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sizzlingstarlightsky · 2 days ago

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softvibraniumdaydreams ~Oneshot

Summery: Bucky accidentally stumbles onto your secret Tumblr—filled with fanfiction about him.From soft tropes to unholy smut, he dives headfirst into the world of fics, fluff, and feelings.Now you’re writing stories together… and maybe living one, too.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

||Main Masterlist|| ||Oneshot Masterlist||

This is a part 2 of “That’s not me….is it?”

||Part 1: “That’s not me….is it?”||

The descent began innocently enough.

Bucky had already posted two short fics—quiet, emotional little pieces that you swore were soft punches to the heart. His followers had grown steadily. You weren’t shocked. The man could craft longing like it was a battlefield.

But then he asked you a question.

A dangerous, chaotic, no-turning-back question:

“How do you write… y’know. The spicy stuff?”

You blinked at him from across the couch.

“You mean smut?”

His face turned the exact shade of pomegranate.

He nodded, once, as if it took all his courage.

You took a slow sip of your tea. “Why?”

Bucky stared at his hands. “I wrote something. It… kind of turned into that. By accident.”

Your heart jumped.

“You wrote smut.”

“I tried,” he mumbled. “It’s harder than it looks.”

(You almost said “That’s what she said” but you were trying to be supportive.)

“Can I read it?”

He hesitated, then nodded—pulling out his phone with visible pain and air-dropping the doc to you.

It was titled:

“Untitled draft 4.5 - do not open - death.docx”

You opened it.

And read.

And immediately, violently choked on your tea.

“Her breath hitched as he approached, all coiled tension and leather and something darker beneath his skin. ‘You feel that?’ he murmured, guiding her hand down—’”

“—he groaned like gravel on pavement, low and dangerous, but respectful—”

“—his metal hand cupped her boob like it was a fragile piece of art. She gasped.”

You looked up, trembling. “You… cupped a boob like it was art?”

Bucky looked like he wanted to die. “I panicked, okay?!”

You offered—very kindly—to beta read.

Which was how you ended up on his bed at 1:47 a.m., laptop open between you, deep into editing what was now being called “The Heat of Vibranium.”

Bucky sat beside you, watching your every keystroke like a hawk.

“This part,” you said, highlighting a paragraph, “where you say she ‘gasped as he removed her socks,’—”

“What? That’s intimate!”

“Yeah, but not sexy. Unless you’re writing for foot Tumblr.”

He groaned and collapsed back onto the pillows. “This was a mistake.”

You laughed and nudged his arm. “No, it’s actually good. It’s just… you write like someone who’s never read smut before.”

“I haven’t!” he said, scandalized.

“Oh my god.” You grinned. “I need to show you some references.”

He gave you a long, quiet look.

You paused. Realized what you’d said. Heat crept into your cheeks.

“I meant like… reading. Just reading.”

“Right. Reading,” he murmured, clearly amused. “For science.”

By 2:30 a.m., things had gotten dangerously flirty.

You were laughing too hard at one of his “dirty” lines—he used the word “delicately” six times—and he threw a pillow at you, which ended up launching your laptop across the bed.

You both reached for it.

Your hand landed on his thigh.

Silence.

He looked down.

You pulled back instantly, face blazing. “Sorry, I—”

“It’s fine,” he said, voice a little lower than before.

You cleared your throat. “Okay. Uh. Back to the vibranium heat wave.”

But you didn’t look at him.

Not for a while.

At 3:12 a.m., as fate would cruelly dictate, Steve Rogers walked into Bucky’s room carrying a stack of old mission files.

And froze.

You and Bucky were seated side-by-side on the bed, still hunched over the laptop.

The screen? Glowing brightly with the sentence:

“He thrust once—twice—growling, ‘You feel that, sweetheart? That’s all me.’”

Steve blinked.

Bucky noticed too late. “It’s not—”

“We’re editing!” you said, panicked.

