comment about his arms. His big fucking arms, because, God, he’s muscular and big, so much bigger than you. And you’ve wondered what it would be like to lose yourself in those arms, to have them wrapped around you as he fucked you into oblivion, until you forgot yourself.

You’re both in the living room, and Bucky is the first to reach forward, towards you. He’s careful in his motion, but firm, his body moving with a certain precision. Flesh hand, warm, wraps around your smaller right wrist and tugs you closer, until your bodies are practically touching. Every inch of him on every inch of you - almost.

His icy blue eyes trail over your features like he’s studying you, learning, memorizing. They are directly locked into your own eyes for a moment, holding your gaze, and you think you detect something behind that look, like he’s about to say something, but decides against it. Then his eyes are on your cheeks, taking in the pinkish tone on your skin, and then lower, on your lips. Plump, a little trembling, as if they are begging to be kissed. To be devoured by his own. You don’t need to ask it out loud. Bucky’s memories are scattered across the continents, but the look on your face - the want - that one he recognizes.

His body towers over yours and he starts to lean down, and you still catch the moment he starts to close his eyes. And then, a hairsbreadth later, his lips are pressing to yours. The kiss isn’t tender, isn’t sweet. You didn’t expect sweetness from him, anyway.

Bucky is hungry and he kisses you exactly like a man starving. When was the last time his lips were on someone else’s willingly? When was the last time he felt like his body really was his own? He’s not sure he remembers, but this, right here, your small, fragile body on his - it feels good.

Your lips move together, hard and hungry, and he tastes like alcohol and fruit and the mixture is strange on your tongue but not unpleasant. He licks over your lips, inviting himself into your mouth before his tongue slides past your lips and tastes all of you. His flesh hand is still holding on to your wrist, but when he kisses you like that you moan and instantly, his hand moves to grip your hip tight. Bucky holds you hard against his body, and already you feel the outline of his hard cock through his jeans. Your hips roll forward, teasing, seeking friction, and he makes a noise into your mouth which you swallow like it’s your own.

Bucky breaks the kiss for a moment to search for air, and he takes in the sight of your flustered face. He seems proud of the work he’s done, metal arm reaching up and craddling your cheek as his thumb rubs over the reddened skin.

“You’re beautiful.”, he says, and his voice is rough with desire. You open your mouth to say something, but Bucky catches your lips in another lustful kiss that leaves you breathless before you can get a word out. Then he’s pulling away again. “No, love. No speaking unless I ask you to.” His head lowers and you think he’s about to kiss you again but instead his head dips between your neck and your shoulder and he licks a strip across your neck. Then, his teeth are digging into the skin before he sucks it into his mouth and that elicits another moan from you. His hand on your hip tightens and he groans in disapproval. “No noises either, love. You don’t make a sound. Do you understand?” You’re a quick learner, because his question doesn’t receive a spoken answer. Instead, you simply nod, your body already slightly trembling under his hold. “Good. Such a good girl for me.”

His words bleed into your ears like acid, burning their way through every inch of your skin, crawling, a brand being placed upon you. Such a good girl for me. It echoes inside of you, and you can imagine that, many moons from now, those words will still be glued to you like they are a part of your core.

Bucky is still kissing your neck, and his teeth graze the skin ever so slightly a couple of times. He’s testing you, testing your restraint. And you provide nothing. Not a single sound, only your eyes rolling into the back of your head, back arching slightly into him. He’s hot and warm and built like a wall - firm, big, his muscles so big they completely crowd your every sense. There is so much of him. Standing tall and strong, the red henley strained against his arms as his muscles flex as he grips you tight. And your mind is spiraling, because you had to be blind to not notice how big he was, but now, this close, you feel so small in comparison, so breakable. And you are sure he could break you if he wanted to. You’re not entirely sure he isn’t doing that, right now, just in an entirely different way.

You almost mewl in disappointment when Bucky momentarily pulls away from you, but you don’t, and he takes notice. You’re being such a good girl, and he’s never been quite this turned on, even though you’ve barely done anything at all. Both his hands move to the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head before discarding it somewhere in the living room. Then he’s walking forward, and you walk backwards, and somehow, you end up with your back against the couch. Bucky is grinning at you. Not a full grin, no, but a delicious half-smile, confident he’s tearing you apart bit by bit. His eyes are skimming over your torso, landing on your black lacy bra and he can’t help but immediately move his flesh hand to massage one of your breasts, grabbing, the size of it perfect in his big palm. His thumb brushes the soft material of the bra to the side, just enough to free your hardened nipple and he plays with it between his fingers. 

You still don’t make a sound. God, it’s the hardest thing you’ve done all your life - not making a sound when he’s teasing you like this. But you’re a good girl. You can be good for him.

“Love-”, Bucky breathes and he kisses over the expanse of your chest. “Tell me how you’re feeling.” His voice isn’t demanding like the rest of his body is right now, but it’s rough enough to make it clear he needs an answer.

“So good.” 

*

A while later, you’re both naked, Bucky stroking your bare back with his fingers as you suck in a breath.

You are slightly bent over your couch, legs spread, and your arousal is slowly dripping down the inside of your thigh. Bucky catches some of it in his fingers and uses it to stroke his cock as he looks at you. 

What a sight to behold. You, spread out for him. Wanting, needing, not making a damn sound, like he asked you to. The imagery makes his cock twitch in his hand and he has to take a deep breath, slow his thoughts, otherwise he’d be gone before this even started. 

Bucky runs his metal hand over your hip, around the base of your back, so close to your ass, and his touch is reverent, like he physically needs to touch every inch of skin to make this perfect. Then, the tip of his cock is pressing against your folds, and the intrusion is most welcomed. Your hips roll back into him, and Bucky rests both hands on your hips to stop your movement.

“Don’t be greedy.”, he breathes, but in the next second he’s slowly sinking himself inside of you. His cock stretches you out and you grip the edges of the couch hard, so hard maybe you’ll leave nail marks afterwards, because it’s the only way you can stop yourself from making a sound. Sweat coats your body, and his, and his metal arm circles your waist, gently pressing against your stomach to keep you pressed tight to him as he sinks deeper, and deeper, until he’s fully seated inside of you.

Bucky groans and it’s the hottest sound you’ve ever heard in your life. He doesn’t remember any other feeling quite like the feeling of being buried so deep inside of you. Your pussy feels divine, wet and warm, gripping him like a vice. It feels like it’s singing to him, a goddamn siren song, and he will never be able to leave again. 

“Oh, fuck, love- so tight.”, Bucky says, half a whimper, and he gives one tentative thrust. And you feel it then - his body shaking against yours. “Tell me this feels good. Tell me you want this.” Bucky’s pleading, a small contrast to the way he’s handling you, and you let out a soft gasp you had been holding on.

“Please, Bucky, I want you. I want you so bad.”, you respond, and the arousal in your voice is confirmation enough that you’re not lying. “Please, your cock feels so fucking good-”

And then your sentence is interrupted, because Bucky slides his flesh arm around your neck, hard bicep wrapped around you as he pulls you flush to his chest. He uses his knee to lift one of your legs from behind, resting it against the back of the couch, and then he starts fucking into you, thrusts slow, hard, deep, his bicep pressed so hard around your neck that you feel almost light headed. The grip of his arm is not enough to take your breath away, but it is enough to hold you in place, to stop you from moving, from doing anything at all. Anything but moan for him. You’re not sure he wants you to right now, but you can’t really hold it back when his cock is buried so deep, hitting every sweet spot, his balls slapping against your ass in a slow, sensual rhythm that sends you flying.

“Bad girl.”, he moans into your ear, but he doesn’t make a move to stop, and instead, fucks you through it, a little harder, a little deeper. “Making noise when I told you to be quiet.”, he continues speaking, voice hoarse, but his hips don’t snap out of their rhythm, and so you still moan. One of your hands comes up from the back of the couch and you drag your nails over his large arm, the one wrapped around your neck, and his hips stutter for half a second. “Naughty. And I fucking love it.”

He angles his hips better, lifts your leg a little higher with his knee and then he’s changing the pace, his cock driving in and out of you a little faster. The noises coming out of you are pure filth, obscene, and you’re glad he isn’t asking you to be quiet now, because you don’t think you could. Bucky’s lips drop to your neck, and he kisses the soft skin as his metal fingers slide down your stomach and start rubbing circles around your clit in time with his thrusts. He feels you trembling in his arms and he tightens the arm around your neck, keeping you more in place.

“I’ve got you, love.”, he moans against your neck, and his metal hand doesn’t stop, his hips don’t stop and the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, along with your moans. “You’re so amazing. Could stay inside this tight pussy for hours.” Your body shudders against him, teeth digging into your bottom lip as his filthy praise makes his way into you. God, you want, need, more of this, more of him. 

But he has you pressed flush against his chest, against his body, and you’re his to take. He doesn’t let you move anything other than your arms, everything else in his total control. And you love it, you’d beg for it if he made you.

His metal fingers fasten the movements on your clit, and the cold metal feels perfect against the heat of your folds, so perfect. Your stomach feels tight, muscles coiled with the pressure of the orgasm that is building right in the back of your gut, spreading over your every limb, expanding and threatening to make a mess out of you. Bucky feels it, feels your walls clutching around his cock and it only spurs him on. His hips snap faster, fucking you with renewed vigor and his lips trail from your neck to your ear, whispering all the filthy things you seem to love.

“Gonna cum so hard inside this pretty pussy.”, he says and you whimper. He responds to that by thrusting particularly hard inside of you. “So good for me. My favorite girl. You gonna cum for me, love? Gonna cum all over my cock? Let me feel you.” 

Your arms are clawing at the bicep still tightly wrapped around your neck, not because you want him to move it but because you need to hold on to something as you come apart, in all senses of the word. “Bucky, I’m so close- please don’t stop.”

He wasn’t planning to. 

And shortly after, he tips you over the edge. You see white, your mouth opening to let out a strangled gasp as your orgasm washes over you and your whole body trembles against Bucky. He whispers soft praise into your ear as you cum, hold you through every spasm and moan, flush against his chest, and his hips don’t falter. He fucks you fast and hard and hot until you’re going limp in his body, and then he thrusts a couple more times, his rhythm broken, before he curses your name under his breath and spills himself inside of you, his seed filling your pussy to the brim. 

For another minute he just fucks lazily into you, like he’s just making sure no second of his or your orgasm go to waste. His arm around your neck loosens up and it seems like he’s about to move it completely out of the way, but you hold on to it. You feel his gaze on you, almost confused.

“Don’t move.” You ask, a little pleading. Your eyes are closed as you try to get your breathing back to normal. “Stay. For a while.”

He does.

For a while.

[buckgasms]

Just binged this and uuuuurgh so GOOD

Beneath the surface

Chapter four

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X fem!reader

Dragged into a world she doesn’t belong to, y/n finds herself losing pieces of who she used to be. Each party, each smile, each bruise leaves a mark — until a stranger starts to notice the cracks. Bucky Barnes sees more than he says, and something unspoken begins to grow between them. But some truths don’t stay hidden forever.

> This story contains themes of emotional manipulation, toxic relationships, and physical abuse. Reader discretion is advised.

Slow burn. Angst. Comfort. Bucky Barnes x Reader.

Part one | Part two | part three

The drive was quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that settled heavy between you, thick like fog, pressing down on everything you didn’t know how to say.

You sat curled into yourself in the passenger seat, Bucky’s jacket draped over your shoulders even though you weren’t sure when he’d placed it there. The leather was worn soft, still warm from his body heat, and it smelled faintly of something clean and familiar — maybe soap, maybe him — and it should have been comforting, but all it did was remind you how small you felt.

Outside the window, the city blurred past in streaks of gold and red, headlights and neon signs smearing against the night, but you didn’t really see it. Your gaze stayed fixed on nothing at all, eyes wide but unfocused, as though if you didn’t look at anything too closely, it wouldn’t hurt so much. Your hands were tucked beneath the jacket, fingers clenched tight into fists against your ribs, like you were trying to hold yourself together from the inside out.

Bucky kept glancing over at you — quick, almost nervous flicks of his eyes, as though he wasn’t sure if looking too long would break you more. His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles pale beneath the skin, jaw set hard like he was biting back every word he wanted to say but couldn’t find the shape for.

He hated this — the silence, the distance, the weight of everything he couldn’t fix with a punch or a glare. He’d seen you scared at that party. He’d seen the shadows in your eyes. But this? This quiet, hollow version of you sitting beside him, too still, too silent — this was worse.

He cleared his throat once, softly, like he might try to speak, but the words caught somewhere between his chest and his mouth, and all that came out was a breath.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. If you did, you were afraid you’d break. That the dam you’d been holding up by sheer will alone would crack, and you wouldn’t be able to stop it — the tears, the shaking, the flood of everything you weren’t ready to feel.

So you kept your gaze on the road ahead, on the blur of night, on nothing at all.

And Bucky drove — steady, careful, like the car itself was something fragile, like the world might shatter if he wasn’t gentle enough.

When the compound finally came into view — all steel and glass and soft-lit windows glowing in the dark — he exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The gates opened silently as they approached, and the quiet of the car felt even heavier now, like it had followed you both inside.

He pulled up to the front entrance, shifted the car into park, but didn’t move to get out right away. Instead, he sat there for a beat longer, fingers drumming once against the steering wheel before he forced them still.

“Hey,” he said finally, voice low, careful, as though he didn’t want to startle you. “We’re here. You’re safe now, okay?”

You nodded — just once, small, almost mechanical — and your voice came out thin, cracked around the edges. “Okay.”

The compound was quiet when you stepped inside — the kind of quiet that felt different from your apartment. Not tense. Not waiting for the next storm. Just… peaceful. The soft hum of distant machinery, the low flicker of lights along the floor. Bucky stayed close, but not too close. Like he didn’t want to crowd you. Like he didn’t want to risk being one more thing you had to brace yourself against.

“C’mon,” he said gently, motioning toward the elevator. “I’ll show you to your room.”

The ride up was silent. You stared at the floor numbers as they ticked by, hands clenched around the sleeves of the sweatshirt someone had given you — his, maybe, though you didn’t remember when he’d draped it over your shoulders. It smelled faintly of him. Clean. Warm. Safe.

---

The next few days passed in a blur.

At first, you barely left your room. The space was bigger than you were used to, but it didn’t feel like yours — not yet. The bed was soft, the blankets thick, and the view outside the window was endless sky and trees instead of city streets. It should’ve been calming. Sometimes it was. Other times, it felt too big, too open, like you didn’t know where to put yourself.

The nightmares didn’t stop.

Most nights, you jolted awake, breath ragged, heart pounding so loud you were sure it echoed down the halls. But no one came. No one yelled. No one grabbed your arm and dragged you back into the fight. And slowly — slowly — that started to mean something.

Bucky didn’t push. He’d check in, soft knocks on your door in the morning, sometimes with coffee, sometimes just to ask how you were sleeping — though the answer was written all over your face. You’d meet his eyes sometimes, offer a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. But that was okay. He never expected more than you could give.

And somewhere between those quiet mornings and long afternoons wandering the edges of the compound, you started to feel your shoulders drop. Just a little. You started sitting with him in the common room when he was there — on the other side of the couch at first, but close enough to feel the calm he carried. You started joining him on walks around the grounds, even if you didn’t say much. He didn’t seem to mind the silence.

Sometimes, at night, you’d find yourself standing by the window, watching the stars. And you’d think about how he’d stood between you and Josh. About how his voice had been steady, sure, when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

You weren’t ready to talk about it. Not yet. But being near him — that felt like a beginning.

And Bucky?

Bucky noticed every small step. Every time your voice came a little stronger, every time your laugh — quiet, fleeting — slipped out like it surprised you. He noticed the way your eyes started to hold his a little longer before darting away. The way your hands stopped trembling quite so much when you reached for the coffee cup he offered.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

He was just there.

And for now, that was enough.

---

It was late. The compound had gone quiet for the night, the kind of quiet that felt heavier somehow, like the walls themselves were exhaling. You couldn’t sleep — not really. Restless, you’d found your way to the kitchen, and now you sat at the small table near the window, hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long gone cold.

