#about bucky: inspiration

[loyaltyworn]

John gives Bucky a pet rock with googly eyes and a bow tie in an attempt to win his friendship(?) 😅

No, this isn't sitting on his fireplace and one of the only things in this threadbare living room in spite of the way he huffed when he got it. No, this isn't sitting there at all. Just a figment of your imagination. Keep on moving. Nothing to see here. Especially dumb presents like this.

Even if little baubles like this from people would mean the world to him cause he doesn't really ever get himself anything or receive little tiny gifts like this. Never admitting that out loud. Ever.

[adrinktostopyourthirst]

Hii dear, how do you think Bucky would react to reader asking him to touch himself while she watches?

I am so sorry, this took way too long, but inspiration hit me and I think you might like it, so here ya go! Let me know what you think.

“Absolutely not.”

Zero room for negotiation. Exactly what you expected when you planned to ask Bucky to try something new. And exactly the challenge that you were looking for, because heat has already started to compress low in your belly at the idea of getting him to cave now.

Not that Bucky comes up short in the bedroom – not at all. But he isn’t the most flexible when it comes to trying new things, even if you are certain that there is a part of Bucky that revels in sexual exploration. After all, with his strong physique and heavy training, in combination with his dark mentality, he has so much potential to take it …far in the bedroom. And the burden falls on you to prod and poke until he allows himself to indulge in all his heart desires – for you to eventually indulge in him.

“Why not?” you plead at him.

He arches a brow at you and continues making the bed with you, arms flexing as he works. “Because why would I masturbate in front of you when I can fuck you?”

Jeez, he truly is a caveman sometimes…

“Because it’s hot, Bucky. I want to watch you torture yourself,” you tell him like it’s the most obvious thing on the planet and this time Bucky pauses before giving you a compressed smile. Maybe torture wasn’t the best word…

“You think it’s hot, because you think masturbating is torture for me?” he asks and you study him, wary all of sudden, since you have a feeling he is about to prove you wrong.

“Buck–”

“No,” he interrupts you, giving the duvet one last shake as he finishes making the bed and turns to you fully. “You want me to fuck my fist while you watch? Fine. You will watch...” A long pause. “ – and only watch.”

…

This is torture.

“Bucky,” you plead, breathless from less than nothing, “come on, stop teasing.”

He answers with only a smirk and the flex of his hand around his base, dragging it up and pressing more blood to the throbbing head of his cock. You would think him teasing himself would destroy him, but apparently the sight of you is enough to edge himself endlessly.

You buck your hips up and shimmy down on the mattress, tugging at the restraints that keep your wrists tied to the headboard. This position is even less comfortable, but you barely notice over the pleading ache between your hips. He just looks so fucking good pleasing himself. Your breath hitches when you feel your own arousal drip down between your ass and you quickly press your thighs together in embarrassment.

But Bucky’s eyes darken and his stare turns into that of warning. Standing at the edge of the bed, one knee pressed into the mattress and his dark-blue jeans popped open to let his cock bob against his rough abdomen, you swallow a whine at the sight of him.

“Legs open, sweetheart,” he reminds you and you instantly snap them open with the feeble hope that he will allow you to have him sooner. He watches your naked chest rise and fall with frustrated breaths, your hands turning and twisting against the restraints.

Utterly naked and tied up before him as he strokes and strokes and strokes himself until you’re drooling, you feel helpless before him. It’s pathetic how this is the thing that can bring you to a whining and whimpering state. And he hasn’t even touched you. Your skin was already on fire when he stroked his knuckles down your arms after tying you up. All he has done is throw more gas onto it.

His eyes drag down your body to watch your cunt, and it pulsates in answer to his stare, making him chuckle under his breath. Your toes curl into the sheets and you close your eyes to take a controlled breath, desperately grappling for something of power. But you have noticed something.

You were wondering why you were eyeing him so expectantly at the beginning, waiting for something, only to find out you were waiting for sounds. For him to groan, or whimper, or– Fuck it, you would take the sound of a hitched breath. But barely anything made it past his lips and you realise with pride burning in your chest like a thousand suns, he only loses control like that when it’s you touching him.

He’s too stubborn to make sounds otherwise, crack his pride to show you how much you affect him. But you’ve seen him lose his restraint. You’ve seen him gasp with that first heavenly thrust, felt his fist tighten in your hair and heard the filthiest moan known to man against the shell of your ear.

So all you have to do is remind him. You open your eyes.

“Let me lick it,” you tell him and Bucky freezes, his eyes hardening on yours.

“What,” he snaps, teeth gritting.

