barnesonly

[barnesonly]

my motivation to write 📉

[barnesonly]

He’s the type to fuck so insanely but feel bad that he might hurt you so after care is insane. It’s all a bunch of “you promise you’re alright?”

oh you know it’s such an insane dichotomy

the way he could be so mean to you only minutes before.

“fuckin’ drooling all over yourself like a fucking whore, you know that? just cause I gave you my cock, goddamn slut…” he grits, smacking your ass a few times as he does

you’re probably crying under him, pulling upwards on the ties that bind your hands behind your back, stinging your shoulders and your back

you sob into the pillow, trying to adjust your position on your knees, but he stops you, making sure you know your body is up to him to make decisions for

he’s gonna fuck you like this, how he wants to

and it hurts so fucking good.

and then afterwards—

he’s kissing you softly in the shower, massaging out your shoulders and rubbing your lower back to ease the strain he’d been putting on you before

he makes SURE to tell you over and over how much he loves you, whispering it into your ears and as he kisses over your skin all over your body

he’s probably one of those guys who freaks out about all the modern day things and so he’s all yelling at you to pee so you don’t get a uti😭😭

he’s such a good man. he dresses you in nothing but one of his shirts afterwards and holds you tight

and i��m sure he’s bought you at least a million fluffy blankets so he’s grabbing like five and wrapping you in them like a burrito

he’s so sweet and wants to make sure you know that regardless of what happens in the bedroom, you’re his partner, and his job is always to take care of you above everything else

[barnesonly]

“Let everyone hear how sorry you are”

Can we get one where Bucky and reader are having a heated argument and the air shifts a little as he gets closer and he says "Watch your mouth woman or you won't be able to walk for a week" or smth like that and she (turned on a little) just teases. Then he just gets her rough without warning and then yk... A little smut😉 upto you if u wanna make changes to qouted lines... They are just examples.

ummmm excuse me. this was diabolical🥵

----------

The apartment door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the picture frames.

“Real mature, Buck!” you called from the kitchen, still clutching the dish towel in your hands.

You heard his boots thud across the hardwood, heavy, deliberate. “Don’t start with me, doll.” His voice was sharp, clipped.

“Oh, so you can storm out mid-conversation, but I can’t—”

“I needed to cool off before I said something I’d regret,” he snapped, cutting you off. He came into view, chest still rising fast, jaw tight.

You tossed the towel onto the counter. “Yeah? Well, congratulations. You’re back, and you’ve still managed to be an ass.”

His head snapped toward you, eyes narrowing. The heat in the room shifted—less about the argument now, more about the way his gaze dragged over you, like he was remembering exactly who he was talking to.

“Careful,” he warned, stepping closer until the air between you seemed to thrum. “Watch your mouth, woman… or you won’t be able to walk for a week.”

The low growl in his voice sent a sharp, traitorous pulse straight between your thighs. You raised a brow, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Is that supposed to scare me, Barnes? Because it sounds more like a promise.”

His eyes darkened, something dangerous flickering there. “You really wanna test me right now?”

You gave him a slow once-over, deliberately cocky. “Maybe I do.”

That was all it took.

One moment, you were smirking at him, the next, your back slammed against the hallway wall, the breath punched from your lungs. His mouth was on yours—hot, rough, claiming—with none of the careful patience he sometimes used. His hands found your wrists, pinning them above your head in a grip that made you gasp.

“You just don’t know when to quit, do you?” he muttered against your lips, voice rough like gravel.

Your body arched into him, every nerve alight. “Maybe I like it when you’re mad,” you teased, the words breathless.

He huffed a dark laugh, lips brushing your ear. “You’re about to find out just how mad I am.”

His metal hand left your wrists only long enough to shove your sweatpants down, the cool brush of vibranium making you shiver. Before you could say another word, his fingers—warm flesh this time—slid between your legs, finding you already wet. He groaned, forehead pressing to yours. “Of course you are. You like this too damn much.”

You bit your lip, fighting the urge to moan too soon. “And you don’t?”

