#winter soldier x samodiva | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

samodivaa · 8 months

Text

Winter Soldier x Asset!Reader You just returned from a mission—you provoke him, but the tension flicks from anger to fevered desire.

Warnings - smut, smut, he hasn't felt arousal for a long time ;)

Words - 2500

❆⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❆⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❆

Soldat wraps himself in anger, with a dash of annoyance, and at the bottom of it all is an icy center of pure horror—the intensity of this forgotten sensation, not bloodlust—it is pure human lust—his metal hand tightens around your neck.

"I'm sorry. Please, let me go now, please" but the trickling sounds of your pleas makes him feel thirsty for more.

It is not lust or infatuation—this is intoxication, a craven’s craving he can't explain nor control. He looks at your eyes—dainty blend of colors, lips are rosebuds, cheeks have the color of flamboyant flowers. You are Summer, he is Winter.

"Again"

"What-t?" Your voice is bewildering, and yet mysteriously beautiful.

"Beg. Again."

You poorly try to hide your shock. This is an unprecedented turn of events. The programmed machine inside you wants to block that, to scream for help, and the human inside you wants more.

"Please, please, Soldat"

"Fuck…" he mutters.

His eyes are nearly black, the pupils dilated as he pulls away and moves backwards. Winter stays still, but you see a tremor pass through him—as if he is waging a war with himself.

Hydra always plays with his mind, lies to him, but lust is what it is, it never lies—it is real and he feels it, but his apparatus is so rusted that he doesn’t understand what is happening fully.

And it is not only the faculty of love, lust which were sterilized, but also the faculty of imagination—he never imagined that he would do something like that. Now, he involves his mind in the abuse of imagination in erotic matters—fires of lust spring up for the first time and he groans like some baffled prowling beast.

“What is it, Winter?”

He wants to sin with you, to force you to sin with him and to exult with you in sin.

“Soldat?”

He feels the lust’s presence moving irresistibly upon him, a presence subtle and murmurous as a flood filling him wholly with itself.

“I need to touch you, I need—”

A litany. An enchantment. A curse.

He explores you from a distance as he makes several steps backwaters, with his unspoken desire, with the fear that touching you would set him to flame. And you want nothing more in that moment than to prove very much the opposite.

“Do it then”

It's enough for Winter, to hear the soothing whisper of comforting words countering the panic and the frostiness of darkness in his soul.

At that, he makes a harsh, low sound. His eyes exude insinuation and you know it.

You are both alone, surrounded by darkness and silence: and in that moment of supreme tenderness, he starts to transfigure—by his monstrous way of life, this seems—beyond the limits of reality.

He tries to bid his tongue so that he might seem at ease, watching you as you shamelessly undo your dirty cargo pants and shirt.

As he stands silent, watching you undress—you are breathtakingly beautiful as you stand there in the dark, the dim lights letting your skin look ghostly pale. When you make steps towards him, he instinctively tries to make several steps backward, but the wall behind prevents it.

You come over to him and you embrace him gaily and gravely, arms holding him firmly by the waist, his eyes couldn't help, but move down at your cleavage, exposing the flawless skin—dozens of inappropriate thoughts suddenly rushes through his head when you let out a small sigh of frustration.

Seeing his face lifts to yours—serious as he feels the warm, calm rise and fall of your breast.

“Samodiva—”

You suddenly kiss Soldat, his head tilting to meet your mouth, lips warm and mobile as they play against his own in a medley of light brushes and soft nibbles. The kiss lingers, each tantalizing caress is his answer which he is too afraid to say out loud. Gentle, but your kiss becomes deliberately seductive. Settling on his lower lip, you draw it into your mouth and suck at it softly, lips, tongue and teeth working in sensuous harmony as his cock jolts to life and you move your hips closer, framing the hardness.

It is too much for him.

He closes his eyes, surrendering himself to you, body and mind, conscious of nothing in the world but the dark pressure of both your hands and softly parting lips—his flesh shrinking from what it dreads and responds to the stimulus of your touch, his long forgotten sexual needs—purely a reflex action of the nervous system.

You catch yourself staring at the sensual curve of his lips, the impressive cut of his jaw, devouring every part of him with eyes.