“Let me taste you,” you continue. “Come on, I can see you want to come, Bucky. Come in my mouth.”

You can see his brain working over hours and you bite back the smug smirk that wants to break through when you see his cock throb and his fist tighten over it. His eyes flash and he crawls onto the bed, shedding his jeans and boxers as he crawls over. It is all you can do not to arch your entire body towards him, the anticipation dripping down into the sheets from between your legs.

“You want to have a taste?” he nearly whispers and crawls between your legs, his lips hovering over yours. And you would wrap your ankles around him and trap him, or tilt your chin and kiss the breath from him, if it wouldn’t put you back to square one of begging for your man.

You nod. Barely.

“Close your eyes,” he commands and you do so instantly. “Open your mouth.” You do.

You wait for the warm, salty taste of him, your breath quickening when you feel the proximity of Bucky and nothing more. It feels like hours that you lay there, waiting for something – anything – from him.

And just when you’re about to protest and tell him to hurry the fuck up, the breath gets knocked out of you and you arch up to the ceiling with his cock buried so deep into your cunt you lose each and every thought. The long, raspy, filthy moan that follows at that feeling gets swallowed by Bucky’s greedy mouth and he groans in response, like a breath he has been holding for over an hour.

“That was torture,” he mumbles against your lips, his resolve clearly faltering. “Watching your drip for me, beg for me, right in front of my nose. Nothing compares to you.”

You sigh at his words and tug at the restraints when he pulls out. Opening your mouth to protest, another sounds garbles out when he pushes in to the very hilt again and every wall of yours hugs him into you further. Fuck, he’s in deep. Slow, steady, with a sharp push at the end that makes your eyes nearly roll to the back of your head. He presses kiss after kiss after kiss to your swollen lips and he whispers and mumbles things to you that you can barely make out as he starts thrusting in and out of you. Some things are in Russian or Bulgarian or–

Fuck, his voice. “I want to feel your legs around me. Want your fingers in my hair,” he grunts and you can barely make sense of his rambling. “Want to feel you squeeze me and I want to taste you,” he lets out a starved groan, “God, I want to fucking taste you.”

In a second, he has pulled out of you, pulled away from you and crawls between your legs. His strong arms and hands manhandle your legs tightly around his head and you don’t get time to squawk in surprise before his whole mouth engulfs your throbbing pussy and you melt into the sheets until you yourself are nothing but silk and softness.

“Oh, Bucky,” you whine and he hums against you in delight, one wide hand spreading over your belly and squeezing as he eats you up.

He licks and nibbles and sucks and devours you whole. And when his tongue pushes into your hole slowly, you writhe against him and hiccup for breaths. Nothing is enough, everything is too much. You don’t know what you want from him, you don’t know what you are or want to become. You only know Bucky is the way to get it. To get relief and extasy and pleasure and warmth and Jesus Christ, this man will kill you.

“I counted,” he mumbles against you. “You watched me fuck my fist for ten minutes.” You gasp for breath as his nose circles against your clit and he inhales deeply. “So I get to make you come at least ten times.”

Oh no, oh no, oh no–  “Holy fucking shit!”

“One.”

[oifaaa]

Oh wait there tho if I rewatch my hero I'll have to deal with bargain bin jason todd otherwise known as Dabi

[anachilles]

“So, what’s the prognosis, Doc? Am I gonna live?”

Your firehouse buckies? 😍 or anything else with buck x bucky 💓

omg hi! and please yes give me all the excuses to write my firehouse!au buckies!! (for those who may not be familiar - this is firefighter!bucky and bartender/PhD student!buck) here's a little thing set significantly further along than where we're currently at in the actual fic lol. + shout out to @avonne-writes and their 'who's taking who's surname?' poll and the discourse for inspiring a little part of this lol. currently taking prompts from this list: [ x ]

"So, what's the prognosis, Doc? Am I gonna live?"

His voice hoarse and barely there, trust John to tease him even around the tail end of a thermometer, just as Gale went to pull it from his mouth.

'Suppose he can't be too sick if he still has jokes,' was the first thought that came to Gale's mind. The second thought though, sneaking up hot on the first's heels, was 'John would be cracking jokes on his damn deathbed so that really isn't as much of a reassurance as it should be.'

Gale squinted as he examined the numbers. The light was low in the early winter morning, the sun not having quite fully risen yet. He'd usually have switched even just his own bedside lamp on as he got himself ready to leave for the day, but with John's groan of protest that particular morning, he’d quickly switched off again.