He didn’t answer—just hooked an arm behind your knees and hauled you up, forcing your legs around his waist. Your back hit another wall—this time the bedroom—and his hands were already tugging at your underwear, ripping them down with impatient strength.

“Bucky—”

“I told you to watch your mouth,” he growled, lining himself up. The first thrust was hard enough to make your head tip back, a sound spilling from your lips before you could stop it.

He didn’t give you time to adjust, each thrust deep, fast, punishing. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed in the dim room, your breaths turning ragged. His metal hand gripped your hip tight enough you knew there’d be bruises tomorrow.

“Still feel like teasing me, doll?” His voice was tight, every word punctuated with another thrust.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto. “Depends—” your voice caught on a gasp “—this all you got?”

He froze for a beat, looking you dead in the eye. Then he pulled out almost entirely—before slamming back in so hard you cried out. “You really don’t learn, do you?”

It became a battle of wills—your stubborn smirks against the relentless pace he set, determined to fuck the defiance right out of you. Your nails raked down his back, the sting making him groan.

“Say it,” he demanded, lips brushing your jaw.

You shook your head, breathless, still clinging to the last shred of your challenge.

He grinned—feral, dark—and adjusted his angle. The next thrust hit that spot inside you that made your vision blur. Over and over, he drove into you, one hand between your thighs now, fingers circling your clit with ruthless precision.

The pleasure built fast, overwhelming. Your head fell back against the wall, moans spilling freely now.

“That’s it,” he murmured, mouth hot against your neck. “Don’t hold back now. Let everyone hear how sorry you are.”

Your whole body tensed, the orgasm hitting you hard enough to make you shake, his name tearing from your throat. He didn’t stop—didn’t even slow—riding you through it, drawing every last aftershock until you were trembling.

When he finally followed, it was with a groan that vibrated against your skin, his hips jerking before stilling.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was your ragged breathing. He rested his forehead against yours, a lazy, satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. “Still think you can mouth off to me, sweetheart?”

You gave him a half-smile, still catching your breath. “Oh, definitely. But maybe I’ll save it for tomorrow.”

His low chuckle rumbled in your chest as he pressed a softer kiss to your lips. “Good girl.”

[barnesonly]

“but i really need this okay?” HOLYYYTYYHEYSIZBSHSUSNSNS

imagine bucky being so big and thick that when he fucks you he has to apologize over and over again because he genuinely feels bad.

“bucky—“ you gasped, “i can’t.. it’s too…. big—”

“im sorry, baby. i know, i know you’re too small for this, but i really need this okay?” he warned you before sinking even deeper inside your cunt.

you gasped and whimpered beneath him pathetically as his body enveloped yours entirely. he caressed your hair reassuringly, trying to soothe you.

“i’m so sorry,” he moaned. “i’m sorry, sweetheart. fuck—you just feel too good.. i can’t—can’t stop.”

and despite him apologizing, he starts to fuck into you deeper and harder, forcing you to take every delicious inch 😋😋

[barnesonly]

Thank you for tagging me, sugar! 🤍 THIS IS FUNNNN, okay my music taste is very… specific i’d say so also do not judge or i’ll cry.

lana del rey — “salvatore”

pet shoy boys — “west end girls” (2001 remaster)

passion pit — “sleepyhead”

MSI — “bring the pain” (New Wave)

The Army, The Navy — Vienna (in memoriam)

np tags: @iamthatonefangirl @sunday-bug @bckyslover @bcksgirl

eeh loves im going to try this again: reblog with your current favorite songs so i can make a playlist that y’all helped create <3

i’ll start it off with cross your mind by shelly, die for me by chase atlantic, and 12 to 12 by sombr!

tagging: @book-nerd-emi @hopeless-umii @runnningoutofink @rainforcsts @inkstainsonmysheets @thirdofdxcember @balladofareader @shootingstargirl2001 @lyrakanefanatic @astraeajackson + you

[barnesonly]

hear me out.. Bucky eating reader out under the desk whilst she’s trying to work for hours.

-🫒

this started as “haha what if Bucky was under the desk :)” and ended with him ruining your entire night and every single deadline you’ve ever had. productivity? gone. legs? also gone.

