heldbybarnes

[heldbybarnes]

Can we get a dad!bucky where he’s attending with the reader to their 5 year old daughter’s first ever gymnastic recital/competition🥹that would be so cute!

omg stop. this is absolutely precious. you know those obnoxious parents that record their kids every move and doesn't stop screaming at one of these events? yeah, thats definitely bucky

---------

The bleachers were packed, the sound of chatter bouncing off the high ceilings of the gym. Banners in bright colors hung from the walls, each one painted with motivational phrases like You’ve got this! and Reach for the stars! The air smelled faintly of chalk and floor polish, the hum of nervous excitement weaving through every parent in the room.

Bucky sat beside you in the second row—close enough for her to see you, far enough that you wouldn’t be in the way of the coaches. His vibranium fingers drummed lightly against his thigh, a habit he’d picked up when he was trying not to pace.

“She’s fine,” you whispered, leaning into his shoulder. “She’s gonna be amazing.”

He nodded, but his eyes stayed glued to the corner of the gym where your daughter was lined up with the other girls in her age group. She was in her little navy leotard, hair twisted into two neat braids you’d done this morning. From here, you could see her chewing her lip, one hand fidgeting with the elastic around her wrist.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “She’s nervous.”

“She’s five,” you reminded him softly, squeezing his hand. “She’s allowed to be nervous.”

The coach clapped her hands, signaling the start of the warm-ups. Tiny bodies scrambled into formation on the mat, all of them looking so small against the wide, open space.

Your daughter moved slower than the rest, glancing toward the stands. Her eyes found yours first, and you gave her the biggest smile you could manage. Then her gaze slid to Bucky, and his face softened instantly. He lifted his hand, thumb and pinky extended, shaking it in the little “hang loose” signal he’d taught her.

Her lips quirked up just enough to let you know she’d gotten the message.

Warm-ups passed in a blur of cartwheels, stretches, and giggles from the more confident kids. Your little one stuck to the motions, following along but still glancing your way like she needed constant reassurance you were still there.

“They should start with the beam,” you murmured when the announcer read the first rotation.

Bucky huffed. “Wish they’d let the nervous ones go later.”

But when it was her turn, you saw it—the moment she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped up. The coach knelt beside her, whispering something you couldn’t hear. Then she put one foot in front of the other and started across.

It wasn’t perfect. Her arms wobbled a little, toes not always pointed. But she made it across without falling, and when she dismounted with a tiny hop, the crowd clapped politely.

Bucky’s hands were together in an instant, clapping loud enough that she turned toward him, startled. He didn’t care that the parents next to him looked over—he gave her a grin that could’ve lit up the whole gym.

“That’s my girl!” he called before lowering his voice to you. “She did it.”

“She did,” you said, beaming.

By the second event—the floor routine—something had shifted. You could see her mouth moving as she counted her steps, her small hands smoothing over her leotard before the music started. The first cartwheel was hesitant, but the next came quicker, followed by a forward roll so quick it made the judge smile.

Bucky had his phone out, recording every second, but his eyes stayed locked on her. “She’s not looking at us as much anymore.”

“Means she’s getting in the zone,” you whispered back.

Halfway through, she nailed the tiny jump sequence she’d been practicing in the living room all week. You both clapped without even thinking, and she grinned mid-routine—an honest, wide grin that said I’m having fun.

Her last event was the vault, and by then, she was practically bouncing in place. The nerves from earlier were gone, replaced with a spark of excitement. She jogged down the runway, small arms pumping, and launched herself onto the springboard like she’d been doing it forever.

It wasn’t a perfect landing, but it didn’t matter. She stood up tall, raised her arms like she’d seen the older girls do, and walked back to her team with her chin lifted.

Bucky let out a breath that was half laugh, half disbelief. “She’s… incredible.”

“She’s five,” you reminded again, nudging him. “But yeah. She’s pretty great.”

When the competition ended, the kids gathered for awards. It wasn’t a ranked event—more of a “first-timers’ fun meet”—so every gymnast got a ribbon for participation, plus a little medal on a ribbon that said Shining Star.

Your daughter clutched hers like it was Olympic gold. When the coaches released them to their parents, she scanned the crowd, spotted you both, and came running.

Bucky crouched before she even reached you, arms wide. She collided into his chest with enough force to make him rock back, the medal swinging between them.

“Daddy! Did you see me?” she squealed, voice muffled against his shirt.

“See you?” He leaned back, holding her at arm’s length so he could look her in the eye. “Baby, I couldn’t stop watching you. You were amazing.”

Her cheeks flushed with pride. “I wasn’t even scared at the end.”

“I know,” he said, smoothing a hand over her hair. “You were brave. Even when you were scared, you did it anyway. That’s the part that makes me proudest.”

You slipped an arm around both of them, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “We’re proud of you, peanut. You worked so hard.”

She beamed, the medal clinking softly against her chest. “Can we get ice cream? Like… big ice cream?”

Bucky chuckled. “You earned the biggest ice cream they’ve got.”

Later, sitting in a booth at the ice cream shop with her swinging her legs under the table, you caught the way Bucky kept looking at her—like he was still seeing her on that balance beam, tiny arms out for balance, determination on her face.

When she leaned against him, chocolate smeared on her chin, he kissed the top of her head and whispered something you couldn’t hear. She giggled, leaning into him like she’d never leave.

And you knew—this was the memory she’d keep. Not just the medal or the routines, but the way her dad was there for every second, cheering loud enough to fill the whole gym.

Because for her, that was the real win.

[heldbybarnes]

Black Silk Confessionals

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader, Corrupt Priest AU

Warnings: explicit content 18+, consensual power dynamics, religious kink/imagery, orgasm control, edging, praise/dirty talk, mouth worship, fingering, penetrative sex (m/f), aftercare, mild gambling themes, smoking/alcohol, references to confession/absolution.

----------

You sing for the smoke and the sinners.

The club is called Saint’s Folly—because the owner has a sense of humor and a taste for blasphemy—and every night the room fills with torchlight and shadows. Jazz curls under the rafters, the brass climbs and falls, glasses knock, dice rattle. The backroom takes bigger bets, and bigger risks, but out here in the soft-stained glow of the stage it’s all satin and swing, the nostalgic ache of a world that can still pretend to be good.

You stand in the center of the spotlight and pull a note like a ribbon from your throat. It floats, lands on a table, slides into the lap of a man who hasn’t smiled in a decade. The drummer gives you a wink. The piano player gives you the sky. You give the room everything else. When the song ends, it ends like a sigh.

The applause loosens your shoulders. You bow, you thank them, you let them want you, and then you slip off the stage to where the smoke is thicker and the lighting kinder. Hands brush your waist as you pass. A man you’ve never seen before tries to catch your elbow; you smile without stopping. Tonight you’re a vision in black silk and a throat wrapped in a ribbon that could be a noose or a blessing depending on the hour. You move like you were taught to in another life—chin up, unbothered—until you hit the shadow where he waits.

Bucky doesn’t clap.

He never does. He watches. He waits. And when you’re close enough that his low voice can swallow the din, he says, “You were late on the bridge in the second chorus.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

He tilts his head, a priest hearing a lie he’s already forgiven. “Come on.”

“Maybe the drummer dragged.”

“The drummer’s a metronome who drinks. You, on the other hand.” The corner of his mouth curves. “You got lost thinking about how much they want you.”

“Jealous?”

“Saints don’t get jealous,” he says, and then, so quietly you feel it more than hear it, “I’m no saint.”

