Do You Have Any Favorite Peter Smut Fics To Recommend? I'm In Need Something Spicy! I'll Take Anything

Do you have any favorite Peter smut fics to recommend? I'm in need something spicy! I'll take anything you can think of!

Dear, if you want to turn up your temperature with some of the smut fics I’ve read recently, here are a few:

So, So Mean, by @lovelettersforthedamned

Smitten, Peter's Angel, The Ruler and The Killer, Peter and a Cam Girl, Enraptured, Doing so Well, Not so Innocent, The Goddess, In The Dark, Cheating With Peter, Phone Sex, and my favorite ever Back to Basics, by @blooming-violets

Love on the Brain: Sugar & Vice, vol 2, Sugar and Vice, Sweet Dreams, These Violet Delights, by @liz-allyn

Bondage, Mattress Acting, by @reysdriver

August Slipped Away by @peterthepark

Symbiote mini series by @mrshipsmcgee

Florence series by @periprose

Dulcet by @jamespottersdaisy

Quiet Temptations by @parkerpeter24

Sparks Fly by @mortwig

Jawbreaker by @witchywcmans

The Angel In The Garden of Evil series, In Your Boss’s Office, Professor Peter Parker by @backtothefanfiction

'Til Kingdom Come by @pedrito-friskito

Masterlist of @withahappyrefrain

This fic of @deviouz

Going to The Edge of Heaven by @multifandomworldsposts

Another Love series by @abibliophobiaa

Too Close For Comfort by @lovelettersforthedamned

Thick and Thin by @ficthots

Daddy Issues seeries by @venus616

I’m Holding my Breath for You by @lxinesux

There must be others I’ve read, but I’ve read so much fanfic… You must find more things in this tag [peter parker fanfic] that I usually put in the fics I reblogged.

Thank you to all the writers on Tumblr!

your hands have made some good mistakes: part 2

Embroidery

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Summary: Bucky is begrudgingly settling into life with his new babysitter roommate. When you make a painful mistake, Bucky gets his first glimpse of the real you— and at the same time, his defenses begin to fall. You see him for the first time without his gloves, and your reaction isn’t what he expects.

Part 2 of 25 Chapter Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, friendly fluff, some angsty memories, slight gore (descriptions of a cut that needs stitches), grumpy!bucky, extra sensitive vibranium arm, more awkwardness, are these… feelings???

Word Count: 5.8k

Series Masterlist My Masterlist ao3: dewystars

⬅️ Part 1 - The Babysitter

To Bucky’s surprise, it was still light out when he returned to the apartment that evening. With no windows in the basement gym, it was easy to lose track of time, and he hadn’t climbed off the treadmill until his legs shook so violently he had to wobble over to a bench and sit down. He cursed when he saw the time on his phone and showered off as quickly as he could before taking the elevator back up to the fourteenth floor.

“Hey, roomie. Where ya been all day?” You didn’t move from where you were reclined on the couch, wrapped in an oversized sweater with a book in your hands. The light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows illuminated your page, rendering the lamp on the table next to you unnecessary. Bucky’s eyes caught on the scenery outside, far too visible for nine o'clock at night.

Bucky pushed the apartment door shut, the biometric lock clicking behind him. “Uh. Gym,” he managed to get out, still staring out the window. The light was too eerie. Something about it was wrong— his memories came back patchwork, more of a feeling than a conscious thought. The faded sunlight of summers spent in the tundra, the temperatures rising enough to make him sweat in his tactical suit. He shivered with a chill not entirely caused by the cool air in the apartment, his hands clenching at his sides.