Violation of Terms: CLAUSE ONE – No Distractions

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), oral sex (female receiving), sub!Bucky, overstimulation, praise kink, orgasm control, consensual power play, soft aftercare, language.

----------

You told him not to distract you.

And to be fair… he didn’t.

Not at first.

He brought you coffee like a good boy, placed it gently on the coaster beside your laptop. He kissed the top of your head and mumbled something about needing you to “hurry up and finish,” which was fair—you had been buried in grant reports all day. Then he knelt down, pressed one more kiss to your thigh…

…and just didn’t get up.

“Buck?” you murmured, peeking under the desk.

He blinked at you with wide, innocent eyes, like he didn’t have any idea how this was going to go. But that smug little smirk gave him away.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping you focus.”

“By hiding under the desk?”

He shrugged. “Seemed like a good place to be.”

“Bucky…”

“I won’t do anything unless you ask me to.”

That made you hesitate.

Because you should have told him to get up. To go watch TV. To leave you alone for the next three hours so you could hammer out the last three pages of this nightmare proposal and meet the midnight deadline.

But he looked so pretty down there.

Messy hair. Soft hoodie. Bright, patient eyes.

Like he’d wait forever if you let him.

“…Fine,” you said, warily. “Just don’t—”

Your words cut off the second he shifted closer and pressed a kiss over your clothed core. Gentle. Barely there.

“BUCK—!”

“You didn’t ask me to stop.”

You clapped a hand over your mouth. He grinned.

This was going to be a long night.

You made it nine minutes.

Nine.

That’s how long you lasted before his hands slipped under your thighs, settled on your hips, and pulled you forward—just a little. Just enough.

Your legs shook around his shoulders.

You bit the inside of your cheek and refused to look down at him, fingers trembling as you tried to type the next paragraph, your brain white-noise static as he mouthed at you slowly through your panties. He didn’t even try to speed it up.

No. Bucky was methodical.

He’d press slow, wet kisses into you until the fabric was soaked through. Lick along the seam, tongue teasing, brushing, never quite enough. Then he’d pause. Just rest his chin on your thigh and watch you.

And God, you were trying. You were.

But the second he slid the fabric aside and exhaled directly against your bare heat, you choked on your breath and slammed the laptop shut.

“Focus,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin. “Don’t stop working on my account.”

You glared down at him.

“Don’t act all smug just because you’re the reason I’m falling apart.”

“You’re the one who let me stay under here.”

“And you said you wouldn’t do anything unless I asked!”

“You didn’t ask me to stop, either.”

Then his mouth was on you.

All smugness vanished.

It was like he’d been starved.

He dragged his tongue through your folds and groaned like he’d been aching for it all day, and maybe he had. Maybe the entire time you were hunched over that spreadsheet, he was staring at the way your thighs shifted in the chair and counting down the hours.

He licked you slow and deep, then again. Not fast. Not yet.

But hungry.

Desperate.

Languid strokes like he wanted to memorize the shape of you with his mouth.

You gasped and gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white.

“Fucking—Bucky—”

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t even look up.

Just wrapped his arms around your thighs and held you there—kept you open for him—and took his time licking you like you were the only thing he’d ever need again.

Time stopped mattering after that.

You couldn’t tell if it had been ten minutes or an hour. All you knew was that he kept switching it up—just when your thighs started to tremble and your hips started to lift, he’d pause. Ease off. Press a kiss to your hip and let you breathe.

Then start again.

He was ruining you.

And it wasn’t even mean.

He was soft about it—gentle licks, careful hands. Whispered praise every time you whimpered. He mumbled things like so fucking sweet and can’t get enough of you and need to taste you come again, baby, please, and he meant it.

He made you come once without warning.

Then again, slowly.

Then a third time with your hand in his hair and your other fist stuffed in your mouth to stop the scream.

You were crying by the fourth.

“Too much,” you whispered, shaking. “Bucky, please—”

He finally looked up at that.

But he didn’t move away.

Didn’t crawl out or let you close your legs or press a stop to it.

He kissed your inner thigh, soft and slow.

Then he nuzzled your center.