You’ve never asked him where he keeps the collar. Sometimes you think you see it even now: straight spine, the habit of listening like a sacrament, hands that could bless or bruise but do neither without permission. The church lost him years ago, and he started a gambling den to prove that grace can be found under any kind of roof. But some nights, when the bodies press and the money glints, he still smells like incense and winter air.

“Backroom’s hot tonight,” he adds. “House is up. And Frankie Gallo is down three grand and getting mean about it.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Only if he stops losing.”

“Maybe I’ll sing him into worse decisions.”

Bucky studies you: the smear of cabernet at the corner of your mouth, the sweat at your hairline, the way your wrists look so small in your black gloves. He’s leaning against the frame of the velvet curtain, a door to everything the city warns you about. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, showing a forearm that could moonlight as a promise. There’s a pale ghost of a tan line where a collar might have sat once. When he exhales, smoke leaves his lips like a benediction that forgot itself and learned to sin.

“You’ve got one more set,” he says. “Then you come find me.”

“Bossy.”

“Confessional opens after hours.”

“Do I have to pay?”

“You always do.”

The second set slips by in a rush of cheap miracles. The crowd gets louder; your set gets softer. You sing the old things—the kind of songs that taste like copper and sugar at the same time. Halfway through, Frankie Gallo knocks his chair over and someone laughs too hard. Bucky glides out of the shadows long enough to murmur something to a man with shoulders like a doorframe. By the next verse, the Gallo problem has been relocated to the alley. Dice throw, cards fall, the room keeps breathing.

And then it’s midnight. You bow again, this time deeper. The curtain swallows you. The dark behind it smells like velvet and cigarette butts and the particular sort of afterglow you only get when you’ve been watched by a hundred strangers and liked it.

Bucky is there. Of course he is.

“Good girl,” he says simply.

It should be nothing—two syllables, low and even—but it slides under your dress and finds you. Warmth gathers in your belly like a secret you keep on purpose. You look at him, at the face nobody in this city can pin down. The mouth that knows how to cut, how to bless, how to be quiet. The eyes that have catalogued you mercilessly: the tiny hitch in your breath when the bass goes heavy, the way your thigh brushes the mic stand when you’re feeling brave, the way you look straight at him when the lyrics say want.

“Come on,” he says again, tipping his chin toward the back.

He leads you past the bar and down a hallway where the paint refuses to stick. The door at the end has no sign, no keyhole, no fear. Bucky taps twice, then pushes it open into a room that could pass for a chapel if you squint and forgive the altar for being a card table. There’s a booth against the wall because he loves a theme. In another life, someone listened there and gave you words to say to make you clean. In this one, the upholstery is torn and the words he wants are the ones you shouldn’t say out loud.

A single lamp on the desk cuts everything into honey.

“You made it look like a church on purpose,” you say for the hundredth time, because the needling is part of the ritual now.

“Helps people feel safe,” he says for the hundredth time. “Helps them talk.”

“And me?”

His gaze lands. Takes. “You already love to talk.”

He gestures to the booth, and you go. Your dress slides, your silk whispers. The black ribbon at your throat sits like a smile made of fabric. He sits across from you, and for a heartbeat he looks so much like a priest that the air goes thin.

“Bless me, Father,” you say, and you don’t bother to hide the smirk. “For I have sinned.”

“Have you?” He rests his hands on the table, each knuckle mapped, each callus a past tense. “Or do you just want someone to name it for you.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Sometimes.” He watches you the way a strike of a match watches the wick. “How long has it been since your last confession?”

“Twenty minutes?”

His mouth twitches. “And what did you do in those twenty minutes?”

“Nothing holy.”

“Tell me.”

So you do. You tell him that you liked the way the bass climbed up your calves. You tell him you aimed that last high note at a man who would never touch you, just to watch his hands shake. You tell him you thought about the velvet curtain like it was a hand across your mouth. You tell him you swallowed the smoke of the room and liked how it tasted.

You tell him—because it is true—that every time you sing you want to be punished for how good you are at being wanted.

Bucky listens. He always listens. It’s something in the jaw, in the soft lean forward, in the way he doesn’t flinch when you say the ugly parts like they are jewels. He lets you empty out until there is nothing left but breath. Then he says, “Kneel.”

You can feel the floor through the thin soles of your heels, through the silk of your stockings, but the moment your knees touch the filthy rug you could be in a cathedral.

He doesn’t make you, not really. He never does. You go because you want to, because he asked, because he learned a long time ago what you look like when you feel small and safe at once.

Bucky slides out of the booth. He stands over you like a shadow that picked a favorite. One of his hands cups the back of your head, thumb settling under the ribbon, and you swear you can taste incense again. His other hand drifts down, testing the curve of your shoulder, the dip at your collarbone, the hollow where prayer would sit if you kept any. His thumb presses lightly against your pulse.

“You want absolution,” he says. Not a question.

“Yes.”

“You want penance.”

“Please.”

“You want to be told what to do.” He tugs the ribbon. It tightens, a polite threat. “You want to be kept good in a place that doesn’t believe in good.”

Your lips part. The word that comes out is soft and helpless. “Yes.”

He huffs a laugh like you’ve just stepped into his homily, and he’s been waiting for you to realize that the sermon is about you. “Open.”

Your mouth obeys before your brain catches up. Two of his fingers push past your lips, slow and unforgiving. The pads of them taste like smoke and whatever he touched before he touched you—cardboard edges, velvet, the city itself. Your tongue flattens under them. He presses down. Your eyes climb his face and hold.

“That’s a good start,” he says mildly. “But you talk too pretty for a girl who wants to be punished for being wanted.”

You hum around him, a question, a plea. He slides his fingers deeper, hooking them against your tongue, and your jaw aches in a way that makes your chest go bright. His wrist turns; his knuckles stroke your lower lip. Your saliva slicks his skin and drips down to the wrist, shining in the lamplight like oil on water.

“On your knees in the backroom of a gambling den,” he muses. “Confessing that you want to be used. God, you’re obscene.”

You nod hard enough to make your ribbon flutter. He pulls his fingers away and drags his thumb over your lower lip to catch the mess. He paints it across your cheek. It feels like a mark you’ll wear home under your fur collar.

“Say you’re sorry,” he tells you.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For making them want me.” Your voice is wrecked, and he smiles like you’re his favorite hymn. “For wanting it back.”

“And?”

“For thinking about you when I do.” It drops out of you, unavoidable as gravity.

Bucky’s hands flex. The smile goes meaner and sweeter at once. “There she is.”

He bends, catches your jaw in two fingers, tilts your face up for inspection. Whatever he finds there must please him. He kisses you like he’s already forgiven the world for breaking your heart first. His mouth is slow and patient, like an old prayer—one you forgot and he is reminding you of syllable by syllable. He kisses his way along your cheek where he marked you, then down the clean line of your throat. When he finds the knot in the ribbon, he pulls it loose.

The silk slithers into his hand. He wraps it around his fingers once, tight, and inhales like he can smell it. “This dress is a provocation.”

“So punish me.”

“Oh, we’ll get there.” He straightens, takes your chin between finger and thumb again, and the quiet in his tone cracks your knees all over. “But first, you’re going to make an offering.”

He unbuckles his belt. The sound is precise, metallic, a tiny liturgy. When he frees himself, the lamp makes his skin look carved. He is heavy in his palm, flushed, veins standing proud—holy in a way that would get a church burned down. His thumb spreads the slick at the head. Your mouth waters with a devotion you don’t remember earning.