You heard him before you saw him — the soft tread of his boots, the familiar rhythm of his steps. And then he was there, standing in the doorway, watching you for a moment like he wasn’t sure if he should intrude.

“You okay?” His voice was low, careful.

You didn’t look at him right away. Just nodded a little, eyes on the dark outside. “Yeah. Just couldn’t sleep.”

He hesitated, then crossed the room, settling into the chair across from you. He didn’t say anything else — didn’t try to fill the silence. Just sat, close enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.

For a long time, that was all there was. The quiet hum of the fridge. The faint creak of the walls as they settled in the night.

And then, without really planning to, you spoke.

“I didn’t think it’d ever end up like this.”

Your voice was soft, barely louder than a whisper. But Bucky heard you. His gaze lifted, steady and patient, giving you space to keep going if you wanted.

“It wasn’t always bad,” you said, fingers tracing the rim of your mug, as if the words might slip away if you didn’t hold onto something. “He… he wasn’t like that when we met. I mean — he was sweet. Charming. The kind of person who makes you feel like you’re the only one in the room.”

You laughed, but it was small, sad. “God, I fell so hard for him. I thought I’d found it. You know? That forever thing.”

Bucky didn’t interrupt. He didn’t tell you what you should’ve done, or how you should’ve seen it. He just listened.

“The first argument — it was stupid. About something small. I can’t even remember what. But I remember how it felt. Like it came out of nowhere. Like I’d said the wrong thing and didn’t even know why it was wrong. And I told myself it was just stress. Just a bad day.”

You paused, throat tight, the memories thick and sharp at the edges.

“And then it happened again. And again. Louder. Meaner. Like… like he was testing how far he could push. And I kept thinking, if I could just do better — if I could just make him happy again — it’d go back to how it was.”

Bucky’s hands were on the table now, folded together. His knuckles were pale, but his face was calm, listening.

“The first time he hit me… I knew it was bad. I knew. But — I didn’t want to give up. I kept thinking, maybe it was just once. Maybe it was just a mistake. I didn’t want to be the person who failed. Who walked away.”

Your voice cracked then, and you blinked hard, willing the tears not to fall.

And Bucky — god, Bucky — he didn’t say a word. He just reached across the table, slow enough that you could see it coming, could pull away if you needed to. His hand covered yours, warm and solid and steady. No pressure. No demand. Just there.

“You didn’t fail,” he said, voice rough around the edges, like it hurt him to even hear you say it. “You didn’t fail, doll. You survived. That’s what you did.”

You let out a shaky breath, one you hadn’t even realized you were holding. His hand over yours felt like an anchor — not heavy, not trapping. Just steady. Safe.

“I kept thinking I could fix it,” you said, voice small. “That if I loved him enough, he’d stop. That maybe it was my fault. I must’ve done something to make him that way.”

Bucky shook his head, slow and sure. His thumb brushed lightly over the back of your hand — a quiet reassurance, like he was trying to wipe the thought away.

“No,” he said, and his voice was so certain, so solid, it made your chest ache. “That’s not on you. None of it. I don’t care what he said, what he made you think — that’s on him. You didn’t deserve a second of it.”

Your eyes burned, tears blurring the room, but you didn’t look away. Somehow, you couldn’t.

And Bucky, who usually seemed so careful to keep his distance, leaned in just a little. Just enough so you could see the softness in his eyes beneath the storm.

“I saw you at those parties,” he said quietly. “The first time, I couldn’t stop looking. You lit up the whole damn room, you know that? And not because of how you looked — though, god, you were beautiful — but because of the way you smiled. Like you wanted everyone to feel at ease. Like you were trying to hold it all together.”

You swallowed hard. “You noticed that?”

He gave a breath of a laugh — but it wasn’t amused. It was sad, gentle. “Yeah. I noticed. I couldn’t stop. And then… then I saw him. The way he looked at you. Like he owned you. Like you were his to control. And I hated it. I hated seeing him dim your light. Every time you smiled, it didn’t reach your eyes. And I kept thinking, why isn’t anyone doing anything? Why aren’t I doing anything?”

His hand tightened just a little on yours — not enough to scare, just enough to ground.

“And when I saw him with you that last time—” His jaw clenched, voice dropping low. “I wanted to kill him. I swear, I’ve never felt that kind of rage. Not since… not since before.”

You could see it now — the guilt, the weight of it. He’d been carrying it just like you had.

“You did something,” you said, and your voice broke on the words. “You saved me.”

Bucky’s gaze softened even more, like he didn’t know what to do with the way you were looking at him. Like he didn’t think he deserved it.

“I’m just glad I was there in time,” he said. “I should’ve seen it sooner. Should’ve—”

“Don’t,” you cut in gently, shaking your head. “Please. Don’t do that to yourself.”

For a beat, neither of you spoke. The night stretched out around you, quiet and heavy, but not in the way it had before. This was a different kind of quiet. The kind that felt shared.

Bucky exhaled slowly. “You don’t have to talk about any of it if you don’t want to. But if you ever do — I’ll be here. Every time.”

The room had gone still, but Bucky didn’t move.

He didn’t want to.

He didn’t want to risk breaking the fragile peace that had settled between you — like the two of you had stumbled onto something sacred in the middle of all the wreckage. You were still holding his hand, fingers small and trembling in his, but you hadn’t let go. And that felt like the most important thing in the world right now.

He kept his breathing even, slow, like maybe if he stayed calm enough, it would help you stay calm too.

His eyes drifted over you — the way your shoulders were still curled inward, like you were trying to make yourself small. The faint bruise at your jaw, already fading but still too loud in his mind. The tear tracks drying on your cheeks.

God. His heart hurt.

He’d seen pain before. Hell, he’d caused more than his share. But this — watching you try to piece yourself back together, watching you fight so hard to stay upright when everything inside you must’ve felt like it was breaking apart — it gutted him.

And the worst part? He hadn’t even known the full truth. Not until now. All those parties, all those times he’d watched you from across the room, too afraid to step in, too afraid to make it worse — he’d known something wasn’t right. But he hadn’t known this.

If he had… no. He couldn’t think like that. It would eat him alive.

You shifted a little, wiping at your eyes with your free hand, and he loosened his grip just enough to let you move — but didn’t let go.

Didn’t want to let go.

Bucky cleared his throat quietly. His voice felt rough when he finally spoke, like it had rusted from disuse.

“You’re stronger than you think,” he said, and the words weren’t meant to be out loud. But they were true. And maybe you needed to hear them.

You glanced at him, eyes red and tired but clearer now, and for a second — just a second — he thought he saw that spark again. That quiet kind of bravery that had caught him off guard the first time he’d met you.

“I don’t feel strong,” you said, and your voice was soft. Honest.

Bucky gave a small, sad smile. “That’s usually when you are.”

You let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, shaky but real. And that — that sound — it felt like the first crack of sunlight after too many days of storm.

So he stayed there with you, in the quiet. He didn’t rush you, didn’t try to fill the space with empty words. He just sat, your hand in his, listening to the soft hum of the compound at night, and let the weight of the moment settle.

---

The days that followed were slow and gentle, like the world around you had finally remembered how to be kind. The compound became a strange kind of sanctuary — wide, quiet halls, sunlit rooms, and people who smiled at you without asking for anything in return. And Bucky… Bucky was there. Always.

He didn’t hover. He didn’t push.

But somehow, he was never far.

Some mornings, you’d find him in the kitchen before anyone else was awake, making too much coffee and pretending not to wait for you. His hair would still be messy, the sleeves of his t-shirt shoved up to his elbows, metal fingers curled around a steaming mug. He’d glance up when you came in — and every time, without fail, that quiet, crooked smile would tug at the corner of his mouth like he couldn’t quite stop it.

And you’d smile back. At first small, uncertain. But it got easier. Brighter.

You were healing. Slowly, messily, but surely.

There were still nights when the shadows crept in, when your mind played cruel tricks and your heart raced for reasons it shouldn’t have to. But the weight on your chest wasn’t as heavy as it had been. Not with Bucky there — with his steady presence, his easy patience, the way he could make you laugh without even trying.

Like that afternoon on the balcony.

The sun was setting, casting everything in gold, and you were sitting side by side on a bench, sharing a bowl of strawberries Bucky had swiped from the kitchen like it was some grand heist.

“I think you’re officially the world’s worst thief,” you teased, popping one into your mouth. “Pretty sure Tony saw you do it.”

Bucky smirked, leaning back, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Please. I’m an excellent thief. You just distract me.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you tried to hide your smile behind the rim of your glass. “Oh? I’m a distraction now?”

“The best kind,” he said, and the look in his eyes made your heart stumble a little. There was something soft there. Something that made you want to lean closer.

And for a moment, you both just sat in the glow of it — the unspoken, the almost — and it felt good. Safe. Like maybe the future didn’t seem so impossible after all.

He bumped your knee lightly with his. “You’re getting better at this, you know.”

You raised a brow. “At what?”

He gestured between you. “Smiling. Laughing. Living.”

You smiled at him then — really smiled — and for the first time in too long, it felt natural.

Bucky didn’t rush anything. He let the slow burn of trust build between you. A friendship, steady and real. A shelter.

And somewhere inside you, that small spark of yourself — the one you thought was gone — began to glow again.

---

The days blurred together in the best way. Easy, quiet hours filled with little pieces of normal that neither of you had realized you were craving. Bucky never said it out loud — not really — but you could feel it in the way he looked at you, in the way he lingered, in the way he seemed to need these moments just as much as you did.

Like that afternoon in the garage.

You’d wandered down there on a whim, curious about the clatter and low hum of music that floated up through the compound. And there he was — crouched beside his bike, grease on his fingers, hair tied back loosely, a smudge across his cheek. He looked up when he heard you, and the way his face lit up was so unguarded that it made your chest ache.

“Hey,” he said, like it was the best part of his day.

“Hey yourself,” you teased, stepping closer. “What’s the damage?”

He grinned. “Nothing I can’t handle. But since you’re here…” He stood, wiping his hands on a rag, and handed it to you without thinking.

Your fingers brushed — just for a second — and it was like time paused. His hand was warm, steady. Yours trembled, just a little.

Neither of you pulled away right away.

And when you finally did, it was with that same lingering softness that seemed to fill the space between you more and more lately.

“You ever work on one of these?” Bucky asked, nodding toward the bike.

You shook your head. “No. But I’m a fast learner.”

That earned you a look — one that said he believed you. One that said he wanted to teach you.

And he did. For hours, you worked side by side — his hands guiding yours, showing you how to fit a part just right, how to listen for the engine’s rhythm like it was a language. Every so often his arm would brush yours, or his fingers would graze your wrist as he reached for a tool. Small touches. Not-so-accidental. And every one of them set your heart racing in a way you weren’t ready to admit.

There were other moments, too.

Like the time he found you curled up on one of the couches in the common room, reading a book in the late afternoon sun. He sat down at the other end — at first — but somehow, over the course of lazy conversation, you ended up closer. His knee brushed yours, and neither of you moved. His arm stretched along the back of the couch, fingertips so close to your shoulder that you could feel the warmth of him, even without contact.

Or the night you both stayed up too late watching old movies. He’d handed you a blanket, and when you pulled it over you both, his metal hand rested beside yours on the couch — close enough that your pinkies touched. And you didn’t pull away. Neither did he. Not even when the credits rolled and the room fell into soft silence, filled only by the sound of his steady breathing.

Bucky was falling for you — hard. You saw it in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. In the way he listened to you, really listened, like every word mattered. And you… you were starting to let yourself hope. To want.

The scars were still there. The nightmares still came. But in these moments, wrapped in stolen glances and soft laughter and not-so-accidental touches, it felt like you were both finding your way back to the light.

---

AN: Once again, thank you so much for reading! I wanted to finish it all in this part, but I feel like this story deserves another. I'll be working on it soon, you'll hear from me

Much love xx

[buckgasms]

Thinking about King Bucky...

This was supposed to be a short drabble but it turned into a long thing but I hope you like it.

Like how he would seduce you as his new Queen and how even if you were a bit scared of him (because he's the most fearsome king you've ever heard of), you also kind of like the idea of poking this bear to prove you aren't as meek as he thinks?

I imagine he provides lots of gifts to showcase his strength and wealth, promising you a life of luxury and comfort. Which is nice. He wraps you in furs and presents you with jewels and gold that you can't help but admire.

Your private chambers are lavishly decorated, wardrobe filled with clothes all to your taste and to suit his queen.

And I think that the first time you spend the night together he's very patient and gentle. He spoils you and brings you such heavenly pleasure that it unleashes something a little bit feral within you.

⛰️

So....

Once you are settled in your new role, you decide it was indeed time to poke that bear.

You wake up to him moving around the room, preparing himself for the day. So you sit up letting your soft blanket drop from your shoulders, revealing your soft skin, still covered in bites and marks from the night before.

"You're leaving already?"

Your voice is soft but he hears it, turning to take you in. His eyes rake over your body hungrily and he walks over to the bed and takes a seat next to you. His hand grips your cheek and he pulls you in for a hungry kiss. You whine when be pulls away and steal more from him.

"Can't be on honeymoon forever" he growls in between kisses, his hands smoothing over your breasts and stomach, settling at your waist as you sigh contently.

"Why not?" You counter as you shift again, pulling at his shirt to keep him close, enticing him back to bed.

It works a little as he chuckles, and shifts on the bed. "Because I have duties my love...as do you."

You finally pull away from kissing to pout at him. "Can't they wait one more day? Besides, how am I going to give you an heir if you abandon me in bed."

He cocks an eyebrow before pressing you back into the pillows. "Perhaps I can remedy that at least..."

You squeal as he throws off your blankets completely and stands up to briefly untie his trousers. You whine as his thick cock fills his hand and he smirks at you, before grabbing your ankle and dragging you to the edge of the bed.

He presses your thighs to your chest and leans down, planting a fiery kiss to your lips before peppering kisses on your chest, back of your thighs and then to your sensitive heat.

You squeal as his rough beard brushes over your folds, still a little sore from the night before. But he ignores your whines as he feels your arousal flood your pussy and soak his chin.

"That's my girl, you feel good hmm?"

You nod as he returns to your heat and your fingers sink into his thick locks, tugging at his scalp. He devours you until your legs shake and your groans fill the room.

Before you peak he pulls away, grinning as you sob, pressing a chaste kiss just below your clit making you shudder.

"I know...not fair is it? Don't worry I'll make it all better sweetheart..."

He taps his thick cock on your aching heat before sinking in, both of you hissing at the stretch. Your head falls back on the mattress as he sets a brutal pace. His hands are set firmly by your head as he hovers above you. You grip his arms and accept his kisses, letting him have his way but as your legs wrap around his waist he knows you are desperate for more.

He drags his teeth across your chest and sucks at your nipples, making your back arch in twisted pleasure.

"Gonna fill you up sweetheart. You're gonna lay here until I'm satisfied that your filled to the brim, ya hear me?"

You moan and drag your nails down his back as he pounds into you, your walls fluttering around him.

"Bucky... I-, Bucky, I'm gonna-"

He growls and presses his forehead to yours.

"That's it sweetheart, just let go for me..."

Your body lets go and you cry out as he growls in your ear, and you feel him empty into you as you crash into your climax.

You lay there panting for a moment before he sits up and gathers you into his arms.

"So the honeymoon can carry on for one more day?"

He chuckles and presses a kiss to your sweaty forehead. "Fine with me..."

⛰️

Also I think that when you really start thinking about babies he assumes that he'll still be in charge and allowed to do as he pleases, taking his pleasure as he likes.

"You won't be doing anything like that if I'm carrying your baby. You'll be doing as you're told..."

He baulks at this. No one tells him what to do. They haven't done for years. People might offer opinions that he takes into consideration. But he's not being told what to do. By his wife. Is he?

You watch his face go through a journey of emotions and you giggle, straddling his waist and loosely wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing some soft kisses to his cheeks and lips.

He grunts before looking at your beautiful face. Glowing with mischief and yet full of love and a little bit of nervousness. You don't normally push him like this.

"Forgive me, but am I not the king? Who am I supposed to answer to?"

His hands drift up under the shirt you are wearing and rock you gently on his lap."

"But I'm the Queen, so surely you answer to me?"