“Let me give you one more,” he murmured. “Just one. You can handle that, right, sweetheart?”

You were already nodding before you even realized you agreed.

And that’s how it always went with Bucky.

You lost your mind somewhere around orgasm five.

Your shirt was stuck to your skin. Your laptop was crooked and forgotten beside you. The only thing you could do was try to keep your voice down as he licked into you like he owned you—like your pleasure was his to earn, to chase, to devour.

You didn’t remember moving your hands to his hair. Didn’t remember dragging him in. All you knew was that he was moaning against your cunt and it was the filthiest thing you’d ever heard. Every sound he made turned you to molten heat.

You tugged on his hair.

His mouth growled against you.

“Keep tugging,” he muttered, not even lifting his head. “Like when you’re close. That’s it.”

“I c-can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

Your body trembled violently, your stomach clenching, toes curling. You came again on his tongue—helpless, breathless, wrecked—and he groaned like he was getting off on it.

You were too far gone to care.

You felt lips on your thigh. A whisper of a kiss.

“You’re doing so good for me.”

Then another.

“Let me have one more. Just one more, honey. Please. You taste like heaven.”

You couldn’t say no.

You just couldn’t.

So he kept going.

You didn’t know how long it had been. Time no longer had rules. It could’ve been 9pm. It could’ve been 1am. Your deadline was gone. Forgotten. Erased by the tongue that had slowly and deliberately driven you past every coherent thought you’d ever had.

You tried to sit up and ended up keeling sideways in the chair with a whimper.

“Buck—fuck—I can’t—”

“Yes you can, sweetheart. One more. That’s it.”

“You said that three ago!”

His tongue flicked right against your clit.

You sobbed.

Your legs jerked, but he just wrapped his arms tighter, keeping you open, firm and unrelenting like it was his job—like he lived to keep you falling apart.

You were babbling now. Just fragments.

“Bucky—fuck—too much—please—don’t stop—I hate you—fuck—”

He smiled against you.

“I know, baby. I know.”

When he finally—finally—crawled out from under the desk, your thighs were still twitching and your eyes were glassy.

He looked fucking smug.

His mouth was swollen. Chin soaked. Hair a mess.

You hated how good he looked like that.

“Hey, sweet girl,” he whispered, brushing hair back from your face. “Still with me?”

You whimpered something that might’ve been a yes.

He helped you out of the chair and into his lap, carrying you to the couch like your legs didn’t work anymore (because they didn’t). He curled you into his chest and wrapped a blanket around your shaking frame.

He kissed your forehead.

Held you tighter.

“I love watching you fall apart,” he whispered.

You huffed a laugh against his neck. “You’re sick.”

He laughed too. “Mmm. But you let me stay.”

“…Next time,” you muttered, “you’re the one under the desk.”

He groaned.

“I’ll get the timer.”

[barnesonly]

This will forever be funny af to me.

Bucky at his serious job vs Bucky doing illegal shit

[barnesonly]

⋆⁺₊✧ BARNESONLY WIPS

Currently in work fanfics:

✧ „Crimson Hearts” NEW SERIES! — vampire!bucky x reader

✧ „Lust” SERIES ON HOLD (next chapter is stuck on 3k words…)

✧ „Soulmates” — bucky barnes x avenger!reader, angst, currently at 5k words, quite a bigger project i’m working on!

✧ „Peach” Part Two — steve kemp x reader, mini-series

✧ mob!bucky barnes oneshot, arranged marriage trope, smut (not related to my „Illegal” series!)

Updated on August 13th 2025

[barnesonly]

already missing „illegal” 😕

[barnesonly]

Love and miss ‘Lust’ but what I desperately need rn is more Steve Kemp, that ‘Peach’ fic…Literally read it at least 3 times a week or more, so good.

STOPPP i am like halfway done with part two but honestly i forgot about it. this is embarrassing. like literally forgot of its existence.

i’m so weak for steve kemp and i need to post that draft soon… thank you for reminding me…

AND!!! i’m keeping the storyline, the same reader so another steve kemp will be a continuation!! 🤭🤭

[barnesonly]

Missing your …lust series bad right now 😭

sigh… i know, i miss professor!bucky too… 🥹i need ideaaaas… 🥹🥹

[barnesonly]

I made the worst desicion of my life last night by binge reading all of illegal before going to sleep and I had a dream about it where James and becca were making pillow forts in the living room and lounging in it and watching a movie and I tried to crawl in but I was so fucking pregnant that I didn't fit......