“All day? Seriously?” You turned to look at him with your eyebrows raised playfully, only to find Bucky staring unseeingly at the windows, every muscle in his body tense. “Solstice,” you murmured. “Isn’t it nice, all the extra light?” You cocked your head to the side, your worried eyes asking questions that you chose not to verbalize. Bucky took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m guessing the gym doesn’t have windows?” you asked gently. Bucky shook his head, his shoulders softening, eyes coming back into focus. Solstice. That was all. “That’s dedication, man. All day down there in the dark—”

“I mean, what else am I supposed to do?” he interrupted, a bit sharper than he intended. His therapist always recommended working out when he felt unmoored, as if she didn’t know that he regularly spent an hour or two lifting and sparring with his friends on a good day. She called it a ‘healthy coping mechanism,” and it turned out she was right— he usually did feel better after spending a couple hours in the gym. He wasn’t entirely sure it was healthy, though. Even with his enhanced healing, he was working through bandages at an alarming rate. It had become a regular occurrence for his knuckles to tear open, for the skin on his palm to blister and pop, and for his feet to bleed through his socks in his shoes.

You laughed. “Okay, maybe you are certifiable after all.” Bucky knew you meant it jokingly but he still winced when the comment hit a little too close to home. You didn’t seem to notice as you dog-eared your page and sat up, tugging your sweater up around your shoulders. “An hour or two, sure, I get it. But all day? I can think of a million better things to do than spend all day in the gym. Look at me, Barnes. Literally a million.” He focused his unimpressed gaze on you, and you shivered and wrapped your sweater tighter.

“Yeah? Like what? Let's hear ‘em,” he said sardonically, his eyes narrowed. Who were you to judge how he spent his days?

“Well,” you began dramatically. “Read a book.” You shook the book in your hand for emphasis. It was a nondescript paperback with a blue bicycle on the cover, the pages worn as if it had been read before.

Bucky walked up to the couch and tapped the novel that he had left on the end table, a bookmark placed a third of the way through. He had bought the whole box set from that little hole-in-the-wall secondhand bookstore Steve had taken him to a couple weeks ago— the entire Lord of the Rings series, including The Hobbit. Steve laughed when Bucky re-read The Hobbit in one sitting as soon as they got home. Bucky was surprised by how much of the story he remembered— the first time he read it felt like a lifetime ago. For most people, it technically was a lifetime ago, and he wanted to refresh his memory now that he had a whole series to dig into. “Okay, got it,” he said. “Go on. No, really, I’m waiting.”

You smiled through his bitterness. “Watch movies.” You nodded to the large flatscreen mounted on the wall opposite the couch.

“If you want to sit around all day and stare at a screen, you’re just as crazy as me,” he grumbled. He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked back toward the windows, fighting the urge to pace. He settled on shifting his weight back and forth inconspicuously.

“Not all day, but some mind-numbing relaxation couldn’t hurt. Do you know how many movies we have access to on these streaming apps? I bet we could leave something on twenty-four seven and not run out of material by January. Obviously we’re not gonna do that,” you added when he opened his mouth to protest. “I’m just saying.” You held eye contact, waiting.

After an uncomfortably long silence, Bucky gave in first. “Alright, what’s number three?”

“Video games,” you responded instantly. Bucky had never played a video game, something he knew was deeply unusual in this day and age. He tended to avoid them, knowing that if someone handed him a controller he wouldn’t have the slightest idea of what to do with it. You sensed his hesitation and jumped up from the couch. “It doesn’t have to be a video game,” you said quickly. “Wait here,” you told him, as if he had anywhere else to go, and hurried to your room.

“We can play board games,” you called through your open door. “I went down to the tenth floor while you were gone— found these in a cabinet.” You emerged carrying a stack of dusty games Bucky had never seen before and set them down on the coffee table with a flourish. He eyed the Monopoly box on the top of the pile, reaching out to touch it before he could stop himself. He didn’t know this particular set, but the picture on the front of the box was familiar. He had seen the game in stores before the war, when he and Steve would wander through the city and pretend to shop for all the things they couldn’t afford.

“Yeah? We can play that one,” you said, your eyes lighting up when you noticed his interest. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually finished a game, but you…” you narrowed her eyes at him, your lips pursed into a sly smile, “You seem like the competitive type. Too competitive to walk away, for sure.”

One corner of his mouth turned up slightly at that, and your reaction was immediate. Your grin was one thousand watts hitting him all at once, blinding him, nearly powerful enough to send him staggering backwards. He grabbed a deck of cards from the pile as an anchor, shuffling them distractedly as he glanced away. “You said there were a million things,” he said. “C’mon, I’m waiting.” He feigned impatience but he couldn’t look at you, not when you were looking at him like that.