And then, weakness, confusion and inexperience fall from him in that moment—your eyes bright with brutish joy meets his—ferocity burns in his gaze promising something primal—your soul shriveled up as he snatches you up around the waist and sits you on the metal table nearby.

You are in his hands—you have to comply.

It is the impatience of the way he tears your panties and bra from your body that really scares you: the lust getting the better of him and you spread your legs wide, exposing your overall and the fragrance of the essences permits in the air, he can smell it.

Reaching out, he grabs your chin

“Have you done this with the others?”

His human fingers dig into the skin, forcing a whimper from your parted lips.

Holding you in place, he awaits for a response

“Yes-s” your voice is quiet, almost lost in the helpless darkness of his presence.

Soldat haltes, blue eyes frosting.

He slams his metal fist down on the table

“I forbid you” he whispers before running the tip of his tongue along your neck, tasting the sweat that has just formed.

There is a stubbornness about you that never can bear to be frightened at the will of the Winter Soldier. Your courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate you, but this time you feel helpless as fear spreads to every part of the body.

The unmistakable flare of jealousy narrows his eyes—there is that infamous control of his hovering on the edge, balancing precariously on the point of a knife, it makes your breath hitch.

The primal lust, the sheer need to claim you, quickly finding ways to express his sacred hunger to you in animal passion. He relishes that delicious feeling of freedom, the delirium of being human, his flesh is being born again.

This demon is made for you—his dark eyes and possessiveness have you hooked, his darkness frightens, soothes, but now that darkness is lustful—half god, half hell.

Soldat is a wraithlike observer most of his life, but he takes control for the first time and there is a theatrical quality about all this—he is irreparably damaged, but with your scent filling his nostrils there seems to be a some primitive male instinct as his throat tighten with a hunger he never experienced before—it draws him in deeply, imagining that was how hot sex smells.

“Ти си моя” he says low and quiet and as vicious—his fingers, caressing your tights simultaneously, spreading them further apart.

You feel your heart beat faster, your face flush, and your ire rise, you avoid his cold stare, reeling at his words—you are mine—his hands gripping your hair firmly in a show of dominance, making you face him before Soldat quickly delves into a deep and possessive kiss, his lips are full and warm, soft against yours, but the kiss is hard and desperate.

"If Springtime crawls out of the wild mouths of flowers, then surely, Winter crawls out of mine."

He smirks against your lips when you can't hide your moans, your hands slowly snaking their way around his shoulders, pulling him closer, the intrusive need to be consumed by him.

“Be quiet”

He huffs nonchalantly, stalking closer to lick at the crook of your neck as he runs his hands along your sides, the flesh one stopping just below your breasts—but the metal one flicks your nipple with his thumb as he passes it. He rubs in a slow circular motion as he observes your reactions.

You don’t know when he moves his human hand, but his fingers down to your burning sex, separating your folds and running a thick finger over the slit. He could smell your arousal and knows he needs a taste of you—a groan tears out of his throat.

“Be quiet” you want to mock his own words, but you breathe out heavily and hard as you say them.

You thought he would have a clever reply — something to win, something to shut you up.

In a way, you guess he did.

Your hands tighten on his biceps as he inserts a second finger, your fingernails scrape into him, and the slight pain is pleasurable, knowing he is one giving you pleasure—hypnotized by your velvety moans—you are panting, mouth watering.

You keep your eyes open for as long as you can, hoping that your brainwashed, imperfect memory would capture even just half as much as his.

It suddenly occurred to him he doesn’t know your real name, he wants to call you something.

“Snezinka” His voice is deep and guttural, the word rumbling and vibrating against your neck. It caresses your skin almost sensually

“My snezinka” (snowflake) drawls in a voice too playful for the fear flooding your veins.

You moan quietly again, eyes finally fluttering close as he twists his hand just so, delving two fingers deep within your wet folds below and curling them.

You can feel him: his breath coming down on your neck in heavy, hungry pants, his fingers drawing out teasingly and forcing your hips to buck at the motion. With a hum of pleasure, he lets his fingers slide almost all the way out and his throat tightens at the feel of your channel bearing down, trying to hold on to him as he withdraws completely.

Winter reaches between your bodies and begins to unbuckle his pants. His breathing comes in louder and harder as he tries to control his emotions and movements.