It felt so real I swear and I woke up feeling wierd and idk what I was expecting but I was kinda sad and fuck I'm ovulating so I guess it's my ovaries' fault.

Anyway so I recommend reading illegal while ovulation only if you want the sweet torture of feeling lack of James and becca in your life after.....

-❄️

STOPPP this is so cute and so sad 😭😭i feel like becca would do everything to make you feel included though 🥹🤍 i love her 💔

no because i’m on never ending baby fever and i just can’t take the overwhelming need to be a mom. i hate it and whenever i dream of such things i wanna cry. stay strong 💪

[barnesonly]

hi sophie!! im literally so exited for your vampire!bucky series but i just wanted to ask if youre going to update lust soon. no pressure at all but i just wanted to know <3

the vampire!bucky is still in the planning and i’m gonna try to write something for „lust” first but i cannot promise anything. i am more than stuck with this series and i am completely lost. Literally no idea in which direction the story should go… 🥹🥲 i’m open for suggestions!

[barnesonly]

i’m baaaaack

soft sex with bucky for the first time

like every time before you’ve both been more heat-of-the-moment, passionate, rough, whatever

just soft and cuddly and sweet

~ 🩵

yes. this is so soft. loveeeee

----------

You find him in the kitchen at 1:13 a.m., shirtless in sweats, hair a little damp from his shower and shoulders loose like he finally remembered how to let gravity hold him up. The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the city’s far-off hush. He’s eating blueberries from the carton like a feral raccoon. It makes you smile.

“Caught you,” you murmur, leaning on the doorway.

Bucky looks over, cheeks puffed with berries, and swallows before he grins. “Hi.”

It’s such a soft hi. Not a charged, heavy, come-here sound—just… hi. Your chest warms like a candle.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask.

He shrugs and holds the carton out to you. “Wanted something sweet.”

You touch two fingers to his wrist as you take a berry, and the contact is electric, but not the old kind—the frantic static you used to spark off each other in stairwells and half-lit hallways. Tonight there’s a slower hum. You think of sun through blinds and quiet Sunday mornings. His eyes follow your fingers, thoughtful.

“Come back to bed,” you say, even though you weren’t sleeping either. “M’spoiling.”

He snorts. “You spoil me just by being here.”

You roll your eyes but your heart turns over.

In the bedroom, the lamps are low and gold. Sheets rumpled from the attempt at rest. You crawl in first and pat the space beside you, half teasing, half invitation. He slides under the covers and immediately scoots close, the way he always does when he’s tired or you’re sad or the world has sharp edges. His arm drapes over your waist. His breath warms the back of your neck.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks into your hair.

“How you said hi.”

“Yeah?” His smile is in his voice.

“Soft,” you say. “You sounded soft.”

He hums and nuzzles, nose scraping lightly. “Feel soft.”

You turn to face him. He’s so close his lashes kiss your cheek when he blinks. His mouth is right there—familiar territory—but tonight it looks different. Not a dare, not a demand. A door left open. He brushes a knuckle down your jaw, metal cool and careful, flesh warm and reverent.

“Can I kiss you slow?” he asks.

“God, yes.”

The kiss is… easy. No teeth, no push for more. Just the steady press of lips and the kind of sigh that unknots something behind your ribs. His hand cups your cheek and stays there, thumb stroking like it’s learning your favorite part of the night. You breathe him in—clean soap, blueberry, the warm iron scent you’ve memorized. He kisses you again like he has all the time in the world.

“This okay?” he whispers when he breaks.

“More than okay.”

He kisses your forehead, the tip of your nose, the little corner of your mouth that always makes you giggle. You do, and he grins like a kid who got away with something. Every other time with Bucky has been heat—bright, hungry, a match to tinder. This is a hearth. This is two hands around a mug while the weather rattles old windows.