It'd been a restless night, and even though they were both feeling the impact of John's tossing and turning, and the seemingly inability for him to breathe at all through his nose anymore, the man himself just looked downright exhausted with it. He'd eventually managed to fall asleep with his hot, clammy forehead pressed into the back of Gale’s neck, plastered to his back, and Gale hadn’t the heart to try and move him despite how he had then been overheating.

"You know there's another, arguably much more enjoyable way to do that..." John leered, even if half-heartedly, and if only to fill the silence as Gale's eyebrows pinched at whatever he saw on the little digital screen.

See, this is why they'd more or less permanently shacked up at Buck's place rather than his. He had stuff like thermometers lying around. Stuff an actual home has.

Gale looked up at him then, incredulous. "You're really trying to flirt with me, sitting there with a 101 degree fever?" he said, turning the thermometer as if to prove his point. Incredulous, but not surprised; not really.

"Baby, if I'm ever sick enough that I don't want to flirt with you, make you blush all pretty like you do, that's when you should be worried."

Gale had almost been tempted to smile at that, until John had to cut himself off, a sudden bout of congested coughing rattling from his throat.

Capturing the inner corner of his bottom lip between his teeth, Gale sighed, his long legs unfolding from beneath him and as he got up from where he'd been perching on his side of the bed. He crossed to John's bedside, pulling the covers further up around the other man’s chest.

Gale clicked his tongue slightly, though his expression and voice betrayed him in their co-ordinating softness. "All of this because you just had to be the hero and go jump in the damn lake."

Off to the side of them, Maverick jumped up onto the bed, sleepily curling in at Bucky's side in the warm spot Gale had just vacated. She bumped her head against John's hand, eager and impatient as the day Gale met her. John responded without even having to look away from the conversation, his fingers scritching at the especially soft little spot of fur behind each of her ears.

“Hey, I saved someone's life."

Gale wordlessly took his phone from his pocket, showing him the text he'd already gotten from Benny, "Just FYI - let the record show that the guy knew how to swim and your boy did not have to jump in after him."

Uh, since when did his team all acquire his boyfriend's number just for the purposes of ratting him out?

"Well how was I supposed to know that?! It’s called due diligence."

Either way, he'd ended up with what seemed to either be a wicked cold or the beginnings of the flu for his trouble.

"You make up for your lack of sympathy with your excellent bedside manner, Doctor" John said, talking half to himself as Gale strode out to the kitchen at the sound of the kettle whistling.

He continued as the other man reappeared a minute later, a steaming Fire Department-branded mug in one hand, his own filled travel mug in the other. "Huh, that's kind of funny, seeing as you will be and everything. Dr Cleven."

“Not that kind of doctor,” Gale muttered, and John breathed out a faint laugh. He knew the difference, duh, but it was cute when Gale interpreted things so literally sometimes before he could think about it.

Gale quirked a brow as he set the mug down on John’s bedside table, batting aside lozenge wrappers and tissues with the rim of it to make room.

"Y'know what has an even better ring to it, though? Dr Gale Egan..."

When the idea of marriage came up between them, it was always in an abstract, vague kind of sense, underpinned by off-hand comments and passing jokes relaying the image of some version of their life that lay a safe distance away on the horizon. It wasn't right in front of them yet, but it felt comfortably inevitable, which made talking about it casually not really a big deal. One of the more common jokes being what they do in terms of surnames.

Gale could tell John was sentimental about his father's name in a way he himself wasn't about his own. It was never said so outright, but he got the sense that it was either a matter of hyphenating (even with John's arguments that neither Cleven-Egan or Egan-Cleven 'sounded right'), or Gale taking John's.

When Gale thought about the idea of shedding his father's name, he felt so much nothing it almost pissed him off because shouldn't it evoke something? Is that not the most normal reaction to losing such a defining part of your identity, feeling some sense of sadness? Of loss? It felt more to him like shrugging off a grimy, weather-beaten old coat turned threadbare in the elements, not particularly pleasant but reliably familiar. It was simply what he had.

Looking now, he took in the pallid, rheumy face and contrastingly long, firm lines of a man who loved him like John loved him. Who loved him so unshakeably, proved to him over and over seemingly without even really having to try; who made it look easy. Who loved him in a way he didn't think he ever could be loved, or be prompted himself to love like he loved John back.

"Well, then I guess you have until I finish my PhD to marry me."

There was a weird beat of silence and neither seem to be sure whether they were still joking or not.

“You saying you want to marry me? Is that a proposal? A deathbed proposal?” The look that bloomed on John’s face was as adorable as it was utterly insufferable. It was, however, quickly dispelled however by a sudden sneeze. He reached for more tissues, the groan that followed evidently vexed.