His palm runs along his hardened length, stroking himself slowly—

You suddenly pull him by the straps of his harness and he needs to brace himself using the table on both sides of your body—he grunts at your aggressiveness and strength.

A tentative smile on his lips.

“Snezinka…I was not going anywhere” he taunts and presses his lips to yours.

He looks at you with a vicious smirk, as if he’d won something.

In a way, he supposes he has.

His husky voice reaches a playful tone he hadn't touched on in years, decades—he doesn’t know.

Winter holds his cock by the base of it, running the tip up and down your pussy, making sure to linger around your clit.

Your mouth opens and closes several times, your vocal chords struggle to produce words, but your lips simply move in silence, your hands winding through his hair. You wrap your legs, quivering from fear, sexual yearn at a height you never before felt, around his waist, pulling him to you as he poses and you whine, his head creeping in first before his whole penis is engulfed into your wet sex, your pussy stretching around him, he keeps his descent slow and torturous.

Painfully sweet, he moans—

feeling him impale you onto his cock, stilling in you for a moment so you could feel just how deep he is—enjoying how the metal hand grips your waist tightly.

You are not soft or feminine; you are a hard-edged and cold brainwashed machine, crowned in razor wire of hate. For him, you have always been a flower—he takes your thorns as a challenge. Winter will have you scorch with the savagery of his cruel passions and needs—until you are conditioned to bloom in his flames.

He groans, fucking into you harder now, the head of his cock hitting your cervix as your eyes, water up at the sensation of being so stuffed as he gives you more and more—him fuckin you like that flips your brain inside out and turns your cunt to pudding.

Winter leans near your ear, holding your jaw still, with flesh digits, as he speaks.

“Talk to me, snezinka, how do you feel?” he grunts and you shudder, lips pucker from the grip he has on you as you try to speak.

Gasping for breath, you writhe mindlessly in his grasp, only to find yourself easily restrained—all you can do is tighten your legs around him, trying to usher him to fuck you again.

You are annoyed at his cockyness

That's why you sink your nails into his shoulders, scrabbling for purchase against the fabric, then fisting one hand in his hair. You pull hard on the wet locks, gasping when your violence earns you a particularly hard slam of his hips.

Sin is a lustful state—he actually likes it.

“Do it again” he commands—thrusts grow jerky.

You tug his hair again.

“Солдат-” (Soldat)

And that’s all he needs to hear before he starts ravaging what you’ve just called him—pounding into you, setting an unrelenting pace, clutching him hard as the pleasure spirals up and up.

He hisses, teeth gritting with the sole purpose of making you cum before he does.

The force of his thrusts is making the table quake, but your quiet moans of approval are so satisfying he keeps at it and you starts clenching around him—deliberately massaging his cock, orgasming wordlessly as he continues to fuck you right through it.

He hides his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent sharply as he keeps rutting hard inside of you—your cunt convulsing around him, trying to milk his cock, is making his thrusts sloppy—several incoherent thrusts lead him to come inside, a roar rumbling in his chest.

He wraps his arms around you, and you sink into his chest, marveling at how easy this feels. You both don't accept touch easily, but with him, it seems natural.

Your newfound foundation is rocky, because you make a home in each other’s skin and memory—the damage is beginning to show. You are ready to self-destruct, there is very little left to kill anyway—which makes this tragedy less and more much, much more worse.

What actually led to this situation?

You always help each other undress after the missions, but this time your mind wanderers as you remove the small glove from his metal hand—flashing between images of various memories of killed people and imagined scenarios, you wouldn't have thought of outside of this hazy consciousness—but

Wanting makes the mind restless

He blinks at you, eyes looking perfectly indifferent—and yet, delight in yours; the moment you develop an idea is the exact moment you execute it—you give the hand a squeeze before the chemical desire to taste it overpowers everything in both your mind and body and you bring the fingers to your mouth, dipping two inside

His metal hand is an erotic necessity

—you feverishly lick, drenching them in your saliva, moving your tongue along his fingers all the while.

He suddenly moves, grabbing you by the neck hardly, demanding an explanation.