“We, uh,” your eyes searched around the room for inspiration but found none. “Hmm… we could do… crafts?” you said, more of a question than a statement, your confidence in your ideas clearly faltering.

Bucky couldn’t help but snicker, his hands pausing with the cards. “You’re gonna do crafts, huh? Gonna make me something?” He huffed. “Great. Thank you. I’ll hang it on the fridge.”

You tilted your chin up and stared at Bucky, sizing him up. “Y’know, Barnes, I just might.” You crossed your arms in front of your chest. “Never been an artistic person, but you’re really encouraging me, here. And I said we are gonna do crafts, so you have to make me something, too.”

“I never agreed to that,” he said, shaking his head.

“I’m agreeing to it for you,” you said with a nonchalant shrug. Bucky’s jaw clenched and he tilted his head to the side, the deck of cards wrinkling in his hand. He opened his mouth to protest but nothing came out— he truly, truly didn’t know how he was supposed to respond to that. Before he could decide, you lit up with excitement and spoke again.

“Hang on, I have something in my bag—” You hurried off to your room again, and Bucky could hear you shuffling about in your suitcase for a while before you returned, brandishing a large book and a plastic case of embroidery floss.

“Here we go. ‘Cross Stitch for Beginners’, 1963 edition. It keeps all the ninety-year-olds in the nursing homes busy, so it should work for us, right?” Bucky bristled slightly before it hit him— you didn’t actually know how old he was. His chest tightened a bit at that, though he didn’t know why. He should be happy about it, grateful for the chance to be normal in your eyes, but all he felt was trapped.

“Just you wait. I’m going to get so good at this, you won’t believe it.” You watched him for a moment, could tell that his attention had wandered, so you continued with a gleam in your eye. “And so help me god, Barnes, I’ll stitch hearts onto all of your clothes.” His eyes snapped back to you as you dropped the kit unceremoniously on the coffee table and flopped down onto the couch. “That’d be cute, right? Maybe take down that intimidation factor a notch.”

“You’re insane,” he muttered.

You smiled that coy smile again and crossed your legs at the knee, looking up at him triumphantly. “Same as you, same as you.”

Bucky shook his head, trying to ignore how his cheeks felt warm. “Don’t touch my clothes,” he warned. “And that’s still only five things.”

“Fine, fine, let me Google some ideas,” you grumbled. You pulled your phone out of the waistband of your leggings and scrolled for a few moments while Bucky stood in front of you with his arms crossed. Waiting.

“Ah, here’s a list. Indoor activities for adults. Number one- study the Kama S… Oooh, wait. That’s not the kind of list we’re looking for.” Bucky coughed, a barely hidden laugh, while you quickly scrolled to the next page. The light in the apartment was dimming, the sun finally going down, so Bucky stepped over to the lamp and clicked it on.

“Okay, okay, here, I found a good list. This’ll be our number five- do a puzzle. And six- take a bubble bath. Another ace idea, thank you, internet.” You nodded toward your shared bathroom. “That tub in there is pretty impressive, but I don’t know how many baths I can handle in six months without my skin shriveling up and falling off. Anyways, seven- have an indoor picnic. Aw, that’s sweet, it’d be like a little date.” You looked up at Bucky and batted your eyelashes comically, coaxing another huff from him before you returned your attention to your phone. “Eight- give yourself a manicure. Yes. Have you ever had a manicure, Barnes? Don’t worry, I’ll hook you up. Nine- online shopping. On Stark’s dime, sure.” Bucky didn’t try to hide his chuckle that time. “Ten- bake something. Sure. Eleven- stretch— wait, what? That’ll take all of, like, thirty seconds.” You furrowed your brows at your phone, scrolling a bit.