It cut through whatever tension had inadvertently bled into the moment, though, and Gale smiled. “Bless you. Tempting proposition that it is…” Gale finally said, as he checked his watch. When he continued, there was an edge of regret in his voice. “If I want to be Dr Anything I’d better get going.”

A noise echoed from John's throat, half displeased, half mournful.

Gale sighed and leant forward, bringing a gentle hand to John's fever-flushed cheek, his thumb stroking lightly on the sharp angle of his cheekbone. "Now, you get some sleep and drink plenty of water, you hear me? You can have more of these here pills in like a couple more hours. I should be home around 3ish, but text me if you need anything or your temperature gets any higher."

His voice was as even and steady as ever, only John could tell he was fretting slightly by how unsettled his hands were, and how they kept touching him, fiddling with the blankets, smoothing things down that were already smoothed down as he spoke.

John reached out and grab Gale's wrist, stilled it, in a odd reversal of their usual roles. "Okay, okay..." he acquiesced lightly, easily, and was immediately rewarded when Gale's fingers laced into the sweat-damp curls that had fallen down into his face, moving them aside so he could press a kiss to his forehead. His lips lingered for an achingly welcome half-beat, before moving to press another to his cheek.

Gale tore himself away then, grabbing his wallet, keys, and the steaming travel mug where he'd abandoned them on the dresser, and tossed his bag over his shoulder. A few second later, he was gone.

“Dr Gale Egan” is all John thinks about for the rest of the day.

In between naps, that is.

[whipitgod]

fuck the concept that one partner has to be a bottom and one partner has to be a top! and while im at it, fuck the idea that in order for a pairing to work you need to twinkify/feminize one of of the characters! that just isnt how gay relationships work 95% of the time! most real gay couples are verse, and most gay couples dont follow the stereotype that one person has to be fem and the other has to be masc! stop trying to apply heteronormative relationship dynamics to queer couples!

[quailxcrossing]

some more Tuesfries Human AU! ive wanted to draw something more of Gwen and her fursuiting! she made her suit herself with lots of trial and error but she got it! being in her suit gives her so much confidence, its like a completely different Gwen when compared to her usual anxious self! and I was reminded of when I drew Ruse (midveil) in Winter Soldier cosplay......hhhhhh that's. just for me.

little doodle I did with Magic's arrival too! yeah.........

[upontherisers]

my brain is evil today and still screaming about your baseball prompts so uhhhh mahalia plus ⁸⁰⁾ wet clothes and ambulance sirens please if i may — @shoshiwrites

this prompt is so EVOCATIVE shoshi. i was brought to lake harding immediately. cw for descriptions of injury/blood and descriptions of anxiety attacks.

All he can hear are the sirens — loud, they’re always so fucking loud. Screeching in his ears, making his eyes feel like they’re about to pop out of his skull. Non-stop, on and on and on and on and on, drilling into his brain, not getting any quieter as the ambulance speeds away to Saratoga Springs, yelling at him, screaming, bursting into his veins until his cells are vibrating at the same frequency.

Meatball started howling before they could even hear them and he’d stood no chance against that horn, the blaring panic that thumped along to the terrible heartbeat of the lights, flash flash, flash flash. The red and yellow flickered on Mahalia’s face like days passing too fast — ochre dawn and crimson dusk — as they rolled her up from the ropes course. She was with him the entire time, so completely herself as blood poured into her right eye due to burst vessels and the odd angle of her knee had Kyle radioing the hospital for Trauma Bay 2, and he was holding the back of her skull together with his hands while she insisted that Vera grab the “good charger” left of her bed and her Stitch crocs, not the Shrek ones.

And the sirens got louder as they neared the ambulance, and it’s not hospitals John has a problem with, but sirens. They only ever take people away.

He’s going to crack a tooth if he doesn’t unclench his jaw but he can’t ‘cause the sirens are so FUCKING loud. They’re gonna shatter his bones he was holding the back of her skull together with his hands—

“John.” 

There’s a hand at his shoulder and he forgot he had a body for a moment but the hand is firm. The sirens get a driveway length’s quieter.

“John,” Buck says. John blinks and sees what he’s been looking at — the inside of his bunk, empty and grey on a dark evening, unable to remember when he started looking at it. The hand, Buck’s hand, squeezes his shoulder and his chest hurts because he’s been holding his breath. He exhales and it hurts like hell, biting at his insides, squeezing so hard it makes him nauseous and it feels like sirens in his ears.