Steve stared.

Then—slowly backed out of the room.

He never spoke of it again.

Bucky changed his Tumblr password to ‘capslockcockblocker1’.

A week passed.

You wrote together almost every night now.

Sometimes fluff. Sometimes angst. Occasionally soft smut (you were easing him in).

But one night, something changed.

You were writing a fic where your characters were on the run. Hunted. Hiding in a safehouse. The classic canon-divergent rewrite of a mission gone wrong.

You played the scene out in dialogue—typing in tandem from opposite sides of the couch.

Your line:

“You don’t have to protect me.”

His:

“I can’t help it. You’re everything I never let myself want.”

You froze.

The cursor blinked.

He typed again.

“Every time I look at you, it hurts. Because I know I’ll never deserve you.”

You stared at the screen.

Bucky didn’t look at you.

You typed, slowly:

“Then let it hurt. I’d rather bleed with you than heal alone.”

The silence between you was thick. Fragile.

Your fingers hovered.

His hand inched closer—until your pinkies brushed.

Later, after the fic was posted, after it had blown up with 5,000 notes and tags like #emotional devastation club and #softly screaming into my pillow, you found Bucky in the kitchen.

He was making tea.

You stood there for a moment, watching him. The same man who once couldn’t say “panties” in a sentence now had strangers thirsting over his poetic softdom edits.

“Hey,” you said gently.

He looked up.

“About the fic…” you started. “Those lines. Were they… fiction?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then he set the kettle down.

And crossed to you.

“I don’t want to say it in a fic,” he said, voice low, real, raw. “I want to say it here.”

You swallowed.

“Okay.”

“I’m in love with you,” he said simply.

Not dramatic. Not desperate. Just… true.

You stepped closer.

“And I’m in love with the man who reads smut at 3 a.m. and makes me laugh until I cry,” you whispered.

He grinned.

You kissed.

Not like the fics.

Better.

Two months later, your shared blog had 75k followers.

You wrote stories together. Posted drabbles. Answered asks.

Your blog bio read:

“Two idiots in love. She edits. He panics. Come for the fluff, stay for the chaos.”

Sam refused to follow you.

Steve blocked you after The Sock Removal Scene trended.

But you were happy.

And Bucky?

He posted your favorite fic to date.

“He Read It Out Loud.”

Title: He Read It Out Loud

By: softvibraniumdaydreams & the-one-who-hides-the-smut

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Rating: Explicit (NSFW at the end — soft smut, loving, vulnerable)

Tags: established relationship, mutual pining resolved, fluff leading to smut, emotional confessions, reading fanfiction, soft Bucky, praise kink (gentle), slow undressing, tender intimacy, it’s basically a love letter

Summary: She wrote a fanfic about him. He found it. Then he read it out loud—every line, every feeling, every secret she never thought she’d say. And she let him.

Author’s note: It’s based on the way we fell for each other — quietly, all at once.

It started with an open tab and a full heart.

Bucky hadn’t meant to linger.

He’d only stopped by her apartment because she’d fallen asleep mid-call—murmuring something soft before the screen went dark, the line cutting off with the hush of her breathing. When he arrived, the front door was unlocked. She always forgot to check the latch when she was tired.

Inside, the lights were low, casting amber-gold shadows across the hardwood floor. A candle still burned on the coffee table, wax pooled around the base like it had been going for hours. And there she was, curled up on the couch like a cat—barefoot, hoodie sleeves bunched around her elbows, hair spilling across the cushion. Her laptop was perched precariously on the armrest, screen half-shut but still glowing with faint light.

Bucky’s first instinct was gentle. He stepped closer on quiet feet, reaching for the throw blanket slung over the back of the couch. She always got cold when she fell asleep like this. It had become something of a ritual: her falling asleep mid-sentence, and him covering her like a ghost no one saw.

He leaned over to drape the blanket.

But then he saw it.

Tumblr.

A fic.

His name.

