Pascale | 26 | she/they | bisexual dilf lover | | MINORS DNI | | HARRY POTTER FANS DNI! | ALL REQUESTS ARE CLOSED (EXCEPT FOR MINI DRABBLES/BLURBS) May the Force be with Princess Carrie Fisher 27/12/16 MAIN BLOG: @birthofvcnus
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i have sooooooooo many bucky hcs that are more on the “slice of life” kind of vibe. also i have hcs/lore about his family and his life in the 40s that don’t really involve any “x reader” stuff. would you guys still be interested in reading those?
to the one person who voted no i’m so sorry beloved but you were outnumbered this time 😔 i will come up with a personal tag so you can filter it out if you don’t wanna see it, assuming you followed me for clark (or other characters) content
i have sooooooooo many bucky hcs that are more on the “slice of life” kind of vibe. also i have hcs/lore about his family and his life in the 40s that don’t really involve any “x reader” stuff. would you guys still be interested in reading those?
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[Transcription: "A wild animal, when caught in a trap, will sever its own limb if it means it will get to escape. The coyote bitten by steel teeth knows nothing but to wrap its jaws around its leg to get free, the climber under the boulder knows only to drag his pocket knife across his arm until he is clawing up the slope one-handed. Hydra's new toy is much the same, single-minded, a desperate hand against cold metal and scar tissue that forms too quickly, clawed fingers raked against raw flesh over and over and over. Steadily the blood falls, in beads that slip between the plates of the machinery the creature seeks to shake."]
So I've been consumed by the winter soldier brain rot and I'm having feelings about Bucky so I'm drawing those feelings and inflicting it on you :3
Everyone check out dangerwr1tes on ao3!!! He's the man who wrote the one shot in the background :)
(he's also on Tumblr ( @salemdanger ) but he. Does not post on there /silly)
the size difference between seb and the woman is making my head spin so. some more size kink with bucky if you’re up for it ???
The apartment is quiet when you step inside, but Bucky’s presence fills it all the same, huge and warm like the glow from a banked fire.
He’s waiting on the couch in sweats and a faded tee that does absolutely nothing to disguise the breadth of his chest or the sheer size of his thighs. One booted foot braced on the coffee table, metal arm draped across the back cushion, he looks like he owns the room—and the air in your lungs along with it.
The door clicks shut behind you and his head lifts, blue eyes sweeping over you slowly, deliberately, darkening when they land on the tiny shorts you wore to tempt him. The corner of his mouth curves because you’re already playing the game.
“Been thinkin’ about you all day, doll,” he says, voice syrup-thick, gravel just beneath. His gaze snags on the delicate chain resting above your collarbone. “C’mere.”
A single word, quiet, and your pulse kicks against your ribs.
You toe off your shoes and cross the carpet, stopping only when your knees brush his. He’s so much bigger up close; it never fails to make you feel impossibly small, every inch of you a perfect fit for his shadows.
His hand finds your hip, thumb stroking lazily along the waistband of your shorts. Heat blooms through you. He hums low in amusement.
“These look painted on,” he murmurs. “You tryin’ to kill me?”
You shrug, all faux innocence.
“Maybe I missed you.”
The admission is soft, nearly swallowed by the tension crackling between you.
His eyes lift to yours, the teasing fading for a heartbeat.
“Missed you too, sweetheart.”
The sincerity hits harder than any flirtation ever could.
Then suddenly you’re airborne.
A surprised sound leaves you as he lifts you effortlessly, settling you against the wall beside the couch. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. One broad hand braces your back while the other supports your thigh, holding you as though you weigh nothing at all.
“Tell me what you need,” he says quietly, forehead resting against yours.
You swallow.
“You.”
His eyes darken.
“All of you.”
A low rumble vibrates through his chest as he presses closer, and your breath catches.
“That what the shorts were for?” he asks. “Wanted me thinkin’ about you all day?”
“Yes.”
The answer comes far too quickly to be embarrassed about.
His grin is slow and devastating.
“Honest girl.”
He kisses your throat, lingering there while his hand traces soothing paths along your skin.
“You’ll get what you want,” he promises softly. “But we’re gonna take our time.”
And he does.
Because for all his size, all his strength, all the ways he could overwhelm you if he wanted, Bucky has always treated you like something precious.
He takes his time with every touch, every kiss, every whispered praise.
Every reminder that he’s paying attention.
That he’s listening.
That he knows exactly how to make you feel safe enough to let go.
When he eventually carries you back to the couch, settling you beneath him, his gaze never leaves yours.
He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear before leaning down to kiss you again, slow and thorough, stealing every coherent thought from your head.
The world narrows until it’s only him.
His hands.
His voice.
The familiar weight of him surrounding you.
“Look at me,” he murmurs.
You do.
And just like always, he’s watching you with that impossible combination of devotion and desire that makes your chest ache.
“There she is.”
The praise settles deep.
Every touch after that feels deliberate.
Every whispered compliment chips away another piece of your composure.
By the time pleasure finally crashes over you, you’re clinging to him, breathless and trembling.
Bucky follows moments later, burying his face against your neck as he holds you through it.
Neither of you rush afterward.