He cocks a brow and thinks again for a moment, before dragging you closer and pressing a kiss to your waiting lips, your fingers gentle on his beard as you sigh with pleasure.

"Alright, you're in charge....but don't tell anyone..."

[buckgasms]

I fear I will only become more feral as time goes on....

SEBASTIAN STAN | L’Officiel Malaysia 2025

[buckgasms]

Sobs in horny for Bucky

bucky barnes would like getting his hair pulled i fear

he looks at you almost pissed when you do it. indignant and appalled that you'd dare. he's typically the one in control, he's been tortured by having his bodily autonomy taken from him so now that he's got it back he's very purposeful with it. sex goes how he wants it to go because he's the one doing it. he leads; he doesn't offer, he takes charge. so whether you yank on his hair to get him to stop biting so rough at your tits, or whether it's because you're blissed out with your fingers tangled in his hair and you can't stop yourself, once his neck rolls back he's letting out a guttural groan that sends a wave of raging heat through your sex, almost enough to make you cum right then and there, and he's stopping dead in his tracks. he looks almost possessed, eyes locked firmly and predatorily on you, something animal alight inside of them. he stares, every ounce of his attention focused on you and what you're doing.

'where the fuck did you learn to do that, hm?' he murmurs, his voice raspy and gruff as you untangle your hands from his strands of hair, 'got someone on the side i don't know about?'

'n-no,' you whimper helplessly, fingers tense from the muscle strain of tugging on his hair, 'no, i- i just wanted to, it felt right and it made you-'

'do it again,' Bucky offers, his stubble-covered jaw inches from your own as he leans in to let his breath wash over your face, 'and you won't walk for a week.'

whether that's an invitation or a threat, you can't figure out, but he's not lying.

[buckgasms]

Please, pleeeease.....

thinking of bucky barnes taking you from behind and talking you through it, kissing your neck

literally a dream

Your cheek is smashed into the sheets, thighs shaking, breath catching as Bucky rolls his hips into you from behind — deep, slow, and purposeful. He’s not fucking you hard yet. No, he’s claiming you. Stretching you open, making sure you feel every inch of him.

“God, look at you,” he murmurs, voice like smoke, one warm hand braced on your lower back, the other ghosting up your spine. “So fuckin’ pretty like this. My good girl.”

You whimper, but it’s cut off when he leans down— his weight, his heat, his scent overwhelming you. And then his lips find your neck, soft at first, brushing just behind your ear. Then lower. Wet. Hot. Sucking tender little bruises into the skin of your neck like he needs the proof he was there.

“Y’know what that does to me?” he rasps against your neck, kissing you again — open-mouthed, slow, like he can’t help himself. “You go all quiet, all shaky, lettin’ me fuck you like this while I mark you up.”

You try to answer, but he thrusts deeper, harder, and your mouth falls open in a silent moan. He chuckles, tongue dragging over your pulse point before he bites gently and growls against your skin.

“You love this don’t you? You like when I take you from behind? Does that feel good, doll?”

“S–so good,” you gasp. “Please don’t stop…”

“Oh, I’m not stoppin’. Not when you’re this fuckin’ perfect.” He keeps kissing your neck as he fucks you — slow and brutal, like he wants to memorize the feel of you. Every drag of his cock matched by a kiss, a bite, a breathless whisper of how good you are for him.

[buckgasms]

The fact that I have in anyway inspired this masterpiece actually spins my head. This is fricking amazing.

Sweet jesus 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼

Tied in Trust

an inspiration from this post by @buckgasms 💜

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: You only asked for something light—just a little teasing, some rope, a blindfold. But Bucky Barnes never did anything halfway. Not when it came to you.

Disclaimer: SMUT 18+ (mdni!), rope bondage, sensory play (edging, overstimulation, blindfold), soft Dom! Bucky, established relationship, some tender aftercare...

Word Count: 7k

Author's Note: I am very inexperienced for this kind of play... 😔 and yes I am going to milk the gifs from this very scene for 89374748 more times tysm. I wrote this during hours of crying at work and struggling to stay awake from being overworked 🤫

“Are you sure you want this, hon?” His voice was low, hesitant—but so heartbreakingly tender it made your chest ache.

You looked up from the bed, where the soft cotton ropes lay coiled between you like quiet promises. “Very sure,” you said, with a breathless kind of smile.

You watched him wrestle with it. With the part of him that never quite let go of the fear he might hurt someone again. That part always hovered, shadowed behind his love, like a ghost that didn’t know how to rest. He stood near the bed, arms folded, jaw tight. But his eyes—God, his eyes—searched yours like they were trying to read the truth written in the lines of your face.

“I just…” He exhaled hard through his nose. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t.” You reached for him, fingers brushing his wrist, anchoring him to the present. “This is just for fun. Just something soft. I trust you.”

“But the ties… you won’t be able to move. And the blindfold…”

“We’ll go slow,” you promised. “And if anything doesn’t feel right, I’ll tell you. That’s what the safe word’s for.”

That got a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“What’d you pick again?”

You grinned. “Dim sum.”

A short laugh slipped from him, barely a breath. “Jesus. You couldn’t pick, I don’t know, red or pineapple?”

“It’s cute,” you said, pressing your forehead against his chest. “And you’ll remember it. Right, Sergeant?”

His hands, warm and callused, came to rest on your hips. You felt him sigh, deeply, the exhale pushing against your skin. He leaned down and kissed your temple.

“You’re a menace,” he murmured.

“But your menace,” you whispered back.

—

He took a step back.

Even in the soft glow of your bedroom, he looked devastating—broad-shouldered, tension coiled in every line of his frame. He was dressed down for once: just a white ribbed tank clinging to his chest and black sweatpants slung low on his hips. His metal arm gleamed faintly in the light.

And then his voice dropped.

“Take it off, sweetheart.”

You blinked.

“Clothes. Off. All of it—except the lace.” His tone wasn’t rough or harsh—it was smooth. Firm. Intentional. It made something low in your belly twist and flutter.

You swallowed and obeyed, fingers moving to lift the hem of your shirt first. The cotton slipped over your head, baring your skin to the room. You held his gaze as you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your sleep shorts and slowly pushed them down your thighs, heart hammering in your chest.

The air hit your skin, cool and immediate. You stood in your black lace bra and matching panties—the set you knew he liked. The set he’d once said made you look like “something too good to touch.”

He let his eyes roam, slow and reverent. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Then, quieter: “Lie back for me.”

You did.

—

He was quiet as he guided your arms above your head, positioning you with deliberate care. His fingers brushed against the skin of your inner wrists, soft and steady.

The rope was pale and worn, the kind that didn’t bite—just held. It moved through his fingers like second nature. He started slow. One loop. A second. A gentle tug.

His eyes flicked to your face, checking. Always checking.

“You doing okay?” His voice had dropped into something darker. Not cold. Just… heavier. Quieter.

“Yes,” you whispered.

He tied your wrists together, then anchored them to the headboard. It was snug, but not cruel. Just enough tension to remind you of who held the control tonight. Your breath caught—not from fear, but from the vulnerability of it. The surrender. The trust.

“Good girl,” he said under his breath, and you swore your pulse skipped.

Then he moved lower.

Bucky sat at the foot of the bed, large hands easing one ankle toward the bedpost. He kissed your shin softly before looping the rope around, threading it through with care. The other ankle followed—bound, spread. You were exposed now, laid bare and open to him, and still, he looked at you like you were something sacred.

“Too much?”

“Not even close.”

A beat passed. Then his hand slid over your thigh, up, up—until it ghosted close to your center. He didn’t touch, not yet. Just let the heat of his palm hover.

“I’ve got one more thing,” he said, voice a little hoarse.

You nodded, already knowing.

The blindfold.

He brought it forward—dark silk, cool to the touch—and laid it gently over your eyes. The world blinked out.

Your chest rose and fell faster now. Your heartbeat seemed louder in the dark. Every sound sharpened—the soft rasp of rope when he adjusted it, the creak of the bed as he knelt closer, the catch of his breath.

You felt his mouth on your cheek. Then your throat. Then just beneath your ear.

“Still okay?”

“Yes,” you whispered, already breathless. “Please…”

The air shifted. The mattress dipped between your thighs as he settled there, knees brushing yours. You could feel the heat of him—radiating from his chest, his stomach, his breath ghosting along your skin like fog on glass.

His metal fingers traced the rope where it wrapped your wrists. Down your arms. Across your hips. The contrast was electric—cold glinting over warm flesh, all sensation amplified by the dark.

“You look like a fucking dream,” he whispered, almost reverent. “Tied up so pretty for me.”

Your back arched instinctively, pulling against the restraint just to feel it. The tension. The ache. The longing.

“Say it again,” you begged.

He kissed your inner thigh.

“My good girl,” he breathed. “My sweet, obedient little doll.”

You whimpered.

“I’m gonna take care of you now,” he said, voice just above a growl. “Gonna make you feel so good, sweetheart. Just relax. Let me.”

And you did.

You surrendered.

To him. To the ropes. To the trust you knew would never be broken.

—

You could feel his breath against your inner thigh, just shy of your panties.

His hands—one warm, one cool—rested on your knees, keeping them spread just slightly wider. Just enough to remind you that you weren’t going anywhere.

Not with the knots he’d tied.

Not with how completely he had you.

He was quiet for a moment. Studying you.

You heard the soft shift of fabric as he adjusted on the bed, and then that voice—low, smooth, the one that always came right before he broke you down entirely—slipped into the dark:

“You do not give orders tonight, sweetheart.”

Your breath caught.

“You don’t ask me to touch you. You don’t tell me when. Or how.”

His hand moved—slowly, palm dragging up the inside of your thigh, not quite touching where you ached, but close enough to make you tremble.

“You lie there, and you take what I give you. Understood?”

“Yes, B—”

The hand stopped. Fingers dug in slightly.

You froze.

“Wanna try that again?” His tone didn’t rise. He didn’t need to yell. He never did. That voice, low and deep and unrelenting, could split you open with a whisper.

Your mouth parted, dry.

“Yes… Sergeant Barnes.”

A beat of silence. Then he hummed, pleased. “Good girl.”

The words made heat coil in your belly. Your hips shifted on instinct, pulling against the ropes at your ankles. They held perfectly. His knots, tight and clean, didn’t give an inch. You were spread and exposed, but safe. Completely his.

“Hands okay?” he murmured, his voice briefly returning to that gentler shade.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Not too tight.”

“Good. They won’t loosen,” he said, almost to himself. “Not until I say so.”

Then his mouth pressed against your thigh—slow, warm kisses trailing upward, and the fabric of your panties barely brushed by his stubble. He paused right before your center, exhaling into the damp heat there.

You whimpered.

“Look at you. Dripping,” he said, voice like syrup over ice. “And I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

You squirmed in the ropes.

“Still,” he barked. Not loud. But sharp. Final.

Your muscles stilled instantly.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you breathed. “Please.”

“Oh, now you remember,” he said with a dark smile.

Then he moved—dragging his tongue slowly along the inner edge of your thigh, avoiding where you wanted him most. Your hips jerked involuntarily.

He pulled back.

“Tsk. That’s not staying still.”

“Please—”

“Please what?”

You swallowed. “Please touch me, Sergeant Barnes.”

There was silence. Delicious, torturous silence. Then:

“No.”

The word hit you like a jolt.

You whimpered, straining against the ropes again. You weren’t sure if the ache between your legs or the ache of denial was worse—but both of them burned.

“I think,” he said, slowly running a fingertip along the waistband of your panties, “you forgot your place for a second. Thought you were in charge.”

His thumb slipped beneath the fabric, teasing along the crease of your thigh. Not enough. Never enough.

“You’re gonna lie here, dripping and desperate, until I decide you’ve earned more.”

“James—” You whined.

“That’s two.”

You stiffened.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, breath warm and full of promise. “Slip my name again, and I’ll keep you tied up, untouched, so long you’ll forget what it felt like to come.”

You gasped, back arching against the mattress.

“Y-Yes, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Good girl,” he murmured again, and this time, his hand did press between your legs. Palm down. Just pressure.

You moaned—long and low—as he rocked his hand slowly against you, over the lace. The friction made you twitch, legs trembling. Your wrists flexed instinctively—but the ropes held, unyielding.

“You look so fucking perfect like this,” he said. “Tied up. Helpless. Dripping.”

And then—finally—he slid your panties aside.

Cool air rushed across soaked skin.

Then his fingers—two of them, thick and warm—slid between your folds, slow, smooth, claiming.

Your entire body jerked.

He held your hip with his metal hand, keeping you down.

“No running,” he said softly. “You take what I give you.”

“Y-Yes, Sergeant Barnes.”

The teasing—this unbearable edge between worship and control—was everything. He stroked you lazily, never speeding up. Just circling your clit with infuriating precision, dipping into you and dragging slick back up to start again.

Your thighs trembled.

“Such a sweet little mess already,” he murmured. “How long d’you think you’ll last, baby?”

“I—I don’t know—”

“Think we should find out?”

You whimpered, nodding helplessly into the blindfold.

“Color?”

“Green,” you gasped.

And he smiled, dark and pleased, like the soldier inside him had been starving for this kind of surrender.

“Good,” he said.

And then his mouth was on you.

—

He ate you like he had all night.

Like he had something to prove.

Like he’d starve if he didn’t make you come with nothing but his mouth.

His lips, his tongue—deliberate, slow, devastating. He held your thighs open with firm hands, anchoring your hips down as he mouthed over your folds. You gasped, body arching—ropes straining as your ankles flexed against them. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t run. Couldn’t breathe.

You were shaking.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you cried, voice trembling.

He groaned against your pussy—deep, sending vibration through your core—but didn’t stop. Not yet. Not until your thighs were shaking and your stomach was coiling tight, that white-hot bloom already rising—

“Close,” you gasped. “I—please, I’m—!”

And then—he pulled back.

Completely.

You whimpered, the sound guttural. Desperate. Your body writhing under the ropes, the orgasm ripped away before it could crest.

“No—no, please—” You tugged helplessly at your restraints. “Why—?”

You felt the mattress shift, his weight rising. Then his mouth was near your ear again, warm and maddening.

“You don’t come until I say so,” he growled. “Understand?”

You whimpered. “Yes, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes,” you sobbed, breathless.

“Good girl.”

And then his lips were on your breast—dragging across lace. Teasing, hot, humid breaths making you arch beneath him. His metal hand slid under your back, lifting your chest toward his mouth as his teeth grazed your nipple through the bra.

“Pretty little tits,” he muttered, voice like gravel. “Bet they’d look even better wrapped up for me.”

You trembled.

And that’s when he shifted again.

“On your feet.”

You blinked, confused, still half-dazed from denial. “Sergeant?”

He was already loosening your wrist ropes—but not untying them. He kept the knots intact, working them with speed and precision, metal fingers moving with masterful ease.

“You’re gonna stand for me,” he murmured. “Let me see you from every angle.”

Once your wrists were free, he helped guide you upright. You swayed on shaky legs, but he held you—one strong hand gripping your waist until you found balance.

You were still blindfolded. Still in your lace bra and panties. Still dripping and aching.

But then—his hands came to your back.

Not rough. Not rushed. Just a gentle graze of fingertips against the clasp of your bra.

“Off,” he said softly, but there was no mistaking the order.

You shivered as he undid the hooks one by one, letting the straps slip down your shoulders, fabric falling away. His hand swept the lace aside with reverence, baring your chest completely.

The cool air kissed your skin, and you inhaled sharply.

“Needed to see you properly,” he murmured. “Gonna tie you up real pretty now.”

Then Bucky guided your wrists above your head again, backing you up slowly until your shoulders bumped gently into the edge of the tall wardrobe at the corner of the room. You felt his hands lift yours—then the soft drag of rope over the wooden frame, threading expertly around the handles at the top.

He worked quickly, efficiently—looping and knotting in practiced silence.

“Hold still,” he murmured. “Almost there.”

The pull was firm. Your wrists were now secured above you, anchored to the wardrobe doors—just high enough to stretch your arms, just tight enough to make you feel owned.

He hadn’t planned this. But God, he made it look like he had.

He stepped back to admire you.

You couldn’t see him, but you felt his eyes like heat.

“Fucking beautiful.”

