#i am a lil rusty? and ansty to post something so!

[gagmebucky]

it’s Me again... back with another breeding kink fic.

anonymous asked: Can you do another breeding kink Bucky??😭😩💞

His hips stutter with wild jerks, lurching your bed and its frame into the wall. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chokes, cheeks flushed and jaw clenched. “You can’t say shit like that, baby.” His hands dig into your skin bruisingly, an animalistic fire he’s resisting alight in his dilated pupils. “‘Cause I will. With the way your tight pussy is squeezing me, I’ll fill you up until you’re dripping for days after, and there’s no doubt you’re knocked up with my kid.” 

in which you beg bucky to cum inside you. (includes breeding kink, dirty talk, unprotected sex.)

—

As it turns out, the sperm of a super soldier is especially potent. Which means regular ‘ole birth control doesn’t work like it’s supposed to, and for that, specially modified treatment has been given to you.

Yes, the very serious and dangerous S.H.I.E.L.D agency has created a shot so that you’re able to fuck your superhero bareback without the threat of a child. The only catch is re-upping; it lasts a year, but there’s a month needed before you can get your next one, something about needing to give your reproductive system a break from the chemical.

It’s a difficult month, becoming harder and harder as the weeks wined down.

Of course, you use condoms but there’s a mutual disdain for the material. Plus, it’s not the same—that barrier between you, unable to be as close as possible with him, the emptiness of not being filled until you’re dripping. But, thankfully, both of you have made it through and there’s only a few days left.

However, for good measure in the last week, you’ve been staying with Wanda and Natasha. Speaking of who, the couple are throwing a housewarming, no longer compound-bound, and his attendance is iffy. It’s understandable considering just thinking about him has you ready to explode.

Not to mention, it’s a pool party, and you’re wearing a saucy bikini.

“So when are you and Barnes gonna pop one out?” Natasha speaks casually, a wine glass between her fingers, curled up with her girlfriend on a lounge chair where they both watch you help set up. “Something tells me you won’t want to wait a whole year. Him, especially.”

That’s an understatement. Your man has chronic baby fever but in a respectfully adorable way. In the past, you’ve been apprehensive about offspring but he’s so optimistic and supportive you’ve definitely come around to the idea. “Soon, actually. Banner apparently has created a six month shot,” you tell her, absentmindedly folding a complimentary towel.

“Oh, yeah. How are you two doing on that front? You have a couple of days left before you can shack up again, right?” Nat’s eyebrow arches when your hands fumble and drop a towel at a mere reference to sex.

“Yes,” you answer after a steady breath, and you bend over to retrieve the textured cloth. “Seventy-two hours. It’s good he isn’t coming to your little thing ‘cause I think he’d maul me and vice versa. . .”

“Oh, Bucky,” Wanda’s pointed, mildly amused voice sets your spine rigid. “Hey! How’s it—”

At your fiancé’s name, you abruptly straighten up and spin on your heels. In a blink of an instance, he’s closed the distance—six foot form towering and determined, and the ravenous look in his eyes tells you what he’s going to do.

Your eyes widen, and you point sternly at him, uncoordinated steps backward. “Wait, wait—!” you try but his arms are latched onto your waist and hoisting you over his shoulder. Everything is upside down: a smiling Wanda and waving Natasha fades as he strides into the house.

“Bucky!” you yelp as he barrages into your room and slams you down, your back colliding with the perfectly made guest bed. Although you haven’t done anything, you’re panting as you push yourself to your elbows. Astounded by your future husband’s caveman-like display, you stare up at him. “Goddamn it! We still h - have three days—Buck.” The ending is a pitiful whimper because the way he’s leering at you does a number on your libido. 

Icy blues assess every inch of you, lashing over your exposed skin with shards of heat. His tongue swipes across his bottom lip while he regards you covetously, and his hands undo his belt buckle. “Are you kidding me?” he says as if the notion of waiting any longer is genuinely funny. “You’re wearing that, and you think I can endure three more days of this hell?” His pants fall with a clink, and the sound echoes in your clit. “I don’t fucking think so.” 

Goosebumps arise everywhere. You’re already creaming your bathing suit—the one you purposely picked out knowing the skimpy two-piece would drive him wild. Desire pumps through your veins like adrenaline as you watch him undress, shirt plopping to the floor, length swelling to bob against his navel; then he’s prowling to you on the bed. 

“Bucky,” you whisper, maintaining hungry eye contact, and reach back for the box of condoms on the nightstand (just in case, you had told yourself). A hand wraps around your ankle faintly while you feel blindly for the new brand of protection. “Let me just—” You turn to secure the package, it’s at your fingertips but you’re wrenched down. 

“Hi, baby,” he says with an impossibly cute grin, quirking up as he settles you underneath him: your calves hike over his kneeling thighs, nylon-spandex clad center flushed against his. In quick succession, his fingers pinch the knitted strings on either side and pull them loose until the fabric drops free. Bared already slick by his mere vicinity, he’s teasing your slit, tip rasping over your quivering bundle of nerves. 

“That’s good - that’s so good.” A high moan tears from your throat. “Fuck me.” He’s leaking, smearing pre-cum against you, thick and heavy, ready to pound into you. “There’s the - there’s a—” You’re pointing to the box but he’s already snapped forward. 

“Can’t let another second pass without my dick shoved inside you,” he breathes, then in a powerful glide, he prises inside you, fighting past the resistance to fit snugly. You both moan in unison, loud and in relief. His arm scoops you up beneath your back, un-looping your halter top and doing away with it before he hauls you by the small of your back and reels you until you’re face to face; his forehead on yours. 