“Hands behind your back,” he says. “Keep them there.”

You do it. You want the ache. You want the helplessness as a gift. He fits the ribbon around your wrists and knots them with a competence that speaks to a life spent tying neat bows and saying hard truths. You test the give. There isn’t much. Your pulse bangs against it.

Then he guides you forward by your hair.

“Open again,” he murmurs. “Let your sins wash clean.”

You take him, and the world loses its edges. He slides over your tongue and presses against the back of your throat. Your eyes flood as your body makes room. Bucky exhales—sharp, grateful—and his fingers flex against your scalp. He holds you there for a heartbeat and then eases off with an impossible kindness that leaves you shaking.

“Breathe, baby.”

You do. You do because he told you to. You do because this is the part where you let yourself float, where you let him steer. He works your mouth like he’s been waiting all night to do only this. Your jaw aches; your throat learns him. He taps your cheek, and you look up through your lashes because you live to please.

He groans.

“You know what you look like,” he says, almost conversational, almost in pain. “You know exactly what you look like.”

You nod, taking him deeper for your trouble. You swallow around him and he curses softly, a word that used to be a prayer. When he drags you off, it’s because his control is thinner than the smoke outside.

“Up,” he says. His knuckles trace the wet at your mouth. “Bed.”

You blink. There’s a bed. Of course there is. Against the far wall, under a painting that could be the Virgin if you’ve never seen the Virgin before. The covers are an old red, a confession of a color. You stand, and your legs almost fold. Bucky’s hand is there instantly, steady at your hip.

“You okay?” He never forgets to ask. Not even when you’re unholy. Not even when you beg to be made more so.

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Color?”

“Green.” The word steadies you both.

He kisses your forehead like a seal. “Good girl.”

The ribbon tugs at your wrists as he turns you. He unzips the dress slowly, kissing each inch of spine he exposes. Your skin pebbles. You shiver and he hums like he’s pleased by your body’s honesty. When the dress surrenders, it slides to your ankles in a sigh. Black stockings. A garter that matches the ribbon. Panties you bought because once you’re on your back under him you like to feel expensive. He palms your ass and makes a sound that might not belong to this era at all.

“You’re my favorite sin,” he says into your skin.

“You have others?”

“Sure,” he says. “But none that sing.”

You laugh, startled and breathless, and he smiles into your waist. Then he flips you gently onto the bed and crawls after, a vineyard of a man, heavy and sure, ready to crush, to pour. He settles between your knees and drags you down the bed with his hands under your thighs. When your stockings catch, he mouths the dark seam like a line of scripture. Your hips jump. He pins them.

“Still want penance?” he asks.

“Please.”

He kisses the inside of your knee, your thigh, the soft place just to the side of where you are burning. He doesn’t touch where you need it. He listens to your breath and decides his pace accordingly—the worst and best kind of priest.

“Say what you confessed again,” he tells you. “Say all of it.”

“I wanted them to want me.”

“And?” His mouth whispers across your lace, making it worse, making it better.

“I wanted to be punished for it.”

“Good.” He slides your panties aside with two fingers, then just looks. Like a man in church who believes that beauty is its own proof. “And the last part.”

You swallow hard. “I think about you when I sing.”

“What do you think about?”

“This.” You push up into his hand despite yourself. “You. Your mouth.”

“And?”

“Your voice,” you gasp, because he finally leans in and breathes against you. “When you call me good. When you tell me what to do.”

His mouth opens over you and you swear you hear the echo of bells. He licks you like a sacrament—slow, thorough, reverent. When he finds your clit, he treats it like a relic and a toy in equal measure. You clutch at the ribbon and at the sheets and at the old instinct to be quiet. Bucky makes a disapproving sound and looks up, eyes dark, mouth shining.

“Say it,” he orders. “Say what you feel.”

“Please—”

“Not a feeling.”

You scrabble, a fish on a riverbank, helpless. “Desperate.”

He smiles, then drags his tongue in a slow, awful circle. “What else?”

“Greedy.”

“Greed is a sin.”

“That’s why I came,” you whimper, half-laughing, half-ruined.

He laughs softly against you and the sound is obscene and holy. Then he drags two fingers through your slick and sinks them inside you. Your head goes back. The ceiling blurs into the red of the bedspread.

“Eyes on me,” he murmurs. “Let me see you learn.”

You look. He curls his fingers and your spine arches like a bow. He drags his mouth up and puts it back where you need him. When you try to grind, he pins your hips with a palm that has convinced worse men to do better things. He works you with patience that would get a monk excommunicated.

Just when your body starts to coil, when the band in your belly starts to beg for mercy, he eases off.

“Bucky—”

“Not yet,” he says. “You want absolution? Earn it.” He licks lazily, a tease, a threat. “Ask better.”

You breathe like you’re running. “Please, Father.”

His eyes flash. Something tender and damaged flickers across his face and is gone. He bends and kisses your hip like a thanksgiving. “Again.”

“Please, Father, please let me come.”

“Better.” He takes your clit into his mouth and sucks.

You sob. There is no other word for it. Your body surges. He doesn’t stop. He squeezes your thigh hard enough to leave fingerprints that you will find in the mirror later and smile at. The coil tightens to a whine; your knees try to close. He opens them with a sound you will never not obey.

“Come for me,” he says. Gentle. Commanding. Certain. “Give it up.”

You do—shattering around his hand, his mouth, his voice. You break and you float and you break again. Your cry bounces off the bare walls and hangs in the air like incense. He moans into you, greedy for the taste of what he wrung out of you. His fingers work you through it, drawing it out until you’re sobbing into the pillow from the intensity of it.

When you come down, you’re damp and dazed and smiling like a sinner who found a loophole. He crawls up your body, mouth soft, eyes searching. He kisses your cheeks, your damp lashes, your mouth, and he tastes like you and smoke and victory.

“Good girl,” he says again. “So good I might keep you.”

“Thought you already did.”

He laughs, low and hoarse. He braces above you, and you finally get to touch him—he unties your wrists with a tug that loosens the knot and something inside you at once. Your hands fly to him blindly, greedy, grateful. His shoulders are wide. His back is a map you don’t mind getting lost on. You wrap your legs around his waist, the stockings rough against his skin. He presses his forehead to yours and finds your eyes again.

“Still green?” he asks.

You nod, almost frantic. “Please. Bucky, please. I want—”

“I know.” He reaches between you and lines himself up. The first push steals your breath. He’s big; he’s more than your body remembered he would be, and your body remembers everything. He sinks in slow, swearing like a man at a table who just drew the right card. You claw at his shoulder and he captures your wrist and pins it to the bed in one smooth, careful movement. It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.

“Look at me.”

You do. You do because he asked. You do because the world has narrowed to the heat and the weight and the way his face looks when he puts himself inside you like a benediction no one else would dare give. He bottoms out and stays there for a heartbeat, shuddering. Then he starts to move.

There’s nothing gentle about the rhythm he finds, except the care underneath it. He hits the place that made you see stars a minute ago and he does it again and again like he’s counting by sevens. Your breath goes ragged; his does too.

“Say what you want,” he tells you, rough and infinitely patient.

“Harder,” you gasp. “Please.”

“Ask nicer.”

“Please, Father,” you whisper, and the word blows his control sideways.

He does as he’s told. The headboard taps the wall like a metronome. Your ribbon-burned wrists slide against his grip; your hips chase each thrust with a devotion that would embarrass you if you were capable of shame anymore.