“Twelve- start a fire. But we don’t have a fireplace here, so… Well, it actually doesn’t specify that it has to be in a fireplace…” A wrinkle formed between your brows as you concentrated. “Thirteen- text all your exes— okay, no, we’re done with this list.” Bucky just shook his head, finally letting himself smile. “I’ll keep researching. We’re gonna have so much to do, it’ll make your head spin. This’ll be fun, okay? Like summer camp, if summer camp was indoors and lasted for all of fall… and also winter.”

“Yeah, okay. Until you figure that out, I’m gonna keep going to the gym.”

After a week, Bucky was more comfortable than he had expected to be.

Which really wasn’t saying much. He still spent most of his days in the gym, pushing himself to the limits, feeling his anxiety drain out through his pores with his sweat. It helped. And reading helped, too. When he laid down with a book at night and submerged himself into the fantasy world, it was like his senses were turned off. He didn’t pick up on those faint but distracting sounds of you moving about the apartment, and the walls that felt so much like a prison during the day seemed to melt away. It was… nice, if he was being honest.

You mostly kept to yourself during the day, focusing on that online class you were finishing up. Your silent breakfast dance parties were an almost daily occurrence, but Bucky was able to accept them because if you were dancing, then you were cooking— and whatever guilt he felt about letting you cook for him was fading every day, hurried along by the smell of sizzling bacon and hot coffee in the morning. You didn’t cook anything particularly great, going for quantity instead of quality, which was just fine with Bucky and his super soldier metabolism. He pretended not to notice when you had to fan smoke away from the stovetop, and you always hastily added the burnt pieces to your own plate with your back turned. He swore that the next time it happened, he would speak up— he really wouldn’t mind if you gave them to him instead.

What you lacked in cooking skills, you made up for in enthusiasm. You always said good morning like you were surprised to see him, like he was a long-lost friend who just happened to wander into your apartment. That morning had been no exception.

“Barnes!” you practically sang, pulling one earbud out and waving to him as he emerged from his room. As if he wouldn’t see you. “Whatcha feeling this morning? Pancakes? There’s strawberries in the fridge, and whipped cream— or is that too much sugar for breakfast? You’re more the protein type, aren’t you?”

“It’s fine,” he said, shaking his head. “Just… whatever you want.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” you said with a wink before turning back to the stove.

As silly as it was, breakfast was quickly becoming his favorite part of the day. If nothing else, at least the food was much better than your dinners. Which, again, wasn’t saying much. It was pretty hard to fuck up breakfast, but dinner was another story.

You were cooking again that evening. Bucky had offered to help when he returned from the gym, his hair still damp from the shower, but you shooed him away. You stretched your arms across the doorway, literally blocking him from entering the kitchen.

“I have, like, one job here, and I’m getting paid way too much to not do it,” you scolded him with a smile. “Go relax for a bit.” It didn’t take much to convince him; his fatigued muscles were still recovering, and he retreated to his room to read until the scent of the garlic sauce wafting down the hall was too tempting to ignore.

“Shit,” you muttered as he wandered into the kitchen, your knife clattering to the counter. Bucky continued to the table, ignoring you at first— you probably just dropped it, clumsy as you were. But you were quiet for a second too long, and when he glanced up to see you hunched over, frozen at the sink, he nearly knocked the chair over as he hurried to your side. He peered over your shoulder to see you cradling your left hand in the other, a deep gash across your palm; the flesh had spread, blood dripping down your arm and into the drain as your hands trembled.

“Damn it, I told you to let me help—” His ears rang as a flash of anger burned through him, his hands gripping the edge of the counter— this could’ve, should’ve been avoided, if you had just let him help— but he softened when you looked up at him sheepishly, eyebrows drawn, a hint of panic in your eyes.

Despite your panic, your eyes were bright, gleaming in the light. He didn’t know why it felt important for him to notice that, but it did.

“Do you, uh,” you leaned back against the counter, struggling to get the words out while keeping your breathing steady. “Do you have any superglue?”

“...Any what?”

“Superglue,” you repeated. “I’ll just—” you mimed applying glue along the cut. “And, ta-daa.” Your voice trembled, as much as you tried to hide it. Bucky shook his head in disbelief.