His fingers ghosted down your ribcage. Then across your stomach. Then up… and around.

The rope slid against your skin again, new coils this time. Smooth, strong, wrapping beneath and over your chest—circling your breasts in a criss-cross weave. Bucky moved deliberately, guiding the rope under your arms, then between the swells of your now-bare chest. You gasped as he pulled—not harsh, just enough to lift and frame you in knotted tension.

He tied it off with one last flourish: a perfect little bow nestled right beneath the valley of your breasts.

“For me,” he murmured. “My own personal present.”

You moaned softly.

“You alright?” he asked then, still checking. Always checking.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Still green.”

He kissed your jaw, then down to your shoulder. “Good.”

Then his hands cupped your breasts, gently, slowly squeezing—his thumbs brushing over your nipples through the lace and rope both. The dual sensation was electric. Your body shuddered against the bindings, held upright and helpless.

“You make the prettiest noises when I deny you,” he said softly, lips brushing your skin between words. “Might keep you like this a little longer.”

You gasped as he pinched gently, just enough to make you tremble.

“Sergeant Barnes—please—please…”

He chuckled darkly. “You’re gonna have to be real convincing, sweetheart. Because I could do this all night.”

And he meant it.

Because he didn’t get tired.

And because he wasn’t done yet.

—

His mouth was back on you.

Lapping, slow, relentless. Not building this time—but dragging you across the same raw nerve again and again. You were still tied to the wardrobe, blindfolded, trembling—hips twitching with every stroke of his tongue. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

Your body was beyond ready.

Too ready.

You were so sensitive, each touch from him felt like a jolt—sweet and sharp, pleasure braided with ache. Your thighs flexed with every pass of his tongue. His stubble scraped lightly against your inner thighs, grounding you in every moment.

“Can’t take—” you choked out. “Please, Sergeant—I can’t—”

He only hummed into you.

Your knees nearly buckled.

You moaned and twisted in the ropes, muscles locking, toes curling. You were so close—but the tension made it hurt. The pleasure came wrapped in a raw edge now. You gasped, head tilting back against the wardrobe, chest heaving in your lace and rope harness.

“Please,” you begged again—softer this time, fragile, your voice cracking. “Please—Sergeant—hurts—hurts—”

Everything went still.

Instantly.

You felt his hands—one metal, one flesh—on your hips. Holding you. Steadying you.

Then his mouth lifted, and he spoke—his voice low, soft, but still firm. Still him.

“You still with me, sweetheart?”

You nodded, panting. “Y-Yeah. Green. Just—sensitive. Too much.”

He kissed your hipbone. Then your lower belly.

“You’re doing so fucking well for me,” he murmured, gentler now. “Took everything like a goddamn angel.”

His hands slid between your thighs, this time with purpose.

“You want me to finish you, doll?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please, Sergeant Barnes—need it so bad—need you.”

A pause. Then—

“Color?”

“Green,” you gasped. “Please... please—please.”

His metal hand slid between your legs, thick fingers spreading you open, cool and deliberate.

You barely had time to brace.

One finger pushed in—then two.

Then three.

You moaned, hands fisting uselessly in the rope above your head.

Then—four.

You cried out.

The stretch burned and bloomed at once. Cool steel filled you, deeper than you’d ever been touched. He curled his fingers just so, and you shattered—legs shaking, thighs clenching, cries slipping raw from your throat.

“That’s it,” he whispered, lips close to your temple. “Come for me, baby. Come on my hand. Let go.”

And you did.

It surged through you like fire—hot and wet and overwhelming. Your knees buckled, held only by the ropes and his grip. Your whole body convulsed against the bindings, and all you could do was moan.

He kissed your cheek, then dragged his fingers slowly from you.

“So beautiful,” he said, voice reverent. “So fucking beautiful like this.”

Then—he brought his hand to your lips.

“Open.”

You obeyed.

Cool metal touched your tongue—coated in slick, tasting of you. You moaned as he pressed his fingers against your lips, and he leaned in to kiss you at the same time, messy and deep. Your taste spread between you, sticky and intimate.

When he pulled back, you were breathless—barely clinging to the afterglow.

But he wasn’t done.

His hand returned to your chest—the rope harness still framing your breasts in neat, deliberate loops. You felt him tug.

Tighter.

The pressure surged, sudden and perfect.

You cried out again—a sharp, broken moan as your nipples stiffened, hypersensitive.

“God,” he breathed. “You take it so well. All tied up, chest heaving, face flushed—fuck, baby.”

He tightened the final knot just enough to send sparks dancing behind your eyes.

“Mine,” he whispered.

You whimpered. “Yours.”

Finally, finally—he touched your blindfold.

The silk slipped away, and the room returned in soft golden blur—warm light, and him in front of you.

Bucky, flushed and firm-jawed, eyes dark and aching with need. His white tank clung to his chest, damp with sweat, and the outline of his cock was straining thick and hard against his black sweatpants.

“Look at me,” he said, voice rough. “You’ve earned it.”

He reached up and loosened the rope from your wrists, guiding them down gently. Your arms ached. He held them in his hands, kissed your knuckles. You swayed against him.

“Now,” he growled, stepping back just slightly—eyes dropping to his waistband. “On your knees.”

You sank instantly, dizzy with obedience.

“Pull my pants down.”

Your fingers trembled, but you obeyed. You gripped the waistband, dragging his sweats and briefs down together—and there he was. Hard, flushed, thick and dripping at the tip.

“Stroke me, sweetheart,” he said, voice barely holding together. “Nice and slow. Look at me while you do.”

You wrapped your hand around him, fingers sliding over velvet skin and thick, aching weight. His cock pulsed in your grip. His head dropped back, and he moaned—low, strained, almost pained.

“Fuck, baby… just like that. So good. So perfect.”

And when his eyes met yours again—dark and molten, flickering with every last bit of restraint he had left—you knew:

He was yours.

And he was about to fall apart for you.

—

His cock pulsed in your hand.

You could barely close your fingers around him—thick and hot, swollen with need. A bead of precum slipped from the tip, and you swiped your thumb through it slowly, spreading it around the sensitive head. He hissed through clenched teeth.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You look so good like this. My sweet little civilian. On your knees for your Sergeant.”

You felt yourself clench, body still trembling from your own orgasm. The ropes around your chest still cradled your breasts—tight, lifted, your nipples flushed and swollen inside the lace.

“Open,” he ordered.

You did.

Lips parted, tongue out, eyes wide.

But just before you leaned in, his voice dropped—deeper, darker.

“No sounds.”

You blinked.

He brushed the back of his hand across your cheek. “You moan, whimper, even breathe too heavy, and I’ll tighten those sweet little nipples until you remember how to stay quiet.”

Your breath hitched.

But you nodded. “Yes, Sergeant Barnes.”

And then you wrapped your lips around him.

The taste—heady, salt-slick, impossibly good. Your tongue worked slowly over the underside, dragging against that sensitive ridge as you took him deeper. The weight of him on your tongue made your thighs press together instinctively.

He groaned. Loud. Rough. His hips rocked forward, just slightly.

And you couldn’t help it.

You moaned around him.

Soft. Just a breath.

But he noticed.

IIn an instant, you felt his hand reach down—fingers brushing the curve of your chest, then dipping beneath the taut rope harness. He cupped one breast firmly, then let his thumb and forefinger pinch your nipple through the lace—light at first. A warning.

You whimpered again.

The pinch tightened.

You gasped softly around his cock.

He didn’t stop.

Other hand now—metal fingers cold and precise, rolling the other nipple just a little tighter, tugging gently. Pain bloomed under the pleasure, sharp and hot.

You tried to focus. Tried to breathe through your nose. Tried not to moan when his cock twitched on your tongue, salty and slick.

But another sound slipped.

“Mm—”

The pinch intensified.

You cried out, pulling back with a small hiss—this one real. Not performative. Not playful.

It hurt.

Too much.

Instantly, his hands dropped.

His voice changed. “Hey—hey, hey. Baby—” Softer now. Gentle. “I’m sorry. Let me see.”

You looked up. His brows were drawn, mouth parted. He crouched down in front of you, hands already untying the bow at your chest, pulling the rope harness down gently so he could cradle your breasts in his palms.

His thumbs brushed your nipples carefully, inspecting.

“Shit, sweetheart—I didn’t mean—”

“I’m okay,” you whispered, heart still racing. “Just… too sensitive. Still coming down.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “I pushed too far. That’s on me.”

Your fingers lifted to his jaw. “It’s okay, Sergeant,” you said softly, voice full of mischief and invitation. “Stay in character.”

His eyes flickered—heat returning, but tempered by something softer. A slow exhale rolled through him. He nodded once.

You smiled, then leaned forward again.

You kissed the head of his cock—slow, delicate.

Your tongue swirled around it, featherlight, teasing. You kept your eyes on him, stroking him from base to tip while your mouth played at the crown. Not deep yet. Just wet, soft licks, and the steady glide of your palm along his thick shaft.

Bucky hissed. His abdomen tensed. “Fuck, baby…”

You dragged your tongue across the slit, tasting the salt of him.

Then down the underside—slow, deliberate—while your fist tightened slightly, twisting just enough to make him curse under his breath.

“Fucking hell, sweetheart. Look at you.”

You moaned quietly this time, not enough to break rules—but just enough to let him feel it.

Your tongue flattened again, mouth closing over the tip while you stroked him in rhythm. You could feel him twitching in your palm now, see the flush climbing his chest, his abs tensing with every breath.

His hand threaded into your hair—not to force you, but to feel you.

To anchor himself in you.

“Keep going,” he growled, voice cracking. “Don’t stop. You’re—fuck, you’re perfect.”

Your other hand came to rest on his hipbone for balance as you picked up speed—mouth wetter, strokes tighter, sucking him just to the edge and easing off.

You wanted him to fall apart.

You wanted to be the reason.

And from the way his jaw clenched, the way his thighs started to tremble, you were close.

So fucking close.

Your tongue circled the head of his cock again—slow, teasing. You stroked him tighter now, fist pumping in rhythm with your mouth. He was so close you could feel it—his hips twitching, his hand tightening in your hair.

“Fuck, sweetheart—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

You wanted it.

With a ragged groan, Bucky’s hips jerked—thick, hot ropes of cum spilling onto your tongue as you took him as deep as you could, your throat flexing around him. He groaned again, louder, head falling back, abs trembling.

You held it. Every drop.

He looked down at you, panting, voice still breathless but laced with command.

“Stand up.”

Your legs were shaky, your muscles still strung tight from before—but you obeyed. You rose slowly to your feet, lips still closed, his taste heavy on your tongue.

He reached for your waist to steady you—his touch both grounding and possessive. He tilted your chin up with two fingers.

“Don’t swallow,” he ordered, voice low, eyes locked on yours. “Not until you’re looking at me.”

Your eyes—half-lidded, dazed—met his.

He smirked, satisfied.

“Good girl.”

You swallowed.

He exhaled slowly, his palm brushing your jaw, then cupping your cheek like he couldn’t help it. The look in his eyes had shifted—less fire, more warmth. But he was still Sergeant Barnes. Still your sergeant.

Then something changed.

His gaze dropped.

His thumb brushed a faint, reddish bruise around your wrist where the rope had held you tight. He turned your arm slightly, inspecting the other one—same marks. His brow creased.

Then he crouched, fingers trailing down your leg to the flushed indentation circling your ankle—the place the rope had dug in while keeping you wide open for him. He pressed there gently, then looked up again, jaw tight.

Finally, his gaze moved to your chest.

He reached up, fingertips ghosting over the places where the rope harness had pressed into your skin—framing your breasts, pulled taut around your ribs. Even beneath the lace of your bra, the skin was marked: soft pink lines curving beneath each swell, rising along your sternum.

His touch lingered there. Slower now. Guilt ghosting behind his eyes.

“You okay?” he murmured.

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

You nodded—but he still looked conflicted.

“I didn’t mean to mark you this much,” he said, quieter now. “I wasn’t thinking—I should’ve—”

“You did everything right,” you interrupted, stepping in closer. “I asked for it. I still want it.”

He looked at you, searching. Hesitant.

“I want you to fuck me.”

He blinked.

“In the ropes,” you added, voice barely a whisper. “Like… really tied. Not soft this time.”

He went completely still.

“Just this once,” you whispered. “Please.”

He swallowed, jaw tightening. That same battle behind his eyes—the one he always lost when it came to you.

He sighed.

Long. Heavy. Resigned.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Then his eyes lifted again—and they’d changed.

Gone soft to steel in a breath.

“Alright,” he said, stepping toward you, voice low and sure. “You want tied, sweetheart?”

You nodded.

“You want to be used?”

Another nod. Breathless.

He moved behind you, and you felt the rope brush your skin again—familiar now, sacred. He kissed your shoulder, then bent down, whispering by your ear.

“Then Sergeant Barnes is gonna ruin you.”

And this time?

You welcomed it.

His breath lingered at your neck, warm and steady. His fingers skimmed your waist, then reached for the rope again—sliding it through his palm like it belonged there.

But then he paused.

You felt it—not hesitation, exactly, but calculation.

His voice came quieter now, still dark with command, but tinged with thought.

“…This’ll be easier if I anchor the rope under the bed.”

You blinked, breath hitching. “Sergeant?”

“I’ve never done a full-bed setup like this. Not properly. And if I’m gonna wreck you,” he said, tugging your body tighter against his, “we’re doing it right.”

He reached for his phone on the dresser—one hand still on your hip.

You turned, half-laughing, flushed. “Are we seriously—”

“Quiet,” he said, tapping the screen. “Sergeant Barnes is researching.”

You bit your lip.

He opened YouTube.

You watched, still half-naked, the breast harness now back in place—tied tighter than before, with that perfect little bow beneath your breasts—as he searched for a video like it was part of a mission briefing.

“…‘Ten-Minute Bed Bind Tutorial’?”

“I like to be thorough,” he muttered.

“Bucky—”

His head snapped toward you.

You froze.

He raised an eyebrow. “Try again.”

You swallowed, lips twitching. “Sergeant Barnes.”

His smirk returned.

He pressed play.

—

Two minutes and thirty seconds later:

Rope across the headboard. Ankles spread. Wrists retied. Rope loops secured under the mattress in perfect symmetry. He’d adjusted everything to fit the frame, then added two anchor points at your thighs—not to bind them, but to keep them open.

“Video said ten minutes,” he muttered, tugging the last knot into place. “Took me two.”

You swallowed. Hard.

He stepped back to admire you.

You were flat on your back, arms bound above your head, legs spread wide. The ropes pressed against your wrists, your ankles, even the bend of your thighs. Your chest was framed by the harness—tight, elevated, perfect.

You looked like a gift.

He looked like he wanted to unwrap you slowly, then ruin you completely.

His voice dropped. “Color?”

“Green,” you breathed.

And just like that, his gaze darkened.

He climbed onto the bed, straddling your thighs. One knee pressed between your legs, widening your bound position further.

He didn’t kiss you.

He marked you.

Teeth at your neck. A slow suck against your collarbone. A lingering bruise beneath your jawline. Every place he touched was not a kiss—it was a warning.

You whimpered.

He froze.

“You making noise already?” he asked, voice slow and dangerous. “I haven’t even touched your pussy yet.”

You bit your lip. “Sorry, Sergeant—”

His fingers grabbed the rope at your hips and gave it a sharp tug.

The restraint pulled tighter, forcing your thighs open, arching your spine. You gasped at the sudden tension, breath snagging in your chest.

“That’s what happens when you disobey,” he growled. “Tighter. Less movement. No friction.”

Then, cruelly—he slid his hand between your thighs.

But didn’t touch.

“Try grinding again,” he warned. “See how that ends for you.”

You whimpered again—couldn’t help it—and he dipped his head back down, lips dragging along your sternum, following the path of the rope.

He left another hickey between the curves of your breasts.

Then lower.

Then lower.

You bit your tongue to stay silent as his mouth worked downward, every kiss staking another claim. Every mark a punishment you craved.

“I’m gonna edge you until your voice breaks,” he whispered, breath hot against your panties. “And if I hear one sound—just one—I’ll pull these ropes so tight you’ll forget how to breathe.”

You nodded—eyes wide, breath locked in your throat.

“Good girl.”