His fingers slip under your shirt with a courtesy you feel in your bones. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“Don’t think I will,” you say, and raise your arms. He peels your shirt away, slow enough to watch your skin rise with goosebumps, slow enough that you don’t feel on display—you feel unveiled. His gaze is tender. He doesn’t devour; he savors.

“Hey,” he says, and it’s reverent. “There you are.”

You flush. “Been here the whole time.”

“Yeah,” he says. “But this is the part where I get to look.”

He does. Not with that frantic cataloging he sometimes does when the past is close and the present is sharper for it. Tonight he looks like a man standing in a doorway of his own house, admiring the room he built with his two hands. Proud. Grateful. Home.

He bends to kiss your collarbone. Then the other. He maps a slow constellation down your sternum, pausing to breathe against your skin like he can memorize you by temperature alone. When he reaches your breast, he lifts his eyes. You nod. His mouth is gentle—tongue barely there, lips soft—and the sound that leaves you is a small, surprised thing. He smiles into you and does it again. His palm spreads over your ribs, anchoring you to the mattress, and for once you don’t feel pinned—you feel held.

“Buck,” you whisper, fingers in his hair.

“Mm?” he says against your skin.

“Love this.”

“Me too,” he says, and the words flutter across you like a secret.

He takes his time with the other breast, and you let yourself float, riding the quiet, the way he breathes you in, the way he touches as if he’s writing a letter he never wants anyone to read but you. Every prior rush between you two had a thrill that fizzed and popped—delicious, reckless, necessary. This is the warm lane beneath that storm, where the road is dry and the moon is full and you can see all the way to the next morning.

He slides down, kisses your belly like a promise, and before he goes further he meets your eyes again. “Wanna make love to you,” he says simply. “Not hurry. Not… burn. Just stay.”

Your throat tightens. You nod, almost tearful. “Stay.”

His hands curl under the waistband of your shorts, and he eases them down, tracing the path with his mouth as if he can make the air less cool on your newly bared skin. When he nudges your knees apart, he does it like a question; you answer by opening for him completely.

The first kiss low is feather-light. The second is sure. His tongue parts you with patience, no rush for the finish, only the slow build of heat that feels like sunlight finding you through the curtains. You sigh and his fingers lace with yours, grounding you. He keeps the pressure soft, the rhythm unhurried, pausing to glance up every so often to read your face—your eyes glassy, your mouth open, your chest rising and falling like the tide.

“Good?” he asks, a little breathless.

“So good,” you manage. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He learns the shape of your yes like it’s music, finds that place inside a soft kiss where your hips tilt and your toes curl, and he stays there, faithful to the simple miracle of paying attention. It doesn’t crash over you; it arrives. You meet it, mouth falling open around his name, the sound small and bright. He holds your hand through the crest and down the other side, kisses the inside of your thigh while you breathe.

You tug gently at his hair. “Come here.”

He crawls up, bracing himself so his weight doesn’t press too heavy, and you touch his face with both hands. His expression is warm and a little awed. You thumb a smear of your own shine from his lower lip and he blushes like it’s the first time he’s ever been caught loving someone.

“Your turn,” you murmur, reaching for the waist of his sweats.

He catches your wrist and kisses it. “Only if you keep looking at me.”

“Always,” you say, and mean it.

You ease him out of the last barrier and take him in hand, stroking slow, learning him the way he learned you. He’s thick and warm under your palm, but he doesn’t thrust up into it like he usually does; he just breathes, eyes never leaving yours, like this is the part he doesn’t want to miss. When he’s slick and heavy, you lift your hips in invitation.

“Condom?” you ask, and he fumbles adorably in the nightstand, triumphant when he finds one. He rolls it on with a carefulness that makes your chest ache. You hitch your knee over his hip, open to him, and he lines up, pauses.

“You sure?” he whispers.

You slide your hand up his spine. “Stay, remember?”

He presses in slowly, inch by inch, watching your face, stopping whenever your breath catches just to kiss you through it. When he’s there, fully, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he saw you in the doorway. You feel full in a way that isn’t only body—like a room inside you finally got its furniture.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pull him in so your noses touch. “Hi,” you whisper, echoing the kitchen.