“You like it,” he grits. “God, you like it so much.”

“I like you,” you say, so naked with truth your eyes prick. “I like you.”

Something about that cracks him open. He drops your wrist and frames your face and kisses you like a drowning man who found a shore worth dying for. His thrusts stutter; your legs tighten. The band inside you draws taut again, your body desperate, greedy, so close to sin you can taste forgiveness.

“Hold it,” he orders suddenly.

You try. You really do. He grinds into you and your vision whites out and you whine, high and helpless.

“Hold it,” he says again, and the command is so soft you obey just to keep hearing it.

“Bucky,” you beg, no title, no costume, just his name like a plea. “Please.”

He looks at you like he’s listening to the sound a woman makes when she breaks and plans to memorize it. He kisses your jaw and your cheek and the corner of your mouth. Then he slips a hand between you, thumb finding your slick, aching clit with the kind of accuracy that makes you swear faith is a real thing.

“Now,” he says. “Come with me.”

You do. He follows, or you follow him; it’s impossible to tell. Your orgasm rips out of you from the spine up, a bright, merciless flood. He groans into your mouth and spills with you, holding you open, holding you together. The room tips—red, gold, black silk, the smell of smoke and sweat—and then lands again with the soft finality of a curtain falling.

For a long minute, there’s nothing but breath. His weight is a blanket you would sleep under forever if he’d let you. He eases out of you with a soft apology he doesn’t need to make, slides down your body with a gentleness that makes your chest ache, and disappears briefly. A warm cloth. A touch that borders reverent.

“Okay?” he asks when he returns, hand smoothing your thigh, your belly, your hip.

“Okay,” you whisper, and then, with a ridiculous little laugh because you’re high on everything he is, “Absolved?”

He settles next to you and pulls you onto his chest. His heart is a slow drum under your ear. “You walk out of here forgiven,” he says, lazy and sure. “You always do.”

“So that I can come back and sin again.”

“So that you can come back and confess again.”

You smile into his skin. His hand combs through your hair, idly, like he isn’t entirely aware of doing it, like the habit is older than the man. You listen to the club breathe beyond the door—the clink, the laugh, the closing tab. You listen to the city hold its breath before morning.

“Frankie Gallo going to cause trouble?” you ask after a minute.

“Not tonight.” He kisses your hair. “Not with the house up and you singing like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you knew where you were coming after.”

Heat prickles up your throat. You nudge your nose into his collarbone. “Maybe I did.”

“Maybe you always do.”

You lift your head, propping your chin on his chest, and look at him. The lamp makes him older and younger at the same time. You try to imagine him in a collar and can’t, not fully; the man you know has earned the right to be complicated in public. He watches you watch him. He lets you.

“Why did you leave?” you hear yourself ask softly, a question that was never part of the ritual. “The church.”

He considers, eyes on the cracked ceiling. “Because I realized I listened better than I preached. Because power tastes better when you don’t call it by another name. Because—” He pauses, thumb tracing the bow of your mouth. “Because absolution should be given with eyes open.”

“And hands.”

“And hands,” he agrees, smiling in that small, private way he saves for you. The smile tugs at a scar near his mouth you’ve kissed a hundred times and will kiss a hundred more. “And sometimes a mouth.”

“Blasphemer.”

“Only on Tuesdays.”

“It’s Thursday.”

“Then I’m twice damned.”

You laugh, then sigh, and then yawn because your body has decided it is no longer the property of an after-midnight. He tucks the ribbon—your ribbon—under the pillow like a bookmark. You make a face at him.

“Souvenir?” you ask.

“Evidence,” he says. “That you were here.”

“People will know I was here when I come out smiling.”

“Let them.”

You stretch like a cat and wince because your thighs will remember this in the morning with a language of their own. Bucky’s eyes dip to the wince and flare; his hands find your knees and rub slow circles that soothe and tease at once.

“You staying?” he asks, and the lightness in the question doesn’t quite hide the hope under it.

You think about your walk-up apartment with the leaking sink and the neighbor who practices trumpet on the fire escape. You think about the way the city smells at dawn. You think about the man under your cheek, who turned a vice into a vocation and built a room where sinners could speak plainly.

“I have an early rehearsal,” you say. “But I can be late.”

“Isn’t that a sin?”

“Only if I get caught.”

He laughs, and you feel it all the way down. He drags the blanket over both of you and shifts so you’re tucked flush into the curve of him. One big hand splays over your lower belly like he’s trying to keep you from floating away. You let him.

“Say it,” he murmurs against your hair.

“What?”

“Tell me your last confession.”

You close your eyes. The room hums. Your body hums with it. “I want you to watch me tomorrow,” you say, almost shy. “From the back. I want to sing like I’m singing for nobody but you.”

He exhales. You feel the agreement ripple through him.

“And tonight?” he asks.

“Tonight I want you to tell me I’m good,” you say, softer. “Even if I’m not.”

His lips touch the corner of your mouth—a thank-you, a promise. “You’re good,” he says. “You are exactly as good as you think you are and not a bit less.”

“And the other part?”

“Greedy,” he murmurs, amused. “You’re greedy.”

“Absolve me.”

“In the name of every sin we made holy,” he says, smiling against your temple, “I absolve you.”

You sleep for a while like that—anywhere between ten minutes and the rest of your life. When you wake, it’s because the club has gone quiet. Bucky is still wrapped around you like the last piece of heat in the room, and the lamp has burned low enough that everything looks like a dream narrated by a man who smokes too much and loves you exactly right.

You could leave without waking him. You could slip your dress back on, steal your ribbon, kiss his forehead and vanish into the hour when the milk trucks are the only moving thing for blocks. But you don’t.

“Hey,” you whisper, because you know he’s never really sleeping here. “I have one more sin.”

His eyes open. He smiles, slow and devastating. “Yeah?”

“I let you win,” you say, nose brushing his, and the delighted little sound he makes is worth every risk you’ve ever taken.

“You always do,” he says.

“Or maybe,” you add, mouth against his mouth, “we both did.”

“Greed,” he says again, rolling you under him. “My favorite.”

“Punish me.”

“Always,” he promises, and then he takes the last line of the night and sings it against your throat, a quiet thing meant only for you: “Good girl.”

Confessional closes with the dawn. The city will awaken. Cards will get shuffled, glasses polished, the stage lights tested. Someone will show up tonight hoping to feel less alone with their worst truth. And you will sing, and he will listen, and after hours you’ll kneel on a rug that remembers your knees and a man who used to bless the penitent will press absolution into your skin until morning.

You are a singer in a smoky speakeasy.

He is the disgraced ex-priest who runs the backroom gambling den.

And you, together, have made a faith out of wanting.

[heldbybarnes]

OH. MY. GOD. let me just-

[heldbybarnes]

I'm losing my mind with nerdy buckyyy

I can't stop thinking about giving him head for the first time, poor boy never got his heavy balls sucked😶‍🌫️ he would be whining

Sorry for acting like a slut

this blog is pro-slut. if you're not a slut get out/j

also could you imagineeeeeeeee this????? ugh

it was an accident, really.

"oh my god— oh my god, what are you— fuck, fuck—" his voice cracks in desperation, fingers scrambling for anything to tug on.

his cock twitches against your cheek, drooling with precome—but that’s not what’s got him whining like a virgin.

no, it’s your lips wrapped around his heavy, neglected balls, sucking gently and experimentally, because hey—they were right there, all full and tight against the base of his cock, and you were curious. very curious.

you didn’t even think he’d notice with the way you were bobbing on his dick, but the second your mouth closed over one, his entire body froze in pleasure, like he’d been electrocuted.