And hers.

Not in the tags. Not a passing mention.

In the title.

Where He Finally Stays — Bucky x Y/n

Bucky froze.

His first breath caught halfway through his lungs, caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief. His name. Her. Together. In writing.

It wasn’t just some random blog either. The username on the top corner matched hers—her blog. Her account. Her words.

She had written it.

The silence between them stretched like glass. Carefully, almost guiltily, he glanced down at her. She was still sleeping, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, lashes fluttering slightly in a dream. The slow rise and fall of her breath told him he had time.

So he sat.

And clicked.

He didn’t knock. Just opened the door like he’d done it a hundred times before.

She looked up from her book, startled—but not afraid.

He never scared her.

Even when he was all shadow and scars and silence, she saw the soft in him.

“You came back,” she whispered.

He didn’t answer. Just crossed the room, knelt in front of her, and touched her hand like he’d never held anything sacred before.

“I didn’t want to leave,” he said. “I just didn’t think I deserved to stay.”

Her smile was small. But it was there.

“You always deserve to stay.”

Bucky’s hand hovered over the trackpad. He blinked once. Then again.

There was something… tight in his chest. Like someone had reached into his ribcage and wrapped warm fingers around his heart.

He leaned back, breathing out slow. The words glowed soft on the screen. Honest. Raw.

He glanced at her sleeping face again. Peaceful. Unaware.

And then—almost reverently—he began to read the rest.

Out loud.

At first, his voice was quiet. A low rumble, gravel and uncertainty. Like if he said the words too loudly, they’d shatter.

But the more he read, the more he fell into it. The more it stopped being fiction.

Because she saw him.

She really saw him.

The way he always made two mugs of tea but only drank one, leaving the other to cool untouched, just in case.

The way he lingered in doorways—not quite coming in, not quite leaving—haunted by the question of whether he was welcome.

The way he stood close enough to be near, but never close enough to hope.

He swallowed hard.

She wrote the things he tried to bury. Things he thought no one ever noticed.

But she noticed.

And she didn’t just see the scars or the silences or the ghosts. She saw the softness in him. The part of him even he wasn’t sure was real.

She wrote him like his hands were capable of gentleness. Like his voice held the power to soothe, not harm. Like he belonged somewhere.

Like he belonged with her.

A small sound stirred the silence.

She blinked awake, groggy and blinking against the soft light of the room. Her eyes found him slowly—first his silhouette, then his face, then the unmistakable glow of her laptop in front of him.

“…Bucky?” she murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

He didn’t look up.

Didn’t stop reading.

Her confusion turned to alarm. “Wait—are you—?”

But his voice cut gently through her panic. Low. Measured. Full of something that made her breath catch.

“He touched her like she was the thing he never thought he’d get back.”

“Like a man returning to a memory he didn’t dare rewrite.”

“She said his name, soft, like it was permission.”

“And when he kissed her, he knew.”

“He could stay.”

“He could be hers.”

“He already was.”

The silence that followed was dense. Breathless.

She sat up slowly, pulling the blanket around herself like armor, heart hammering.

He looked at her.

Eyes soft.

Expression unreadable. But not closed off. Not this time.

“You wrote this?” he asked.

Her voice barely made it past her lips. “I… yeah. I didn’t mean for you to—”

“Did you mean it?” he asked, cutting gently through her fluster.

She hesitated. Swallowed.

“Yeah.”

That one word—bare and honest—was all it took.

He rose.

Walked toward her.

And then, just like in her story, he knelt in front of her. Slowly. Deliberately. One hand braced on his knee, the other reaching up to brush hair from her cheek.

“Good,” he said.

“Because I want to stay.”

The kiss was quiet.

No fanfare. No sudden music or drama.

Just breath. Skin. Soft mouths meeting like a question answered.

He kissed her like he was learning how.

One hand at her waist, the other cradling her cheek. Like she was fragile and real and his, all at once.