“Okay, first of all, you’re insane. Actually insane." He took a deep breath. "And second, you’re wrong. That area has too much movement, glue won’t hold. It needs a couple stitches, and wrapped so you don’t move it.”

“Well, I don’t want to go to the hospital, s-so—” You tried to shrug him off but Bucky was already striding away, disappearing down the hallway. He returned with a small first aid kit, cracked it open on the countertop and dug out a suture needle and thread.

“You made fun of me for cross stitch, but look at you, taking up embroidery already— oh, we’re just gonna do this here, huh?” Your voice was louder than normal, higher pitched, your laugh brassy and nervous. Your wide eyes followed the needle in his hand.

Bucky hesitated. He hadn’t planned on showing you his vibranium arm this early, if at all. He didn’t like how it made people look at him, like he was dangerous, like he was still a weapon— the asset— didn’t like how it made them shy away from him on the street. But he wasn’t about to do first aid in his gloves; that wouldn’t be sanitary at all, and he had been trained better than that. So he turned away from you and pulled them off, tossing them onto the counter so he could wash his hands. Flesh against metal, metal against flesh— they needed to be sanitized all the same. He dried them and pulled an alcohol swab from the first aid kit to clean up your hand, your breath coming out as a hiss at the sting, your eyes squeezed shut.

“It’s okay, I’ve got ya,” he murmured as he grabbed your wrist with his left hand so you couldn’t pull away. The coolness of his metal hand against your skin made you flinch again, and your eyes flew open.

“Oh,” you gasped quietly, looking from his hand to his face and back again. “It’s—?”

“Prosthetic, yeah. Hold still,” he ordered when you tried to curl your fingers around his, so focused on wanting to touch them that you made the gash through your palm fill with blood again. He growled your name, too harshly, but you wouldn’t fucking hold still and he was trying to get the blood cleaned up enough to begin stitching. It didn’t matter how steady his metal hand was if you were resisting him the whole time. He could feel your eyes on his face but he didn’t want to look at you— he could look at your hand but not your eyes, because then he’d see your fear, and who could blame you with how his metal hand was gripping you, how he had growled at you—

“Barnes?”

“Huh?” Damn it, he did it, he looked up— but where he was expecting fear, there was nothing but softness. Wonder, perhaps. That ignited a whole new worry in him— you should be afraid, at least a little, considering he was about to sew your skin back together next to the kitchen sink—

“Y’know what I said to the last guy who wanted to give me stitches?” you asked. You’ve done this before? Bucky stared at you with his brow furrowed, and you didn’t look away. So he saw the instant your eyes changed from soft to wild, and he winced, braced himself when he saw that wicked smile— “I said fine, suture self.” You were silent for just a second before you lost it. Laughter. Maniacal laughter.

Jesus Christ, you were unhinged. Bucky leaned away from you and waited for you to calm down, for your shoulders to stop shaking and for your goddamn hand to be STILL.

He repeated your name, not even attempting to soften the growl this time. “Do you want to go to the hospital?” You shook your head so quickly that he would have laughed if he wasn’t so irritated. “Then you need to hold— fucking— still.” He yanked you up against him as you laughed, your back against his chest. With more leverage, maybe he could keep you steady, his right hand now wrapped around your wrist. The top of your head barely reached his chin, and your scent was overpowering when he inhaled. Your hair smelled like that new shampoo you had left in his shower, sweet, almost like a candy he couldn’t remember the name of. He shook the thought from his head. He needed to focus.

You sighed out your final bit of laughter, your eyes meeting his. “Phew. I’m good, I swear. Just nervous— nervous laughter—” You fought to hold in more giggles, your head lolling back against his shoulder, and Bucky groaned internally. This wasn’t going to get any easier. He had to do it, now. He tightened his grip on your wrist, prompting a gasp from you, and deftly pricked into your skin before you could protest. He had to appreciate his metal fingers at times like these— they were as steady as a surgeon, and much faster. After just a few moments he tied off the last of five stitches and wrapped your hand in gauze, more to remind you to be careful with it than anything else.

You had been blessedly silent while he stitched but now your giggles returned, from relief this time, and you gasped and laughed as you tried to catch the breath you had been holding. “Holy shit,” you said with amazement. “Are you a doctor?”