"s’that— has anyone ever—? no, no, fuck, please—" he babbles, hand flexing uselessly in the air like he doesn’t know where to put them.

you hum, swirling your tongue around his balls. his back arches off the bed. "oh shit, oh fuck, i’m gonna— i’m gonna—"

he does as he says, cock pulsing as he spills suddenly down your throat.

but you don’t pull off. instead, you keep sucking his balls, milking him through it as he whimpers needily.

"no, no, no, too much— please—" he sobs, writhing under your touch.

but you just flick your tongue one last time before finally pulling back.

"you liked that, huh?" you tease, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

bucky stares at you, his dilated pupils swallowing the blue of his eyes. "i— i didn’t even know that felt like that," he admits.

[heldbybarnes]

Maybe I’m just obsessed with dad!bucky and motorcycles….

Your teenager going on his first date, picking up the girl on Bucky’s old bike 👀🤭

let's be real, that's a totally valid obsession!

----------

You’d think Bucky was the one going on the date with the way he was pacing the driveway.

Arms folded, thumb rubbing over the inside of his wrist like he still had that metal plate there, he kept glancing at the front door, then the bike, then the street. It was comical, in a deeply nervous dad sort of way.

“Bucky,” you called from the porch, leaning against the railing. “You’re making it look like we’re sending him off to war.”

“Feels like it,” he muttered, gaze fixed on the old motorcycle parked in the driveway. His motorcycle. The one he bought after coming home, rebuilt piece by piece in the garage over a summer, refusing to sell no matter how many kids and car seats came into your life.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want your son to use it. He’d been teaching him to ride for months—helmet safety drilled into him so hard it might as well be tattooed on his brain—but this was different. This wasn’t a Saturday cruise down a back road with his old man riding behind. This was the first date. With a girl Bucky hadn’t met yet.

“You do remember you offered to let him take it, right?” you teased.

“I know what I said,” he grumbled, shifting his weight like the words tasted sour now. “Didn’t realize it’d feel like handing over the keys to my soul.”

Before you could reply, the front door creaked open and out stepped your son—jeans, dark jacket, hair combed but still refusing to behave. He looked older somehow, in that way teenagers do overnight, the shape of a man under the boy.

Bucky straightened instantly. “Helmet?”

“Got it.” Your son held it up. “Gloves too.”

“Wallet?”

“Dad…”

“Phone charged?”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing as Bucky kept firing off questions like an overprotective security checkpoint.

“Yes, Dad. And yes, I’ll text you when we get there. And yes, I’ll call if—”

“You better,” Bucky cut in, but his voice softened just enough to let you see the crack in the armor. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

They walked together to the bike, and you followed a few steps behind, watching Bucky’s shoulders ease into something almost proud. He crouched to check the tires like he hadn’t done it ten minutes ago, adjusted the strap on the spare helmet for the girl, and gave the handlebars one last wipe with a rag from his back pocket.

“You know the rules,” Bucky said, straightening. “No weaving in traffic. No showing off. No speeding—”

“Dad.”

“—and no touching the throttle too much when you’re starting up. She’s old, she needs a gentle hand.”

Your son rolled his eyes, but there was a grin hiding in there. “Pretty sure you’re talking about the bike, not the girl.”

Bucky’s glare was sharp, but you saw the twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t get smart. Just get her home safe.”

The sound of an approaching car broke the moment, and Bucky’s head snapped up.

A small sedan slowed to a stop, and out stepped the girl in question. Pretty, nervous smile, hands clutching a little purse, hair catching in the breeze. She waved, and your son’s entire demeanor shifted—shoulders back, smile wide, the whole I’m cool, I ride a motorcycle act sliding into place.

“Hey,” he said, taking the helmet from Bucky and offering it to her. “Ready?”

She laughed softly, a little surprised maybe, and nodded. “Wow, I’ve never been on one before.”

“She’ll take good care of you,” your son promised, patting the bike’s seat like it was a beloved family pet.

Bucky stepped in before she could climb on. “Hi, I’m James Barnes,” he said, shaking her hand firmly but not unkindly. “I’m his dad. And this—” he gestured to the bike—“is older than both of you combined, so treat her with respect. That goes for you too, son.”

“Yes, sir,” your son said, voice full of good-natured exasperation.

Once she was seated, helmet secure, your son swung his leg over and settled in front of her. You could practically hear Bucky holding his breath as the engine roared to life—a deep, familiar growl that still made the hairs on your arms rise.

They pulled out slowly, your son giving a casual wave over his shoulder. The girl’s arms wrapped carefully around his waist, and they disappeared down the street.

Bucky stood there a long moment after the sound faded.

“He’s gonna be fine,” you said gently.

“I know.” His voice was quiet, almost lost in the hum of late afternoon traffic. Then he huffed a laugh. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

You bumped his shoulder. “You remember your first date?”

“Yeah,” he said, smirking faintly. “And I remember the look her old man gave me when I showed up. Guess it’s my turn now.”

You smiled. “Difference is, you trust our kid.”

Bucky looked at the empty street and exhaled slowly. “I do. But it’s weird, y’know? Seeing him on my bike, taking some girl out… feels like I blinked and he went from sitting on the tank while I rode around the block to—” He cut himself off, shaking his head.

“To being you,” you finished softly.

His eyes met yours, and for a second, you could see it too—the same cocky grin, the same easy seat on the bike, only this time it wasn’t Bucky in the mirror. It was your son, carrying all that charm and mischief into the world.

Bucky slid an arm around your waist, pulling you against him. “Think he’ll tell her it’s mine?”

“Probably. Makes him look cooler.”

“Damn right.”

You stayed like that until the sun dipped low, and the familiar rumble of the engine came back up the street. The bike rolled to a stop, your son helping the girl off like a gentleman. She thanked him, thanked you both, and disappeared into her waiting ride.

When the car pulled away, your son took off his helmet, cheeks flushed. “Went great,” he said, trying not to sound too happy.

Bucky clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. Now go park her in the garage. And wipe her down.”

Your son groaned, but he was smiling as he wheeled the bike away.

Bucky watched him go, then looked at you with a crooked grin. “Still not selling her.”

You laughed. “Didn’t think you would.”

[heldbybarnes]

w a i t n o

I didn’t read the ssx one- how does one have sex on a washing machine??? I meant reader washing clothes and being domestic with Bucky (mutual chore day) but for some reason my request glitched and all you got was washing machine.. I am so sorry 😞

okay i don't know the semantics of having sex on the washing machine. if anyone does, please educate us!

----------

You’re elbow-deep in laundry when you hear the softest knock on the doorframe. Not the heavy, warning thump Bucky gives when he’s coming in from the cold. Not the sharp rap that means I need you right now.

Just a quiet tap tap, the kind he uses when he’s checking if you’re busy.

You glance over your shoulder, a white t-shirt dangling from your hands.

Bucky’s leaning on the doorframe like he owns the place—which, technically, he does, at least halfway—but he looks softer than usual today. Hair tucked behind his ears. Hoodie sleeves pushed to his forearms. One hand clutching the laundry basket he’s clearly overstuffed on purpose.

“Trade?” he asks.

You blink. “Trade what?”

He nods toward the basket. “Yours for mine. You’ve got the whites, I’ve got the darks. Figure we can split it.”