He smiles. “Hi.”

The first roll of his hips is unhurried, a tide coming in. He moves like he’s slow dancing with you, like there’s a melody you can’t hear but both of you feel. Your hands roam his back—not to push or pull, just to trace, count vertebrae, learn the shape of this version of you together. Sometimes he pauses to kiss your cheek, your eyelids, the hinge of your jaw. Sometimes he whispers a little nothing—“You’re so beautiful,” “Feels like home,” “Thank you”—and you catch each one like it’s a falling leaf and tuck it away.

You rock up to meet him, finding the same easy rhythm, and there’s a moment where the room disappears. Not from intensity, but from ease. The world narrows to the soft slide of bodies and the sound of you breathing each other’s names like a prayer that doesn’t ask for anything, only gives.

“Touch me,” you murmur, guiding his hand between you.

He does, gentle pressure right where you’re already warm, and the second wave comes quicker, the pleasure braided with a tenderness that makes your eyes sting. You say his name like you’re telling him a secret, and he answers with a low, quiet sound that’s equal parts surrender and gratitude.

“M’close,” he warns, forehead pressing to yours.

“With me,” you say.

“With you,” he promises, and keeps the rhythm until you tip together—no rush, just that deep, rolling release that shakes something loose and leaves you both luminous. He holds himself there, buried, while you ride it out, and only after your breathing evens does he shift, easing out and gathering you close.

He cleans you up with the care of someone handling a family heirloom. Then he tugs the blanket over both of you and arranges your leg over his hip, like he wants you draped across him, like he wears you best.

You lie there in the afterglow, tracing lazy shapes on his chest. His heart is steady under your ear. The city hums. The lamp pools honey on the nightstand. Bucky kisses your hairline.

“That was… different,” he says, a smile in his voice.

“Good different,” you say.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Good. Felt like… letting the kettle sing instead of boiling the pot dry.”

You laugh against his skin. “Poet.”

“Only for you.” A beat. Then, softer: “Thank you for letting me be gentle.”

You lift your head, surprised. “Thank you for being gentle.”

He looks at you like you’ve given him a key he lost decades ago. “Sometimes I think I only know how to be fire with you,” he says. “All spark and smoke. But tonight felt like… light. Like I could see.”

You kiss him, slow and easy, the way you started, and feel his mouth soften under yours. “You can be both,” you whisper. “We can be both. When we want. How we want.”

“How we want,” he echoes, and tucks you closer, chin on your head. After a moment: “Do you think we could try this again? The soft? Tomorrow? The day after? Forever?”

You smile so wide it hurts. “Baby, you can kiss me soft in the kitchen every night if you bring blueberries.”

“Deal,” he says, and his laugh is quiet and unguarded and yours to keep.

The lamp clicks off. The room goes gentle dark. Outside, the city keeps its own time, but in here, you and Bucky learn a slower clock: the kind that counts breaths and kisses and the steady, faithful beat of two bodies choosing not just heat, but warmth. And long after sleep takes you, his arm is still around your waist, his hand splayed over your belly, holding you like the softest thing he’s ever known—like the sweetest thing he ever wanted.

[barnesonly]

found it!

i think i lost my sketchbook with all my recent drawings… 🥲

[barnesonly]

Happy Birthday to the one and only 🎉🎂🥳

[barnesonly]

i had some EVIL EVIL thoughts and I need to share…(evil=torturing Bob)

Okay so imagine John handcuffing Bob to you in a way where his dick is like stuck in you? You can’t get out and neither can he…Like all he can do is fuck basically… John’s just watching you two struggle like animals

john was practically doubled over in laughter, clearly amused at the scene in front of him.

you lay pinned beneath bob, the two of you tangled in a mess of rope and cuffs that made it genuinely impossible to break free. your muscles ached from the struggle, your senses frayed from the overstimulation, having come twice already.