She gasped when his mouth found the curve of her neck, breath warm.

“Bucky…”

He chuckled against her skin, teasing.

“You write smut in there too?”

Her face went crimson. “That’s—! Not the point!”

“Maybe not,” he murmured, lips brushing hers. “But I’d like to know what it’d sound like if you said it out loud.”

She kissed him again.

Slower. Deeper.

This time, she meant to burn.

They didn’t rush.

Clothing came off in stages—careful, reverent. A hoodie here. A shirt there. A brush of fingers over scars neither of them flinched from.

She traced the metal of his shoulder, slow and unafraid.

He let her.

She asked softly, “Are you sure?”

He leaned down, lips grazing hers.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

And then—

Bodies, breath, and aching tenderness.

She gasped when his hands settled on her hips, anchoring her like a prayer. Groaned his name when he entered her slow and deep, like something returning home.

There were no fireworks.

No battles.

Just the quiet.

The kind that only came when you knew—really knew—you were safe.

That you were wanted.

That you could stay.

Later, they lay tangled in sheets and moonlight. Skin against skin. Her head rose and fell with the rhythm of his chest, and he played with her hair in gentle circles.

Neither of them said anything for a long time.

Then—

“You know,” Bucky murmured, voice rough with sleep and something warmer, “I think I’m gonna write the next one.”

She laughed, soft and drowsy. “Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” He kissed her temple.

“A sequel,” he added.

She smiled against his skin. “What’s it called?”

He exhaled, long and slow. Pulled her closer.

“The One Where I Never Leave.”

-the end

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sizzlingstarlightsky · 3 days ago

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sergeant's magic mouth

🫦 based on this ask but I definitely diverted from the main plot

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Summary: You thought you were just his fling. He thought you were his girl. Then you overheard Steve teasing Bucky about his legendary skills in the bedroom—particularly his mouth. Bucky gets flustered. You get curious. A week later, he proved he’s still got it.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, oral sex (f receiving), pussy eating, misunderstanding trope, soft dom!Bucky, desperate!reader, overstimulation, slow burn tension, emotional release

Word Count: 3.5k

The compound was quieter than usual, the aftermath of a long mission settling in like a low, collective exhale. Somewhere in the common kitchen, someone clinked a glass. Distant laughter floated through the hall—probably Sam or Clint. But in the softly lit entertainment room, it was just you and Bucky. Again.

You’d flopped onto the couch hours ago after sparring, half-watching a movie you’d already forgotten the name of. Bucky had joined a little later, tucking himself into the corner of the cushions, red henley hugging the bulk of his arms, the silver glint of his metal arm catching the TV’s light like a low hum in your peripheral.

You hadn’t meant to end up in his lap. Again.

But like always, his palm was already on your waist when you slid over—grounding, warm despite the chill of the metal. His thighs were spread wide beneath you, relaxed and solid, and your legs naturally draped on either side like they belonged there. You leaned into him. He didn’t stop you. He never did.

It had been like this for weeks now. Maybe months.

Long after the dust from the whole Civil War mess had started to settle, you and Bucky had slipped into something wordless. Something sacred. You didn’t know what to call it—it didn’t feel right calling it just friends. Not when you could still feel the way he’d kissed you that first night after the team’s barbecue. The way he’d held you still while your hips rocked against his, slow and aching. Not when your heart stuttered every time he looked at you with that tired, hungry softness that made your skin burn.

The first kiss had been a dare. A stupid, tipsy game where someone dared Bucky to kiss you and no one—no one—had expected him to actually do it.

But he did.

He cupped your face with his warm hand, looked you in the eye, and kissed you like he’d been holding that breath in since 1943. And from then on… something shifted.

Now, he’d let you straddle him during quiet movie nights. His jaw would clench when your hips moved just right. You’d feel him through his jeans, thick and hard under you, and he’d groan—deep and strangled like he was holding something back. He’d mouth at your neck, hands gripping your waist, but it never went further than that. Never inside. Never under the clothes.