You smile, tossing the t-shirt into the washer. “You offering to help me fold, too? Or is this one of those drop-and-run situations?”

Bucky shrugs with exaggerated innocence, stepping in. “That depends. You gonna boss me around like last time? Told me my folding technique was a disgrace to humanity.”

“That’s because you rolled your t-shirts into sad little burritos,” you remind him, grinning. “I don’t know how you survived seventy years without learning basic laundry etiquette.”

“I was busy,” he says simply, setting the basket on the counter. “Wars, cryo, brainwashing, you know—stuff that doesn’t come with fabric softener.”

You lean your hip against the machine and look at him. “Lucky for you, you’ve got me now.”

He tips his chin toward you, smiling in that slow, careful way he does when he’s not sure how much the expression might give away. “Yeah. Lucky me.”

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm. You sort whites, he loads the darks. You measure out detergent, he wrestles with the stubborn sock that’s somehow clung to the inside of his hoodie sleeve since last Tuesday.

Every so often he brushes past you in the small space—sometimes on accident, sometimes not—and you catch a whiff of his cologne mixed with laundry powder. It’s warm and clean and entirely him.

“You know,” you say, tossing a pair of his sweatpants into the dryer, “I think this might be the most domestic thing we’ve ever done together.”

Bucky chuckles. “What about the time we built that IKEA bookshelf? That was peak domesticity. And I didn’t even swear that much.”

“That bookshelf nearly ended us,” you remind him. “You refused to read the instructions.”

“I didn’t need instructions. I had instinct.”

“Instinct doesn’t make a shelf level, Barnes.”

He smirks like you’ve walked into his trap. “But you’re still using that bookshelf, aren’t you?”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch upward. “I rest my case.”

Half an hour later, the two of you are folding. Bucky sits cross-legged on the couch, methodically smoothing out t-shirts like he’s on some high-stakes mission. His metal fingers are surprisingly gentle with the fabric, never snagging or pulling.

He pauses when he gets to one of your sweaters. “This your favorite?”

You glance up from the pile of socks you’re attempting to match. “One of them, yeah. Why?”

He folds it slowly, as if careful not to crease it. “You wear it when you’re tired. Or when it’s raining. Or when you’re missing me.”

Your chest tightens. “You notice that?”

He nods, eyes still on the sweater. “I notice everything about you.”

You can’t think of anything to say to that, so you just watch him fold, feeling the kind of warmth you don’t get from sunlight or coffee—something quieter, steadier, like a low-burning flame that’s been keeping you both going without you even realizing it.

The laundry piles shrink, replaced by neat stacks. Bucky’s still wearing that focused look when you toss a rolled-up sock at him.

It bounces off his shoulder. He blinks at it, then at you.

“War, cryo, brainwashing, and you think this is how I go out?”

You grin, lobbing another sock his way. “Defend yourself, soldier.”

That’s all the invitation he needs. Soon socks are flying across the living room in both directions, some landing in the laundry basket, some under the couch, one precariously balanced on the lamp. You’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts, and Bucky’s not even trying to hide his grin now.

The “battle” ends when he lunges across the couch and pins you down with the gentlest weight, his hair falling into his face. He’s close enough that you can feel his breath warm on your cheek.

“You surrender?” he asks, smirking.

You pretend to think it over. “Depends. What’s in it for me?”

His eyes flick down to your mouth. “Peace treaty. With benefits.”

You bite back a laugh. “Laundry benefits?”

He dips his head just enough to brush his lips against yours. “Best kind.”

Later, when the last load is folded and the baskets are stacked neatly by the bedroom door, you flop down on the couch beside him.

“This was nice,” you say quietly.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Feels… normal.”

You look at him, really look at him, at the way his shoulders have loosened, at the ease in his eyes that wasn’t there a few hours ago. “You like normal?”

“With you?” He nods. “I could get used to it.”

There’s no spin cycle hum now, no rustle of folding. Just the two of you in the quiet, smelling faintly of detergent and fabric softener, leaning into each other like maybe this—this warm, small thing—was what you were both fighting for all along.

[heldbybarnes]

sam finds bucky’s secret “how to be a good boyfriend” notebook and brings it to game night. chaos. steve is mortified, natasha’s wheezing, reader’s in love, and bucky is one step from jumping out the window

this is art

----------

It starts with Sam barging into the living room during game night like he owns the place, a smug grin already plastered across his face. You know that grin. It’s the grin that says I have dirt. And given that this is Sam Wilson, dirt could range anywhere from a mildly embarrassing baby photo to a federal crime.

“Alright, folks,” he announces, tossing something onto the coffee table with all the dramatic flourish of a magician revealing his final trick. “I was in Barnes’ room earlier—”

“You were WHAT?” Bucky’s voice goes sharp enough to slice bread, his whole body stiffening in his seat.

“Relax, Snow White,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “You left your door open and I was looking for duct tape. But then I found this.”

The object on the table is a small, battered notebook. Plain black cover. Frayed edges. A little dog-eared. It’s unassuming enough that, under any other circumstances, you wouldn’t look twice at it.

But the way Bucky’s eyes go wide, the way his cheeks flush like someone just turned the thermostat up to hell, tells you it’s not just a notebook.

Steve leans forward to grab it. “What is it?”

“Don’t—” Bucky starts, but Sam’s already holding up a hand to shush him.

“It’s Bucky’s ‘How To Be a Good Boyfriend’ notebook,” Sam says, delight practically dripping from every word. “And folks, it’s a masterpiece.”

Your brain stutters. “I— what?”

Natasha’s already choking on a laugh. “No. No, this is too good.”

Steve freezes mid-page-flip, face flushing an alarming shade of red. “Sam. We’re not reading this.”

“Oh, we’re reading it,” Natasha says, practically lunging for the notebook. “We’re absolutely reading it.”

Bucky’s sitting ramrod straight, hands gripping the edge of his seat like he’s bracing for impact. “You put that down or I swear to God—”

“Page one!” Sam interrupts, reading aloud in his best dramatic narrator voice. “‘Rule Number One: Listen more than you talk.’”

Steve actually makes a strangled noise.

“‘Rule Number Two: Learn their coffee order. Bonus points if you memorize it for bad days.’” Natasha’s got the notebook now, flipping pages like she’s found the Dead Sea Scrolls. “Oh my God, this is gold.”

“Natasha,” Bucky says, his voice low and dangerous, “hand. it. over.”

But Natasha’s already grinning wickedly. “Rule Number Five: Always sit on the side of the booth that faces the door so you can keep an eye out for danger. That is the most Bucky Barnes thing I’ve ever heard.”

You’re trying not to laugh, you really are, but the image of Bucky scribbling these down is just— “Wait, how long have you been keeping this?”

Bucky shoots you a panicked glance. “It’s not— it’s just—”

Sam leans in like he’s about to read state secrets. “Oh, here’s my favorite. Rule Number Eight: Learn how to braid hair in case she ever gets hurt and can’t do it herself.”

Natasha actually wheezes. “You practiced braiding, didn’t you?”

Bucky mutters something unintelligible, staring at the floor like it might swallow him whole.

Steve looks like he’s moments away from tackling Natasha just to save his friend. “This is private. You guys should really—”

“Rule Number Twelve: Never let her go to bed mad. Even if you have to stay up all night to fix it.” Natasha’s voice softens a fraction. She glances at you, eyebrows raising. “This one’s sweet.”

Your heart does this little flip. You know Bucky’s a quietly thoughtful guy—he’s proved it more than once—but seeing it written down in his cramped, careful handwriting? That’s something else entirely.