“About as much as you are a chef,” he scoffed. No, it was just basic combat medicine, something he’d learned decades before you were even born. Bucky focused on cleaning up the first aid kit, disposing of the bloody gauze and wiping down the counter. For someone who was hired to cook, this seemed like a pretty serious mistake for you to make.

“I probably shouldn’t have lied at the interview, huh?” You picked at the end of your wrap, a smile creeping to your lips again as you shook your head.

He stilled, his gaze turning to you. “You... what?”

“The interview with Ms. Potts. She asked if I was experienced with cooking. Oh, of course, it’s one of my passions… you know, preparing calories to eat so I can survive. Love that stuff.” You mocked yourself, your voice dripping in sarcasm.

“So you don’t… cook?”

“Been wingin’ it this whole time.” You flashed him that impish grin, the mischievous sparkle in your eye that chilled him to his core.

“Christ, you’re trying to poison me. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten—” he snapped the lid of the kit back on forcefully and turned to you.

“No!” you interrupted quickly. “I mean, I’ve been following recipes…sometimes. I just… don’t really like knives,” you admitted, your grimace serving as an apology.

Bucky smirked. He grabbed the bloodstained knife off the counter and flipped it into the air, catching it perfectly by the hilt on its downward rotation. “Oh, these? What’s not to like?”

Your eyes grew wide; Bucky smiled as he rolled the knife in and out of each of his fingers, never breaking eye contact. He had always enjoyed knives— the lilted weight of them, their versatility.

“Where the fuck did you learn how to do that, the circus?” you asked as you took a step back, your eyes following the knife as Bucky continued to show off. He chuckled, your surprised tone igniting the tiniest sense of pride in his chest.

He sidestepped your question. “They didn’t make me an Avenger for my personality.”

It took a second for his sentence to sink in, but when it did, you sputtered. “Wait a minute. You’re an Avenger?”

Bucky’s mouth opened and closed again, his eyebrows furrowing together as he placed the knife into the sink. “You... thought I wasn’t? What, I’m just some dude with a metal arm living at the compound? The Avengers Compound?” He didn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it.

“I didn’t— I mean, when you say it that way, it does make sense—”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, and took a deep breath. “Let me handle dinner tonight. And maybe I should help with the chopping from now on,” he said, his voice gentler. You nodded, a sheepish smile curling your lips. Grateful.

You hopped up to sit on the counter next to where you had been preparing food, your sleeve pulled back to silently examine your new bandage. Bucky stole glances at you as he worked, keeping his eyes low. He watched you to make sure you were okay, to make sure you weren’t going into shock from blood loss. Of course. Could never be too careful. You kicked your bare legs back and forth absentmindedly as you read him the recipe off your phone. He was barely listening. There was something about you on that counter— the curve of your calves, the fading bruise on your kneecap, the slope of your thighs disappearing under your shorts— Bucky shook the thoughts from his mind. He focused on finishing his chopping, because super soldier or not, he was going to lose some fingers if he kept staring at you like he wanted to.

You ate dinner together at the small dining table, your wrapped hand resting tenderly beside your plate. Bucky had told you to keep it elevated, repeatedly, but you kept talking with your hands and forgetting, and for his own sanity he had to let it go. Maybe when it ached later, you would remember and know that he had been right.

Bucky had left his gloves off even after he put the first aid kit away. There was no point now. You hadn’t asked him any more questions, but your glances weren’t as sneaky as you thought they were; he could feel your eyes burning holes into his hands as you watched him maneuver his knife and fork. As uncomfortable as he was, he could hardly blame you. Prosthetics like his were uncommon— in fact, his was the only one. It blended in well enough when he kept it covered, the leather absorbing the soft sounds it made when he moved. But now…

He put down his silverware and held his left hand out to you, palm up. An offering, shiny and black and outlined with gold. “It’s… eye catching, I know,” he said. You looked up, guilty for being caught staring, but he only gave you a gentle nod. Permission. You reached across the table slowly, taking his hand in yours. His was much larger, but not unrealistically; it had been designed to mimic his natural hand. You stroked your fingers along each of his own, one at a time, relishing in the cool metal against your skin, but Bucky was the one who shivered. You didn’t notice; you sucked in your breath, enthralled by the faint whirring sound that occurred when you curled his fingers into a fist and relaxed them again.

