Situations with Bucky Barnes!
[ BUCKYBARNESXFEM!READER SMUT/FLUFF ]
* mild language and explicit depictions of sexuality (other trigger warnings stated at the beginning of the chapter). 18+ or else...
requests are [open but no guarantees]
started De...
A/N: i juSt feel like once he got comfortable, bucky would 100% have breeding kink like cockwarming? yessir. him tracking your cycle and when you're ovulating? yesssirrrr Summary: Bucky wants you pregnant, and he wants you pregnant now. 1.8k words Warnings: breeding kink, cOckwarming, smut, almost almost forced sex but it's more like peer pressure which is NOT better but you have been warned, lil bit of dark!bucky but it's light, not the sex... that part's horribly rough, overstimulated
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"Come on, honey, one more."
You should've known a forties gentleman never goes back on his promises. Sure, you've mentioned starting a family plenty of times, but you never truly knew the full extent of Bucky's righteous baby fever.
March thirteenth: the dawning of a new reality. One trapped inside, but Bucky wasn't too keen on wasting leftover time even if he couldn't leave the apartment. So you'd spent a good month in bed. Your goddamn super soldier and the sheer grit he harbors. In deep, guttural moans that rip through his chest when he lurches forward with his hips barreling into yours.
Then one moment of rest, grabbing a mug to fill with any form of caffeine at this point, and he says, "just keep going, I won't bother you," as if he isn't hung like a horse and trying to fuck you while you make tea. Your knee propped on the kitchen counter, cheek stuck fast to the cabinet as he guides himself slowly in-out because you've been dripping since he stepped in the room, so it's easy.
"Jesus, Barnes, you tryna get me pregnant?"
A mere suggestion. A harmless utterance—a joke really, but it didn't seem like it with the way the phrase weaseled deep into his mind to fester like an ulcer. To tear at the flesh until his eyes went dark and clouded with corrupted reverie.
The snap of his hips goes rough, haphazard, not pulling out just yet, instead watching you spasm under his palms once you're filled and fucked. Even when you beg for rest, and he won't tell you why, but he stays put for at least five minutes after he's emptied inside you, plugging you nice and taut. Can't waste a drop, he thinks, watching you writhe for him.
But then he thinks it's not enough, stuffing you full, tossing away any contraceptive. That's when he lets it slip. When it chafes the tip of his tongue and he can't take the sight of you not pregnant with his kin.
"Doll, please," he whines, and you think, you haven't truly lived until two-hundred pounds of pure muscle begs you in his sweetest voice and uses those pretty blue puppy dog eyes. "You're ovulating, come on."
But the kiss set at your knuckles is not nearly enough to distract you from his cravings. Since when did your boyfriend start tracking your cycle. And shouldn't you be doing that for yourself. He frowns when you wave him off with a curt laugh that bubbles into your nose, and it stings. To deny a man who's gone through the gulping inferno of Hell just to kiss you and ask you so sweetly for a baby.