Sam’s grinning like a man who’s just set off fireworks in a library. “Oh, and here’s one with stars next to it. Rule Number Fifteen: Keep her laughing. If she’s laughing, she’s safe.”

That one hits you in the chest so hard you almost forget everyone else is in the room.

Bucky’s ears are crimson now, and he’s halfway to standing like he might just walk out—or launch himself through the nearest window. “Alright, fun’s over—”

“Wait, wait, there’s more,” Natasha says, holding the notebook just out of his reach. “Rule Number Seventeen: Always warm up her side of the bed if you get there first.”

Steve groans. “Nat—”

But Natasha’s relentless. “Rule Number Twenty: If she’s having a bad day, hold her until she feels human again.”

You’re smiling so hard it almost hurts. “You actually wrote all this down?”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck, muttering, “Didn’t wanna forget.”

Natasha flips another page, then freezes. Her smirk grows dangerous. “Oh… oh, this is good.”

Bucky lunges. She sidesteps like a matador, grinning at the page. “‘Rule Number Twenty-Three: Kiss her like you’re never gonna see her again. Even if you’re just going to the store.’”

Steve is bright red. Sam’s doubled over. Natasha’s cackling.

You? You’re pretty sure you’re falling in love with him all over again.

Sam fans himself dramatically. “Barnes, I had no idea you were such a romantic. This is adorable. I almost respect you now.”

Bucky scowls. “Almost?”

“Yeah, almost.”

Steve’s trying—and failing—to hide a smile. “You know, Buck, it’s actually… kind of nice. That you care enough to write this stuff down.”

Bucky shoots him a look. “Don’t start.”

Natasha finally hands the notebook over, still grinning. “Relax, lover boy. It’s cute. Embarrassing, but cute.”

Bucky tucks it into his jacket like it’s something fragile. “Glad you’re all entertained.”

You catch his arm before he can retreat entirely. “Hey,” you say softly, “for what it’s worth… I think it’s perfect.”

His expression softens, just a little. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Rule Twenty-Three especially.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “That so?”

You grin. “Guess you’ll have to prove you meant it.”

Natasha groans. Sam starts making exaggerated gagging noises. Steve mutters something about boundaries.

And Bucky? He just leans in, murmuring, “Gladly,” before kissing you like he’s never gonna see you again—right there in the middle of game night, chaos and all.

[heldbybarnes]

guys, don't judge me. picking music stresses me out so i just put a random spotify playlist on shuffle and hope for the best. BUT these have been on repeat!🤠🤦🏻‍♀️

i got better - morgan wallen (and honestly the whole i'm the problem album), obsessed - mariah carey, all the stars - sza, the painter - cody johnson, manchild - sabrina carpenter, where the wild things are - luke combs, ribs - lorde, religiously - bailey zimmerman, one day tonight - nate thompson

np tags: @barnesonly, @mcrdvcks, @angclone, @bckyslover, @wildflowersandvibranium, @sunday-bug, @overwintering-soldier

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

[heldbybarnes]

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.”

[heldbybarnes]

just saw a thirst trap of brock rumlow on tiktok

that was hot

BUCKY IM SORRY MY LOVE😭😋💔🔥

[heldbybarnes]

okay but hear me out: bucky and reader get fake married for a mission. except he forgets it’s fake and starts calling her “my wife” casually and gets way too comfortable way too fast. i’m spiraling.

um, absolutely heard!

----------

You were still halfway convinced the mission brief had been a fever dream.

In what universe was “get married” the logical step to infiltrating a high-security gala? Apparently, in this one. According to Natasha, the hosts were obsessed with exclusive “couples only” events, and fake marriage was the fastest cover that wouldn’t draw suspicion.

You’d agreed—reluctantly—because the alternative was going with Sam, and Sam had loudly declared he’d rather wrestle a bear than sit through a dinner of “lobster foam” and “deconstructed oysters.”

So here you were, walking beside Bucky Barnes with a thin gold band on your finger and the taste of champagne still lingering in your mouth from all the toasts.

It was supposed to be fake. You had rules.

No PDA unless you were sure someone was watching.

No pet names unless it was to sell the cover.

No forgetting it’s a mission.

And Bucky—Bucky had thrown every single rule out the window before dessert.

It started small.

A passing waiter asked if you wanted another glass of champagne and Bucky, without even looking at you, said, “No thanks, my wife’s good for now.”

It was so casual you almost didn’t notice—until you caught the faint curve of his lips, like he knew exactly what he’d done.

Later, when the hostess complimented your dress, Bucky smiled that soft, dangerous smile and said, “She’s the prettiest wife in the world, isn’t she?” like it was a fact of nature, like the sun rose for that very reason.

You didn’t call him out for breaking the rules right there in front of half the guest list. But oh, you made a note.

Back in the safehouse that night, you confronted him.

“Barnes, you can’t keep throwing around ‘my wife’ like it’s nothing.”

He didn’t even look up from unbuttoning his cufflinks. “Why not? It’s our cover.”

“You said it to the waiter. The waiter doesn’t care.”

“Maybe I was practicing,” he said, shrugging, eyes flicking up to yours in that infuriating way. “Gotta sound convincing, doll.”

Your pulse did a stupid, traitorous thing at the nickname. You ignored it. “Just… stick to the plan, okay?”

He gave you a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. Whatever my wife says.”

You threw a pillow at him. He caught it one-handed, grinning like you’d just confirmed all his worst (best?) instincts.

The next few days, it got worse.

At the market, he told the vendor, “My wife makes the best pasta, you know,” like you’d ever cooked pasta for him in your life.

When you split off to check security feeds, he said, “I’ll find you later, sweetheart,” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Even Natasha started side-eyeing the two of you. “You remember this is fake, right?” she muttered while Bucky was across the room.

“Of course I remember,” you hissed back. “He’s the one—”

“Yeah,” she said, smirking. “That’s what I thought.”

It all came to a head at the final gala night.

You’d slipped into the shimmering dress Nat picked out—backless, fitted, the kind that made you feel like the most dangerous thing in the room. Bucky looked… unfair. Hair pulled back, black suit that fit like it was sewn onto him, and those blue eyes doing dangerous things when they swept over you.

“My wife,” he said in greeting, like that explained the expression on his face. Like it was the only thing he wanted to call you.

You rolled your eyes. “Focus, Barnes.”

“I am focused,” he said, offering his arm. “On my wife.”

The night went smoothly, until a group of overly curious socialites cornered you both near the balcony.

“How long have you two been married?” one asked, swirling their wine.

You opened your mouth, but Bucky was faster.

“Two years,” he said smoothly, hand sliding to your waist. “Met by chance. Love at first sight.”

You glanced at him, startled at the detail. This wasn’t in your agreed-upon backstory.

“Oh?” another chimed in. “What was your wedding like?”

Bucky’s eyes stayed on yours. “Small. Just family. She cried the whole time.”

Your throat went tight. You didn’t know why—maybe it was the way he said it, soft and fond like he’d actually been there, like he’d actually seen you walking toward him with flowers in your hands.

You played along, smiling faintly. “So did you.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Course I did, doll. Look at you.”

The group laughed, charmed, and eventually drifted away. But Bucky didn’t move his hand from your waist.

When you were finally alone, you stepped back, needing distance. “You keep doing that.”

“What?”

“Making it sound real.”

He tilted his head, considering. “Maybe it is.”