Then his mouth pressed against your soaked lace.

Hot. Open. Slow.

And you were already trembling again.

—

You were already soaked.

Already trembling.

And he hadn’t even pulled your panties aside yet.

His breath coasted over the lace—hot, deliberate. You felt it more than heard it: the moment his mouth pressed flat against you. Open-lipped. A slow grind of heat and tongue that made your back arch involuntarily, ropes pulling at your wrists and ankles.

Still, you stayed quiet.

You had to.

His tongue slid along the edge of the lace, teasing the damp spot that had grown and spread—and when he pushed the fabric aside, he groaned low.

“Dripping.”

You whimpered.

He paused.

His lips brushed your thigh, then your hip. “That a sound of pain?”

You shook your head furiously, biting your lip.

“No, Sergeant,” you gasped, barely whispering. “Just… overwhelmed.”

“Good.”

And then he dove in again.

His mouth was sin itself—his tongue dragging slowly up your folds, circling your clit in perfect pressure, and then backing off again. Not enough. Never enough.

Your legs trembled, straining against the ropes. Every part of you ached for more, and still—you didn’t make a sound.

Until—

Your breath hitched.

A sharp, strangled inhale—not from pleasure, but something sharper.

He stopped instantly.

Pulled back.

“Sweetheart?” he said, and the voice wasn’t Sergeant anymore. It was Bucky. Gentle. Threadbare. “Too much?”

You shook your head, blinking back tears. “Just sensitive.”

He smoothed his hand over your thigh, kissing the inside of your knee.

“You still want to keep going?”

“Yes. Please.”

His gaze flicked over your body again. The rope marks. Your trembling. Your patience. Your trust.

“Gonna take care of you now,” he whispered. “Gonna go slow. Just feel me.”

He shifted on the bed, weight dipping between your thighs, and you felt the warm, heavy press of him lining up against your entrance—bare, thick, and aching to be inside you.

Still tied.

Still wide open.

Still his.

He pushed in slowly—inch by inch—watching you the entire time. His cock stretched you gradually, thick and hot, forcing your body to yield around him.

You moaned—not loud, just deep. Raw.

“You okay?”

“Y-Yeah.”

He kissed your forehead.

Then your lips.

Then stayed still.

“You feel like heaven,” he whispered. “So tight. So fucking perfect. I’m gonna move now, alright?”

You nodded.

And he did.

Gentle at first. Controlled. Like every thrust was a thank you for your trust. For the ropes. For the silence. For letting him ruin you.

He reached down, his metal thumb brushing over your clit in soft, slow circles, and you shattered around him—moaning against the rope, breath broken, body shaking beneath him.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “That’s it. That’s it.”

And when your body finally stilled—aftershocks pulsing through your thighs—he slowed again.

Paused.

His forehead rested against yours.

“…Can we let go of the ropes now?” he asked softly. “Just for the rest of it. I just wanna hold you.”

You nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

He kissed you.

Then gently—so gently—untied your wrists first, kissing the marks. Then your ankles. Then the breast harness, easing each loop free, his hands slow and reverent. He tossed the rope aside. You were bare again. Just you and him. No bindings. No roles. Just two bodies flushed with need, breathing in tandem.

And you were ready.

—

He flipped you onto your stomach, then lifted your hips slightly, easing a pillow beneath you. Your body melted against the sheets, pliant and warm.

He slid back in from behind—deeper now, unrestrained, hips pressing flush against your ass with every push. The thrusts were heavier, hungrier. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging in—not to bruise, but to anchor.

Skin met skin. The sound of it echoed in the room, heady and obscene.

“God, baby,” he growled, voice ragged with heat. “You take me so well. You’re so fucking good for me.”

You moaned, louder now, gasping his name—no more ranks, no more games. Just Bucky.

He didn’t mind.

Not anymore.

One hand slid up your spine, palm warm against your back. He leaned over you, lips brushing your shoulder, and whispered, “I’ve got you. All of you.”

You whimpered—because you knew it was true.

Then he slowed, hips pulling back.

“Ride me,” he rasped. “Wanna watch you fall apart.”

You turned, breathless and trembling, and climbed over him—straddling his lap in reverse, thighs spread wide over his. His cock slid in again, thick and hot, your body molding to him like it had been made for it.

You rocked your hips.

He groaned, hands clenching at your waist. Then your ass. Then up to your breasts, cupping them from behind, lifting them, thumbs brushing your nipples.

“Just like that, baby. Fuck—just like that.”

You bounced. Slowly at first, then with rhythm. You were soaked. Sore. So blissfully full.

You felt another orgasm mounting—deep, dizzying, your core clenching tight. He felt it too—the way your walls fluttered, the way your thighs shook.

“Come for me,” he gasped. “I wanna feel it—wanna feel all of it.”

And you did.

Hard.

You cried out, the sound ragged and raw, your body convulsing around him as pleasure tore through you like a wave.

You collapsed forward, catching yourself on shaky hands. He followed—gripping your hips, thrusting up into you once, twice—then spilling inside with a low, broken groan.

But he wasn’t finished.

He pulled you down beside him, kissing you hard—tongue slow and sweet against yours.

Then he flipped you again, pulling your leg up over his shoulder. He pushed in from the side this time, deep and slow, hitting a new angle that made your whole body arch off the sheets.

You gasped. “Fuck—Bucky—”

He growled your name against your throat. “Can’t get enough of you. Need all of you.”

He rocked into you, fingers sliding to your clit—lazy circles while he moved inside, deeper with every stroke. You clenched around him again, tears pricking your eyes from the overload.

Then he pulled out again and laid back, breath shallow. “On top of me. Face me this time.”

You straddled him again, facing him now. You slid down onto him, and the look he gave you—the pure reverence in his eyes—made your chest ache.

You rode him slow. Intimate.

His hands found your hips, then your thighs, then cupped your jaw.

You held eye contact as your bodies moved together—raw, unfiltered, real.

“You’re everything,” he whispered. “You’re my fucking everything.”

You kissed him through another climax. Your body clenching, thighs shaking.

And then he came again—softer this time. Less control. Just need.

You stayed there, chest pressed to his, lips brushing his jaw as he caught his breath.

Then, tenderly, he tucked your hair behind your ear. “Still with me, baby?”

You nodded against his chest. “Always.”

His arms wrapped around you, holding you close.

And in the warmth of tangled sheets and exhausted bodies, you both finally found rest.

—

You weren’t even sure how long you’d laid there.

Your body hummed. Spent. Boneless. Covered in a thin sheen of sweat and kisses. Muscles aching in the best way. You were splayed across Bucky’s chest, barely able to breathe—heart still galloping in your ribs, pulse fluttering weakly against his throat.

He brushed your hair back with careful fingers. His other hand rubbed your lower back in slow, grounding circles.

You shifted, blinking blearily up at him.

“Jesus Christ,” you rasped, voice wrecked.

He smiled. One of those crooked, boyish ones that made your stomach flip.

“You okay, doll?”

“No,” you whispered. “I’m officially wrecked. I’m actually broken.”

That made him chuckle, chest vibrating beneath your cheek. “Mission accomplished.”

He gently eased out of you—slow and apologetic—and you hissed slightly at the tenderness. He cupped your jaw immediately, brushing his thumb along your cheek.

“Hey. Stay here, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You nodded weakly and collapsed back against the pillows.

A few moments passed. You heard water running in the ensuite. The soft rustle of a towel.

Then Bucky returned, naked, crouching at the edge of the bed with a warmth in his eyes that made your chest ache.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmured, voice low, coaxing.

He was so careful.

He wiped between your thighs gently, whispering soft praises as he went. You whimpered once—overstimulated—and he immediately paused, planting a kiss to your hipbone.

“Sorry, baby. I know,” he said. “Almost done.”

When he finished, he helped you back under the covers and climbed in beside you. You curled into him instinctively—head tucked under his jaw, leg draped over his hip, the afterglow still crackling between your skin.

Bucky exhaled, slow and content. His fingers traced idle shapes along your side.

“You know what?” you muttered, half-slurred with exhaustion. “I’m so jealous you never get tired.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You say that like I didn’t just have the best cardio session of my life.”

You giggled, half-asleep. “Still. Not fair. You’re super soldier. I’m mortal. You’ll be ready again in ten minutes.”

He smirked. “Perks of being me. Also means I can always satisfy that pretty little appetite of yours.”

You groaned. “God, cocky and correct.”

“I prefer efficient,” he said, kissing your forehead. “And wildly devoted.”

You chuckled again, sleep dragging at your limbs. He tugged the blanket up around your shoulders, tucking you against his chest.

A quiet settled over you both. The kind that only came after total trust. After surrender.

After love.

Your breathing slowed.

He watched it happen.

Watched you drift—lips parted, lashes fluttering faintly against your cheeks. You looked worn down in the most beautiful way. Glowing. Messy. Loved.

He waited until your breathing deepened.

Then—carefully—he slid out from under you.

He padded softly to the bathroom again. Pulled open the drawer. Found the small tin of petroleum jelly Wanda had insisted everyone carry for dry skin and weird mission rashes.

He returned quietly, crouching at the edge of the bed. You didn’t stir.

He kissed your shoulder first. Then your wrist.

He traced the faint red marks there—left by the ropes. A loop, a spiral. A memory.

He dabbed the jelly gently onto the skin. Then your ankles. Then the light indentation around your ribcage and chest, where the harness had held you snug and still. He rubbed it in slow, careful strokes.

When he finished, he just looked at you for a long moment.

Then he climbed in beside you again. Pulled you into his arms.

You murmured something in your sleep—nonsense and vowels—but leaned into his chest.

Bucky smiled.

“Sleep, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’ll still be here.”

And he held you through the night.

[buckgasms]

Love love love LOOOOOOVE

Could I request a post credit Bucky x reader one shot, please? Doesn’t matter if it’s over a table, on the floor, pinned to a wall, etc. I just need him desperately.

have you ever tried this one? | bucky barnes

Summary: ^^ Request

Warning: 18+ Minors DNI | Possible Thunderbolts* Spoilers | Smut | Detailed Open Door | Dirty Talk | Exhibitionism | Praise Kink | Light Choking | Mirror | Rough | Undertones of CNC | Swearing | Unprotected Sex | Oral

Word Count: 1702

A/N: Oops. I posted earlier than expected because I could. I have no more words. I am worded out.

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes | @ruexj283

The watchtower was quiet. The halls were empty, and the fluorescent light felt cold. There were no meeting briefings or training sessions. The others were gone. Out on assignment. Somewhere across the Atlantic. Everyone except yourself and Bucky, that is. 

You found him in the kitchen—shirtless, tac pants slung low on his hips, black and gold vibranium flexing as he poured himself a glass of juice. His hair was messy, falling over his cheekbones, looking like he’d just gotten out of bed.

“You know,” you said, stepping closer to him. Your hand sliding down his chest, over the soft trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants. “We don’t get nights like this often.”

He hooked a finger under your chin, tilting your head up to look at him. “Quiet? Alone?” 

“Unsupervised,” you corrected with a shrug.

Bucky raised a brow. “You’re trouble.” 

You stretched your neck, brushing your lips against his jaw. “Tell me something.”

“What do you want to know?” 

“Have you ever tried fucking on a kitchen table?”

His smile faltered for a moment before his lips curled into a slow, feral smirk. Something dark flickered across his eyes. “Not yet.”

He didn’t waste time. He’d already lost enough of that.

Your back hit the table, and he pushed your legs apart. Your nightshirt bunched at your hips. He dropped to his knees. His metal hand wrapped around your thigh, thumb stroking circles along the inside as he pressed hungry, open-mouthed kisses against your skin, up to the crease.

“You’re already soaked, doll,” he muttered, his tongue dragging a long stripe through your folds. “Fuck.” he groaned at your taste.

You bucked your hips, arching into him, and tangled your fingers in his hair as he licked into you. Starting slowly, then suddenly, rough, sloppy, relentless—like he was starved. His tongue flicked against your nub, and he held you still.

“Keep ‘em open for me, doll,” he rasped. You hadn’t noticed your thighs trying to close around his head. “Let me eat.”

Before you knew it, your body shuddered and you came hard. But Bucky never stopped, you trembled against him, pleas spilling from your plumped lips in quick, breathy pants. 

When he finally stopped, he stood. Shoving his pants just low enough to free his hard, aching cock—he lined himself up. You wrapped your legs around him, tight as he pushed into you with a grunt.

“So–fuck–tight,” his metal hand pressed to your chest, thumb grazing your throat as his began thrusting his hips at a steady pace. “I should’ve done this the first day I met you.” 

Slam.

Deep and rought, he fucked into you. 

Now, hard enough to make the table creak.

“B-Bucky—”

“Ask me another.” 

Your gaze met his, daring blue eyes.

“H-have you ever t-tried… the balcony?” you stammered between moans. 

You were bare to the whole of New York City, pressed against the metal railing. Your hips lifted, and arms braced, he rubbed himself over your soaked folds again. 

“Buck–this is—” you panted. “Any-Anyone could see us—oh,” 

“No one’s here,” he whispered, scraping his teeth along the skin of your neck. “Just me, just you.” 

That thought, the thought of getting caught in such a compromised position, and with a teammate vanished as he slammed into you again. He kept one hand on your hips, the vibranium one slipping around to play with your clit. Cold metal teased you mercilessly. 

You shook, clenching around him.

“Fuck doll, you feel—” he groaned a low growl, deep from his chest. “So good. Stretched out. Taking me.” 

Another orgasm rippled through your body, your head falling back. Nothing but the night sky above you, and the sounds of New York City under. Your legs became weak, grasping onto him as he fucked you through it.

“Again,” he demanded, teeth nipping your collarbone. 

You lifted your head, half-laughing in a daze. “Have-Have you ever tried–” you caught a breath before continuing. “The El-Elevator?”

 The heel of his hand slammed the emergency stop button, and the doors enclosing behind you. He was on you before you had time to gasp for anything. Hands gripped your hips, spinning you around. He pressed your chest against the mirrored wall. You whimpered at the cold contrast hitting your hardened nipples. 

His arm curled around one of your thighs, lifting you slightly as his free hand wrapped around your throat—forcing you to make eye contact with his reflection.

“You sure?” he rasped, lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “Can you take more?” 

You swallowed hard, nodding despite the anticipation that knotted in your stomach. “Please, Bucky.” 

Inch by thick, stretching inch, Bucky sank into your again. The new position hits spots you had never felt before. His forehead pressed to your shoulder as you whimpered, fists curling around the handrail. 

“Not a single drop of serum in you, and yet you’re keeping up with me so well. Such a good girl.” 

You could barely breathe. Your back arched against him, pressing your chest further into the glass. The mirror walls reflected everything. You watched your lips part, the way his hips slammed against your ass, the raw heat between you, and then, you watched as his hand curled around your stomach. 

He pressed down, sending a new shivering sensation down to your core. “You feel that?” he whispered. “How deep I am?” He slowed his pace. Deep, deliberate strokes left you gasping. “You gonna come for me, again?” he grunted.

Your breath hitched. 

You were so close. 

Your clit throbbed, sensitive from his touch.

“Come on, doll. Give it to me.”

He shifted slightly, angling his hips just right. And you cried out. Your forehead pressed against the mirror, legs trembling, barely supporting your weight. 

“There it is,” he soothed, brushing your hair to the side and kissing your shoulder. “Has the newest Avengers got it in her for one more?” 

“H-h-have you e-ever tried it—” you nodded, giving yourself another moment to find the words. Trying not to focus on his still hard cock filling you up. “T-tried it in the t-training room?”

You watched his reaction in the reflection. He had stilled, his hot breath fanning against your neck. A hungry, dangerous glint returned full force in his eyes. As if you had just challenged him in a sparring match, one he had every intention of winning. 

A dark chuckle, low and breathless, rippled from his chest. He pulled out of you slowly, making you feel every inch of him drag against your walls. Your knees gave out. But he caught you. “Easy, doll, we’re not done yet.” He held you up, placing a soft kiss against your temple. 

A hiss of hydraulics filled your ears as the elevator jolted back to life. He turned you around once again, a hand cupping your cheek and pulling your face closer to him. He was intoxicating. The way his lips molded against yours, sucking and biting. How were you ever going to go back to normal in the morning after this? 