And you told yourself it was fine. You told yourself maybe this was just how it was going to be—this undefined, lusty thing. You told yourself it was better than nothing. Because it was Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes. The man women used to whisper about back in the 40s—the charmer with the bedroom eyes and silver tongue. You’d heard the rumors. Everyone had.

And you? You were just… you.

He could have anyone. And maybe you were just the convenient body he used to push those urges away—a warm lap to grind into, a mouth to kiss when the nights got too long. You didn’t know how to ask for more. You were terrified that if you tried, he’d pull away.

Meanwhile, Bucky? Bucky thought you were his. Fully.

He thought you’d been his since the second time you kissed him—the night you’d curled into his lap after patrol and whispered “I missed you” like it meant more than just the day. And it had killed him not to touch you deeper, not to give you everything he had. But he remembered what you said at that same team barbecue, right after everyone settled down with their beers and ribs. Someone had joked about hook-ups and you, ever soft-spoken, had laughed shyly and said:

“I’m a little old school. I don’t really go all the way unless it’s someone serious… like, serious-serious.”

And Bucky? Bucky was from the actual old school. Back in the 40s, that meant one thing—you waited until you were married. And if you were the kind of woman who saved yourself for that, then goddammit, he wasn’t going to be the reason you’d break that promise.

So he held back. Every time your body writhed against his. Every time he could smell your arousal through your leggings. Every time he had to clench his jaw and bury his face in your neck just to keep from coming in his pants.

He never touched himself after. Not once.

Didn’t jerk off to the thought of you, even though he ached to.

Because he wanted all of it—all of you—the right way.

He thought the wait would be worth it.

He just didn’t know you were waiting for him to want you at all.

—

The late afternoon sun cast warm streaks of gold across the compound, tinting the walls and windows with lazy amber light. You’d just wrapped up training and were headed toward the balcony, drawn by the familiar sound of laughter—two deep voices rolling over each other in low, nostalgic waves.

Steve and Bucky.

You slowed your steps as you approached, the soft creak of your boots masked by the breeze curling in through the open doors. They hadn’t noticed you yet, and you paused just beyond the archway, hidden by the sliding glass panel, your eyes flicking over to them instinctively.

They were seated side by side on the wide balcony bench, drinks in hand—Bucky with his legs spread in that casual, careless way, grey shirt pulled tight across his chest, silver arm draped over the backrest. Steve had a glass of something dark balanced in his grip, laughing into it.

“Alright, Buck. Be honest with me,” Steve said, nudging Bucky’s boot with his own. “How’s everything with you and her?”

Bucky shifted a little, his jaw tensing as he looked down at the drink in his hand.

You froze, breath catching. Her? You?

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was soft, but sure.

“We’re doing just fine.”

Steve scoffed. “Just fine? Buck, come on. That’s not enough.”

Bucky chuckled under his breath, but there was a flicker of tension in the movement—like he was trying to ease discomfort off his shoulders. He rubbed his thumb along the curve of his glass and glanced sideways at Steve.

“I don’t think I should be talking about her when she’s not here,” he muttered. “That wouldn’t feel right.”

You blinked. Your chest tightened. He was talking about you like—

Steve laughed again, all good-natured and clueless. “God, you haven’t changed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bucky asked, arching an eyebrow, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

“You remember the 40s?” Steve leaned back, the bench creaking under his weight. “Every girl at the bar was looking past me, and straight at you. I couldn’t get a date to save my damn life. You? You walked in and the whole room turned to jelly.”

Bucky snorted, tipping his head back with a sigh. “Yeah, well. That was before the serum. Before your fan club started.”

Steve smirked. “Oh, how the tables have turned, huh?”

Bucky gave him a look—part fond, part annoyed—but didn’t deny it.