bob looked worse for wear — face flushed, eyes glassy, his breathing ragged. whatever composure he’d had was gone, replaced with a desperate, wordless sort of pleading. he wasn’t speaking in full sentences anymore, just small, disjointed sounds that barely made it past his lips as he glanced toward john for some kind of mercy.

as john chuckled at the sight of both of you, the irony wasn't lost on him that he was the one who had orchestrated this entire scenario. yet, despite his amusement, he was teetering on the edge of losing control himself, captivated by the scene unfolding before him.

seated beside you, his hand rested on his cock, stroking it through the fabric of his boxers. he remained vigilant, though, ready to react should you decide to retreat. his attention was fixed on bob, whose head was nestled in the crook of your neck. bob seemed almost oblivious to everything else, his focus solely on the tender skin he was nipping and sucking with a mindless, almost primal, urgency.

bob's hips moved with an insistent rhythm, thrusting into you with a desperation that he couldn't suppress, even if he had tried.

you could feel the hot tears streaming down his face, each drop falling onto your collarbone as his relentless thrusts continued without pause. he had already come inside you once, yet even though he was physically incapable of pulling out, it seemed he had no desire to do so. his body quickly responded, his cock hardening once again as if driven by an insatiable need.

"please," he sobbed into your neck, his voice breaking with emotion. his hands, beyond his control, gripped your hips tightly, as if anchoring himself to you in a desperate attempt to prolong the intense connection between you both.

''s okay, bobby,' john murmured, his hand gently moving from your head to bob's hair, his fingers tenderly weaving through the strands. "just one more, yeah? gotta be a good boy f'me."

at those words, bob seemed to stir, his head lifting from the crook of your neck as he turned to look at john. his eyes were a complex mix of emotions, glassy with both unshed tears and a deep, almost desperate need. the intensity of his gaze reflected a tumult of feelings that he seemed unable to fully articulate.

as he turned his attention back to you, his expression softened slightly, though the raw emotion remained. he mumbled almost incoherently, the words barely forming a complete thought, yet the sentiment was clear.

"'m a good boy,' he whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of vulnerability and longing, as if seeking reassurance and validation in that simple statement.

"r-right, momma?' bob asked, his gaze fixed intently on you as he watched your every move. your eyes were half-lidded, heavy with a mix of pleasure and overwhelming sensation, as your body writhed beneath him. it wasn't an attempt to escape; rather, it was a physical response to the sheer overstimulation that coursed through you. every nerve ending seemed alight, each touch and movement sending waves of sensation crashing over you.

yet, despite the intensity, there was no desire to stop, no wish to retreat from the overwhelming pleasure. instead, you found yourself lost in the moment, your body moving instinctively in response to the sensations that consumed you.

"so good, baby," you mumbled, your voice barely more than a breathy whisper. your words were a testament to the pleasure that pulsed through you, your pussy throbbing with it.

even after both of you had come again, john showed no signs of releasing you from his grasp. the two of you squirmed and shifted, desperately seeking a way to escape the ropes and cuffs. yet, despite your efforts, nothing seemed to work. the bonds that held you were unyielding, a physical manifestation of the control that john exerted over the both of you.

technically, bob could have broken free from the bondage that restrained him. his strength, under normal circumstances, would have allowed him to easily slip out of the constraints. but in that moment, he was utterly spent, his body worn out and his mind overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the experience. the overstimulation had left him in a state of complete surrender, his body lying lax against yours, unable to muster the energy to resist.

you, too, were in a similar state of exhaustion, your body completely spent and your mind adrift in a sea of sensation. tears streamed down your face, mirroring bob. the overwhelming intensity of the moment had left you both vulnerable and exposed, your bodies trembling with the aftermath of the pleasure that had consumed you.

"johnny," bob whined, his voice a mix of desperation and longing as he gazed up at john through his thick, dark eyelashes. his eyes were wide and pleading, silently begging.

"please," he begged, the single word carrying the weight of his desire and need.

john looked down at the two of you, his expression a blend of affection and something darker, more primal. he seemed to drink in the sight before him, his gaze lingering on the way the bonds held you both captive.

"i'm sorry, baby," he murmured, his voice a low, husky whisper that sent shivers down your spines. "but you both jus' look so pretty like this."