Neither of you ever do.
Instead, he gathers you into his lap and wraps a blanket around both of you.
The apartment is quiet again.
Peaceful.
His hand drifts lazily along your thigh while you curl against his chest.
“You okay?” he asks.
You smile against his skin.
“Better than okay.”
A laugh rumbles through him.
“Good.”
You tilt your head up.
“Why?”
“Because,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I plan on spending the rest of the night proving something.”
Your grin widens.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
His arms tighten around you.
“That there’s no such thing as too much of me for you.”
You laugh, melting further into his embrace.
And judging by the way he smiles against your hair, he knows exactly how much you love hearing it.
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These exude so much next-door-neighbor!single dad!Bucky vibes it’s actually insane. More under the cut. (Reader is referred to as a woman once)
He’s in his early to mid 40s and has full custody of his preteen (or younger; I’m thinking between 10 and 13) daughter who still proudly calls him her best friend. You (late 20s to mid 30s) move into the little cottage-style house next to them one summer, and his daughter immediately takes a liking to you. The problem is that with Stephanie “Stevie” Barnes’ affection comes well-intended, but still childish attempts to set you up with her Very Hot Dad. You’ll casually be mentioning that you need to fix that one self in your house that keeps wobbling and suddenly Mini Barnes is like “My dad is REALLY good at fixing stuff! You should ask him. Also he’s really handsome. Don’t you think he’s handsome?” and she thinks she’s being so sneaky about it so, for her sake, you try to contain your laughter— a feat that’s practically impossible when she does it while Bucky is within earshot because he gets SO flustered. His face turns a lovely shade of red and he starts vigorously talking with his hand the way he does whenever he panics, deep voice cracking mid-sentence as he scolds his daughter for embarrassing him in front of you. He tries to shoot down Stephanie’s attempts by being like “I’m sure she can fix it herself!” only to panic even more because “Not that I don’t want to help! I would be happy to fix it for you! It’s just— you’re an independent, resourceful woman, I didn’t wanna assume—” and cut himself off with an embarrassed, agitated sigh, hanging his head to try and hide his burning face from you, a quiet “I’m making it worse by rambling, aren’t I?” leaving his pursed lips, causing an endeared smile to appear on your own. “No, I think it’s cute, actually.” His head snaps up at your words, a surprised expression on his face because out of all the things that James Buchanan Barnes expected you to say, calling him cute definitely wasn’t on the list. (He rides that high for the next week.)
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The body carries memories; a bucky barnes/winter soldier hc
warnings: brief mentions of the merciless torture inflicted upon bucky during his time under hydra, gender stereotypes (mentions of his mother cooking and cleaning, but it’s the 40s so it’s time accurate) ANGST!!!!, light overview of bucky’s evolution from winter soldier to a somewhat closer version of his old self
During the first time in which the Winter Soldier gets sent out on a solo mission without his handlers— after being beaten into a level of submission palatable enough for Hydra to want to try the ultimate test of effectiveness of his conversion to a weapon for their personal use— something both unpredictable and unexplainable happens: The Soldier, thought to be successfully stripped away from any and all ounce of self-identity starts to hum under his breath.
It’s a tune he doesn’t even recognize, and although the act itself feels foreign, the melody itself feels strangely familiar, as if somehow, his subconscious recognized something his conscious mind cannot quite grasp. It continues, although only in the moments when he is alone— despite his confusion about the origins of his newfound fondness for humming, the Soldier knows that doing it in front of his handlers would only result in beatings brutal enough to make his bones ache for months on end— and so on cold, lonely nights, with his broad frame crouched down before the torn up mattress laid across the iron lining of his cage, the Soldier hums his song, the lyrics long forgotten by his battered mind.
The reasons for the comfort that the action brings him remain unclear to the Soldier for a very, very long time— until flashes of blonde hair and the vivid teal of a pair of irises, a bloodied mouth and a name— “Bucky?”— bring about a myriad of fractured memories.
The first few ones are blurred and distorted, clouded like the murky waters of a lake, until he hears it one night after another exhausting day of being on the run: The voice of his mother singing that very song. The memory lands like a punch to the gut, and the Soldier— Bucky Barnes— sees the warmth of a smile on a face he had not envisioned in over seven decades, her features clearer than he ever expected he would remember.
Suddenly he is seven again, weightless with the kind of insouciance only a child can hold, watching as Winnifred Barnes bounced across the kitchen, humming a tune as she moved along, the smell of a home cooked dinner filling the air.
Bucky blinks and suddenly he is nine and sitting on the couch, peeking over the backrest as his mother sweeps the floor, that same tune falling from her parted lips.
His heart squeezes painfully in his chest as his memories flash again until he is ten and tucked away in bed, feeling the comforting warmth of Winnifred’s kiss on his forehead, her fingers pushing his hair back with tenderness before she sings a lullaby, the lyrics coming in bits and pieces to the forefront of Bucky’s mind, bringing tears to his eyes.
That night marks the very first time that Bucky Barnes feels like he has found a piece of himself again.
(He writes down the date in his notebook, tucked away between the pages to be cherished over and over again by calloused fingers across yellowed paper.)
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