Then Steve added, with a smirk far too knowing:

“You know, I still remember the rumors. I wasn’t supposed to hear most of ‘em—but you know how dames talk when they’ve had one too many.” He grinned into his glass. “Word was, anyone who got lucky enough to sleep with Sergeant Barnes left with their legs shaking.”

Bucky groaned immediately. “Jesus, Stevie—”

“No, no, wait—my favorite was the one who said you had a magic mouth,” Steve continued, delighting in the way Bucky tried to sink into himself. “Swore you knew exactly what to do down there. Said it was like being—what was it—worshipped?”

Your heart skipped. What?

You stepped out, your voice too curious for your brain to catch up.

“Wait… Bucky was that good with girls?”

Both men looked up fast. Bucky flinched like he’d just been smacked with a brick.

“Shit,” he muttered, straightening up immediately, his metal fingers tightening around his glass. “How long’ve you been standing there?”

“Long enough,” you said, fighting a grin as you stepped toward them, trying to sound innocent even though your pulse was sprinting. “I didn’t know you had a magic mouth, Bucky.”

Steve glanced between you and Bucky, the corner of his mouth twitching with the kind of subtle amusement only a best friend could pull off.

“Well,” he said, rising from the bench with smooth ease, “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

He set his glass down on the ledge, adjusted the sleeves of his shirt with practiced calm, and gave Bucky a pointed look that only made the other man shrink deeper into his seat.

Then, with a polite nod to you, he added,

“Try not to give him too hard a time, huh?”

And with that, Steve turned and walked back inside—composed, quiet, and absolutely smirking.

The silence he left behind was scorching.

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, his skin already turning crimson beneath the ends of his hair. His silver fingers tapped against the railing like he couldn’t decide whether to escape over it or just melt into a puddle where he stood.

“That, uh… that wasn’t exactly how I wanted that to come up,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the floor.

You leaned next to him, arms crossed, brow arched just slightly. “You never told me you had a reputation.”

He groaned. “God. It was blown way out of proportion, I swear.”

“Oh?” you tilted your head, pretending to think. “So you didn’t make girls’ legs shake?”

Bucky winced. Practically folded into himself.

“I mean—maybe a few,” he muttered. “But not like that. It wasn’t… Jesus, they made it sound like I slept with the whole borough. I didn’t. I wasn’t like that.”

You tried not to smile. “The whole borough, huh?”

His head jerked toward you, eyes wide. “Wait—are you… are you mad?”

“What? No,” you said quickly, brows lifting.

“You sure?” he asked again, more desperate now. “Because I never—look, I wasn’t just screwing around back then, okay? I didn’t sleep with that many people. And I haven’t been with anyone since and I’m not—I mean, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Your breath caught for a second. But you didn’t say anything.

Because your brain was not registering any of that.

Not the panic in his voice. Not the low, sincere way he said to you like it meant something.

All you could think about was what Steve said.

Legs shaking. Worship. Magic mouth.

You were still stuck on that phrase like a scratch on a record.

You let a beat pass. Just long enough to watch the flush creeping up his neck, the nervous dart of his eyes, the way he seemed to be running through every decision he’d ever made since 1943.

“I just didn’t know you were into that,” you said lightly, brushing invisible lint from your sleeve like you hadn’t just learned something that would haunt you tonight in your sheets.

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, clearly spiraling. “I—I didn’t mean for that to sound like I was bragging or anything. I don’t know where Steve heard that stuff. I mean, yeah, I used to, but not—It wasn’t like I slept around. I didn’t. I swear I never—”

“Bucky,” you cut in gently, offering a little smile. “It’s really okay.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nodded once, calm and even. “No hard feelings.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, apologize again, dig his way out of a guilt hole he didn’t even need to be in. But you didn’t give him the chance.

You stepped back toward the door, glancing at him over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you at dinner.”

And then you slipped inside, perfectly composed.

—

Your expression didn’t crack until you turned the corner, heat blooming across your face like a slow, wicked fire.

He used to love it.