Your heart stuttered. “Bucky—”

“I’m just saying,” he said, stepping closer. “I like calling you my wife.”

“It’s not—” You swallowed hard. “It’s not real.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t mean it.”

The words hung between you like a live wire.

Before you could decide whether to grab it or run, comms crackled in your ear—mission update. Extraction in ten. The spell broke.

The debrief was short. Mission successful. No casualties. Natasha gave you both that “I know more than I’m saying” look, but didn’t comment.

Back at your apartment, you expected things to snap back to normal.

But Bucky followed you inside, shrugging off his jacket, loosening his tie like he belonged there. Like a husband coming home.

You crossed your arms. “Why are you still here?”

“Thought I’d make dinner.”

“You can’t cook.”

“Guess my wife will have to teach me,” he said, smirking.

You stared at him, torn between exasperation and something dangerously warm in your chest. “Bucky—”

“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly. “If you want me to.”

You opened your mouth, ready to say it. But the words didn’t come.

Instead, you found yourself stepping closer. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, reaching up to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. “But I’m yours.”

It was supposed to be fake.

So why did it feel like the most real thing in the world?

[heldbybarnes]

Bucky Barnes Strut Appreciation Post

[heldbybarnes]

Choose My Next Series

I’m itching to dive into something new for the Darker Side Masterlist; all twisted edges, stolen breaths, and lines we’re not supposed to cross.

Your choices:

Sweet Ruin - Corrupt Politician AU. The golden congressman in public… your ruin in private.

The Debt - Gritty Romance AU. He saved your life. Now you owe him, and he’s not collecting in cash.

Velvet Vice - Club Owner AU. Behind the velvet rope, his world is pure temptation and control.

🗳 Poll open for 3 days. 📌 Darker, heavier themes ahead — tread carefully.

[heldbybarnes]

....yep. AND I STAND BY IT FOR HIM-

[heldbybarnes]

hi I just read the soft sex thing and I wanted to let you know I had to pause 3 times because my heart felt so immensely full I could hardly breathe & I was welling up . Holy fucking shit I have never been so emotionally affected by a piece of writing thank you so much

um, so hey i'm crying?!?!? this is so sweet

[heldbybarnes]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ seb month day nine — ‘the apprentice’ Cannes premiere ⭑｡𖦹°‧

— a sebastian stan pic/gif set every day of august to celebrate seb’s bday! ₊˚⊹⋆

[heldbybarnes]

ignore the homophobia ask.. I did not mean to send it. I copy and pasted the wrong request from my “ideas” note into your ask box. Pls do not write that one. Pls. The one I actually meant to send was:

Bucky takes his daughter, her gf, wife, and the siblings for a BEACH DAY!!!!

i feel that on a spiritual level. copy and pasting things from my ideas list is like a game of where’s waldo!

----------

The Barnes clan didn’t just “go” to the beach. They arrived in full force.

Bucky carried the heaviest cooler in one hand and an oversized beach umbrella in the other like it weighed nothing. You trailed behind him with a giant beach bag stuffed to the brim—snacks, towels, sunscreen, and at least three changes of clothes for the younger ones.

The older kids were walking together a few steps behind—your eldest holding her girlfriend’s hand, the two of them chatting quietly while sneaking glances at the chaos ahead. The younger ones? They’d bolted the second the sand came into view, shoes flying off mid-run, determined to reach the water first.

Bucky called out, “Hey! Slow down before you faceplant!”

The warning went entirely ignored, as was tradition.

You reached the perfect spot near the water’s edge and Bucky set down the cooler with a soft grunt. “Alright, team. Operation Beach Day is a go.”

You knelt to help the littlest out of her sundress, revealing the bright purple swimsuit she’d insisted on—complete with ruffles and glitter stars. She scampered off toward the shoreline, already squealing at the waves.

“Umbrella up first,” Bucky muttered, jamming the pole into the sand. You smirked, watching him wrestle it open. The wind nearly took it out of his grip, but he stood his ground like a soldier against enemy fire.

“Need help, old man?” you teased.

“Not a chance, doll,” he said, finally snapping it into place.

Within minutes, everyone had claimed their turf. Towels laid out, cooler cracked open, a couple of kids digging for seashells. The girlfriend offered to help build a sandcastle while your eldest unpacked the portable speaker and queued up a summer playlist.

“I’m warning you,” one of the middle kids said seriously to her, “our family takes sandcastle architecture very seriously.”

The girlfriend glanced between you and Bucky like she wasn’t sure if that was a joke. You leaned over and whispered, “They’re not kidding. There will be a judging panel.”

Bucky was already waist-deep in the ocean, two of the kids trying to tackle him in the waves. He let them win once or twice, going under with a dramatic splash before emerging with his hair plastered to his forehead, laughing harder than you’d heard in weeks.

You sat under the umbrella, sunglasses on, toes buried in the warm sand. The girlfriend came to sit beside you after a while, cheeks flushed from the sun.

“They’re all… a lot,” she admitted with a small smile, glancing out at your family.

“Yeah,” you agreed warmly. “But you’ll get used to it. Or at least… you’ll learn to swim with the current instead of against it.”

She laughed, the tension easing from her shoulders.

Around noon, Bucky dragged the kids back to shore for lunch. The littlest immediately plopped herself into his lap, tiny hands digging into the bag of grapes.

“Careful,” Bucky said as she shoved three into her mouth at once. “I don’t wanna perform the Heimlich on my day off.”

You passed sandwiches around, the older two helping hand out juice boxes. Two of the middle ones argued over who got the last bag of chips until Bucky simply tore it in half and poured the contents into two separate piles.

“Diplomatic skills,” you teased him.

“Been mediating disputes since 1943, doll.”

After lunch came the Great Sandcastle Contest. Your eldest and her girlfriend’s team went for intricate details—moats, towers, little shells lining the walls. Two of the others tried to build “the tallest sand structure in human history,” which collapsed twice in the wind but still earned cheers. One worked solo on a perfectly symmetrical fortress, while the littlest mostly decorated hers with seaweed.

Bucky walked around with his arms behind his back, pretending to be a judge on a reality show. “Ah, yes. Very impressive structural integrity here,” he said to the eldest and her girlfriend, then turned to the giant pile of sand with a straight face. “Abstract… bold… a statement piece, clearly.”

“Dad!” one of the boys groaned, but he was laughing.

In the end, Bucky declared a tie between all teams, which earned groans from the older ones and cheers from the littlest.

The afternoon drifted into that lazy golden stretch where everyone was tired but not ready to leave. You and Bucky lay side-by-side under the umbrella, toes occasionally brushing. The eldest and her girlfriend waded in the shallow water, holding hands. A couple of the kids skim-boarded at the shoreline, another read on their towel, and the littlest napped with a fistful of seashells.

Bucky turned his head toward you, sunglasses hiding the softness in his eyes. “We do good, doll.”

You smiled. “Yeah. We do.”

By the time the sun started dipping toward the horizon, everyone was sun-dazed and salty-haired. You packed up in a flurry—shaking sand from towels, corralling mismatched flip-flops, convincing the littlest she could bring one bucket of seashells home, not the entire beach.

The ride back was quiet. The girlfriend’s head rested on your eldest’s shoulder, the younger kids slumped against each other. You drove while Bucky sat in the passenger seat, one hand on your thigh, watching the reflection of the sunset in the side mirror.

When you pulled into the driveway, he squeezed your knee and said quietly, “Same time next summer?”

You grinned. “It’s a date.”

And just like that, the Barnes family beach day was officially tradition.