You made it down to the training floor. Lights dimmed, and silence filled the serialised room. The wide mat space was empty, with more mirrored walls. You could move around the room with your eyes closed by now, all muscle memory. But this was different. You weren’t in your usual state of mind. 

The second the glass door slid shut behind you, Bucky shoved you against the padded, soundproof wall. His mouth crashed against yours again. Desperately, as if he were claiming you. He didn’t need to. The way your head spun for him tonight, he already had you. His tongue reached deep, swallowing your breath, your moans. 

“This memory is going to haunt me,” he gritted through his teeth, pulling you off the wall toward the sparring mats. Your back hit the mat with a thud. “You, on your back for me. Under me. A pretty little mess.” He spread your legs as he crawled over you. 

He didn’t bother taking it slow with you this time. He plunged into you with one sharp, hard thrust.

“Buck—fuck—Bucky!” you gasped, back arched off the mat.

His vibranium hand slid under your ass, driving deeper into you as he tilted your hips. Your wrists were pinned above your head, nails digging into the palms of your hands. The sensations sent pins and needles shooting up your thighs, and your vision blurring. 

“Fuck—moaning my name,” he grunted. “You want more? Say it.” 

“More—Please, Bucky—More!” 

He thrusts harder, and you scream for him. He fucked you like you were his mission. That mission being your absolute destruction. 

Your body felt like molten, trembling beneath him. You were unsure of how you were still moving, working with him. Still breathing under him. Your mouth dropped open in a silent cry as he pushed you over the edge for the fourth time that night. 

As you came down from the high, you noticed his chest heaving above you, ragged breathing against your neck, and his rhythm faltering. “Beg.”  he groaned, his words nearly a plea themselves. “Beg for me.” 

You whimpered, nodding slightly. “Please,” you whispered. “Please, Bucky.” 

That was all he needed.

A pathetic little please.

He let your legs fall, pulling out of you slowly. Only for him to gently shift your body again, but this time with more purpose. Guiding you up onto your knees, his hand steadying you. 

You looked up at him, your heart thundering, lips parted, and your eyes glassy with need. Need for him.

His thumb stroked your cheek. “Look at you,” he smirked, moving his thumb down to your bottom lip and pulling it down. “So fucking perfect.”

You took the hint. Opening your mouth for him, like the good fucking girl he turned you into. And then, you took the blunt head of his cock into your mouth. 

He growled your name, a low and broken growl—sending a shiver down your spine. He held the back of your head, his movements reverent—blue eyes locked onto you.

And when he finally let go, he whispered your name like a curse, like you were a religion, and it was only you he’d ever believe in. 

___

Please feel free to leave feedback - B

[buckgasms]

Bucky Barnes is so pretty …. 💭

[buckgasms]

I need someone to make a gif of Bucky doing the knife thing in Thunderbolts because I haven't seen it anywhere but it's super hot!!

It's the bit when they crash the van and they have a fight in the lobby. I've not seen it anywhere yet and we neeeeeed it ❤️

Thank you in advance beautiful gif makers on Tumblr 🤣

[buckgasms]

Oh my goooosh!!!

Baby Alpine

Reference

[buckgasms]

“𝓐𝓹𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓭𝓲𝓽𝓮 𝓐𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼.”

Your marriage to the hand of the king, Lord Barnes, is a rushed state of affairs. But consummating must be done. Even if it’s not what you desire, he makes it so.

-°❀.ೃ࿔*-

𝓟𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰(𝓼): Lord!Bucky Barnes x Lady!Reader

𝓦𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰(𝓼): 18+ MDNI, Fantasy AU, Arranged marriage, Unhappy lady, Familial pressure/Trauma, Power difference, Praise kink, Degradation kink (for safety), Breast play, Body insecurities (M&F), Dirty talk, Oral (F), PinV, Pregnancy talk, Breeding kink probably, Overstimulation — Any more lemme know!

𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓒𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽: 3.1K

𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮: Everyone can blame @delicatebarness for this. This is an old piece I wrote probably over a year ago that happened to come up in conversation, it’s edited but I cannot assure it’s good.

The first flutters of snow were a comforting sight, your first reminder of home. You watched as they rested against the windowsill, thoughts of your family plagued your mind. Your sisters; they were all off on their own, betrothed to lords around the world.

Nights like this, you would cuddle around the fireplace under the thick fur blanket, your father recalled stories of wars fought in the past. Although, as his mind faded they became choppy and would mix with other memories.

Despite that, you found comfort in them. They brought you peace and serenity in an otherwise torn country — but your father’s words would not comfort you tonight. You curled further into your robes, wrapping fur-lined arms around your body; you blinked back small tears, determined not to let anyone see you vulnerable.

Your betrothal had been rushed; all you had ever dreamed of was marrying a nobleman and bearing his heirs. You and your mother had sat in the wee hours creating the perfect wedding you always hoped you’d have. The threats from the East had your family and his up in arms, tearing your ideal marriage to shreds.

The reception was small in comparison to most noble ceremonies; your families and the priest in attendance. At least the after ball was nice, you guessed.

Lord James of House Barnes, the hand to the future king and now your husband. He seemed sweet from the handful of times you’d met him — quiet and cold but he always offered you a brief smile or soft words. He brought you under his cape and celebrated the joining of your families which led to here.

The fire had been stoked for a while before you were escorted to the lord’s room, a thick robe for you to change into folded neatly beside a jug of fresh wine. With a promise of the Lord’s presence soon, the guards left you to view your candle-lit room.

You weren’t a silly little girl anymore; you knew what was expected next. A marriage was always followed by the consummating ceremony. Whenever your mother brought it up you brushed her off. You would take it in your stride, after all that was your duty. But as you stood as still as the air in the room, your nerves fluttered to life. You weren’t ready, you had no clue what to do and you were scared Lord Barnes would simply take what he wanted, discarding you after. Perhaps that would be easier to deal with.

“Homesick, my lady?” his voice sounded from across the quarters.

You turned to look at him; his long hair pulled from its loose bun, curling atop his shoulders, his dark coat had been shed leaving him in only a starched shirt and pants. His blue eyes, though almost invisible in the dim light, twinkled.

“A little my lord.” You spoke, your voice trying and failing to sound confident. Your fingers drummed against your arm as you teetered your weight on the balls of your feet. Your antsy movements did not go unnoticed by the lord’s perceptive eyes. He stepped forth, making his movements slow and cautious, ensuring he didn’t spook you with a pace and swiftness you knew he had. You appreciated that.

“Tell me wife, why do you shiver not from the cold but my presence?” His large, war-torn hands held your upper arms in a loose embrace, thick fingers squeezing the flesh. You may have feared the intimate touch to come but his hands held nothing but comfort.

“The ceremony my lord.”

He tut, his plump lips falling to your ear to kiss it softly before trailing down the length of your neck, his hands soothing over the plum fabric of your robe.

“None of that, my dear, I am your husband now and I really hate the formalities where they’re unneeded.”

An apology weighed on your tongue as his finger hooked under your chin to meet his gaze, but the flicker in his eyes had you forgetting basic human functions.

Lord Barnes was ridiculously handsome. You’d heard the jealous whispers of the rats teeming the palace because of his gifted looks.

‘He has drawn the shortest straw.’

‘Do you think after he has warmed her bed he will come to warm mine’s? A prudent little thing like that doesn’t know how to keep him full.’

Comments about your body and appearance cut you deep. You began hiding away in your chambers and, when your presence was a must, you donned thicker garments. James had never uttered a word about his distaste for you, yet you were sure he thought of it too. You were only by his side for politics, once you gave him an heir your body would be unusable to him.

“You think too much,” The young lord murmured through a huffed laugh, breath misting ever so slightly. His laugh; airy and dripping in honey was the most beautiful thing you had ever heard.

“I’m sorry, my L—”

“Ah ah,” his finger flicked the tip of your nose gently, playfully reprimanding you. “I will punish you if you say it again.”

“I’m sorry…husband.” Your body stiffened at his teasing words. You knew they were weightless, merely a prose in the wind, yet the thought of him dishing out a punishment in any way set you on edge.

You let him turn you to face him, his hands cupped your face, tilting your head back until you were in the perfect position.

“Much better,” he praised. Then his lips fell on yours, a groan bubbling up his throat as his tongue slipped out to trace at the crack of your mouth, seeking entrance. But you didn’t know, you had never kissed a man other than your father, on his cheek, this was well out of your comfort zone.

James retreated, a look in his eyes that you perceived as disappointment or dissatisfaction.

“I-I’m sorry, my Lord, I don’t—” you stuttered but he silenced you with another soft kiss.

“You should have told me, my love.” It wasn’t disappointment swirling in his ocean-blue orbs. It was guilt, mingling with an untamed amount of love.

“We will take this slow for you, my lady. The night is young and I wish to make a good impression on you.” He gripped your hands, bringing you both to the pelt covered bed. You let the thought of just how much of a great impression he’d made already melt into the wrinkles of your brain.

The backs of his knees clashed into the deep mahogany, halting his movement. You hadn’t realised, mind wandering away from you again like it always had, and you tumbled into his solid frame.

He barely moved, a quiet grunt the only evidence you had made contact with him at all, beside your dainty hands splayed across his dark undershirt.

“Have you never felt a man’s touch before, love?” He questioned, the back of his fingers ran down the side of your face, over your racing pulse point before falling just short of the dip in your robe.

“N-never.” Your cheeks flushed, the need to hide yourself, melt into the floor, rushing to the forefront of your jumbled mind. Before you could, he caught your chin again in a calloused palm, tilting you back up to meet deep blue eyes, judgment never once passed over them.

“Have you ever touched yourself?” If you weren’t blushing before you definitely were now. His laugh at your reaction dulled the embarrassment in your veins.

“It is not something you have to be embarrassed over, we all do it. I did it—a lot.” James’s smirk turned into a full face splitting smile at the sound of your giggles. God they were mesmerising, he wanted to collect them in a flask and drink them down whenever he was too far to hear them with his own two ears. A flutter of butterflies bloomed in his stomach. How had the love bug struck him down so quickly?

“I have.” You answered simply.

“Teach me.”

You blinked up at him, confusion marring your soft features. “Sorry?”

“Show me how to make you feel good. Take your time undressing, and when you are ready I’ll make you feel good.”

Lust darkened James’s stare, making you feel already bare in front of him. Yet he made it known silently that it was still your choice, letting you know that if you refused he would end it right then and there. The men that waited outside for the sounds of a successful betrothal evening would have an issue but they could be dealt with quickly. Nothing a meeting with the broadside of your Lord’s blade couldn’t fix.

Your nipples pebbled and breath bated at the realisation that for the first time in a long time you could decide your own end. You pondered for a moment, eyes tracing the lines of stone beneath your feet but the idea of your new husband watching you pleasure yourself, teaching him about your body, had you aching between your thighs.

You nodded, stepping back. James rested himself on the bed, weight on his hands. His eyes stayed on your face, studying for any sign that you weren’t doing this for you. He would hate knowing that you were giving yourself up to him out of obligation, not love. He found no such emotion.

You moved your hands slowly, fingers dusted over your clavicles before they slipped beneath the mauve robe. Each shoulder fell from your body, collecting in the crook of your arms as if to tease the man you faced. But just the sight of your bare throat and sternum arose a twitch in his nethers. You reached for the black tie holding both sides together, undoing the knot with a flick of your wrist — the fabric fell from your breasts to the floor in a pool of purple.

His eyes fell instinctively to your hardened nubs, his mouth dried as he gaped, like a fish out of water. You were stunning, Aphrodite amongst a school of pretenders. James followed your curves but each of them led back to your twinkling eyes.

“Enchanting,” he breathed, not missing the way you preened, like you had never been told it before. How dare they? This world had been so cruel to you, liars and leeches feeding off of you to make themselves feel better. It wouldn’t happen again. He made a mental note, letting himself get distracted from you for merely a second, to ask you for a list of names.

“You think?” You gazed down at yourself with wavering uncertainty. It made James’s heart clench.

“I know.” He stated firmly.

“I feel beautiful in your presence.” You said, chewing on your lower lip, confidence had begun to sprout. You moved your hands up your body, cupping your full breasts. You squeezed gently, a soft gasp ricocheted around the quiet room. James watched on as you almost struggled to handle your own body. He’d have you taught soon enough on how to make yourself as good as he made you.

“The things I would do to your body, angel.” James growled. unable to resist the throbbing of his cock, he palmed himself over his loose breeches.

Maybe it was the way he looked so uncontrollable at the sight of just your breasts or, the way his pupils had blown so wide, hiding that unique ocean colour because of you, that made you so willing to give everything over to him. Let him take what he wanted.

“James,”

“Yes angel?” His husky drawl battered at your stomach.

“I’m ready.”

He paused for a moment, making sure he heard you correctly. Then he wasted no time, bouncing from the bed and meeting you in a single stride. His lips smashed into yours, teeth clattering together but the pain dull compared to the desire you felt. His much larger hands smacked yours from your tits, replacing them with his searing palms, their roughness delightful against your nipples. Only when there was no air in your lungs did he part, peppering featherlight kisses down your front until he kneeled at your feet, his head level with your navel. A lord, on his knees for you, enthralled by you.

“You are a godsend…” he praised, his mouth securing around one of your breasts drawing a pleasured cry from you. “I will pray every night, thanking the gods for gifting me, a lowly Lord, with you.”

“Please James—” you begged, fisting locks of raven-toned hair.

“Yes, my love, call to me.”

“Would you like me to touch you here? Where you are weeping. She is begging for attention.” You choked on a gasp as he whispered, a hair from your hooded clit, his hot breath fanned over your slit.

“Please,” that word had become your new mantra. A prayer that seemed to get you anything you wanted.

“Good girl.” His mouth descended upon your folds, suckling everything they had to offer. His thick tongue dipped lower, into your untouched hole then up to press against your pearl. Your moans urged him along. Using his tongue as a distraction he slipped a thick finger into you, groaning at how tight you clung to the lonely digit.

“Gods, you weep for me. Do you like it? Your husband, on his knees for you, licking your cunt, hm? Making you feel good?” His second finger joined the first, stretched you out. With expert precision he found your internal pleasure spot, his fingers curling inwards — making you see white.

“Ohh James!” You cried. You were dizzy with pleasure, lightheadedness so strong you would have fallen if not for his iron grip on your hip, keeping you stable.

He listened to the messages your body sent out into the room; he clenching of your walls, your voice breaking. You were close.

“You feel that, my lady, the knot tightening? Don’t hold it back, let it snap.” He doubled his ministrations, humming against your clit and fucking his creamy fingers into you with abandon. Your eyes squeezed shut and your walls clenched his digits so tight he could no longer move them. A shrill yell rips from deep within you as your body jerks, reacting to wave after wave of almost unbearable release. He moved the best he could, his tongue licking you gently, the pads of his fingers rocking against your g-spot until you pulled away in overstimulation.

Collapsing in a heap of sweat stained skin, James was quick to scoop you up into his arms. “You did so well angel, so good for me.”

He kissed all over your blushed skin. It was an odd feeling, so close but so far away from everything, you had never felt anything like it, your heartbeat loud in your ears as you clung onto your husband for dear life.

The ladies of your own home often commented about orgasms and how mind numbing good they felt when you got the chance to experience one. This must’ve been it, you couldn’t have imagined a feeling more intense than now.

It was James’s cock twitching against your naked thigh that pulled you from the floaty space you rested on. Realisation set in. He had made you feel good, forgoing his own pleasure. You wanted to give him it all.

You clambered up until you met his eyes. “Take me, James, make me yours.”

“Are you sure, my love?”

“More than anything,” you reaffirmed. The loss of his warmth felt weird, your body arching up to meet him.

He laughed at your desperation as he shed the last of his clothes. His skin glowed under the dull firelight, drawing attention to the amount his body had endured through decades of war. Scars and stabs from blades, burns, and bites decorated his body. They were his biggest insecurity. One time in his life he had beautiful silky skin without a blemish in sight, after the battles he faced he returned with more scars than he could tell the stories for.

He flinched lightly as you traced the one above his heart, a stab almost fatal to him. You shuddered, thinking of a life without him brought about great sadness that clawed at your insides.