He might still be good at it.

He thinks you’re mad about his past… and you’re just thinking about his mouth between your legs.

You pressed your hand against the wall, heart thundering.

Now all you needed was the right moment.

The right excuse.

Something casual. Natural.

Just a little something to get James Buchanan Barnes on his knees.

—

You kept your distance for six days.

Six entire, aching days.

Dinner that night? You smiled. Ate. Laughed with Sam. Passed the mashed potatoes like nothing had changed. Bucky sat across from you, silent and painfully upright, like he was ready for a cross-examination that never came.

The next day? You greeted him with a nod in the hallway. Kept your tone even, your posture casual. Bucky watched you like a man waiting for the world to fall out from under him.

And the day after that? You brushed past him near the weapons locker, arm grazing his on accident—only to duck into the training room before he could open his mouth.

He kept trying. Eyes lingering, mouth parting every time he got you alone for even a second. But you never gave him the space.

Because what were you supposed to say?

Hey, Bucky. You want to eat my cunt sometime? Because I’ve been thinking about it for many nights and I’m dangerously close to humping the corner of my pillow just to cope?

Yeah, no.

So you waited. And stewed. And tried not to fantasize.

But your body had other plans.

By day six, your hormones had you spiraling. You caught yourself grinding your thighs together during debriefing. Sweating during sparring. Biting your lip when Bucky scratched his jaw and muttered something under his breath, not even directed at you.

Day seven, you cracked.

Over lunch, with the team distracted, you leaned close to him—so casual—and said,

“Come to my unit after dinner.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

You nodded, eyes steady. “Just for a bit.”

And that was all it took.

—

He showed up at your door just past nine. Dressed down in a fitted black tee and dark sweats. Hair tucked behind his ears. Smiling.

Not smirking. Not flirty. Just… happy.

You didn’t know it yet, but he thought this was a date. A real one. The first of many.

You let him in and made small talk. Let him sit on the couch like always. Let him pull you into his lap the way he always did when it was just the two of you and there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

Then you kissed him.

Slow. Familiar. But deeper.

His hands came to your thighs, dragging up under the hem of your oversized shirt as your knees bracketed his hips. He groaned softly into your mouth when you rolled against him—pressing down, grinding slow and needy right into the heat of his lap.

Then he froze.

You could feel it. The shift. The exact moment he realized there was nothing between you and his pants. No shorts. No panties. Just your bare, wet cunt dragging over the thick line of his cock through cotton.

Bucky broke the kiss, his hands halting on your thighs.

His voice came out hoarse.

“Doll… are you—are you not wearing anything?”

You blushed, chest rising slowly. “No.”

His eyes widened, hand clenching against your skin. “Since when?”

“Since before you got here.”

“Jesus,” he whispered, like it physically hurt him.

You pressed your forehead against his. Voice trembling now, but not from nerves.

“I’ve been thinking about it. Ever since Steve said that thing on the balcony.”

His brows lifted. “About… my mouth?”

You nodded. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

You shifted your hips again. Let him feel the wet drag of your folds against his cock. He sucked in a sharp breath, hands locking tighter on your waist.

“Baby,” he rasped, “are you sure this is what you want? Not just—y’know, ‘cause you’re upset or… jealous or—”

That was the moment it snapped. The misunderstanding, the buried truth, the weeks and months of aching.

Your brow furrowed.

“Jealous? Bucky, I don’t have any right to be jealous. We’re not… together.”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we’re just…” You swallowed. “I thought we were just fooling around. Friends with benefits or something.”

His face went still.

“Wait,” he said. “You thought that’s what we were?”

You nodded slowly.

“I thought we were dating,” he said quietly. “I thought we were just taking it slow. You said at the barbecue that you’re traditional. I figured that meant you were saving sex until… marriage or something.”

You stared at him, lips parting. “I—no. I just didn’t want to sleep with someone who didn’t take me seriously.”