#his fingers are not a lollipop? who are you talking to right now?#metal arm kink fr #winter soldier smut #winter soldier x asset!reader #winter soldier imagine #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier fic #winter soldier fanfiction #winter soldier x you #smut #bucky smut #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine

846 notes · View notes

samodivaa · 7 months

Text

Winter Soldier x Asset!Reader Warnings - violence, blood kink, smut, but soft? lmao Words - 1800

You are a silhouette to his blurry vision, the faint light from the lights on the cell painting lines of fire on your hair as you struggle on the floor. A shiver of pleasure runs down his spine from your beauty. His heart pounds in his chest, and he can feel blood rushing to his groin. Wetting his lips, he circles you like a hawk. "Come on" he commands, in a heavily accented voice "Stand up" he growls, cracking his knuckles and staring pointedly at your knife on the floor. “Fuck you” you say after a few swallows. “You have no finesse when you don’t control your anger” you glance down and see that a glove of blood covers your lower arm from the elbow to the wrist. The arm is throbbing, stiff, and painful “No technique”

He dares mock you—he is fully aware that you are trained to this cruelty, the scars of hatred and anger shall be forever part of you—and a tragedy doesn’t need blood and death; it's enough that it all be filled with that majestic sadness that is the tragedy of your fate at Hydra—

Soldat sees it. The catastrophe is you. He plays with it.

You are embarrassed about your blood, its redness, the way it is just coming out of you, with no concern for your well being, but you slowly climb back to your feet—you respond to suffering and pain, bleed the same color—the only humanity left as a reminder of you actually were. Of course, there is sublime ecstasy born of terror—drops of blood glitter on his knuckles and face. You both need pain; need blood—but maybe there is something beyond that. With the blood dripping from your lips and arm, you look horrifyingly lovely and breathtakingly attractive to Soldat. He can smell something. Lust. He wants to taste it now. You are meant to paint each other. Be it with your art or your blood. And once you lock eyes, blue on brown, the fight needs to be fought—but the scent of lust is headier than blood.Those deep blue, calculating eyes. They make you nervous, but you’d be lying if you say the intimidation doesn’t turn you on.

You feel immensely powerful—like your whole self is contained in just your teeth; they're ready to bite, you are made of anger, gripped with tension. Not even decades of fighting could dispel the entrenched anxiety that torments you right now.

Soldat can feel himself tenses up all over, and though he tries to keep it subtle, he can tell that you notice. You are eager to engage, launching forwards and Soldat is confused by the sudden attack, fear creeping down on him, putting him in a disadvantage. He can’t block the hard kick to his stomach which brings him down to the ground, but he stands tall and firm, glaring back at you.

You are watching him intently. It's an unpleasant feeling, to be under your scrutiny. It makes his skin prickle and burn. He looks away, tensing his muscles against the shiver that ripples through them.

He suddenly launches at you, but you are too tired to move—for a second there's no pain, just numbness and weight in all limbs as your back hits the cold ground before your brain can register it, ringing in your ears follow. Agony drenches your body, in this disconnected from any control state. You don't scream, nor yell of fear or surprise, just a broken-sounding whine that escapes your teeth as your body falls back. „What now, Samodiva?“ he mocks, with the approximation of authority he can steal at this moment.

But his mind refuses to focus on sparring anymore: you are sprawled on the floor, soaked in blood, your chest rising with every breath you take. He is on top of you, pressing you against the cold ground beneath his rock-solid body, wet hair shadowing his face. You look up at him as he hovers above you, coiled and ready to strike. “You have no finesse when you are turned on” you say that to the beast in a man’s skin, a monster you know too well under the thick stains of blood and gore sheeting from his skin “No technique”

His wild blue eyes swing up to meet yours—something has snapped in him. He is too possessive, too hungry. Brutal, but somehow passionate—you will love to tame him...but you will adore him even if he turns out untamable.

“What now, Winter? Will you kill me? Or worse: kiss me?” As if a demon is beneath him, your curves cushioning him, your muscular body lush and partly feminine, your eyes flashing—and all he wants is to kiss you. His eyes are full of emotions—seemingly fragile and lovely, but these same eyes—can churn blood that can rake your soul, but no death would be sweeter than this. His lips spread in a thin smile—you both stay away from your essential natures, just the sight of your blood can make some Soldat orgasm. You spent a decade with those same eyes-scared, lost, lusty-staring back at you. You know what he wants. “Fuck me, just like last time” Remembering. Forgetting. You are not sure which is worse. You want to be able to breathe around him sometimes—to be able to love him by memory and choice. He inhales deeply at the base of your throat "So sweet and pure" He whispers, going to your earlobe. His tongue rolls around the skin, nibbling gently and you shiver, a mixture of fear and excitement flowing through you. Your lip is bleeding slightly and he licks the blood away. Salt, humanity—your blood has such a tenebrous taste.