“They are ugly.” he brushed your hand off of it, lacing your fingers with his, but you shook your head.

“I think they make you look rather handsome.”

Now it was his turn to blush. He buried his head into your chest and slapped your thigh teasingly.

“I love you.” It slipped so easily from his mouth that he barely noticed it, but you did.

“I love you too, my Lord.” You said, your breath hitching as his thick cock ran through your folds, stopping at the dip of your hole and pressing in slowly.

“I told you I’d punish you for that,” James queried a brow at you, you only smirked in return.

“So do it.”

Any more teasing words died on your tongue as he split you open around him, settling deep within you. He stayed as still as stone letting you adjust to him before fucking into you slowly.

“Feels so good—so tight, angel. Can’t wait to fill you with my seed—fuck! Have your belly with our kids, our heirs.” He moaned loudly, picking up the pace. You nodded frantically, focusing on only the pleasure between your legs and his filthy words.

Your walls clenched, the head of his length brushing that spot he’d treated so well earlier. Your orgasm approached quicker than you would’ve liked, giving you only a small warning before slamming into you full force.

“Ohh fuck—” James cried out at your tightness, thrusting sloppily into you as his own orgasm took him by surprise. He took your mouth, muffling his moans with it. He spilled so deep inside of you, coating your fluttering walls. Your mind took a second to think of how easy you'd take if James made you feel this good every time he wanted you between the sheets. But those were thoughts for the future, for now you wanted to bask in the present with your new husband.

He moved slowly, picking you up with ease and bringing you both under the sheets and the throw over pelt.

“Did I hurt you?” He asked, peppering kisses along your collarbones.

You shook your head, he’d done anything but hurt you, he’d awakened your soul, quelled your fears. When forced into this betrothal, you were afraid that the man you’d marry would be like most of the lords around the world, taking what they wanted whenever they wanted. James showed you different.

“That’s good,” he sighed before kissing your lips gently. “Get some rest angel, I am not done with you yet.”

Comments, Reblogs, Likes & Asks are always appreciated (although if you liked this piece please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience). They let me know that you are enjoying what I’m publishing and gives me motivation to right more.

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Thank you for reading~

[buckgasms]

Filed Under: Inappropriate

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Scheduler!reader

Summary: You’ve worked hard to keep things professional—his schedule tight, your distance tighter. But when the scent of Congressman Barnes’ cologne lingers too long, it cracks your restraint wide open. You know better than to touch. But he hears everything.

Warnings: 18+ (mdni!), explicit sexual content, p in v, consensual workplace power dynamics, sensory kink, scent-based arousal, referencing hyper-sexuality, audio surveillance (non-malicious), oral (f receiving + m receiving), breast play, desk sex, possessive undertones

Word count: 4,720

You hated being in his office longer than five seconds. Not because Congressman Barnes was difficult—he was polite, measured, always thanking you after meetings. Not because he was cold—though his steel-blue eyes had a way of sliding over you like he was analyzing your pulse rate. No, you hated it because every time you stepped within range of him, something primal and traitorous stirred low in your belly.

It was the damn cologne.

Parfums de Marly Layton. You’d once caught a glimpse of the deep navy bottle on the edge of his hotel bathroom sink while reviewing his itinerary, and you cursed yourself for ever learning the name. Now, you knew exactly what it was each time it hit you: that heady swirl of green apple and vanilla spice, warm cardamom softened by the heat of his skin, all wrapped in something darker—amber, maybe. Something that clung to the cotton of his shirts and refused to leave even after he did.

You never asked about it. You wouldn’t dare. But every time you leaned over his desk to drop off his briefing binder or hover by the door to confirm his next flight to D.C., that scent latched onto you like it had hands.

And he didn’t know. Of course he didn’t.

You were just his scheduler. The woman in black slacks and button-downs who kept his life running in military-level precision. You booked his appearances, called in favors with lobbyists’ assistants, negotiated down overbooked town halls, and sometimes—God help you—had to step inside his hotel room to lay out the next day’s itinerary when he was too buried in calls to read his own calendar.

Those were the worst. When he’d answer the door in a fitted T-shirt, damp hair curling at his nape, Layton now mingling with sweat and steam, and you’d have to act like your knees weren’t about to buckle. You’d linger by the desk, pretending to triple-check the flight number. He’d pace behind you, reading notes off his phone, totally unaware you were trying not to moan like some harlequin heroine because of the way his scent swirled in the air-conditioned quiet.

You knew your place. And you played it well.

But God, if he ever caught on—if he ever looked at you the way you sometimes caught yourself looking at him—this whole operation would go to hell.

──

Your morning began, as it usually did, in his suite.

A quiet knock. A barely audible “Come in.” Then the ritual began.

You stood by the small conference table in his living area, tablet in hand, while Congressman James Buchanan Barnes moved with military-grade precision behind you. He never rushed. Never wasted a single second. His routine was something sacred—ironed shirt, gold cufflinks, navy suit freshly pressed and waiting on the valet hook by the door. You glanced at the clock. Right on time.

Then came the part that always undid you.

Three spritzes.

You didn’t have to look to know the bottle—Parfums de Marly Layton. He passed by you on his way to the mirror, the scent trailing him like a shadow: apple-spice and something almost resinous beneath. One spray around the base of his neck. Two on the insides of his wrists, which he then tapped against his collarbone in fluid, practiced motions.

Everything about Bucky was deliberate. Disciplined. Controlled.

You hated that it turned you on.

The ten minutes you spent inside that room felt like a test. You spoke as little as possible, eyes fixed on the screen while your body vibrated with restraint. The scent of his cologne—warmed by his skin and the faint trace of post-shower steam—curled through the suite, wrapping around you like velvet shackles. Your thighs pressed together more tightly the longer you stood still.

You reminded yourself—again—that this was your decision. You were maintaining abstinence. You’d been attending therapy. Learning to manage what had once consumed you. Learning how not to chase every high your body demanded. You hadn’t slipped in over six months.

But today…

Today something broke.

──

You shouldn’t be doing this.

You repeated that over and over again in your head, even as your thighs pressed together, even as you turned toward his chair—the one still warm from where he’d last sat—and let your body sink into it. The scent of him was stronger here. Thick in the upholstery, clinging to the wool of his blazer draped over the back. You exhaled shakily, nostrils flaring as Layton wrapped around you, pushed into every breath like it knew exactly what it was doing to you.

Your body throbbed with need, the ache long suppressed now boiling over. Your self-constraint screamed at you to leave. To remember your progress. To walk away.

But then your hand slid between your thighs.

And it was already over.

You felt the heat there—wet and pulsing—before you even touched yourself. Just the press of your palm over your panties made you gasp, the friction igniting a tremor that rolled through your whole body. The skirt you’d worn today—a rare choice—suddenly felt like a divine mistake. Or maybe it was fate. No slacks to fight with. No belt to undo. Just a soft fabric bunched around your hips as you slipped your fingers down the front of your underwear and found the desperate pulse of your clit.

“Fuck—” you hissed, biting down on your lip. One finger circled slowly, teasing and taunting, while the other hand gripped the armrest of his chair. Your head lolled back, the sharp scent of Layton clinging to your hair, your skin, sinking deeper with every ragged breath.

You didn’t realize how loud your breathing had gotten. The moans that had broken free weren’t whispers—they were real. Hungry. Shamefully sweet. And they drifted into the room like incense, thick and lingering.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t possibly know—was that your voice wasn’t just trapped in the still air of Bucky’s office.

It was in his ear.

──

Bucky stood behind the curtain of the press hall, one hand on the mic clipped to his tie, the other curled into a tight fist behind his back. He was half-listening to the event organizer briefing him when something flickered in his earpiece. Static. Then—

“F-Fuck—Bucky…”

His name.

Moaned.

Soft and strangled and real.

His spine straightened like he’d been struck.

The voice was unmistakable. Yours.

The sound came again, clearer this time, riding a breathy whimper. His brow furrowed, sharp gaze shifting toward the assistant speaking in front of him—but he wasn’t hearing a word she said anymore.

He tapped the mic, subtly. The connection flickered. He recognized the signal.

It was from his office. From the hidden mic—one of several—planted into the base of his desk lamp. A holdover from another life. Not politics, but fieldwork. Survival. The kind of instinct that gets carved into your bones when you’ve spent years as a ghost, a weapon, an Avenger—an assassin. Even now, walking corridors of Capitol Hill instead of war zones, Bucky Barnes never truly relaxed. The security team had given him the green light to keep those recordings in place, citing precautionary measures. But really, they were for him. A way to feel safe, to control the perimeter, to know what was coming before it came.

But what he was hearing now had nothing to do with politics.

Your moans filtered through the line again, closer this time. As if you were leaning over the desk. As if your mouth was right beside the mic.

And suddenly he was hard. Painfully so.

The assistant cleared her throat. “Congressman? They’re ready for you.”

He blinked, nodded slowly, forcing a polite smile. But his mind was miles away.

Still in that room.

With you.

Bucky didn’t remember half of what was said onstage.

He answered questions. Shook hands. Smiled for the cameras. But his mind was nowhere near the press hall. It was still up in his office—haunted by the sound of you panting his name in gasping, breathless fragments.

He lasted exactly twenty-two minutes.

When the moderator thanked him for his presence, Bucky slipped away with the practiced grace of someone who knew how to disappear without making it a scene. He brushed off staff with a tight-lipped smile and a dismissive wave. “I’m taking a break. I need a few minutes,” he said. “Thinking about my mom. It’s her birthday today.”

A lie. One he hated using. But it worked.

No one followed.

No one asked questions.

And he made sure—damn sure—his guards knew to stay posted far from the east wing of the building. His office sat in the corner of a quiet conference suite, tucked behind a frosted glass door that bore his name and seal. No scheduled meetings for the rest of the afternoon. No assistants buzzing in. No unexpected interns to stumble through.

Just you.

Still in there.

Still moaning like you didn’t know your voice was crawling into his earpiece like the world’s most dangerous prayer.

He locked the door behind him the moment he stepped inside.

The click echoed through the room like a gunshot.

Bucky leaned back against the wood, hand still at the latch, jaw tight and eyes closed as your voice spilled through the earpiece—raw, needy, filthy in a way that peeled his self-control back layer by layer.

You hadn’t noticed him yet.

You were still in his chair.

One leg slung over the armrest, the other foot planted on the floor for leverage. Skirt pushed up, blouse half-open, hair mussed and falling out of its usual neat tie. Your fingers were buried between your thighs, moving in tight, desperate circles. His name fell from your lips in gasps, more broken each time. Whimpering. Pleading. Ruined.

He exhaled harshly through his nose, blood roaring in his ears.

“Christ,” he muttered.

What the fuck were you thinking?

He should’ve been furious. Should’ve been offended. Professional boundaries, and all that. But instead, something primal settled in his gut. A slow, molten heat that spread into his chest and pulled tight behind his zipper. Not just lust. Not just arousal. Possession.

You had no idea how close you were to being caught.

To being taken.

You didn’t even check the door.

Didn’t think about cameras or recordings or someone else walking in before him. You just trusted you’d be alone. Trusted that you were safe in his space. And instead of hating you for it, instead of calling it foolish—

Bucky felt proud.

Protective.

Turned on beyond belief.

Bucky stepped forward quietly, his boots making no sound against the polished floor.

You were close.

He could tell.

Your moans had gone breathless—rushed, rising in pitch. Each gasp of his name now came through the earpiece like a desperate confession. Faster. Wetter. Louder. He could see the way your hand moved beneath the hem of your skirt, the way your hips rolled against your own touch. That tension in your thighs. That flutter in your lashes. Your head thrown back like the chair was your altar and you were about to come in his fucking name.

He exhaled—slowly. Quietly.

You were so absorbed in your pleasure, so lost in that hazy world you’d escaped to, that you didn’t even hear the subtle swish of the door behind his desk opening. You hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t just in your head anymore—he was in the room. Close enough now to smell everything.

And God, he did.

He could smell the sweat on your skin, the arousal soaking through your underwear, the lingering trails of your perfume—the one you always wore on days you wore your hair up like that. Professional days, you called them. If only you knew how that messy bun was driving him wild now, the loose strands stuck to your damp neck, the little whimpers you didn’t even know you were letting out.

You made it so easy.

Too easy.

His jaw clenched as he watched you, throat dry with something that wasn’t just lust—it was fear. Fear of what could’ve happened if someone else had come up here. If a reporter had slipped in to snoop. If a staffer came to clean. If it hadn’t been him.

He was protective by nature. Obsessive by consequence. He didn’t trust easily, didn’t let people in, but you—

You were different.

You were the soft place in his otherwise brutal life.

And now, like a loaded gun left on the wrong table, you were vulnerable in the worst way imaginable.

Bucky’s fingers twitched at his side. He wanted to touch you. To pull your hand away and replace it with his mouth, his fingers, his everything. But he didn’t move. Not yet.

Because even with all that hunger burning in his blood, the soldier in him still wanted to study. Still wanted to watch.

Your breathing picked up again. Your body began to tremble, pleasure peaking. He could see it—feel it—in every breath.

And then you whispered it. “Bucky—please—” like you needed him to save you from drowning in your own ecstasy.

That did it.

He couldn’t let you finish—not without knowing he was there.

So he cleared his throat. Just once.

A low, deliberate cough.

──

Your whole body jolted.

Eyes flew open.

You froze mid-motion, thighs snapping together as if you could undo the last ten minutes by sheer panic alone. Heart hammering. Lungs stuck in your chest. The shame—white-hot and paralyzing—poured down your spine like ice water.

Then you saw him.

Leaning against the wall, suit jacket still buttoned. Tie loosened just slightly at the collar. His expression unreadable—but his eyes? Burning. Steady. Watching you like a man who had seen everything.

Because he had.

He’d heard everything.

And he didn’t look away.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

“You didn’t lock the door.”

His voice was low. Calm. But it carried—like a blade sliding from a sheath. Controlled. Dangerous. Precise.

Your whole body jerked upright in the chair, eyes wide, legs snapping closed so fast it made the chair squeak beneath you. You could barely breathe. Heart pounding, cheeks burning, hand yanking your skirt down in frantic, fumbling motions.

“I—I didn’t know anyone—God, I didn’t think—” you stammered, horrified. “I swear, I thought you’d be down there for hours—I didn’t mean—”

“Stop,” Bucky said gently.

Your mouth clamped shut.

He didn’t move toward you, yet. He stood just inside the office door, back against the wall, arms loose at his sides. But there was no mistaking the heat behind his eyes. That slow, burning intensity you’d only ever caught glimpses of in passing. Behind podiums. In briefings. When he leaned just a little too close with that cologne on and your legs would go weak for reasons you never wanted to admit.

“I’m not pressing charges,” he said. “You’re not losing your job.”

You blinked, speechless, heart still galloping like a terrified animal.

“But…” he continued, pushing off from the wall, walking toward you now with the same deliberate, panther-smooth grace that reminded you exactly who he used to be. Not just the golden boy congressman. Not just the tailored suit. But him. The assassin. The Avenger. The man who moved like a weapon and looked at you like he already knew what you tasted like when you came.

“You are in trouble,” he said, voice lowering with each step. “Just… not the kind you’re thinking of.”

Your lips parted. Breath caught.

Bucky stopped a few feet in front of you.

And that’s when you saw it.

The outline pressing hard against his slacks, thick and demanding, straining against the zipper like it was fighting to be free. Your throat went dry.

“Do you know what it’s been like?” he said quietly, almost like he was talking to himself. “Having to walk around with this—” he gestured to his head, his chest, his body “—with these senses. With you.”

Your brows knit in confusion, still trying to process the way he looked at you—like he’d already had this conversation with himself a hundred times and finally stopped trying to argue against it.

“I can hear your heartbeat spike when I walk by. Smell how wet you get when I lean too close.” His nostrils flared just slightly, steel blue eyes darkening. “You flinch like you hate me, but baby…” he chuckled, quiet and sharp, “your thighs say otherwise.”

Your apology died on your tongue.

Bucky took another step, now within arm’s reach.

“I know I shouldn’t have left that mic on,” he murmured. “Old habit. Leftover paranoia. I didn’t expect anything from it.”