Bucky’s mouth hung open for a second. Then he let out a short, breathless laugh—somewhere between disbelief and relief.

“We’re idiots,” you said, and started laughing too.

He buried his face in your neck and laughed along with you, arms wrapping tighter around your waist.

“You’ve been my boyfriend this whole time without me even knowing?” you teased.

He pulled back, brushing his nose against yours. “Guess that makes it official now.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because now you’ve got even more reason to go down on me.”

His lips parted. You kissed him before he could speak.

—

What followed wasn’t fast.

It wasn’t wild.

It was reverent.

Bucky laid you back on the couch like you were made of silk and starlight, one hand supporting your back while the other guided your thighs open. He settled between them like it was where he was always meant to be—kneeling, breath shaky, eyes dark.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, thumbing along the inside of your knee. His voice was low. Full of awe.

You reached for him—but he kissed your thigh instead. Then again. And again. Slow, warm, deliberate. His stubble scraped lightly along your skin, the contrast enough to make you squirm, already sensitive from the slow grind you’d shared minutes before.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured. “Just wanna take my time with you. You deserve that.”

Then he ducked lower.

And when he pressed his tongue to your cunt—broad and unhurried—it felt like the world melted into heat and wet and sound. You gasped, hips twitching, fingers curling into the couch cushions.

Bucky moaned into you. Actually moaned.

“God, you taste like fucking honey,” he rasped, licking another slow, deliberate stripe between your folds. “So sweet, baby. Dripping for me.”

He dragged his tongue through your slick again, groaning like the taste alone could undo him. And then he slurped—an unashamed, filthy sound that made your eyes roll back.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, voice thick and desperate. “Can’t believe I waited this long.”

His tongue circled your clit—steady, patient, focused. Then he sucked. A low, wet pull that sent shockwaves down your spine. You cried out, thighs shaking already, but Bucky didn’t stop. He wrapped his lips around that swollen bud and sucked again, swirling his tongue in small, practiced motions like he’d studied every curve, every pattern of how your body trembled for him.

“I knew you’d be perfect,” he breathed. “So fucking soft. So warm. Look at this pussy, baby. Look how wet she is for me.”

You whined, head thrown back, chest heaving—and he didn’t let up.

He licked you like it was his only purpose. Like he’d spent years thinking about this. Dreaming of this. His tongue flicked quick, then slow, then down—dipping into your entrance, fucking in and out with soft, rhythmic strokes that made your back arch off the couch.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Let me hear those pretty sounds. You don’t even know what you’re doing to me, baby. Feels like I’m high off this fucking pussy.”

You could hear how wet it was. The obscene, slick sounds of his tongue lapping, his lips sucking, the gentle stubble burn brushing your inner thighs with every move. He kept you wide, kept you steady, like he didn’t want to miss a second—like this was something sacred to him.

And when your thighs started to tremble, when your hips bucked once—twice—he held you still with a firm grip of his metal hand on your stomach.

“Let go, sweetheart,” he whispered, licking up your slit with one slow, heavenly stroke. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you did.

You shattered.

Came hard. Loud. Thighs clenching around his head while he groaned and kept sucking, kept licking through it, pushing you higher until your whole body was shaking.

He didn’t stop. Not until he pulled a second orgasm from you with nothing but his mouth and your name falling from his lips like praise.

When he finally eased up—mouth slick, lips swollen, beard shining with your release—he kissed your thighs again. Tender. Adoring. Like he still wasn’t done worshipping you.

Then he climbed up your body, settling over you slowly, his hands gentle where they cradled your hips.

His forehead pressed to yours. He was smiling—dazed and soft and breathless.

You blinked at him, heart still pounding.

“So that’s what all the rumors were about.”

Bucky chuckled, voice low and hoarse.

“They didn’t even know half of it.”

#fic recs <3 #head is dizzy #oh my lord #bucky #bucky x reader #bucky smut #bucky barnes #such a good munch

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