Your touch on the metal was numbingly warm, a crackling fireside after he’d been out too long in the snow. Your eyes met Bucky's and he braced himself, waiting for the question he knew was coming, the one that always came when people noticed his arm. But while he tried to come up with an inconspicuous way to explain how he ended up with the most technologically advanced prosthesis in the world, he should’ve been preparing for a different question.

“Can you feel me?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper as you traced your fingers along the back of his hand. Along each of the plates, the gold seams that felt like they were about to pull apart from tension. He stared down at his hand and gulped, taking a second too long to answer.

“Yeah. Some. I mean, it doesn’t feel normal. But there’s something there, definitely.” He was rambling, he knew. But he had to say something, and he couldn’t tell you that your staticky touch had just sent goosebumps down his spine and a jolt through his stomach. He ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair.

“It’s almost… sensitive?” he continued, trying to describe what it was like to have near-normal sensation in his fingertips after decades of it being dulled. “I had a different arm before. A different metal one, I mean.” He looked up at you with a half smile. “It… wasn’t as good. Not as much feedback.” The way you were holding his hand in yours, your thumb massaging it gently as if it were a normal hand— the sensations were almost too much for his brain to handle. He was short circuiting. He was unprepared.

“Like, that… feels good,” he said, fighting to keep his eyes open. He wanted to shut all his other senses down so he could focus on just your touch, your fingers tapping lightly over his palm electrifying nerves all throughout his body. “The sensory input is nice,” he managed to say, an attempt to keep it technical. He tried to sigh, but it came out sounding more like a whine than he would’ve liked.

“It’s amazing,” you said, squeezing his hand softly, sending a pleasant burn through his chest and belly. “Why do you wear the gloves?”

He thought the answer to that question was obvious. “I don’t like people seeing it. Too many questions.”

“About how you got it?”

“Yeah. Don’t you want to know?”

“It’s not my story to ask for,” you said simply. “But I’ll listen if you want to tell it.”

He almost opened his mouth, ready to tell you all about his fall from the train, being turned into a weapon, and— no. Why on earth would he do that? He was being ridiculous. He needed to reel himself in.

“That’s fine,” you said, accepting his silence as an answer. “But I don’t want you to feel like you have to wear the gloves. I want you to be comfortable here. It’s your home, after all.” Such kind words, and this feeling… Bucky was in over his head. His eyes met yours, and he hoped desperately that he was doing a better job at hiding whatever feeling this was than he thought. You were quiet for a moment, just watching him, touching him, but then your expression changed. From satisfied to curious, confused… then outraged. Bucky pulled his hand back, feeling a slight tingle of fear. Fear?

“Is this why the apartment is so goddamn cold all the time?!”

He had never heard you this loud, felt like he needed to take cover— he leaned back as far as he could in his chair— “Oh my god, I keep messing with the thermostat but it just goes back down, I thought it was broken— I’ve been shivering myself to sleep! Damn it, Barnes, you’re freezing me out!” Your uninjured hand pointed at him, an accusation.

Bucky stuttered, trying to come up with an excuse even though you were absolutely right. He let out a sheepish chuckle, knowing he was caught.

“Off!” you shrieked, but you were smiling when you stood up. “Take it off, now.” You slapped at the sleeve of his leather jacket, again and again, waiting for him to do something. So he did— he shrugged it off, exposing his dark t-shirt underneath and revealing that not only was his hand metal, but his entire left arm was, too.

“Is this what you want? Is this good?” he goaded, his voice rising as he pretended to return your outrage. “You like this? Or do you want me to take my shirt off, too?”

Your anger broke into laughter, tempting the corners of Bucky’s lips upward.