You can draw the feel of him: hilt deep, silky smooth with noticeable veins pumping from base to tip, well endowed nudging, impressive girth stretching. It’s heaven, undeniably. Your body lights up with fever, trembling in anticipation. 

“You feel good,” you mewl airily, passionately, “really good. God. Too good.” Your thighs cinch around his waist as his hands support you beneath the curve of your ass. “You aren’t wearing a condom.” You can’t manage to be chaste about it when he’s sating that hollow space that’s been driving you crazy. 

He releases a dark chuckle. “Trust me, I fucking know.” He rocks in, pubic bones flush against you, and swivels circles on your clit, making your walls flutter; he groans. “For the love of Christ, have you always felt this fucking good? You’re like tight velvet made for my cock. Gonna make me blow so many fuckin’ times, aren’t you?” 

Of course. You can’t withhold your assenting moan. “But if you cum inside me, I will get pregnant, Buck,” you remind him, and another noise shakes through his chest. Your jaw drops as you look at him incredulously. “Did you - did you just get harder?” 

There’s not an ounce of shame in him. “Mention having my kid again, and I’ll make it a fucking reality,” he growls before pressing his lips on yours. It’s rough and needy, biting and tasting every inch of your mouth, then fizzles sloppily as he adjusts and basks in your vice-like channel. Parting from you, a centimeter away, he reassures you genuinely: “Don’t worry, I’ll pull out.”

Truth be told, you don’t care either way. God knows with the sensational feeling that he’s wedged in, you don't want—nor can bare—that flim of rubber separating you. You rake your nails down his chest, smooth your palms around to his flanks and tug him closer. “Yeah.” You nod quickly. “Just - just fuck me, please, please.” 

At that, he’s more that obliging. Palming your thighs, he upheaves you and drives in with pummeling strength. The closeness of your bodies has him hitting your clit with every downward falter, tunneling long awaited sensations through your core. 

He’s hitting that spot, expert thrusts with a tilt so his tip mashes it, rawing over until it expands that bubble tight in your gut. And you’re meeting him for each perfect stroke, clawing down his sides as you milk him for all he’s worth. 

“Look at you.” He marvels, awed. “It’s like riding a bike.” His hand cracks down on your ass in encouragement, immediately coming back to knead into your cheek, fingers spread and digging in. “C’mon, give it to me. Do me good, baby.”

“Fuck,” you gasp and work yourself harder with his help, undulating. Your fever rises and starts to boil to the top. 

“Y’close?” he asks knowingly, kiss-swollen lips parted, words fanning the column of your throat. The arm around your waist guides your leveraged hips, bouncing you up and down his cock at a hastened speed; it nudges deeper and deeper in a frenzy, making you twitch around him. “Yeah, you are.” He nods with a pleased smile. “Then I’m gonna pull out, okay?”

Once you come apart, he’s going to spill over your stomach and tits—as afore promised, but your mind and body both agree on otherwise. It’s a beforehand weighed decision, confirmed in a moment that feels so fucking phenomenal you cant dey. You squeeze your inner muscles and shake your head insistently. “Don’t.”

His electric blues widen as he jolts at your request, disbelieving but clearly interested in the prospect. “What?” His hands have already moved to your hips, palming them in preparation to lift you off him, still gliding you along him. 

Your arms encircle his neck, clutching him closer as you pleadingly repeat: “Don’t, Bucky. Don’t pull out. Please?” 

That vein on his underhead pulses wildly, a tremor working through his body. He buries his head into your neck with a groan, vibrating against the curve. “Fuck,” he croaks, muffled and pained, “that’s not funny. You - you can’t joke like that, or I’ll fucking blow.” 

An orgasm electrifies underneath your skin and tightens in your center, extracting another guttural sound from him. You tangle your fingers into his short locks and tug the roots back until your nose nuzzles his. “Not a joke. Cum inside me, please,” you beg earnestly. “I wanna feel you. I want you to cum inside me. Won’t you please?” 

His hips stutter with wild jerks, lurching your bed and its frame into the wall. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chokes, cheeks flushed and jaw clenched. “You can’t say shit like that, baby.” His hands dig into your skin bruisingly, an animalistic fire he’s resisting alight in his dilated pupils. “‘Cause I will. With the way your tight pussy is squeezing me, I’ll fill you up until you’re dripping for days after, and there’s no doubt you’re knocked up with my kid.” 

“God, yes,” you moan and cup his cheeks to see the passion in your eyes, the struggle in his. “That’s what I want. You said, whatever I want, I get, right?” Your lips graze his as you urge, “I want you to cum inside me, Bucky. Don’t you wanna be a daddy?” The last prompt is purred, and that does it. 

He snarls. It triggers him to erupt, emptying himself with long and seemingly never ending spurts. His fingers slip between your bodies and mercilessly rubs your clit: overloading until the orgasm lulls through you and the sensations are wrung out of you, and you’re clamping down. 

The fire sinks into your bones and wracks you with convulsions. Likewise sporadic tremors in him simmer to a reluctant stop, incurring spasms from your walls before finally calming down. 

“What the - what the hell was that?” Bucky asks, expression feral, the remnants of his reckoning drips onto the bed, still sheathed in.

You shrug breathlessly. “I figure I won’t be showing by the time we get married, and I don't want to wait six months to start trying. Unless you don’t want—” You start lifting off but he grabs ahold of you. 

“I do,” he interrupts swiftly, a bite to his voice like he’s offended at the assumption. “I do.” With the repetition, he repositions you to your back, hips recoiling until his cockhead is twitching at your entrance, and hovers above you. “My baby having my baby? There’s nothing I want more.”

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