His vibranium fingers flexed slowly at his side, gleaming under the low light of the office.

“But hearing you like that? Saying my name? Touching yourself in my chair? You’ve no idea what that did to me.”

He leaned down slightly, voice dropping to a rasp near your ear.

“Would’ve come up here sooner if I’d known you were hungry for me, sweetheart.”

Your whole body pulsed with heat.

And then, almost teasingly, he stepped back just enough for you to see his gaze drop to your lap—your thighs still trembling, your breathing still ragged.

“Now,” he said softly, eyes dragging back up to yours, “you’re going to help me.”

He glanced down at the ache visibly straining against the front of his pants.

“Fix the mess you started,” Bucky murmured again, voice low and rough.

You swallowed hard, eyes darting between his face and the bulge still straining beneath those expensive navy slacks. Your breath caught, your lips parted—but you didn’t move.

So Bucky did.

He reached out, warm hand cupping the back of your head, thumb brushing against your jaw—tender, but firm. Guiding. His vibranium fingers brushed your shoulder, trailing a cold path down your arm as he coaxed you out of the chair and down to your knees, right between his legs.

You looked up at him. The tie still loose at his collar. His jaw locked, blue eyes burning down at you like you were something sacred. Something he’d wanted for far too long.

“Atta girl,” he muttered, unfastening his belt slowly. “Show me what you’ve been dreaming about.”

You took him in hand, heard his sharp inhale. He was heavy, hot, twitching in your grip—already leaking from how long he’d been holding back. You kissed the head gently, teasing your tongue over the slit, and felt him shudder above you.

“Fuck, sweetheart…”

But something changed.

As soon as you tasted him—salty and masculine, laced with the lingering warmth of that cologne—you snapped. Your restraint, your therapy, your rules—shattered. Your hyper-sensitive body surged with heat and hunger. You gripped him tighter, sucked him deeper, harder, hungry for it—starved for the man who haunted every dark corner of your fantasies.

Bucky hissed. His hand flew to your bun—not to guide you, but to steady himself.

You were taking control.

And he was losing it.

“Shit—slow down, baby—” he grunted, legs bracing, muscles twitching. “Fuck—gonna—”

He didn’t finish the warning.

With a stifled groan and a muttered curse, he came fast and hard, head tipped back, hand fisting in your hair as his body jolted. You swallowed, breathless, the taste of him still on your tongue as he staggered slightly—off balance, caught completely off-guard by just how fast you’d undone him.

He looked down at you with wide eyes, chest rising and falling. Then he gave a breathless laugh—soft, almost reverent.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You’re trying to kill me?”

You licked your lips and looked up through your lashes. “You told me to fix it.”

Bucky’s pupils dilated.

He was far from done.

“Get up,” he rasped, voice hoarse with need. “Lay down. Table.”

You rose—hands trembling, heart pounding—and climbed onto the edge of his desk, pushing aside the neat stack of folders and your own open planner. You laid back, thighs parting as his hands found your waist. He looked like a man possessed, hungry and undone, all that political polish burned away.

He pushed up your blouse, exposing your bra, then unclasped it with practiced ease—lucky for him (and unlucky for you) that you’d chosen the kind that fastened in the front. Your breasts spilled free into his waiting hands, and his breath hitched like he hadn’t just imagined this a hundred times over.

He didn’t hesitate.

He leaned down, biting softly at the swell of your chest, leaving wet kisses and deep bruising marks as his vibranium fingers slid down—cool and deliberate—between your legs. You gasped at the contrast of metal and heat, moaning as they slid through your slick folds with expert precision.

You writhed. He growled.

Then, when you were panting and shaking again, he pulled back—stroking himself once, slowly—then slid his length between your breasts, pressing them together with his hands as you lifted your chin to tease your tongue against the head of his cock.

“Hold still for me,” he groaned. “Just like that.”

The heat in the room swelled—his cologne thick in the air, your arousal coating his fingers, his taste still lingering on your lips. He rocked into your chest slowly, hips rolling, your mouth chasing every pass like it was your last breath.

And for Bucky?

It might as well have been.

“Just like that,” Bucky groaned again, thrusting slowly between your breasts, your tongue flicking over his tip with every pass. His hands pressed them tighter, his jaw clenched like he was fighting himself—like he was trying to savor this, even as every nerve in his body screamed for release.

You watched him from below—eyes blown wide, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from sucking him dry just moments ago. There was pride in your gaze now. Power. Your legs shifted, thighs rubbing together with desperate friction as you moaned softly, loving how undone he looked. This man—former assassin, super soldier, now walking the floors of Congress like he didn’t have blood on his hands—was losing himself for you.

And he didn’t even try to hide it.

He pulled back, eyes raking over your body like he wanted to mark every inch of it. “Turn over,” he said hoarsely. “Hands flat on the desk. Skirt up. Now.”

Your breath caught.

You obeyed.

The desk was cool under your palms as you turned, bent forward, and arched your back—cheeks exposed, thighs glistening. You heard the rustle of his slacks, the low hitch of his breath as he took you in. Then—metal and flesh—his hands gripped your hips, pulling you back against him.

“Fuck, doll,” he groaned, dragging his cock through your folds slowly, teasing. “You’re soaking. All this just from my scent, huh?”

You whimpered.

He leaned over you, the scent of his cologne wrapped in heat and sweat now, curling around your senses like a drug. His mouth found your neck—kissing, biting, panting against your skin.

“Do you know how many times I wanted to take you like this?” he whispered, teeth grazing your ear. “Every time you walked into my office, pretending you didn’t notice how hard I was. You think I didn’t know?”

Then—without warning—he slammed into you.

You gasped. Loud. Fingers splayed on the desk for support as he filled you in one hard, deliberate thrust.

Bucky groaned behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding up your back—vibranium palm splayed flat between your shoulder blades to keep you down. Pinned. Controlled. Possessed.

“You like this,” he growled, voice thick with filth and hunger. “You like knowing I can’t fucking hold back with you.”

He rolled his hips again, deep and slow, and your whole body shuddered from the inside out.

And then he lost the last of his restraint.

The thrusts turned punishing—each one knocking the breath from your lungs as his fingers dug into your skin, anchoring you in place. He was relentless. The desk creaked beneath you. Your moans echoed off the walls. His name fell from your lips like prayer.

“Say it again,” he gritted. “Say my fucking name.”

“Bucky—oh God—Bucky—”

“That’s it, baby. That’s mine.”

You felt him everywhere—his cologne clinging to your skin, his heat against your back, the cold snap of vibranium fingers sliding back between your thighs to stroke you just right as he kept slamming into you.

And just as you were about to fall apart, just as your vision blurred and your moans turned breathless and broken—

He wrapped his arm around your waist, pulled you back against his chest, and growled into your ear:

“You’re coming with me.”

You didn’t stand a chance.

Not when he had your back arched, your hips bucking, your moans punched out of you with every ruthless thrust.

And definitely not when his mouth returned to your neck—nipping, dragging, claiming.

“Gotta warn you, sweetheart,” he panted, voice gone gravel-deep, sweat slicking his chest against your spine. “Cleanup’s gonna be hell.”

You gasped, eyes fluttering as he slid his vibranium fingers back between your legs, stroking where he knew you needed it—circling, pressing, dragging you up toward the edge again. Your thighs trembled. His cock dragged deep inside you, heavy and thick, already swelling again despite how hard he’d come earlier.

He was insatiable.

“You’re dripping down my thighs,” he groaned, cock twitching inside you. “Gonna soak this desk. The carpet.”

“I—I can’t,” you whimpered, dizzy from overstimulation, from the scent of him still curling through the room like a trap.

“Yes, you can,” he hissed, fucking into you harder. “C’mon, doll. One more. I need it.”

He wanted to feel it. Hear it. Your body breaking apart for him like it was made to.

And when your orgasm tore through you again—loud, shaking, guttural—he cursed and pulled out just in time to see the way your release shuddered down your thighs, messy and obscene and perfect.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, grabbing his cock and stroking it hard, fast, as he stared at the wreckage of you—your thighs spread, your mouth open, your body twitching from the aftershocks.

He didn’t last long.

One sharp exhale—your name on his lips—and he came again, painting your lower back and ass with hot, thick ropes of it. The kind of mess that would take more than tissues to fix.

Bucky stumbled back a step, chest heaving, hands braced on his thighs as he tried to catch his breath. A beat passed.

Then he chuckled, dark and low.

“I told you we’d need time for cleanup.”

You groaned, still face-down on the desk. “That’s… not my department, Congressman.”

Another breathless laugh. “Lucky for us, I’ve got some experience erasing evidence.”

He moved toward the far wall of his office, tapped a hidden panel under a shelf, and revealed a small screen linked to the CCTV system. A few taps, and he was deep into the security matrix—something no one but Bucky Barnes had access to.

His fingers hovered over the delete command… then paused.

A wicked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Or…” he murmured, glancing back at you, still sprawled across his desk, flushed and glistening. “I keep this one. File it under inappropriate.”

Your breath caught.

Then his voice softened—still low, still dark—but careful now. “Only if you’re okay with that.”

You looked at him, cheeks burning, chest still rising and falling in uneven gasps. And then you smiled—slow and shameless.

“Only if I get a copy too.”

He chuckled, full and rich, before locking the footage away behind a new encrypted file. His name. Today’s date.

And a folder labeled simply: INAPPROPRIATE

He turned back to you, still drinking in the sight—hickeys blooming across your chest like war paint, lips kiss-bitten and eyes half-lidded in the aftermath.

If anyone asked why the door had been locked for so long…

“I’ll tell ’em I needed a moment,” he muttered, tucking his shirt back in with a wry twist of his mouth. “Missing my mother. Or some bullshit like that.”

You snorted through the heat still burning on your skin. “You’re a menace.”

He stepped back toward you, buttoning his shirt halfway, not even bothering to fix the tie. “You have no idea.”

Then he leaned down, kissed the curve of your shoulder—warm, slow, almost reverent—and whispered:

“We’re not done, by the way.”

You blinked up at him, still trembling. “We’re not?”

“Nope.” He slid two vibranium fingers through your slick folds again, slow and deliberate, and smirked at your sharp gasp.

“I haven’t even had lunch.”

[buckgasms]

✨ Divine ✨

In some universe I like to think Bucky likes to fuck. Hard. He holds back when he has his hands all over your body and he's trying desperately to shut out the monster in his brain screaming to ravage you because he. Wants. To. Fuck.

There are days where he wants that tender loving and he wants to be soft and sweet but on others?

The release feels to good and in that moment he's in full control, chasing that pleasure, hyper focused on the way his cockhead is dripping and swollen, more sensitive than ever. Its throbbing and his veins are pumping all the blood to his rock hard cock.

At first he does a good job of hiding it.

But then the mask begins to fall.

Primal urges want to take over but how can he ruin his sweet little bunny whose laying under him, moaning and looking at him with doe eyes.

How can he-

"Buck?"

Bucky's hips stutter at the sound of your soft voice laced with concern, your hand coming to cup his cheek.

"You okay?" You can tell he's not all there, his movements hesitant, body too stiff. You're plaint under him but his muscles are tight, jaw clenched. "What's wrong Jamie"

Jamie. The name you had for him alone made him want to fuck you till all you could do was scream his-

"We can stop if-

"No-" Bucky cuts you off before you could continue, petting your head reassuringly, "Everything's fine doll, promise" He pecks a kiss to your nose making you blink and it some how makes him harder. You're so trusting, spreading out naked on his bed, completely unsuspecting of all the dirty things he really wanted to do to you. You were checking in on him to see if he's okay, not having a clue he wanted to rail you so hard, you'd forget how to speak. Pound you till you were begging for him to stop because there was too much cum for your tiny cunt to handle and his heavy balls would still be aching for release.

"You can tell me" You whisper, wiggling from under him to wrap your soft thighs around his waist, stroking his scruffy cheek. "Please?"

Bucky doesn't think he can hide his needs for much longer. Not when your scent is all over him now; on his pillow, the sheets, its soaked onto his skin with how closely your naked bodies are pressing against each other. How can he be expected to have any self-control when you're looking up at him like that like a sweet little bunny caught in the wolfs den, cuddling into her predators chest.

"You really want to know?" His voice was husky, letting his nose trail along the column of your neck, breathing in your sweet smell, letting his tongue dart out to taste your sweat slicked skin. The action makes you gasp, clenching around him with a whimper, your eyes growing wide when a growl emits from deep in his chest, "Are you sur you really want to know?"

"Y-yes" You nod, your breath hitching in your throat at the dark smirk that appears on his face as his hand snakes up to softly clasp around your throat.

"I want to ruin you bunny" Bucky's nose nudges against your affectionately before leaning down to nip your pouty bottom lip.

"R-ruin?" You whisper, a wave of slick soaking his cock further which doesn't go unnoticed by him. He experimentally draws his hips back and snaps them forward, hitting your cervix, the salacious moan you let out driving him feral.

"I want to fuck. Promise I'll make love to you after but I want to fuck you pretty girl" He squeezes your throat a little tighter, moving to graze his teeth along your jaw. "Will you let me? Fuck this pretty little pussy?"

The breathy yes you let out is all he needs.

And fuck you he does.

-

"J-JAMIEE"

"That's it-scream-scream for me!" He roars, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips and he pulls you back to meet his thrusts, his balls slapping your clit each time. He has you on your hands and knees though your arms gave way, your face pressed against the mattress. He brings his leg up to get a deeper angle and the feeling causes white spots to blur you vision.

"M-more-Wan' more" You weakly beg, tears streaming down your face in pleasure, your entire body being held up by his grip as he takes you from behind.

"Greedy slut, begging for more as if she isn't already full of cock and cum" Bucky gritted out, having already emptied himself in your once, your combined slick making it easier for him to pound you. "Just a hole for me to fuck, you're just here to get me off aren't you baby, just a tight little pussy for me to stuff my dick into"

"Ye-ah" You hiccup, overstimulated from the orgasms he's pulled from your body left, right and center. "So-so-good"

"S'good huh, gotta keep you well fucked for my fat cock bunny" You have no idea where he got such a filthy mouth from, another orgasm building in your belly from his words alone, "Can feel you getting tight again, lookit you cumming all over me baby, messy girl, soaking me"

You can't respond aside from wailing with pleasure, trickles of squirt wetting his thighs, the sight making his balls pull towards his body.

"That's it, good girl, fuck gonna cum bunny, gonna give you my cum and keep fucking it back into you, keep you nice and full of me" He rails you faster, the serum in his veins pumping, sweat dripping down his body. He feels impossibly hot, head thrown back as immense pleasure shoots down his spine, his pace growing sloppy. There's not a single thought in his brain other than busting load after load in your sopping cunt till his cock his soft. He doesn't care that it almost hurts, overstimulated himself, panting and rutting into you, he's so far gone, his deep moans slipping into a whimper as his cock starks to leak, he's so close-

"OH-FUCKK" Hot ropes of his spend shoot from his tip as he lets his body fall on top of you, humping and rutting himself till he's all empty, "y'feel to good, can't even stop, holy shit" He moans into your neck, suckling at your pulse point while you writhe under him feeling his cum seep out of you. His movements slow till there's nothing left, his sensitive length still tucked between your folds, pink and soft and wet with your cream. He carefully moves you so you're resting on the pillows, his cool metal hand brushing your forehead.

"Come back to me bunny" Bucky coos, chuckling at your dazed state, your eyes still unfocused, panting and blindly reaching for him, "M'right here babygirl, c'mhere, I got you" He cradles your soft body close to his, kissing your hairline. "Did so good for me princess, so so proud of you"

You let out a sleepy yawn, curling up on his chest like a content kitten, closing your eyes while nuzzling into him. You've never looked so peaceful and happy and Bucky can tell just by your happy little sigh you want more of what he gave you.

[buckgasms]

I think about this kiss every day

SEBASTIAN STAN as FRANK Endings, Beginnings (2019) | dir. Drake Doremus

[buckgasms]

He kills me....

It’s been a year since the Cannes Festival, seeing this ray of sunshine.

God, I love the long hair era. Who knew this was when they were filming the Thunderbolts* movie?

I miss his hair, so ignore me simping over these photos. My man. So handsome.