“Fuckin’ hell, Barnes,” you said. Your cheeks were hot, your smile a seemingly permanent fixture of your face as you shook your head. You lowered yourself back into your chair and leaned your elbow against the table, resting your forehead against your good hand.

“You owe me,” you said. “I was literally— literally— going to text Steve tomorrow to tell him the air conditioning was stuck on, and beg for help before we wake up 70 years from now in the ice.”

Bucky lost it at that. True laughter, from deep in his belly, his head thrown back. You laughed at your own joke but not nearly as much as Bucky, and you stared at him, bewildered, until he calmed down enough to speak.

“Steve— Steve fucking Rogers— is the last man you want to ask about stuff like that. Are you kidding? That idiot would have no idea— you’d be better off asking a rock—"

You held your hands up in surrender. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know! He said to contact him, specifically, with any problems! I’m just following instructions!”

“Ahh,” Bucky said, his mood dropping considerably. “He didn’t mean it like that.” You raised your eyebrows, waiting for further explanation. Bucky sighed. “He meant, like, with me… if there was a problem with me. Tell him, not any of the others.” Because he was a problem, but Steve could handle him, and Steve would cover it up, hide whatever happened.

“…Oh.” Your eyebrows were still raised, but you nodded. Accepting it. You tilted your head to the side, smiling sweetly. “But you’re not gonna give me any problems, are ya, Barnes?”

Maybe you had been poisoning him. Something that worked slow, just a pinch in each meal, waiting for it to build up in his system and knock him out. He was starting to feel the effects, he was dizzy, his heart was pounding, a sick flush rising over his face—

Poison. That had to be it.

➡️ Part 3 - Sergeant

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simpforajax

3 months ago

Like and reblog if you agree with this:

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simpforajax

11 months ago

wish i could see him but he lives far 😭😭

Get On Your Knees And Pray To Me - Chapter 21

Get On Your Knees And Pray To Me - Chapter 21/?

(LOKI X READER)

When the Goddess of Sex dies, Odin is desperately searching for someone to fit her role. The lust and passion are disappearing from the realms and he needs a suitable replacement. Apparently, Loki is extremely interested.

After becoming the God of Sex, Loki hears you praying to him about how you want to lose your virginity. He’s curious about you and decides he’d like to your answer your prayers in a bit more personal manner.

Loki comes to you, ravishes you, and when neither of you can resist the temptations of one another, you quickly enter into an intimate deal full of pleasure, lust, and your complete submission.

Start from Chapter 1

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Chapter 21: A Fright, A Fantasy, And A Fearful Finish

Word Count: 11403

Summary: You still can’t believe what happened last night. It seems so surreal that a god like Loki could ever fall in love with you. You’re starting to believe that maybe it could be possible to be the one he truly loves. But when a fright happens the following morning, all of your confidence fades to dust.

NSFW, SMUT, DOMINANT LOKI, ROUGH SEX, BONDAGE, DIRTY TALK, BREEDING KINK, TW: DISCUSSIONS OF PREGNANCY, MAJOR VIOLENCE (please read the summary at the beginning of the chapter)

At one point, Loki would have said the best feeling in the world was having sex with you.

At another point, he would have said holding you while you fell asleep under his arm was the best feeling in the world.

But now, he knew there was no better feeling than loving you and being loved by you.

Though, the sex and the cuddling were still absolutely great.

Loki laid there in bed, one arm wrapped around you and the other slung over Cooper’s back - and both of you were snoring like monsters. He was staring at the ceiling, eyes glistening with emotion as he thought over the day. Fucking you in the morning, going to work with you, taking care of good ol’ Michael, fighting with you, and then hearing that declaration of love tumble from your lips like spilled wine.

It made him hard just remembering it. The way you stood there, terror and fury in your eyes as you told him how you really felt - how you loved him. When he had heard you speak those words, Loki swore he saw a million futures run through his mind - one where you left him, where you hated him, where you both continued on with this complex relationship, where you stayed with Michael, where you stayed with him with a detached heart - only to realize those futures were not real. The future that was presented to him was the one he wanted. You loved him.

( CONTINUE READING HERE )

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simpforajax

3 months ago