Suddenly, your tongues are clashing, teeth nipping, breaths gasping as he runs his hands along your body, and you do the same along his, as you work together, clutching each other—all of the anger and frustration is pouring out in bruising kisses, fast and wet and greedy. Soldat is your outlet, the only thing that helps you, and he gladly takes these punishing kisses before pulling away. His metal thumb slides up over your bottom lip, pressing into the corner of your mouth. You are about to respond when his thumb pushes past your lips to stroke your tongue with just enough pressure to make you moan. “You are the only thing I own" His throbbing, aching erection touches your clothed core. His eyes darkened, lips twisting into a smirk as he is leaning back away from you. Your blood. Gushing out, it darkens your lovely hair until each strand is as heavy as the shadows of his mind. "You're so goddamn obedient” he continues, his eyes are still lidded, voice sharp “So easy to control" your head is fuzzy with arousal, cheeks flushed with confusion—why is he talking so much? The monster inside him is finally silent—his deep blue eyes are all innocent and needy. Everyone says love hurts, but that is not true. Loneliness hurts. Brainwashing hurts. This way of living hurts. Not being able to remember hurts. In this reality Soldat is the only thing in this world that covers up all pain and makes you feel wonderful for a while. No, it is not love—but it is the closest you have ever been to it. You are actually in love, but you feel a sort of tender curiosity. You crave for his mouth, his voice, his hair.

Your hand goes rigid inside his own—you can tell that he is thinking with his disturbed soul when he moves his gaze to your connected hands, his mouth wrestling with the words and thoughts. He watches through a lust-drunk haze. He is oppressively hard, and he desperately wants to fuck you, but at the same time—he wants to embody this moment in his mind. Soldat’s blue eyes eerily, crystalline—beautiful, endless, full and yet seems empty. A small animal noise rumbles across his tongue when you pull him by the harness. He breathes roughly through his nose as his hands stay still at both sides of your head. His soft lips connect to your neck gently and you let out a gasp as he trails his teeth over the pulse point. Soldat pulls away from your throat and looks into your eyes—this is one of the rare moments when your soul dips near his —sea-colored orbits catch the fire of lust.

He worms one hand between your bodies, opening his pants, freeing his length and he hisses as he strokes his cock from base to tip, a slow drag of his hand around his thick length. Then he proceeds in pulling down your trousers and panties with a single swift motion, there is feral hunger in eyes—as he grasps your hips, lifting them off the ground so he can drill into you at an angle, hitting the spot that have you arching off the cold concrete and quietly calling his name in a moment of pleasure, your slick coating his cock nicely so that it slides in without any pain. “Look at me while you fuck me, Winter” Your hands travel to his arms and lace behind his strong neck, pulling him closer for a kiss. He gladly obliges, lowering his face enough for you to peck him and lick his lips as he thrusts out of you and pushes back in immediately after, experimentally, slowly. He sets a steady and harsh pace, drilling his cock into your warmth with an unforgiving force. He hides his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your familiar scent sharply as he keeps fucking hard you; your loud moans in his ear only coaxes him to go faster, deeper. It's not your face, but the expressions on it. It's not your voice, but what you say. It's not how you look in that body, but the thing you do with it. “Don’t stop” His jaw clenches, tense, and you know he is on the verge of coming, too. Your legs wrap around his waist and grip him like a vice as you spasm harshly beneath his weight. Your cunt convulsing around him and the seductive purr in your voice undoes him completely. He throws his head back with a guttural shout, pressing deep into you as he comes apart, filling you with his release. Your eyes meet—you know that emotion, but you are both too detached from it to comprehend it. It is too human.

#winter soldier x asset!reader #request #winter soldier smut #barking on my knees for him #winter soldier imagine #BARKING RN #barking respectfully #winter soldier fanfiction #winter soldier x you #winter soldier x reader #smut fic #daddy winter fr #bucky barnes smut #bucky x reader #bucky smut

160 notes · View notes