Buck tugs at him and he gives, catching his balance as he comes back into his legs. It’s like looking at the sun when he sees someone else for the first time in however long he’s been standing here and he wants to cover his eyes but his hands are dead at his sides. 

He forgot Buck had scars.

“John—“ And Buck’s hand’s at his collar now and if he could get the sirens to stop, he could say something. “Breathe, John.”

He was holding his breath again and as he exhales, the lights start turing orange with distance. They’re on the road now, blinkers flashing for left.

“You need to change.”

Right, it’s raining. The rain, that’s the reason they were… it’s raining.

He needs to get the blood off his hands but as he looks down, he finds that he already has. There’s nothing left, nothing out of the ordinary — no dark red, no white fleck of what he hopes isn’t bone — only a slight blue tinge along the muscles. It gets so cold when it rains up here. 

Buck throws a shirt at him, then boxers and some joggers, and he doesn’t know if he can do it. There was so much blood on his hands as they lifted her into the ambulance and he’s treated more head wounds than he can count so he knows it isn’t good. He looks down at his hands and there was just so much blood and he doesn’t fucking know where he is. It’s so LOUD in his head. 

It’s cold and loud and it’s always cold and loud when the ambulances come — in Wisconsin in November or the Catskills in June. 

That’s when he notices the boys aren’t there. But where did—do they know? The lights are off so he didn’t see them before Buck showed, and the boys need to know. Harry’s boys too, and Buck’s, and everyone needs to know. 

She fell so fast. One moment, she was making her way down the ladder above him as he turned to talk to Benny on the ground and the next, a gasp and a terrible two heartbeats before she was on her back below him with a leg the shape it shouldn’t be.

He’s freezing so he changes. His shirt’s on backwards but he really truly honestly couldn’t give less of a shit as his skin stops burning with dry things on and the sirens have to wait for one more car before they turn down Wilton Road and disappear from ear and eye. But they really, really want him to know they’re there.

[thepunkmuppet]

I think I’m actually gonna write that long post-tfatws sambucky falling in love fic lads. they’re the only part of the mcu I give a shit about anymore and seems like we’re getting fuck all from the upcoming movies and bucky might DIE so I’ve got to take matters into my own hands

[unofficialadamtaurus]

I’m like 50% of the way through W&S’s last chapter, there’s a few scenes that are being needlessly difficult. Hopefully it’ll be out in the next couple’a weeks and we can all stare in awe as I actually manage to finish something I started

[threefandomsinatrenchcoat]

When Bucky talks about his boyfriend, people get the impression of a mountain of a man. He shows up with tiny Stevie.

[evansbby]

uh…. so something not that chill happened just now 🫣🫣🫣

[loyaltyworn]

what type of lonely are you?

loneliness of the mask: you're a good actor, a good liar. your masks are intricate and hand-carved. for your lover, you wear a mask of softness, quiet words uttered in the night. your friends, a boisterous laugh, always a joke at the ready. your professionalism at work and school is steady, allowing the occasional lapse to make a small joke. you have to keep them interested, after all. you have to please them. you are manipulation itself, your head is so full of your intricate webs there is nothing left. you might be the loneliest of them all, seeing as there's no one left behind your facade. you lost your real face long ago.

tagged by: @rgerz​

tagging: anyone who’d like to get a lil emotional. cause dang!

[six-demon-bag]

if you want my love (let me pull my hair back)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Helmut Zemo

Summary: Bucky grows his hair out, and Zemo can’t handle it.

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Oral Sex, Long-Haired Bucky Barnes, Zemo with long hair kink, Zemo's Soft Belly, Discord: WinterBaron

Word count: 1560

Link: if you want my love (let me pull my hair back)

Excerpt: 

Bucky spins lazily on the stool, turning to face where Zemo is almost drooling over himself. “Something you needed, Zemo?” Bucky asks, tilting his head and watching Zemo’s eyes follow  the fall of his hair.

Inspired by this gorgeous art by @skritchskratchh (alex?? what are you go by omg) everyone go appreciate them or i will break out of my prison and bite your face

[beebberbb]

something that always always gets me with like "This game/creature/whatever" is being possessed or haunted is like what about the little video game protag :( or the characters :( I always get so so attached to them. What if they have their own thoughts or feelings about this shit and just can't express it bc of the haunting!!!!

[burninblood]

working on some character design for my YA work portfolio right now and inspired by Winter Soldier: Cold Front I decided to do 16 yo, but totally already 17 yo, and maybe also totally 25 yo, “agent Bucky” with a foot in a bucket.